Someone Important
Potter47

Harry walked silently down the empty street. It was odd to see this place so empty; it was always so bustling, and full of life.

Harry could hear not a single sound; no whispering followed him or his scar, no witches stood offering products in front of the shops.

Diagon Alley seemed like a ghost town, but not with actual ghosts. It was completely and totally deserted.

Harry passed Ollivander’s, and he recalled the first time he had met Mr Ollivander, before his first year.

“The wand chooses the wizard, remember ... I think we must expect great things from you, Mr Potter ... After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things–terrible, yes, but great.”

Harry glanced down to the wand in his hand. It was silly really; just an eleven inch stick, with a feather inside it. What made his so special, what made his the only one who could...?

Harry shook his head. It wasn’t the wand, after all. It was the damn prophecy.

Harry continued in the seemingly endless trek. He didn’t really know where he was going. He just knew to keep walking, and that whatever life there was on this street would find him.

“I don't go looking for trouble. Trouble usually finds me,” Harry remembered saying, though he didn’t remember when, or why he thought of it now.

Perhaps it was because of...

“Hello, Harry,” said trouble softly from behind him. Well, technically ‘trouble’ did not say it. But this person had found Harry, and what would follow could only be troublesome.

Harry said nothing, he turned around silently, and faced the man who had killed his parents.

“Oh, Harry,” said Voldemort admonishingly. “We’ve known each other for years! Don’t I even deserve a hello?” The Dark Lord smiled his evil, nasty smile. If a smile could be high-pitched, this one would be, to match his terrible voice.

“You don’t deserve anything,” said Harry coldly, raising his wand.

“Oh, are you going to kill me, Harry? Do you really think I’d let that happen? Let you, a mere boy, kill me?” He laughed his evil, nasty laugh. This was high-pitched, very much so. “Do give me some credit, at least.”

“You don’t deserve any credit,” said Harry, not knowing anything else to say.

“Fine,” said Voldemort, who had until now been standing a mere foot or two behind Harry, but now backed up three long strides. “But you’ll have to admit I deserve a little credit for this.”

He snapped his long fingers and, with a crack!, Diagon Alley disappeared before Harry’s very eyes. Said eyes widened as they took in where the pair was now standing.

“Madame Puddifoot’s?” he muttered, uncomprehending. He hadn’t meant for Voldemort to hear, but he obviously had.

“Yes, Harry,” he said, taking the doorknob in his long, spidery hand. “I daresay you must recognise it.”

Pulling the door open, Voldemort ushered Harry inside. Harry idly thought of how odd it would look, to see the Dark Lord and Harry Potter sitting down for tea.

Stepping into the teashop, Harry blinked. Why are there Valentine’s decorations? It’s not Valentine’s day. He dismissed it, thinking that he did not know what the shop looked like when it wasn’t Valentine’s Day.

“I also dare to say,” said Voldemort, walking through the crowded shop–no one seemed to notice his presence, nor Harry’s–“that you also recognise these two.” He pointed at a couple in the middle of the room, sitting at one of the small, circular tables, a little cherub showering them in pink confetti.

Harry followed the long finger to see Cho Chang, who was laughing at something Harry had not heard. However, across from her sat someone Harry had only seen in...well. In dreams.

“Cedric,” whispered Harry, and this time either Voldemort did not hear him or he acted as though he hadn’t.

“Hmm?” said Voldemort, bringing Harry’s attention back to the murderer at hand. “You do recognise them, correct?”

“Yes,” said Harry softly.

“Well so do I. I recognise this one,”–he pointed at Cedric–“from a certain graveyard encounter we once shared. And I recognise her,”–he pointed at Cho–“from an immeasurable number of fantasies from inside your own head.”

“What?” demanded Harry sharply. “You spied on my dreams?”

“No,” said Voldemort, chuckling evilly. “But I’m a damn good guesser, aren’t I?“

Harry scowled.

“So it is true? You were in love with her? I honestly cannot blame you–she’s one of the prettiest I’ve seen in a long time. Don‘t you just love freckles?”

Harry did not grace this statement with a response, but simply fell silent. Voldemort took this as an affirmative.

“Yes, I thought that you had loved her. But you don’t anymore, do you?”

Harry ignored him, turning away. Maybe I can get up to the school, tell Dumbledore or something. He made for the exit.

“If you don’t love her anymore...surely you wouldn’t mind if I...disposed of her?”

Harry’s head snapped back around, and he stopped dead in his tracks.

“What?”

“Wel l, certainly there is no need for her anymore? And don’t you think it would be doing her a favour? Put her out of her misery?”

“You can’t–you can’t kill her,” said Harry.

“Oh, but I can,” said Voldemort icily, smirking.

“No!”

Voldemort raised his wand, pointed it at her, and said, “Avada Kedavra!”

“No!”

The flash of green light, however, passed right through Cho and eventually disappeared into nothingness.

Voldemort laughed heartily, but obviously without heart. “You foolish boy. We are in the past, Potter. Do these people, these couples, even notice we are here? No, they don’t. Because we are not here. Not physically, anyway.”

Harry let out a breath he hadn’t realised he had been holding.

“But that doesn’t mean I can’t kill her.”

“What do you mean?”

Voldemort did not answer. He simply raised his hand–his right one, the one without a wand–and snapped his fingers once again.

“And I can still kill her, too. After all, it’s her fault the whole thing started.”

Harry saw Sybill Trelawney, sobbing on her trunk in the entrance hall, from the year before, when Umbridge had sacked her.

“ And it doesn’t mean I can’t kill him.”

Harry saw Professor Lupin, alone in an armchair, in the den of Grimmauld Place. He was holding a picture, and sobbing. Harry did not have to guess who was in the picture.

“Mooney...” Harry said quietly.

“Poetic, isn’t it?” said Voldemort, raising his wand. “No one can help the crying wolf...” But instead of cursing the man, he snapped the fingers on his other hand.

“Or,” Voldemort said, “I could kill him.”

“Hagrid!” said Harry, trying in some way to attract his friend’s attention.

“What’s comin’ will come, an’ we’ll meet it when it does,” Harry heard him say.

“Oh, yes,” said Voldemort, addressing Hagrid, who couldn’t hear him, “you’ll meet it when it comes. And it’ll come soon, don’t forget.”

“Want me to kill her?”

Harry saw Luna Lovegood, The Quibbler on the floor in front of her, light blonde hair bouncing, her wand nearly falling out from behind her right ear, as she laughed hysterically at Ron’s joke. Harry couldn’t remember what the joke was, but he remembered the laughing.

“That was funny!” she said.

“No,” said Harry softly, shaking his head. It’s not funny now, he thought.

“Them?”

The Weasley twins were forcing Montague into the Vanishing Cabinet on the fourth floor, laughing at the expression on the boy’s face.

“No.”

“Her?”

Mrs Weasley, humming while she knitted an “R” onto a maroon sweater.

“NO.”

“Him?”

Mr Weasley, jumping back in delighted surprise as he flipped a switch, resulting in a fluorescent bulb lighting brightly.

“NO!”

“Her ?”

Professor McGonagall, four stunners hitting her chest.

“NO!” Harry said once again, trying to run again. Unfortunately, he was now at the top of the Astronomy Tower, and he fell right off the edge.

He landed on his broom, in third year. “Lily, take Harry and run!”

“No,” said Harry, falling from the broom in a rush of light-headedness.

“You know that I killed them...”

“What about him?”

Harry landed once again, but this time in his desk, in History of Magic, just last week. Ron was sitting next to him, biting the purple half of a Puking Pastille to get out of what may have been the worst lesson they had ever had to endure, out of Potions or Umbridge’s class.

“NO!” Harry said again, shouting now.

“ You wouldn’t mind if I dispose of your dear Mudblood, would you?”

Harry, who suddenly was standing up in the dungeon, collapsed to the floor, unbalanced. Hermione was in front of Snape.

“I see no difference,” the latter said.

“Nice one, Severus,” remarked Voldemort quietly, raising his wand towards Hermione and her overlarge teeth. “Too bad I’ll have to kill you too, you disloyal piece of–”

Suddenly, Hermione ran from the room, catching Voldemort off guard. He sneered once again at Snape, and snapped his fingers.

The chamber was deathly silent. There was not a sound, and Harry felt that this silence was going to crush him. Had he even heard the crack? It hadn’t been as loud, that was for sure, and Harry thought it was quite possible he imagined it. He couldn’t even remember what it sounded like to hear, this place was so quiet. He lay crumpled on the floor, head in his hands, silently sobbing.

“Oh, don’t cry, Harry Potter,” said Voldemort scathingly.

“I hate you. I hate you. I HATE YOU!”

“Dear me, I never knew how you felt...” said Voldemort mockingly. “Honestly, Potter, you sound like you’re breaking up with your boyfriend. Get up.”

Harry did get up. Shakily, he stood on his feet, falling back slightly. Voldemort smirked at his weakness.

Suddenly, Harry lunged at the Dark Lord, grabbing him round the neck, knocking him backwards and his long wand flew out of his grip.

Harry was on top of him, pushing him into the ground. Voldemort couldn’t seem to fight back, and wheezed underneath Harry’s grip.

“What will you do, Harry Potter,” wheezed Voldemort quietly, “when I kill someone important to your world?”

“THEY ALL ARE IMPORTANT!” Harry hollered. “SIRIUS WAS IMPORTANT!”

“Do keep it down,” the Dark Lord hissed, “or you’ll wake our guest.”

Ginny? What was she doing here? And where was here?

Harry, keeping his grip firmly on the Dark Lord’s neck, looked around for the first time.

The Chamber of Secrets.

“What will you do when I kill someone important to your world?” said Voldemort again, stronger. “And don’t tell me everyone’s important. They are nothing. Nothing to your world.”

“THEY ARE!”

“But she is,” Voldemort continued, nodding at Ginny, who had gotten up shakily and was now moving over to them.

“Harry?” she said uncertainly. “What are you doing here?”

Harry could not answer. It was becoming harder and harder to keep hold of Voldemort. The latter was gaining strength, fighting.

“Harry, what are you doing in my dream?” said Ginny anxiously. “What are you doing here?”

Voldemort threw Harry off of him, sending the boy flying into Ginny. Laughing, the Dark Lord picked up his wand and aimed it at her.

“Harry Potter, what will you do?”

“NOOOOOO!” screamed Harry. “Take me! Kill me instead!”

“What will you do?”

“NOOOOOO!”

“Harry! Harry, wake up!” said a very frightened Neville Longbottom, by the side of Harry’s bed.

Harry’s eyes snapped open. He was in his four-poster, in Hogwarts. Gryffindor Tower. It had been only a dream. No, not true. It hadn’t been only a dream. It was more than that, Harry knew.

“Are you all right?” asked Neville worriedly. He was breathing heavily, as if he had just run for his life.

“Yeah,” said Harry, nodding slightly, calming down. He turned in his bed and let his feet touch the floor. “Only you woke up this time?” he asked, surprised to hear Ron’s usual snoring.

“I was already up,” explained Neville. “B-bad dreams.”

“Oh.”

They sat in silence for a few moments. “You have a nightmare?” Neville asked.

“Yes,” said Harry simply.

“Not like...real?” asked Neville anxiously. “Not like You-Know-Who was...in your head, right?”

“I–” Harry began, but stopped, unsure. “I don’t really know.”

Neville visibly swallowed.

Harry stood up and grabbed his dressing-gown, throwing it on.

“Where are you going?” asked Neville, as if worrying that Harry was about to go get himself killed by Voldemort.

“I have to see someone,” said Harry hurriedly, walking over to the door.

He opened it, and Neville said, “But it’s three in the morning! No one’ll be awake.”

Harry shook his head. “She’s awake.”

“She? Who–”

But Harry had already left.

Harry practically ran to the common-room, where he knew he had to go. She was awake, he knew. He needed to see her, to talk to her. Now.

“Ginny,” he said, entering the common-room and spotting the redhead at once, sitting on the floor by the nearly-dead fire.

“Harry,” she said, not sounding the least bit surprised to see him. In fact, she didn’t even look round, but stared at the dying fire.

Harry quickly made his way to her, sitting down on the floor next to her.

“You dreamt it too,” Ginny said simply, already knowing the answer.

“Yes,” said Harry, moving so that they were sitting shoulder to shoulder.

“What do you think it means?”

“You know what it means,” said Harry confidently.

Ginny smiled wryly. “I know what I think it means. But every night, you come down here, and you say I know what it means. But you never say what you think it means. So how do we know we both are thinking the same thing?”

“We are.”

“I know.”

They stared at the embers, which took far longer than ordinary embers to die out. They watched them for what was really hours, but felt only like minutes. Their shoulders continued touching and neither made any movements.

Finally, the long, companionable silence was broken. At the same time, both spoke, saying exactly the same thing, and meaning exactly the same thing:

“So what will we do?”