From the ridiculous to the sublime. This is real! :)

If being in love with a fictional character is wrong…

Then I don’t want to be right...

J.K. Rowling had me at “Mr and Mrs Dursley, of number four Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were normal, thank you very much.”

It was love at first read. It was small at first, our little love affair. Harry would magically open a door here. Levitate a wand there. But as time went on, it became more intense. Winning the Tri-Wizard Tournament, breaking into the Ministry of Magic, going on a horcrux hunt with Ron and Hermione. I was thoroughly devastated when he started going out with Cho Chang. I came to accept that he married Ginny and has three children, but it still stings. Eventually we decided to move on.

You know, they say you can’t forget your literary love. I still get (as absolutely silly and ridiculous as this might seem now) dreams about Harry. Yes, dear reader, you read right. I dream about Harry’s adventures often. I dreamt about the eighth horcrux recently.

A dream is just a dream. Or is it not? Well, let me recount the story for you.

A green tent, the air was tinged with the reek of cats and (my mind said) dragon blood. Late afternoon.

“A horcrux could be anything, Harry,” said Hermione, “the last that he killed was… well, y… you…”

“My scar, yeah” completed Harry, “d’you reckon it’s a living being?”

“Yeah, I expect.”

“Yeah, mate, You-Know-Who didn’t own many riches apart from the Marvolo’s ring and the Slytherin’s locket,” said Ron.

“And his other horcruxes are all the things he nicked from Hepzibah Smith’s treasure-trove and the Ravenclaw common room.”

“We’ve been here for the past two days” warned Ron. “We’ve got to move.”

“Yeah, how about Northern Atlantic?” suggested Harry. “Hermione, you are carrying gillyweed in your beaded bag, aren’t you?”

Darkness. Water. Was I Hermione? Sprouting gills?

“What’s that?” the curious question shot out in the form of warm water bubbles.

“Looks like a swimming firefly” I read Harry’s lips.

“That’s a pyrophoric fish, mate,” said Ron.

“Sort of aquatic fireflies, they are, harry, the wizarding world doesn’t have fireflies” more bubbles were sent out by Hermione’s usual well-read, snotty, bossy, posh self through my mouth.

Harry stretched a hand and caught the pyrophoric fish. It transformed into something that looked like a black leather seat at his touch. Ron and the Hermione in me caught Harry by the legs. Our gills began to shrink, the water grew colder, we were swallowing water, choking and we were pulled out, in a seating position. There was a strange sort of a scarlet glow that the bait seat emitted. Strange, it could just fit one.

“This is it, Harry, Ron, the horcrux.” My mind screamed, some strong silencing charm was cast upon us. I looked up and listened hard;there were voices. Voices that hissed softly and dangerously. My insides twitched, the horrible sensation stirring violently in my stomach. It sounded like Parseltongue.

The scarlet shade showed Harry being pushed in to it and then… ahhhhhhhhhh… we were pushed under the seat, Ron and I holding on for dear life. Wand, beaded bag, Harry, Ron, was all ok?

“Welcome,” the voice hissed in English.

Our surroundings grew warmer, yet very unpleasant. I felt Ron’s arm jolting against mine, the beaded bag secure in my sock, and the wand in my sleeve. We were moving forward.

“Welcome to the Aqua Dark World. Dumbledor is dead, his body rots under the feet of Lord Voldemort and his followers.”

I had felt something heavy moving from the inside of the seat. I prayed it was Harry. Fortunately I was able to move; I sat upright and reached for my sock. I realised I didn’t have to hold on, I was stuck to the bait. I felt more scared than ever before. We were very slowly being wrapped around by the bait. More incoherent whispers were being emitted. But what to do next? Stabbing the bait with the Sword of Gryffindor would mean drowning, and not stabbing it would mean dying and leaving the wizarding world on the mercy of the Death Eaters and their master, Voldemort.

I snatched my wand and “Accio sword” I mouthed. It soared out of my sock and plunged into the bait. Then everything changed, I was huddled safe in bed. I was myself, not Hermione, and then came the jarring realisation that there is no eighth horcrux.

A dream is never just a dream, it is a place in sleep, where fantasy and wild imagination collide. No matter how ridiculous the dream, the imagination and the capability to recount the haphazard events always feels fab. Fiction is sublime.