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Primrose Potter and the Goblet of Fire

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Primrose lay flat on her back, breathing heavily. She had awoken from a vivid dream, and the lightning-shaped scar on her forehead was burning as though someone had pressed a piece of fervid wood against her brow. She sat up in her bed, taking both hands to push her hair out of her face. Once she had a free line of sight, she turned on the light on her nightstand.

After sitting still for a few seconds, she slid off the bed and hurried to her desk on the other side of the room. She pulled out a piece of parchment and a quill, tucked it into a bowl of black ink, then put it at the top of the page.

Dear Professor Dumbled, she began, but in the midst of writing the ‘d’, the quill stopped. A moment later, she instead put it several inches further down the page.

I’m writing this right after waking because more of the dream is slipping away from me every second. I know that You-Know-Who was there, and Sirius Black, and a snake. And an old man. I think he was a muggle. And I think You-Know-Who killed him.

The only other thing I remember is that they were talking about me. They wanted to do something to me, or with me. Kill me, I would assume, but I don’t remember.

Wait, there’s one more thing. Quidditch. The Quidditch World Cup. Something about the Quidditch World Cup. That it’s necessary but they can’t do it? I’m sorry, but I don’t remember. It’s like keeping water in your hands. But I know they said it doesn’t work. Something about the world cup doesn’t work. They can’t do it to the world cup. Or can’t do it at the world cup. But I don’t know what ‘it’ is.

She put the quill aside, pressed her eyelids together, and with as much effort as she could muster, cudgled her brain to remember something, anything else.

But it was hopeless. With a sigh, she picked the quill back up.

I’m sorry, but that’s it. Can’t remember anything else.

My scar hurts, Professor. That’s why I thought the dream could mean something. Could it have really happened? Did I actually see through the mind of You-Know-Who? Or was it only a dream? But then, why does my scar hurt?

If it was real, I thought you should know, Professor. So I’m sending this to you just in case.

She paused, reading through the page several times. After a few minutes, she picked the quill back up, added a few more lines at the beginning and a greeting at the end, then put the quill aside for good and folded the page together.

Her gaze walked over to the empty cage at the other side of the room, but Hedwig still hadn’t returned. Then she looked at the watch on the wall and, with a yawn, shuffled back into bed.