After dinner, Harry went to the park and sat on the swings. He did this most evenings, and rarely went back to Privet Drive before midnight. Dudley and his goon squad hadn't found him, yet. Only a matter of time before they came and ruined his much-needed peace. He got very little peace these days. Not since coming home from Hogwarts. Not since the Triwizard Tournament. Not since Cedric's death.

Voldemort was back. Should I be scared? Harry wondered. Here he was, out in the open, defenseless. He looked into the shadows beyond the streetlamps and wondered if anyone was looking back.

Should I be scared? he asked himself again. I suppose I should, but I don't feel scared. Come to think of it, I don't feel anything. Just an emptiness. He almost laughed at the madness of it all.

Instead, he opened his knapsack and pulled out a can of beer. He'd filched a few from the fridge, and was determined to get proper drunk. Could he really get pissed on two cans of American beer? Couldn't hurt to try. Harry cracked the tab and took a long draught.

"Fine night for a drink, ay?"

Where the hell had she come from? Harry choked on his beer and broke into a coughing fit. The woman was old and stooped, her face more wrinkles than skin. She wore a technicolor dress and had her frizzy white hair tied back in a braided bun. "My, my, did Old Babda scare you? I know I'm ancient, but I'm no hag." She spoke in a thick Irish accent that Harry could just understand.

"What are you doing here?" Harry asked, hand twitching for his wand.

Dark eyes twinkled down at him, and a mouth broke into a gap-toothed smile. "I'm just passing through." She gestured to a duffel around her shoulder. "Been on my feet since sunrise, and I'm dying for a seat and a drink, though that swing doesn't look very stable." She eyed the second can of beer. "Mind if I join you?"

Harry narrowed his eyes. "I'm not supposed to talk to strangers."

"Wisha! You're not a child, my boy," the woman said with a scoff. "And why shouldn't you talk to strangers? Strangers make the best company, the stranger the better." She sat down gingerly on the swing beside Harry and took up the second can without permission. "The name's Babda, by the way."

"I'm Harry."

"Good name. Better than Babda, at least. What kind of name is Babda? So, why is a fine young man such as yourself drowning in such sorrow? Don't deny it, I can see it in your eyes. You've lost someone, haven't you?"

Harry could only nod. Despite not knowing her, he gave Babda a short and censored account. "I didn't know him very well. He died, and it was all my fault."

"Did you kill him?"

Harry reddened. "Of course not!"

"Then how is it your fault?"

"Cedric shouldn't have been there!"

"But he was, and he died."

Harry sagged, tears threatening to fall. "He didn't have to die," he whispered quietly.

"Everyone dies, some sooner than later," Babda said. "It's a tough truth to swallow, but death comes for us all. It's fate."

"I don't want to hear about fate."

"Then we'll talk about something else. Name the subject?"

Harry couldn't hide his curiosity. "Tell me about yourself."

Babda's eyes twinkled again. "Not much to tell, Harry. I'm a Traveler, or a Gypsy if you want to be offensive."

Harry frowned. His aunt and uncle despised many things, and Travelers were high up on the list. "If the neighborhood watch committee catches you here, you'll get in trouble."

"If they catch you drinking underage, you'll get in trouble."

Harry swirled his half-full can around. "Fair point. So what's it like, traveling?"

"Oh, it's a grand life, I suppose. I've traveled the globe, seen every far-off land. Well, almost. I still haven't managed to reach Nigeria. Customs wouldn't let my wares cross the border."

"Wares?"

"Ah, yes!" Babda stood and unslung her duffel. "I do a bit of trading, helps pay for meals. Money necessary for goods and services, and the like."

"What do you sell?"

"Oh, charms, knick-knacks, odds and ends, and a bunch of crap. Would you care to see?"

Harry couldn't say no. He watched as Babda sat down on the ground and spread her wares across a satin blanket. "Take a look. There's bound to be something that will interest you."

Harry ran his eyes over the items: crystals, fossils, chicken bones, feathered earrings, a wooden cup with Latin writing on the rim, a stuffed snapping turtle. He paused at the sight of a shrunken head, remembering the talking one from the Night Bus. If this one could talk, it chose not to.

He moved on and paused. It was a golden pendant, slightly marked and tarnished, fixed on a silver chain. The image of a bird with wings outstretched was finely engraved on one side. "What's this?"

"Oh, this?" Babda smiled and picked up the pendant by the chain. "It's a Morrigan Charm."

"What is a Morrigan?"

"What?" Babda shook her head. "What are they teaching children in school, these days. Not a Morrigan, Mr. Potter. The Morrigan. The Celtic goddess of life death. This charm gives the wearer her protecting, and promises them luck in their endeavors."

"What's so lucky about the goddess of death?" Harry asked. He forced the image of Cedric's corpse from his mind.

"Life and death. She represents the duality of the two. You can't have one without the other. A man dies, and an egg is hatched. One for one. You need to have that balance, or the world will fall into chaos." Babda appraised the necklace, then looked up at Harry. "Here, Mr. Potter. Take it."

Harry held up his hands. "I couldn't possibly. I have no money."

"I'm not selling it to you! I'm giving it to you. I see you are on the cusp of danger. You need the Morrigan on your side, to save the balance." She folded the necklace into Harry's palm. "Don't thank me, I hate being thanked. Now go, Harry Potter, and good luck."

Harry stood up and turned to go. He walked ten feet then paused. "Wait! How do you know my full name?" He turned and found the playground deserted.

Back at Privet Drive, Harry went up to his room and inspected the pendant under his bedside light. He then put the chain over his head and tucked the pendant under his shirt. The warm feel of the gold disc on his skin was soothing, somehow. "I suppose I'll need all the luck I can get," he said. He felt tired, the long day's work catching up with him. Yawning, he fell back onto his pillow and shut off the light.

He stood at the edge of the world, the cold Atlantic wind stinging his face and blowing his hair into a mess. Below him, the ocean waves slammed into the foot of the cliffs, sending spray a hundred feet up.

"There's a storm blowing in," he turned and saw her. A dark, tall woman, dressed in black robes. Her bright green eyes met his. "Are you ready to face it?"

"I don't know," he said, shivering in the cold.

"Then I will guide you." She leaned forwards and kissed him on the cheek. "Wake up, my daughter. Find the Fianna, and right the balance."

Despite his best attempts to block the window, a single beam of light penetrated his defenses and hit him square in the eye. Groaning, Harry sat up and squinted around the room.

He remembered the dream vividly. He put a hand to his chest and found the pendant was still there.

As were two other things that hadn't been there last night. "What the—" Harry jumped to his feet and ran to the mirror. Hedwig opened an eye and clicked her beak at her owner in annoyance. The owl's eyes went wide as she did a double-take.

His hair had grown down to his shoulders overnight. His face was softer, his lips fuller. He took a deep breath and pressed his face against the glass. "This can't be happening," he whispered, his voice softer and half-an-octave higher. "This is just a mad dream. You'll wake up in a second, and you'll smile and laugh at the absurdity of it all." After a few seconds, he slapped himself in the face. "Wake up, damn you!"

He whirled around in a daze, rubbing his temples. His gaze fell down past his new breasts. He pulled at the waistband of his pajamas and looked inside, fearful of what he would (or would not) find down there.

"Oh," she said, snapping back her waistband and looking back at the mirror. "I see."

So I'm a girl, Harry thought. This is fine. I'm fine. I can fix this.

An unfamiliar muscle twitched on Harry's back. With a gust of air, a pair of black wings unfurled themselves, wing tips brushing the walls of the narrow room. At the sight, Harry's eyes rolled back into her head and she dropped to the floor in a dead faint.

He woke up with a start, sweat dripping down his face. Throwing off his covers, he ran to his parents' room and found them both awake and equally shaken. "Did you feel that?" he asked.

His father nodded, then smiled. "She has returned."

I've been trying to write a fantasy novel inspired by Celtic mythology for a while, now, and have had very little success. I figured I'd try and incorporate my idea into a Harry Potter fan fiction, to see if I get inspired. If it worked for E. L. James, maybe it'll work for me.