Chapter 1

Sometimes objects seem like they've wutbessed history. I used to imagine that the wooden table we sat around during McGonagall's Transfigurion class our senior year was as old as Hogwarts, that it had been in that room since 990 A.D., edges worn smooth by centuries of students like us, which of course couldn't be true. But that's how I pictured it. Students sitting there through the First Wizarding War, The Rise and Fall of Grindelwald, Ministry of Magic being formed.

It's funny, if you asked me who else was with us that day, I don't think I could tell you. I used to be able to see all their faces so clearly, but thirteen years later I remember only you and Professor McGonagall. I can't even recall the name of the student who came running in late to class. Later, even than you.

McGonagall had just finished calling roll when you pushed open the door. You smiled at me, your dimple making a brief apperance as you slipped off your robe and hung it on the back of the chair. Your eyes landed quickly on the empty seat next to mine, and than you did too.

"Perhaps it would be more useful if I were to transfigure you in a pocket watch? That way, you might be on time Mr. Potter." McGonagall said, as you reached into your bag for a notebook and pen.

You nodded, and McGonagall started talking about Animagi. " ..is a witch or wizard who can transform him or herself into an animal at will. It takes skill, practise, and patience for wizards and witches to become Animagi. The process of becoming an Animagus is long and arduous, and has the potential to backfire abd cause the transformation to go horribly wrong. Many withches and wizards simply fell that their time might better be employed in other ways, as the skill is of limited practical use unless one has a great need of disguise."

"I'll always remember that passage because I've wondered so many times since that day whether you and I were fated to meet in McGonagall's class. Whether it's destiny or decision that has kept us connected all these years. Or a combination of both, taking the current when it serves.

After McGonagall spoke, a few people flipped through the text in front of them. Your ran your fingers through your hair. "Well," you said, and the rest of the class joined me in looking at you. But you didn't get to finish.

The student who's name I can't remember came racing into the room. "Sorry I'm late," she said. A town in North Lincolnshire was destoryed, do you think it could be you know who." No one knew the significance of her words; not even she did.

"How many casualties?" McGonagall asked.

"I don't know," she said, taking her seat at the table. "I waited, but the newscasters had no idea what was going on.

If it had happened now, all of our phones would've been blowing up with news. Pings from Whoots and Wizardybook (their verison of Twitter and Facebook) and push notifications from the Daily Prophet. But communication then wasn't yet instant. We all shrugged it off and McGonagall kept talking about Animagi. As I took notes, I watched the fingers of your right hand unconsciously rub against the wood grain of the table. I doodled an image of your thumb with it ragged nail and torn cuticle. I still have the notebook somewhere in a box. I'm sure it's there.