"Wendy, Wendy, when you are sleeping in your silly bed you might be flying about with me and saying funny things to the stars."
J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan
When He Tired of the Funny Things
The Lost Boys never saw it coming. One day Peter was there, as usual. The next, he was gone.
They had begun their search by invading Captain Hook's ship, Nibs leading the way. They had looked in every teepee at the Indian camp, recruiting Tiger Lily and the rest of her family. They had even dived to the depths of Mermaid Lagoon, venturing that his love of fun had finally gone too far. Each time, however, they had come up empty.
The ship was miraculously safe. The Indian camp was quiet. The Lagoon was still.
The only physical indication of Peter's disappearance was a deserted bed, emptied drawer, and a missing smart-mouthed fairy.
Peter was gone, as were all of his belongings. There was no note, no hint or riddle to follow or solve—just an empty bed and a group of boys who were, all at once, truly lost for the first time.
Whatever it was that caused Peter to leave, they decided—to grow up—it must have been good.
They prayed, for his sake, that it was.
— — — — —
Peter stood amidst the crowd of King's Cross Station, weighing his feet at the intersection of platforms nine and ten. He tugged at the collar on his neck, wriggled his toes within his school shoes, and shifted his shoulders beneath the heavy wool of his cloak. It was too heavy for the warm sun of autumn, but Madam Malkin had insisted that he purchase it, saying that if he could only afford one, the winter sort would be the sensible choice.
Not a day later, there he stood in his only set of clothing, his secondhand trunk and books loaded onto the trolley in front of him. His ten-inch, oak-and-dragon-heartstring wand was tucked in his pocket. He had earned enough money washing dishes and cleaning at a nearby, Muggle inn and restaurant to scrape by, and he was rather proud of it. The fact that the owner took pity on him and let him sleep in an empty room without calling the authorities was just another perk. For the first time since he could remember—for the first time since Wendy left—he was working toward something meaningful. Peter Pan had a goal, and this time he wasn't going to let anything get in his way.
Peter took a deep breath before tightening his grip on his trolley and following after the family ahead of him. He took off at a run, bracing himself for impact. Skin and metal melded with brick, and Peter feared for the loss of his body. After half a moment, however, the concrete receded, and Peter breathed a sigh of relief as he crossed the barrier.
The crowd on magical side was even thicker than the one on the Muggle side. Peter adjusted his school tie, straightened his shoulders, and began to push his way toward the train. He struggled to pull his trunk aboard, cursing and avoiding the onlookers who stood watching his pathetic plight. Once it was safely in the passageway, he pulled it to the first compartment he could find, thanking his lucky stars that it was empty.
He pushed his trunk to a far corner, forgoing storage for the moment, and settled down beside it. Feeling himself begin to fidget, he pulled out a letter, the one he had been reading repeatedly since he had received it.
Dear Mr. Pan,
In case you have not inferred from the previous documents, my name is Albus Dumbledore. I am the standing headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, which, as you have seen in the opening letter, is where you have been invited to spend your upcoming term. I understand the apprehension you must be feeling at the moment, but I am writing you this note to offer you my full understanding. I am aware of your situation, Mr. Pan, and the living situation from which you fled many years ago.
I commend your discovery of the society in which you've made your name. I applaud the magic within you that constructed it. It has no doubt saved many other boys in similar situations, and now it is my turn to return the favor. I would like to invite you to make Hogwarts your new solace...
His reading was interrupted by a newcomer, and out of surprise, Peter shoved the letter into his pocket. He looked up to see a ginger boy standing in the threshold of the compartment. He appeared to be about Peter's age. His hair was disheveled, and his robe was nearly falling off of one shoulder, but Peter already admired the confident set of his face. This boy knew what he was doing, knew where he was.
Peter had not felt that way in a long time.
"Sorry, d'you mind?" The ginger boy asked. "All the others are full."
"Of course," Peter nodded. He attempted to give him a smile, but couldn't seem to figure out how. He placed a hand on his jawline, his brow creasing.
"I'm Arthur," the boy said once he had taken a seat. "What's your name?
Peter's hand dropped before he froze. He had thought about this. Ever since he had received his letter, Peter had known of his options. This was his chance for a new life—Professor Dumbledore had said so. He could choose who he wanted to be, away from his childhood and away from the tortures of home. The man had promised to legitimize whatever he decided. Peter hardly understood what that meant, but chose to trust it anyway.
He shook his head and pulled himself back to the present, finally offering a shy smile. "I'm Dirk," Peter said finally. "Dirk Cresswell."
A/N: Thank you so much for taking the time to read this! I really appreciate all of the feedback that I get, so if you have a spare moment, please send me a PM or leave a review. I'd love any pointers on how to improve my writing!
A/N 2: On a more official note, this story was written for Round 12 of the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition. I'm the captain of the Caerphilly Catapults, and I chose to write a crossover between the Harry Potter world and another book (Peter Pan). For judging purposes, the final word count for this story is 955.