Under the Long Shadow, Prologue
Summary: Mason Hall is just a boy. When his eleventh birthday rolls around, his life changes. What was it like growing up in shadow of the Golden Trio?
Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling. All things Hogwarts belong to J.K. Rowling. I'm simply playing in her world. Mason Hall and family are my original creations. All Gryffindors in Ginny's year besides her and Colin Creevy are also mine. Thank you once again to J.K. Rowling for this fertile landscape we've been given to seed!
AN: Inspired by the thoughts, "Who were Ginny Weasley's classmates, and how in the world did the class after Harry's ever hope to compare?"
Under the Long Shadow
Prologue - Just Another Day
"It's not every day my little brother turns ten-and-one."
The sun was shining on Mason's birthday. He should have known that nothing good could come from it. The park was nearly empty, which was odd for late August, even with the pool shut down. The swing set didn't creak as it boiled under the noonday sun. The flowers looked tired. Yellowed grass wavered in the distance in all directions.
"Don't be daft, Marcus. Of course I can't turn eleven every day. That would cause a sub-atomic temporal event that would rip apart the fabric of reality."
Marcus frowned down at his little brother, then reached out and cuffed him.
"Ow! Hey, ya slimy git!"
Marcus scowled. "Who taught ya how to talk like that?"
Mason rubbed at his sore ear. "Mrs. Covington. I heard her yelling at her old man out on the porch."
"Little punk. Looks like someone needs a birthday spanking…" Marcus made to roll up his sleeves. Mason reacted in character keeping with most brave, little brothers.
"Mum! Mummmmmmm! Marcus is beating me!"
"Hey, hold still, ya-" An impromptu game of tag saw both boys running around the picnic table.
"Oh, give off, you two," Mrs. Hall's exasperated voice came from the station wagon. "I swear there's ten of you sometimes with the noise you produce. Why don't you stop that bother and help your mother out?"
"Marcus can help, ma. Felicia says he's so big and strong," Mason sing-songed, batting his eyelashes in a good approximation of the neighbor girl. Marcus made to cuff him again, but Mason dodged it and stuck his tongue out.
"Somebody, help me," Mrs. Hall emerged from the rear of the car, struggling with a cooler and several boxes.
"I got it, mum." Marcus relieved his mother of the packages and walked them over to the table. Mason thought about tripping him, but stopped himself.
"Mason, sweetie, get the ice."
"What? Mum, it's my birthday! Why do I gotta help?"
Digging in the back of the wagon again, Mrs. Hall's voice turned stern. "Because, young man, you're a part of this family. Do you want me to do only my laundry from now on?"
"All right, all right, mum. I'm coming." Mason kicked some gravel that offended him as he trudged over. The bumper was hot and almost burned Mason in his short pants. He leaned way over and grabbed the large sack by the tip, dragging it toward him. The bag was all sweaty, and stuck to the bumper. Mason got a finger under it, but yelped as he touched the sunburned metal. The bag tore, and cubes tumbled out and bounced all over.
"Mason!"
"Ouch! Stupid ice bag!"
"Nice one, shrimp. Now we've got no ice. Way to go!"
Mrs. Hall put a hand to her forehead. "That's enough, you two."
"Yeah, that's enough, Marcus." Mason blew a raspberry at his brother.
"Mason Hall! That is quite enough!" Mrs. Hall fished about in the back of the car, coming out with her purse. "Now run down to the corner and fetch a new bag."
"But mom!"
"Don't 'but mom' me, mister. Your friends will be arriving soon, and I want cold drinks here for them when they do."
"But it's MY BIRTHDAY!" Mason yelled at the top of his lungs. The sound bubbled out into the heat and died, mocking him.
"It will be your last if you don't behave and do what I say."
"Why can't Marcus do it?"
"Because I'm so big and strong, I need to stay here and help mum set up," Marcus's voice floated over from the table. "Get a move on, shrimpy wimpy."
"Enough, Marcus," Mrs. Hall waved him away. Shoving a ten-note in Mason's hands, she patted him on the cheek with an absent, "don't dawdle," and went back to the boxes and bags.
They're not even my friends, Mason thought. He jammed his hands into his pockets and kicked at the sidewalk. He didn't even want this party. It was the same every year since dad died: mum would invite all the moms she knew and their kids, and sit around and gossip and ignore him. Mason would get maybe one present and a little cake. Mum wouldn't bring ice cream, which was his favorite. He didn't even like cake. All those boxes mum and Marcus were unloading were party favors and decorations for the guests.
Mason almost tripped over a particularly kick-resistant spot of sidewalk when he thought he heard a cat meow. He stopped and looked. The lots here were full of trailers, dusty and largely unkempt, but it was the only public park in the neighborhood. There weren't any pets here. There were hardly lawns.
Meow. There it was again. Mason squinted at the shadows under a trailer porch. Lantern like eyes shone in the dark.
"Oy, who's that?" Mason said, feeling very silly. Who talks to cats? The grass crunched as Mason took a tentative step forward.
A shock ran up Mason's leg and caused him to cry out. What? Mason danced back a few steps and shook his leg out. Did he step on something? His trainers were old, but they had some sole left. He looked down at the yard. No thorns, no sprinklers. Meow. Meow. MEOW.
Mason scowled at the glowing eyes. Then his own eyes flew open. He wasn't hearing a cat meow. He was hearing a cat say "Meow."
"Oy, who's that? Kyle? You funnin' on me?" Mason's left hand automatically tightened. Kyle Sloper was that guy everybody knows, the boy who got taller and wider than all the others sooner and therefore decided that his mission in life was to pound on little guys. Mason was small, even for eleven. Well, ten and 364 days and some odd seconds. He'd been born on a sunny afternoon just like this one. It had been a sunny afternoon when dad had answered the phone, a sunny afternoon when they'd watched him fly away in his uniforms, a sunny afternoon when mum had answered the phone and their lives were forever changed.
"I'm warning you, Kyle. I've got a weapon." It was true, technically. Mason had gotten in the habit of carrying a short, sharpened stick in his waistband. Since his clothes were all Marcus's hand-me-downs, no one noticed the bulge. Mason had no illusions that he could actually hurt Kyle with the stick, but having it on him made him feel stronger.
Meow. What's a Kyle? Both Mason's fists were curled now. His left at the small of his back around the stick, his right in a fist. It must be the heat. He was going looney. He really needed to get that ice.
But he took another step forward instead.
This time there was no shock. But Mason heard a sound, like glass breaking, over and over. And seagulls. Seagulls? There weren't any gulls here. He shook his head and stepped closer to the eyes watching him.
Meow. Can't take a hint can you? He could swear he saw those eyes wink at him, and then they were gone. Suddenly the grass under Mason's feet felt hot, really hot, like it was burning through his soles. He danced back to the sidewalk. Looking back at the space under porch, he saw nothing. No eyes, no movement.
"Blimey, I've gone nutter." Mason shook his head and walked on. The nearest drugstore was blocks away. Mason kept himself from running. It wasn't easy. He felt like eyes were on him all that way, though he saw nothing.
Unluckily, the drugstore's cooler wasn't working, so the inside smelled worse than Marcus's gym socks. Mason made for the icebox.
"Aw, it's widdle Stoner. How's it rollin', Stoner?"
Mason's tiny knuckles popped this time as his fist tightened around the handle. There was only one thing worse than Kyle, it was his older brother Jack. Jack was a year older, hand long hair and a moustache. He also had friends, with varying length of facial hair. Mason thought it was dumb to grow moustaches, especially over summer break. He'd said so, and that's why Jack had hit him most recently.
"Need a hand, Stoner?"
Mason realized he hadn't opened the cooler yet. His hand was trembling. He yanked the door open, only to have it crash back down. Jack stood there, looking happy with himself.
"Can't figger out the dumb door, Stoner?"
Focusing on his trainers, Mason eased out a slow breath and yanked on the handle again. This time, the door didn't even open all the way as Jack's meaty palm slapped down on it.
"Can't hear, either, Stoner? Can't be bothered? Wassamatter, you? Lost yer tongue?"
Mason tried once more to open the cooler, but this time Jack slammed the door down on his hand, hard. In a flash, Mason had whipped out his stick and lunged for Jack's face. "Call me Stoner again, Jackanapes! Do it!"
Mason thought he saw a flicker of fear as Jack's eyes crossed over the point of the stick, but it passed before he could be sure. "Little prat," Jack spat, but he let go of the handle.
Mason wrenched out a bag of ice and turned without saying another word.
"It's your birthday, isn't it?"
Mason stopped in his tracks. He noticed two things right away: Jack's tone had changed as much as a person's could - unassuming, curious, almost warm - and he hadn't called Mason 'Stoner' either.
The Sloper boys had thought it the height of hilarity to give Mason this nickname in primary school. It stemmed from the fact that Mason often stared off into the distance in class. Quite as often, when snapping back to reality, he would answer a given question with great detail and absolute clarity when everyone was sure he'd not even heard the question.
The new angle didn't ruffle Mason. He whirled on the older boy. "What of it? If I see you, if I see water balloons or spitwads, if I see any hint of you-"
Jack scowled suddenly, as if he'd just remembered to act mean. "Whatever, ye prat. Shove off then." Jack bumped his shoulder hard as he went by, mumbling something about "muddle", and left the store.
At the register, Mason noticed the checker's cat staring at him from behind the counter. It was a sleek, lanky tailless variety, pure black, with large, yellow eyes. Mason stared at it. The checker cleared his throat. "Line getting on behind you, lad."
Mason mumbled apologies and fished the ten-note out of his trousers. "Your cat's got a staring problem. What's it? A Marx, or Manx? I never get it right."
The checker stared back at Mason with considerably less intelligence than his cat. "Wot?"
Mason opened his mouth to repeat, and stopped. Where did the cat go? Mason craned his neck to look over the counter, but saw nothing. He looked behind him, where he saw only impatient customers. He handed over the money and mumbled thanks. The ice was heavy.
Outside it seemed to have only gotten hotter. Mason was stepping off the curb when it came to him again. Meow! Louder this time, and close. He jumped back, tripped and fell on his bottom, and lost the ice bag. A second later, a car roared by much too quickly and roared through the space Mason was standing in.
Mason's heart was thudding rapidly as he retrieved the ice, which luckily hadn't burst open. He looked around for the mysterious speaking cat, but it wasn't there, and the auto that had almost killed him was puttering away now.
Mason was quiet as he walked back. There was a lot going on in his mind, and very little of it made sense. He was so lost in thoughts of cat eyes, burning grass, and bullies, that he didn't even realize he'd arrived at the park until he heard the unmistakable chatter of mothers.
He deposited the ice on the table without a word, then his eyes lit up. Marcus was bouncing for all he was worth on a trampoline! Mason felt a grin split his face in two. He might have some fun this birthday after all. Taking a running start, he leapt at the platform.
"Oy, gerrof!" Marcus yelled, but a second later Mason was shooting up, flailing wildly, heading for a tree! With a dry thud, Mason felt his stomach heave and his nose cry out at him. Pain hit him in places he hadn't known existed, and his feet dangled in open air. One of his trainers slipped off, and hit the ground seconds later. Seconds? Despite spreading pains, Mason curiously looked down.
He was twenty feet off the ground.
Marcus was below him, looking up with a mix of incredulity and disapproval. "What are you playing at?"
Mrs. Hall was screaming. "Mason Hall! You get down from there this instant! And I wanted cubed ice, not crushed!"
The rest of the day passed as expected. Mason sat at the picnic table, eating yucky cake while kids he didn't know ran around squirting each other with water guns, and bouncing on the trampoline he wasn't allowed on anymore. "Never been so embarrassed," his mother had said. They hadn't even sang to him.
Mason was made to help clear out while Marcus made googly faces at the older neighbor girls and did back flips on the trampoline. Mason was thoroughly in a rotten mood by the time they returned home.
Arms laden with leftovers and half-ruined decoration, Mason trundled up the stairs, wanting nothing more than to collapse in his bed and forget his birthday.
"Pick up the post," Mrs. Hall said as he reached for the door handle. Mason was carrying as much as her and Marcus, and his arms weren't as big. Why did he have to pick up the post?
Mason felt the stick in his trousers dig into his backside as he carefully bent down. He squeaked, and promptly dropped all his packages. His mother's yelled admonishment didn't reach his ears as he stared. It wasn't a cat this time. As if entranced, his hand reached down of its own accord to retrieve what lay there.
"Mason Sammandahl Hall! Look at me when I'm talking to you!"
Junk mail, a catalog, a flyer, and a very large, yellowed, thick envelope, the last one sealed with some odd, waxy lump. The last one was all he saw. He straightened, turned to his family, and held out his hand.
"Mum, look. I've gotten a letter."