Author's Note: This story is set in the twenty-first century.

1.

David Mackenzie

I watched Darius Potter bent quietly over his work, doing his journal entry for the day. He was six years old and in my first grade class. A lot of the other kids teased him, I could tell, despite my best efforts to waylay them - because he was small and skinny and he wore big, baggy, ragged secondhand clothes and broken round wire-rimmed glasses. His hair was a bush of a black rat's nest, and his knees and elbows were big and knobby. He was a very plain little boy. The scar on his forehead didn't help.

I noticed other things as well. I noticed how beat-up Darius's clothes always were, despite the fact that the aunt and uncle who had raised him were corporate suburban people, the uncle a firm director. They claimed Darius ruined the clothes himself - laughing in a tinkling sort of way, saying, "boys will be boys" - but their own son, Dudley Dursley, treated his items with much more contempt than Darius did his, and he always had brand-new, immaculate clothing.

Dudley Dursley also picked on Darius Potter a lot in school. This, too, I tried to stop, to little avail. Dudley had formed a rowdy group of boys around him and they would chase Darius around on the playground, often beating him up. This seemed to be keeping Darius from making any friends. Even now, they were throwing paper balls at the back of his head. Darius would turn around, glaring silently as they snickered, and then go back to his writing.

"Dursley!" I snapped. "Cut it out!" Dudley Dursley gave me a dirty look, but reluctantly went back to pretending to do his schoolwork.

But you couldn't get Darius to admit to any of this. Whenever he was questioned by a teacher or even by the headmistress herself, he always just frowned down silently and stubbornly at his shoes. I wondered to myself if he was afraid of his aunt and uncle.

It was too bad, because Darius seemed like a good kid. Unlike his cousin Dudley, he always did his schoolwork properly and on time. It was subdued and uninspired, but fair enough work. He never raised his hand in class, but I thought that was more out of a natural sense of reserve and fear of retribution from his cousin than anything. He also might not be encouraged to think or read or ask questions at home. He was quiet, polite, and obedient. I'd pronounced his name wrong the first day of class, calling him, "Day-ree-us" and he'd said nothing.

Later, after class, he went up to me and tugged on my sleeve. "It's Dah-ree-us," he'd said simply.

I was surprised. "I'm sorry, Darius, I didn't know."

"It's alright, Mr Mackenzie," he'd said. "I just didn't want to embarrass you in front of all those other kids."

Another time, a substitute teacher had told me that my class was terrible to her, particularly Dursley and his friends - but Potter had never caused any problems. He'd even hung back to apologize to her on behalf of his cousin after class was over.

I thought I could see the root of the problem. Dudley Dursley was a spoiled little boy. He was a classroom terror who still threw temper tantrums to get what he wanted, and he never bothered to pay any attention to his schoolwork. His bullying was particularly problematic because of how large he was, how unhealthily he ate. You could tell his parents this at student-teacher conferences and they'd defend him to the death, calling him "a bit pudgy" and "misunderstood."

Yet in that same conference they almost seemed to be looking for reasons to scold Darius, if they even wanted to talk about him at all. He was, after all, not their son. I suspected that they had never entirely wanted to raise him. A grudge against his parents, perhaps. So he never had the best things, he was never indulged, and his cousin was allowed to bully him unfettered.

I felt bad for Darius Potter, but I could see no way in to form a connection with him or help him if he wouldn't talk to any adults about his problems. We could scold and punish Dudley Dursley till the cows came home and it would be of no avail, because he never got the same kind of treatment at home.

I kept searching for a way in, some way to strike up a conversation with Darius that didn't involve his family. Perhaps I could help him and mentor him from there. I didn't find anything, until I was reading a book one day and a thought struck me.

I ran the after-school programs for the arts at St Grogory's, our school. I was very interested in the arts, and I often read books about different aspects of the arts to give myself ideas for new things to try with the children I coached. The programs were free, provided by the school itself, and they were one of the only places Dudley Dursley wouldn't be caught dead stepping into.

And I began reading about a French jazz composer named Darius Milhaud. Excited, I looked up Darius's full name as quickly as I could: "Darius Winslow Potter."

So I turned to Google and started doing online searches for famous people in the arts with the name Winslow. I found Winslow Homer, an American painter who specialized in marine landscapes.

I had found my way in.

The next day at school, I went up to Darius's desk during a free period where students were talking and doing homework. Darius was sitting in a corner, as usual, alone and ignored.

"Hello, Potter," I said, and he looked up in surprise.

"... Hello, Mr Mackenzie," Darius returned after a moment, blinking big green eyes at me from behind his bug glasses. He seemed a little confused.

"I was reading a book the other day, and I found out there's another Darius named Darius Milhaud who was a famous French jazz composer. He was a musician. And Winslow Homer was a famous American painter - he did sea landscapes. Both of your names are also the names of famous artists. Did you know that?"

Darius shook his head.

"Well, perhaps your parents did," I suggested.

"I don't know anything about my parents, Mr Mackenzie," said Darius. "Just that they died in a car accident when I was a baby. That's where I got my scar." He pointed at the lightning bolt shaped cut on his forehead.

"Don't you ever ask about them?" I wondered, concerned.

Darius looked down. "My aunt and uncle don't like me asking questions, sir," he muttered. As I suspected. Suppressing a child's natural creativity and curiosity should be criminal.

"I see," I said sympathetically, calm at least on the outside. "Well, Darius, I want you to know that if you ever have a question about anything, you can come straight to me. And if you don't want to ask me questions in front of your cousin, may I suggest something?"

Darius looked up curiously. I could see hope lying, suppressed, in his eyes. I was encouraged to continue.

"I said your names are the names of artists," I said. "Well, I run after-school programs in the arts. I don't think your cousin would be interested in them, but you might like them. A lot of other children will be there, and so will I."

"I don't think my aunt and uncle would allow it, sir," said Darius, more honest than usual I think because he seemed caught off guard.

"Not artsy types, eh?" I said. "Can't imagine your aunt making a mess painting a gigantic elephant in the living room?"

Darius giggled and shook his head, the first time I had ever seen him smile or laugh.

"Why don't I talk to them," I said. "I'll call and make an appointment. And I'll reinforce that you haven't done anything wrong," I said, when Darius looked nervous.

"Alright," he said at last. "Good luck, sir." This statement was unusually fervent. I turned away and he said, "Mr Mackenzie." I looked back in surprise. "I don't think I'll be any good at this art stuff," he muttered, looking embarrassed. "That's not really my… thing."

"What is your thing?" I asked.

"I… I don't know, sir," Darius realized in surprise. "I don't really have one."

I smiled. "I think you'll surprise yourself, Darius," I said. "And remember: no one's ever good at the beginning. That's what lessons are for."

Mr and Mrs Dursley sat down across the desk from me in the student-teacher conference.

"If that boy has done something wrong," said Mrs Dursley, immediately, "I swear I'll punish him -"

"No, no, it's nothing like that," I assured them, sitting down.

"The boy is a terror," said Mr Dursley solemnly. "There's no need to go easy on him just because he's a child, Mr Mackenzie."

"Actually, I've noticed more problems from bullying in your son," I offered mildly, and when they began to look angry and defensive I said, "But I'm not here to talk about Dudley. I'm here to talk about Darius.

"He's having some trouble making friends in school. I thought it might be nice if he joined the after-school arts program I run. But he wanted me to okay it with you first."

I sat back, and waited for their objections.

"I don't think that's a good idea, sir," said Mrs Dursley timidly, suddenly looking even smaller and skinnier than usual, glancing sideways at her husband. Anger had crossed his pouchy purple face.

"Why not?" I asked.

"I - I don't approve of all this - art rubbish," said Vernon Dursley gruffly.

I had never liked Vernon Dursley and this solidified that, but acting angry would get me nowhere in this conversation. "I assure you, it's a perfectly healthy program for a child to have," I said. "He will get to meet other children, form good social skills, and learn critical thinking. Talking to other people may be able to help him learn how to socialize better with other people, and the kind of thought required in art may improve his grades in school.

"And not all art has to be off the ground imaginative. We tend to allow the children to develop in directions of their own choosing. So if your nephew wants to paint still lifes or learn classical music, that's all perfectly fine with us. It would look good on his reports and when he talks to other adults.

"I think I see the problem," I added sympathetically. "It's money, isn't it? The program is entirely free. It's paid for by the school."

"NO! No!" they said immediately. "Money is not a problem!" I could see them looking torn.

The thing about the Dursleys, I had already noticed, was that they were obsessed with looking normal, with never being the subject of gossip. It was probably why they disapproved of imagination. So turning that against them, and making it seem like Darius doing after-school art would be best for their reputation, and like not sending him would make them look poor, was the quickest way to get into their good graces. Pointing out that not all art had to be imaginative would lower their defenses - then I could work on Darius's imagination in secret later.

"Sir, I thank you for your time," boomed Mr Dursley, standing, "but I really don't think -"

"But what could be the problem?" I asked, pretending to look politely confused. "What good reason could you come up with for not allowing a child to attend a free after-school program? I must say, it's all very odd."

They froze at the last word, just as I had intended.

"Did the boy put you up to this?" Mr Dursley asked suddenly.

"Darius? Oh, no," I said, puzzled and a little disturbed, raising an eyebrow. "As a matter of fact, I brought it up to him."

Dr Dursley stood there, his temple ticking, his tiny dark eyes working on some sort of internal debate.

"Maybe it wouldn't be so bad, Vernon," said Mrs Dursley at last.

And Mr Dursley relented. "Alright," he said suspiciously, as if sensing that he'd just been had but was unsure what to do about it. "He'll be there directly tomorrow after school. And if he ever doesn't show up or does a single thing wrong, you tell us immediately," Mr Dursley added fiercely.

"Exactly," said Mrs Dursley prissily, standing and straightening her flowery dress with her lace-gloved hands, lips pursed. "He is to put in a good showing."

"Of course," I said, inwardly deciding to do nothing of the kind.

Darius Potter

I was called out of my cupboard-bedroom and before my aunt and uncle that night, and to my surprise, they had agreed to Mr Mackenzie's idea. How he had managed that, I had no idea.

"We want to see all your finished work," said Aunt Petunia sternly. "And you are to do nothing imaginative. Still lifes. Classical music. That sort of thing."

I tried to imagine myself performing classical music and I really couldn't. I didn't think I'd be any good at art at all. I'd never exactly thought of myself as an artist. Still, Mr Mackenzie said my parents had named me after a famous artist and a famous musician… would they have wanted this? Had they been artists themselves? Was that why the Dursleys never talked about them?

I liked the idea of having a connection to my parents, quite apart from being able to spend time with other children completely apart from all three of the Dursleys or Mrs Figg, my old cat lady babysitter. Even if it was just at school, I still felt especially lucky.

"Boy! Answer your aunt!" Uncle Vernon snapped, and I realized I still hadn't spoken.

"Yes, Aunt Petunia," I said, ducking my head.

"Duddy?" Aunt Petunia turned sweetly to her son. "Would you like to try art, too?"

I froze in horror.

But Dudley didn't even look away from where he was watching television, his many chins wobbling as he snacked. "No!" he said. "I don't like school and I don't want to do any of that nerdy, artsy stuff!" I relaxed in relief.

Uncle Vernon nodded sternly. "That's my boy," he said gruffly. "Perfectly sensible." Then he turned to glare at me, as if to emphasize how not perfectly sensible I was.

But I was still just happy Dudley wouldn't be coming with me. Whole hours after school, out of the house and away from the Dursleys and away from Dudley's bullying, away from my cupboard, away from Mrs Figg's smelly old cat-ridden living room… away from everything.

I decided that even if I turned out to be horrible at art, and even if I made absolutely no friends, I would never stop going unless they kicked me out. Besides… hadn't Mr Mackenzie said everyone was bad at art at first?

So I went to the set of empty classrooms where the after-school programs were held the next afternoon after school, feeling nervous. I practically ran as soon as the bell rang, in order to get there as soon as possible and not be late. It was as if through not being tardy I could make up for how not artistic I was. Besides, there was my aunt and uncle's wrath to consider.

I was a good runner - small, light, and speedy, and quite experienced from running away from Dudley and his gang on the playground all the time - and so I made it there practically before anyone else. I sat in a corner in the big main room, and watched it slowly fill up with students of all ages. A few gave me curious looks, but no one talked to me.

The main room was long and wide and filled with wood desks, with big windows letting light onto the podium at the front of the room. Soon enough, Mr Mackenzie arrived at the podium and said, "Today, drawing and painting will be in room 26-B. Music will be in 27-A, as always. Creative writing will be in 24-C. Theater will be in 32-B. New students, please come meet with me."

I walked up to Mr Mackenzie. It was the middle of the year and I seemed to be the only newcomer. I looked around myself anxiously, but Mr Mackenzie seemed to have expected this.

"Well, Darius," he said, leaning down to my level, "here's how this works. We have a teacher for art, a teacher for music, a teacher for theater, and a teacher for creative writing. The music lessons always take place in the music classroom, but the other three switch around from time to time, which is why you always come here first.

"We recommend that you specialize in two of these four areas. One you can join three times a week, the other you can join twice a week."

"... Do you have to own an instrument to join music?" I asked.

"No." Mr Mackenzie shook his head. "Little Whinging is a very wealthy area, and we're blessed with good funding from benefactors - rich people give us money," he added in amusement when I looked confused. "So we have many school instruments which don't leave the classroom that you can practice on."

I nodded. "Music," I decided. "And art." I remembered what my name was supposed to mean. I also thought I'd be rubbish at creative writing and theater.

"Very well." Mr Mackenzie brightened and stood straight, pleased. He was a friendly man with an open face and a quiet, sympathetic manner, tall, thin, and balding. "Let's go introduce you to the teachers."

I was afraid he was going to introduce me in front of everyone, with all those eyes staring at me, but instead he stood beside me at each classroom doorway until the teacher came over to talk to us.

The art classroom was filled with sheets of paper and students making a mess doing everything from painting to drawing to sculpting. The teacher was a vast older woman who absent-mindedly had a pencil left in her bun of grey hair.

"Mrs Cheeney," said Mr Mackenzie, "this is Darius Potter. He'll be doing art here with you from now on. He's in my first grade class."

Mrs Cheeney leaned down and smiled at me. "And what kind of art do you want to do, Darius?"

I looked around. I couldn't imagine myself painting or sculpting, but drawing seemed alright. "I want to draw," I said at last.

"Alright, and with what kinds of materials? Pencil, colored pencil, charcoal…?"

I thought of angular drawings full of big, bold black lines. "Charcoal," I decided. "And maybe pencil sometimes too."

"Alright," said Mrs Cheeney. "Here's how it will work. I'll set you up with an exercise, and stop by periodically to see how you're doing. If you ever have any questions, just ask me. Now what kind of drawing do you want to do? Do you know?"

"His aunt and uncle want him to do realistic still lifes. Not too keen on the idea of art and imagination in the first place -" Mr Mackenzie began quietly.

And all of a sudden I felt like I had to speak up. "I want to do angular cartoon figures," I said loudly, and they turned to look at me in surprise. "Can I learn both styles?" I asked. "One to hide and one to show my aunt and uncle?"

I was taking a big risk here. This could get back to my family. But I didn't like the idea of sitting around for years drawing bowls of fruit.

To my relief, they looked sympathetic. "Of course, Darius," said Mrs Cheeney.

Then we went by the music room, which was really a large set of interconnected classrooms, each dedicated to a certain kind of instrument. Children would take turns practicing on the instruments, using a little sign-in sheet posted to each classroom door. There was even a room for singing, which I felt much too shy and uncertain to try. It was all run by a thin Asian woman with long, straight black hair named Miss Kwan, who seemed surprised when she heard what I wanted.

"Classical music," she said. "So what kind of instrument do you want to learn?"

I thought about it, running through instruments in my head. None of them really seemed to suit me - certainly none of the classical ones at least. The guitar would have been cool, but no go. It had to be classical. I was about to think this had been a bad idea altogether, when I came to the last two instruments in my head - piano and violin.

Neither of them would be so bad.

"Can I do two?" I said. "The piano one day of the week, and the violin another day of the week?"

"Yes," said Miss Kwan, looking surprised again. "Very few small children choose those two instruments, so they're free virtually all the time. I'll teach you how to read sheet music and set you up with exercises, then leave and have you work on them. And eventually we'll build our way up to songs, okay? Perhaps eventually you could learn to write some songs yourself."

I nodded. I thought of Darius Milhaud. "Can I learn jazz?" I asked. "In addition to classical? My aunt and uncle want me to focus on classical, but I want to learn jazz too."

"Certainly," said Miss Kwan. "Both of them are very good styles of music."

I walked back outside with Mr Mackenzie, and said wonderingly, "Everyone's so accepting of hiding things from my aunt and uncle."

"One of the things you'll learn quickly as an artist is that it's horrible to try to confine someone else's art," said Mr Mackenzie. "They can sympathize. Here, you're among friends, Darius. Here, you're among people who value creativity in a way that your aunt and uncle don't.

"Eventually in life, you'll learn that there are far worse things to do than to help a small child hide what kind of art they want to do from their aunt and uncle."