Disclaimer - I don't own Harry Potter or The Chronicles of Narnia, but any characters you don't recognise belong to me.
Andrew scampered down the corridor and rounded a corner. He slipped into an alcove behind the nearest tapestry and flattened himself against the wall, breathing heavily. Footsteps approached his hiding place and Andrew held his breath, praying to Merlin that he would escape. After what seemed like an eternity, the footsteps passed by the tapestry and he released a shaky sigh of relief. Planning the best route back to the Gryffindor common room in his head, Andrew slid out of his hiding place, eyes focused on the hulking, menacing figures of Danforth and Hathorne as they disappeared down the corridor. Unfortunately he was so focussed that he forgot to keep an eye out behind him and backed into a nearby suit of armour which collapsed to the floor with a deafening crash. Immediately, the partners in crime spun around, eyes locking in on their target with identical sadistic grins twisting their mouths.
"There you are Andy," said Hathorne as he rolled up his sleeves. Andrew backed away slowly towards his left, looking over at the staircase. "Come on Andy, be a man," shouted Danforth, dropping his school bag. Andrew stopped as his back touched the banister of the staircase. Perfect timing, he thought as he felt the little hum of magic and heard the faint creaks as it got ready to move. In a flash, Andrew had dashed up the staircase, trying hard not to lose his balance as the stair swung around from the bottom to connect with the opposite corridor. He didn't stop to look back to see if they were following, he could hear their heavy pounding footsteps and shouts of "Get him!" and "Come on!"
Andrew turned left onto the seventh floor corridor and stopped dead. There was nothing. No classrooms, no alcoves, nothing but a stupid tapestry flat against the wall of an idiot trying to train trolls for the ballet. He dropped to his knees, trying not to sob. What he wanted most of all was to escape. He never asked to be the main victim of the most vicious pair of bullies known to humankind for almost two years. It was more than he could take – the puking pastels in his lunch, being shut inside almost every suit of armour and broom cupboard in the school. He couldn't defend himself because he was freakishly weak and uncoordinated for a fifteen year old boy. And he couldn't tell anyone, or they said they would do something to his mum, his poor brilliant mother who never wanted her son to go away to 'some weird boarding school.' Who was a muggle and wouldn't be able to defend herself.
No, what he needed was to escape. Especially because it seemed as though the shouts and steps were drawing closer. Suddenly, as if by magic, well it was definitely magic, a door appeared on the wall opposite the tapestry. Thinking it was better than nothing, Andrew dragged himself off the floor and ran into the newly found room, locking the door behind him. When he turned around, he dropped his schoolbag and gazed about the room. A window on the left wall allowed noonday sun to stream into the room, giving it a soft, warm glow that quieted Andrew's nerves. He thought the fact that there was a window that let in light was odd – the classroom was in the middle of a corridor – but he didn't question it.
The room was empty except for a tall, broad, rectangular object in the centre hidden under a dust sheet. And it was a good thing it was there because it looked as though nobody had entered the room for many years. A dense carpet of dust covered the floor and with every step he took towards the object, he sent millions of dust motes swirling into the air, dancing in crazy, random steps. He approached the object, looking up at its towering stature, wondering what it could be. It could be a bookshelf, or a trophy cabinet, or any number of things. His hands came up to grasp tightly onto the thick material, fingers running over the rough fibres, the bitten edges of his nails catching on them.
Driven mad with curiosity like he'd never known before, he whipped off the sheet in one swift move that set a storm of dust in motion, filling his lungs and irritating his eyes. He dropped the sheet and bent over, coughing out powder and rubbing at his itchy eyes. When he finally managed to open his eyes and the dust had resettled into a fine new layer over everything, including Andrew himself, he looked up at the most beautiful wardrobe he had ever set eyes on. It was carved from apple wood, which made it glow warmly as though the sunlight that shone upon it came from within the wood itself, radiating from the wood. On the doors and panels surrounding it, a story seemed to be told: carvings of crowns and rings and apples and pools in forests and a glorious sun setting in the horizon and in the middle an elegant tree with strong branches full with leaves. All of this was contained between two Grecian pillars, Doric ones to be precise, topped with the face of a majestic lion. Andrew stared at the lions for a while; he couldn't help it – there was something about them that made you look. Something about how proud and brave they looked. He knew they were just carvings, but Andrew had a sinking feeling that even they had more courage than him.
After a while, admiring the outside was simply not enough – Andrew had to know what the wardrobe contained. It could be anything, from clothes to riches. Maybe there was enough money in there for him to pay Danforth and Hathorne to leave him alone. Not the most likely outcome, but he figured whatever it was, it could not be worse than what waited for him outside the room. Turning the finely wrought brass knob, he heard the soft click as the lock unfastened and the creak and groan of unused hinges as he opened the door. And no, there were no riches. Instead it was filled with luxurious fur coats made from the finest fox, mink, rabbit and ermine furs he had ever seen, and he had seen many due to his mother being an avid follower of fashion, and part Russian. Andrew slipped his fingers through the silken hairs, revelling in the familiar feeling; when he was a child, he would spend many winter days snuggled in his mother's wardrobe, warm and safe, hidden within the furry forest. Sighing, he wished he could go back to those days, before the bullying and the constant fear and humiliation. Just for old times' sake, Andrew climbed into the wardrobe and settled amongst the coats, happy again, if only for a moment. He sat there, lost in the unusual feeling of safety and comfort that had enveloped around him, eyes half closed, listening to his breathing which was the only sound. That and the bubbling sound of a babbling brook.
Andrew's eyes flew open at the revelation. There was running water from inside the wardrobe. Scrambling to his feet, he stooped low to avoid hitting his head against the wood paneling above him and began to walk forward cautiously through the forest of furs, expecting to thud loudly into the back of the wardrobe any second. After a minute of inching forwards and still not reaching the back, Andrew became more confused. How big was this thing? He didn't catch a look at the back of it but he was sure it wasn't that massive. And the trickle of flowing water seemed to get nearer. And the furs began to get scratchier and sharper, pricking his skin through his robes like the pine needles of a Christmas tree. In fact, the hues of the furs had morphed from warm chestnut browns and silvery greys to…green. Exactly like the pine needles on a Christmas tree. In fact…he was no longer walking through a forest of furs, but an actual forest of pine trees.
Andrew looked upwards, but instead of the top of the wardrobe he saw patches of bright blue sky dotted with puffs of white fluffy clouds through the tops of tall trees. Standing up straight, he turned around to look behind him, expecting to see the open door of the wardrobe leading back into the room but it had vanished and was replaced with more forest, as if he had been walking through it the whole time. He gulped, wondering how he was going to return to Hogwarts in time for curfew. Seeing as there was no other option, he continued walking forwards towards the sound of the brook, taking time to appreciate the beauty of his surroundings. This place was the epitome of spring with birds twittering in their nests and bees buzzing about the random clusters of vibrantly coloured wild flowers that were abundant, filling the air with their fresh fragrant scents of honeysuckle and rose. This was the kind of place he enjoyed going to, the kind of place he could stay in forever if he had his sketchbook and a pencil or two. And this was also why he got bullied; he was arty and sensitive. One day he was sitting by the lake, sketching the giant squid, next thing you know he was being hung upside down by his ankle whilst his sketchbook is being shredded to pieces.
Andrew sighed and pushed those events out of his mind – he was far away from it all, wherever he was and he was going to enjoy it. Eventually he entered a small shady clearing and in the middle stood an old Victorian lamppost, flame still burning brightly, lighting up the shadows cast by the towering trees. He stared at it for a while, wondering how it got into the middle of this uninhabited forest. There were no other lampposts about or any other man-made structures. Just a lamppost, a fallen tree and the brook that led him here running beside it. Perching on the edge of the tree that now served him as a bench; he pulled off his shoes and socks and dipped his feet in the stream, enjoying the cool tingling feeling of the water rushing in between his toes. He was so lost in the feeling of it that he barely noticed the two strangers that were approaching from behind.
One of them wasn't even human. From the waist upwards, he was a man, albeit a quite a hairy one. He had small horns on his head poking out from his curly bouncy hair and a scratchy pointed little beard. He held a parasol in one hand whilst his other arm was linked with the other person and wore nothing except a woollen red scarf wrapped around his neck, despite the warm weather. But that didn't matter because from the waist down he had goats' legs with glossy black hair and cloven hooves, a long tail whipping back and forth behind him. He was a faun with a strange but pleasant face, known to all simply as Mr Tumnus.
The other was a girl, nearly a woman, with flowing heavy brown hair that was half let down and half up in an intricately beautiful braid. Her curious innocent eyes held endless amounts of bravery and experience far beyond her years. Her dress was a shimmering shade of apple green and long, trailing over the forest floor yet it never became dirty or picked up debris. At her hip there was a thin woven belt that held the two items that she always carried with her – a dainty glass bottle of cordial and a small knife. And on her head was a delicate circlet of silver intertwining flowers. She was Lucy the Valiant, Queen of Narnia.