Taylor reached over and turned off her magical alarm clock. It was charmed to say, "Open your eyes," in her mother's voice, and it was making her homesick. She looked groggily across the room at Chloe, and started laughing. In the middle of the night she'd managed to kick off all her covers and then roll off the bed onto the floor.
The laughter woke Chloe, who was mostly confused at finding herself out of bed. They both stood and stretched, yawning identical large O's.
Taylor pulled on a pair of jeans as Chloe shrugged into a long-sleeved shirt. They both finished dressing in silence before grabbing their kits and heading for the bathrooms.
There they met many others still wiping sleep out of their eyes, but the showers were running and people were beginning to wake up. Chloe and Taylor managed to get two sinks next to each other and Taylor put down her toothpaste, turning on the faucet.
"Ooh," said Chloe, surprised at her reflection. "Scary hair." Her short- cropped blonde hair was spiking out in all directions, and she pulled her wand out of her back pocket. With a few simple incantations, Chloe was back to normal, her hair in a cute sort of Meg Ryan shag. "Better?" she asked Taylor.
Spitting out a mouthful of toothpaste, Taylor gave a thumbs-up and rinsed.
"Immaculate," she said. Taylor's own hair was too much to be bothered with this early in the morning, so she just brushed it out and left it down, the very ends curling out ever so slightly at about elbow-length.
They went by their room one more time to grab their bags before stepping out of their building. Taylor looked across to the cafeteria, where many people around them were heading for breakfast.
"What do you think," she said to Chloe, glancing over, "should we risk it?"
"Hmm," said Chloe, lips pursed. She seemed to be weighing her hunger against her run-in with the lasagna the night before. "Better not."
"OK," sighed Taylor, "Here we go. Our schedules are close enough to the same, so meet back here after third class, alright? Then we'll debate lunch."
Chloe nodded and waved as they walked off in opposite directions.
Most of Taylor's classes turned out to be very much like she remembered them from Hogwarts. First she had transfiguration, and the professor—a tiny little balding wizard named Bowser—started them off with a diagnostic charm to see the extent of their knowledge. Taylor had managed to turn an ornately decorated iron bookshelf into a hippogriff and back again, and was given full marks. Professor Bowser told her she'd likely be mastering self- transfiguration spells before the end of the quarter and she eagerly looked forward to it.
Her second class had been astronomy, and that had been a bit different.
"This class is not based on strict classroom attendance," said the middle-aged witch professor. Several people around Taylor, guys mostly, gave each other high-fives, grinning. "Instead," continued the witch, "you're required to log night-hours, times you spend out in the field." The high-fivers groaned, and Taylor smirked at them.
After astronomy she'd had a dueling class, which was the most surprising of all.
"Professor Lupin!" said Taylor delightedly, recognizing the man at the head of the class. The professor looked up, equally surprised.
"Miss Durden," he said, smiling back at her. Lupin had been Taylor's defense against the dark arts teacher her fourth year at Hogwarts, but had to leave when it was discovered he was a were-wolf. "Good to see you," he said, "take a seat."
That class had started into the subject matter right away, and Taylor walked to lunch with her hair a mess from an unfriendly spell she'd been unable to block during a dueling exercise.
"What happened to you?" asked Chloe, who was already standing in front of the cafeteria.
"Dueling," said Taylor, bitterly, trying to untangle a knot of hair with her fingers. Finally she gave up, twisting it all together and using a large- feather quill to secure it in a tight bun at the back of her head.
They walked into the cafeteria together, and Chloe made a face at the smell.
"Eeurgh," she said. "But I'm starving, so here goes."
After going through the food line, being jostled by other hungry students and glared at by the cafeteria workers, Taylor led Chloe to the same table they had sat at before.
"How were your classes?" asked Taylor, tasting a tentative spoonful of her broccoli-cheddar soup. She made a face.
Chloe had opted for a ham and cheese sandwich, which she now regarded as if waiting to make sure it wouldn't sprout legs and scuttle off her plate.
"Okay," she said, shrugging. "Nothing spectacular. How's the soup?"
"I think this might be melted Barbie," said Taylor, letting a spoonful of the soup pour back into her bowl. Chloe laughed and took a bite of her sandwich, then looked immediately as though she regretted it.
"It's awful," said Chloe, forcing herself to swallow. She shuddered, making a ghastly face. She pushed the tray away and stood. "I'm going back to the room."
"Wait, hold on," said Taylor, dropping her spoon, startled. "I'll come, give me a moment."
"No, it's alright," said Chloe, gathering her book bag. "I can handle the door." She dumped her tray and bolted, leaving Taylor sitting alone and confused. She tried to finish her lunch, but felt awkward sitting there by herself. Stuffing the roll into her pocket, she stood and took her tray to the garbage, hurrying after Chloe.
"Chloe!" she said, running down the stairs to the exit. "Wait!" She pushed the doors open and stopped. Chloe was nowhere to be seen. She must have sprinted all the way across campus, thought Taylor, worried.
She hurried back to their dorms, and opened the door to find Chloe sitting at her desk, scribbling furiously with a quill across a scrap of parchment. Taylor, out of breath, closed the door behind her and walked to where Chloe sat, looking interestedly over her shoulder.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"Writing home," she said, dipping the quill in her inkwell so violently that black ink splattered across her desk. "We are in desperate need of care packages, Taylor."
After her lunch break, Taylor headed out of the dorms for her fourth class of the day. Chloe, who didn't have any classes until their shared history class, was still in the dorms, no doubt still drafting her nutritional SOS.
In the dorm foyer, Taylor noticed a large number of people crowding around the bulletin board on one wall. Carefully elbowing her way to the front, Taylor managed to see what all the fuss was about. A hastily written notice was posted:
"Quidditch season is coming up, and there are still a few positions open on the Wandslake team. Open tryouts tomorrow, noon. Sign up below."
Already there were a few names posted on the list, and people all around her were talking excitedly about it. Taylor's heart sunk. There was nothing she'd like more than to play Quidditch for the university team, but she had serious doubts about her own skills. Chewing the corner of her lower lip and frowning worriedly, Taylor stayed still a moment too long and was pushed out of the way by a burly young man with sandy hair.
Taylor caught herself on the edge of the bulletin board, shouting, "Hey!"
"Oh, what?" said the boy, his accent American, as he procured a quill and signed his name with a flourish. He turned to look at her. "I suppose you were going to sign up?" he sneered, almost challenging. She shoved back at him, turning her shoulder into his side. He stumbled, clearly surprised at the amount of force behind her.
"Maybe I was," she said, and pulled the quill from her hair, signing the list without looking away from him. He smirked at her.
"See you tomorrow then," he said, before storming down the hall opposite hers.
.
It was a little before noon the next day and Taylor was hurrying across campus in her old Ravenclaw-blue Quidditch practice robes, Firebolt in hand as she made her way to the field. Her stomach was doing nervous flip-flops and she gripped the broom handle as if her life depended on it. Her long hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail and she'd braided it to keep strands from flying into her face.
She reached the Quidditch pitch in moments and walked down the grassy hill behind the bleachers to where a crowd of people was gathering.
Taylor approached the group, made up entirely of huge guys all talking about their past Quidditch experience. A study in one-up-man-ship, thought Taylor, who remained silently on the outskirts of the group. A few of the young men turned to look at her and nod appreciatively, but none of them talked to her. She realized most of these people were older than her; only one other looked like a first-year, and she scowled to recognize him as the American who had shoved her the day before.
"Hey," said a quiet voice next to her, and she almost jumped. A tall blonde with waist-long blonde hair in matching braids stood next to her, smiling. She was at least two years older that Taylor, she guessed. "I figure we girls ought to stick together," she whispered, offering Taylor a hand.
"Hi," said Taylor, shaking her hand warmly, "I'm Taylor."
"Amélie," the girl replied, with the slightest French accent. "But that's a mouthful, call me Mel. This is my fourth year trying out," she said. "But we finally got a new captain, so maybe I have a shot."
"You had a problem with the old captain?" asked Taylor.
"We had our differences," Mel said, vaguely. "Still, from what I hear this Wood is a real slave-driver—" She was interrupted by a shout and they both turned towards the center of the pitch.
"Hey! You lot!" called a familiar Scottish accent. The rest of the group quieted and turned to see a tall dark-haired young man in normal clothing coming towards them, and Taylor's heart skipped a beat as she recognized him as Oliver, from the train. In one hand was the list from the bulletin board, the parchment rolled tightly. He reached the group and they bristled, all the guys trying to get to the front of the crowd. Mel and Taylor were easily pushed to the back, where they couldn't see anything that might be happening up front.
"I'm Wood," said Oliver briskly. "New team captain. There's supposed to be fifteen of you, so listen up. There's probably going to be about five spots, at least one of each position. That means two-thirds of you get cut." Taylor swallowed in a nervous habit. How inspiring, she thought, glancing sideways at Mel, who raised her eyebrows in silent agreement.
"Alright," continued Oliver, I want to see who's here." The crowd thinned a little, spreading lengthwise until the girls could almost crane their necks to see over the heads of those in front. "Answer by calling out your position," Oliver said. "Poliakov."
"Beater," came a growl, with what Taylor was surprised to recognize as a heavy Bulgarian accent.
"Michaels."
"Seeker!" called Mel, cupping her hands around her mouth so Oliver could hear her from the back of the crowd.
Oliver called more names, pausing each time for the answer and writing it next to the name, usually looking up to put a face to the name. Taylor knew her name was near the bottom and grew increasingly nervous. Her mouth went dry and she licked her lips, willing her voice not to come out all croaky.
"Durden."
Taylor froze, the word caught in her throat.
"Durden?" he said again, and Taylor cleared her throat.
"Beater," she said.