Daria Ravenclaw The Year of the Owl. In Flight
DISCLAIMER: Daria is the creation of Glen Eichler and is the property of MTV Viacom. Harry Potter is the creation of JK Rowling and is the property of JK Rowling, Wizarding World, and Warner Brothers. I own neither franchise. The author states that he is writing for his own amusement and neither expects nor deserves any sort of financial compensation for this work of fiction.
Daria Ravenclaw: The Year of the Owl*Daria Ravenclaw: The Year of the Owl*Daria Ravenclaw: The Year of the Owl
Jake flinched. He then placed his hands on the arm rests of his seat and took two deep breaths.
"Hi—Ed," he said.
"Nice to see you," said Ed. He was smiling. "Been a while since the Ridge."
Not long enough, thought Jake, breathing in and exhaling another deep breath.
"That it has," Jake replied.
"What are you doing these days?" said Ed. Daria thought that this Ed guy seemed friendly, not hostile. He also wasn't playing the false-friendly bullying games she'd seen played back at Highland, either. Still, having gone through some bullying herself, she could understand why her Dad wasn't being friendly.
"Being a civilian," Jake replied. "I work in wholesale in Texas."
"I'm currently based at Fort Hood," said Ed. "Are you married?"
"Yes," said Jake. "I married Helen Barksdale in 1971. I have three daughters. This is Daria, my eldest."
"How do you do, Miss?" said Ed, extending his hand.
Daria thought about not taking his hand and decided that it wasn't worth it. "Hi," she said, rewarding him with a frown.
"Did you go in after you graduated?" asked Ed.
Daria guessed that Ed meant the military. Daria watched as her dad took another deep breath, then exhaled.
"No," said Jake.
"I went in after I graduated from college," said Ed. "Active Duty, then the reserves."
"Sounds like you found your calling," said Jake.
"Thanks," Ed replied.
"I'm a member of the Ridge's alumni association," said Ed. "Would you like me to send you info about our next reunion?"
Daria watched as her Dad took in another deep breath, then exhaled. "I'll think about it," he replied.
"Good to see you, Morgendorffer," said Ed. He turned away and walked down the aisle towards his seat.
Daria waited until she was sure that Ed was further down the aisle.
"Dad, did he go to Buxton Ridge with you?" asked Daria.
"Yeah," said Jake.
-((O-O)))—
Ed Bellows walked back to his seat feeling bemused. Of all the people he should run into, he ran into Jake Morgendorffer, the worst cadet at Buxton Ridge Military Academy. The guy had been a shivering headcase back at the Ridge, a target for almost every upperclassman or every kid who'd gotten higher rank. Kids could be so cruel. He'd once had a bet with Flint that Morgendorffer would either try to kill himself or get expelled, yet somehow, some way, he'd survived. Not only survived but thrived: by his count three daughters and a marriage that had lasted at least eighteen years.
He'd been out of the academy a year longer than Morgendorffer, and the years changed him. He'd been to Vietnam and those experience knocked the Buxton Ridge cadet cockiness out of him. He'd seen men wounded and die, good men, good soldiers, torn to bits by mortars, gun-fire, landmines, and some of the fiendishly clever booby-traps Charlie could dream up. He'd learned that the good guys didn't always win, you could be killed or wounded and it didn't matter how Strack you were, and sometimes you survived out of sheer luck.
After he'd joined the alumni association, he'd learned that many of his schoolmates had also done poorly. A lot of them, particularly the ones sent to the Ridge because they had problems with their parents or other troubles, had freaked out with drugs, alcohol, gone broke, or had other stuff happen. He knew several of his classmates had had divorces or had problem kids of their own.
And here was Shaky Jakey, of all people, alive and apparently thriving. If he wasn't a happy camper, he was at least a survivor. That counted for something, he thought.
-(((O-O)))-
The New York flight lasted about three hours. The jet had an in-flight movie, Dick Tracy, starring Warren Beatty and Madonna. Daria didn't watch the movie; instead, she tried to read a London tourist guide. She wasn't able to give it her full attention: she found herself nodding off several times, then being jostled awake when somebody walked down the aisle. She awoke once to find that her Dad had placed his arm over her shoulder. She surprised herself by smiling.
She woke up an hour or so before their plane was supposed to land at JFK and put on her eyeglasses. The movie was over, although the airline was showing some sort of entertainment program. She reached for the tour guide she'd placed in the seat pocket in front of her and resumed reading. She really hoped that Mom would be able to get away early and that she and her parents would be able to see some of London together. She told herself that at the very least she wanted to see St. Paul's Cathedral, Buckingham Palace, and at least one art museum.
She was reading up on some of the gorier parts about the Tower of London when the cabin attendant announced that they were preparing for landing and that it was time to fold up their tray-tables and put their seats in the full upright position.
-(((O-O)))—
Neither Jake nor Daria had much time to enjoy JFK, but they didn't have to scramble to make it to the gate for their connecting flight, either. Despite their previous flight's delayed departure from DFW, they had just enough time to visit a sandwich shop and pick up meals to go and sit down to eat them. Jake called Helen and told her that they'd made it to New York and would shortly board their transatlantic flight.
They boarded not long afterwards. Both Jake and Daria showed their passports to the gate agent, then boarded their jet. It was a wide jet, with three rows instead of two. Again, neither of them got a good seat: both of them had seats in the middle of the plane, although Jake traded with Daria and sat in the aisle. Daria started reading her guidebook again, lost interest, then put it away.
There was more tension in the cabin than there was on their previous flight. Despite the fact that Britain was well out of range of any missiles that Saddam Hussein might possess, there was a sense that perhaps he might try something like putting bombs on airliners or have someone waiting near Heathrow with a shoulder-fired anti-aircraft missile to try his luck at downing an airliner.
It was now full dark, and the plane backed away from the gate, then followed the illuminated taxi-ways to the runway and their takeoff. They again went through the taxi, stop, taxi again, stop, taxi shuffle. While Daria was wondering if they'd have to pause again, the pilot broke the pattern and their jet began rolling down the runway. Their plane picked up speed, its engines roared louder, then it lifted off the ground. Daria felt the sensation of the plane leaving the ground, then the landing gear being retracted. Off to the next part of my life, she thought.
As far as Daria was concerned, the transatlantic flight soon changed from exciting to boring. Yes, she was leaving the US and flying to Europe, but she was also stuck in a flying tube for over six hours without much to do.
Well, she could write. She dug out a spiral notebook and wrote a couple of pages of her thoughts. Most of what she wrote was more like a journal describing what had happened the last several days than an intimate description of her hopes and fears.
"I see you're keeping a journal. Are you a writer?" said the man sitting next to her. He was silver-haired, polite, and spoke with what Daria assumed was a cultured English accent.
"I have aspirations in that direction," said Daria. "I'm not as good as I want to be."
"Well, most writers weren't very good when they started writing," said the Englishman. "The only way to get better is to keep writing."
"Thank you," said Daria.
The Englishman pulled a carry-on bag out from under the seat in front of him, unzipped it, and took out a book. Daria didn't recognize the title although she guessed that it wasn't literary.
Daria wrote in her journal for half an hour more, then put it down. She'd run out of steam. The Englishman continued to read his mystery.
"Is that a thriller?" she asked.
"No, it's a mystery," the man replied. "There's a difference. Most thrillers I've read or heard about might have murders, thefts, and whatnot, but the reader is taken along for the ride without any chance to find or rank clues and assemble enough evidence to solve the mystery himself. These days the culprit is as often some villain off in the distance that the protagonist never meets face to face. Very flashy, very glamorous, but not very challenging."
"That's usually the sort of book I find at the drugstore," said Daria, "unless it's some Christian book saying how the End Times are upon us. My home town isn't much for book shops."
"My condolences," the man replied.
"That's my corner of West Texas," said Daria.
The Englishman chuckled.
"Seriously, I believe that mysteries are an underrated genre," said the Englishman. "Well written histories and biographies are informative and occasionally uplifting, literary novels say a lot about the psyche and the human condition, but a good mystery makes you think, and not just about solving some crime, either."
Daria was fascinated. The Englishman might be riding his pet hobby horse, but she wanted to make sure that he knew he still had her attention.
"How so?" she asked.
"It's not like the author is simply towing you along some canal path," the Englishman replied. "You're not simply gathering clues, but you're also trying to guess how people are relating to other people, how truthful they are to themselves and to each other, and occasionally whether they've all bought into some convenient falsehood or other. The very best ones have plot twists and force you to discard any theories you might have already created and create new ones to fit new evidence."
Daria grinned.
"What, this isn't simply art?" she said.
"No," said the Englishman. "This is much like real life, learning that not everything should be taken at face value, that people often have hidden agendas, and that your assumptions might be confounded by later developments."
Food for thought, thought Daria. She hoped she remembered all of this conversation. She suspected that she might find it useful later.
Daria and the Englishman were interrupted by a cabin attendant a couple of minutes later. She was passing out headphones for the first in-flight movie.
"So what is this first movie?" asked the Englishman.
"Back to the Future Three," replied the cabin attendant.
"I'll pass," said the Englishman.
"I'll take the headphones," said Daria, "and a pair for my Dad. He's over to my left." Jake had dozed off.
"Here you are," said the cabin attendant, handing Daria two sets of head phones. "Enjoy."
"Are you planning to watch it?" said the Englishman.
"No," said Daria. "But I might want to watch the second movie."
"Clever girl," said the Englishman. "I should have thought of that." He picked up his mystery and resumed reading. Daria felt inspired again and started writing.
Neither Daria nor the Englishman paid much attention to the movie. In Daria's case, she'd formed her own opinions about the Wild West through conversations with some of Highland's ghosts.
The Englishman finished reading his novel two thirds the way through the movie and tucked it away in the seat pocket in front of him. Daria had put away her journal and had fished out her London guidebook.
"Finished?" she said after glancing in the Englishman's direction.
"Yes," said the Englishman. "I try to travel light so I'll probably leave it on the plane when we arrive at Heathrow—unless you want it of course."
"Thank you," Daria replied. "I'll take it." The Englishman handed it over and Daria started reading it.
It was interesting. She found she'd fallen into the book when she was interrupted a little later by the cabin attendant asking them if they wanted their meal. Daria reluctantly put the book down, then turned to Jake and said "Did you get some sleep, Dad?"
"Thanks, Smidget, I did," Jake replied.
The cabin attendants passed through again, first offering beverages, then in-flight meals. The food was OK but not outstanding. Daria was not so snobbish that she'd pass it up: her Dad had recently started paying more attention to the recipes in cookbooks instead of winging it so often, but he was not a very good cook.
After the cabin attendants cleared away the meals and empty beverage cups and bottles, they played the second movie: Nicolas Roeg's The Witches. Daria found herself moving beyond irritation to a low boil as the movie progressed. She knew darn well that witches weren't out to get rid of children. No, they weren't all bald and covered their baldness with wigs. No, they weren't the ugly creatures depicted on the screen. And to her surprise, she found herself taking Quinn-style offense at the writer's depiction of witches all possessing big, ugly feet. Watching the movie progress, she occasionally made faces at the screen, made the one-fingered salute under her blanket, and hoped that her magic stayed under control and didn't do anything.
Years later, she learned that a number of witches, both Muggle wanna-bes and those from magical families, were sufficiently upset about their depictions in the movies that they sent used dress shoes to both Nicolas Roeg and Roald Dahl in protest. There were rumors that some had included Howlers with their footwear, but Daria never learned if the rumors were true.
An hour or so after The Witches ended, the cabin attendants began passing out customs and immigration forms, and the fact that Daria wasn't just flying, but flying to a foreign country struck home. She and her Dad carefully filled out the forms and Daria was careful to put her forms away where she could find them when they exited the plane at Heathrow.
Daria resumed reading the mystery that the Englishman had given her. She'd brought along her copy of Hogwarts: A History but decided that the man was too intelligent and too observant for her to explain it away as a massive work of fiction. She regretfully decided that she'd be wiser to keep it where it was—out of sight.
Shortly after she'd read Chapter Fourteen, the chief cabin attendant announced that they would be landing at London Heathrow shortly, and that they should put away their carry-on luggage, put up their tray tables, and bring their seats back to the full upright position.
Jake was awake again. "How did it go, kiddo?" he said.
"Well, I watched the second movie, wrote in my journal, and talked to-," said Daria.
"Ainsley Masters," said the Englishman.
"Jake Morgendorffer, my man," said Jake. "This is my daughter Daria."
"We've met," said Mr. Masters. "Your daughter is an interesting and intelligent young woman who can keep up her end of a conversation. I've met more than a few young women twice her age that can't say the same."
"So what happens at Heathrow, Dad?" Daria asked.
"The people who provided your grant are supposed to have someone to meet us," said Jake. "They're supposed to have someone to meet us outside customs and immigration."
They didn't land immediately. The pilot announced that there was traffic and that they'd have to circle until the air controllers could find them a space to land.
"Pity the poor buggers with close connecting flights," said Mr. Masters. "At least that's not my problem."
After a while, the pilot got permission to land and their plane began its descent. Daria and Jake felt their ears pop then heard and felt the rumble of the landing gear as it extended from the fuselage. The plane flew lower and lower and lower, then they were down. They then heard the roar of the engines as their airliner braked to a slow walk.
"Ladies and Gentlemen," said the head cabin attendant. "Welcome to Great Britain and London Heathrow. Please remain seated until the aircraft has come to a complete stop."
The plane came to a complete stop and Jake and Daria heard the engines power down. They had arrived at the terminal. Jake stood up and pulled down his carry-on bag and set it on his seat. Daria pulled out her carry-on and made sure that she had everything in it.
"A pleasure to meet you," said Mr. Masters.
"A pleasure to meet you, too," said Daria. "I don't get to talk with intelligent people that often."
People began to deplane and Jake and Daria finally got their chance to leave the aircraft behind them. They followed the crowd off the plane, through the jetway, and towards Immigration. It was there that Daria had her first encounter with British officialdom. The man was a Scot.
"First time in the UK, Miss?" he said.
"Yes, Sir," said Daria.
"And you're here on a student visa?"
"Yes, sir," said Daria.
"What school will you be attending?" asked the Immigration agent.
"The Howard Institute," Daria replied. That was a cover name used for Hogwarts when dealing with Mundies. "It's in the Highlands."
"Does it get cold in your part of Texas?" he asked.
"Not often," Daria replied.
"Well, I reckon you'll find out what winter is like," he said. Daria decided that she did not like the man's tone of voice.
He stamped her passport and her visa and said "Welcome to Britain!" Daria walked past his desk, waiting for her Dad to follow.
Jake cleared immigration moments later and together they retrieved their luggage shortly afterwards. Daria realized later that only the Muggle customs agents had examined her checked bags: while they did ask her and her Dad to open their bags and made a cursory check for firearms, they left the rest of her stuff alone.
Luggage in hand, they cleared customs and walked out onto the concourse.
"They're supposed to send someone here to meet us and then take us into London," said Jake. He started scanning the crowd, looking for their guide.
Daria did likewise. She didn't know who she should be looking for, but she hoped that they had a sign.
-(((O-O)))—
Mundies: In this alternate universe "Mundie" is a term for non-magical humans used by wizards, witches, and other non-magical people in North America and the Caribbean. It supplanted the term "No-Maj." It is derived from the word "Mundane," a term used by members of the Society for Creative Anachronism to describe people in ordinary clothes who may or may not be attending SCA events of Renaissance fairs.
In the print versions of Harry Potter, JK Rowling implied that Harry Potter began his Hogwarts adventures on January 1st, 1991. That is just over a year from the "now" in this chapter.