JASON—

Hi everyone! Chapter one, as promised. Here we are introduced to the following: Heather Grahm, Roger Weisner, Drake Mertoy, and Henry Patterson. The story is narrated by Henry, who happens to be very sarcastic. They are juniors at Tewksbury Memorial High School, which, for all you geographically challenged (just kiddin!) is in Massachusetts. Oh, and just to tell you, the orange juice guy does exist. Trust me on this one....He's a Tewksbury urban legend! hehe. I hope you like, and please review!!!!

The Child's Aim Must Miss, Chapter One:

The Man In Purple

We lie in wait, the entire student body of Tewksbury Memorial High, as the clock ticks away the seconds. The instant that little hand reaches the two, all hell will break loose. Four minutes to go.

I stare at the one, lonely little die, shoved into the mesh of the intercom some six years ago. No one ever seems to question its presence; it's a regular member of biology. As integral to the lessons as those discount pickled frogs they love to make us disembowel. That die will always be there, until they tear down the school or until the apocalypse, whichever comes first. It's yellowing at an alarming rate, so that we can't even tell what number is facing out. We think its five, but can't be sure. I'll miss that die, miss staring at it as the clock –who's second hand seems to be at a standstill right about now—ticks away the minutes, seconds, hours until we are liberated. Above the clock is that oh so witty sign that I'm sure they have in every classroom, right above the clock, in every high school on the east coast. You know the one I mean:

This Clock Will Never Be Stolen

Every student in the class is always watching it!

Hardy-har-har. I'd love to meet the guy who came up with that, I really would. I'd shake his hand with one of those buzzer things. It's the sort of thing that would crack him up. Two minutes to go.

It just figures that my last class of my last day of my junior year of high school is biology. The classroom is stifling, the smell of phormaldehyde is overpowering, and this room is enough to give anyone a major case of claustrophobia. For starters, I've seen walk-in closets with more elbowroom than the TMHS biology lab. It houses six long, formica tables, each designed for two students. Guess how many kids are assigned to each table. You got it. Four.

Our teacher, Mr. Mason, is totally oblivious to these inconveniences. He thinks his job is a blessing, and comes to school every day with this huge smile on his face. I personally think it's the result of posttraumatic stress left over from the fire we had two years ago. The paper called it a terrifying ordeal for students and faculty alike. That's a joke. It was more like three snow days in a row, in May. There was absolutely no damage done that couldn't be fixed with a broom and a new coat of paint. But Mr. Mason was pretty shaken for a good month and a half after the smoke had cleared, no pun intended. Rumor has it he sees a shrink twice a week and is working an extra job at some gas station in Lowell to pay for his therapy bills. We have yet to receive confirmation.

One minute, thirty seconds to go. I catch Heather's eye from across the stuffy classroom. Never noticed how pretty her eyes are…the color of cinnamon, kind of…. Oh well. She's way out of my league.

One minute exactly to go. I take one last look around the biology lab, taking in everything from that die in the intercom to the all-too-familiar sight of Patti and Laura comparing nail polish. Lately, they've both been sporting different shades of black. They say it's "intellectual". I say its lame. But, they never did ask for my opinion.

Thirty seconds to go. All of a sudden, the intercom crackles, rearing to life. Probably just another "Good luck to our departing senior youngsters" announcement. They've been running those damn things for over a week now. Needless to say, we have all, even the lowly juniors like myself, come to despise the word 'youngster'. But, instead of our bumbling principle wishing us luck, we hear the silky voice of a stranger. There is an undeniable English accent. No one, but no one, in Tewksbury Massachusetts talks like that.

"Excuse me. Would Henry Patterson, Roger Weisner, Heather Grahm, and Drake Mertoy please report to the auditorium immediately," says the unfamiliar voice, drawing his words out slowly as if wanting to make doubly sure we hear him. I stand up, brushing my messy black hair out of my eyes as I rise from my seat. I catch Heather's eye again as she stands, easing herself gracefully out of her chair. Mr. Mason acknowledges us as we head towards the door.

"Henry, Heather, go on. I guess this is goodbye. Well, good luck!" he says with this huge smile on his face. Really, sometimes I just feel sorry for that guy. He lives to teach. Hell, he could probably die and not even notice. He'd just come right on into school, toe tag and all, and lecture us on the reproductive habits of amphibians.

As Heather and I walk down the hall together, the bell rings. As anticipated, all hell breaks loose. Its pandemonium. Some genius is blasting Soul Asylum's School's Out on their stereo. Silly string shoots everywhere, courtesy of the 'back-row dilinquents'. Kids bolt for the doors, knocking into one another in their attempt to be the first one out. Once the throng subsides, I pry myself away from the wall only to find that I had been inadvertently pushed up against a water fountain. My shirt is soaked, which Heather happens to find absolutely hilarious.

"You think this is funny?" I ask her, a grin playing on my lips.

"No, no. Of course not. I think it's tragic. Right up there with the destruction of the rainforests and cancer," she replies, giggling all the while. We walk the rest of the way to the auditorium in silence. Right in front of the entrance, we meet up with Roger and Drake. Maybe here is a good place to insert some description, no?

Okay, we'll start with me. I'm average height, not built but not totally skinny either. I have this thick, messy black hair that always sticks up, no matter what I do. I used to wear glasses, but I finally convinced my parents to let me get contact lenses two years ago. I have bright green eyes, my only redeeming feature. All in all, I'm not that much to look at, in my humble opinion.

Heather Grahm, on the other hand, is quite nice to look at. She has really thick, dark brown hair that cascades down her shoulders. It used to be really curly and messy, but she got a straightener for Christmas in our sophomore year. She has pretty cinnamon colored eyes and absolutely perfect skin. No messy zit creams for her! Although she does seem to be developing a bad bruise on her forehead...her lip was split wide open last week...Oh well. She does play softball, and some of those girls are scary. Anyways, Heather's kind of short, about five feet two inches, and very slender. She's a total brain, yet somehow still manages not to be a geek. That takes talent in this school.

Roger Weisner is sort of awkward looking. He's really tall, really thin, and really pale. Everything about him is extreme. He has myriad freckles all over his face, arms, legs, and probably places I don't even want to think about. He has shockingly bright red/orange hair that's always falling into his eyes. The only reason I know him is that we've shared detention a few times. He's really funny, in a sarcastic way. I like him.

Drake Mertoy was named perfectly, to tell you the truth. He brings to mind Katherine Mertoy, from Cruel Intentions. He's rich, a total snob, cruel to the bone, and his two favorite pastimes are sex and making jokes at other peoples' expense. Needless to say, I don't think much of the guy. He has thin, white-blonde hair, perfectly gelled with every strand in place. He has gray eyes, pale skin, and a sharp nose. The ladies love him, though I have no idea why. He looks like a vampire or something. Say it with me folks: sunlight!

The four of us stand in front of the doors to the auditorium, murmuring our obligatory "hellos. We don't really know one another that well. Drake pushes the doors open, leading us into the dark auditorium. The stage is set for the graduation ceremony to take place tonight. The podium is up, there are balloons all over, and someone has hung a huge banner saying CONGRATS SENIORS! on the back wall. Standing behind the podium is a very tall, very thin man dressed from head to toe in purple. Purple robes, purple cloak, purple pointy hat. He has a long white beard, shining like silver even in the dim light of the auditorium. Standing next to him is another tall man, with thick dark hair and a lively smile. He's wearing long, black robes. He winks down at the four of us as we walk towards them. The pair says nothing as we take seats in the front row, sitting right in front of the two men.

"Another couple of escapees from Tewksbury Memorial Hospital, eh?" Roger asks, pointing to the tall man in purple and his friend. The rest of us laugh softly, trying not to be heard.

Tewksbury Memorial Hospital is a mental institution, down by the library on Main Street. There used to be this guy, maybe about forty years old, who would run around the lawn in his bathrobe. He occasionally came down to Livingston Street, where the Little League baseball games are played. He would scream at the top of his lungs that he was a glass of orange juice, and you'd better not tip him over because you'd spill him.

I've managed to snag the seat next to Heather, with Roger on my other side. Drake sits a few seats down from us, a part of our group yet distant. I think that it must be hard for him, not really having any friends…but then I realize that it's impossible for me to see things from that guy's perspective. Why? Well, my head just won't go that far up my ass. Yes, I'm horrible, I know.

We only have to wait a few more seconds until the pair of men on the stage start to speak. Well, actually, the old man with the long beard and purple robes starts to speak. The other guy just stands there, looking down at us with this annoying little smirk on his face, like he knows something we don't. I hate that look, unless I'm the one wearing it.

"Greetings all!" exclaims the old guy. I recognize his voice as the one we heard over the intercom. "Henry Patterson, Heather Grahm, Roger Weisner, and Drake Mertoy, welcome! Now, I know you're wondering why you're here, so maybe I should do a little explaining, no?" says the man in purple. He then winks at me, like we share a secret, and leans down to get something-a piece of paper maybe? -out of a black leather satchel next to the podium. I didn't even notice it was there. As he bends over, I see a long, pointed bit of wood poking out of his back pocket (who knew robes had back pockets?). Now, if there is any logical reason for carrying a stick in one's back pocket, I would be very interested to hear it. Any thoughts? I didn't think so.

The old guy apparently finds what he's looking for and stands up straight, facing us once again. He has a bit of paper in his hands, really old, yellow notebook paper. The edges are all ripped and torn, and I can tell the man is afraid he might rip it even more. He starts to speak again, this time looking at the paper in his hands rather than us, which is a relief. "You are four very special teenagers, very special. You have been…chosen. Yes, yes. Chosen, that's the word."

I happen to think that Roger was right on target; this guy does sound nuts. Any second now he'll be telling us that we're the next generation of Power Rangers (my little cousin loves that show, and I baby sit him a lot, so don't you dare make fun of me). And his little friend up there is really starting to get on my nerves. He keeps staring at me, still wearing that smirk. He doesn't blink much, which really unnerves me. Creepy.

From the time the old guy started talking till now, we've all been sitting in a sort of reverent silence, without even a wisecrack from Roger to break it. But, after being told that we had been "chosen", the hilariousness of the situation strikes us full force. Heather rolls over in her seat, giggling like mad. Roger and I are laughing fit to kill, and even Drake manages to muster a few chuckles. I mean, here we are, technically one half hour into summer vacation, and we're being lectured by a guy in long purple robes on our "special"ness. It takes a few minutes for the crazy laughter to subside, and when we compose ourselves, we see the old guy smiling down at us, his friend in black still smirking, but in a merry way. I had been afraid they'd either be offended or just think that we were as whacko as we thought they were, but one look at the men's' faces eases my concern. No one says anything for a few moments; we all just sit there, smiling at nothing.

Finally, the silence is broken, by Roger of course. "Chosen for what, exactly?"

"An excellent question, yes, yes. A very good question young man. Outstanding inquiry, yes, yes," replies the old man in purple.

"Oh, that helps," mutters Roger. I snort. He is right, you know. The old guy just totally dodged his question. The man in black suddenly looks up, as if startled by something. He takes out a stick, just like the one I saw sticking out of the man in purple's back pocket, and points it at Roger. He mutters something under his breath, and suddenly a jet of cold water sprays Roger directly in the face! It looks like its coming from the stick…? Oh well. Laugh now; think later, that's always been my policy. So, I burst into what can only rightfully be described as giggles. Roger's totally soaked from head to toe when it stops, and the guy in black is chuckling. He seems very pleased with himself, but the man in purple looks scornful.

"Sirius!" he barks, his voice positively dripping with authority and power. The echoes of his reprieve fill the empty auditorium for a few minutes, while Heather, Drake, and I try to stop laughing at poor Roger, who does not look happy. At least now we have a name for the man in black. Sirius. Strange name, but a whole lot more interesting than Henry.

"Sorry, Headmaster," says Sirius, sounding apologetic but with a grin still playing on his lips. He to has an obvious English accent. "Er, any more comments from the peanut gallery?" he asks us. "I promise not to pull a trick like that again. What was your name, boy?"

"Roger. Roger Weisner," replies Roger, his sullen expression long gone. Roger always enjoys a good prank, even when it's directed at him.

"Ah, Roger, yes. So sorry for that little, er…outburst. Got a little carried away," Sirius says, still wearing that small grin.

"Don't worry about it; I didn't have time to shower after gym today" replies Roger, his grin rivaling Sirius's tooth for tooth. We all laugh, even the man in purple.

"Perhaps young Roger is right. Perhaps I should tell you more about why you are here and what is to be done," says the man in purple with a twinkle in his eye. "But, I'd much rather show you."

He beckons us to come on stage, still clutching the torn piece of paper. As we walk up towards the podium and the two men, Heather catches my eye again. Neither one of us looks away for a moment, but then she ducks her head, her cheeks flushed. She's playing with that ring of hers again, twirling it in her fingers. Heather's always doing that, it's a trademark move.

The man in purple holds up the piece of paper, and I see that there is a time and date written on it in very scribbly handwriting. It says: June 13, 2:35 p.m. I glance down at my watch; it's 2:34 right now.

"Now, please put one finger on the piece of parchment. Yes, just one finger will do," instructs the man in purple-what is his name?-as he places his own index finger on the paper. "You to, Sirius. I wouldn't want to go leaving you behind."

We all crowd into a small, tight circle, each one of us touching the piece of paper. Sirius is on my left, Roger on my right. Maybe now would be a good time to mention that I have a slight case of claustrophobia. No one talks; the only sound in the darkened auditorium is the ticking of my wrist watch. Then, Sirius starts to count backwards under his breath. "And in five...four...three...two...one."

Just then I feel a humongous tugging, in the area of my stomach. I'm being jerked uncontrollably forward. The sensation isn't as painful as it is frightening. I don't know where I'm going, or whether the others will be with me when I get wherever that is.

Then, as suddenly as it started, the pulling stops. I'm thrown off balance by the shock of my feet hitting solid ground again, and I fall to the ground with both Roger and Sirius on top of me. Can we say "Owies"?

As we all get up, dusting off our bruised behinds, I take a look around where we've landed. It's a large circular room, decorated like an office. There's a desk at the far end, and there are huge bookshelves lining the walls. Perched on the shelves are portraits of old men and women who are...waving at me? There's also a very large bird, rather like a giant red and gold parrot, perched on a globe right next to the desk. It's looking at me, not blinking...I think I may have hit my head on something. The man in purple walks behind the desk, sits down and waves his hand, gesturing to the room.

"Welcome to my office. I am Professor Albus Dumbledore, headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in England," he says, looking at each of us in turn. I follow suit, turning to look at my friends and Sirius. Roger looks confused, there's no other word for it. Drake looks jaded, like none of this is impressing him at all, but he can't fool me. I see his eyes flick from one amazing object to another, taking in everything there is to see. Heather looks dumbfounded, as if someone just gave her a check for a million dollars and she doesn't quite believe it's real. Sirius still looks amused, still looks like he knows something we don't, which I guess he does. Professor Dumbledore looks serene, confident in his own knowledge and wisdom. There are so many questions running through my head, I don't know where to start. Finally I hit on the most obvious.

"How the hell did we get to England?"

DISCLAIMER: I don't own Dumbledore or Sirius, or Tewksbury Memorial High School for that matter. Trust me, if for some odd reason I owned a high school, it wouldn't be that one…..

THANK YOU'S:

Props and gratitude to AnimeGirl, the only person to review this story so far. Which brings me to my next point…….

PLEASE REVIEW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I really want feedback on this story; I worked really hard it. I as a reader make it a priority to review EVERYTHING I read, and plus, you review me, I'll review you. PLEASE?????? I'll luv ya forever, I swear…….