Harry and Ron sat together during History of Magic class, and I was stuck sitting next to a very outgoing Seamus Finnigan. He was the kind of guy I might have liked- if I had been at home, living a normal life. His cheerful outgoing-ness wasn't comforting in my present situation, though it did help to lighten my mood when he started composing different epitaphs for Professor Binns' tombstone. It probably wouldn't have been very funny with a living teacher; however, when your teacher is a ghost…

That was something new, I remembered. I hadn't seen a ghost yet in all my travels at Hogwarts. They looked surprisingly- well, normal. Binns was a plump old man…or he HAD been, once. He wasn't completely transparent, but he did look a bit misty. His color was off too; he was sort of a milky gray, with drops of color mixed in here and there.

I have to admit, though, once the novelty of staring at Binns wore off, the class became as dead as its teacher. At first I tried taking notes, but that urge wore off very quickly.

Finally, his endless droning stopped. I looked up, feeling drowsy. Everyone was standing up and leaving. I quickly jostled a sleeping Seamus awake, and he sat up with a jerk.

"Oh, class is over," he said stupidly, then tried to fall back asleep. I sighed, shook him once more, then got up and looked at the clock behind me. Not that it could tell me anything, because it had twelve hands, all moving, and no numbers, but it was a normal activity for a student leaving class. Any bit of normalcy was comforting.

Lunch reminded me a lot of the school cafeteria, without those ladies in aprons and hairnets calling you "hon" and plopping strange smelling blobs on your plate. On second thought, it wasn't anything like a school cafeteria.

I ate quickly, though heaven knows why; we had another hour until classes started up again. After getting lost several times, I was finally directed back to the common room by a suit of armor.

Not surprisingly, Ron and Harry were there, crouching beside a deck of cards. They seemed to be just starting a game.

"Whatcha playing?" I asked, sitting down almost beside them.

Ron rolled his eyes at me, but Harry, ever the nice guy, responded, "Exploding Snap."

I grinned; this was the one game I'd been waiting to see. "Oh, neat! Can I watch?"

They both shrugged, then turned back to the game. They each had half a deck, face down, in front of them. They took turns flipping cards up and putting them on the pile. Finally, Ron slapped his hand down, saying, "Snap!"

BOOM! A burst of smoke came up from the pile with a horrendous noise. The smoke dissipated quickly. Ron was shaking his head in disgust, muttering, "I coulda sworn I saw a match!" I was a bit disappointed to see that nothing had really exploded. All the cards were still there, and Ron's hand seemed to be fine. Oh well.

The other thing I was looking forward to was wizard chess. I didn't get to play chess very often; in fact, it had probably been a year since I'd last played. But I had been pretty good. Well, I had been OK. Sorta. I mean, I won some of the time. When I played this friend of mine. Actually, when I started teaching him how to play. Um, a couple years ago. When he was seven, and I was like eleven.

Fine, so I would stink at chess. But it still would be neat, to play with real pieces.

Harry and Ron had finished two games of Snap, and showed no sign of stopping, so I curled up on one of the big couches that was scattered about the room and reviewed my hurried notes from the last two days, adding in any extra details I remembered. ): It helped clear my mind and put things in perspective.

The next class coming up was Transfiguration. Remembering how first year students at Hogwarts had trouble turning matches into needles, I was a bit nervous.

I needn't have worried. Apparently, whatever person or force sent me here also equipped me for the job. I remembered how I found magical textbooks had appeared, well, magically, in my suitcases. I supposed whatever had brought me here was going to make sure I did all right in class, because I handled it just fine.

The assignment was to change a rock into a mouse. We had to read for a while on how to change something inanimate into something alive. That part was weird; there were WAY too many pictures in the books of what happened when whatever you created wasn't alive when you transformed it. It was disgusting.

And yet, it was fun. I pointed my wand at it and said the spells necessary to transform it. There were several different spells: a life-giving spell, a fur-growing spell, a spell to grow normal body parts and a spell to give it different features. I found that I could somehow control things about it, from how long its whiskers were to what color it was, by controlling the magic that spilled out from my wand. It was… breathtaking. Amazing. Wow. I don't really have words to describe how absolutely cool it was to change a dead rock into a scurrying brown mouse.

I poked my wand at the mouse, which was sitting on my desk nibbling some carrot McGonagall had given all the students. The mouse turned bright green. I poked it again, and it turned blood red. I continued experimenting until McGonagall cleared her throat loudly, and looked down her nose at me disapprovingly.

I almost started crying when McGonagall insisted we turn the mice back into rocks. I had become quite found of mine. Several of the other Gryffindor girls felt the same way but the teacher didn't relent, so back they went. I obviously didn't have complete control over my magic yet, as my rock still had ears when I was finished. I just couldn't get them to go away, even though I did manage to turn them the same dirty gray as the rest of the stone.

Amazing. Wow. Breathtaking. Fantastic. Astounding.
Magic.

I don't care what famous poets say. Nothing; not a sunset, not a winter ocean, not a first kiss, not a moonlit night, not anything; is magical. Magic is magical. Watching things that you thought impossible happen before your eyes: that is magic. Knowing that you caused those things to happen: that is magical.


I found out the next day that my schedule was not exactly like Harry's. While he was climbing the stairs to Divination Tower, I was taking Muggle Studies. Of all subjects, you know? That day we had it double with the Ravenclaws.

The professor of that class was Ishmael Ibbonar. He always wore some kind of hat, whether a baseball cap or a helmet, and a trench coat. When he spoke, it was obvious that English was his second language. He sounded German to me. Despite the strange impression all this left on us students, I started to like him a lot. He started out the first class with an attempt at a joke.

"How many Muggles takes it to screw in a lightbulb?" he asked us, smiling under his bushy mustache.

One of the Ravenclaws raised his hand.

"Yes, Herr Boot," Ibbonar acknowledged him.

"What's a lightbulb?"

I laughed outloud, along with several of the other Muggle-born students in with us, but most of the others thought it a legitimate question.
Ibbonar sighed. "We have much work to do. Please to be opening your textbooks to page 14."


The days flew by.

Literally, sometimes, because Ron and Hermione were fighting, and sometimes any object within reach was turned into a projectile. Somebody's soccer calendar seemed to be the weapon of choice, because the owner kept replacing it over and over again in the same spot. However, neither contender hesitated to use lamps, sofa cushions, books, small paintings, ceramic knick-knacks and other objects d'art as well.

What they were fighting about was a bit ambiguous to everyone around them. I think it all started out about a week after we had arrived at Hogwarts…

"As most of our teams graduated last year," Dumbledore announced over dinner, "Quidditch tryouts will be held this Saturday. Ten o'clock for Gryffindor, noon for Slytherin, two o'clock for Ravenclaw, and four o'clock for Hufflepuff, on the Quidditch pitch. Good luck to all who try out."

With that announcement, the entire Great Hall was sent into a roar of mutterings and musings, and other excited yet hushed forms of conversation. Everyone at the Gryffindor table was grinning as if they all knew exactly who would be the newest star player for their team. Even I was finding myself considering trying out. But then again, I had never even seen anyone fly yet, much less ride a broomstick myself.

My unexpected visions of riding around the moon while wearing a pointed hat and long black robes on Halloween were interrupted by a gasp of laughter from Hermione, who was sitting beside me. Hermione and Ron had learned to tolerate me, but we still weren't friends. Harry and I weren't exactly hitting it off either, but at least he was nice to me when he had to be.

"You?" Hermione gasped, staring at Ron with a look of disbelief on her face. She was laughing so hard she nearly choked. "You, try out for the team?"

Ron's ears were red. "I mean, since Fred, George and Charlie were all on the team, I kinda thought…" He suddenly got angry. "And why not? Why shouldn't I try out?"

And that's what they were fighting about. At least, that's where it began. However, several hours later when they were still fighting, and the "Soccer Days" flew by for the seventh time that evening, it was clear that that was NOT where it was going to end.

"Yeah? Well, if you would just get your nose outta a book for once you'd see that I'm in great physical condition!"

"So what if I read all the time? At least I know more about Quidditch than you do, Mr. I'm-gonna-be-an-All-Star-Quidditch-player!"

"What do you know that I don't know?"

"Everything!"

And that's where Harry brought it all to an abrupt stop.

"All right then," he said sensibly, ducking under a flying piece of furniture that was a bit off-course, luckily for Ron. "If you both know so much about Quidditch, how about you both try out? And whoever makes the team was right."

Hermione bit her lip, but Ron's eyes were gleaming. "Sounds fair to me."

"Fine!" Hermione snapped. "But don't come crying to me when you don't make the team and I'm flying high above you!"

They both proceeded to storm up to their dorms, each filled with righteous indignation. Harry sighed as he watched them go, then turned to look at me. I quickly buried my nose in the book I had been pretending to read.

"What about you?"

I blinked, and looked up at him. "Excuse me?"

"Are you trying out for the team?"

"Nah. But I'm gonna watch, though."

He smiled at that. "You like watching Quidditch?"

Ha ha. He didn't realize what a tough question that was to answer. I'd read about his matches in detail through both the original books and fanfiction, but I'd never actually seen a match. I enjoyed the accounts of his games, but I hadn't seen one. Not really.

"I've always wanted to see Gryffindor play in person," I said, finally coming up with an answer. "That'd be better than watching any other team in the world."

He was properly humble as he replied, "Well, the best players have all graduated."

What I would've given to be forward enough to say, "I think the best player is one of the ones who didn't graduate." But I've never been like that. I've never been flirty, if that's what you'd call it. So I just said, "If tryouts go well, then you'll probably have a good team. Who decides what players go on the team?"

"Madame Hooch, believe it or not. She's the flying teach-" He looked at me carefully. "But then, you knew that already, didn't you?" I started to answer, when he changed the subject. "Didja see the World Cup?"

Another question which required a non-answer. "Bulgaria versus Ireland? Man, Krum was excellent in that match. Too bad they didn't win, wasn't it?"

"You were rooting for Bulgaria?"

"No, but-" I suddenly realized what he was doing. The sneaky jerk was trying to find out where I'd come from! By asking me about Quidditch, he was trying to determine whether I came from a Muggle family. And asking which team I was rooting for- Ooh, I hate it when people try and trick me. So I changed the subject.

Somehow I suspected that this conversation was a game, a match, a trial of some sort. Harry had already scored a couple points, but now the ball was in my court.

"You think Hermione or Ron will make the team?"

"Both of 'em will is what I'm thinking," he replied.

"Kind of conniving, the way you got them to both try out."

He was at a loss for words at that statement.

SCORE
HARRY: 2
DIANA: 1

Recovering quickly, he said, "What's your favorite American Quidditch team?"

Uh-oh. "Umm, there wasn't one in my area."

"Oh? Where was that?"

"Um, on the East Coast, around D.C."

"Really? I thought the Griffins were from that area. Best in their league is what I heard."

Harry shoots with a direct question, he scores!

"Yeah, well, I don't pay much attention to Quidditch teams." I smiled smugly. "I'd much rather watch a good soccer match."

"Soccer?"

"Yeah, it's the best sport in the world! I remember telling my best friend that nothing else can quite measure up to a good soccer match." I closed my eyes, suddenly not wanting to play the conversation game any more. The mention of soccer reminded me of… too much. Too much to forget, even in this magical, unreal world.

Harry must have noticed my change in mood. "Homesick?"

I nodded silently.

He watched me. Why did he keep staring at me that way? It's like he thought if he stared at me long enough he'd be able to see what I was really like, like one of those Magic 3-d pictures. I opened my eyes, stood up and stretched my arms above my head.
"Well, I think I'll head upstairs, got a lot of reading to do." I grabbed my books and turned to wave goodnight.



The new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor gave us his first class the next day.

I'm really at a loss for words at describing him. He was just incredibly… dorky.

"Good day class," he said in a nasal whine. He sniffed loudly, and walked over to the teacher's desk. He was hunched over, which made him seem smaller than he really was, which was still pretty small. He was unbelievably skinny, and only as tall as me when he was standing up straight. Still, I placed him in his late-thirties, early-forties.

He seemed to have some kind of sinus problem, because he would punctuate all of his sentences with a wet sniff. Then he'd push his glasses farther up his abnormally large nose, and continue to drone on.

I tried to tune him out, but his was a voice that was impossible to tune out. He kept droning on and on, like that annoying fly that insists on banging itself against your lamp just as you're about to fall asleep, and yet he was as hard to ignore as nails squealing on a chalkboard.

"Today class, (sniff) we are going to start reviewing everything you've learned in the past four years. (sniff) Your O.W.L.'s," and yes he did say each letter, he didn't just say the word "owls", "are coming up, and (sniff) I am sure you all will work hard to get good grades, so that you can someday work in the Ministry just like (sniff) me."

Several people snickered at this, but Professor Hockanhack (Yes, that was his name, Professor Harold Hockanhack,) just stared at them over his glasses, which had slid down to the end of his nose again, and turned to the blackboard. "Open your books to page 3 please. (sniff)"



The sickly yellow sun of Saturday rose lazily above the distant mountains without having any effect on the temperature inside the castle, much less outside on the Quidditch fields.

I woke up hugging my blanket to me, wanting more than anything else to just stay in bed. But then again, it was probably just as cold under the brownish-red cotton blankets as it was outside of them. And the Quidditch tryouts were soon, I had to remind myself. I had to get up.

By the time nine o'clock rolled around, I was slipping on a sweatshirt and tying my hair back against the cold wind shaking the trees outside. Hermione had agreed to wait for me so that we could walk outside together. She was extremely nervous about the tryouts.

"I stayed up all last night reading "Quidditch Through the Ages" again," she told me, rubbing her arms and trying to get some warmth into them. "I'm definitely going to try out for Chaser, I think Ron is going for Beater."

"Hmm," I nodded as I spread some Chapstick on my lips. I was just as nervous about this as she was: I was going to see actual flying broomsticks. I needed to remember every bit of this moment, because this was where my writing skills would be put to the test.

Now, as I grabbed my notepad and pencil, I happened to catch a glimpse of my face in a mirror that Parvati had hung up to do her makeup in. Several strands of my light brown hair had fallen out of the ponytail. I started to fix it, but then decided that the few wisps of hair hanging down looked sophisticated yet wild, a nice effect. My choice of clothing, jeans and a green sweatshirt, did nothing to enhance my looks, but I wasn't too concerned about that. After all, I was as plain as could be: light brown hair, hazel eyes, thin eyebrows and low cheekbones. I wasn't going to be entering any beauty pageants.

The Quidditch field was about what I had expected. Longer than a soccer field, but not as large as a football field, its boundaries were marked by a painted white line on the ground. Three white goalposts, twenty-some feet high, stood at one end. They were long wooden posts, with hoops about two feet across at the top. On the other side of the field were three identical goalposts. The field itself was a large oval.

Harry was already on the field, leaning on his broomstick, his ears and nose red from the cold. He was wearing black jeans and what I assumed were Quidditch robes- a long red shirt with the word "Seeker" written in gold on the back.

There were two other people on the field as well, two older girls who were also each clutching brooms. I had to assume they were Katie Bell and Alicia Spinnet, because I knew that the Weasleys and Angelina Johnson had graduated.

Hermione went over to talk to Harry, while I explored the pitch a bit more thoroughly. Other than finding a few candy wrappers in the stands, which were just like normal bleachers only a bit higher, I didn't find anything of interest. However, I did spot crowds of Gryffindors pouring out of the castle. The sixth and seventh years were trying to look nonchalant, while the few first years were nearly screaming with excitement as they ran towards us.

I sat in the bleachers with the few other students who weren't trying out. Probably only eight of the many Gryffindors weren't trying out, which wasn't surprising. After all, being on the Quidditch team for your house is probably the greatest honor a normal kid can get here, aside from destroying the monster of the Chamber of Secrets or preventing a horde of werewolves from killing all the students, or something equally heroic and dangerous. It suddenly struck me that there hadn't been any hints of evil at all this year. Something should have come up by now. If something bad was going to happen to Harry and Co. this year, it should have started dropping hints by now.

I watched jealously as all the kids, about fifty or so in all, were given brooms. I gave Hermione a thumbs up, and she smiled at me. Then Madame Hooch blew her whistle.

I held my breath, as fifty or more kids on broomsticks rose into the air as if pulled by a string. If I had been watching this on TV, I would have sworn they were pulled by harnesses, or were on a blue screen. But no. They were actually rising into the air.

You could tell which of the kids were used to riding, and which weren't: Harry, and most of the others, gripped the broom handle between their knees and ankles, and pushed themselves up with their arms. The others rode either like they were sitting in an easy chair, or sidesaddle with both legs on one side of the broom.

I was a bit shocked by the brutal way in which Madame Hooch chose those who wouldn't make the team. She first had them all fly as fast as they could around the field. The ten or twelve who couldn't keep up were sent to sit in the bleachers with those of us who weren't trying out.

After that, Hooch divided them up into groups according to what position they'd like to play. Ron and Gerald Rachette, the blond first year with the confident grin, were both trying out for Beater, with two fourth year boys and a seventh year girl. Hermione was trying for Chaser with a dozen or so other girls and several more boys. To my surprise, I saw Ron's little sister, Ginny, trying out for Keeper. From what I'd read, I kinda wouldn't have thought her that brave.

Of course, nobody was trying out for Seeker. Harry floated alone in the middle of the field, an amused look on his face as he watched Ron and the other Beater wannabes whack at Bludgers sent flying their way. The Bludgers were about ten inches wide, perfectly round, and made of iron. Several of the Beaters were knocked out of the air, and Madame Hooch disqualified them immediately. They limped and dragged themselves off the field, to where a pinched woman who had to be Madame Pomfrey waited with her wand and a box of first aid supplies.

Of course, Ron made the team. Show of hands now, who didn't think he would? Anybody? Anybody? Anybody? The first year boy took a Bludger in the face; however, he stayed in the air anyway. He seemed determined not to be disqualified.

"Are you all right, boy?" Hooch called to him.

He spat out a mouthful of blood and a few teeth. "Yeah, I'm fine." He raised his club closer to his face. He was one of the ones who had experience with brooms, because he was using both hands to clutch his club and had a tight grip on the handle with his knees.
I was amazed at his agility and control when he suddenly dove after a stray Bludger which another Beater had missed, and narrowly prevented it from zooming after the Chasers who were gathered behind them.

Of course, he made the team. I think everyone else would have mobbed Hooch if she hadn't let him on.

All that were left were the positions of Keeper, one main Chaser and a few backup Chasers. The backups were supposedly there just in case one of the team Chasers got hurt, but I think everyone knew that they were really just there to take the place of Katie Bell and Alicia Spinnet when they graduated.

I won't bore you with the details of the passing and flying drills, which went on for nearly forty minutes before Hooch declared that second year Natalie McDonald would be the new Chaser for the team, and Hermione and a third year boy I didn't know would be the backups.

Ginny didn't make Keeper, but she only lost by one save to a huge sixth year named Michael Arden. I had a feeling that she would be taking his place when he graduated.

Everyone left the fields soon after that. After all, Slytherin would be appearing in about twenty minutes, and nobody really wanted to have to encounter them any more than possible. I stayed behind, however.

I admit it; I was hoping someone would leave a broom out that I could try. But as I watched, everyone took their brooms with them to put in the equipment room, which was a small shack several dozen yards from the pitch.

I realized then that I probably should have tried out for the team. I knew there was absolutely no chance I could have made the team, but at least I would have gotten to fly.

Thinking I was completely alone, I climbed to the top of the bleachers, maybe twenty feet high, and spread my arms out, my eyes closed as I turned my face into the wind. I'd dreamed of flying. I used to dream of it all the time. However, in the last three years, I've never dreamed of flying. Ever. That gets lonely, every night praying to have a flying dream, and then waking up disappointed. Dreaming can be better than being awake, if you're flying.

"Want to have a go?"

I jumped at the sound, lost my footing, and fell to the ground, landing on my right shoulder. "Owww," I moaned, trying to sit up.

I knew who it was that had startled me, even before he came running around to the back of the bleachers to see if I was OK. It was You-Know-Who.

NO! Not Voldemort! Harry!

Duh!

"Are you all right?" He knelt down beside me, dropping both of the brooms he held. One was his Firebolt, gleaming gold and silver in the sun. The other was one of the older school brooms.

I sat up, ignoring the pain in my shoulder. "I'll be fine." I blinked away tears, trying to get rid of the pain. "What were you trying to say to me before I nearly plummeted to my doom?" I was trying to joke, but Harry didn't laugh.

"You looked like you wanted to fly," he told me seriously.

"I do," I admitted without thinking. Then I blushed. "Silly, isn't it."

"Not in the wizarding world it isn't. You should know that." He stood up, and looked over his shoulder at me. "You know everything." Was that a grin on his face?

I stood up, and followed him back onto the pitch.

"You've never flown before," he said, more of a statement than a question. He tossed me the broom, and I caught it in both hands. "All right then. Start out by gripping it about two feet away from the end, and straddling it like this." He demonstrated, then came over and corrected my grip. "No, right hand over your left. Crouch down, more, or you'll tip over again. Now, scoot your hands up to about here," he pushed gently on my hands, "and you'll have to grab it with your feet. Now, when you come to land, you'll want to bring your feet forward, and run a little bit with it until you're like this." He stood his broom up.

I did as he said, feeling awfully silly, but hoping against hope that somehow this would actually be real.

"Now, just push off."

"What?!?"

"Jump off the ground, like this." He bent his knees slightly more, then jumped off the ground into the air. He was hovering about three feet off the ground. "You try."

I closed my eyes. When I was five, I had taken our broom and tried to fly it. I had fallen on my face and had kept bruises on my inner thighs from where the handle had landed. Painful. I hadn't thought of that incident in years, and yet it was the only thing I could think of. That, and that stupidly annoying song from Peter Pan, "You can fly, you can fly, you can fly! Think of the happiest things, it's the same as having wings! Think of all the joy you'll find, when you leave the world behind and-"

"Are you coming or not?" Harry interrupted my thoughts. I took a deep breath, and jumped into the air. I waited for the moment when I'd hit the ground, but it didn't come.

I slowly opened one eye, then the other. I was looking Harry straight in the face. I slowly turned my head down, to see that I was hovering off the ground.

I was breathless. It was so simple, and yet, so beautiful. I was hanging in the air.

Harry grinned. "It's always like that the first time."

"Yeah," I agreed softly, not knowing what else to say.

"C'mon, let's go higher."

"Higher?!?" But he had already taken off. I watched how he used his hands and legs to somehow guide the broom, and I did the same.

Squeezing the handle made it stop, but pushing it forward made it shoot like a rocket. Leaning forward made it dip, but leaning backward and pulling with your arms on the handle made it slow down and fall towards the ground.

I was in the sky, just like Harry Potter from a fantasy book. However, unlike Harry Potter, flying did not come naturally to me. I had to concentrate every moment to keep from sending myself flying into a tree, or plummeting to the ground.

It's just like the dreams, you know. It's just like where you can feel the wind in your face that makes you squint, you can feel your shirt flapping behind you, feeling gravity pull you down while something else entirely pulls you up.

I slowly let go of the handle, raised my arms out to my sides, and laughed. And beside me, Harry was watching, smiling, and flying.