Chapter Six: The Little Green Bug
Jump in,
It's fine without a lifeboat,
I will
Give it another try...
You say "Come back -
Don't go in too deep,"
But it's a rush to see me do it
'Cause you don't dare,
Even though there's nothing to it...
Meredith Brooks, "Crazy"
The King's Cross clock tolled noon, and the sun's heat seemed to intensify. It was a pity, really: a crowded, clamorous train station is already unbearable, by anyone's standards. Add a scorching sun, and steaming pavement, and you've basically got Hell. Do you need proof? Look around: in every direction, the clusters of lost souls and fallen angels shout at each other about tickets and forgotten toiletries... cloying, sooty smoke billows from departing trains... Muggle vehicles flood the parking lot, their drivers cursing each other - ironically - to eternal damnation.
This was no different from the other days. The afternoon crowds had arrived, and the curbs were slick with excess gasoline. As the trains began to pull in, men and women alike raced to the bathrooms, sometimes bearing small children aloft by the strength of sheer desperation.
They were definitely not the cleanest bathrooms. The women's especially was constantly strewn with toilet paper, gum wrappers, and Tampex boxes, and the drain in the far corner seemed to have stopped working, leaving the dingy tiles soaked in a constant centimeter of water. Furthermore, the farthest stall was always locked, and had an OUT OF ORDER sign hung askew on it.
Occasionally strange conversations could be heard from behind the closed door, but the Muggles had learned to ignore it - or at least, not complain about it. It's amazing how discouraging gaurds can be when you go up to them and say, "Please, sir, can you do something about the people locked in the women's bathroom? They're being kind of loud."
The wizards had claimed it for their own, and there was nothing anyone could do about it.
Humans adapt surprisingly quickly. Bladders can generally wait until you've gotten to the restrooms on the other side of the building, if the alternative is listening to someone recite Gilderoy Lockheart's Guide to Degnoming your Garden. (Note: King's Cross was a living, breathing defiance to the Ministry's attempts to keep wizardry undercover. The popular argument: Out of Order toilets make weird sounds anyway, so what was the problem?)
But worse than all of this was the noises... the loud, frightening sounds that erupted with strange frequency at the end of every August.
Such a day as this...
Another train rolled out of the station, leaving behind the typical swarm of people, each one weaving in and out of the maze: other people's stacks of luggage, strewn here and there and radiating a smell of hairspray. Maternal females swept their offspring (grown or not, it made no difference) up into delighted hugs. Other families reunited with the usual feigned exclamations along the lines of "You look great! I'm so glad to see you!" Long-parted lovers clung to each other, trying to sort out the tangle that was their tongues.
But even these common affections were slightly subdued today. There was a lingering apprehension in the air, a foreboding stillness that silenced even the most obnoxious mother-in-law. August was waning; this was routine. Every year the station became flooded with spotty youths bearing owls and oddly-shaped sticks, with one or two of the parents decked out in uniforms reminiscent of Jedi Knights', and - most disturbingly of all - individuals discreetly walking through walls...
...moreover, individuals whom nobody could recall entering from a parking lot or a train...
The clock tolled the quarter hour, and a whiplash snap shattered the air.
It sounded almost like a gunshot.
Two more followed it - crack! crack! - and then there was silence. The crowds around the bathrooms thinned out, as they always did when it began.. But other than that, the sounds were ignored. The Muggles had learned their lessons well.
"Ouch, Ernie!"
"I'm sorry... I'm sorry..."
Silence reigned for about five more minutes; then two more cracks lashed out, almost at the same time. Anyone with an eye for the occult would recognize the sound as an Apparition.
Why not a portkey? a stranger to Britain's wizardry might ask. It would draw less attention, wouldn't it?
A brief bit of history might be appropriate here, in explanation: the Ministry of Britain had used that very argument to fight against the blatant exposure for years, and in 1974 they'd finally ruled against any public Apparating. Portkeys were used by the miffed wizards for three Augusts in a row before a janitor picked up a discarded Tampex box at precisely the wrong time, and was promptly transported to Chipping Sodbury. In the resulting local choas, he sued King's Cross, and ended up getting on a talk show about it two weeks later, before he was apprehended and Obliviated. There, he proceeded to use the phrase "magical conspiracy" four times. The Ministry gave up and gave Apparators free rein.
A visitor tugged the sleeve of a passerby, started to ask a question, and was promptly hushed. Already the huge, sweaty masses of people were beginning to disperse, most escaping into the comparative safety of the parking lot.
Crack!
"Hannah, my angel! You made it!"
"Be careful with that suitcase, Neville. And by that I mean get it off my foot."
"Oh, sorry!"
Again, the King's Cross clock reminded them all that it was getting close to one-o'-clock, and somebody gave a little moan of hunger. "God, I'm starving..."
There was another loud crack, and a new voice launched into the conversation. "Did you bring Gerald? I wasn't sure if they allowed us to bring our owls or not..."
"He's flying ahead..."
There was the metallic snick! of a lock being drawn back, and then two girls and a boy, dragging their luggage, strolled out of the women's bathroom together, looking a little too nonchalant to be feasible. They moved into the throng of people, radiating innocence, and faded into the crowd. Meanwhile, the conversations behind them went on.
"Did you see the Daily Prophet article about that owl thing? Wasn't it embarrassing? If I hadn't enrolled, I would have split my sides laughing at them."
"They sound like total retards to me. How can you be stupid enough to send out dozens of owls in full daylight?"
Three more sharp, abrupt noises whiplashed over their heads.
Then silence.
Not even the disembodied voices were talking anymore.
Hermione grumbled in the sudden wave of heat and put a hand up instinctively. Fingers touched oily, tiled wall, and she reeled away in disgust, feeling contaminated. Though she was Muggle-born and defended their way of life staunchly, she had to concede that the public hygiene could improve.
Turning her eyes away from her fingers, trying not to hypothesize how many germs had transferred onto her skin, she looked around. Ron pushed a lock of red hair out of his eyes and gave her a weary smile. Behind him, Harry staggered to his feet, hands still grimly clinging to his suitcase.
"This is fun," the Weasley commented, glancing down at their sneakers, all of which were submerged in a curious half-inch of liquid. If it wasn't water, none of them wanted to speculate. "Where do we go from here?"
His eyes darted around the stony faces, noting the silence. Every wizard's eye was trained on Harry.
Harry. She could see their thoughts as though they were being written in the air: This was Harry. Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived. The murdurer.
Stupid, Hermione thought desperately. It was stupid to think they wouldn't react this way. He killed Voldemort - I know, I know, they have a right, but still -
She was unaware, but her eyes pleaded for someone, anyone, to say something -
Pansy Parkinson, of all people, noticed the desperate look. To hide her uncharacteristic empathy, she gave Hermione a little sneer and moved to the door. "Well, I'm off."
"I'll come with you," said another girl gratefully - Hermione recognized Hannah Abbot of Hufflepuff - and it was a testimony to the situation's awkwardness that Pansy actually stepped aside and let her pass. The stall door shut again.
"Ron, hi!" Another brave soul forced his way through the crowded stall to greet the newcomers. It was Ernie, recently of Hufflepuff. "You made it, good. Hello, Hermione, Harry-" and it was impossible not to notice how his eyes, too, lingered - just for a moment - on the prominent scar. "I hope your summer was-"
He stopped in horror. It was one of those sayings that your mouth has stored on autopilot, like "How are you?" but at the moment, such a question was tactless. Harry had narrowly escaped bleeding to death in June, and even now a lot of people wondered if death wouldn't have been more merciful. All in all - not the best thing to inquire after.
Harry was aware of the blunder, too. His uncanny emerald eyes flicked up to meet Ernie's, briefly, and though he did not yet smile, the cold regard softened a little.
"Coulda been better, but, you know."
Ron started at the casual way Harry responded. There was a collective sigh of relief, and a few conversations were hurriedly resurrected.
"So, Gerald's flying ahead."
"Yeah. Hey, Ron, are Pig and Hedwig gonna meet you there? You don't have 'em with you."
"What?" said Ron, still watching Harry avidly. "Oh, yeah... yeah, they are."
Ernie beamed as the tension dissapated. "Good. Come on then, you're the last, I think. There's nine of us from Hogwarts - I think Dumbledore gave ten applications, four applied on their own, and then five backed out at the last minute, Malfoy among them, thank God - and Neville, Padma, and Parvati have already gone, so we're running a bit late."
"I know," Hermione complained, giving Ron a ding upside the head. Catching her urgent glance, he hastily dropped his gaze. "These two wouldn't get a move on."
"You all stayed at the Burrow over the summer, correct?" Ernie unlatched the stall door and they all went through, walking together out of the women's bathroom. An unusual sight to be sure.
"That's right."
"Ernie!"
Neville came panting up to them. He, too, did the smallest of double takes when he saw Harry, but the expression on his face was one of joy rather than fear. "Harry! You made it!" He flung his arms impulsively around the teen hero's neck. Ron's eyes widened, almost impercepibly, at the easy gesture. "I knew you would."
"Good to see you too, Neville." Harry's voice, though still hoarse from long disuse, was dripping amusement. "Though I would like to breathe."
"Yeah." The boy let go, turned to Ernie. "Professor Starlight's getting pissed, you better come. She says she won't let anyone get in until everyone's there, and she doesn't want to have to repeat herself, either."
" 'Let anyone get in'? 'Starlight'?" Hermione repeated. "What on earth do you mean?She's here?"
The trio exchanged a glance. The only time they'd ever encountered a teacher at the train station was third year, when Lupin rode up to Hogwarts with them. To have a professor actually come to meet them was strange.
But then, this isn't Hogwarts, Hermione reminded herself. We're gonna have to adjust to this style of magic.
In spite of herself, she scowled. Utter chaos. So far, she disapproved.
"Does she have our train tickets?" Ron demanded.
Neville's pudgy face split into a grin. "Just come see." He lifted a hand and pointed - not back towards the trains, but out to the parking lot. "She's waiting."
"What?" said the four together.
Janet Starlight was a punctual person. She prided herself on it. But even so, she had to raise her eyebrows at her new British students, all nine assembled in front of her little green bug with still eight minutes to go before one-o'-clock. They had even loaded in their own luggage.
"Impressive. Best so far."
They still looked confused, glancing with open contempt at her car back to her. She could practically hear their petulant voices in her head, clamoring with protests about space, about time conundrums, this is impossible, we're not all going to fit in there! It's a Bug for Christ's sake!
She inspected her nails coolly. One of the crowd, a redhead, looked impatient and would have spoken if his female companion hadn't stepped on his foot.
Utterly silent. Very impressive. That Denver crowd had nothing on these. She might have awarded them all medals then and there if one of them hadn't shattered her growing respect, propping her hand on her hip and saying, imperiously, "Is this some sort of a joke?"
Janet raised perfectly trimmed eyebrows. "Your name?"
"Pansy."
"Pansy what?"
"Parkinson." The girl, too, inspected her own nails, whether in mockery or in an attempt to be brazen Janet couldn't tell.
"Pansy Parkinson what?"
The complacency of the girl was somewhat shattered, and she couldn't keep a frown from her alabaster brow, so to speak. "What do you mean?"
Janet evaluated her. Brunette, cold, shrewd, bitchy. Probably going to her House. Damn.
"You nine are the remains of fifteen prospective students from Hogwarts," she said, turning away from the youth to address the entire group. "I'm sorry to lose so many, but Wet Carpets is a college and your term there isn't meant as a playtime."
"The owl incident proves that, doesn't it?" Pansy muttered, just audibly. Janet ignored her, though her voice grew stronger with her suppressed rage.
"I am one of the three professors you will be tutoring under, and you will address me as such at all times, now let's try that again - Pansy Parkinson what?"
The girl looked bored. "Pansy Parkinson, Professor 'Starlight.'" She deftly inserted the quotations. Janet sighed. It would have been easier to bear if she didn't now know that this one was definitely going to the House of Annoying Jerk-Offs. She shoots, she scores. She better learn soon that I can be a bitch too.
"You'll learn fast enough," she said, and while the words could be construed as an acknowledged defeat, her voice put knives into it. "Alright, get in the car, everyone."
"We won't all fit in there," one said timidly.
Her gaze turned to him, and he wilted. There was a pause. She scanned his face, wondering why he looked so familiar; and then it snapped. "Longbottom. Frank Longbottom."
He looked down, but not fast enough: she caught the shine of suddenly wet eyes. His voice was surprisingly steady, though. "S'my dad, Professor."
"Stupid of me," she said, matching his detached manner exactly. Inwardly she was raging. Damnit! Damnit! Alice and Frank were in St. Mungo's! How could she have been so stupid? "You'll be Neville."
"Yes."
"Well, Neville Longbottom, would you like to be first into the car? Prove yourself wrong."
He stared at her, and she saw the brief flicker of fear.
"There's no monsters, boy," she said as gently as she could.
That stung, she could see it. He strode to the passenger door and yanked it open, sticking his head inside without the slightest hesitation. A moment later he was back out, looking stunned.
"However did you get it so big?"
Janet smiled and shooed them all in before climbing in herself, glancing back once at the long stretch of hallway and crowded compartments before turning the keys in the ignition. A train's sharp whistle blasted overhead, and the corridor billowed momentarily with steam.
"That's everyone," she said, checking "Britain" off her list. A few seconds passed; at last she grimaced, leaned back in her seat, and scowled out the window. "Pansy Parkinson indeed."
To fully comprehend the chaos that a bunch of students can create, even in a magically-enhanced car, we must rewind a little. Barely seconds before, Harry had been seething. It was understandable: standing out in the King's Cross parking lot for any period of time was irritating at best. It was too hot in August for this direct sunlight. True, Harry had been amused by the Pansy/Janet banter, but even now he was uncomfortably aware of some curious eyes still on him... He exhaled in annoyance and shifted on the scalding pavement, his green eyes inspecting the lime-colored Bug, for want of a distraction. Conversation still raged around him, but he ignored it, intent on his observations.
"Longbottom. Frank Longbottom," said a distant voice.
"S'my dad, Professor."
Poor Neville, Harry mused absently. He's constantly reminded of his parents. At least nobody does that to me anymore. After all, who interrogates a murdurer? and he halted that line of thought bitterly.
No. No pity fests. I promised 'Mione that I would try to be "Harry" again.
Whatever that means.
He suppressed the cynical thought that it probably had something to do with rainbows and small fluffy animals, and looked back up at Janet.She was talking again.
"Well, Neville Longbottom, would you like to be first into the car? Prove yourself wrong." A moment passed, and then Janet added quietly, "There's no monsters, boy."
Harry lifted up his eyes in astonishment, and sure enough, Neville looked duly annoyed. Swiftly the boy crossed to the car door and wrenched at it, sticking in his head and shoulders to inspect the interior. It seemed only a second had passed before he was standing upright again, looking at them all with open amazement on his face instead of vexation.
"However did you get it so big?" he demanded, staring wide-eyed at Janet.
What? Harry blinked.His gaze returned tothe Bug, this time with real interest.
Janet chuckled a tiny bit at their confusion. "Inside, everyone, come on..." She shepherded them towards the car. Neville went in first, with the Patil twins hard on his heels. Harry watched them vanish blankly. "You're a bit early, but we don't have much time to spare to begin with..."
"Harry, c'mon!" Hermione hissed, prodding him in the small of the back. Obediantly, Harry braced his hands on the top of the car roof and half-swung himself in -
landing not on a passenger-seat cushion, as he had anticipated, but on the hard, dark floor of a train corridor.
Impressed, he stood (the ceiling was high enough for a person to move fully upright; that was nice, thought Harry absently) and half-turned back to the open passenger seat. Like a typical Bug, this car had most of the normal gadgets, such as a windshield, a dashboard, a steering wheel and a driver's seat; Harry noted a Starbucks mocha melting slowly in the cupholder. The rest of the car, however, stretched back as far as the eye could see in a replica of a train corridor, with train-compartment doors spattering the hallway. It was the neatest bit of vehicle magic he had ever seen.
His former Hogwarts classmates were halfway down the hall, poking their heads into different compartments and exchanging hellos with people he couldn't see. He took a hesitant step forward. Hermione climbed into the car behind him, and he heard her gasp.
"But... there's no spell for an extension of this size," she murmured, overawed (but not quite speechless, Harry thought dryly). "Flitwick never said... maybe a Transfiguration, then, one interrupted in the middle of execution? The spell would have to be really precise to get this sort of detail... Unless it's a hybrid spell, but those are really complicated! And someone would notice a whole train gone missing."
She was silent. Her busy thoughts, however, were practically audible. After a few minutes of meditative cogitation, she spoke. "Maybe she used a Fuse Charm and Illusened the outside? But an Illusen taps the power she would have needed for this detail... I wonder how the mechanics of it work. What I wouldn't give to see the engine-"
"Hermione," said Ron, coming in behind her, "shut up."
To Harry's surprise, she obeyed.
The redhead grinned at Harry. "Spiffy piece of work, huh?"
"Definitely."
"I hope they have something to eat on this thing," Ron commented, digging his knuckles into his stomach. "I'm hungry already."
Hermione seized the moment for vengeance. "Glutton," she said under her breath.
"Robot."
"Pig."
"Dictionary."
"Children," Harry said soothingly.
"All I said was 'I'm hungry,'" Ron grumbled, shooting a dark look at his companion.
She flapped a hand at him, condescendingly. "I despair of you, Ronald Weasley."
His voice matched hers to the decible. "And I of you, Hermione Granger."
She ignored him. "Where are we sitting, Harry?"
"I don't know," Harry replied. He gestured at the nearest compartment door. "There's a whole train full of seats. Where do you want to sit?"
In answer, Ron reached out and slid it open. The conversation within cut off abruptly, and six pairs of female eyes pinned him to the wall.
For a moment he could actually feel his Adam's Apple bobbing as he swallowed, nervously;he wanted to say something intelligent, or at least comprehendible, but his tongue was inthe way.
"Gnh. Gnll." He coughed a little. "Eh, hi."
Simultaneously, they grinned at him.
"Look, Shea!" said one of them. "British peeps!"
"Not just any British peeps: cute British peeps." A girl who had apparently dyed her hair maroon winked at Ron. "Real people."
Harry actually laughed. Twice in one day. That was a real lapse for him. "Looks like you already have a fan club, Ron." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of the girls sit bolt upright, watching him intensely.
Ron's ears went red, but he rallied magnificently. His sleek rebuttal cought Harry, expecting stutters, slightly off gaurd. "Are you sure it's me they're looking at, mate?"
"Mate!" a girl cooed. "Ooaww, he's so cute!"
"Fairly sure," Harry conceded, with a straight face.
Now Ron was flushing. Hermione noticed, and was promptly incensed. "I don't find this amusing," she hissed at Harry. He held up his hands, innocently.
"What did I do?"
She subsided at that. Shea intervened, supposedly with the intention to help matters. "Don't worry, you can be cute too."
Harry could have told her to stop there, but she was on a roll. "But I'm not that drunk yet. Come back tonight, okay?"
Ron desperately tried to hide his hysterics with a fit of racking coughs, but it failed dismally. Hermione slammed the compartment door shut and glared at them, daring them to break the silence.
It might have worked, too...
...if they hadn't proceeded to overhear one of the other girls say, in tones of utter chagrin, "Shea, you idiot. What if she's actually a lesbian?"
Ron bent double, wheezing. Hermione, enraged, went stomping down the hall, shouting back to them some things about shameful embarrassing friends, they were so humiliating, why did she put up with them? They certainly didn't appreciate her, oh no, even though they wouldn't be alive today without her... They wouldn't even have thought of coming to Wet Carpets if not for her, but she regretted that now, yes she did...
Harry and Ron watched her go all the way down to the end of the train, select a compartment, check that it was empty, and slam it shut behind her. Then they looked at each other.
"So..." Ron jerked his thumb at the compartment containing the girls.
"Yah."
This chapter is dedicated, in its entirety, to my dearest Kate, whose birthday 'tis. And to celebrate, we're going out tonight to PAINT STUFF! froths Paint paint paint paint paint mwaha... Cheers to Kate! And I know that this story belongs to Ethan, but he's a good boy and can share a little.
Happy birthday, Kate dearest! This is part of my present to you! The best part, I think, but only because it took me a week of deprived sleeping habits to finish it.
Nine pages, wh00t. Not bad.
Lesbian jokes are always nice things to have.
And to you nice folk who don't know us: Shea is scary. Stay far far away.
Review! You know you want to!