A/N: Just a thought, not anyone in perticular.
Oh and I don't own Harry Potter.
Stories
The children all loved Mr. Smith. On warm sunny afternoons they were crowd around his garden. On snowy nights they would cram into his little cottage. For they knew that Mr. Smith always told the best stories. Stories about a magical school hidden from the ordinary world, where children could do magic and ride broomsticks and unicorns ran wild.
The children all knew they were the best stories for miles around, because of course they were true. How could something so wonderful not be true? The grown-ups didn't understand, they just thought it was make believe. They were always whispering to each other when they thought the children weren't listening, about how Mr. Smith had such a wonderful imagination. That was just silly, the children told each other, when the parents weren't listening. For they knew Mr. Smith had a horrible imagination. They knew if for a fact, because once Susan had asked him to tell a story about fairies and he had made up a very horrible story that made not since whatsoever, before quickly changing the subject to something called Quidditch.
The children all knew that they should never tell Mr. Smith that they knew his stories were far from fantasy. They knew he was hiding something about his perfect world, something dark. They knew when he told them of the dark shadows in the night that sucked souls, that there was more to the story. Yet they didn't ask, they never asked, just listened.
They listened to the story of a little boy who learned that magic was real and that he could be needed. They followed him as he found friends and learned how to fly a broom. Slowly the story of his adventures came out. How this boy had saved the world from the dark shadows along with his two faithful sidekicks.
"Why did he have to do most of the hard stuff?" Kate, a little seven year old asked once.
Mr. Smith said he didn't know, but the children all knew that was a lie, because he blinked too much when he said it. Yet they never asked, never really wanted to ask. They wanted the perfect world to be perfect; it was their dirty little secret. So they did pretend that in the magical world it was different, humans were all nice and things such as murder didn't exists. They don't want to know that even magic can't solve all the problems of the world. They don't want to hear that good and evil can still exist when there are so many good things in the world. At least not for a few more years.
And they did get those years, too many to count. Soon they were grown-ups themselves. Some had moved away and other stayed, still drawn sometimes to Mr. Smith's garden. He no longer told the stories, saying they were to old for such nonsense.
Yet, sometimes, if they say the right things, he will tell them one more short story. But it's wasn't the same anymore, for they know something else now.
They knew magic couldn't be real?