Sitting at breakfast in the Great Hall on Thursday, Harry stifled a yawn. Astronomy class was fun, both because he'd always enjoyed the idea of peering through a telescope and because he got to stay up past midnight, but it did tend to make him tired the next morning.
"Did you get those definitions done for Transfiguration?" he asked Ron.
"Definitions?" Ron looked briefly panicked. "I forgot! Can I look at yours over lunch?"
"Sure. Just don't copy them word for word. Professor McGonagall would notice."
"And take points off Gryffindor for both of us, me for doing it and you for letting me." Ron groaned aloud. "How come she can't favor us the way Snape does the Slytherins?"
"Who wants to be more like the Slytherins? It's bad enough having Potions with them." Harry looked up as the post owls streamed into the Great Hall. One circled down in his direction and dropped a letter into his hand. "Thanks," he called to it, and held up a bit of sausage, which the owl swooped back around to snatch from his fingers.
"Hey, is that—" Ron began, staring at the letter.
"Friend of mine from before Hogwarts," said Harry, quickly tucking the envelope into his pocket. Technically not a lie. We met before I got on the train. "I asked if she'd write to me after I went away to school."
"Oh. Okay, then." Ron helped himself to another slice of bacon, as an eagle owl flapped low over the Hufflepuffs behind them and deposited a magazine on the table and a letter on the floor. "That one'll never make a Chaser."
"Some quality parchment there," said Draco, bending down to pick up the envelope. "Wonder who it's—excuse me." This last was to Orion, who had planted one large paw directly over the letter. "Can I have my mail, please?"
Orion scooted further under the table, the letter still under his paw.
"Apparently I can't." Draco shrugged and sat back up, peeling back one corner of the wrapping on the magazine. "Excellent, it's here. With a week to go before deadline, even."
"Deadline?" asked Harry, turning to see if he could tell what was inside the wrapping (he caught a glimpse of bright colors but nothing else before Draco flipped it shut again).
"Ongoing project." Draco slid the magazine into his schoolbag. "With a friend of mine from before Hogwarts." Mal's sidelong grin flickered into existence and was gone. "Maybe some marvelous night I'll introduce you."
Harry spent the rest of breakfast trying to track down why these words felt so familiar, and finally caught himself humming a bit of a song which had pervaded 2319 Tudor Lane for several months two years prior, since Pearl's jazz class had been performing a routine to it for their spring recital. A smile spread across his face as he filled in the surrounding lyrics.
Talk about somebody who won't mind the insanity factor of "You've never met me in real life but we're already friends in a dream"!
"You look happy," Ron's voice broke into his thoughts. "Something good in that letter? Or no, you never opened it. What's up?"
"Just thought of something." Harry took one final slice of toast and got to his feet, making a mental note that he'd need to add another name to his ever-growing web. "Come on, let's get a move on. I swear Peeves can tell when we're running late."
"Malfoy."
Harry jumped at Professor Lupin's voice just behind him, and turned to see the older wizard standing beside Draco's desk, an eyebrow raised. "That doesn't look like classwork."
"I'm sorry, Professor." Draco hastily shoved the colorful item he'd been working on into his bag. "It won't happen again." He lifted his eyes to Lupin's face, his expression hopeful, almost pleading.
"It had better not." Lupin nodded once. "Now, what can you tell me about classifications of lesser Dark creatures?"
"They fall broadly into three categories, Professor," recited Draco rapidly. "Pure animal, speech-capable animal, and spirit. Some of the last two categories straddle the line between lesser and greater Dark creatures."
"And that line is…Miss Bones?"
"Intelligence." The Hufflepuff girl with her long plait nodded once. "A greater Dark creature is one that has intelligence on a basically human level, the ability to think and carry out plans."
"Correct, and nicely put. Five points to Hufflepuff." Lupin strolled up the aisle between the desks. "Who can give me an example of a lesser Dark creature? Mr. Thomas?"
"A boggart, Professor." Dean gestured an amorphous shape in the air in front of him. "It doesn't think, it just reacts to whatever it can sense the person in front of it is most afraid of."
"Good, and a greater one. Potter?"
Harry met Lupin's gaze, and casually raised his hand to his forehead as though scratching an itch. Lupin's eyebrows drew together, an expression Henry Blake knew as his uncle informing him without words that he wasn't even to think about going through with his current plan.
It would have been funny, though. Even if that's technically not a 'creature'.
"A dementor," he said out loud. "They can't talk, but they can understand human speech and obey orders, even complicated ones, so they must be able to think like we can."
"I see you've been doing some research on your own." Lupin smiled, although his eyes were momentarily sad. "Five points to Gryffindor. Now, why is it important to understand the differences between types of Dark creatures? Miss Perks?"
"You have to know what you're fighting against, Professor. Otherwise you can't be sure you're doing the right thing. You might use a spell that won't work, or it could even make your enemy stronger…"
At lunchtime, with Ron doubly distracted by food and rewording the definitions of basic Transfiguration terms, Harry was able to pull out his letter and open it, making sure to keep it below the level of the table. He would have to reveal his most regular correspondent's identity at some point, but now didn't seem like the time.
Dear 'Henry',
It's great to hear you like cooking too. Mum's always trying to get the boys to pay attention when she's working in the kitchen, but they're not interested in anything except eating the food and trying to skive off the dishes. I wonder sometimes what they'd do if they suddenly had to fend for themselves. Probably live off scrambled eggs and tinned spaghetti.
I looked up that American sport you told me about finding in a library book. It sounds like it'd be fun to play. Do you think you can do it at Hogwarts? I know they have brooms, and Charlie told me once that any student can sign them out during their free time, but where would you get those special sticks and the ball to play it with? Maybe a teacher could conjure them for you, if you could find one who'd be interested. It's worth asking.
Don't tell Ron, but I've been sneaking into his room and reading all his back issues of Marvin Miggs, the Mad Muggle. Do Muggles really have holes in their walls that can make their hair stand on end? And is it true Muggle photos don't move at all? That sounds boring, but I suppose it would be easier to look at people if they weren't always going to visit their friends in the next picture over.
Speaking of Ron, his last letter to Mum sounded worried about Scabbers. Has he really not come back yet? That doesn't seem like him. He always hangs around where there's food. If it goes on much longer, maybe try asking Fred and George for help finding him. They always seem to know things, especially when there's no possible way that they should.
Write back soon and tell me everything you've been doing. It's almost as good as being at Hogwarts myself! (Almost.)
Your impatient friend,
Ginny
Tucking the letter back into his pocket, Harry applied himself to his lunch for a few moments. Once his plate was significantly more empty, he dug in his bag for parchment and quill, anchored the scroll with a nearby pitcher of pumpkin juice, and began to write.
Dear Ginny,
Is this soon enough? Thanks for reminding me about Fred and George. They make me think of these stories my uncle used to tell, about boys from his old school who were always getting into trouble. He grinned briefly before continuing. I might also ask our friend Draco and his dog Orion to check around for Scabbers' scent. Ron ought to have something he used to sleep on, or chew on, to get it from…
Harry stopped, realizing what he wasn't seeing, what he hadn't seen all morning. "Mal," he called past Ron's shoulder, getting Draco's attention. "Where's Orion got to?"
"Not sure." Draco frowned, setting his fork down to peer under the table. "Now that you mention it, I don't remember seeing him past breakfast. I hope he's not lost, or stuck somewhere he can't get out of."
"No, here he comes now." Neville pointed towards the doors of the Great Hall. "Maybe he just had to go outside?"
"Maybe." Draco took a piece of cold chicken from the platter in the center of the table and began to shred it onto a plate. "Here you go, boy," he said, setting the plate on the floor as Orion stopped next to him. "Where've you been, huh? You can't just run off whenever you feel like it."
"What's that on his paw?" asked Ron, pointing. "It looks dark, like dirt."
"Let me see." Draco ran a finger along the side of Orion's front left paw, earning a soft snort before the broad muzzle was once again buried in the plate of chicken. "Soaked into his fur, whatever it is."
Harry looked down at his quill, which had dripped a small puddle onto the tabletop. "Maybe ink?" he suggested, blotting it up with his serviette. "If somebody knocked over an inkwell, and he walked through the spill before the house-elves could get there?"
"Could be." Draco shrugged. "Doesn't really matter, though. Transfiguration this afternoon for you two, and then flying lessons after that?"
"Don't remind me." Ron blew on his final definition to dry the ink. "How'd yours go? They were yesterday, right?"
"I fell off," said Neville gloomily. "Broke my wrist. Madam Hooch had to take me to the hospital wing."
"Everybody falls at first." Draco grinned. "Wait till you meet Tonks. She's got the best list of stuff demolished on a broomstick of anybody I know…"
Outside, a post owl flapped its way towards the boundary wall.
Dear sir,
The discretion of your establishment is, as always, appreciated. However, if the person involved truly does have the legal right to make such requests, I see no reason for you not to provide balance and transaction information for the vault in question. Withdrawals are another matter—please contact me immediately if such is attempted.
Thank you.
At three-thirty that afternoon, Harry, Ron, and the other Gryffindors hurried down the front steps onto the grounds for their first flying lesson. The day was clear and breezy, and the grass rippled under their feet as they made their way towards a smooth, flat lawn on the opposite side of the grounds to the Forbidden Forest.
"D'you think there's really werewolves in there?" asked Ron, looking over his shoulder at the vague, dark shapes of the trees.
Harry had to bite down on a laugh. "Probably not," he said diplomatically. "And even if there were, how could we tell? Werewolves only change form one night a month."
"Yeah, but they act weird the rest of the time, right? Angry, suspicious, violent?"
"Some of them do. But you'd be angry and suspicious too, if people were scared of you because of something you couldn't control. Something that just happened to you, whether you wanted it to or not." Harry flattened a hand against his robes, trying to rein in two lives' worth of vehemence on this topic. "Look, we do Astronomy every Wednesday, right? So we'll always know when it's getting close to full moon, and we'll just stay inside that night. Problem solved."
"You don't really think they'd let a werewolf come to Hogwarts, do you?" asked Seamus Finnigan, who had been walking close enough to hear their conversation.
"I think they did once, years ago," said Parvati Patil thoughtfully. "My mum mentioned something about it. There were rumors about it for the longest time, but nobody ever knew who it really was."
"And if it happened years ago, they'd be long gone, so it's not like we have to worry about it today," said Lavender Brown, peering ahead. "Oh, no, the Slytherins beat us here. Look, they're all spread out, they must have picked the best broomsticks already…"
"Not like there's much choice," muttered Ron, scowling at the smirk which seemed to make its permanent home on Theodore Nott's rabbity face. Harry tucked away a piece of knowledge with which Jeanie had gifted Henry, with the caveat that Harry was only to use it if Nott were being absolutely insufferable, and went to stand in the second to last row, next to a tall, dark-skinned Slytherin boy with a quiet demeanor.
"Blaise Zabini," the other introduced himself, holding out his hand.
"Harry Potter." Harry accepted the handshake. "Been flying before?"
"Some, but it'll be nice to have real training. You?"
"I grew up Muggle, so no." Harry shook his head. "It looks amazing, though."
"It's not bad," allowed Zabini with a faint smile. "How do Muggles get around, if they don't have brooms?"
"They have cars and trains, and other things, like bicycles. Two wheels, with a seat in between," Harry explained when Zabini looked blank. "It's got pedals you push with your feet, and you steer with a handle on the front wheel. Takes some practice to stay balanced. The trick is to keep moving forward."
"Well, what are you all waiting for?" barked a woman's sharp voice, and Harry looked up. Madam Hooch, the gray-haired flying instructor, had just arrived. "Everyone stand by a broomstick. Come on, hurry up."
Lavender and Parvati, the last two holdouts, quickly disengaged from their whispered conversation and found the remaining open spaces in the lines.
"Stick out your wand hand over your broom," instructed Madam Hooch, her yellow eyes raking across the class, "and say 'Up'!"
"UP!" everyone shouted.
Harry's broom jumped into his hand at once, as did Zabini's. Seamus' broom leaped off the ground and bashed him in the face, forcing Madam Hooch to call a halt while she dealt with his copiously bleeding nose. Nott had only managed to make his broomstick roll over on his first try, winning snickers from Ron and Dean Thomas, and Crabbe and Goyle seemed baffled by even so simple a task as this.
"Now, when I blow my whistle, you kick off from the ground, hard," said Madam Hooch once everyone was mounted on their brooms and their grips had been corrected. "Keep your brooms steady, rise a few feet, and then come straight back down by leaning forward slightly. On my whistle. Three, two, one—"
The whistle shrilled, and Harry kicked off as instructed, feeling for the first time in his own person the rush of wind through his hair, the little flutter of his robes whipping out behind him. Hazy memories of hallways zooming past him, trees blurring by, laughing faces cheering him on, melded with a shudder of joy in his chest.
Flying was just as wonderful as he'd always dreamed it would be.
Grinning all over his face, he urged the broom a little higher—just a little higher—just a little—
"Potter! Get down here!"
Swiftly Harry dived, and planted his feet on the ground where he'd been a few moments before. "Sorry," he said to Madam Hooch, attempting to look contrite, though he suspected it wasn't working very well.
"Hmph." Madam Hooch shook her head, though Harry thought he could see a sparkle in her eye. "Some things never change. All right, first row, let's try some basic maneuvers. On my whistle. Three, two, one—"
"You've never been on a broom before?" asked Zabini under the sound of feet shoving off from the ground.
"Only in my dreams." Harry watched Ron fly in a careful circle at Madam Hooch's direction. "I don't think that counts."
Zabini clasped his hands behind his back, staring up at the sky. "I suppose," he said softly, "that depends on the dream."
"Suppose it does." Harry closed his eyes and allowed memory to wash over him, transporting him to another place, another time, another life.
XXXXX
"Snag!" Aunt Gigi announced from behind him, and Henry tightened his grip on his stick, scanning the outfield. Mal's where he should be, so's Uncle John, no good there—wait, Dad's out of position—
He flicked the stick forward in an overhand arc, sending the ball flying towards the hole he'd discovered in Blue Team's defenses, and shot away towards first base, dropping the stick as he went. Behind him, he could hear his mom and Pearl cheering, as his world narrowed to the shaft of his broomstick and the branch with the bright red ribbon tied to it—
"Fair fling!" called Aunt Gigi as Henry tagged first base and turned sharply, rocketing past Mal towards the tree-trunk marker for second. "Ball in play!"
A fanfare of trumpets sounded, and Pearl shrieked in triumph. One of the spell-constructed base flyers had just crossed home plate, scoring a run for Henry's team.
"Jeanie!" shouted Uncle John, and whipped the ball towards her at home. Jeanie swiftly brought her stick into catching position, grunting a little as the ball slammed into the net. Henry yanked back on his broom's handle, halting himself within grabbing distance of second base.
"Safe," was Aunt Gigi's ruling. "And one run for the Red Team. Thea, you're up."
"Here we go, then." Henry's mom accepted the ball from Jeanie and lobbed it into the pitching machine which had been affixed to a tree at the same height as home plate. "One out, two on, and I'm ready to bring them all home…"
XXXXX
"Third row, time to practice maneuvers," Madam Hooch's voice cut into Harry's reverie, snapping him back to where and when he was. "On my whistle. Three, two, one—"
Harry pushed off from the ground, letting the euphoria of flight wash over him again. Memories, even the best of them, couldn't compete with the reality of the present moment.
I'm at Hogwarts, I have friends, and I'm learning how to fly.
Thoughts of his dad's rueful laugh, his mom's confident smile, his little sister's excited bounce on her broom, hummed in his mind for a moment but were firmly shunted away.
Everything else can wait for tomorrow.
Once all the students had completed their drills to Madam Hooch's satisfaction, she beckoned the group into a rough circle around her. "Ordinarily," she said, drawing her wand, "you'd have flying lessons every week for your first term, and move to every other week after Christmas, with free practice time in between. However, it's been suggested that we try something a bit different this year. So once I'm satisfied that you have the basics down, we'll be starting to learn a game. Not Quidditch," she cut off the excited chatter from the students surrounding her. "That's a bit too rough for most of you to handle yet. Instead, we'll be using…" She sketched a shape in the air with her wand. "These."
Harry sucked in his breath as the item solidified in the flying teacher's hand.
"Can anyone tell me what this is?" asked Madam Hooch, holding up the meter-long stick with its stiff-edged net affixed to one end. "Anyone?"
After waiting the length of two breaths, Harry raised his hand.
"Potter." Madam Hooch pointed at him. "Let's have it."
"Is it a crosseball stick?"
"That's the name." She beckoned him forward. "Now, do you know how to use it?"
Accepting the stick from Madam Hooch's hand, Harry gripped it with both hands near the bottom of the handle, holding it diagonally across his chest with the net above his right shoulder.
"Not bad form." Madam Hooch reached into the bag she wore at her side and drew out a round red ball with white stitching, about the size of two fists clenched together. "Catch."
Harry twisted his wrists to bring the net down and scooped the crosseball out of the air, returning the stick to its neutral position with the ball cradled in the pocket of the net.
"Looks like somebody's done this before," said Madam Hooch with a nod as the Gryffindors murmured in admiration, the Slytherins shuffling their feet and looking disgruntled. "Care to round it out and show us a fling?"
The familiar feeling of the stick in his hands, the weight of the ball in his net, shifted Harry's thinking without his intent, so that it was more Henry Blake than Harry Potter who set his feet, lifted his head, and scanned the nearby area for a target. A bobbing bit of purple in the distance caught his eye, and he whipped the stick forward before he had time to think about what at Hogwarts might be that color and move in that fashion—
The crosseball soared through the air and scored a direct hit on the back of Professor Quirrell's turban.
XXXXX
"Five hundred lines?" repeated Ron incredulously. "What'd they say?"
"'I must not assault my teachers with American sporting equipment,'" recited Henry. "I'm just glad I woke up before I had to actually write them." He glared at Pearl and Cassie, who were both giggling. "Oh, like you two never do anything wrong!"
"It's not that," said Pearl, shaking her head with a broad grin. "Whoever assigned your alter ego that detention? They made a pretty big mistake with the way they worded it."
"They only said American sporting equipment," Cassie took over with a mischievous smile of her own. "So technically he could still hit Professor Quirrell with a Bludger, and that would be just fine!"
Henry leaned back against the carved stone bench. "Why are we letting them be friends?" he asked the group at large. "This can't be a good thing."
"I don't think there's any 'letting' involved at this point." Jeanie shrugged. "Besides, it wasn't our decision. Aunt Thea and Cousin Cecy were the ones who started them off writing to each other."
"On my birthday, three years ago." Pearl bounced in place. "Speaking of birthdays, yours is next week, Jeanie! We'll have to have a party!"
"Just hers?" Ron frowned. "Don't you mean hers and Mal's?"
"No, mine's in June." Mal shook his head. "What, did you think we were twins?"
"Well, yeah. Pretty much." Ron's frown deepened. "How's it work if you're not, with you both in the same year?"
"We never told you about this?" Mal twirled his recorder between his fingers. "Guess we didn't. Sorry about that. I'm actually adopted."
"You are?" Ron blinked first at Mal, then at Jeanie. "Never would've thought. Did you know?" he asked Neville, who was sitting on the other end of Henry's bench with his own instrument across his lap.
"I did, but I've got an advantage." Neville tightened a tuning peg and plucked the string attached to it, nodding at the tone. "Mum and Dad knew Professor Reynolds and Healer Blake before they moved to America, so I've heard stories about them most of my life. You just met everyone a couple years ago, right?"
"Best day ever." Ron grinned briefly at Pearl, who returned the expression, pretending to pack and throw a snowball. "But I don't get it," he said, turning back to Mal and Jeanie. "You two look so much alike."
Jeanie sighed, setting aside her Charms text. "Most of Mal's birth family aren't very nice people," she said. "If they'd known where he was, they might have tried to steal him from us. So he had to be disguised, and the easiest way to do that was through me. Using my blood."
"She and Mom are nice and boring," Mal put in, sliding his recorder away in favor of the colorful magazine lying on the bench beside him. "Nobody's looking for them, except in the most general sense of things. I'm not so lucky." His eyes rested on a small group of Slytherins walking past. "The person I could've been? Would've been, if not for Mom and Dad? You probably wouldn't have liked him very much."
"Oh, I don't know." Neville slung his guitar's strap over his shoulder. "There could always be some other way for you to turn out all right." He grinned briefly. "Like getting kidnapped by pirates."
Henry raised a fist. "Yo ho ho."
"And a bottle of rum!" Cassie piped up, then made a face. "Except not really. That stuff tastes awful."
Everyone turned to look at her.
"What?" Cassie fluttered her eyelashes. "Dad said I could try it if I wanted to. So I did. And it was gross."
"Your dad is even stranger than ours." Mal circled a hand around himself, his sister, and his cousins. "And that's saying something."
Jeanie sighed again. "If you're going to show us what you're practicing for the Music Society, would you just do it, please?" she asked Neville. "Before they get off on any more tangents."
"All right." Neville propped one knee on the bench and began to strum a lively set of chords. Mal quickly pulled his recorder from its pocket again, blew on it to dislodge any stray bits of lint, and launched into the melody as Neville finished his introduction. Henry sat back to listen, his mind supplying the words as his mom had sung them to a cheerful group around a campfire two summers ago.
Fare thee well to Prince's landing stage,
River Mersey, fare thee well…
XXXXX
Severus Snape looked up from the essay he was marking as an incongruous element intruded on his ear. Somewhere among his class of Gryffindor and Slytherin first-years, one of the students was humming.
Now if it were only…
His eyes fixed on the source of the sound.
Perfect.
"Potter," he snapped, bringing the messy black head around with a jerk. "Stop that noise immediately."
"What?" Potter blinked in surprise. "But, sir, I wasn't doing anything."
"Five points from Gryffindor for lying. I can make it ten," Severus added as Potter bristled. "Or would you prefer to spend your second evening this week in detention?"
The youngest Weasley boy hissed at him, and Potter subsided, though he shot Severus a venomous glare when he thought Severus wasn't looking.
Excellent. Severus returned to his work, but found his own mind dwelling on the song, and the hazy memories it carried with it, of a world that could not be, a life that never was.
I could almost think he was taunting me with it. His hand tightened into a fist. That would have been like his father. To find some way to spy even on my innermost thoughts, my secret wishes and fantasies, and use them to torment me in my waking life…
After one more glance across the classroom to ensure no disasters lurked in the immediate future, Severus got to his feet and stepped through the door in the back, into the storage room where he kept his most expensive and rarest ingredients. Closing his eyes, he allowed himself one precious moment to sink into the world of his dreams, where a soft smile greeted him as he stepped inside his quarters at the end of the day, and a happy voice rose in the final lines of a song learned from friends.
It's not the leaving of Liverpool that grieves me,
But, my darling, when I think of thee…
(A/N: Not the first time this song has shown up in my writing. I based a sci-fi Christmas story on it some years ago, "Sun and Moon and Stars of Light", which can be found in the free collection Star of Wonder at my Smashwords page. Dangerverse fans might also recognize the names of the main characters in that tale…
Note that the Tudor Lane household uses a modified form of crosseball in which Jeanie always plays catcher and belongs to whichever team is currently in the field. Regular crosseball has similar rules to baseball/softball, but is played with lacrosse sticks, hence the name.
Who me, enjoy coming up with new variations on the wizarding world? Don't know what you're talking about. More soon!
Oh yes, and the song referenced early in the chapter is called Moondance. No prizes for guessing what Draco got in the mail, now.)
