JKR owns HP
To YAF: If you're waiting for action, don't hold your breath. This is a quiet, reflective story. For bangs and explosions, see the original.
To Sairy: Fear not, for time in fanfiction knows no sense of proportion.
With thanks to Lady Carson, Ashton Brooke, and singingflame for their help developing Terry's character in this chapter.
Disclaimer: Opinions expressed are most emphatically those of the characters and not the author. This chapter contains the moralistic preaching of two religions, and an implied mild violation of negiah.
See how good and how pleasant it is when brothers sit together (Psalms 133:1)
Detention, it turned, out, was writing People care about me and I must not worry them unnecessarily two hundred times, which was two hundred times harder than it sounded. He started straightaway after Shacharis and went to breakfast with an aching wrist.
But as news of his detention spread, he found that people looked at him differently. Eyes didn't rest on his yarmulke before landing on his face, and when he took three steps back after Shemone Esrei, Stephen actually waved to him from the other end of the room. "Michael told me about Flitwick's detention—bleeding nasty of him, I'd say." A second-year girl saw him hunched over the common room table and laughed. "You got off lucky, Goldstein," she told him. "I got stuck clipping broom twigs for Madam Hooch." When he walked to History of Magic, first-years approached him, even some Hufflepuffs, and Justin Finch-Fletchley asked him how far along he was on the copying. He showed off the parchment with 75 carefully-printed lines.
People care about me and I must not worry them unnecessarily.
People care about me and I must not worry them unnecessarily.
People care about me and I must not worry them unnecessarily.
People care about me and I must not worry them unnecessarily.
He was met with wide eyes and sympathy and—acceptance. As he sat down and unrolled his new parchment, only Terry kept shooting him disapproving glances, looking as though he were itching to say something and only with the greatest of self-restraint was keeping silent. If he wanted to say something, why didn't he just say it, Yehuda wondered as he took notes on the fatal duel between Emeric the Evil and Egbert the Egregious.
But the instant Professor Binns left, Terry cornered him. "You shouldn't be showing off your detention lines. I would never do something like that."
"Well, it's a good thing you're not the one with detention, then," Yehuda muttered.
"You're setting a bad example, you know," Terry said severely. "You're supposed to be letting God's light shine—"
"Shove off, Boot," Michael said loudly. Terry stalked away, throwing a moody glare at Yehuda over his shoulder. "Ignore him, Yehuda. He's just sore because you aren't best mates with him." Yehuda nodded, yes, Terry was only being a prat, but in his head he heard his mother scolding them at the zoo on Chol Hamoed: Yehuda! Adina! Make a kiddush Hashem! He frowned. Where had that come from?
At dinner, there was a sick pit in his stomach as he stared down at the calendar with an apple in one hand. Monday, yud-dalet Tishrei—there was no way around it. He was going to have to ask. Again. He shut the calendar and turned to his parchment, put aside the 175 finished lines and steadied a fresh roll.
Bs"D
Dear Rabbi Zeller,
He put the end of the quill into his mouth absently, then spluttered as his tongue realized that the thin feathery things on it were not a pen.
1. How do you build a sukkah?
"Goldstein?" Kevin tapped him on the shoulder. "Flitwick's asking for you in his office as soon as you can."
"Er, thanks," he said calmly, feeling anything but calm. Why so soon? Lines at Torah Temima had never had such a close deadline. He dashed off the final twenty-five lines, his wrist cramping—People care about me and I must not worry them unnecessarily—and blotted the last words, and hurriedly rolled up the parchment to head for Flitwick's office.
"I've finished the lines," he blurted, and stopped short. Professor McGonagall sat beside Flitwick. Flitwick bounced in his seat with a smile as Yehuda walked in, but McGonagall's face remained staid as ever. He sat down, suddenly nervous.
"You've got another holiday on Monday, haven't you, Goldstein?" she said without preamble.
He almost fell off his chair. "How did you know?"
She ignored the question. "Obviously, we would all prefer minimal disruption to everyone's routines, and minimal—ah—distress to yourself. So it has been decided that you will leave school for the holiday."
"And go home?" he said eagerly.
Flitwick looked pained. "Well, no, I'm afraid we can't do that, but we can arrange for you to spend two days in the nearest town, what is it, Minerva?"
"Dufftown," McGonagall said crisply. "Accommodations will be arranged at the…" She glanced at the parchment in front of her. "At the Habad house. Professor Snape will accompany you on Monday afternoon—and, Goldstein, do try to keep it quiet, or the rest of the school will demand to know why they can't leave school as well."
"Yes, of course, I can do that," he babbled. "Thank you, thank you so much."
Flitwick laughed. "Thank us again when you come back to two days' missed work."
Not even that could burst his bubble. He handed over his lines ("Oh, you didn't have to finish so soon!" Flitwick exclaimed) as it slowly dawned on him that he was going, he was really going! Only two days, but a real sukkah, and kosher food, and a minyan! A little smile lifted the corners of his mouth as he floated out of the office.
2. Can I eat in a Chabad house?
3. Should I go to class on Chol Hamoed?
He had only six questions by Sunday afternoon but he borrowed a school owl anyway and sent the letter off. Davening mincha in his dormitory, he added a heartfelt tefila for Hashem to help the owl get to Rabbi Zeller and back before he had to leave for Dufftown the next day.
But on Monday morning, the owl had not returned, and he was leaving that afternoon. He dressed with a flutter of excitement in his stomach, Kevin and Stephen left for Charms class, while Yehuda turned his back on the others and quietly, unobtrusively opened his overnight bag. "Yehuda?" Michael called. "Are you coming?"
"I'll be along," he said, folding his pyjamas into the bag. "Don't wait for me."
"All right." The door closed. He shook out a white shirt and carefully added it to the stack, then kissed his machzor and laid it on top.
"What are you doing?" Terry asked.
Terry, again! He shoved the bag behind him. "Nothing."
"Are you packing? Where are you going?"
He sighed, gritting his teeth. "I'm leaving for two days. It's my holiday. Don't tell anyone, all right?"
"I won't," Terry said, "but wasn't it just your Jewish New Year a few days ago? Why do you need to go away this time? What's this one for?"
He was so angry he could barely move, but he shot a disgusted look over his shoulder at this Christian goy who thought he was so great. "What do you care? It's not your holiday!"
Terry's eyes opened wide, but Yehuda had had enough. He drew the curtains around his bag with a vicious tug and left the tower as fast as he could, not looking back. Slipping into his seat beside Michael, he slammed his parchment and quill on the desk with unnecessary force. Michael eyed him curiously.
Terry came late to Charms, and Flitwick took two points from Ravenclaw. Yehuda busied himself with his note-taking so he didn't have to look up as Terry passed his desk.
After Herbology, he waited at the window as long as he possibly could, looking for Rabbi Zeller's owl, before Kevin came up to retrieve his Magical Drafts & Potions and to say that if he wanted potatoes and peas there wasn't that much left. He ran downstairs after that, passing Terry without a word, and had to head straight down to Potions after that. Then he twitched throughout Defense Against the Dark Arts, too edgy to cast a proper Lumos, and the instant Professor Quirrel dismissed them, he rocketed out of his seat and back up to the dormitory to stick his head out the window and stare at a stubbornly empty gray sky.
He was to be in Flitwick's office at four-fifteen for Snape to take him to Dufftown. He paced. He wondered if he would make it in time for Yom Tov. His gaze alternated between the clock and the window and the Gemara in his hands. Four-ten. He tried his best to chazer. Tanu rabanan, aizehu kara'ui v'aizehu shelo kara'ui? Deles sheyechola la'amod...No owl. The overnight bag was starting to chafe at his shoulder...b'ruach metzuya, zehu kara'ui. She'eina yechola la'amod b'ruach metzuya, zehu shelo kara'ui. Four-twelve. He bit his lip, knelt on the windowsill and craned his neck. No owl.
The dormitory door opened.
"Were you looking for this?" Terry asked. He held out the envelope.
Rage flooded his chest and he could barely breathe. "You—you—" He snatched the envelope away. "You just had to wait for the last second, didn't you? Thought it was funny?"
Terry folded his arms. "Your owl came by at the end of lunch. I just took it for you. There's no need to get your knickers in a twist, it's only a letter from your rabbi."
He clenched his fist to stop himself slapping Terry across the face. "That's letting the light of God shine, huh?" he spat. And then he ran, heedless of who might see him or look at him strangely, still clutching the Gemara and letter, the overnight bag bouncing, only praying please let me make it on time, Hashem, please let me make it on time—burst into Flitwick's office without knocking, saw Snape and Flitwick gathered around something small on Flitwick's desk—was that a teacup?—and Flitwick pointed his wand at it.
"Portus."
"Well, Goldstein?" Snape stood with one finger lazily touching the teacup.
"What?" he said stupidly. He stood with his overnight bag slung over his shoulder, breathing hard, eyes roving the office. He was going to Dufftown, wasn't he?
Snape seized his wrist and placed his hand on the teacup. He fought the urge to giggle as Flitwick looked earnestly at the clock and said "Now!"
He felt something jerk in his belly, yanking him—what?—the room was gone and sky blurred past his eyes and his finger stuck to the teacup as his mouth opened in a silent scream, wind rushing past his face and then he hit the ground hard and fell to his knees on wet gravelly grass, scraping his palms. They were at the side of an asphalt road, surrounded by wide green fields and rolling hills. He scrambled to his feet. "Where are we?"
But Snape had already started walking. "Where are we going?" he asked, jogging after the professor, his bag bouncing against his side. He unzipped it to jam the Gemara and envelope on top of the pile.
"To the Chabad House," Snape said shortly. He walked faster, eyes fixed on a large house further down the road. Even from here Yehuda could see the sukkah standing out front. "Come along, now."
Yehuda scrambled to catch up. Snape waited at the entrance, and with the flicker of an eyelid, indicated the door. "Go on."
He raised a fist hesitantly and knocked.
Once.
Twice.
He looked up at Snape, who looked away. He knocked again.
And then the door flung open to reveal a tall bearded man, knotting a tie over his suit and looking inquisitively at Yehuda. "A Guten Erev Yom Tov," he said, with a thick Brooklyn accent. "Zalman Bronstein, Chabad of Dufftown, and you are—?"
"Yehuda G—" A wand prodded him warningly in the back. "Yehuda," he amended. "I go to school near here and I wanted somewhere to spend Sukkos."
"Well, you're certainly welcome here, it's always a pleasure to meet another yid." Zalman Bronstein darted a confused glance at Professor Snape, still draped in silent black behind Yehuda. "Will your father be staying as well?"
"No-no-no-no, he—he's—my teacher, no—" Yehuda spluttered. He looked desperately over his shoulder. Snape's face was expressionless. "He's just—dropping me off?"
"He has already dropped you off." Snape turned to go. "Someone will pick you up on Wednesday. Good afternoon, Yehuda."
And he was gone, leaving Yehuda alone in the front hallway of a strange house in the middle of north Scotland.
"Well! Quite the friendly one, isn't he?" Zalman Bronstein looked at his young guest.
"He's all right," Yehuda said stiffly.
Zalman cleared his throat awkwardly and beckoned to Yehuda, moving quickly down the hallway. "Here, let me take your bag. We have an empty bed in this room—Gavriel's here too, Yanky's training him in as a mashgiach over at the Glencallan distillery in town." Zalman knocked. "Gavriel? You're in there?"
The door swung open. A tall yeshiva bochur stood there in his undershirt, still holding a shaver in one hand. "Shalom aleichem," he said to the air over Yehuda's head, before looking down. "Oh. Hello."
"This is Yehuda, he'll be sharing your room, all right?" Zalman dropped Yehuda's bag on the second bed.
"Wait!" Yehuda stammered. "What about—at home I—"
"Sleep in the sukkah?" Zalman waved his concerns away as he backed out of the room. "You can start out there, but you know the forecast's calling for rain, what else is new?" He shut the door. They heard him humming down the hallway.
"Where are your parents?" Gavriel asked curiously, turning back to the mirror.
The lie came easily now. "I'm in school near here. It's too far to go home for Yom Tov." He turned away, hoping his very posture would broadcast Don't ask me why I'm in a non-Jewish school.
The bathroom was small, but appointed exactly like a hotel room, with towels fanning out in a careful flower shape and soaps and shampoos on a shelf in the stall. He showered, toweled dry, and dressed in his Shabbos suit. Then he went cautiously into the hallway to see just what a Chabad house was all about. He passed a young man and woman in jeans in the hallway, practically entwined and talking quietly in Hebrew; pacing in the stairwell was a man in a knitted yarmulke holding a shrieking baby over his shoulder. In the kitchen, he saw a woman, older than Esti but younger than his mother, and behind her on the wall, a telephone. His heart leapt. "Excuse me. Mrs. … Bronstein?"
She looked up. Her face was red and sweaty and she held a potholder and a tray of challos and was halfway turning around to stir a pot. "Yes? Oh—I don't think we've met. Have you just come?"
"Uh—yes, ma'am. I'm Yehuda. I was wondering if I could use your phone before Yom Tov."
She set the challos down on the counter. "Yes, of course. Do you need long-distance? We have a calling card."
"That's all right," he said, hoping that didn't give him away. He took the phone and dialed, his fingers shaking with excitement. It rang, once, twice, and then Esti's breathless voice came on. "Hello?"
"Esti?"
"Yehuda!" she shouted. "Oh my goodness—Mummy, Yehuda's on the phone!" He heard a frantic flurry of activity in the background, a jumble of his mother's and Adina's voices, before his mother came on, breathless. "Hello?"
"Mummy? It's Yehuda!" He wanted nothing more than to spill out everything that had happened since the Hogwarts Express had pulled out of Kings Cross, but, mindful of Esti and Adina, he chose his words carefully. "I'm at the Bronsteins for Yom Tov. How is everyone—everything?"
"Baruch Hashem, everyone's well," his mother said. "We got your letter, Rabbi Zeller passed it on to us—Esti, please hang up the extension—"
He heard the phone clatter onto its base before his mother took a deep breath. "So. How is it there? They've let you leave for Sukkos, I see. Are you keeping up with your learning? Is there kosher food?"
"Yes, they've sent me to a Chabad house, everyone's been lovely so far." He didn't mention the magic traveling teacup. "Did Tatty get the sheets I sent him?"
"Yes, he's looking them over. You're working hard?"
He looked over his shoulder. Mrs. Bronstein was carrying a stack of dishes out of the room, and though he heard distant conversation, the kitchen was now empty. "Yes—there's lots to learn! I've changed a matchstick into a needle, and they're teaching us to fly broomsticks."
His mother sighed.
"And, er, yeah, I'm up to shomer aveida with Tatty," he finished awkwardly, remembering that Jews weren't supposed to do magic.
"And kosher food?" His mother sounded anxious.
"Right. Rabbi Zeller and I are trying to work out the cooking—" like if house-elves qualify for bishul akum— "but in the meantime, could you send me some recipes of things I could make on my own?"
She laughed. "Of course."
They spoke for a little while longer while the clock ticked—yes, he'd made a friend; yes, the dormitory was comfortable—and he said Good Yom Tov to each of his siblings, and when his father came home they put him on and he blurted everything he possibly could in Mrs. Bronstein's presence. Then his family was going to light, so he hung up, blinking, swallowing, because he was much too old to cry. Zalman handed him a lulav and a cardboard box. He stared, openmouthed, and wished he could pay for it, but he had no money and probably Zalman wouldn't know what to make of Sickles and Galleons.
Slowly people trickled into a large dining room, while Mrs. Bronstein set up candles on a table in the corner. They were going to light now—finally he'd get to see exactly how you were supposed to do it. Yehuda watched carefully as the American woman waved her hands around the flames and beside her, the lady in the hat did the same. Mrs. Bronstein turned away from the candles. "Noa? Jessica? Would you like to light candles too?"
"All right, let's see what we've got!" Yehuda tore his eyes to the other side of the room, where the men were assembled, and he hovered on the edge of the group. "You don't look bar mitzvah," the knitted-yarmulke man said apologetically. "Do we have a minyan?"
Zalman counted the little cluster: hoshia, es, amecha, and yes, they had a minyan, but just barely: Zalman and Gavriel; two jeans-clad boys, Aaron and Jonathan, from a college nearby; an American tourist named Menachem and his son; the Israeli boy, Yaron, who was almost joined at the hip to the girl he'd come with. There were another three mashgichim, Eitan, Fishel, and Yanky—the knitted yarmulke and a chassid, and a normal black-hatted bloke like Tatty—and that made ten.
He stood swaying and looking into his Sukkos machzor as Rabbi Radovsky intoned kaddish and Fishel screwed his face in concentration. He called out "Amen, yehei shemei rabba mevorach!" his high-pitched boy's voice mingling with the group. When they were finished, they filed into the sukkah on rickety cushioned folding chairs. The American tourist family, and the black-hatted and knitted-yarmulke mashgichim and their wives, sat separately. Yehuda squirmed small in his seat beside Gavriel, avoiding the eyes of the Israeli girl across.
"I'm going to make four blessings now," Zalman announced. "First, the hagafen blessing on wine. Then, a special blessing thanking God for giving us the holiday of Sukkos—"
"—v'az bracha meyuchedet lehodot laKel al shenatan lanu chag haSukkot," the girl whispered to Yaron.
"—and lastly, the blessing of Shehechiyanu, for special occasions." Zalman stood, and around the table chairs rustled in the grass as they all got to their feet. "Baruch atah Hashem Elokeinu, melech haolam, borei pri hagafen!"
"Amen!" The echoing response filled the sukkah.
"…Vatitein lanu Hashem Elokeinu b'ahava moadim l'simcha, chagim u'zmanim l'sasson, es yom chag haSukkos hazeh, zman simchaseinu, mikra kodesh…"
A time of our joy, Yehuda translated in his head. He smiled, because it finally made sense. Not of hiding in the corner of the dormitory, not of eating apples for dinner, not a list of rules, but chagim u'zmanim l'sasson.
"…mekadesh Yisrael v'hazmanim!"
"Amen!" Yehuda called out, and his voice was joined by Gavriel's and Yaron's and the others, in a powerful strong call that almost took his breath away as it reverberated into the night.
"Baruch atah Hashem Elokeinu, melech haolam, asher kideshanu b'mitzvosav v'tzivanu leishev basukkah!"
"Amen!"
Zalman and his wife served, rolling out first platters of salmon and then chicken soup in tureens. S'chach pressed in and the sky was dark behind it. It smelled sweet, like rain. Yehuda quietly ate chicken soup, half-listening to the grown-ups' talk. Yaron's English was halting, and the girl, Noa, kept interrupting the conversation to translate for him in a flood of incomprehensible Hebrew. Mrs. Radovsky's sharp American accent cut jarringly through a soft stream of talk.
"Nu, anyone has a d'var Torah for us?" Zalman looked around. "Yehuda?"
He jerked upright. "What? I—I don't—"
"Ah, lay off him, Rabbi Bronstein," Gavriel laughed. "I'll do it." He got to his feet and looked around. "So, why do we sit in a sukkah? It's meant to remind us of the ananei hakavod—the clouds of glory," he translated in Jonathan's direction. "So why now, in September? Why not Pesach time—Passover—the time of year when we actually used the clouds? The answer is that we eat and sleep outside right after the New Year, so if God declared exile on us, we'll be exiled this way."
If Hashem had declared exile on him, Yehuda thought, this was certainly not it. Exile was Hogwarts. This was where he belonged. Yaron seemed to agree. "Korim l'zeh galut?" he scoffed, gesturing at the tables of upturned faces, softly glowing in the candlelight from the corner of the sukkah.
"Very good!" Gavriel beamed at him. "How can you call a wonderful group and delicious food like this an exile? Because the point of everything over Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur is that there's no power in the world but Hashem—God. So on Sukkos, we leave the safety of our house and move into a temporary hut with grass for a roof, showing that we only need God to protect us. Not doors and locks, not the walls of a house—only God can protect us, no matter what the situation! Gut Yom Tov."
"Shkoyach!" the chassidish mashgiach said approvingly. He banged a fist on the table and started to sing. "Kah Ribon Olam…" Yanky joined in, and then Eitan and Gavriel and Zalman. They were using the tune he used at home, and Yehuda dared to hum along, first quietly, and then he opened his mouth and sang with the others at the top of his lungs. "Ra-a-avrevi-i-in o-o-ovdeich v'saki-i-ifin…"
It began to rain, water dripping off the s'chach. With good-natured grumbling they managed to collect the food and dishes and move inside. Yehuda yawned his way across the lawn and stumbled into a seat for dessert and bentching.Through a haze of drowsiness Gavriel steered him to their room and he felt covers tuck over him and sleep overtake him and his eyes drifted closed, not quite home, but among family, at last.
"Yehuda?" Someone was shaking him. "Yehuda, wake up."
"It's my holiday," he mumbled. "I don't have to go to class."
"It's Gavriel." He sounded embarrassed. "They want to daven in twenty minutes. Do you want to get up?"
"Huh?" He pushed himself to sit up, and it all flooded back: Chabad house of Dufftown, four mashgichim and two of their wives and five college students and an American tourist couple. Sukkos. Before he could stop himself, a huge, silly smile spread across his face. He flung himself out of bed, pulled a white shirt over his head and grabbed his yarmulke from the bedside, and thirty seconds later was out the door.
"Wow, that was fast," Gavriel said.
The Yom Tov passed quickly, so calm and familiar that the magic school was a distant memory. He sat on a folding chair in the sukkah and reviewed his Mishnayos with Gavriel, in the familiar shouted give-and-take of his school at home, and Gavriel helped him find the sources in Rabbi Zeller's letter. They pored over the Shulchan Aruch and Mishna Berurah and Shaar Hatzion and Yehuda tried to decide if he could put together a sukkah on Hogwarts' grounds—a skylight was probably his best bet. He slept in the sukkah on a clear night, pulling the covers up to his chin and listening to the whisper of other people's kerias Shema. He davened surrounded by other Jews, and followed along in the leining.
But through the spaces between pine branches and bamboo the sky gradually darkened and turned pink and then violet and deepened to navy, and he could not hold on to Yom Tov forever.
"…hamavdil bein kodesh l'chol!"
There was a knock at the door.
"I can get it," Noa offered. "Hello—oh!" She sounded startled. Yehuda darted into the doorway of the sukkah and stopped short. In his black batlike robes, Snape looked utterly out of place in Chabad of Dufftown; he looked downright terrifying. Noa took a step backward.
"Good evening." Snape spoke quietly. "I'm here for Yehuda."
"Oh—Professor." His heart sank. He'd forgotten. At the end of all this he'd be going back to Hogwarts. "Let me get my things. I'll be right out."
"Take some food," Mrs. Bronstein urged, thrusting pastries and leftovers into a tin. "Surely they aren't feeding you enough there—"
Yehuda ran upstairs to his bedroom. Gavriel followed. As he grabbed his lulav and stuffed his shirt into the bag (his mother would cringe if she saw) and headed toward the door, Gavriel stopped him, putting a hand on his shoulder.
"Listen, I don't mean to interfere," he said quietly, "but something about that chap doesn't look right. You want me to call anyone for you? Are you sure this is all kosher v'yosher?"
Yehuda laughed at the rhyme. He met Gavriel's eyes, trying to sound confident. "Yes, it's fine. He's my teacher at school, a bit cold, but he's all right. Don't worry—I'll see you here second days, all right?"
He walked back into exile with his esrog box under one arm, overnight bag over his shoulder, and a tin of hot chicken and challah and cake in his hand, humming Kah Ribon Olam under his breath. Nothing, not even Snape's stony silence, not even the cold drizzle pelting his face, not even the thought of all the work he'd have to make up, none of that could pop the little golden bubble glowing the center of his chest. Not doors and locks, he thought, not the walls of a house—only God could protect him.
Nothing spelled "acceptance" like walking into the Ravenclaw common room at nine o'clock at night, holding palm fronds, willow branches, myrtle leaves, and a citron in a cardboard box, and not even getting a second glance. He unpacked, then came downstairs to stare resignedly at the rolls of parchment Michael had left for him.
"Wingardium Leviosa," Michael said, plunking himself into the seat opposite. He pulled out his wand to demonstrate. "It's wing-gar-di-um, and you do more of a slow swish, like this." Yehuda copied, but his swish was more of a slash. "No, slowly. Then lev-i-o-sa, you do a—a sort of upward flick, from your wrist."
"Wingardium Leviosa," Yehuda muttered under his breath. "Wingardium Leviosa, Wingardium Leviosa…"
"You ought to write it down," Michael pointed out. "Flitwick said it might be important."
There was no way out of this one. "Oh—right." He picked up the quill in his left hand and clumsily, sloppily wrote Wingardium Leviosa and underlined it. The underlining zigzagged awkwardly through the letters. WinGARdium, slow swish, LeviOsa—
"You're writing funny," Michael said.
He nodded noncommittally. "Yeah." Upward flick from wrist. He jabbed an inelegant backhanded period at the end of the sentence and looked up. "Wingardium Leviosa!" The quill twitched and lifted one end off the table.
"Well done," Michael commented. "In class absolutely no one managed it on the first try."
Yehuda eyed him dubiously. "Not even that Gryffindor girl?"
"Gryffindor isn't up to levitation yet." Michael shifted the stack of parchment. "We're ahead. And have you seen Transfiguration? We're starting on live animals this week, so there were rolls and rolls of notes. Teacups into rats, starting tomorrow morning."
Yehuda groaned. "What about flying lessons, did we do anything there?"
"Oh!" Michael grew animated. "You were here Friday morning, weren't you? Did you see Potter's new broom? A Nimbus Two Thousand, lucky git. They've made him Seeker for the Gryffindor Quidditch team."
"Potter…Harry Potter?" Confused by the foreign terminology, he latched onto the one fact he knew for certain. "But first-years aren't allowed to have broomsticks. The letter said."
"Well, yeah, but you know, Harry Potter and all…" Michael rolled his eyes, clearly expecting Yehuda to do the same.
"He's that skinny Gryffindor boy with the messy hair, isn't he?" Yehuda asked. "What's so special about him?"
"Merlin, you really don't know anything. Well, you know we learn Defense Against the Dark Arts? There was a wizard who went Dark, 'round twenty years ago, tried to take over the wizarding world. It was dangerous times, then—he killed anyone who tried to stop him. People say he was mad, but he was really powerful, and really evil."
"What was his name?" Yehuda asked.
Michael looked uneasy. "We don't like to say it, much. Most wizards just call him You-Know-Who. They say Dumbledore's the only one who could properly fight him. Then ten years ago he went after Harry Potter's parents and killed them, then he tried to kill Harry, but he couldn't. Nobody knows why. That's why he's got that scar—it's from when You-Know-Who tried to kill him." Michael traced a lightning bolt on his forehead.
This had definitely not been in McGonagall's introduction, and Yehuda was quite sure he knew why. Had his parents known about Dark magic and evil murdering wizards, there was no way, no matter what Rabbi Zeller or Professor McGonagall said, that they would have put him on the train to Hogwarts. "Is You-Know-Who—dead, then?"
Michael bit his lip. "Probably."
"Probably?"
"Well, nobody's seen him in ten years…"
"Lights out, boys." Robert Hilliard's hand landed on his shoulder. "It's curfew for first-years."
Yehuda gathered his things together and followed Michael back to the dormitory. "Why wouldn't he be dead, then?"
Michael shrugged. "He was powerful. And nobody ever got in his way before Harry Potter, nobody knows exactly what happened except that Harry Potter didn't die when everyone else did, and You-Know-Who was gone. But if anyone could not be dead, it would be You-Know-Who."
Yehuda shivered as they entered the dormitory, then stopped, trying not to stare. Kevin and Stephen were in pyjamas, but Terry knelt beside his bed and drew a big cross from his forehead to his shoulders. He clasped his hands together and bowed his head, whispering under his breath. Yehuda looked away, then stared at him, then looked away again. Then Michael blew out his candle and drew the curtains around his bed, cutting off his view of Terry.
He shook his head, clearing it, and pulled the nightstand to the edge of his bed. He stared at the parchments for a moment before tucking his peyos behind his ears and getting to work. Herbicide Potion, Michael had written. See Magical Drafts & Potions, pg 44. Kills/damages plants. People should not eat it because it tastes awful and also might affect your health. The quill was awkward in his left hand, and the list of ingredients sloped haphazardly down the margin of the page.
It was very late by the time he finished copying over the notes, and his eyes burned a little from staring at candlelight while the rest of the room was dark. He got into his pyjamas and into bed, but pulled out Rabbi Zeller's letter one last time. If he really wanted to put together a sukkah tomorrow, he would have to think fast.
Dear Yehuda,
Do bear in mind that you aren't yet bar mitzvah.
1. Shulchan Aruch siman 632, seif 1. All right, he would have to find a skylight that was less than six feet away from three walls, with a space of seven by seven tefachim to put s'chach on top of. Shulchan Aruch siman 630, seif 13, the rabbi had written. See also Mishna Berurah 59; Shaar Hatzion 60. He would have a hard time finding a beam to support the s'chach, but Gavriel had said that was only lechatchila. He yawned and rubbed his eyes.
He got up to put away the letter, and looked long and hard at Terry's sleeping form before he said kerias Shema, with rather more concentration than he might have otherwise.
Glossary
Negiah. Laws of touch between genders.
Shacharis. Morning prayers.
Yarmulke. Skullcap.
Chol Hamoed. Intermediate holiday.
Kiddush Hashem, literally "making holy the name [of God]." Cause for admiration of God and the Jewish people.
Yud-dalet Tishrei. The fourteenth day of the Hebrew month Tishrei. (Sukkos eve.)
Bs"D, abbreviation for B'siyata Dishmaya. With the help of Heaven.
Sukkah. Outdoor plant-roofed hut built for the eponymous holiday of Sukkos (see below).
Minyan. Prayer group of ten adult Jewish men.
Chabad house. Jewish outpost of Lubavitch Hassidic affiliation.
Mincha. Afternoon prayers.
Tefila. Prayer.
Machzor. Holiday prayer book.
Chazer. Review.
Tanu rabanan, aizehu kara'ui v'aizehu shelo kara'ui? Deles sheyechola la'amod...Our rabbis taught, what is considered [secured] properly? A door that can stand...
B'ruach metzuya, zehu kara'ui. She'eina yechola la'amod b'ruach metzuya, zehu shelo kara'ui. ...in an ordinary wind, this is considered [secured] properly. One that cannot stand in an ordinary wind, this is not considered [secured] properly.
Sukkos. Festival of Tabernacles. (If you know what a tabernacle is, you're reading way too much Artscroll.)
Guten Erev Yom Tov. Happy holiday eve.
Yid. Jew.
Mashgiach. Supervisor of commercial kosher food production.
Shalom aleichem, literally "peace to you." Hello.
Shabbos. The Sabbath.
Challos. Braided holiday bread.
Yom Tov. Holiday.
Tatty. Daddy.
Shomer aveida. Guardian of a [lost] object.
Bishul akum. Food cooked by a non-Jew.
Lulav. Date palm frond.
Bar mitzvah, literally "son of the commandment." Age thirteen, at which Jewish boys become adults responsible to keep the laws.
Hoshia, es, amecha, literally "save your people" (Psalm 28:9). A ten-word verse used to number the members of a minyan in order to avoid counting Jews directly (see Yoma 22b).
Chassid. Hasid.
Kaddish. A prayer of praise to God.
Amen, yehei shemei rabba mevorach. Amen, may his great name be blessed.
Hagafen, literally "the vine." Blessing on grape derivatives.
V'az bracha meyuchedet lehodot laKel al shenatan lanu chag haSukkot. And then a special blessing to thank God for giving us the holiday of Sukkos. (Modern Hebrew.)
Shehechiyanu, literally "who has kept us alive." Blessing on novel experiences.
Baruch atah Hashem Elokeinu, melech haolam, borei pri hagafen. Blessed are you, the Lord our God, ruler of the world, who creates the fruit of the vine.
Vatitein lanu Hashem Elokeinu b'ahava moadim l'simcha, chagim u'zmanim l'sasson, es yom chag haSukkos hazeh, zman simchaseinu, mikra kodesh…mekadesh Yisrael v'hazmanim. And you gave us, the Lord our God, with love, occasions for happiness and holidays and times for joy, this day of the Sukkos holiday, a time of our joy, a holy assembly…Who sanctifies Yisrael and the seasons.
Baruch atah Hashem Elokeinu, melech haolam, asher kideshanu b'mitzvosav v'tzivanu leishev basukkah. Blessed are you, the Lord our God, king of the world, who has sanctified us with his commandments and commanded us to sit in the sukkah.
S'chach. Plant life used as the sukkah roof.
D'var Torah. Torah thought or interpretation.
Korim l'zeh galut? You call this exile?
Shkoyach. Short for yasher koach. Good job.
Chassidish. Hasidic.
Kah Ribon Olam…ravrevin ovdeich v'sakifin. Creator and master of this world…great are your works and mighty. Holiday song.
Bentching. Recitation of grace after meals.
Daven. Pray.
Mishnayos. The Mishna.
Shulchan Aruch, Mishna Berurah, Shaar Hatzion. Various halachic reference books.
Kerias Shema. Bedtime prayers.
Leining. Communal Torah reading.
Hamavdil bein kodesh l'chol. Who differentiates between holy and secular. Holiday conclusion blessing.
Kosher v'yosher, literally "proper and straight." Idiomatically, legitimate.
Second days. The last two days of Sukkos, separated from the first two by five days of intermediate holiday.
Esrog. Citron.
Challah. Singular form of challos.
Palm fronds, willow branches, myrtle leaves, and a citron in a cardboard box. See Leviticus 23:40.
In his left hand. During intermediate holiday, work restrictions are lessened but not lifted entirely.
Peyos. Sidelocks.
Tefachim. Halachic units of measurement roughly equivalent to handbreadths.
Lechatchila. Preferred in the first place but not required, similar to ab initio.
So, worth the wait?