Hello, my lovelies.

My visitor traffic was spectacular! :o Thank to y'all who read the past two chapters. Cookies and chocolates to you all! Now, this time… some more reviews please? If you story alert me, thank you very very much, but if you review you get extra hugs :D

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-The Paper Door-

Peter righted himself and circled the place that the splash had come from. He'd thought it was Curly at first, but the red-haired boy wasn't even in the water. As the rapidly curling billows of steam righted to their usual lazy swirls, Nibs leaned forwards on the edge of the drop-off, squinting into the water.

"Peter? What was the splash?" the smaller boy asked.

"I don't know. It was in there," he replied, pointing.

The spring was set on two levels; the shallower edge only just came up to his chest, and it reached Nibs' chin. The deeper one was a vertical drop that went straight down to three times Peter's height (he'd measured it himself).

"Lost Boys!" he shouted, flying high up, where he settled on a narrow fruit tree branch dangling precariously over the pool. It groaned and bent under his weight. "Who jumped?"

The twins looked at each other.

"Jumped?" they asked in unison. "Wasn't that you? Curly?"

"Nope," Curly called from the Blue Boulder, still holding the squashy ball. "I'm all the way over here. Slightly?"

"Not me."

Tootles shook his head under their questioning gaze.

"Hmm," Peter said, flying around in a slow circle. Now even Tinkerbell had looked over to see what the commotion was about.

"If it wasn't you, then who was it?"

"Who was it?"

"Peter?"

Peter hovered above the pool, then slipped in surprise. His toes skimmed the bubbling water, where a brown door was slowly sinking beneath the surface. Not even hesitating, he smoothly dove in, kicking as hard as he could. He was doing fine until he was an arm's breadth away from the handle. Then the door opened. Peter had never felt anything like it. It was as though he was being squeezed through a narrow rubber tube with a riverful of hot water. His lungs were full of it. All he could see was a strange red glow. It got brighter, then faded, flashed white, bubbled. He landed with a splashy thump on his back, arm still outstretched, in a cold room with lots of tables and pictures on the walls. For a few seconds he lay there, eyes wide. Then he took a rasping breath, and coughed up what felt like an ocean.

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Despite the very real and unpleasant feeling of freezing cold, damp material, I thought that I was dreaming. A boy, sparsely dressed in a pair of light brown shorts, had erupted from the door on the paper in a fountain of steaming water- now it was cold, and December had greedily infiltrated the previously warm fleece of my school jumper. An inch of water covered the entire classroom floor, and my shoes squelched as I ducked down. The boy was coughing up an unhealthy amount of water and his bare skin was already prickling with goose bumps. As I took a step closer, he rolled onto his stomach and from beneath a thick mop of hair, spoke.

"Who are you?" He shook his head wildly. Water flew in all directions and his hair became pinned to the sides of his head, revealing a pair of bright blue eyes.

"Oh my," I marvelled.

"Oh my?" A cheeky smile appeared. "What an odd name. My name is Peter Pan." As easily as breathing, he hovered from the floor until he was level with my face, where he studied it, almost hungrily. "Wait, girl!" He exclaimed loudly, whizzing backwards and forwards again, excitement lighting his eyes. "I think I've seen you before seen you before."

I decided that this was most definitely a dream. I must have fallen asleep at my desk.

"You have?"

The boy nodded energetically, before stopping, and frowning.

"I can't remember…" Peter narrowed his eyes. "But I remember your hair. Fair hair, like mine." He straightened a curl that had escaped from my braid and let it spring back. Then his eyes slid past me to a wooden puzzle lying half-finished on a nearby display table.

"Peter, you can't remember what?"

He slotted one piece of wood into another, then turned it over and repeated the action, entranced.

"I can't remember Wendy… or Jane…" Drifting back into the air, Peter did an experimental loop-the-loop. This was not a good idea in a classroom full of desks; his legs hit one close by and he nearly went through the window.

"Oh my," he said, glancing despairingly at the walls as though they might be closing in, "there's no space to play in here!"

"Of course not," I responded, though personally I found the classroom too big for my liking. An inadvertent smile crept onto my lips. "It's school. We don't play here, we learn. Everyone does."

Peter frowned.

"I've never done that."

"Then how do you read and write?" I enquired.

"I… I just know how to," he said after a pause.

At first I thought he might be joking, but when he didn't smile I just shook my head. He surprised me by coming forward and taking my hand. "Are you sure that we haven't met?" His certainty was making me wonder, but what I was sure of was that if my face wasn't red from cold, it had flushed from his intense gaze. His hand felt curiously real for the confidence I had in the whole scene being in my imagination.

"If you could remember you'd know who I am," I whispered. I lifted my chin. "My mother is…"

The words didn't come out. My eyes stung before I remembered why, then the immense happiness I was feeling was extinguished like a candle flame under a waterfall. My numb fingers gripped his of their own accord. Peter looked down at our entwined hands and then up again. If I was dreaming, it wouldn't matter what I said, silly as it was.

"Take me to Neverland."

Silence hung in the air. Peter stared for what felt like an eternity, until I was doubtful that the words had even come from my mouth. I was half-expecting to wake up when his face split into a handsome smile. Leaning close, he retrieved my hand. Warmth spread up my arm from the contact. I expected that he'd pull me to the window, and that I'd numbly feel the snow and wind, before waking up with a jolt, but no; the blonde-haired boy was already kneeling on the floor.

"I came through this door," he said, leaning towards the drawing, "so we should be able to go back through it." His voice was so sure, so positive. It was the first voice I'd heard today that calmed my inner turmoil. The pencil of the drawing had smudged under the torrent of water and was floating on the surface of the pool that was the classroom floor. Mother stood stiffly next to it, smiling mechanically out at me with a ruined face. I quickly looked away. "Oh my…" Peter tugged my arm and pulled me down so my face as an inch from the drawing, compelling my eyes downwards again. The hand holding my own tightened- or maybe it was the other way around. I couldn't tell. My concentration was sapped as, slowly, the door opened, revealing the blue shimmer that had been there before.

Peter breathed in sharply, but before I could wonder why, I was engulfed in hot liquid. Water crushed me on all sides. I was clinging to something warm. My head began to spin; the air in my lungs was running out. I clamped my lips together and squeezed my eyes shut. Spinning, turning, then a loud smack, like the slamming of a door- my brain screamed for oxygen- bubbles gushed from my mouth… and everything turned black.

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Another cliffie! :o I'm evil, I know :D
This is a pretty short chapter, but I'm fond of it nevertheless… I don't think Amelia or Peter really believe they've met yet… ahem. Review please! Love you all, my wonderful readers xoxoxoxo

~chellybaby ^_^