Congenital Magnetism

August ended in a wave of sweltering heat. Thankful for the air conditioning at the Dursleys’, Harry lay sprawled out across his bed late in the evening on the last day of August. He was reading the letters Ron and Hermione had just sent him, and the contents were even less encouraging than the first letters they had sent him a month ago. During August, Ron and Hermione had both been in contact with a number of Gryffindor students who would also be starting sixth year, and even a few Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff students. From what they said in their letters, Harry might need to prepare for a frosty reception at Hogwarts. Word of Harry’s less-than-discreet sexual adventure with Kyle Urquhart may as well have been published in the Daily Prophet, and a chill ran down Harry’s spine as he realized that an article in the Daily Prophet was not too far-fetched of a notion.

According to the rumor mill, the Slytherin students were sticking by Urquhart, particularly the players on the Slytherin Quidditch team, which Urquhart would captain this year. Most of the sixth-year boys in Slytherin thought the whole affair comic. Harry could understand how easy it was for them to take that attitude. After all, Urquhart was still dating his long-term Ravenclaw girlfriend, who breezily dismissed the entire affair as irrelevant—this in contrast to Harry, whose experience with the opposite sex was close to nothing. And of course, there was the small matter of Harry playing bottom for Urquhart—with utter abandon. Maybe Harry would even be ignored by some of the students in his own house. He remembered, with a bit of envy, that Slytherins were notoriously loyal to each other. Ron and Hemione assured Harry again, in their most recent letters, that he could still count on their friendship; other than that, they told him, he could expect a lot of students to keep their distance from him. The next morning, Harry would have to board the Hogwarts Express and face the music.

 

* * *

 

Early in the morning, Aunt Petunia was standing at the bottom of the stairs. She glanced at her watch as she drummed her fingers on the banister. Her haughty voice wafted up toward Harry’s bedroom, serving as his alarm clock.

“It’s time that we were off to King’s Cross Station.”

Uncle Vernon had already left, and Dudley would not return from his vacation in Italy until the evening. Once Harry had dragged his suitcase and trunk downstairs, he caught sight of the very altered Aunt Petunia that had greeted him when he had returned from Hogwarts in June. Petunia was displaying her new look, the stunning elegance that made heads turn everywhere she went. She was wearing a ruffly Oscar de la Renta blouse made of some translucent fabric that showed off her toned curves; under that was a wrap-around chiffon skirt of the type that professional dancers often use. At 38, Petunia had become the very incarnation of grace and allure.

Harry tried to ignore the fact of Petunia’s transformation and asked, “Isn’t it a bit early still?”

“My schedule today is quite full, and I’d like to drop you off at the train station early. I’m sure you’ll be able to occupy yourself while you’re waiting for your train to leave.” Her tone brooked no argument, so Harry’s things were presently arranged in the boot of the car.

Before Harry got into the car, Aunt Petunia pulled a torn piece of paper out of her purse and handed it to Harry. “I’ve kept this bit of nonsense ever since your mother died. It was among her effects, and your strange friends…” She paused and shuddered. “Those people placed it in my mailbox in an envelope when they left you on our doorstep.”

Harry looked at the piece of paper and his jaw dropped when he saw the name at the top.

“I believe it was written by a man who was well-known to your parents,” Petunia continued, “by the name of Sirius Black.”

Harry’s voice choked with emotion. “My godfather.”

“Your godfather? Indeed,” Petunia noted, curiosity creeping into her tone. “In any case, I’ve read it and it’s utter nonsense. By all appearances, it seems to be an excerpt from some kind of research. But this person, this Sirius Black, mentions my mother of all people in the strangest context. Yes, that’s right, Harry. Your maternal grandmother. He claims that my mother was of a different race. Have you ever heard a notion as queer as that? Did he think that my mother was from China? I couldn’t make heads or tails of the rest of it, but you may keep it. If you can make any sense out of it, you deserve an award. The date at the top of the page is from 1977, so I suppose it was written when my sister was attending that school… that weirdo school you attend. Well, into the car, Harry. You can read that on the way to the station.”

Aunt Petunia, now in the driver’s seat, was scrutinizing Harry as he climbed into the passenger seat. “You’re still doing that strange new thing of yours… whatever it is that your face and body do. I suppose the change is permanent.” Petunia continued to examine Harry, now that he was sitting in the car. Her expression revealed how disturbing she found Harry’s recent physical appearance.

Harry’s impatience was beginning to show. “I still don’t know what you’re talking about. Are you sure it’s not the new clothes you made me buy? Or maybe the contact lenses?”

“No. It has nothing to do with any of that. I saw you when we got back from shopping in London, and you still looked normal. Well, as close to normal as you ever did manage to look. The unearthly change happened a couple days later, after your birthday. It’s as though your skin glows, and your body emanates tiny sparkly pieces of glitter.” A panic-stricken look crossed her face. “Harry, I don’t think you are aware of the havoc you may now be able to cause.”

Petunia straightened her back and set her jaw in a show of fortitude, as one who was witnessing the civilization she had always known begin to collapse. She gave Harry another searching look. Aunt Petunia’s eyes widened and her hand moved up to her face.

“God help us all,” she said.

During the drive to King’s Cross Station, Harry retrieved Sirius’s torn manuscript page from his pocket with a pang of sadness. It had been less than three months since Bellatrix had murdered Sirius at the Department of Mysteries. Harry was ecstatic to have some new link to Sirius, a manuscript page in Sirius’s own hand. He settled back, shutting out every other thought, and read Sirius’s notes on the unusual subject matter.

 

Lily’s biracial bloodline is attributable to her mother, Mrs. Evans, who was of a different racial inheritance than the rest of us. The fact that Lily was partially of another race explains the magnetism she possesses with regards to so many of the male students at Hogwarts—and even some of the professors—something which began to manifest itself after Lily’s sixteenth birthday.

As a valid scientific question, I have often considered what effects a male of Mrs. Evans’s race would have on others. I have been able to uncover what little information exists concerning Mrs. Evans and her family, and it seems that her father, Lily’s grandfather, exerted a powerful influence on women, and even some men. This brings me to another valid matter of inquiry. What if a male of Mrs. Evans’s race were himself attracted more to his own sex than the opposite sex. How would this alter the dynamics of his powers? There are so many possible scenarios. Would he still attract mainly women, or would he exert his magnetism over a larger proportion of men and a smaller proportion of women? Or is it possible that he would hold powers of attraction over the vast majority of men, and women not at all? I could find no historical data concerning such a circumstance, but it would be fascinating to document such a case.

 

After Petunia dropped him off at the station, Harry soon found himself walking in the direction of Platform 9¾. Harry’s attention was arrested by a Muggle woman who was looking at Harry in shock. Harry hurried past her, and further on he approached a group of three Muggle men that he guessed were electrical technicians. They were repairing some power cables. Then they saw Harry, and all three were grinning as though Christmas had arrived early with a mountain of presents under the Christmas tree.

“Oi, lad!” said one, approaching Harry with a winning smile. “Did you ever think of starting an apprenticeship as an electrician?”

Harry was able to evade the group of Muggle men by dragging his suitcase and trunk around a familiar corner, which brought him to the place where Platform 9¾ appeared, offering him an easy escape. He was wondering what these Muggles were on about as he boarded the train, but his thoughts turned to the possibility of encountering hostile remarks from any number of other students on the Hogwarts Express. From Ron’s and Hermione’s letters, Harry gathered that the news of his locker-room sex scene with Kyle Urquhart had reached many, if not most, Hogwarts students. Those who didn’t know would most likely find out after meeting with the other students on the train.

Harry guessed that he was the first one on board, having arrived so much earlier than necessary. Just as well. Harry wasn’t keen on having any insulting remarks from his fellow students hurled his way and sought out the compartment he had often used in years past, hoping to be left alone. There was at least one fortunate circumstance Harry could think of: Kyle Urquhart never took the Hogwarts Express from London since his family lived in Scotland, much closer to Hogwarts itself. At least there wouldn’t be any embarrassing chance meeting with Urquhart on the train.

Harry was already resigned to a lonely, unsociable school year. He might be treated coolly by some, and shunned by others. He was so much looking forward to playing Quidditch again. He could only hope that the other players on the Gryffindor team would tolerate him. He thought it only fair. After all, everyone deserves a sporting chance. Harry’s ruminations were cut short by the sound of the compartment door opening.

“Harry!” Ron had appeared in the doorway and his smile was radiant. He was sitting by Harry’s side in an instant, having tossed his own suitcase and trunk in a corner of the train compartment. Ron then proceeded to give Harry a good, sound kiss on the lips.

On the lips? Harry tried to make sense of the situation as his thoughts tripped over each other. On the lips?! In what alternate universe does Ron Weasley kiss a boy, even his best mate, on the lips?

Harry wiggled back enough to end their kiss, trying to remain polite. “Ron,” Harry managed, “your last letter… You told me a lot of the students might ignore me, you know, because of that thing with Urquhart.”

It took Ron a moment to clear his thoughts. “Oh, right.” He was smiling again. “Forget about those stupid letters I wrote. Who cares what anybody thinks?” Harry was still sitting and Ron was straddling him now, one knee on either side of Harry’s legs. “Forget Urquhart. Don’t spare him another thought.” Ron’s hands were reaching underneath Harry. “You have your best mate, Harry,” Ron said, nuzzling Harry’s neck. “Whatever you fancy doing”—Ron started to squeeze Harry’s bum—“it’ll be more fun with your best mate.”

With Harry facing toward the door and Ron facing away from the door, Hermione’s eyes first met Harry’s as she walked into the compartment, seeing him with some redhead boy holding him down.

“Harry! What in Merlin’s name are you up to now? Don’t you think it’s bad enough to have all these stories going around about you and Urquhart without you—”

Hermione stopped short as the redhead boy turned around to face her. “Ron! What on God’s earth are you doing? Have you lost your mind entirely?”

Ron didn’t miss a beat. “Hermione, this is Harry, my best mate. You don’t think I’d abandon him to the likes of Kyle Urquhart, do you?”

Hermione was about to offer a retort when her reply was cut short by someone shouting in a distinctive Irish brogue.

“Weasley, you ignoramus! First, you were chasing after that part-Veela girl from France, then Padma Patil, then Hermione, and now you expect Harry to believe that you could care for him? Let go of him!” Seamus Finnigan launched himself at Ron and pulled him off Harry, causing both Seamus and Ron to topple backwards onto the floor.

Meanwhile, in a compartment a short distance down the corridor, Draco Malfoy and Greg Goyle were engaged in a conversation concerning English literature.

“You remember first year, of course,” Draco was saying. “I stayed up quite late at night throughout that year helping you to get passing marks in your classes. You know, I’m delighted that your parents have pushed you into acquiring some appreciation for the English language. I was surprised that they didn’t mind your interest in Muggle literature. My parents have always encouraged me to read classic English literature, whether it was Muggle or not.”

“My parents couldn’t have pushed me into it,” was Greg’s reply. “They introduced me to some of the most beautiful verse ever written, and I fell in love with it. I’ve already committed a lot of it to memory. And no, my parents have nothing against reading Muggle literature.” Greg looked down at a large volume he was holding, an anthology of some of the most celebrated English poetry from various eras.

“Well, however it happened, it’s a blessing. At least now you’re able to write a half-decent school report with no assistance from me”—Draco smirked—“leaving me free for other pursuits.”

Greg opened the volume and turned to a bookmarked page. “Listen to this stanza.”

 

O my luve’s like a red, red rose. That’s newly sprung in June; O my luve’s like a melodie That’s sweetly play’d in…

 

This last was interrupted by a huge crash in the corridor outside the Slytherin compartment. Two boys were involved in some violent altercation, and the two of them alternately banged against the compartment door, threatening to break it down. Draco threw open the door to reveal the surprising sight of Ron Weasley and Seamus Finnigan engaged in mortal combat.

“You just want to shag Harry senseless,” Ron was shouting, “and once you’ve had your way, you’ll drop him. I’m his best mate.”

Seamus was dodging Ron’s punches and throwing a few of his own. “I’d never drop Harry,” he shouted back, “and you’re just a possessive moron who can’t understand that Harry could love someone else.”

At this point, Seamus had gained some advantage and had his hands around Ron’s throat, which was when Draco intervened. Draco had his wand out, pointed at Seamus.

“Finnigan, let go of Weasley and shove off. I’m a prefect, and I’m not afraid to use my authority.”

Draco’s threat gave Seamus pause, and it was all the opportunity Ron needed to extricate himself from Seamus’s grip and then dash down the corridor toward the Gryffindor compartment, passing a distraught Hermione along the way.

Seamus bolted up onto his feet. “He’s after Harry again, he is!”

Hermione, seeing Seamus approaching at a gallop, uttered a plaintive cry. “In the name of everything sacred, will the two of you please, please stop?!”

Draco and Greg were now running down the corridor themselves, determined to find the source of the disruption. When Draco and Greg entered the Gryffindor compartment, Hermione was already inside pointing her wand at Ron, who was madly kissing Harry and trying to work his hands around Harry’s bum while Harry was busy trying to push Ron off.

“Seamus, stay back,” Hermione ordered, waving her wand at Seamus.

“Harry, baby,” Ron was crooning. “It’ll be so much better with me, I promise.” Ron began to dry hump Harry, all the while showering him with soft kisses. With some effort, Harry managed to break free momentarily.

“Ron, stop!” Hermione said it with such force that Ron turned around, but only for a moment, before returning to his previous pursuit.

“Pastafarius!”

No sooner was the spell out of Hermione’s mouth than innumerable lengths of cooked spaghetti enveloped Ron, binding his hands and legs. Hermione’s spell produced spaghetti that had been cooked al dente, so the center was still very firm, and as a result, stronger. The pasta even wrapped itself around Ron’s mouth, making speech impossible.

Now Hermione turned her wand on the Irish boy. “All right, Seamus. I want you to take the compartment two doors down and stay there. No nonsense out of you, is it clear?”

Seamus, who was without his wand, could see that resistance would be foolish at this point, and he had a pasta-wrapped Ron Weasley as an example. Seamus cast one last lustful look at Harry, and then exited the compartment.

“I think you can lower your wand, Granger.”

Hermione turned around, aware of Draco’s and Greg’s presence. She was also aware that Draco had his own wand out. Hermione, calming down, lowered her wand.

“I had no choice but to investigate the disruption,” Draco said. “As you saw from the corridor, Weasley and Finnigan practically broke down the door to our compartment as they were fighting. Er, Granger, not to split hairs”—Draco’s tone was smooth and playful—“but I thought Weasley was straight.”

Hermione was not amused. “Shut it, Malfoy.”

Draco looked over at Harry. “Well, Potter, it seems you’ve become rather more popular this year.”

Harry, who was gingerly tidying himself up after having been thoroughly snogged by Ron, looked at Draco, and then—Harry couldn’t fathom why—he found it impossible not to stare at Draco.

“Malfoy,” he whispered.

Harry looked around and realized that Hermione was frozen in place, and then looked out the window of the compartment and realized that all the people on the train platform were also frozen in their tracks, like mannequins in a storefront window. Time had stopped, and not a single person or thing Harry saw was any more capable of motion than a statue—except for Draco, who gazed back at Harry with a questioning look on his face. Draco opened his mouth, as if to say something, then closed it again, his face clouded with uncertainty.

Harry heard the sound of a train passing, which he knew was absurd because the Hogwarts Express was still in King’s Cross Station and hadn’t even started its engine yet. Harry felt lightheaded; if he hadn’t been holding onto one of the seats, he might have passed out. Then his heart started beating faster and faster until it was pounding against his chest. Some connection was formed between Harry and Draco in that instant, and the connection was palpable—it felt like the silk threads of a spider web. Harry moved his body, just to see, and as he did, what felt like delicate threads around his body were being tugged from Draco’s direction. Draco felt it too—though he tried to shrug it off—the increased speed of his heartbeat, and the threads, barely visible but indestructible, that now bound Harry and him together for some unfathomable purpose.

All at once, time resumed its normal passage and the world unfroze. Hermione moved closer to where Draco was standing, near the door, and voiced her suspicions.

“Listen, Malfoy. For all we know, this could be the result of some spell. I’ll start to research the possible spells someone might have cast on Ron and Seamus when we arrive at Hogwarts,” Hermione said in her most academic tone. “How do we know it wasn’t someone in Slytherin who cast spells on Ron and Seamus, just to disrupt Gryffindor house this year?”

“Fine, Granger. We’ll get to the bottom of it, but don’t be surprised if the spell is self-inflicted. Maybe Weasley and Finnigan were working on one of their stupid Gryffindor practical jokes, and it boomeranged.”

Little did Hermione know that her suspicions about a Slytherin plot were being disproved at that very moment. While Draco and Hermione were still engaged in trading verbal jabs, Greg Goyle was in front of Harry, cornering him at the back of the compartment. Greg reached one hand around the back of Harry’s neck and wrapped the other hand around Harry’s fingers. Harry watched in disbelief as Greg kissed Harry’s fingers with such tenderness that Harry was entertaining the notion that this was some imposter who had drunk Polyjuice Potion.

“Goyle?” Harry said, not knowing what to think.

Greg’s hands—half again as big as Harry’s—now pinned Harry in one corner of the compartment, and Greg’s powerful build—narrow hips and the broad, muscular shoulders of a weightlifter—barred any possibility of escape. Greg intertwined his fingers with Harry’s, then moved his free hand to the small of Harry’s back and pulled Harry in until their groins were glued to each other. Greg’s expression was ethereal as he said, “Harry,” and the hand that was holding Harry’s lower back tugged Harry’s shirt out of his pants. Greg’s hand traveled underneath the clothes and against Harry’s bare bum, and then Greg squeezed Harry’s bum—hard. With a quick movement, Harry was at least able to steer clear of Greg’s wandering hand. Greg smiled and shrugged, then began to recite.

 

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate.

 

By this time, Greg had wrapped Harry in his arms and pocketed Harry’s wand as well. Draco and Hermione turned around to witness this new spectacle.

 

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer’s lease hath all too short a date.

 

“Greg?” Draco began, but Greg had his wand out, pulling Harry next to the door with him. Greg and Harry already had their backs against the door.

“Harry wants to hear the rest of it, don’t you, love?” Greg nuzzled Harry’s ear. “Come down the corridor with me. I’ll read the rest of it to you.” Greg had now scooped Harry up in his arms, Harry’s wand in his back pocket.

“You know, Goyle”—Harry tried his utmost to sound reasonable, all the while struggling to get out of Greg’s arms and back on the floor—“I could always just get a copy of the poem from the library.”

But Greg was already out the door with Harry in tow. Other students had now come into the corridor, drawn by the commotion. Pansy Parkinson had emerged from one of the Slytherin compartments, and Terry Boot had likewise come out from a compartment he shared with his fellow Ravenclaw students. Draco and Hermione had both come out into the corridor looking for Greg and Harry.

When Pansy saw Greg Goyle carrying the still-struggling Harry down the corridor in his arms, she accosted Hermione. “What is he doing with Potter?” she demanded. “And why does Potter look like that—you know, those little sparkling pieces of glitter that are bouncing off his body. It’s weird.”

“Look, I don’t know what’s come over Goyle, but Ron and Seamus have been behaving in the same way. I…” Hermione threw up her hands, “… all right, I just don’t know why it’s happening.”

Pansy had a shrewd look on her face. She looked at Terry and then back at Hermione.

“Then what about Potter?” Pansy asked. “That glitter stuff that continually shoots off of his body. It’s like little clouds of confetti. The tiny pieces of confetti have colored lights inside them, and they don’t just fall to the ground. They fly about in the air for a bit. Don’t tell me you don’t see it.”

Hermione fidgeted and stalled. Finally, she gave in. She had no choice but to acknowledge the strange glow and the mass of sparkling airborne pieces of glitter she saw whenever she looked at Harry.

“Yes, I see them,” Hermione said, “but I thought it was just my imagination. I didn’t think anyone else noticed it, but if you see them, then I guess it’s not just me.”

Now a Ravenclaw girl who was in the corridor chimed in. “I saw it too. These tiny little flecks of glitter were shooting off Potter’s body. They’re small, but they’re really colorful, so you can definitely see them.”

“That’s the very same thing I saw!” added another girl.

The only other boys who had seen Greg and Harry were Terry and Draco.

“You saw the glitter around Potter too, didn’t you, Boot?” Pansy asked.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Terry answered. “Sparkles of light? Little pieces of glitter? I think you girls are having hallucinations.”

Pansy was dumbfounded. She had never thought of herself as the type who would have hallucinations. “Draco. You saw it, didn’t you?”

“No, Pansy dearest. No sparkles of light, no pieces of glitter. I’m afraid you girls must have taken your crazy pill this morning.”

“Terry,” Hermione asked, “you mean you don’t notice anything different about Harry’s appearance?”

“Well, yeah.” Terry’s grin turned wicked. “Harry’s bloody gorgeous. I don’t know why I didn’t notice before, but I sure notice now. So where is Goyle going with Harry?”

Hermione shook her head, unable to make sense of the situation. “He wants to read Harry some Shakespeare sonnet. Malfoy tells me that Goyle has become very well versed in poetry over summer vac.”

“Goyle?” Terry spat the name. “He can’t recite poetry! If Harry wants to hear poetry…” But Terry had already taken off down the corridor.

“Tell me, Granger”—Draco smirked in his trademark fashion—“do you still think this is all a Slytherin plot? I mean, now that poor Greg seems to have fallen victim?”

Hermione sighed. “All right, Malfoy, point taken.” Now Hermione studied Draco’s reaction as she asked her next question. “And you don’t see the same startling change in Harry’s appearance that Ron, Seamus and Goyle all do?”

“No, I’m sure I don’t,” Draco replied. “Of course Potter’s begun to dress much better. Perhaps his Muggle relations finally insisted that he buy some proper clothes. And he’s gotten rid of those ridiculous spectacles. Other than that, Potter looks quite the same.”

Hermione added Draco’s answer to a puzzling assortment of information. “Curious,” she said.

“So, Granger”—Draco extended his hand toward the other end of the corridor in a gallant gesture, a smile plastered across his mouth—“are you in the mood for a poetry reading?”

Draco and Hermione made their way down the corridor. By this time, most of the students had heeded the usual instructions to return to their compartments since the Hogwarts Express was pulling out of King’s Cross Station and picking up speed. As Hermione and Draco approached the compartment that Draco and Greg had been in before, they heard Greg’s low voice give life to Shakespeare’s verse. They joined Terry Boot, who was already watching Harry and Greg from just outside the door. Listening to Greg, it occurred to Hermione that the gravel texture of his voice was well suited to poetry.

 

But thy eternal summer shall not fade Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow&##8217st; Nor shall Death brag thou wander’st in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st: So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

 

Greg, however, had a few notions other than poetry and was pulling Harry to his feet and wrapping his arm around Harry’s shoulder.

“Come on then, Harry. There’s an empty compartment down the corridor.”

But Harry was determined to get his wand back. “Goyle—”

Greg had a hurt look in his eyes, and he lifted Harry’s hand and started kissing his fingers.

“You don’t need to call me Goyle.”

Exasperated, Harry gave in and called Greg by his given name. “All right. Greg, I should be getting back to my compartment, and I really need my wand back.” Harry was reaching around toward Greg’s back pocket to retrieve his wand, but Greg was avoiding Harry’s maneuver and reaching his arms behind Harry’s knees, positioning himself to scoop Harry up off his feet again.

“Greg!” Draco’s voice cut short Greg Goyle’s plans. “You cannot carry Potter about the train like this. Remember, I am a prefect, and I’m sure there are regulations concerning this sort of thing. He needs to go back to his own compartment.”

This was answered by Greg’s cri de coeur: “But Harry needs me!”

Seeing no other alternative, Draco pointed his wand at Greg. “Immobulus!”

Although Draco’s spell now kept Greg immobilized, Hermione wasn’t convinced that this would be sufficient. “Malfoy, we need to keep Goyle out of trouble for the entire train journey.” She pointed her wand at Greg.

“Caramelus!”

This created long strands of hard caramel candy that wrapped themselves around Greg’s arms and legs.

“That should do the trick after the Immobulus spell wears off,” Hermione explained.

Draco kept his gaze on Hermione, and one eyebrow arched up. “Granger, what is it with you and these culinary spells? First spaghetti and now caramel.”

“Well, I was trying to improve my cooking skills over summer vac, and I discovered that a lot of recipes can be combined with spells.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Only you would come up with something like that.”

Terry Boot, who had been watching along with Draco and Hermione, was not idle during all of this. As soon as Hermione’s caramel spell had taken effect, Terry grabbed his opportunity. He retrieved Greg’s volume of poetry from the floor; then he moved on to Greg, who was now conveniently caramelized, and snatched Harry’s wand out of Greg’s back pocket. Securely in possession of both the poetry volume and Harry’s wand, Terry steered Harry over to the next compartment while Draco and Hermione were discussing culinary spells.

“Harry, Goyle doesn’t know how to recite poetry.” Terry had his arm around Harry’s waist while he held the poetry book in the other hand. “This one is just for us, love,” Terry said, and gave Harry a little kiss on the cheek.

“So, Potter,” Draco was saying, “let’s get you back to your own compartment so that you can’t get into any more trouble…” Draco stopped short as he and Hermione looked around the compartment and realized that Harry was missing in action.

“Oh, Merlin! What’s happened to him now?” Hermione said.

Draco remained calm. “He couldn’t have gone far.”

And indeed, the first thing Draco and Hermione heard when they entered the corridor was Terry’s passionate voice coming from the next compartment:

 

Come live with me and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove,

 

Looking into the compartment, it was apparent that Terry Boot was intent on proving a few pleasures of his own design with Harry, who was trapped in a seat at the far end of the compartment. Terry was kneeling in front of him, trying to encircle Harry’s bum with his arm.

 

That valleys, groves, hills and fields, Woods or steepy mountains yields.

 

“Boot”—Draco’s drawling voice oozed authority—“give Potter his wand back. You and I are going to take a stroll down to your compartment where you belong.” Hermione was standing next to Draco looking equally determined.

Terry was now facing two prefects, both with wands drawn; he concluded that, at least under the present circumstances, discretion was the better part of valor. Terry handed Harry his wand, pocketed his own and accompanied Draco back down the corridor, leaving Harry and Hermione alone with each other.

Hermione now turned her full attention on Harry. “Let’s take this from the beginning. What in Merlin’s name is going on?”

“I honestly don’t know,” Harry pleaded.

“Come on, Harry. Think. You must have some notion. What about all that glitter stuff around you—I mean, those colorful little sparkle things your body keeps throwing off. Sometimes, when there’s a whole cloud of them, I have to bat them away with my hand while I’m talking to you. At first, I thought I was the only one who sees them, but Parkinson and a few other girls said they see them too.”

Harry squirmed a little, uncomfortable with the subject since others were verifying what Aunt Petunia had been saying all along. “A couple days after my birthday, my Aunt Petunia started telling me that she saw the glitter stuff and that my skin glowed in some strange way. I thought she was nutters, which wouldn’t be out of character for her.”

Hermione shook her head. “Not unless we’re all nutters—the girls at any rate. And why don’t any of the boys see it?” Then Hermione gave Harry a piercing look. “And why isn’t Malfoy affected like all the other boys are? He’s the only boy who’s not trying to”—Hermione shifted—“you know,” she continued, trying to be prim, “get you into the sack.”

Harry looked away and shrugged.

“I saw you when Malfoy came into our compartment. Remember? When I had to”—she paused—“immobilize Ron. You couldn’t stop looking at Malfoy. What was that all about?”

Harry turned to Hermione with a haunted look. “You promise you won’t think I’m crazy? Or making this up?”

“Tell me, Harry. I know you’re not crazy, and it might help us figure out what’s happening.”

Harry paused, gathering his nerve. “When I saw Draco come into the compartment, I felt my heart start to race, and then pound until it almost hurt. Then I felt these fine threads—like regular thread, but much finer and softer. The threads were hard to see, but I felt them against my skin even though I was wearing clothes, and they were all over my body.” Harry’s eyes misted over. “And then I moved my body in one direction, as a test, and I felt the threads pulling from Draco’s direction. Weird, eh?”

“Maybe not weird, but I can’t make any sense out of it yet.” Hermione gave out a long sigh. “Let’s get back to our own compartment so you can stay out of trouble.” Hermione paused at the door of the compartment. “Harry, why did you call him Draco just now?”

“I did not call him that.” Harry scowled. “I wouldn’t have. I called him Malfoy.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes as she examined Harry. Then they entered the corridor together and returned to their own compartment to find a small mound of spaghetti, most of the strands chewed in half.

“Ron’s escaped!” Hermione rushed over to the chewed up spaghetti and looked around desperately in every direction. “We have to find some way of fortifying the compartment door so that he won’t be able to break it down.”

But Ron was already a step ahead of everyone. From out in the corridor, Harry and Hermione could hear the outraged shouting of Blaise Zabini.

“What do you mean, you need to borrow a broom?” Blaise was yelling. “That broom belongs to one of the Chasers on our team. It’s your own fault if you didn’t have a broom over summer vac. You Gryffindors are so clueless.”

“Come on, Zabini,” Ron was begging, “I’ll only borrow it for a bit, and I’ll return it straight away.”

“What do you need a broom for anyway?” Blaise shouted back. “What kind of maniac are you? Do you think you’re going to be flying alongside the train?”

Hearing Ron’s voice, Harry and Hermione returned to the corridor, and the noisy argument between Ron and Blaise was now drawing other students into the corridor as well, including Draco, who had only just managed to deposit Terry Boot back in the Ravenclaw compartment. When Ron saw Harry, he shouted his name.

“Harry is going to be alone in his compartment for the rest of the journey,” Hermione said, crossing her arms over her chest. “I’ll put a barricade up in front of the compartment door if I have to.”

But Blaise was closer, and quicker. He was already in front of Harry, preventing him from getting back into the compartment.

“Harry…” Blaise’s voice was a study in seduction. “Why would you want to spend the trip all alone.”

“Blaise,” Draco said, laughing, “I give you fair warning. If you want to shag Harry, you’ll be up against some stiff competition. Or is it long competition? Or is it long and stiff competition?”

“It’s not funny, Malfoy!” Hermione was in no mood for Draco’s lighthearted attitude. A muttered spell from Hermione caught Blaise off guard and knocked him to the floor, giving Harry just enough time to return to his compartment. Hermione then charmed the compartment door into a solid wooden barrier with no handle.

Ron wasted no time in grabbing the Slytherin Quidditch broom, and he raced down the hall with it.

“I know what he’s about,” shouted Blaise. “He wants to fly around to the window of Harry’s compartment. Well, I’ve got my own broom!”

Draco was wondering if this type of flying broke any of the rules. “Blaise, I don’t know if you’re allowed to fly alongside the Hogwarts Express.”

“Then tell me,” Blaise asked, a challenge in his voice, “can you find any regulations that make it illegal to fly alongside the train?”

Draco thought for a moment and had to admit to himself that he knew of no such regulations.

“Well, I think it’s a grey area, legally speaking.”

Blaise punched his fist in the air and let loose with a cry of victory as he tore down the corridor.

“Grey area, here I come!”

Draco turned toward Hermione, took measure of her stone-serious expression, and then dissolved into laughter.

“Granger,” he managed to say, still laughing, “would you be so kind as to transform your wooden barrier back into a normal compartment door so that we can watch the proceedings outside Potter’s window?”

Hermione sullenly complied, revealing the sight of Ron flying just outside Harry’s window, a bouquet of wild flowers in his hand. Harry had the window open and was saying something to Ron when Blaise, on his own broom, flew into view with an even larger bouquet of hothouse roses.

“Malfoy!” Hermione was becoming more irritated by the minute. “Stop laughing! We have to figure out how to get those two back inside.”

Draco made a superhuman effort to adopt a serious demeanor. “Yes, of course we do. Do you have any suggestions?”

Their discussion was interrupted by a hag-like person with hair that looked like a mop head. “Trolley witch! Step aside, please. I’m delivering some pastries Mr. Harry Potter ordered.” Hermione and Draco moved to let the trolley witch enter Harry’s compartment.

“My first instinct,” Hermione was saying to Draco, “is to use a spell that attaches a rope to their brooms, and then try to drag Ron and Zabini back into the train. If we have any rope, I could start by using a charm on it.”

“That cupboard over there”—Draco was pointing toward a broom cupboard—“is where they keep supplies like rope and such.”

Hermione opened the cupboard to discover the real trolley witch sitting on the floor of the cupboard, bound and gagged and struggling furiously.

“It’s the trolley witch!” Hermione cried. “What’s she doing in here all tied up if we saw her in…” Hermione made a desperate little squeek. “Oh my God!”

By the time Hermione and Draco got back to Harry’s compartment, a small crowd had gathered in front of the door: Pansy, along with other sixth- and seventh-year students, and even more worrying, a number of first- and second-year students. Peering over their heads, Hermione and Draco could see Seamus Finnigan, having discarded his grey wig and trolley-witch disguise, wooing Harry yet again.

Draco turned to Hermione. “Not to throw a damper on your efforts, Granger, but it’s only a matter of time before Greg eats his way out of the hard caramel, and Boot won’t be far behind.”

“Hey, Finnigan,” one of the older boys yelled. “You can’t have Harry all to yourself!”

Wands were now drawn, and Seamus and some other boys from Gryffindor were now hurling a few warning shots at the Slytherin boys. Random flashes of light flew through the air, punctuated by occasional shouting.

“Hey, Slytherin slime bucket, you actually think Harry would look your way?”

“Harry doesn’t want some goody-two-shoes Gryffindor idiot. He wants a real man.”

The first years and second years were getting scared and a few were screaming, although Pansy was doing her best to keep the younger students under control. Hermione realized, reluctantly, that the situation on the Hogwarts Express was tipping toward a full-scale panic.

It was at times like this when Hermione was willing to square herself with uncomfortable truths. She had to acknowledge the source of the mass mania, and it was either disturbing or intriguing, she couldn’t decide which. What Aunt Petunia called the “unearthly change” in Harry had occurred around his sixteenth birthday, and yet this was not so much a change as an unveiling. The basic elements had always been there, Hermione realized, although they had been obscured before. The features of Harry’s face had a perfection and a symmetry that defied reason, almost too exquisitely beautiful to be part of the natural world. His hair had been wild when Harry had first started at Hogwarts, sticking up at strange angles, although this was no longer the case. Yet the degree of curl that was natural to Harry’s silky, black hair had never changed. His hair was neither completely straight nor very wavy, but somewhere in between, and now it softly framed the perfect features and large, haunting green eyes that had the male students at Hogwarts acting like little boys falling out of a tree to get attention. The lithe, perfect body that made Harry such a success as a Seeker was something he could parade without ever being offensive, and after his recent metamorphosis, Harry was a walking cyclone of sexual attraction.

Yet there were elements of Harry’s transformation Hermione didn’t understand because their source lay in Harry’s childhood. The essence of the havoc Harry was now creating was the combination of his physical form with his inner attitude. Those who are gifted with great beauty most often exude confidence, even conceit. Harry, having grown up with relations who despised him, had long developed an attitude of inner reflection and concentration, as a defense against their hostility. Most people would be puzzled if a creature of such blinding beauty were reserved and reflective by nature. Harry’s astonishing beauty and his habitual attitude of quiet concentration combined to create an air of mystery.

The chaos on the Hogwarts Express pulled Hermione out of her thoughts. Hermione and Pansy decided to split up, with Pansy leading all of the younger students to the back carriages of the train and Hermione remaining toward the front with Harry. Having accomplished her task, Pansy returned to help keep Harry in his compartment. When Pansy returned, Hermione was trying to negotiate with Seamus in an attempt to get him back into his own compartment, and Draco was engaged in similar talks with some of the other sixth- and seventh-year boys. While Hermione and Draco were thus distracted, one of the boys sneaked into the compartment and nicked Hermione’s notebook of culinary spells.

Pansy unwisely pulled out her wand and issued an outright threat. “All of you get back to your compartments now! The only three who should be out in the corridor are the three prefects, who are Draco, Granger and me.”

The boy who was holding Hermione’s notebook was rifling through the pages. “Let’s see… spaghetti… caramel…” The boy aimed his wand at Pansy.

“Tapiocus!”

Pansy was instantly encased in a gigantic sealed container filled with tapioca pudding. There were air holes in the lid of the huge container, and the pudding came to a level just below Pansy’s chin.

Before Hermione and Draco could even contemplate rescuing Pansy, they looked at each other in shock as they felt the entire passenger carriage they were standing in tipping to the right. They ran toward the window, where Harry was frantically signaling to someone outside the train.

Harry had no choice but to explain. “It’s official. Ron and Zabini have taken leave of their senses.”

Looking out the window, Hermione and Draco saw Ron flying at the front of the train, near the engine. He was pointing to an enormous metal frame that had been attached to the right side of the train’s engine. The frame carried an astounding variety of floral wreaths, and in the center were the words “Ron loves Harry 4ever.” A little higher in the air was Blaise, who was pointing to a floral display of his own with a similar romantic message, and it was also attached to the right side of the train’s engine.

“You bloody maniacs,” Draco yelled out the window. “Get those things off the engine. The whole train is tipping!”

Blaise, recognizing the problem, shouted, “We can’t. The spell is permanent.”

Then Ron smiled and shouted, “We’ll attach two more to the left side. That way the train won’t tip anymore.”

Ron and Blaise flew out of sight, and momentarily the train righted itself. Hermione and Draco felt the passenger carriage they were in become level again. Ron and Blaise were now flying on the right side of the train again and gave a thumbs-up sign to Hermione and Draco. However, a further problem now made itself known. A constant stream of sparks was flying from the tracks due to the increased weight of the engine, threatening to start a fire.

Draco leaned out of the window once more and shouted, “Try to stop the train wheels from grinding down so hard on the tracks.”

Hoping to attend to other matters, Hermione and Draco returned to the chaos in the corridor, where a smiling first-year girl greeted them.

“We’re helping Pansy get out! I know we were supposed to stay in the back carriages, but we heard Pansy shouting, and when we came, she was in a great big jar of tapioca pudding. But we got the lid off and she’s getting out!”

Indeed, Pansy was struggling to climb over the top of the huge container of pudding that had been her temporary home. After strenuous effort, she landed on the ground. She was free, albeit covered from head to foot with tapioca pudding.

“Potter is a menace!” Pansy screamed. “He must be stopped!” She shook her fist, inadvertently flinging bits of tapioca pudding at everyone around her.

Draco was the soul of common sense. “Now, Pansy, you can’t blame all these blokes, can you? You have to admit, Potter is rather fetching these days.”

Pansy’s face reddened in fury. “Fetching?” Pansy sputtered. “Fetching?!” Her voice could be heard from the front of the train all the way to the back carriages. “He’s fucking dangerous!”

“Pansy, dearest,” Draco said in a soothing tone, “Potter’s not dangerous. He’s just… high-spirited.”

Pansy groaned in anguish. Hermione, trying hard not to smile, pointed her wand at Pansy. “Scourgify!” The spell cleansed Pansy of all traces of pudding.

Pansy, calming down, bit out the words, “Thank you, Granger.”

“Certainly, Parkinson,” Hermione replied.

“I’ll be in the back carriages, checking on the first and second years.” With that, Pansy stomped down the corridor.

Outside the train, Ron and Blaise were attempting to lighten the pressure that the train wheels were putting on the tracks, and they started with a spell that would lift the train a fraction of an inch. Unfortunately, neither one of them was all that familiar with the spell, and instead of lifting the train a fraction of an inch, the spell lifted the entire Hogwarts Express, from the engine to the back carriage, up off of the tracks completely and into the air, high above rooftops and treetops. At an altitude that would be normal for a small Muggle aircraft, the Hogwarts Express hurtled forward into space.

No sooner had Pansy arrived in the back carriage, than a smiling group of first years, their faces bright with excitement, greeted her and alerted Pansy to the train’s flight pattern high in the air.

“Pansy! Does the Hogwarts Express do this every year? It’s terribly exciting, don’t you think?”

“Do what every year?” Pansy asked, but the first years were motioning her over to the window. Pansy looked out and at first saw only clear blue sky, then looked down and saw the tiny houses and trees far below. A stunning realization dawned on her: the ever-dependable Hogwarts Express was flying through mid-air.

Hermione saw Pansy running back toward Harry’s compartment, screaming blue murder all along the way.

“Granger! The whole damn train is flying through the air!”

“We know, Parkinson. Malfoy is shouting some instructions to Ron and Zabini. They’re using some spells to try to get the train back down on the tracks. I’ve been trying to convince some of the other boys to get back to their compartments.”

As if to illustrate the failure of Hermione’s negotiation efforts, many of the older boys were running in and out of compartments, looking for brooms.

“It’s no fair!” one of the boys shouted. “Weasley and Zabini attached great big mounds of flowers for Harry to the engine.”

“I can do better than that,” another one shouted back. “I know spells for fireworks!”

Boys were now scrambling toward the compartment windows, and the state of affairs degenerated into utter pandemonium.

“Get out of the way, Gryffindor git. Exploding Snap is the only fireworks you could manage. I can write Harry’s name across the sky.”

“This is war, Slytherin scum!” came the cheerful reply.

Harry was at the door of his compartment, pleading. “No, really, you guys. I don’t want flowers. I don’t want fireworks.”

Harry’s entreaties were to no avail. A number of boys had flown out of the train carriages and were already in the sky. Those who were still on the train were using spells to create large floral displays with messages of undying love and placing them up and down the corridors and inside the compartments.

Hermione rushed toward the window of Harry’s compartment, where Draco was still collaborating with Ron and Blaise in an attempt to get the Hogwarts Express back down on its tracks. Draco had his head out the window, and he was shouting instructions he was reading from a book of spells. Then Draco and Hermione saw the displays of skywriting begin to appear, surrounded by fireworks.

 

Terry Boot loves Harry like no one else can

 

Urquhart is an idiot

 

Harry, you’ll have more fun with an Irishman

 

Not far from its final destination, and after intense efforts by Ron and Blaise, the Hogwarts Express miraculously made a slow, graceful descent and reattached itself to its tracks. Hermione, Draco and Harry all breathed a sigh of relief, but then heard the strange sound of sawing coming from the ceiling of the compartment. A metal saw protruded from the ceiling and was working its way around in a circle. An entire circular portion of the ceiling was being sawed out, and then, amid a great crash of plaster, Greg Goyle and the circular portion of the ceiling arrived on the floor of the compartment in front of Harry. Greg sported scrapes and bruises from his recent expedition through the attic area above the Hogwarts Express compartments. His shirt was torn apart everywhere, revealing most of his chest and making it more obvious that he could likely win the year’s British weightlifting championship. Greg got down on one knee and took Harry’s hand in a grand gesture.

“Nothing could ever keep me from you Harry,” he said, just as the Hogwarts Express was pulling into Hogsmeade Station.

Professor McGonagall and Professor Sprout were on the platform as the train pulled in, ready to greet the students on the Hogwarts Express, and the two looked flabbergasted as they saw, attached to the engine of the train, four huge metal frames holding a legion of floral bouquets and some very romantic messages for one Harry Potter.

The weight of all the flowers was finally too much. The attaching spells that Ron and Blaise had used turned out to be stronger than the metal parts of the train itself. The frames came crashing down onto the platform, taking a sizable piece of metal from either side of the engine with them and scattering flowers absolutely everywhere.