Soul Weaver

It was early morning and the sunlight was just streaming into the bedroom; this room was unusually neat and strikingly feminine in its objects and decorations. Sitting on the edge of the bed, a woman in her thirties stared idly out the window of the pleasant little bedroom.

“What’s wrong, dear?” an older woman asked from the doorway. “Did you have another one? I heard you up early this morning.”

“Yes, the dreams have come a lot more lately. I’ve tried to reason out why.”

“What happened this time?”

“It was muted, but like always - dark and scary and confusing.”

“Was it different in any way?”

“A little … I did see something new. The woman was there but this time that man was back. I’d seen the man only once before in a dream, but in this one he was … yelling at me even more violently. He grabbed me and was … was …”

“Abuse?”

“I’ve always suspected it, but this is the first time I can sadly say yes. As the dream continued, the woman tried to stop what was happening … but her action only made things worse. Then I used my wand on the man … to make him stop.”

“Was it a killing curse? Could that possibly be what happened?”

“No nothing as bad as that, Granny. Why would you think that?”

The older woman made no reply, simply shrugged her shoulders so the younger woman continued.

“Well, it didn’t seem like a spell to kill, only to wound and make the man stop. Things just went from worse to terrible at that point… and then the woman …”

“Did she kill the man?”

“I don’t know. It ended abruptly at that point. I didn’t see any more. After all these years, I wonder why the dreams are coming so frequent now? It’s been quiet for a while, but now they are so vivid. I … I’m worried.”

“We could try increasing the potion again.”

“No, I don’t think so. Only one thing keeps me here, and I hate to say it’s not your wonderful company.”

“I wish I could take the burden off you, child, but I still believe everything happens for a reason. Even if we don’t see what it is at that moment.”

“My one reason keeps me here, but I am worried that soon even he will not be enough.”

“We’ve had a few good and happy years; no person can ask for more than that.”

“You say that as if you agree with me and something bad has happened. Is there something I should know?”

“Yes, that the garden is calling me and I better get to it before it gets too warm.”

“Have you figured out yet why we haven’t been getting a newspaper, Granny? I asked Dad about his. He says he’s not been getting his either, for a few weeks now it seems.”

“Bah … that paper boy is horrid. I’ll bet he’s been dropping it on the Maitland’s house all this time. Ah well, it’s summer so who cares about the paper anyway? We can see it all splashed down the road in front of the meeting hall. I’ll have a talk with Mr. Maitland, see if he’s been keeping my paper.”

As her grandmother left the room, the younger woman shook her head and turned back to stare out the window, becoming caught up again in her internal thoughts as the morning sun made its presence known. The beautiful sight did not bring the woman any peace of mind; it only seemed to cause her more mental conflict.

Something was happening. She did not know what it was, but somehow she would find out very soon. Her instinct told her it would be today.



There was an odd sound, like a grass mower. It must be a pretty big mower, Harry thought. Was someone on Privet Drive mowing the grass? Wait, was he still on Privet Drive?

Harry got the odd notion the grass mower was coming closer to him. His bed even began to shake; in fact, his bed did not feel like a bed at all, it felt more like the ground. Had he fallen asleep outside or something?

The sound of the mower, or whatever it was, definitely began to get louder. This was surely no ordinary grass mower, he thought.

Harry sat upright as if he was just shocked with electricity. His head was spinning and as he opened his eyes the bright sunlight blinded him; that, and the fact that he did not have his glasses on.

Something big was coming towards him and, as he fumbled about trying to stand up, he realized he was in a very large field. The machine loomed closer and Harry finally managed to stand up and at the same time found his bag still firmly secured to him. He snatched at the zipper and opened it, frantically searching for his glasses.

He found them and clumsily put them on, only to be confronted by the largest tractor he had ever seen, heading right at him. In his attempt to back up away from it he stumbled backwards, almost falling.

The idea of getting run over by a tractor was probably one of the most embarrassing things that could possibly happen to him. He was a Quidditch Cup champion and had fought the Lord Voldemort; now he could not even escape a tractor?

Thankfully though the tractor stopped only a few feet away and made a couple of odd jerks and strange sounds as it halted.

Harry just stared at it bewildered; where and how had he got here?

“Hey! What in hell are you doing, kid?” an unfamiliar male voice yelled. Harry blinked and then realized someone was standing and staring at him through an open door on the tractor’s side.

Harry had seen tractors before, but not like this one. Truthfully he was not as familiar with them as he thought and it took him a moment to realize this tractor had a closed-in space much like any car would have.

The man who had yelled at him turned off the tractor, causing the noise to end. The man climbed down and came over to stand beside the front tire; his expression combined confusion with a hint of anger.

“What are you doing, trying to get yourself killed?” the man asked impatiently.

Harry’s senses began to return and the first thing he realized was that the man’s accent was completely unfamiliar. He recognized it as possibly American, but he could not be sure since his head was still a little fuzzy.

The Portkey popped into his memory first; had he passed out? Yes, he must have. All he remembered of the trip was desperately trying to hold on and everything going all weird, then nothing but blackness.

“Hey, are you alright?” the man asked, seeming confused by Harry’s lack of reply.

“Sorry, I … must have fallen asleep,” Harry muttered and rubbed his forehead to try and compose himself.

“Fallen asleep …” the man repeated and stared at Harry with disbelief.

“Yeah, I think I just … got a little lost,” Harry said, unsure of what else to say.

“Lost? You don’t sound like you’re from around here,” the man commented. “But I don’t know anybody who falls asleep in a cotton field,” he insisted. A hint of humor had come into the man’s voice as he studied Harry with a keen eye.

“Cotton field …” Harry replied and glanced around at the odd little twiggy-looking plants. “Is that what this is?” he asked making a motion with one hand at the small plants.

“Yeah, I’m spraying … you picked a bad field to fall asleep in … getting run over and sprayed with insecticide seems a surefire way to get yourself killed,” the man informed with that same hint of humor.

“I didn’t plan on falling asleep. I’m here on holiday … er, vacation … looking for a town I heard about,” Harry stated, trying to sound more casual.

The man’s expression became curious. “A town, well … you’re in a field right now, son. Closest place is down that road, yonder,” the man said pointing over to the left. Harry could not see a road because of the trees. “‘Bout five miles that way’s the nearest town. Where are you from anyway?” the man questioned.

“England actually …” but Harry stopped himself and decided to just ask for the information he wanted since it was obvious this man was a Muggle rather than a wizard. “I’m looking for a town called Westbrook … not sure if I’m in the right place really,” he explained. “You wouldn’t happen to have heard of that town, would you?” he questioned.

The man narrowed his eyes, not in anger but as if he were considering carefully what Harry had just said. The man cocked his head to the side slightly and then gave a shrug of his shoulders.

“I’ve heard of a Westbrook, yeah, but a Westbrook Preserve,” he informed. “There’s a place ‘bout twenty miles north of here … but it’s not a town, at least as far as I know,” he went on in a matter of fact tone. “It’s government land … wildlife and such mostly. I did hear rumors that the military has top secret stuff there though,” he explained.

“You said north?” Harry asked. He felt a little disappointed, but he realized that there was no reason for a Muggle to know where a magical community was hidden. Still, why had the Portkey dumped him twenty miles or so away from where he should be?

He remembered the lady at the French Ministry had said she could not pinpoint it exactly, but why would the magic and the Portkey not be able to set him much closer to the location? Hermione had never warned him about a Portkey going so far off its mark. Was he going to have to walk twenty miles to find this place? Even then, could it end up not being the correct location?

“Yeah … but … if you’re from England, how the heck did you get out here? Oh wait, are you a mountain hiker? You’re a little off the trail, aren’t you?” the man asked, as if he knew that must be it and that Harry was just a lost traveler who had no idea where he was.

Technically this was true: Harry really did not know where he was.

“Yeah, I’m just traveling for the summer here in … Virginia.”

Harry said ‘Virginia’ very hesitantly. He sure hoped that was where he had landed and the Portkey had not thrown him totally off somewhere else. After all America was supposed to be a pretty big country.

“Well, my advice is … stay clear of sleeping in cotton fields. Now, if you don’t mind, I got a lot more to do before my day is through,” the man said as he moved back towards his tractor.

“Oh, yeah … sorry about that,” Harry said hastily as the man climbed back up in the tractor. Harry moved off in the direction the man had indicated the road would be. The sound of the tractor starting up behind him gave him a nervous flutter as he walked away.

He could have actually been squashed by a tractor; not a very brilliant way to end, he thought with humor. With a sad notion of regret he thought of the twins and how they would have been rolling with laughter at the idea of famous Harry Potter having to fight off a tractor. Where were the twins when he needed a good laugh? Harry gave a sigh as he finally found the road; they were three thousand miles away, that’s where.


Harry felt a little liberated as he walked along down the quiet road. There was nothing extraordinary about this road or the scenery: black road, green trees, nothing unusual. He did not know why, but for some reason he had always imagined that America would not exactly be like this. Maybe he just expected to land somewhere busy like a big city, not in the middle of nowhere.

A couple of cars drove by, but the fact that he was walking on the side of road did not seem to inspire the drivers to think it odd enough to stop. Maybe the liberation was that at present he did not have to worry about Voldemort directly and that he was making his way by himself.

The first real evidence that he was not really prepared to be in America was the fact that he had no American money. This only occurred to him when he came to a crossroad and had to decide which way to go - left or right? Without money, he would not be able to purchase food or even a map. Thankfully Mrs. Weasley had packed him a few meals to hold him over, but his supplies would not last if he failed to find this mysterious community within a day or two.

Harry stood idly by the rather lonely-looking stop sign. He peered down to the left and then right, trying to decide which way he should go. If he had been thinking about it, he should have asked that farmer exactly where to go in respect to the town that was five miles away. He should have asked the name of it at least.

Harry glanced up at the stop sign to see that it appeared to have a hole in the top of it, as if it had been hit rather forcefully with something. Then it registered that this hole was probably caused by someone shooting at the sign with a gun. He scowled, feeling worried; the idea of being shot definitely did not appeal to him.

At that moment the sound of a vehicle of some sort approached him from behind. He turned to see a car coming towards the stop sign at a fast speed. Harry took a few steps back to stand in the grass as the car braked to a halt beside the sign.

The driver was female and, as she looked both ways, she took notice of him. She stared at Harry as if she had seen a ghost. After a moment of gaping at him, she lowered the window on the passenger side and leaned forward so she could get a better look at him.

“You lost?” she asked, her voice having a similar accent to the farmer he had spoken to earlier.

“I am, sort of, yes. Which way is the nearest town?” he asked awkwardly, realizing this was the second stranger he had talked to today.

“About two miles that way,” she answered, pointing to the left. She gave him a studious gaze, as if she were summing him up as a person by giving him a once-over. A couple of moments of awkward silence passed and then she gave a shrug of her shoulders. “I don’t usually do this, but … you look harmless. Would you like a ride?” she asked in an upbeat friendly manner.

Harry paused, trying to decide whether he should get into the car. Was she harmless? She appeared to be a little older than him, maybe in her middle twenties if he was any good at guessing people’s age.

Over the years he had heard many stories about America: when the Dursleys watched the news, sometimes it would cover a story that had happened in the United States. Harry recalled ominous tales of murder, people being kidnapped and tortured just to name a few that he could vaguely remember. That any of those things might happen to him had not really crossed his mind until now, when he actually had to decide whether to trust someone. Still, this woman did not look like a mad ax murderer or someone who would shoot him.

“I wouldn’t want to impose on you …” he said, trailing off. He would like a ride, but he did not know her and she did not know him. His comment made her laugh and then she shook her head.

“I’m heading that way anyway … up to you,” she offered, smiling at him in a rather mischievous manner.

He did not know why, but he decided to be a little reckless. He simply said, “Okay … thanks,” and then got into the car.

It was a bit weird at first, riding in a big American car with someone he did not know. She said her name was Susan and she was on her way to work. She explained that she worked at a store called the Shell Station, whatever that was. She asked him where he was from and he told her England.

She seemed quite amazed and asked a similar question that the farmer had: whether he was a hiker going to the mountains. Then she proceeded to explain that the best time of year to see the Blue Ridge and Skyline Drive was in the fall when the leaves were changing.

He had no idea what she was talking about, so he simply explained that he was off school for the summer and he might not get to come back to America again.

“Have you ever heard of a town called Westbrook?” he asked her, taking the chance that she might know something or have heard the name before. She gave him a curious glance but then shrugged her shoulders.

“I’ve heard of a place up north of here.”

Then she paused as if remembering something.

“Well, my grandfather used to tell me a story when I was real little about a town called Westbrook. It’s weird you should mention that name … but my grandpa was a bit off his rocker. Sometimes he didn’t even remember my name,” she said in a casual manner and assumed a thoughtful expression as if she were still trying to recall something.

“Really? Any chance you might remember anything?” he asked hopefully. “I’m sort of into history,” he lied, trying to give her the most hopeful expression he could. She grinned and shook her head.

“My mom said he was just making up nonsense to scare me. There was something about witches and magic, I remember,” she explained. “Grandpa used to say the whole town was burned down and people were killed.”

As Susan continued to talk, Harry tried to keep his expression mildly interested, but at the comment about witches and magic he could not help but feel a surge of hopeful excitement that he was in the correct area; it was just a matter of finding the place.

“It was a little scary, now that I think about it,” Susan went on. “But I was like five or six, so everything is dramatic at that age. I don’t know if there was anything to the stories he used to tell, I’m sure he just made it up to scare me, like my mom said. You can probably ask in town though. Maybe check the library … if there is anything to it, I’m sure there would be something about Westbrook there,” she finished.

Harry nodded, continuing to keep his expression mild, but inside he was quite sure he had landed in the right place. Maybe luck was on his side and shortly he would complete his mission for Dumbledore; perhaps he would be back in England before Voldemort even knew he was gone.


Once they arrived in the town, he found out it was called Greenfield and that the Shell Station was a convenience store as well as a petrol station. He did not have any American money so there was really no point in going inside the store.

“Can you tell me how to get to the library?” he asked Susan before they parted company. She explained how to find the library from where they were standing.

Harry thanked her for the ride and then headed in the direction she had indicated. His first American town: it seemed rather peaceful really and as he rounded a street corner he could see mountains off in the distance.

The town itself was not really unusual and not so different from what he was familiar with in England, at least from the Muggle world he had grown up in. The one thing that was different, he noticed, was that the cars all seemed bigger and were driving on the other side of the road. It was very weird to see this and it took him a few moments to become used to it.

Eventually he found the library and he made his way inside. He walked in casually, trying to appear a normal everyday tourist. Inside, it was neat. quiet and what Harry was used to experiencing with most libraries. Well, there were no books flying around to remind him of Hogwarts, but it was the same general atmosphere.

He was not sure how this place would help him find Westbrook unless they had some literature about the surrounding area. Or, maybe they had a map of hidden magical locations just waiting for him to show up. He grinned at his own humor as he began to move further inside and inspect the first small shelf of books near the entrance.

He supposed could just go ask the very stern-looking librarian up at the main counter. Unfortunately her expression made him think of Madam Pince. She was scowling in just the same manner and was aiming that scowl in his direction. What was it with him and librarians? Did they all dislike him at first sight?

Harry decided to just start scanning the shelves and hope that he could find some information that would help him. He soon found his way into a section that looked promising. As he looked amongst the books about Virginia, a woman walked by him pushing a cart of books. She stopped a few feet away from him and seemed to be putting books back up on the shelf. He assumed she must work there.

She made a startled sound as if something had surprised her. Harry turned slightly and found she was staring directly at him as if she had seen a ghost.

“You’re Harry Potter,” she whispered.

Now he was the startled one! He stared back at her not knowing what to say. Nobody was supposed to know he was here; and how would this woman know who he was?

“I’ve seen a picture of you in the paper before,” she explained quietly and moved closer to him, studying his face rapidly. “What in the world are you doing here in Greenfield?” she asked in awe.

“I’m … sorry. I don’t know what you mean,” was all he could think to reply. She smiled wistfully and then gave a laugh.

“It’s alright, I’m a witch,” she proclaimed happily.

Harry eyed her suspiciously and remained silent, hoping that staying quiet was the best option for the moment. She looked of average height, with dark black hair that was quite sleek and shiny. Her eyes were gray and glittered with a mild humor as she studied him. Her expression seemed to suggest that she approved of him, but he was to wary to open his mouth to say anything to her.

“I thought there was some sort of war going on over in England,” she said quietly but then waved a hand dismissively. “Well, trust the papers to always blow things up ten times bigger than they really are,” she stated in a casual manner, as if they had known each other for years.

What was with these Americans, he wondered? Did they all talk like they already knew you? He was now dreading the thought of being alone here in America. Would so many other magical people pick him out? How was that possible?

“Your name wouldn’t happen to be Celeste, would it?” he asked, figuring that did not confirm who he was or why he was here; and at this point it did not hurt to ask.

“Um, no, is that a joke?” she asked with humor. “That’s the most common witch name on the planet,” she teased and was smiling at him quite mischievously. “Your accent is darling,” she added, a twinkle in her eye.

“Erm … yours too,” he stammered awkwardly.

“I’m Nancy Rawlings, by the way,” she ventured and seemed to wait for him to say his name was Harry Potter and that she was correct.

“You wouldn’t have happened to hear of a town called Westbrook, would you?” he asked curiously. Upon hearing that name, her friendly expression changed to sadness.

“Yes, I know about Westbrook,” she answered a little stiffly; she seemed to become a little distant.

“I, erm … just heard someone in town talk about it, and was curious,” he lied, not quite sure what to make of her sudden mood change.

“Well, the town’s a secret … at least the new one is. The original town was only a few miles from here. The place was attacked by non-magicals and burned to the ground, it was terrible,” she informed and was speaking even quieter than before. Nancy even leaned forward and glanced around to make sure nobody was around to hear what she was saying.

“Come with me,” she said and turned her cart around and headed back down the aisle to the back of the library. She stopped and glanced back at him, motioning for him to follow. “Come on, don’t be shy, I’ll not bite you,” she teased and moved on away around the end of the shelves.

He was unsure of what to do, but, before he followed her, he made sure his wand could easily be reached if needed. She had already moved out of sight around the end of the aisle, so he hurried to catch up with her.

He followed her to an area at the back of the library. It looked like a children’s section from the books around the area. Nancy left her cart to the side and walked up to the back wall.

“Come on, you should be in this part of the library anyway,” she informed and pressed her hand against the wall. Harry saw a faint waver in the wall and he could almost sense the magic ripple out. He silently wondered if he was becoming more in tune with magic if he could sense this spell; or maybe it was just a powerful spell. Nancy glanced around and then walked through the wall.

Harry walked up to it and did not hesitate: fearing the portal would close if he waited too long, he walked on through. He found himself on the other side of the wall in another library. The difference was that this side reminded him distinctly of the Hogwarts library. Books were casually floating about and many of the volumes seemed extremely old.

He followed her on up through dusty shelves to what appeared to be the front desk. She sat down and watched him; her expression was serious and not as friendly as it was before. Harry frowned a bit because she had assumed the normal countenance he had come to expect from librarians.

“So, why do you want to know about Westbrook?” she asked calmly. Two books floated up onto her desk, she stamped the inside cover and then they floated off again all on their own. Harry had not seen anyone else in the library and glanced from to his left and right, hoping there might be other people around.

“Idle curiosity,” he answered stiffly.

“You are Harry Potter, aren’t you?” she said, her tone a bit more determined.

“Excuse me, but I don’t know you … I’m just here on vacation,” he stated. He was not going to say who he was, at least not until he had to.

“We had word that someone was going to be arriving; you should thank the French for that,” another voice said from a dark corner behind the desk. It was a male voice and was very deep and a bit rough-sounding. Harry had not noticed anyone there before and an uneasy feeling swept over him.

Harry had an unhappy suspicion that he had fallen into a trap of some sort; he wished his wand was not stuffed inside his canvas bag.

The man stepped out of the shadows. His appearance was unremarkable except for a streak of gray that ran down the left side of his hair. As he came into the light, Harry saw that this streak of hair lined up perfectly with a scar that traveled across the man’s forehead.

“So, you are Harry Potter,” the man announced as he stopped beside Nancy and leaned forward, trying to get a better look at Harry.

“Excuse me, but who are you?” Harry asked, trying to buck up his courage. The man smiled wistfully and laid a hand on Nancy’s shoulder.

“Nancy, would you mind leaving me and our visitor for a few minutes?” the man said down to her. She nodded and moved away and out of sight. Once she was gone the man sat down and gave Harry a casual smile. Silence drew out for a few moments as the man drummed his finger on the desk, unnerving Harry.

Harry took a guarded step back when the man pulled out a wand. The man gave a slight chuckle and flicked his wand towards the far wall. A chair slid across the room and stopped right in front of the desk beside Harry.

“Have a seat, Mr. Potter. If I’d wanted to kill you or curse you … we’d not be talking right now,” the man said and placed his wand on the desk. “Come on, I’m not going to zap you … at least not on your first visit to America,” he added when Harry did not move.

“Look, I don’t have time for this,” Harry muttered, feeling rather dumb for saying it.

“Oh yes, you’re supposed to be fighting some war, against some fellow … Voldeforth, Voldiefellow … sorry … whatever the guy’s name is,” the man said in a manner of disinterest.

“It’s Voldemort,” Harry said impatiently and then realized saying that name only confirmed he was Harry Potter. The man smiled at him in a very charming manner, as if he were pleased with the reply.

“Unlike the non-magical government officials on this side of the world, we magical folks do keep track of who comes here to our fine country. You might say it’s a bit more important to know when people with magical ability show up,” the man began as if they were having a normal everyday conversation.

“This is obviously opposed to your everyday non-magical person, who is simply looking for work or … whatever it is non-magical types want when they come here,” he went on as he waved his hand at the chair in an attempt to persuade Harry to sit down.

“We actually work with the non-magical government on this side of the world. Though it’s hush, hush … you know, the magical treaties and such that we’re not supposed to let non-magicals know about us magical folks,” the man continued. Harry felt as if the man were giving him a lecture and thought he might like it better if the man just zapped him.

“As you know you can’t just have magical folks dropping into your country any time they want. It’s all very well and fine to have a couple hundred non-magical people show up on the border, sneak in … whatever … but have one fellow with a wand show up and … BOOM!” the man slammed his hand down on the desk, making Harry jump. “When that happens you’ve got chaos right in peaceful Greenfield, Virginia. Get what I’m saying?” he finished.

“Actually no, not really,” Harry said in frustration. The man frowned and stood up. He moved around the desk and came over to stand in front of Harry. They were pretty much the same height so Harry could easily stare into the man’s brown, penetrating eyes.

The man reached up and pointed to his own scar. Harry stared at it for a moment, studying it and then met the man’s eye again.

“Nothing as extraordinary as how you got yours. Mine was from a bear and the lesson I learned was never mess with a bear’s offspring … they sure don’t appreciate it,” he explained. “So, let’s see yours,” he said pointing to Harry’s forehead.

It seemed there was no point any more in trying to pretend he was not who he was, so Harry simply moved his hand up to reveal his scar. The man studied it and nodded as if he approved.

“At least yours has a nice shape. All I can say about mine is it gave me gray hair before my time,” the man stated, and moved back to sit down behind the desk. Harry decided to sit down as well and sat in the chair that the man had offered him.

“Now, I am guessing you’ve shown up for a vacation. You aren’t planning on hiding out here or anything of that nature are you? We can’t have your Dark Lord coming here to hunt you down. We’ve got our own batch of problems to deal with that don’t include fighting off You-Know-Who, Voldemort, Tom Riddle,” the man stated in a firm tone.

“I’m not staying, if that’s what you’re really asking me,” Harry replied. “I’m here to see someone,” he explained. “And, before this situation, nobody was supposed to know I’m here,” he added stiffly.

“Nobody important does,” the man stated with a roguish smile.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Harry asked, starting to become very annoyed with this situation.

“It means, as long as you don’t cause any trouble, you haven’t been here,” the man replied. “And as long as you’re not staying, then I haven’t seen you,” he added, still smiling.

“I’m not planning on either of those things,” Harry informed.

“Great!” the man announced and stood up. “Well, be on your way then and enjoy your stay here in Greenfield.”

“I’m actually looking for Westbrook,” Harry said. The man snorted and then seemed to be doing some quick thinking, as if he might say more but instead remained silent. “You wouldn’t happen to know anyone with a last name Fairstone, would you?” Harry asked, deciding that if this man knew who he was, then there was no point keeping the other name a secret.

The man’s expression changed immediately. He frowned deeply and his face lost its color. If Harry had not known better, he would have even said the man appeared a bit afraid.

“Sounds like you’re familiar with Westbrook to me. Is that who you’re here to see?” the man asked in a guarded tone.

“I’m delivering a message, but no, I’ve never been there and never met the person I’m supposed to take the message to,” Harry admitted. He felt as if he had just gained the upper hand somehow.

“I’d say you’re better off going back to jolly ol’ England,” the man muttered in a defensive tone.

“I’d be happy to - after I do what I have to do,” Harry countered. The man snorted again and then waved his hands in what seemed like surrender. He reached down and pulled open a desk drawer. He took out a folded-up paper and tossed it to Harry, who caught it easily.

Harry stared at it and realized it was a map. Harry studied the front curiously for a moment and then looked back at the man who had moved around the desk to stand in front of Harry again.

“Non-magicals have their maps for tourists, and so do us magical folks,” the man stated. “It’s on there, but it’s got a big ‘Restricted’ scrawled across its location. Most of us around here come from Westbrook or have family there,” the man explained, his voice becoming friendly and casual again.

“Why is it restricted?” Harry asked curiously.

“Well, it’s a bit like a bird cage. At least, that’s always been the joke when some of us were kids,” the man explained. “You go to that school, Hogwarts, don’t you?” the man asked in his own curious tone.

“Yes,” Harry replied warily.

“Heard about that fellow Dumbledore,” the man replied. “Well, Westbrook is a bit like your Hogwarts; not actually, but it’s protected with spells and such. Lots of other magical folks here in America really don’t have big towns, we just live among the non-magicals, but Westbrook is different … very few get in and very few really ever get out,” the man explained.

“Sounds like prison,” Harry muttered repressively.

“To some of us it was a little like that, but I think other folks appreciate the security - you know, feeling completely safe,” the man suggested. “But most of us realize it’s not real. None of us are ever really safe, no matter how many spells we put up for protection,” the man finished.

Harry considered this statement and realized that whatever this man’s intentions were towards him, Harry whole-heartedly agreed with what he was saying. Hogwarts was supposed to be protected with all sorts of magic and yet, what ended up taking Albus Dumbledore’s life was danger from the inside, right under his nose. A sting of regret bit Harry, but the man began to talk again, drawing him out of his own personal thoughts.

“Best arrive during the day when you get to Westbrook, and hope the right man is out front or you’ll not get in,” he informed and turned as if to leave, but then he stopped and looked back at Harry. “How’d you get here anyway? I’m guessing you’ve got no transportation,” he said as he glanced at Harry’s bag.

“Not exactly, I didn’t bring my broom,” Harry answered since the man seemed to be offering help instead of stopping him.

“Broom … blah … I hate the damn things,” the man muttered. “Look, I don’t usually do this for people who pop up in America without permission, but there’s two bikes parked out back … you can take the blue one if you want,” the man offered kindly. “But don’t press the green or red button as you’re in the middle of a non-magical community. Seeing a flying bike isn’t gonna go over well, if you know what I mean,” the man insisted.

The only thing Harry could do was nod his head. The man then nodded as well and waved for Harry to follow. Harry did not wait, he moved on quickly, not wanting to be delayed any further. Frankly, even for him this was weird and the idea that some people knew he was here did not sit well with him.

Harry followed the man out of a new doorway and the two walked nonchalantly around to the back of the library. Behind a large pile of discarded boxes he saw two bikes propped up.. The man moved over to the blue one and waved a hand at it as if Harry should be impressed.

Harry was not sure whether he was lucky or cursed at this point. A bike was better than nothing, he supposed, but he had rarely enjoyed the chance to ride a bike. The man was staring at him as if expecting something.

“I’m sorry, I’ve not ridden a bike much,” Harry admitted.

“Oh, yeah … brooms, right. Sorry, here in America, it’s bikes. Didn’t you ever read ‘The Wizard of Oz’ or see it on non-magical television?” the man asked curiously. “Ah well, never mind. If you’ve ever been on one, it’s not hard to remember how. If you can ride a broom, a bike is a piece of cake,” the man explained. Harry was not so sure that was correct.

He took off his bag and placed it in the basket that hooked onto the handlebars. Then he got a worried notion that this did not look like a bike for a guy; it looked more like a bike for a girl, especially with the basket on front. Well, at least it was blue.

“I hope you find what you’re looking for, Harry Potter. And remember, you’re not staying, right?” the man asked in a mischievous tone.

“No, I’m not staying. Like I said, I’m delivering a message and then going home,” Harry stated in a firm tone. The man nodded and walked off back towards the door they had exited from.

“Well, when you get to Westbrook and meet the Fairstones, tell them Frederick Amherst sends his regards,” the man called out.

Harry turned to look back, but the man had disappeared through the doorway. He could only assume that was the man’s name. He wished he had asked him more about Westbrook, but decided it was better to get moving; he did not know how long it would take him to reach Westbrook.

Harry pulled the bike up beside him and then opened the map. After a few moments of hunting he found the large gray area that had ‘Restricted’ written across it. The location was not even named. It appeared to be in an area surrounded by green, which told him it might possibly be some kind of forest.

He slowly traced down the map to where he was, the town called Greenfield. On the map he noticed an odd little star and he wondered what it meant. Harry shrugged, folded the map up and shoved it in his bag.

Harry decided to just walk the bike for now, so he would not look like a fool in the middle of this town, trying to ride a bike. He went north since that was the way it seemed he had to go. Once he was away from people, he would attempt to ride the bike and make his way to Westbrook. At least he had a direction now, and a map; thank Merlin for maps!


Harry waited until he was out of town on a lonely road before he attempted to ride the bike. He had studied the map carefully and decided he could stay on the same road for a while before he had to make a turn.

Before he climbed onto the bike, he studied the two buttons on the bike. The red button had the word ‘Fly’ written across it, the green button had ‘Invisible’ written on it. There was also a label stating that all children under twelve were prohibited from riding the Stealth 200 and that all individuals under the age of eighteen required adult supervision.

Harry scowled at the age restriction. In Britain he would officially be an adult at the age of seventeen, was it different here in America? No point in asking since there was nobody about to ask, and besides he felt sure he could handle a bike reasonably well.

Apparently it was not exactly like a broom, but some sort of mechanical device along with a charm to make it fly. Harry was sure Arthur Weasley would be thrilled to get his hands on this bike and Harry considered somehow purchasing one to take back. He could not keep this one since it did not belong to him. In fact he was not all together sure how he was going to return it to Mr. Amherst.

Harry shrugged his shoulders and decided to first test his riding ability before he attempted to fly. He had limited opportunities in his life to ride a bike and he was a bit excited to test out his skills again.

Harry remembered he had practiced once when Dudley had gone out, only to be fussed at later that he had taken the bike without permission. Other times he had had the chance to play around with one of Dudley’s old bikes, which generally did not last long because Dudley would wail and complain that Harry had taken his property. That always resulted in Uncle Vernon taking the offending bike away, even though Dudley had no further use for it.

He brushed off those old memories and threw himself into this new task. After a few attempts, it was not too hard to remember exactly how to ride a bike and keep it upright. In fact to Harry it felt rather natural and much like flying a broom.

Except for the pedaling, everything else seemed quite similar, especially the skill to balance. Once forward momentum was achieved, a bike seemed to balance itself in the same manner as a broom.

Harry decided he was definitely going to buy himself a bike one day, but he then wondered whether they were allowed in Britain? Could they possibly be similar to flying carpets and that a flying bike was the American equivalent to the British broom?

After riding for a while he decided to attempt flight. He first pressed the invisibility button. He thought it would not do for someone to see him lifting up into the air. The only way he knew it was working was when a very large truck came by, almost running him off the road.

He stopped for a few moments to catch his breath and then wait to be sure no traffic was about. Then he continued on and this time pressed both buttons at the same time. On cue, the bike very slowly began to rise up into the air. He stopped pedaling, but when he did so the bike began to sink back down to the ground. Apparently pedaling the bike was a must for it to fly.

Once he rose above the trees he could look about and see the surrounding area. It was strikingly beautiful: the mountains and trees, the cars driving below on the lonely road, the farms dotting the area, the animals and people here and there across the countryside as he glided silently over the area with carefree ease.

He could follow the map easier up above, since the map now resembled the roads below. When he was not sure, he would land and make sure the road was correctly named and the direction he had to follow; being invisible made it much easier to move about, as long as you were careful not to get in the way.

Eventually he neared the area that he was sure the map showed as ‘Restricted’, which meant he must be close to Westbrook. He landed and checked the road signs, unsure of exactly which way would be best. Off to the left he saw a road that had no sign and it was in fact a dirt path. It led in the direction where Westbrook should be, down into an area that looked like a large forest nestled between a gently sloping group of mountains.

Harry folded the map and decided to take the dirt road. It seemed only logical to him that a magical town would be off a road that seemed very un-modern. Of course he had no idea about the American magical community; he simply had to take his best educated guess on the subject.

He rode the bike down the dirt path, but as he began to enter what was a densely packed forest he soon had to simply push the bike along and walk. The forest seemed huge and similar to the forest near Hogwarts. Harry wondered whether he should be worried about Dark Creatures jumping out at him, so he moved his wand into a position where he could easily grab it and use it if necessary.

For the most part it was a peaceful walk though and there was nothing that bothered him; the sound of the wind in the trees and a few twittering birds were the only things that broke the silence. Harry soon found he liked the peaceful walk and cool quiet serenity of the forest. It did not have the foreboding air of the Dark Forest so he felt he could relax, at least for the present.