Fugitive Prince

Fugitive Prince

By March Madness

You're only

imagining

A mouse is in your hair.

You've got to stop imagining

That mice are everywhere.

I think you're just imagining

To give yourself a scare.

But trust me dear, I wouldn't lie:

There is

no mouse up there.

"Imagining," Shel Silverstein

Chapter XIII

Five years ago, he steamed. Five years ago was the time when his reign had come to an end, when his power had been broken, destroyed, when his hold over the magical world had come to ruin. Five years--and everything crashed down. He'd worked for his power for years and years, over a decade, picking through his ranks with a fine brush, kicking out those who were too coarse or too fine, destroying all boundaries that held him. At first, his rise to power had been the people's joy and he'd been showered with gifts and blessings.

But, after a frightening night when he showed no mercy, when he destroyed those who stood in his way, the people began to cower. And that feeling, that feeling of power that he felt when, walking into a room, the people would look away, turn away, run away, that power was exhilarating.

And the finger of a lad, just short of two years old destroyed it all.

Bartimus Crouch fumed, pacing through his office, kicking up dust of disuse. Ever since that Potter child had brought down the Dark Lord (a task his Aurors couldn't do) the Ministry had severally restricted Aurorian powers. No longer could criminals be executed without a jury, and when there was a trial, no longer could a membership of Aurors head it. The people, previously cowed by his very presence, took a stand against him, labeling the tactics they once praised as condemning as those of the Death Eaters.

Imagine! Comparing the Aurors to Death Eaters! How different could the two forces be? It was like looking at light and saying it was night--was, in fact, that very thing. Aurors even wore white robes, for crying out loud! There was no mistaking the two, just like there was no mistaking avenging angels when they stood next to quivering fiends.

Crouch turned and spat into his fireplace, angry as a hornet. Though the celebration of the Dark Lord's fall had taken place months before, in June, some buffon had just now remembered to send the ex-Head Auror a letter, conniving and snide. It lay open on his table. On the front, a picture of Leonard Potter, the child responsible for the break of his powers, smiled shyly and inside was a printed greeting, corny and old:

Wishing you a happy year.

Aren't you glad the Dark Lord's not here!

And beneath that, the sender had the nerve to add his or her own scrawl, making the letter that much worse:

Crouch, I couldn't help thinking of you when I saw this card. How are you, anyhow? How is the retirement going? I heard that Minister Fudge was thinking of screwing you over as mental--worse than Mad-Eye. Don't let the Death Eaters get you.

And beneath that, in a very bad result of lead against paper, was the smeared yet recognizable Dark Mark.

Crouch snarled as he saw it again, saw the laughing threat sent against him. He'd ask for a trace on the card, but the owl that delivered it was just a simple sparrow enchanted for a short time to send a message. It was now too stupid to be used in a trace. Typical Death Eater move.

He glared at the picture of Leonard but was surprised when, as Leonard grew frightened, he was removed and his brother, the silent Harold Potter, stood in his place, glaring right back. Most pictures used magic to bar Harry from showing his face on the pictures. Intrigued, Crouch picked up the card and studied the new boy before him, realizing that he knew next to nothing on the child.

"Vicky, I'm going out," he called to his wife.

The small woman looked up, startled, as he shoved on a coat, rushing through the house. "But Bartimus-"

"When Barty gets home, tell him he better have a good excuse," he roughly shoved aside her questions and left. His son was getting more and more irresponsible, coming home only on weekends, getting to the point where Crouch was willing to just kick the boy out. It was about time, the boy was too babied by his mother anyhow.

He apparated. Retired or not, he still held some weight around the Ministry and when he saw the picture of Harry, something clicked. The boy sparked some suspicion and Crouch was going to do everything he could to find out everything about the boy. If anything, perhaps he'd find a way to bring Leonard Potter's good reputation down once and for all. What kind of idiot would believe a year-old child truly responsible for the downfall of the Dark Lord?

*

"Let's see you on a broom," Madam Hooch gruffly ordered, holding out a standard school broom. Its wooden stick looked weathered and splintered--not a comfortable ride. Harry felt a jolt of revulsion just looking at the wobbly thing and the madam frowned slightly. "What? Is this not up to your standards? Well, I'm sorry Mr. Potter but you'll have to make due like the rest of us."

"Are you sure I can't just use my own broom?" Harry asked, eyeing the disgusting broom and now making no moves to hide his disdain for such a broken-down device.

Madam Hooch shook her head again, one hand going to rest on her hip as she shook the other at him. "If you used another broom, I wouldn't be able to tell how much of your skill was your own and how much came from the broom." She thrust the broom at him. "Now mount up."

Slightly annoyed, Harry took the broom and sat down, letting his legs tighten around its handle to leave his hands free, and he rose in the air shakily. The old broom really was falling apart. Surely Hogwarts, in all its glory, could afford better for its students.

It was about this time he noticed Madam Hooch trying her best not to smile.

Coming up one of the lanes, the Gryffindor class was heading towards their Care of Magical Creatures class and Ron stepped from the crowd, grinning madly. "Harry, what are you doing on that old thing?" he asked, coming closer.

"If you don't mind," Hooch answered firmly, but this time Harry could definitely tell she was trying not to smile, "we're in the middle of a flying test."

"On that old broom?" Ron shot back hesitantly, looking back and forth between her and the broom. "But I thought those brooms were being destroyed, seeing as how old they are."

"Hey!" Harry called out from his wobbly position in the air. "You told me this was a school broom!"

"Well it is, technically," Madam Hooch replied, smiling now. She motioned to Harry. "You can come down now. I say you definitely pass. That broom's older than even me, and if you can still fly with it you show some promising skills." She eyed him as if measuring said skill and added, "Why don't you come and see me later? I'd like to play a quick two-player game of Quidditch to see just how good you are. I've heard your brother plays Quidditch with the best of them."

"Er..."

Madam Hooch's eyes began to glitter as if amazed at even playing with the brother of such a legendary boy, and Ron quickly pulled on Harry's arm to join the class. "Come on, let's go Harry. Hagrid's not going to be too happy with us being late, especially when we're with the Slytherins."

They left Madam Hooch as she smilingly directed the old broomstick towards the Whomping Willow.

"I thought you took your tests at night?" Ron half-asked, half-accused.

"I do... but I can't test flying at night."

"So you take your tests during lunch now?" Ron shook his head just as they reached the rest of the class. "Blimey Harry, take a rest now and then." To which Harry firmly responded with tense silence.

His classes hadn't been as easy as he'd thought they'd be, for Hogwarts had certainly changed its curriculum like Professor McGonagall had warned. In his fifth year of Transfiguration, he'd found himself floundering for the techniques the other fifth years were learning, techniques that his mum's teachings had already passed. While the rest of the class was struggling to take on the awesome task of transfiguring a small toy doll into a live monkey with a procedure of spells they'd just learned, Harry was trying to ignore his urge to simply transfigure the doll with one single spell, trying not to get on McGonagall's bad side by doing the class too easily. It wasn't working because either way, she still seemed fixed on the idea that Harry was unduly rude and completely conceited.

It hadn't helped that professors and students alike would come up to him at all times asking about his brother.

"Hey," Ron whispered as Hagrid started to lead the class around towards the back of his cabin where supposedly wonderful creatures were being held, "you wanna race?"

"What?"

"On Saturday. Hooch just said you were quick on a broom. Let's race."

"Now this 'ere is what's known as a bitin' lizard," Hagrid's voice yelled out to the students. Draco, with his gang of Slytherins, was softly insulting the giant man and Hagrid's ears were slowly turning red, though he tried to ignore the Slytherin taunts. Hermione was watching, fascinated as one of the huge lizards in the cage turned to her and flicked its tongue out, catching a bug only inches away from her nose. She leaped back, startled, and barely caught on to the conversation between Ron and Harry.

"Racing?" she whispered, eyes narrowing slightly. "You know it's not allowed-"

"Yea, yea," Ron shushed her, turning to Harry for his answer.

Harry only paused a second, dimly realizing that he'd like to fly (but at home, with his brother there and safe) and nodded his head. "All right, sure."

*

"Headmaster, are you sure this is necessary?" Severus asked, eyes narrowed as he wove his way through the dark halls of the Hogwarts basement. Something stuck to his face and with disgust, he peeled the spider web off, taking a dark revenge in squishing the guilty spider between his fingers. Realizing what he'd done, Severus shivered. Some habits, such as taking pleasure in pain, would never fade, not after all his years spent in Voldemort's service.

"Quite," came the dusty reply and Severus hurried to catch up. "In fact, it's overdue."

They pulled to a stop in the middle of a hall, stepping past the great spider webs and occasional giant spider scuttling in the dark shadows. The only light had previously come from their glowing wand tips, but now that magical light was unnecessary as a powerful magical device lit up the entire area.

The Mirror of Erised looked as beautiful as the first day it had been brought to Hogwarts.

Severus swallowed thickly, throwing his eyes to the floor. He knew what he wanted already, knew what he wanted all too well. Something so unattainable that it would be simply madness to try and look at the mirror now, knowing its trap. What he desired most he could never have. Still, his eyes slowly drifted up on their own free will, slowly, slowly, reaching the bottom of the mirror and coming up-

"Over here, if you would," Dumbledore interrupted the slow torture and Severus blinked, shaking his head in amazement. It never failed to capture him, even when he knew all the dangers he always fell to it. He swallowed again and tore his gaze to the headmaster who sat on a dusty bow, holding a certain old book in his hands.

Just as he opened his mouth, Dumbledore smiled. "Now, don't try to warn me out of this again, Severus," the old man joked, but there was a firmness to his voice. "I've spent the last hour listening to your reasons but I'm still going to do this."

"Fine," Severus replied shortly, sitting himself on another box and hating himself for the way his eyes would skirt about the area and always drift back towards the mirror.

"It's all a bit of good luck I've got this," Dumbledore muttered to himself, staring sadly at the book. He turned the pages, not at all disturbed by the fact that every page was empty. "Good luck and a certain house elf."

"Is that creature still here at Hogwarts?" Severus asked, remembering the night when the Malfoy house elf had fled to Hogwarts, bloody and beaten by its own hand as it confessed a plot its master had hatched. Severus wanted to sneer at the elf, wanted to mock its unquestioning loyalty to such a cruel man, but every time he looked at it he only saw himself the night he'd confessed to Dumbledore, confessed to being a Death Eater, and feeling horribly dirty as if speaking against his master was something wrong. Even now, years and years after he'd turned from Voldemort, there was a feeling of bondage as if the dead Dark Lord still held him. The elf had a magical excuse for such loyalty, but he had nothing.

Dumbledore shook his head, looking very old. "No," he murmured, "no, his wounds were too great." His eyes crinkled as if a sudden weight was placed on him. "He didn't live much longer, not even under Poppy's care."

It was just a house elf, Severus wanted to scream at the wounded headmaster, but his throat dried and his voice choked and he remained silent. After a moment, Dumbledore seemed to gather himself and hid the wound of death where he hid all other wounds before moving on with life. "Well," he whispered as he opened the book to a page, "there's no time to waste."

The page was deceptively empty, but both wizards knew better than to believe appearances. With a grim face, Dumbledore pulled from his pockets a feathered quill and began to write:

Tom Marvelo Riddle, this is Professor Dumbledore.

Nothing happened as the words faded, ink drying and evaporating at an incredible speed. But finally a few words appeared, curling on to the page.

~ Professor, how good it is to hear from you. ~

This is no time for games, Tom.

~ I wouldn't think so either. What brings you to try and invade my privacy? ~

Dumbledore paused, looking at the diary in his hands and seeing the fifteen year old boy who'd written it, the genius who'd later go on to cause so much harm. What wouldn't he do to go back in time and just talk with Tom again, talk with the boy before he turned, try and prevent fate from happening.

Many years have passed since you wrote this diary, and I'd imagine that you would like to know what's happened

, the headmaster wrote, choosing his words carefully. There is now a man, a dark wizard, by the name of Lord Voldemort who proclaims himself master of the world. Already, he has taken over countless cities and his armies are almost great enough to strike at Hogwarts.

~ Lord Voldemort? Strange name. What is it that you want me to do? ~

"Oh Tom," Dumbledore sighed, shaking his head. There is nothing you can do, and I'm sorry to even write but I feel as if someone should know when Hogwarts falls.

~ So even the great Hogwarts will fall before the power of this Lord Voldemort? ~ As the words appeared, Dumbledore could feel the diary attach itself to his power, feel it try to suck the life from what it saw as a helpless old man. His body stiffened but he allowed the diary to drain him slightly before pulling away, letting the diary think him too weak to stop it immediately. ~ Few people would ever believe such a thing could happen. ~

Many things have happened now that few would believe. So many have died, and even you have gone missing Tom. It was a great blow to our side.

~ Old fool, ~ the diary seemed to cackle, ~ don't you even know who Lord Voldemort is? ~

He is a dark wizard who appeared just over a year ago, but no, no one yet knows his true name.

~ It is I! Me, in all my meddling years at Hogwarts. It seems as though I've finally passed you. ~

You, Tom? But no, you've never turned against-

~ Save it. In a few hours, Hogwarts will be overrun by the Slytherin heir and you will be forced down, will be forced to recognize the greatness of Salazar. ~

Never. I'll never surrender.

~ I know, old fool. I'm counting on that stubbornness. Soon, Hogwarts will have fallen and then the world will fall with it. Lord Voldemort will rise again. ~

You'll not get the chance, Tom. Even if I die, I'll stop you.

~ Stop me? You? Impossible. Even if you were to destroy my physical body, my essence would live on. Years would pass and just as the world relaxed my body will be remade. If you destroy my body, I'll return just as the world thinks peace and I'll come back fiercer than ever. ~

"You have always talked too much when you think you're winning, Tom," Dumbledore chided the diary, face heavy with worry. He turned to Severus and handed him the diary. "I've found out what I needed," he said. "Burn it."

*

Rumors flew: Harry knew things no student should know, he was advanced in the dark arts, he could out-potion the Slytherins, and Snape favored him though he was Gryffindor. They said he was dangerous; they said he was nice. Some whispered of confrontations with the boy, though he'd only been at school a week, confrontations that ended with bloodshed and dark magic. Some countered those conversations with other meetings with Harry, when he'd gladly helped them when they had a problem or when they felt down.

Strange, how after only being in school a week, Harry received fame from the students equivalent to that given to his brother.

Harry, for his part, ignored dark accusation as easily as light admiration, going to his classes with his housemates during the day and taking grueling tests late into the night. None were as draining as that first night, but all showed that Harry was as advanced, if not certainly more so, as them in his year. There was speculation that his brother had twice the power that Harry held, that Harry was drawing on Leo's power to help him through. Some professors looked forward to teaching the younger Potter while others dreaded it, already feeling insecure of teaching Harry, fearing that he would already know their lessons.

Trelawney developed an eerie, downright uncanny relationship with Harry and could be caught coming down during meals--an unprecedented experience--to whisper words of advice. Harry took it all in stride, accepting her words but declining late-night studies in divination, thanking her for her concern but denying any more prophetic happenings. When she predicted that his dreams would be plagued until he confronted his skill, he nearly froze at the dinner table, a sign to everyone that she'd struck a cord deep within him.

The three other houses also developed a relationship with Harry: he refused any attempts at friendship while retaining a courteous stance, and they learned to leave him alone. Slytherins would challenge him but with only a week of school in session, they had yet to snag him with anything other than that single event in Potions.

Which brought perhaps the strangest turn of events: Professor Snape being polite, if not gruffly friendly, with a Gryffindor! What next? McGonagall smiling and singing a song as she skipped down the hall arm in arm with Hagrid? The idea was insane but then again, Snape truly was being easy on Harry. Some hinted that Snape was, in fact, a long-lost uncle of the boy and was trying to make up forgotten years apart. Others claimed that Harry had somehow saved Snape's life or something along those lines, and Snape owed him a life-debt. Whatever the case, it seemed that Snape's benevolence stretched only to the single Gryffindor for no one else experienced a change in the Potions Master's attitude.

Between the nightly tests and daily classes, Harry still found time to disappear, only to reappear time later with no explanation other than he'd been out. He also seemed to have a fondness, for lack of better word, for the younger years. Hermione attributed this to his taking care of Leo, saying that it was in his system to take care of those weaker than him. From Jessica Adams, who still remembered him smiling at her during the Sorting Ceremony, to a third year by the name Michael Stevens, Harry had yet to refuse their pleas of help. When they found that his only free time was either between his last class and dinner, or late night after his testing, they crowded around him for the time before dinner or fell asleep waiting for him to return at night. No student had yet to stay awake long enough to see him back to his classes, save for the eternally wandering Ron and Hermione who often strolled along the lake or to the library, her prefect status protecting them against the usual punishments.

When Harry passed his tests, it was Friday night and he was found yet again by Ron and Hermione crouched against the Fat Lady's portrait, too weary to enter of his own free will. They gently picked him up, making no comments because the Tuesday morning had found him back to being polite but distant because of their help. It was only through sheer will alone that Hermione held his friendship, fragile it was. Harry probably didn't notice, too tired from the week's torture to care that he was showing his weakness.

They struggled again to bring him up the stairs, dropping him in bed, and Ron was just whispering goodbye to Hermione when they heard Harry whimper.

"Harry?" Hermione crept up to the bed, laying a hand against her new and mysterious friend's forehead. His skin was clammy to the touch but his scar seemed to burn. She hissed in pain and jerked her hand back.

"What's wrong?" Ron asked, too loudly because the room's other sleepers awoke, dreamily sticking their heads beyond the bed's curtains.

"Ron?" Seamus asked, newly awakened and unsure whether he was truly awake or merely dreaming. His eyes widened and he hissed out, "Hermione! What are you doing in here?" Neville opened his curtains as well, floppily getting to a sitting position to watch the show. Dean rubbed his eyes and yawned, half-awake but getting dragged back to sleep. He managed to open his curtains and lean against his bed frame, eyes opening, closing, and slowly opening again.

Hermione looked to answer but was cut off when Harry rolled over in his sleep, letting out another muffled moan. Soft it was, the others had gotten used to Harry's quietness and heard it.

"Something wrong with Harry?" Neville asked, stumbling in his words from sleepiness.

Ron glanced nervously between Hermione and Harry, who was becoming pale beneath his sun-ripened tan. "Think we should get Pomfrey?" he asked when Harry began to sweat, tossing again.

Hermione pressed her lips together and weighed the options in her head. "It couldn't hurt," she remarked and headed out to get said nurse. Just as she was opening the door from the circular room, it opened for her.

Standing outside the door was half of Gryffindor. They gawked at her, coming from the boys' dormitories and she blushed under their stares.

Harry tossed again and cried out, sounding like he was in pain, distracting them and reapplying Hermione to her mission. She pushed past her housemates and made for the door, looking back and calling, "Ginny, come with me!" The redhead girl took a look at the tempest-tossed Harry and nodded, wrapping her robes around her and following the fifth year prefect.

"What's with Harry?" someone asked, pressing her nose forward.

"How'd you all wake up?" Ron demanded, glaring at the Gryffindors, all of whom were under his year.

"Heard something," one boy admitted, twisting his fingers. "And woke them up to see what it was."

"You heard something?" Seamus, now fully awake, repeated suspiciously. "How? Our rooms are far enough away from yours to be soundproof."

"Not a noise," the boy replied, annoyed. "Just... something."

Before Seamus could challenge them further, several other Gryffindors piped out, "I heard it too!" but refused to say exactly what they heard, giving the older years the belief that the younger years had been caught during an attempted prank and were now trying to cover up their deeds. The only thing in common with all of them was that they were the students Harry had helped, despite his weariness. They quieted down but stared with wide-eyed dread when Harry cried out again, in definite pain this time. A quick glance at the time showed it past one.

"Well, this is cozy, " Seamus stated sarcastically as he was forced from his bed by three younger Gryffindors, all tired but unwilling to just leave Harry alone. "Get off--come on now--this is my---ah, forget it." He swatted the air angrily and got up from his bed, stifling a yawn.

"Can't we do anything?" Neville asked mildly.

Ron shot him a look. "What exactly do you think I should do?" the redhead demanded, gesturing wildly in the air much to the complaint of the other students he nearly hit. Their rooms were quickly being filled.

Dean stood up determinedly. "Listen," he called out. "None of you are helping. Hermione's already gone for Madam Pomfrey, and she'll take care of everything when she gets here. Why don't all of you go back to bed."

His words were met with a rebellious silence until one student cried out, "No!" and the others followed, shaking their heads and glaring at the presuming fifth year.

Dean rolled his eyes and gave up with a shrug of his shoulders, shooting the other fifth years a look as though to say, 'I tried.'

"How about this: everyone goes down to the common rooms to wait for Hermione to get back," Neville suggested with that same mild tone. "It's too crowded in here and, for all we know, the heat's irritating Harry."

"That's a good idea," Ron agreed, more to get everyone out of the room then anything. "So-"

"Why don't you put something on his face," one of the girls, a muggle-born, started. "When I'm sick, that's what my mum does." Her suggestion was met with more nods and cries of agreement than Neville's.

"How about this," Seamus began again. "We all leave except for one person-"

"Me," Ron said determinedly.

"Right then; we all leave except Ron, and he'll stay here and put whatever on Harry's face." The younger students looked unconvinced that Seamus's plan would do much good but dutifully filed from the room, casting the now-silent Harry concerned looks.

"We'll... we'll get the water for you," a second year declared, determined to be of help as he paused down in the common rooms.

"And I've got a rag-"

"Let me help-" A clamor arose as the students began shouting out suggestions.

Neville shook his head in dismay and Dean, not wasting any time, cast a silencing charm on the noisy group. "Listen, you all can't just go and-"

"Actually, it's a good idea," Ron interrupted, having started down into the room behind them. He wiped at his head. "I don't know, maybe a sort of ring or line, so if I need anything I could just holler and someone can get it for me." His friends looked as though they thought him mad for wanting to involved himself with the younger years willingly, but the others looks excited.

"I'll get that water," the second year started proudly, tooting off towards the bathrooms.

*

"Where's Hermione," Ron muttered, fifteen minutes later, reduced to wiping the sweat from Harry's face with a blanket from his own bed. He looked up. "More water, please."

"Coming up," Dean replied, repeating the request down towards the common room. A first year came running up, carrying with her a glass of cool water, and Ron tried again to put a cold rag against Harry's forehead to stop the fever, as he was sure it was.

"Hermione's back!" Seamus, in the common room, called up and Dean repeated the message to Ron's relieved ears. "Madam Pomfrey and Professor McGonagall's with her."

"Let me through, let me through," Pomfrey shoved through the sea of young Gryffindors and briskly stepped up to Harry's bed, examining her patient. "Weariness," she muttered to herself. "I told them one week was too short for any student but they insisted..."

When she noticed students still watching her, students that had begun filling up the room much like before, she rudely shoved them out, chiding them on wasting her time and locking the door behind her.

*

"What is it, Poppy?"

"Sickness. From stress or weariness, as far as I can tell."

The voices were strangely twisted to Harry's hearing. He was floating in a watery paradise and above him, above the water's surface, he could hear giant faces peering down at him. Harry tried to twist away, tried to move somehow, but he stayed floating with no control over himself.

"Probably from all the tests."

"I warned you. It's too much for any boy, regardless of his family."

"Perhaps we could-"

"What he needs is rest. A good night's rest and a day without stress." Someone touched him and, violated though he felt, Harry could do nothing about it. "There's something else, too, headmaster. This scar... I've never seen anything like it. When I started to heal the boy, I barely touched it and..."

"And?"

A heavy sigh. "I don't know exactly. There's enough dark magic stuck in there to bring the Ministry down on us if they knew. All that dark magic is why it won't heal properly. What seems to be happening is that whenever the boy's under a very stressful situation, the dark magic is able to leak into him, causing him grave harm. There's no way to stop it."

Dumbledore, standing in the hospital wing and above the limp boy lying in a hospital bed, rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Perhaps I could shield it, somehow. Stop the leaks."

Pomfrey shot him a shrewd look. "Are you saying you know a spell-"

"Not exactly," he replied delicately, knowing that both of them already knew that such a spell, a spell to counter or leak out the dark magic, would either be illegal or not in existence. Much of the permanent damage most war veterans faced was the result of a wound festering with dark magic, leaking just as this scar did. They would be forced under observation, then forced to stay relaxed, then forced to take medications and treatments--yet return from it all with the same wound, the same problem, forced to acknowledge that should their condition be worsened, the wound and the limb it was imposed on would be removed. Amputation was the only cure against such infection. "It won't be permanent, and will probably weaken--if I had been able to perform the spell when he was a child, the effects would stay longer than when I do it now. However, it seems to be the only choice we have."

"Any ideas on what caused that scar, Albus?" McGonagall asked, watching the young teen lying prone on the hospitable bed guiltily but also with a sense of fascination; the scar wound was the first of its kind. The only other patients with wounds holding similar properties only survived because of the distance between the wound (and the dark magic bomb) and the body's major organs, like the heart, the lungs... the brain. For them, their wounds festered on their legs, their arms, places that, as the aggravation grew, were forced to be amputated least the dark magic sore spread throughout the rest of the body. Here, Potter was surviving despite what could only be imagined as a continuous downpour of dark magic straight into his mind. "And what kind of spell can you use to disconnect it, however temporarily, from the boy?"

"It's a form of the griffins' magic," Dumbledore answered her second question, not knowing really how to answer the first. "Griffins, you see, have the unique ability to dislodge a person's soul from their body. Not death, of course, but as close to death one can go without actually dying." He took out his wand and turned it over in his old fingers. "It's a deep magic they do only in times of necessity, when the soul gets in the way of a body's healing. Very dangerous but sometimes essential."

And highly illegal, were the words ringing in the air.

Any magic taking on or imitating a magical creature's ability was kept highly regulated, especially if the animal in question was extremely powerful or extremely dangerous. Griffins, in this case, were considered both with their chaotic behavior codes and disorderly conducts, totally unpredictable when being handled.

He waved his wand, willing his words to sound out his need. The room hummed and a light escaped from the wand's tip, shooting out to encircle Harry's head for a moment before getting sucked into the skin. The scar, shaped like a bolt of lightening, began to glow with unseen electricity.

It glowed for nearly a minute, Dumbledore murmuring words of a spell, and a sharp cry of a griffin echoed in the room before all lights were extinguished.

McGonagall withdrew her own wand and relit the candles, anxiously checking to the headmaster but he was standing, steady as always, checking over Harry with a sense of self-pride. The spell, highly illegal, was also highly risky, even for him. And everyone there knew it. She swallowed at the more relaxed look on Potter's face and urged herself to relax as well, all the while knowing that she couldn't, not while this student still held his mysteries against her.

"That should do," Dumbledore announced, sweeping Harry's bangs back onto his face and looking totally unconcerned about the questions the night raised. Then the headmaster let out a little sigh, echo of the magical draining the spell did to him, and smiled lightly. "I'd say that's all we're needed for. Come, Minerva, or Poppy will be kicking you out next."

The nurse looked over Harry one last time and dimmed the candles, heading herself to bed, shaking her head in confusion mixed with dismal at the behavior of the students under her care, the professors of the school, and the headmaster who seemed to run everything by doing the unimaginable.

*

The weekend passed with little excitement, save for a rumor going around that Harry Potter had died Friday evening, but when he showed up at Saturday's breakfast, even that excitement left. Left, leaving behind only a tenseness that the upcoming trip to France set over the castle.

Harry awoke on Saturday, no memory to him of the night's dreams or his friends' care, but he thanked them well enough, assuring him that his health was of the country's best. 'Gryffindors stick together' came the new motto, but the older years laughed and reminded the younger that they'd slept through the night without the slightest trouble.

All in all, Harry's night was forgotten fifteen minutes after he proved himself fit, which was fine with him. At least, most people forgot about it.

"Are you sure you're all right?" Hermione asked for the seventh time after breakfast and before lunch as Harry tried yet again to ditch them by walking out towards the Quidditch fields, hands on his broom--the latest and greatest on the market. The Swift Blaze, released only that year, just a few months ago. He doubted, by the expression of confusion on Ron's face, that the other Gryffindor even realized the potential Harry's broom held.

"I'm fine," Harry answered, trying to keep his voice from becoming annoyed. Hermione looked troubled and unconvinced but Ron smiled.

"Good," the redhead challenged. "Cause I can't wait to race you."

"Only because you insisted," Harry pointed out. "We can always call this off." He didn't want to race on unfair terms, and with his broom against the other's, the race was unfair indeed.

Hermione nodded. "That's right, Ron. Why can't you just fly nicely for a change?"

"Because it's fun to race," Ron replied heartily. "And I need to try out my new broom." He held out his Firebolt with an admiring eye. "I can't imagine how long Charlie's saved for it. A Firebolt!" He sighed dreamily.

They reached the Quidditch field and, on Hermione's reluctant mark, rose in the air. "Don't get yourselves killed," she warned them.

"Just say go already," Ron shouted back, high in the air.

Hermione tossed her head, no doubt calling him a few choice words down below, and shouted out, "GO!"

They were off. Ron's broom zipped into the sky, responding to his slightest touch as he headed towards the other side of the fields. Harry was right behind him, leaning forward to increase his speed. The two were neck and neck, zooming through the air. Harry dipped low to the ground, so fast that the grass shook and waved in his passing, sliding to the side before he even came as the air forced before him created a wave of tension.

Ron let go for a moment to laugh at the darker boy's tactics but kept higher in the sky where the air was thinner and more flexible.

The Gryffindor Seeker of four years raced against the newest student and was winning.

Harry sucked in a breath through his teeth and reminded himself that Ron wasn't Leo, that if Ron didn't win, he wouldn't get mad. Then he pushed forward, releasing the self-made barriers to his speed. He shot off like a bullet.

"Wow," Ron called out, seeing Harry gaining speed and disappearing in the distance. A grin graced his features and he laughed aloud, slowing down tremendously and stopping just to watch Harry go.

Harry passed the fields' ends but didn't stop. The speed was a rush for him, the highest high. With four legs on the forest floor, he could never go this fast. His broom rose in the air and freed him from the pressure of gravity. He passed beyond the fields to zoom across the lake and Harry actually laughed before diving down at the thought of an idea, barely made in his mind before tested out. His broom skimmed the surface of the water and the water rose like the biblical Red Sea as Harry whipped by, crashing down and tiding over onto the shore, dousing nearby students who barely caught sight of him before he was gone again.

He turned west, towards the tree tops of the Forbidden Forest, and cast away all doubt as he zoomed towards it, turning at the last second and heading back to the school still at his neck-breaking speed. The winds were like cold slivers of teeth, biting and trying to hold onto his bare arms before sliding off. His hair tossed in his face.

But he felt free.

"Look at him go!" Ron laughed, shielding his face from the sun with one hand as his eyes trailed the sky after the flying Gryffindor. "Blimey, and here I thought I could beat him."

Harry whipped over their heads, probably too fast for him to take notice of them or the group of gathering students, watching him fly across the sky.

"Imagine him in a Quidditch game," Dean said in an awed voice. "I'm glad he's in our House. I'd hate to think him playing against us." Several Ravenclaws seemed to have realized that, with this little demonstration, Harry would be on the Gryffindor Quidditch team. And they paled.

Harry slowed down, floating high above the scene below him and peacefully unaware of it, just floating in the air and breathing in clean sky, not even aware that, at his current height, he'd fall with nothing to stop him.

"Aren't you scared you'll fall?"

An old conversation, years back with misgiving friendships, bobbed in Harry's memory, stinging with a suddenness that nearly unruffled the Gryffindor.

"No,"

his nine-year old self, a month away from being ten, had answered to the question.

"No one will catch you."

"I know."

Harry felt a stir of sickness as he remembered just how easily he was deceived. He may have been only a child at that age, but still...

"You going to stay up there forever?" Ron yelled up to him, startling him.

"Woah," Harry grabbed his broom and looked down, letting gravity pull him like a victim to the binding ground.

"Never knew you flew that well," Ron was saying, clapping him on the back in a gesture that nearly sent Harry coughing. "Should've told me before you challenged me to a race."

"Harry, you flew fantastically," Hermione exclaimed. She looked a little flustered. "I normally never even pay attention to flying... stupid sport, so easy to get yourself hurt-"

"You'll have to talk with Katie," Seamus called for his attention. "She's the captain this year. When she sees you fly, she'll kick Ron out of the spot. Course, he's a decent Keeper when he puts his mind to it, so he'll get put back in as Keeper. But Merlin knows we need a decent Seeker!"

"Hey!" Ron heard the comment. "I'm a pretty decent Seeker."

"Only when it's raining," came the sarcastic reply as Seamus hurried off.

*

Sunday morning arrived with no spectacular entrance: no angel fell down to sing praises to the rising sun; no dragons lay slain by the dripping rays of light; no house elf became free at the start of the day; no rose bloomed into an existence sparked by the morning's beginning. Birds stayed snug in their nest, no thought of tweeting morning welcomes occurring in their small brains.

In short, the day began with its simplicity almost overruling everything else. There was no fantastical beginnings to that day, no reason to suspect that, as the sun rose, it pulled with it a havoc so great the Professor McGonagall, by the end of the day, wished it had never come.

But then again, Sunday was the day that Hogwarts would all travel to France, so perhaps no spectacular entrances were needed. The day would be spectacular enough.

"Get up!" McGonagall shouted for the tenth time, walking through the Gryffindor common rooms, her voice bellowing up the stairs to the different dormitories. For her effort, grumpy moans echoed back down and reluctantly slow steps as students hobbled from their beds, looking to kill. "If you do not get up now, you'll get left behind!" The threat rang empty in the students' sleepy ears and, if anything, only made them move slower.

Throwing her hands in the air, McGonagall left her students to their own devices, swearing not to concern herself with their slowness, with their foolish slowness. They'd regret it later, she steamed to herself, they'd wish that they'd started sooner when they realized that half their things had been forgotten. They'd wish that they'd listened to her. Still, her eyes, almost of their own will, traveled to the cat clock on the wall. It was magicked to act just like any regular cat, much to McGonagall's personal amusement, and right now was licking its paws, obscuring vision to the clock on its belly.

"Nearly six," she muttered to herself and the cat meowed. With a smooth gesture, she lifted the cat-clock and stroked its soft fur, hardly able to suppress a smile when it began to purr. "Silly thing, I'll only be gone a week." It mewed again, butting its furry head into McGonagall's palm, into her arm.

"Minerva," a voice attracted her attention and almost guiltily, McGonagall turned to see Dumbledore's smiling face, waiting patiently for her in her fireplace. "I trust you've had a good sleep."

"As good as ever," she replied crisply.

Dumbledore smiled, looking more to her like a grandfather than the world's strongest wizard. "Are you students up?" She nodded. "The train's arrived. I've taken the opportunity to provide beds, as it is rather early."

"No earlier than when I usually wake," McGonagall pointed out.

"But the children need their sleep." He looked away for a moment, looking at his office for something, and looked back. "The trip lasts all day-"

"And I shudder to think of what our students will behave like," McGonagall interrupted, truly shuddering. "All day in a train? The ride to Hogwarts is almost too long to contain them."

"You act like Severus in the morning," Dumbledore smiled gently, almost scolding, and added, "You can begin bringing your students down at any time. I've just received word that the conductor's waiting."

*

"How," yawn, "exactly are we getting to Beauxbatons?" Ron yawned again, sleepily, clutching at his wide-open mouth to prevent anyone else from smelling the foul breath a night's sleep had doused him with. Hermione had politely informed him earlier that if his breath was any bit worse, no dog would be safe and he'd taken the statement to heart. Harry, beside him, shrugged but Hermione's eyes glowed, a sign that she knew the answer.

"By train, silly," she reproved gently, one of the few actually awake enough to put her brain to work. "The Hogwarts Express, in fact. I really don't know how, but the train has something to do with it. Look."

She pointed and sure enough, the train sat steaming in its tracks, a sight students didn't expect to see until the end of the year. The train represented two diverse things: slavery, as it dragged them down, back to the halls of Hogwarts where their very existence would be judged and they would spend their years trying to be found worthy. And freedom, as it stole them away from the castle's walls, chugging at a speed almost too fast for some, breaking their chains and releasing them into a life of summer. That was it. Seeing it in between its two destined times (the start and end of school) was unnerving.

"Then why do we have to get up so early?" Ron complained, a whine entering his voice.

Hermione rolled her eyes and snorted soft. "Honestly Ron. Can't you figure it out on your own?" He shook his head dumbly, too sleepy to come back at her. "Then let me show you: if it takes half the day to get from London, at the bottom of England, to Hogwarts, in north Scotland, how long will it take for the train to go all the way from Hogwarts to France?"

"Hours," Harry answered when Ron's face didn't seem to compute with the question. "Probably all day." Hermione nodded approvingly.

"Let's go, students, let's go," McGonagall appeared, almost shoving the students down the way. "Miss Granger, could you work with your Gryffindors?"

Hermione blushed and nodded fingering her prefect's badge with an almost new appeal. "Of course." She looked to Ron and Harry. "I'll see you inside. Save me a seat."

"Come on," Harry directed, gently pulling Ron up to the train, avoiding the stark-faced Slytherins and the sleepy-eyed Hufflepuffs, pulling back from the loudly lecturing Ravenclaws and finally getting into the train. Inside, the Express looked nothing like it once had. As Harry pulled Ron down, looking for an empty compartment, his eyes caught onto the change: where there had once been nice bench-like seats in each little room, there was now double-facing bunk beds, one on each side.

"Here," and he pulled into an empty compartment. Ron yawned again, walking forward to smack his head against one bed frame. "No," Harry pulled Ron back. "Look, there's a bed there."

"Mmm." Ron yawned and looked through squinted eyes. "A bed?" He felt his way forward and a tired smile worked its way on his face as he crawled into the bed, not caring about his robes.

Harry raised an eyebrow but said nothing, mentally noting that Ron would be very embarrassed when he woke in wrinkled robes. Then he walked back out into the dispensing crowd of students to find Hermione.

"Potter," he turned to see Malfoy and the boy's Slytherin gang.

Harry looked the boy up, not surprised to see that the Slytherin managed to look arrogantly dressed, robes crisp and clean compared to the sleepily sloppiness of the rest of the students. One of Harry's eyebrows twitched in agitation. "Malfoy."

The Slytherins snickered at some unspoken signal and Draco swaggered forward, sweeping by Harry, silently challenging him to get offended.

Harry rolled his eyes and went off again, looking for Hermione. He, of course, didn't find her, not in the mess of students still wandering around like the walking dead but the train whistled and there was a mad rush to get to a seat--er, bed.

The twins had gotten a hold of a water gun, probably having stolen it from the Ravenclaw girl, and were squirting people too sleepy to put up much a fight. Lee was behind them, doing something behind his back and just when Harry was beginning to get worried, the seventh year pulled out a now-pink owl. It squeaked in indignation.

"There," Lee was saying, handing the owl down to a blubbering Slytherin second year too astonished to realize what had just happened. "Now it has the magical powers of rose."

Lee looked up at the unsuspected crowd rushing by him. "Who's next to give their pet to get magical powers?" He grabbed a toad from a passing Hufflepuff and Harry turned away before he could see what color the amphibian it would soon be sporting.

He walked down to the back end of the train where the students had settled, sleeping in their beds. There was some soft crying from one bedroom and Harry walked in, looking around. In one bed, trying to hide beneath the blankets of her bed, was a first year Hufflepuff. He recognized the signs of homesickness immediately.

Harry's footsteps caused her head to shoot up and she paled. Harry, instead of saying anything, took a seat on the edge of her bed. Were all first years so young, he wondered as he watched her, mentally urging her to trust him. So young and vulnerable... was Leo like this now that he wasn't there to protect his younger brother? The mere thought gave rise to chill.

The train gave a start and slowly began to move, signaling that all students and professors were aboard and the day's trip to France had begun.

She gave a low moan and ducked under her bed, sparking within Harry a sense of compassion. In a soft voice, Harry began to speak, saying the first words that came to his mind. "Hi."

She gulped and muttered her own welcome, blushing bright from beneath her sheets, obviously embarrassed by her show of weakness. "A-are you Potter?" she stuttered. Harry nodded and the train hitting its tracks was the only sound for some time.

"Do you like stories?" Harry asked, trying to open up any route of conversation, and the girl sniffed curiously. "My mum, when I was little, used to tell me stories whenever she had the time."

The girl sniffled again but answered with some strength, "Yes, but my mum's muggle so you probably don't know any of the stories she told me-"

Harry smiled very, very faintly. "My mum's family were all squibs, but they lived like muggles. I bet I know some stories that you'd recognize." She shook her head doubtfully. "Well, what's your favorite story?"

"The three goats," she replied almost instantly, then she huddled back under her blankets as if her own forwardness startled her.

"The three goats?" Harry repeated. He tilted his head to the side. "Does it start like, 'Once there were three Billy Goats Gruff'?" She nodded excitedly, dark brown eyes watching him with interest. "All right." He took a deep breath and with his rolling voice started the story: "Once there were three Billy Goats Gruff. The oldest was Big Billy Goat Gruff who wore a collar of thick black braid. Middle Billy Goat Gruff had a red collar around his neck and Little Billy Goat Gruff. Big Billy Goat Gruff."

He went on with the story, trying to remember it as his mother had once told him, trying to remember how he told Leo back before his brother had grown embarrassed of the story telling. He pulled out his wand and waved it, and three small goats, no bigger than his hand, appeared. The Hufflepuff gasped in delight, dropping her blanket in shock. The goats butted heads and acted as though they'd always been there. In the room, the other three girls stirred to silent wakefulness.

"Big Billy Goat Gruff had a deep, gruff billy goat voice," Harry dropped his voice down to match the goat's deep voice and the Hufflepuff giggled despite herself. "Middle Billy Goat Gruff had a middle-size billy goat voice," his voice raised to slightly normal sound. "And Little Billy Goat Gruff," his voice went high as a squeak and the other girls joined in their giggles, "had a high, little billy goat voice."

The three goats pranced about, calling to each other and their voices matched the story's description, much to the girls' amusement. The littlest one sounded like a mouse.

"All winter long," Harry continued in his normal voice, "the three Billy Goats Gruff lived on a rocky hillside. Right next to their hill ran a powerful, rushing river."

Harry waved his wand again and beneath the miniature goats' feet grew a small hill, a mirage river flowing beside it. He went on with the story, describing the goats' desire to get across the river's bridge to the other side where bright green grass grew. When he told them of the troll living beneath the bridge, he also absently called up an image to join the animated picture but his troll looked so hilariously ugly that the girls, all Hufflepuffs, broke down into high-pitched fits of laughter.

Harry let a small smile grace his face, growing easier with the girls, as he voiced the smallest goat's crossing of the bridge. "It is only I, Little Billy Goat Gruff," he said in his high-pitched voice when the troll jumped out to stop the goat's crossing.

"I'm going to eat you up!" said the troll and, despite its appearance, the girls tensed as the magicked troll before them reached out for the goat, looking ready to carry out its threat.

"Oh no!" said Harry in his Little Billy Goat Gruff's voice. "I am only a tiny, little billy goat. Wait for my brother." The other goats looked up in alarm at this suggestion. "He will make a much bigger dinner for you."

Between Harry's animated voice, smoothly telling the story, and his spell of picture showing the story, the girls were trapped up in the story and let out a breath of relief when the troll let the goat pass.

When Middle Billy Goat Gruff passed by, making the same suggestion that the troll wait for his brother, Big Billy Goat Gruff began to cross, tromping loudly across the bridge. "I'm coming to eat you up!" said the troll.

The biggest goat of them all shook its head without concern. "Come ahead," said the goat in its deep, gruff voice but none of the girls' laughed at Harry's imitation this time, too caught up in suspense as the troll rushed the goat.

"No!" one girl cried.

Harry hid another smile and waved his wand. Instead of the usual easy-win, he fixed the goat and troll so that a small battle occurred: the troll rushed up, waving its arms and slobbering at the mouth but the goat dodged, dancing out of the way. The troll tried again, bringing out its hand with suddenly sharp nails and trying to land a strike on the goat's white fur. The goat dodged again then rammed its horns, knocking the troll to the side. Minutes of shallow breath later and the goat finally managed to toss the troll over the side. The girls cheered.

Harry wrapped up the story quickly, realizing that a small audience had gathered behind him. He showed the oldest goat, joining his brothers and the three wandered over to the nice grass. "So the three Billy Goats Gruff spent their summer eating happily in the high meadows," he concluded and the images blurred. "They grew very fat and contented," he added, drawing out the last of the girls' giggles.

"Very nice, Potter," a voice drawled and Malfoy was back, leaning against the wall. Harry stiffened and the girls quieted, as if just realizing that Harry was in fact a Gryffindor. "Muggle?"

"Fairy tale," Harry replied coldly. He pocketed his wand, nodded towards the girls, and tried to leave. Malfoy stopped him.

"What do you think you're doing?" the boy hissed. "I thought we already covered this: you're not a Slytherin, so stop trying to be one of us."

"What are you talking about?" Harry motioned to the little girls. "They're not Slytherins. They're Hufflepuffs."

"This is the Slytherin end of the train," Draco replied smugly.

Harry narrowed his eyes but then pushed by, willing to let the whole thing drop. Beside Draco was a group of scowling Slytherins and further up, some Hufflepuffs --the only ones willing to stay so close to the Slytherin end of the train--pocked their heads out to see what the commotion was.

The time had passed and the witch who usually passed out candy now walked down the train with her cart full of breakfast foods, handing out the meal with a smile. Harry passed her, declining her offer of a Danish croissant.

"-but we're going almost too fast to even notice," Hermione's voice called to him and he walked further up the train, heading towards the room he'd dropped Ron in.

"Why do you have to question everything?" Ron asked her. "The rest of us, we're just satisfied to know that we'll be getting to France one way or other. But you, you have to go and get the specifics."

The door was opened and when he stopped in the doorway, Ron blinked in surprise before smiling. "Hey, Harry. Thought we left you at Hogwarts."

Hermione turned to see Harry. "Where were you?" she asked in relief. "No one's seen you since the train started."

"I was just talking to some first years," Harry answered, balking at giving away too much. "What were you talking about?"

Ron waved a hand to show his care. "Just about how we're crossing the channel to get to France. Hermione here had to go up and ask Dumbledore before she shut up."

"It's really interesting, Harry," Hermione added, eyes sparkling. "You see, there's a portal that connects England to France and we're going right through it, right over the English Channel."

"A portal?" Harry sat down and took up the conversation with the same eagerness that Hermione held. "But, if there's a portal, can't any muggle just wander through?"

Hermione shook her head and Ron sighed, leaning back against the wall in mock exasperation but Harry could sense of muffled interest coming from the redhead as well. "No. See, you have to be going a certain speed to activate the portal. That's why we're going so fast," she gestured out the window and Harry was startled to realize that the scenery was passing by so fast, the best he could pick out was a blur. "We'll be working up all day to get up to speed then hit the portal just after sunset."

"Where will it take us?"

Hermione tilted her head to the side and shrugged. "I really don't know. Beauxbatons is in lower France, almost on the Mediterranean Sea so I'd guess that we'll come out in southern France, near enough to the school as the tracks take us."

They talked for awhile afterwards, picking up some food when the cart came around for lunch, but as the day dragged on it bored everyone into a dull tiredness. Not even Harry, whose dreams still plagued him, could hold out against the lull of sleep.

*

"There you are, son," James smiled, placing a hat on Harry's head. "That'll keep the sun off you." He looked around and grinned, slipping some chocolate frogs into Harry's jacket. "But don't tell your mum, alright?"

Harry grinned but the frogs began to leap away. "Catch them!" James yelled, jumping after the frog and becoming one himself. Harry tried to catch them but each one he touched turned to chocolate and melted away. "Catch them! Catch them!" Harry touched his dad-frog and it melted away.

"Harry, where's your dad?" Lily asked, wearing an apron and coming out from the house. She looked down at the chocolate mess in Harry's hands and put her hands on her hips in vexation. "Did he give you those?" She reached over and swatted the frogs away, sending them into the air and staining the blue sky with the brown dots. It looked likes spots of corruption.

The brown spots began to grow, vibrating against the skies as the clouds fell down, hitting Harry. The whole time, Lily stood, shaking her head. "I told you chocolate's bad for you!" she called over to him. A cloud fell and slapped his head, sending the world spiraling. The brown changed color and now it was the blue skies, everything else becoming black and dark. Lily was gone.

"Hey," Leo was sitting on the floor in a puddle of dirty water. He reached down and began to drink some with a smile. "This is really good!"

"Mum says it's not good for you," Harry whined against his will, and he felt himself beginning to shrink even as Leo began to grow older.

"Mum's not here," the adult-Leo chided the child-Harry. "And you're not my dad, so you can't tell me what to do." Everything was so dark, except for those few spots of blue still in the sky. Leo's whole body began to shake and he crashed to the floor, knees shattering into a million pieces when it connected against the ground. The shattering went on; every time Leo touched the ground, a part of him shattered then was brushed away in the wind.

"That's not nice!" he chided Harry. "That hurt!"

"You shouldn't have tried to be so big," Harry chided him back, back to his original age. He went over to help put his shattered brother back together but the pieces cut his hands, tearing like glass before turning into tiny bugs that crawled beneath the torn skin, swimming into the falling blood. The more he tried to help, the more Leo turned into little bugs that infested his body and sent shivers down his spine. Finally, he'd absorbed all he could and collapsed, shattering just like his brother had with the thought that Leo had meant for him to fall this way.

A green light, "Avada Kedavra!" And Harry floated around while everyone else turned to dust and vanished.

*

Harry awoke to the dim lights of the room's candles, head bustling against the window in time with the train's movements. It was getting dark outside but that was practically all that anyone could tell. The scenery was still too blurred with speed.

"You're awake?" Ginny whispered and Harry jerked up, startled. "Shh. Ron's asleep and Hermione's just dropped off, too."

"When did you get here?" he asked, sitting up away from the cool comfort of the window. Ginny shrugged. "How long have I been sleeping?"

"A couple hours. We're almost there, I think. But," she squealed, "you missed the best part!" He gave her a blank look. "Passing through the portal! Seeing the water below us, but going too fast to be scared. It was beautiful-"

"Attention, students, we'll be arriving in ten minutes," McGonagall's enhanced voice echoed in every room. "Please wake and for heaven's sake, straighten your robes. Remember, you'll be representing Hogwarts while you're here so behave yourselves."

"Ron, Ron wake up. Hermione, you have to get up. We're almost there." The two students blinked and straightened, yawning and stretching out their arms.

"We're there?" Hermione asked sleepily, rubbing her eyes.

"Almost," Ginny replied. "But we have to get ready. I heard that the Daily Prophet's going to be there--this is almost bigger than the World Cup!"

"The World Cup?" Ron repeated. "That's an insult! Nothing's as good as the World Cup!"

*

Almost every single country had their own wizarding school, and there were enough private schools to make up the difference. Some countries, like the United Kingdom, had chosen to come in a subtle way, not using their entrance to claim fame by riding train, bus, or boat. Others, however, tried to grab all the fame they could. This was one of the few times every country in Europe would come together, at least magically, and they wanted to go down in the history books because of it.

Russia came in, wearing great fur coats and golden medals, riding on gargantuan snow wolves, wolves large enough to stand against a man and shadow him but nothing compared to the legendary massiveness of an Arctic Wolf. The Greeks rode flying horses, some of them obviously tipsy from a combination of the ride and their wine. Spain simply apparated its students but brought along their brightly colored robes and some even dressed as matadors, laughing with others at their own customs. The Bulgarians, winners of last year's Hogwarts's hosted Triwizard Tournament arrived in a boat sparkling with gold, lighted with many dozens flying fairies. Austria's students rode in on dragons, newly hatched and small enough for each student to sit. As they left them, the dragons caught sight of the glowing fairies and let smoke sizzle from their nostrils in hunger.

In France, the stars lighted the skies, air so clean that comets looked ready to spill down and the mountains towered over all, looking like lazy brothers unwilling to move with the celebration at their feet.

Norway, Sweden, and Finland all arrived together, telling jokes and laughing though their languages differed, making friends at the touch of a hand. Celebration was all that mattered tonight. Celebration and wine.

Some country thought it would be just sensational to ride by sea but arrived in the mouth of some horrible sea creature, its would-be champions soaked to the bone and ready to kill for a shower. Another thought that bringing fantastic beasts for display would comment on their wealth, and ended up running for their lives as their creatures became loose. Ministry workers popped into existence, chiding the drinkers while slipping drinks, stopping the party from becoming too spectacular, pulling apart fights when two people of different language came together, each feeling insulted by the other.

The Hogwarts Express pulled into some magically conjured tracks, tracks that wouldn't be there come morning, and spilled out its load. Its students wanted out and wanted in, forgetting and remembering but all the while aware of the intense sensations if the air that ran like electricity, aware of the sounds of the party just beyond their sights. They could taste the wine in the air, could bite into the French pastries baking nearby, could dance as music ripped apart the night: salsa, pure and sweet, a gift from Spain. The seventh years joked and pushed each other around, each too nervous for relaxation while those younger than they hurried on, rushing up the path towards the French school of Beauxbatons.

The tracks had dumped them away from the party and now they had the enjoyment of entering the school grounds as they were supposed to be entered by all first years, seeing the sights designed to take the breath away. Last year, when the champion from France had complained of Hogwarts's plainness compared to her own school, she was laughed at and ignored. Nothing could be better than Hogwarts.

A path led from the tracks up a rolling hill. Trees and greenery abound everywhere, blocking their immediate sight of the school while doing nothing to damper the sounds, the lights the shined over into the sky. The path led them into a garden: stone, flower, and sculptures--ice and stone and more--sat frozen in motion, taking their breaths away as the flowers danced. Some students paused here, looking at the simple beauty of it all before rushing on, ready to see the real school

The path, which had disappeared beneath flower beds and sculpture heads, picked back up again and led them up the hill and over a small stream, the water slashing noisily against the rocks in its own rhythm. Finally, the trees gave away to their own pastures and the school stood before them.

A huge gate, with carvings and beauties so intricate that even the blind could feel it, rose up, stopping them from seeing the entire school, keeping the pleasure at bay. Steps rose up from the path, leading past the enormous gate and over yet another stream, this stream turning into a moat as they came closer. Past the gate was large building, huge glass walls letting them see the great tables with their waiting dinners; it was the equivalent of Hogwarts's Great Hall. Pillars held the structure together and a spiraling walkway from one side of the Great Hall went up to a top floor. Beside the Great Hall was a tall tower, a watch-point at its top and a clock embedded in its side.

The time read midnight.

The Hogwarts students went on, passing other buildings and other rooms, heading past them all and crossing over the little streams that seemed to run loose over the school's campus to where the noise was the loudest and the lights the brightest: the Quidditch fields.

"Ignore the school," some students whispered to each other as they ran towards the field. "Ignore it or you'll miss the party." They ran, aware of their plain black robes against the Russian fur, against the Spanish colors, against the French silk. They were aware of their plain train against the golden Bulgarian ship, the Greek pegasi, the Austrian dragons. Compared to the vibrant headmaster of Spain, to the youthful German professors, and the smiling French Minister, the students knew their teachers and leaders were not the same, were perhaps even tiring or too old. But this was the night of celebration, of laughter and bolster, the night were some traditions were forgotten and others brought from the closet and shown to the world because that night, the whole world came together. The whole world came together and laughed.

'Welcome to Beauxbatons,' one sign read, repeated in several languages as it hung forgotten amidst the party. 'Welcome to home.'