Magical Places
Challenge: Written for Scribbulus_ink's Peter Pan
challenge.
Author's
Notes: Warm thanks to
Isiscolo for the fast and thorough beta!
Harry Potter splashed in
the sea off the warm Spanish seacoast. He was, he reflected (for really,
seacoasts were the perfect spot for self-indulgent reflection) quite the
happiest he'd ever been in his short life.
He looked toward the shore, where Ron and Hermione, in rickety beach chairs,
lazed about under an overly large purple umbrella. Hermione, with her owlishly
round sunglasses and a heavy book propped on her knees, looked like a librarian
on holiday, though few of the librarians Harry had ever met looked quite so good
in a pink bikini.
Further out, in the crashing surf, Seamus tried unsuccessfully to dunk Neville
under each successive wave. Seamus' fair skin was already horribly bright red.
It had got that way every day, even under the gentle Spanish sun. He'd learnt a
sunburn removal spell that he used every night.
Neville, now nearly as tall as Ron, was patently refusing to be dunked, slipping
away, by virtue of the copious amounts of anti-sunburn potion his gran had
gifted him with. She'd given him a whole cauldron-full of it when the idea for a
beach holiday had been broached with all the adults who'd contributed members of
the latest class of Hogwarts-educated wizards.
On the shore Dean was building a sandcastle alongside Pavarti and Lavender. The
girls, however, were trying to out do each other, adding turrets and buttresses,
using surreptitiously murmured spells.
Harry ducked under, letting the blood-warm water wash over his head. Even
without his glasses, when he opened his eyes under water he could see his hair
drifting around his head in a halo. When he popped back up he could hear shrieks
of some row beginning. He grinned, heedless of the salt water that splashed in
his mouth.
Today it had been Lavender who'd snuck in a spell to send Pavarti's castle
tumbling onto poor Dean's, who, manfully trying to play by the non-magical rules
laid out their first day in Spain, had built his creation waist-high by hand
before it started crumbling around his ankles.
Only instead of just toppling, Pavarti's besieged sand creation was wobbling
madly as fist-sized holes opened up in critical buttresses. As Harry slogged
through the gentle waves, he saw that Lavender had created a battalion of
catapults to hurtle sand cannonballs at her competitor's castle.
Harry stretched out half in and half out of the lapping surf, facing their
umbrella base camp, and Accio'd his glasses, grabbing them one-handed out of the
air. As the waves lapped at the lower half of his torso, he saw that the
catapults even had little buff-colored crews manning each one as they lobbed
their sandy grenades.
Lavender really was a good witch, he thought, as Ron made a rude remark about
the size of Dean's collapsing tower, now tilting wildly from the weight of
Pavarti's doomed construction. They were all good witches and wizards. Hadn't
they, all of them, defeated the worst dark wizard in a century?
He saw Ron get up, shaking his head, and stroll down the beach to sit beside
Harry in the surf, facing out toward the ocean. "Women are daft," he said
without preamble, stretching his long freckled legs into the seductive surf.
"You don't have to tell me," Harry said, pushing his glasses up on his nose as
the enchanted crews manning the catapults saluted Lavender smartly. Like any
good general, she surveyed the sandy carnage with ill-disguised glee.
"You're well out of it, mate," Ron said, splashing his feet like seal fins in
the shallow water near the shoreline.
Harry, who didn't see it precisely that way, just grunted. The waves lulled them
both into companionable silence, punctuated by the occasional calls of Seamus,
in the deeper water, still stalking Neville, who'd begun swimming around him
making familiar shark movie theme song noises.
In fact the soft lapping of the water and the drowsy heat of the sun was so
lulling that Harry felt his head sinking into the little splash of water that
was the end by-product of the waves broken by his feet. He shook himself awake,
thinking what an ignoble end of his own it would be if the Boy Who Lived died on
a lovely seaside coast in scant four centimeters of water.
"Accio book," he said, his friend jolting suspiciously as though he too had been
drifting to sleep. Ron rubbed his nose, which had begun to peel a bit, and
peered down as the battered paperback slapped into Harry's hand.
"What are you reading *that* for?" he asked, as Harry thumbed open the book he'd
found in the cottage they'd pooled their galleons to lease for the holiday.
Harry stuck the bit of dragon heartstring he was using as a bookmark into the
back of the book. "What's wrong with it?" he asked, angling his body to put the
book in his own shadow, so he could read without the bright glare of the sun.
"It's for babies," Ron said disdainfully.
A shadow fell on them as Hermione plopped herself on the other side of Harry.
Since she was out of the protective dome of the umbrella, she'd added a
ridiculously large sun hat with a dangling pink ribbon.
"That's a really good one, Harry," she said, splashing herself to cool down her
oil-slick skin down. Harry gave Ron a triumphant look.
"I cried when Hook died," she went on, and Harry closed the book with a glare.
"Guess I won't have to read it after all," he snapped as Hermione covered her
mouth in dismay.
"Sorry! I thought you'd--I thought *everyone* had--"
Harry swallowed the remark he was about to make about there not being room
enough in his cupboard for luxuries like beloved children's classics in the face
of her obvious contrition.
"You *cried* when that smelly old pirate died?" Ron asked incredulously. "That's
just wrong."
Biting her bottom lip, Hermione looked down uncertainly at Harry, obviously
bursting to discuss the finer points of literature with Ron, but not wanting to
spoil it any further for Harry.
"Go on, it's already ruined," Harry said with a much put-upon air.
"Oh, don't tell me you've never read it," Ron said, frowning, though Harry had
to squint into the sun to tell.
How to make it seem that doing without such things as books had all been some
sort of jolly childhood adventure Harry had endured for the sake being able to
make pithy poignant reminiscences now? Ron's family had done without, but they'd
done without things like flying brooms or lush warm extra dress robes for every
child. And they'd 'done without' in a whole houseful of people, while Harry had
done without scrunched under the stairs, alone.
Wasn't that a great way to kill the best mood he'd ever been in, here in this
magical place with his truly magical friends?
Over his damp back Ron and Hermione were arguing about how disgusting the
villain of the piece, Hook, had been and whether or not he'd deserved to die in
a suitably horrible way.
Keeping the worn copy of Peter Pan out of the waves, Harry lifted himself out of
the sucking sand that had molded him in place, and got to his feet. "Going to
wash this sand off," he said as Hermione ducked the droplets he was
inadvertently flinging. Both of them gave his departure the barest
acknowledgement, and Harry found his lost good mood blossoming again. How could
anyone feel sorry for himself on a warm summer day by the shore? He might not
have read 'Peter Pan' as a child, but he had plenty of time to read it now,
didn't he?
Later that night when they were all tucked up in the cozy cottage, Harry claimed
the seat by the enormous bay window that overlooked the ocean. That window had
been the main selling point when he and Ron had been spotting cottages for their
holiday. He'd thrown himself into the worn but still plump velour-covered
cushions their first day here, and he'd staked it out every evening since.
From here he had a good view of the open space, broken into kitchen, smallish
dining room, and living room by a tall counter. Since Lavender and Pavarti had
cooked dinner, it was Hermione's turn to clean up. Her wand was out as she
directed the stack of mismatched plates into the cupboard. It had been decided,
fairly early on, not to allow the men into the kitchen, but to put them in
charge of the brick grill outside where they cooked many of their meals.
Neville was seated on one of the high stools that lined the counter, laying out
shells in different patterns. Ron handed him a cherry Popsicle, then sucked on
his own grape one, his lips already purple as he pretended not to watch Hermione
at the sink.
None of them wore much in the way of clothes--shorts and tank tops and trunks
for the boys. For the girls, an endless series of bikinis that even Harry had
ogled more than once.
Across from the kitchen, at the heavy wooden table in the dining area, Dean and
Seamus, Lavender and Pavarti played at wizard scrabble. Harry, who'd got used to
most wizard games, had learnt to play it but had trouble getting used to the
tiles rearranging themselves when the players weren't looking. The game itself
was a player in wizard scrabble. If the tiles made cleverer words than you, you
lost. Harry, not known for his vocabulary, nearly always lost.
Some nights, after the girls had gone to bed, he and the boys played dirty
scrabble, but Neville, with a wicked knowledge of the vulgar, nearly always won.
Idly, utterly content with a bellyful of shrimp, bought off a local boat and
cooked themselves on the brick grill, Harry picked up the aged copy of Peter Pan
from where he'd tossed it that afternoon. He started to open it, then leaned his
head back against one of the sturdy old mullions as his eyes drifted shut.
He woke as the soft blush of dawn glinted off something on the floor. Stretched
out on the worn cushions, Harry opened his eyes sleepily, and groped for his
glasses.
It wasn't the first time Harry had fallen asleep in the bay window. After that
first disastrous time when Hermione had tried to wake him and he'd hexed her
before he'd got his eyes open, they usually let him sleep.
Blinking the sleep out of his eyes, Harry picked up the book where it must have
fallen, as he pushed upright, leaning back again as he watched the sun rise
outside the quiet cottage. When the day was well started Harry opened the book
again, and wandered into the Darling nursery as the story unfolded.
By the time the others had begun to stir, wandering into the common area, Harry
was shrugging into his familiar traveling robe. Ron, with a severe case of
redhead bed-head yawned as he padded barefoot into the kitchen. "Going somewhere?"
he asked, grabbing the orange juice from the fridge, frowning as if trying to
remember if Harry had mentioned some previous engagement.
"Hogwarts," Harry said, buttoning the topmost button of his robe.
"Hogwarts?" Neville echoed, shuffling in wearing just the bottoms of his pajamas.
He looked confusedly from Harry to Ron. "Who's going to Hogwarts?" Behind him,
in the large room most of the boys shared, Harry could hear various permutations
of the question passing between Seamus and Dean.
His sense of urgency made him ignore them, tucking his wand into his sleeve. He
didn't know exactly why he felt this sudden need to get to where he was going,
but it was one of those urges that couldn't be reasoned away.
"Shoes," he said, not having worn proper ones for weeks.
"Has something happened?" Hermione asked, coming up behind Ron, who still
clutched the container of orange juice.
"Harry's going to Hogwarts," Ron answered, as though that explained everything.
"If I can find my bloody shoes!" Harry growled, arms akimbo as he surveyed the
weatherworn vinyl floor. Silently Neville eased out of the boy's room, Harry's
loafers in his hand. "Thanks, Nev," Harry said in genuine gratitude, and the
other young man flushed.
"But why?" Hermione went on, doggedly.
Harry picked up the copy of Peter Pan, tucking it in his carry all. "I'll
explain when I get back."
Ron took a long swig of the juice straight from the carton. "Want us to go with?"
The urgency still jangling at his nerves Harry looked around to see if he'd
forgotten anything. "Nah. Thanks. Don't worry. I'll be back. I'll explain
everything," he said again, hoping he could.
"But--" he heard as he Apparated away.
Harry materialized perfectly along the path to Hogsmeade, the moldering stone of
his beloved school a looming silhouette. He started up the path, the urgent
sense shimmering up his spine like the feeling he got just before he Apparated.
Before he could get to the stone gates Harry saw Hagrid emerging from a field of
bright red poppies. Before he could stop to ponder why the school should grow
such a thing, or why Hagrid would be walking among them, he heard his name in a
booming voice.
"Harry!" his friend called as Harry forced himself, not without a longing glance
at the stone gates, to slow down. "What on earth are ya doin' here, lad?"
Trying to look as adult as his education proclaimed him to be, Harry said, "I
just need to speak with Professor Snape." He smiled over brightly. "Won't take a
moment." He turned to leave, conscious of being almost abrupt enough to be rude.
"Well, he hain't there," Hagrid said, plucking one of the bright red flowers and
sniffing it as though they had all the time in the world. The enormous man was
in shirtsleeves, the huge muscles of his forearms working as he twirled the
flower.
"Not…there?" Harry asked, bewildered. "But I need to see him!"
"You? Needin' to see Professor Snape?" Hagrid went on, his body shaking slightly
with barely suppressed laughter. He thrust the plucked poppy under Harry's nose.
Taking a dutiful sniff, Harry tried to think what to do next.
Hagrid picked up a bucket crusted with bits of smelly fertilizer and guided
Harry down the path that led to his little cottage. Harry could see, as they
passed the stone gates, that the school did indeed have that deserted look empty
houses get. Even the Forbidden Forest had a torpid, uninhabited look to it, as
though thousands of spiders had packed up their webs and gone on holiday.
Mind reeling Harry allowed himself, though he could hardly fight the tide of
Hagrid's oversize body, to be led. "Where's…where's he gone?" Harry asked.
Hagrid laughed, a great booming sound that made Harry feel all of eleven again.
"He's gone home, o' course!" All the professors do, or did you think they lived
here year round?"
Harry had to admit he had thought that, for he could hardly picture his prickly
Potions professor anywhere but at Hogwarts. "Could you tell me where he lives?"
Harry stopped just outside of Hagrid's hut. "It's really important, or I
wouldn't ask."
A frown stole over the largish face. Turning his considerable regard on Harry he
asked, "Kin ya tell me why, lad?"
Reaching into his carry all, Harry pulled out the copy of Peter Pan. Before he
could explain, however, Hagrid took the book from his unresisting fingers. "Oh,
so you've seen it too."
Harry looked up quickly. "*You've* seen it?"
The bushy head nodded. "Aye. Though there were a few times this year I thought
it might have been given away at last."
Harry felt himself flushing scarlet. "I didn't know. I'd never read the book."
Hagrid opened the book seemingly at random. But he read the correct passage in a
clear, strong voice.
"I didn't know," Harry said again when Hagrid was done.
"Sometimes I think he fergits himself. Then I'll see him scratching at the side
of his mouth with his wand an' I see he remembers again." The large man blew out
a heavy breath that ruffled the top of Harry's head. "Most of the time he was
looking at you when he remembered."
It was as Harry had feared. "I'm afraid I'm too late." He'd been hoping Hagrid
would cuff him lightly and tell him his fears were groundless as he'd done so
many times in the past when Harry was a student. Hagrid, however, just nodded.
"You might be at that," he said, and Harry's heart sank. How could he have not
known? He felt aquiver again as something akin to gigantic wheels seemed to turn
slowly in the oversized head above his.
"All right, then. the professor lives in a wild and lonely place, but as good a
wizard as you ought to be able to find it."
Harry materialized on the edge of as desolate a windswept moor as he'd ever seen.
Despite the season, high summer that was even now warming his friends hundreds
of miles to the south, it was chilly here and Harry pulled his cloak tighter,
careful not to move his feet from where he'd landed. There was no cottage,
inhabited or otherwise, in sight.
Harry though had the secret of it from Hagrid and looked straight up into the
cloud-studded blue sky. "Hello!" he called. "I need to talk to you!" From the
jewel-bright sky a door, a perfectly ordinary door suspended high overhead,
opened. If Harry had been standing anywhere else he wouldn't have been able to
see it.
Professor Snape, looking hardly less put out than he usually did to see Harry
stared down from overhead, in the otherwise unblemished sky. "Go away," he
yelled down, and the door slammed shut.
Luckily Harry had listened to Hagrid carefully. "Hagrid says you have to let me
in if I wish to speak with you." He'd been instructed to materialize exactly on
the wizard's doorstep, from whence no honest traveler could be refused. For
once, wacky wizard traditions fell in Harry's favor.
The door opened again but Snape did not reappear. Instead a rope ladder,
unrolling as it dropped, appeared, thudding to the ground precisely at Harry's
feet. Tucking his robes in his belt, Harry began to climb.
Snape, arms folded against his chest, was waiting for him just inside the door
as Harry hoisted himself up the last few meters, holding onto the knotted rope
when the rungs had suspiciously run out just below the door.
The two men stared at each other while Harry caught his breath, leaning on the
open door frame. The Snape unfolded his arms, and Harry saw a pair of white
gloves clenched in one hand. The professor was dressed exactly as Harry had last
seen him, save that now he was donning the spotless white gloves.
"I am going out," Snape said, as though they'd just met in passing in the
dungeon.
"No!" Harry said, pushing away from the door frame.
Startled by the vehemence, Snape frowned, but he continued stretching the glove
over one hand. "I have something I need to…dispose of," Snape went on, as if
Harry hadn't spoken.
"You can't," Harry said, knowing his urgency had been true. He'd been just in
time. "I want it." He'd seen, to his great relief, that it was still there, just
in the right hand corner of Snape's elegantly shaped mouth.
Snape sniffed as though Harry had uncorked sulfur. "You never wanted it before."
For the second time that day Harry, cautious of the looming drop to the ground
just beyond the door sill, pulled the battered book from his carry all. "I
didn't know. I didn't know you were hiding a kiss, one not just anyone can take."
Without looking at his erstwhile guest, Snape examined his white-clad fingers
critically as if inspecting for imperfections. "And I suppose *you* are not just
anyone."
"You know bloody well I'm not. I knew there was something, you see," he said,
taking a step inside the room, wanting to get the door closed, but with Snape
still in the way. "I've stared at you often enough. But I didn't know what it
was until this morning."
Snape gave him a long considering glare and Harry had to mentally shake himself
to remind himself they were not in Potions class. Then Snape looked away. "It's
a bloody nuisance of a thing to have," he said.
Harry smiled. "I expect it is. But it belongs to me."
Slowly Snape nodded and began peeling off one glove.
With a last glance at the ground far below, Harry smiled and shut the door.
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