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rakina (rakina) wrote in snape_potter, @ 2009-01-17 20:24:00

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FIC: Tapestry, by Rakina, PG, chapter 2 of ?
Title: Tapestry, a Journey in Eight Stages
Author: Rakina
Rating: PG for now, possibly rising to R or NC17 later.
Pairing: Severus Snape/Harry Potter
Summary: Harry only has one thing from his parents: a blanket. But his mum and dad were magical, and so it turns out to be no ordinary blanket, after all.
Disclaimer: I am not making any money from the characters which belong to JK Rowling. No disrespect intended. I do, however, lay claim to the plot and original characters.
Chapter notes: This story is AU and therefore there are many OCs (original characters) during Harry's journey. I hope you won't be put off by that, but will give the story a chance. Rest assured this will be a Snarry, once Harry grows up a bit.

Prologue
Chapter 1





Chapter 2: Work and Play

The courtyard that formed the playground was a turfed square surrounded on all sides by the single-storey buildings of St Hedwig's. There were pathways out of the playground that led through the corridors that linked the buildings together, all but one of these doors were closed, leaving the only obvious exit the door through which they'd come. Harry didn't bother about this, however, he was far too excited by the sight which greeted him.

There were lots of opportunities for play: painted hopscotch grids marked by white lines painted in lime paint like football pitches. Indeed, there was a football goal set up at one end of the ground, and at the opposite end was a netball post. Boys and girls were already playing there, having run ahead and taken balls from a huge basket under a little porch over by the opposite wall. Harry hurried over to examine it: it was like a laundry hamper, with handles on both sides and a lid that was currently propped open against the wall behind it. He found it contained more balls – footballs and netballs as well as lots of the small rubber kind that bounced really well, the ones you could throw against walls or the ground and do tricks with – skipping ropes, small square beanbags for throwing games, and hoops. Hoops! Wooden hoops with flat edges for bowling along the ground, and in a side pocket there were sticks that could propel them fast. Harry's tummy felt a bit jumpy when he saw that these hoops came in different colours: bright yellow, turquoise blue, emerald green and cherry red. Harry put out a shaky hand a touched the rim of a red one, almost scared to do it in case something strange happened. Something strange like when he'd touched his fingers to his blanket, to that image of the little boy and his hoop that had, just with that touch, somehow brought him here. Harry held his breath.

"You want to play hoop?" Liam pushed his hand into the basket and pulled out another hoop, a blue one. "It's my favourite game. Come on then!" He turned and stood his hoop in front of him, then looked back at Harry, obviously wondering what the delay was. "Come on!"

Harry did it – he touched the red hoop, the symbol of Playland on his blanket, the symbol of St Hedwig's Refuge for Unwanted Children.

And it was fine. Just a plain wooden hoop after all, inert and unable to do anything more than be bowled along the ground. Harry lifted it out, grinning, and turned to Liam, setting his hoop in front of him beside the other boy.

"Bet I can beat you to the other side," Liam announced, giving his hoop a push.

"Bet you can't!" Harry cried, pushing his hoop to get it underway. He didn't think he could win, because he'd never done this before and only had the vaguest idea about spinning it and bowling it along, but he was going to try. He watched Liam out of the side of his eye as best he could, while concentrating on keeping his hoop upright. The wooden hoop seemed determined to wobble and Harry didn't want it to fall sideways and make him look a fool. The trick was to get it going fast, he reckoned, and Liam started doing just that, shooting ahead and making for the building opposite. Harry gave his hoop an insistent shove and it began to move in the right direction, staying upright.

This was fine, and for a moment Harry reckoned he wasn't that far behind Liam; that was until one of the girls ran right across his path just in front of him and Harry had to turn his hoop or crash into her. He put out his hand, made the adjustment, but lost a lot of time going round her. "Hey!" he protested as he passed her, but she only giggled at him, and winked at him, looking at his pyjamas. Harry couldn't stop though; he was past her and making after Liam, but it was too late because Liam was nearly there. Harry felt annoyed, but he couldn't stay annoyed, because he knew he was doing it: he was playing, in Playland. He was the boy on the blanket, puffing along chasing after his red hoop. He was really here!

"What took you so long?" Liam asked, smirking.

"That girl got in the way," Harry said mock-grumpily as he ran up to his friend who was standing leaning against the wall as if he'd been waiting ages. "I reckon she did it on purpose. And she made fun of my pyjamas. They all do that."

Liam laughed, but seeing Harry's grumpy face he tried to look serious. "Which one?" Harry pointed out the girl, who was looking over at them and smiling now. "Oh, Emma Simpson. She's okay, for a Ten."

"What's wrong with Tens?"

"Well," Liam explained, "they're the oldest, aren't they? There's no Elevens here. Once you reach eleven you go up to the next school, or if you're stupid you get sent to a workplace instead."

Harry frowned. "Another school? But where do you sleep? I mean, St Hedwig's is a home, isn't it, but a school is just for learning."

"You sleep there, I suppose," Liam said. "I think there are schools you can sleep at, but I'm not sure. I haven't been there yet, have I? But once the big kids go up they don't come back, so they must sleep somewhere there, wherever they go. I just heard that the stupid ones don't get to go on to big school; they get put to work. Makes sense. Not that you'll miss out; you're clever."

Harry crinkled his brow in thought. That was a sweeping statement, because Liam had only shared one lesson with him so far. "I've only done one lesson."

"It was maths, wasn't it? If you can keep Donnelly happy, you must be okay. The stupid ones can't do that; they're the ones who get put to work."

"I didn't see any stupid ones..."

"They're in a special group, even have a special dorm. I'm not even sure Master Donnelly teaches them; maybe Miss Sharpe does. She does some of the remedial classes. There's quite a lot of stupid kids here at Hedwig's; it's probably why they got rejected by their families. Poor families can't afford to keep kids who won't be able to help out with money and that."

Harry nodded. "But I don't have a family. I mean, not here. Not a family who want me."

Liam looked at him as if he was being daft. "Well of course you don't! That's why you're here. But you're clever enough to go to big school, Harry. Don't worry about it. You'll come with me, I expect. That's probably why Miss Sharpe made me your Good Companion. Companions usually stay together through school. When's your birthday?"

"July the thirty-first."

"There you are then. Mine's July the twenty-eighth. So you'll come just three days after me. See?"

Harry nodded, feeling a bit reassured. The last thing he wanted was to end up somewhere without a bed to sleep in; or worse, working in some awful place where he got no food. That would be even worse than living with the Dursleys. He shuddered. His mind had come up with lots of dreadful ideas when Liam had said that stupid kids didn't get to go to big school. He would have been much happier knowing exactly what happened when you got to eleven, but he supposed he'd find out nearer the time. It was pretty weird that you went as soon as you were eleven, though. Back at home kids went up to the secondary school in September, once they were eleven. Sometimes they were nearly twelve by the time they went, if their birthday was in the autumn. But in Hedwig's there were no kids aged eleven, so the date they went away was different for everyone. That didn't seem to make much sense to Harry, unless everyone went somewhere different. Perhaps no one went to big school, perhaps they all got sent to work somewhere once they were considered old enough... It was still very worrying to Harry, but he made the effort to change the subject.

"So that girl teased me by running in front of my hoop because she's one of the oldest?"

"Yeah. Well, that and your pyjamas, I suppose," Liam said, laughing. Harry still didn't seem happy about the pyjama jokes though, so Liam sobered up again. "You see, Tens think they're the big I am. Emma's okay though; she didn't mean anything nasty by it. She was just teasing you a bit. Hey, p'raps she likes the look of you."

Harry felt alarmed, until he saw Liam's teasing smile. "Don't be daft! I'm ugly!"

"What? No you're not. Why d'you say that, Harry? You've got nice dark hair, all thick and jumpy, and really nice green eyes."

"And ugly glasses," Harry added.

Liam shrugged. "You can get better ones. You'll have a medical soon; all the new kids get one. They might get you new glasses."

Harry's heart jumped in hope, but he didn't really believe Liam. Why would they spend money on him? He was just a kid nobody wanted. And he was still ugly, he knew that. Liam was just trying to make him feel better. That made Harry feel warm inside; maybe Liam really was his friend, not just hanging around with him because it was a task Miss Sharpe had given him.

"So, reckon you can do better on the way back?" Liam asked, positioning his blue hoop for the return sprint.

Harry grinned. "I can try."

And they were off again, kicking up dust from the dry turf as they ran. Without Emma getting in the way it was closer this time, but Liam still won fairly easily. He'd had plenty of practice with the hoops, but Harry was starting to get the hang of it. It was fun, and he couldn't wait to play some of the other games too. This wasn't so bad... they'd had one lesson, one 'duty', and now they were playing.

Except far too soon a bell tolled, its strident clanging silencing the playground, revealing how much noise there had been before from the chattering, shrieking, laughing, playing children. Harry looked at Liam.

"That means it's time to put the toys away and line up. This is only a short break. We get a longer one after lunch and another short one before dinner."

Harry slipped the red hoop back into the large basket, sorry to let go of it. He reckoned with a bit of practice he could catch Liam. "What's next then, and when's lunch?" All the running around had made him hungry again, despite the huge breakfast.

"Reading for forty-five minutes, then it's lunch."

"Great, I'm starving!"

They lined up behind a tall, skinny boy who looked all elbows and knees. He hadn't been on kitchen duty with them, and Harry wondered why not. The boy glanced back at them and gave Harry a good looking-over, as if he was some kind of exotic animal he'd never seen before. Harry glared at him, but the boy ignored it and kept staring. Moments later the boy looked to the front again as the line began to move. The group filed past a younger teacher with sandy hair. He looked nicer than the older ones, but Harry didn't want to test that thought by talking in the corridors, so he went by silently. Once they'd gone by though, and as they headed along the corridor back the way they'd come, he hissed at Liam. "Who's that boy in front?"

"Dennis Abrams. He's a bit odd; I'll tell you later."

Dennis looked back over his shoulder again, frowning, so Liam gave him a shove in the back. "Keep moving, Dennis; you'll have Francis on us!"

Dennis looked to the front again, where the first kids were just entering a room to the right. They went in and sat behind the desks lined up facing the front of the room. There was a blackboard, a teacher's desk and chair, and a row of bookshelves on either side of the room. Harry sat at the desk alongside Liam, and waited. There was a book on each desk, and Harry was a bit disappointed that you didn't get to choose your own book from the shelves lining the room; some of those looked colourful. This one had a dull brown cover and looked drab and boring. He was distracted as the door was closed behind the last child, and Harry glanced back. The sandy-haired man walked up the side of the room and sat behind his desk. "Good morning, Eights," he said.

"Good morning, Mr Francis," they chanted; girls and boys voices joined harmoniously as they all sat doing their best to look attentive.

"I believe we got as far as chapter seven of Bible Stories for Children. Drusilla, you were due to read, I believe, but as we have a new classmate, I think we should see what he's made of. Harry Potter, you should have your book open at chapter seven by now. Please stand and start to read."

Harry hadn't even got his book open, much less was he ready to read. Now he noticed that everyone else had opened their books once Mr Francis had started talking. He blushed and pulled the book towards him, looking for a Contents Page. There didn't seem to be one, so he gave up and started turning pages in the hope of stumbling across chapter seven.

"Oh dear, oh dear," Mr Francis said, his voice quiet and sounding rather thoughtful. He stood up behind his desk and frowned down at Harry. "No initiative, I see, Potter; not paying attention to what the others were doing, and not finding your place when I announced where we'd got to either. It's not a very promising start, is it?" He paused as if waiting for a reply. Harry kept turning pages, trying hard to find the chapter, but he couldn't find it.

"Page seventy-three!" the man suddenly snapped loudly, making Harry jump.

Harry managed to find the page quickly enough then, once he knew the page number, and hoped the teacher wouldn't say anything more about it. Francis had looked younger and nicer than the other teachers, but obviously looks could be deceiving. "I've found it, sir."

"Thank you, Potter," the man said scathingly. "Then perhaps you can show me whether you can read."

Harry opened his mouth to start, but Mr Francis snapped: "Stand up! Always stand when you're going to read to the class."

Harry got to his feet, blushing. He was looking a complete idiot now. He could see Dennis Abrams off to the left of him, smirking, and Harry knew he daren't meet his eyes or he'd never get started. "Th-there are few parables about our L-Lord that show the depth of his compassion as well as..." Harry began rather shakily. Once he'd started though, it got easier, and he thought he read the story of The Woman Taken in Adultery quite well, or so he hoped. Francis had sneered at him at the beginning, but after a while he nodded and took his seat behind his desk again, watching the other children carefully to ensure there were no interruptions. Liam and the others followed Harry's reading in their own texts, and apart from the sound of Harry's voice you could hear a pin drop. Until a knock came at the classroom door.

"Wait a while, Potter," Mr Francis said as he got up and strode to the door. "What is it?" he snapped at the girl standing there, causing her to flinch. Obviously the teacher didn't like interruptions.

"Miss Sharpe would like to see the new boy," she squeaked.

Francis sighed. "As the deputy head desires," he said. "Potter, go with this girl. Drusilla, take over the rest of the chapter."

Harry left the strict teacher's class feeling quite relieved to get away. He could read well, and he was glad of it because he didn't think Mr Francis would have much patience with anyone who couldn't. Harry wondered if they got to read any of the interesting books on the shelves, or if it was always religious books and books intended to make kids into good children. Maybe those colourful books weren't really as interesting as they looked, though, and wasn't that a depressing thought!

"I'm Penny," the girl said as they headed towards the hall. She was wearing a badge with the number '9' in dark green on a white background. "You're Harry Potter."

Harry nodded, not wanting to get caught talking. It seemed Penny didn't need an answer anyway, and nothing more was said until they approached Miss Sharpe who was standing in the hall waiting for them.

"Potter, there are things that need to be done. Come with me. Back to classes, Clearwater."

Penny grinned at Harry and went off back down the corridor again.

"Time to get you some uniforms, Harry. Come with me."

Harry was happy to hear his name. Miss Sharpe looked so strict, nothing like his teacher at Little Whinging Primary, but she seemed quite soft compared to Mr Francis. Everything here seemed run like it was an army or something. No talking, no running... if it wasn't for the playground and the toys, Harry would have thought he was no better off than back at the Dursleys'. But there was playtime, with Liam – a friend, a real friend, Harry thought hugging the idea to himself and getting a lovely feeling just like when he hugged his blanket. Those were things he hadn't got at Little Whinging.

Miss Sharpe led him into a room lined with shelves piled with clothing – girls' clothes one side, boys' the other. "These are the eight-year-old things," Miss Sharpe said, picking up a pair of trousers and holding them up next to Harry appraisingly. "But you're small for your age; let's try you with the six-year-old size."

Harry blushed, feeling both runty and embarrassed that she was just standing there, holding out a pair of black trousers made for a six year old.

"Well, try them on, boy! We don't have all day."

Yes, it looked like Miss Sharpe was just going to stand there while he tried the clothes on. Harry gritted his teeth, pulled off his pyjama bottoms and then took the trousers from Miss Sharpe. He'd felt really stupid wearing his pyjamas during the day, but a lot of the time he'd been so busy he'd almost forgotten he needed to get uniforms. He slipped the new trousers over his underpants.

"They'll do," Miss Sharpe declared, eyeing the hemline critically. "They're just long enough for now; if we feed you up a bit you should grow quickly enough, but they'll certainly do for a while. Can't have you tripping over, can we, lad." Harry went to take the trousers off, but Miss Sharpe stopped him. "Keep them on, and here's another pair to go with them: one to wash and one to wear. You change them on Saturdays."

"Yes, Miss Sharpe."

"So this shirt should fit," she said to herself as she handed Harry a six-year-old's white shirt together with a dark green jumper, and Harry exchanged his pyjama top for them. They fitted fine, and the deputy head nodded at him, satisfied, and placed a spare of each of them onto a chair. One to wash, one to wear. That would be all his clothes then. Almost...

"Underthings. No need to try them on, they're bound to fit." Seven pairs of six-year-old underpants and socks, plus two vests were handed over. "The socks and pants are to be changed daily, Harry," Miss Sharpe told him, piling them up on the chair Harry was standing next to. A dark green outdoor coat was added next, in the same size as the rest of his stuff. "Just your shoes to sort out now then."

Harry was finally kitted out. There was just one pair of everyday school shoes, but a pair of wellingtons and a pair of plimsolls was given to him too; those, along with his coat and the spare pairs of everything else, made quite a pile. Finally, Harry was handed a badge; his own '8' badge. "You'll exchange this for a '9' on your birthday, Harry," Miss Sharpe explained, "and move up into the Nines class. You're close in age to your Good Companion, so you'll be together as you pass through the years here and possibly beyond.

"Now hurry along to your dormitory and pack these away, then come back to the hall and I'll escort you for your medical."

"Yes, Miss Sharpe."



Harry was puffing from hurrying around when he arrived back and was taken to the doctor's office, a room in the Admin Block next to the offices. The doctor was a thin old man with horn-rimmed glasses perched on his beaky nose. He was wearing some kind of robe-thing which Harry assumed was to show he was important, but he'd never seen a doctor wearing such a thing before. Not that he'd been to the doctor's very often in Surrey, so he was probably no judge. There was a wooden sign standing on the doctor's desk; it was shaped like a flattened pyramid with writing on the side facing the patient: Dr A Dippet.

Harry was soon directed to take off his newly-acquired uniform again, and he wished Miss Sharpe had waited outside, but it seemed no one here worried too much about privacy or personal space; there simply wasn't any. Once the examination – which consisted of a series of pokes and prods via the application of a tongue depressor, stethoscope and a small rubber hammer-thing – was done, Harry put on his clothes again gladly. It was such a relief to look like the other boys. Harry only wanted to be like the others and he would be glad when the adults' attention wasn't focussed so much on him.

Harry's eyes were examined next, and Dr Dippet asked him to remove his glasses. On discovering that Harry could see little without them, the doctor then took out a stick from inside his voluminous robe-thing, ran it up and down in front of Harry's face and then tapped the glasses once with it. Mystified, Harry took back his glasses and popped them on, only to find the world clicking into focus much more sharply than before. Everything looked so bright and clear! He gasped, and looked over at the doctor to see if he could work out what that stick was, but there was no sign of it. Before he could say anything about the miraculous change, Doctor Dippet was declaring Harry 'fit enough for a scrawny, undersized boy'. "He needs feeding up, Miss Sharpe," Dippet instructed the deputy head. "And plenty of fresh air. Country walks will help build him up, but most of all make sure he eats."

"It's not unusual; these unwanted children are frequently small for their age; they've often not been fed properly," Miss Sharpe agreed.

"Yes, I'm sure you know how to deal with him."

Harry stood there, still gaping like a landed fish from the sudden change in his glasses while they discussed him as if he wasn't in the room. Doctor Dippet was writing notes in a file as they talked. Harry remembered his Aunt Marge's adage: Children should be seen and not heard. They definitely seemed to believe in that at Hedwig's.

"There's nothing wrong otherwise," the doctor concluded, replacing his pen – which looked like an old-fashioned quill, Harry noted, quite in tune with the old-fashioned atmosphere of St Hedwig's. "His magic is at a good level for such an undernourished child. He should do well later on."

Miss Sharpe nodded, looking satisfied, but Harry had pricked up his ears. Magic? "Er... excuse me, sir?"

"Yes?" The doctor seemed surprised Harry had spoken.

"Did you say... magic?"

"Yes, of course."

"But... there's no such thing as magic."

The doctor's bushy white eyebrows rose almost to his hairline. "Who on earth told you that, Potter?"

"My uncle."

"Then your uncle is a fool and it is just as well you are here. We take magical children only, which is why we are a small establishment. St Hedwig's is mostly staffed by Squibs, but they fully understand how to manage magical children. Most of the children come from non-magical homes anyway, and it's not unusual for them to find themselves unwanted because they are different. Now, don't worry about that; just work hard and build yourself up and you should earn yourself a place at Hogwarts when you're eleven."

Harry opened his mouth to ask what a Squib was, but Miss Sharpe's narrow hand descended on his shoulder and he was turned and bustled towards the door. "Thank you, Doctor Dippet," she said, propelling Harry forward. "I must get the boy back to his lessons."

"Of course, of course, and send the next one along, would you. Earache, wasn't it?"

"So she says..." Miss Sharpe said, sounding stern again. And then they were out in the corridor. "Go back to your class, Harry," she said to him, her voice softer now. "You've done well so far. Keep it up." She gave him a little push as she took her hand from his shoulder and Harry hurried to do as he was told, determined to keep her approval he headed back to the classroom.



Once lessons were over, Harry was introduced to an area he hadn't seen before – the boys' common room. In this informal room boys were sitting around chatting, playing cards or chess, reading books or doing their homework. Harry only had the notes Master Donnelly had given him to study. "Should we read those geometry notes?" he asked Liam, who was chatting with Sidney Padley.

Liam shrugged. "Ought to, I s'pose. He's a tartar if you haven't done the reading." Sidney fervently agreed with that, and getting out his notes he led them over to a free bench against the wall, where they sat in a row and read them. Harry found them easy to understand; he already knew the basics about shapes, so he soon tucked them back into his pocket. The other two boys were still reading, so he looked around at the room and waited for them to finish.

The best chairs and tables were being used by the oldest boys – the Tens. There were small chairs provided for the youngest, who looked to be about five years old. It was the age kids started at Little Whinging Primary, and these kids looked the same, Harry judged. He wondered if there was a special home for younger children and babies; or maybe one of the buildings around the playground was where they lived. Harry, however, wondered a lot more about what happened when you got older. What was this place the doctor had mentioned, and would he be clever enough to go there? Would he bit fit enough, or would he still be too scrawny? He chewed at his lower lip as he worried.

"What's up, Harry?" Sidney put a hand on Harry's arm, bringing him back to the present. "You looked miles away."

Harry shrugged. "I heard something today when Miss Sharpe took me to the doctor. He mentioned a place you go when you're older; he called it Hogwarts."

Liam frowned. "He did? I've never heard of that, have you, Sid?"

Sidney shook his head. "Nope. All I know is that once you get to your eleventh birthday you go away somewhere. They say only the owner knows where, though."

"The owner?" Harry asked worriedly. "D'you mean someone owns Hedwig's?"

"Yeah, of course. Where do you think the money comes from to run this place? I know the Ministry helps, but it's not enough."

"But... he won't sell us, will he?"

"I don't even know if it's a he, really. Sometimes the teachers let slip something about 'the owner'. That's all we know. But like Sid said, once you hit eleven, you're out. Next day you're gone."

"You don't seem worried," Harry observed.

"What's the point? Whether we go to this Hogwarts you're on about, or somewhere else entirely, it's going to happen and there's nothing I can do about it. I'll worry when I get there." Liam shrugged nonchalantly.

Harry nodded. That made sense, but still he couldn't help thinking... wondering. The shock of arriving here at Hedwig's had made him wary of these sudden changes. Perhaps something like it would happen again on his eleventh birthday, he'd just be whisked off to somewhere else. He shrugged, and caught Sidney's eye. The other boy shrugged back, and they all laughed.



Two years later
Ten-year-old Harry Potter sat on a bench at the side of the large playing field, thinking about life. He did that a lot. His friends had got used to him and left him to it; even the girls didn't bother him anymore. He didn't see the girls as much as the boys, as their common room and dormitories were separate and the girls usually kept to themselves. The boys did too, for that matter.

Harry remembered the ideas he'd had when he arrived at Hedwig's. He'd believed he'd landed in a place called Playland. He snorted quietly, laughing at his younger self. Two years living here had taught him differently. Hedwig's was quite grim, full of stark discipline, regimented work and living arrangements. There was discipline, yes, but there wasn't cruelty. Or was there? It was a harsh life for the unwanted children of St Hedwig's; they were expected to pay their way by working to help keep the institution going, cleaning and gardening, as well as learning well enough to be passed on to someone else at eleven. Harry assumed he'd be passing on to some kind of higher education school, somewhere to do with magic, but he wasn't sure about it; none of them were, for no one ever came back to tell them where they'd gone on to. So Harry sat quite often, thinking about his past, and worrying about his future. While the other kids were very much in the same situation, none of them seemed to worry about the future like Harry did.

Despite the harshness of St Hedwig's Refuge and the uncertainty of the future, Harry thought it was still a definite step up from his life at the Dursleys'. All the kids here were treated the same; it wasn't like watching Dudley get everything his fat little heart desired, while he, Harry, went without. There was always enough to eat, even though the diet was often bland and uninteresting. Harry had grown considerably and put on weight; he no longer looked like a tiny waif with matchstick-thin limbs.

Here, no one got special treatment and gifts were few and far between. There was the annual prize-giving, where the boy and girl getting most points during the previous year got a gift of their choice. Liam got one last year, and he'd chosen a practice Snitch, which was his most prized possession. Quidditch wasn't played at Hedwig's – there was no money for brooms, all the sports equipment being basic, so Liam was the only child with a piece of Quidditch equipment, as far as Harry knew. He would play with it in the playground – it could be adjusted to stay just above head-height and Liam would chase it madly around the square.

Everyone got a box of 'luxuries' at Christmas, consisting of special soap, handkerchiefs, chocolates and sweets, a diary for the coming year and a pencil with 'St Hedwig's' embossed on it. On your birthday, besides your new year-badge, you got new uniforms for the coming year and a book considered fitting for your age. Harry now owned two: The Tales of Beedle the Bard, and The Life of Merlin. Spartan though the lifestyle was, it was more generosity than he'd ever encountered at Privet Drive, and Harry recognised his good fortune at being transported here by magic, for the change that had come about when he was eight must have been magic. The teachers told them about magic, and the adults here dealt with it if any of the kids had a surge of natural magic. Whoever was with them sent the others to safety and calmed down the child involved. It was such a relief to know he wasn't the freak his uncle and aunt had made him out to be. At least there were other freaks here with him.

Harry now knew the blanket he'd got from his mum and dad – who must have been magical too, which was no doubt the reason for his uncle's scathing comments about them – was full of magic; Harry half-expected something else from it. And he was starting to expect that 'something' to happen quite soon, because he was in his last year here at Hedwig's. Harry was a Ten. And there were no Elevens.

The bell rang, interrupting Harry's thoughts. Their next session was to work in the small market garden behind the Administration Block. Here they grew fruit and vegetables for the kitchens, and kept chickens for eggs. It all helped with costs as well as keeping the children fit and teaching them some useful life skills. Harry enjoyed gardening, especially at this time of year, early spring, when there was lots to do. "Come on, Sid," he called. "Hurry up, you'll be last again!"

Padley puffed along, his cheeks puffing out like little balloons as he hurried to keep up with the fitter boys. Harry reckoned Sidney must have some medical condition – asthma, perhaps. Dr Dippet wasn't the most efficient doctor on the planet, he reckoned, however good his stick was at sorting out glasses. Harry grinned then, appreciating his razor-sharp vision. He'd become quite good at art, lately, as well as the fancy games of catch they played in the playground with the smaller balls; you needed keen eyesight for both.

Once in the garden Harry was set to digging and preparing the pea bed for planting. Liam was preparing the next bed along for runner beans. It had turned really warm, the April sun burning down as if it was July. Harry worked up a sweat, and as he straightened up to see how much more digging he had to do, a bead of sweat ran into his eye, stinging. Harry stuck his spade in the earth and took out a handkerchief, wiping his eye and mopping his brow. He looked up into the blue sky that had been paler this morning, its colour now intense like deep blue of midsummer. Playland, he considered, was badly named. Oh yes, they played, just like the boy on St Hedwig's symbol the real kids here could play with those wooden hoops, but they were not carefree, as Harry had always seen the boy on his blanket; life was no picnic here. And there were secrets. Secrets that made him wary, made him sit and worry while most of the others continued blithely on their way, unconcerned. The issue of 'where next?' was only one of them.

The mysterious 'owner' was just as much a secret, and Harry wondered why he or she should need to be kept secret. Harry had never seen this person even visiting, had never heard them mentioned except in snatches of conversation among the adults. Once they saw Harry was listening, they'd shut their mouths quickly. This made the owner seem like some kind of mythical bogey-man.

And there were other unexplained things, too. St Hedwig's was in Hackney, London. Harry had learned that much early on, because he'd asked and been told so. Though a more detailed address, such as what street it was on, was not forthcoming. And there was the mystery of all the old-fashioned things here: the flaming torches, the candles, the quills for writing, what was that all about? None of the adults explained these things; if asked they just told him to concentrate on his work or his studies – depending where he'd been when he'd asked – and stop asking pointless questions. Hedwig's just was.

The pea bed was dug, the compost mixed in, and Harry moved on to raking the earth into a finer texture, his mind working all the time his body did. It was frustrating to have no answers, but it never stopped him asking.



"'Night, Harry," Liam hissed from the next bed.

"'Night. Sleep well."

Harry had always slept well here. He pulled his old blanket up over his other covers, running his hand over its reassuring texture, his fingers tracing the patterns. Playland first; the school-room second. That made sense; Harry hoped it meant he'd be going to a senior school, and hoped it would be a magical one. The teachers here sometimes implied it, but as always the details were missing and it only annoyed them if he questioned them further. Towards the bottom hem of the blanket the designs were more puzzling: one rectangle contained dice, some tumbling, others already landed on a table with seemingly random numbers showing. Harry had tried to puzzle out the numbers, to find some significance in the image – were they a code or a sequence of some kind? – but he had no clues. Another section showed chains. Artfully arranged in a twisting, knotted pattern, they made this rectangle a lovely part of his blanket, but they were just chains at the end of it all. Lately it made him nervous, that design, but he was pretty sure it was much further ahead in his future, if it applied to him at all, and Harry had more immediate concerns.

Harry's eyelids drooped, and, not long after, closed completely. His muscles ached from the work in the garden; he was too tired to lie awake long. His fingers traced the patterns; his mind replayed the images, so familiar he didn't need to see them. He was here, in Playland. The curve of the hoop beneath his forefinger, and next along, just over there were the little legs of the desks and chairs that made up the schoolroom, the place he was heading to next. Harry didn't realise he was smiling as he drifted off to sleep, almost sure he'd be going to this 'Hogwarts', because after all Harry wasn't stupid, and he wasn't a freak...

Harry's eyes flew open. His heart was pounding, his hair standing on end. A nightmare! He shoved the covers off himself and sat up, panting and sweating. He heard harsh breath and realised it was his own, and then he heard the sound that had woken him... a howl which split the velvety darkness of the night, sounding near, far too near to be out on the road beyond Hedwig's. It had to be in the grounds, perhaps in the market gardens or the playgrounds, the sports field or the headmaster's formal garden... perhaps right under the windows of the boys' dorm.

Harry heard fearful, panting breaths from all around the room, and a scream from further along the dormitory where the younger boys slept. His eyes were wide and now he could make out the shape of Liam sitting up in his own bed. "What the hell's happening?"

"No idea. Gods!" Liam yelled when another howl split the night.

They all jumped when the door to the dormitory opened and light spilled in from a lantern carried aloft by Mr Timblett. He was in his night attire, and it reminded Harry of his first night here, the night he'd arrived and followed the caretaker along the corridors, watching the man's scrawny legs as he hurried along.

Timblett rushed along the central aisle until he stood in the middle of the dorm. "Be quiet, boys, be quiet!" he shushed them. "You Nines and Tens, take care of the younger boys. There is nothing to fear if you are quiet, boys. But if you kick up a lot of row... well, let's just say it's not wise. Be quiet and don't let them know you're inside, now. The owner is coming; he'll sort it all out. He's already called the militia."

Seeing his chance and the man's distraction, Harry slipped out of his bed and headed for the door, still standing ajar. There was enough moonlight shining through the high windows along the corridor to see where he was going and Harry hurried along toward the Admin Block. Tonight, maybe, he'd find out something. The owner was here... something Harry had never known to happen before, but Mr Timblett had said it was so, only letting that snippet out in his agitation. Somehow Harry doubted Miss Sharpe would be pleased with the caretaker if she found out. The headmaster slept in his own house within the grounds, but Harry thought he wouldn't be coming over to the main block. Not with whatever was out there. Because whatever was out there sounded dangerous, even if the head was an old wizard, as school rumour ran.

Approaching the T-junction where this corridor joined the shorter corridor that led to the Admin Block, Harry walked more carefully, his bare feet making no sound. He hadn't taken time to find his slippers; the opportunity might have been missed. As it was he'd slipped out under Timblett's nose, and he thanked his lucky stars that he'd managed to do it. Liam would be wild, but Harry wasn't going to miss this. There were voices up ahead...

Harry poked his head around the corner and saw a small group of people standing further along the corridor. A man's commanding voice was telling them what to do; it was a voice Harry had never heard before, deep and resonant. Miss Sharpe was there, recognisable by her long skirts. She obviously wore a similar style of clothing to bed as during the day; either that or she'd got dressed quickly when all this kicked off. Or maybe she hadn't gone to bed at all... or did she sleep in her clothes? Harry shook his head, annoyed at himself for getting distracted by the deputy head's nightwear.

The man with the deep voice – surely the owner – was standing with his back to Harry. Harry thought he was dressed entirely in black, his clothing was just so dark in the limited light of the corridor that it couldn't be any other colour. He was tall and had long hair hanging below his collar which also looked black. Harry just knew he was a wizard; there was something so commanding, so confident about him. This was a man who could rely on his magic, Harry felt sure of it. He didn't sound old like Mr Timblett with his wavery voice; he was a young, strong man and the realisation sent a sudden jolt of fear down Harry's spine. If he was found out here, out of bed, spying on them...

The owner turned in a swirl of black robes and strode swiftly away from the group, heading down the corridor. Harry was thankful the man was heading away from his hiding place. He wanted to know more – this was just a tantalising glimpse of the power behind St Hedwig's – but he couldn't imagine what he'd say if he was found. He let out his breath in a gust of relief.

There was another howl from outside, and the other three people left in the corridor moved, hurrying off after the owner, leaving Harry standing in the gloom alone, suddenly aware of how small he was and how cold his feet were. He took a couple of deep breaths to steady himself, and hurried back to his dorm. Halfway along the corridor he saw the glow of the lantern – Mr. Timblett was coming this way. Harry shrank into the next doorway along, flattening himself against the wood of a classroom door. Timblett's slippers were slightly too big; they slapped as he walked, sounding like a slowed-down round of applause getting louder as he approached. Harry held his breath as the man neared.

Mr Timblett was grumbling to himself, his eyes fixed on the way ahead. He wasn't looking for boys, and didn't notice Harry in his doorway. Harry was grateful for the noises Timblett was making; he felt sure his breath was rasping loudly and his heart hammering like a drum! Some of the caretaker's muttering could be made out, forming snatches of sentences: "...never happened here... ...something attracting them... ...need the militia, show a presence, scare 'em off... ...owner needs to come more often, sort out what's causing it... ...one of the boys, I reckon, the girls are just..." Harry caught no more as Mr Timblett moved away along the corridor, the sound of his slippers covering the now completely unintelligible muttering. Harry sighed with relief as the caretaker turned off along the corridor leading to the staff quarters.

Harry slid out of the doorway and hurried back to the boys' dorm. He entered, opening the door quietly. One of the Sevens lifted his head as Harry passed his bed. "It's all right, go back to sleep!" he hissed in his most authoritative, 'I'm a Ten, don't question me,' style. The boy lay down again and Harry reached his bed without further ado.

"Harry!" Liam was beside himself. "Where the hell have you been?"

Harry was too excited by his nocturnal trip to settle down, so he went and sat on Liam's bed, and began to tell all he knew, which was precious little, but a lot to them. Sid and the other Tens gathered round, listening.

"What do they mean, something attracting 'them'. And what are 'they' anyway?" Sidney asked, his voice quavering with excitement and fear.

"Werewolves," averred Jamie.

"Don't be daft! In London?"

"They're everywhere, stands to reason!"

"Yeah, and so does my dick!" sniggered Dennis coarsely.

Jamie punched him. "If you can't say anything sensible, shut up, Abrams."

Dennis did, as always cowed by Jamie Roberts' leadership. Jamie had remained the group leader, and now they were Tens he was head boy by default.

"So what attracts werewolves?" Sid asked more nervously than ever.

"Magic?"

"Maybe they want to make other werewolves?"

"Children?"

"Children as food?"

None of the suggestions were very cheering, and the boys succeeded in scaring themselves thoroughly, with the result that next morning they all had trouble getting up for lessons. Sidney, always the slowest, was late and was docked two points by a furious Master Francis.

Later that night, and for many nights after the 'werewolf' episode, Harry had another mystery to ponder as he laid waiting for sleep to claim him. It was getting more and more difficult to drift off. His fingers compulsively traced the well-worn patterns on his blanket. The boy with the hoop, then the classroom, the boy with the hoop, then the classroom...


Chapter note: 'Plimsolls' are a kind of cheap gym shoe with rubber soles. There is a wiki (of course): http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Plimsolls which tells me they were invented in 1830! Very suitable for Hedwig's. The Americans call them 'sneakers'. I always wondered exactly what sneakers were – now I know.


Chapter 3