Daydream Believer

Nothing as good happens for the rest of September. The best Tommy encounter becomes the only Tommy encounter, apart from our working together in Care of Magical Creatures, which is completely devoid of anything interesting. I feel like I’m missing something, like there was some key piece of information that passed me by that would explain the drop-off. But there isn’t, and I try not to feel too disappointed as whatever crescendo we were supposed to be climbing towards peters out.

It doesn’t help that Marlene’s climb is steadily progressing. Dorcas has started sitting with us at meals occasionally, or I’ll find them chatting after class. Sometimes during a free Marlene will abandon me and Mary completely to go flirt with her. I know I should be cheering her on, but there’s this other ache heavy in my abdomen. Like envy.

I think there must be something inadequate about me that means I’ll never get past this preliminary stage, like everyone else seems to do with such ease. Lord knows I’ve never gotten past it before. When Mary and Pat started dating last year, it was so simple. He liked her, he wanted to do something about it, and he did. But Mary’s pretty. People have always liked her. Somehow I can’t imagine anybody ever liking me like that.

October brings new distractions, like the first social that all prefects have to put on for their first and second years. We’re sent to classrooms after the first prefects’ meeting of the month to brainstorm and plan. Luckily for Potter, I’ve been planning in my head for days.

While he kicks back, I pull out my quill and parchment to take notes.

I clear my throat. “So I was thinking we could play some games, like—”

Potter’s eyes light up like a maniac. “Quidditch.”

“—cards and chess,” I finish with a sigh. “I don’t think quidditch is really for everyone.”

He’s giving me a look of open-mouthed horror. “Quidditch is for everyone .”

“Do you ever think about people other than yourself?”

“You know, I think you’d actually like it if you gave it a shot,” he says, leaning back and crossing his ankles. “When was the last time you were on a broom, Evans?”

“That’s...” I shake my head. “Not important. Can you focus for once?”

“Tell you what.” He leans forward and puts his elbows on his knees. “Go flying with me one time.”

Now I’m the one who’s horrified. “Go flying with you?”

“If you really hate it, I’ll never suggest we plan anything quidditch-related again.”

I wrinkle my brow sceptically. “What does going flying with you entail?”

“You on the back of my broom,” he says, like that’s not an idea too ridiculous to even propose. “You don’t even have to do any of the work.”

Despite the initial shock, I weigh my options. While the duration will be absolutely miserable, the idea of him shutting up about quidditch forever is appealing, to say the least.

“And you’ll never talk about quidditch again,” I confirm.

“Well, I didn’t say—”

“Deal.”

He grins and sticks out his hand. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

I give him a hearty shake. “The feeling is not mutual.”

He picks up his bag and stands up. “Saturday morning, then?”

“Where are you going?” I demand. “We still have to plan and tell McGonagall—”

“We’ll plan after,” he says, already at the door. “See you on the pitch.”

True to my word, I turn up to the quidditch pitch Saturday morning. The weather has turned now, and my breath fogs in the air as I make my way across the grass. I pull my arms tighter around myself.

Getting dressed for this was an ordeal, and it didn’t help that Mary and Marlene were both still asleep while I was doing it. I eventually decided on my favourite corduroy trousers and a thick jumper, but now I’m regretting not wearing something warmer.

Potter is in the centre of the pitch facing away from me, his broom in his hand. He’s wearing a jacket , I think enviously. He actually looks sort of stylish, which is strange. I don’t remember him ever knowing how to dress.

He turns when he hears me approach.

“Morning, Lillian.”

I huff. “That’s not even my real name.”

“What’s your real name?”

“Calla Lily,” I say. “My mum’s a florist.”

His brow furrows. “I thought your mum was a nurse.”

“I was kidding,” I say, shaking my head at him. “Do you really think I’m named Calla Lily? And how do you know my mum’s a nurse?”

He shrugs. “You know what my parents do.”

It’s true. But that’s only because everybody knows. The Potters made their fortune in cosmetic potions—specifically a hair potion called Sleekeazy’s, which I’m pretty sure they invented. I don’t know if they’re filthy rich or just a medium amount of wealthy, but it’s enough that people used to talk about it.

“Well, come on,” he says when I don’t respond.

Reluctantly, I edge closer. The truth is, I haven’t been on a broom since we stopped taking flying lessons in third year. I never had a knack for it, and it’s not like it’s really an essential skill at home. At least today I won’t be the one flying it. I’ll just be putting my life in someone else’s hands. I’m not sure if that’s better or worse.

I get on behind him and straddle the broomstick awkwardly, in position for takeoff.

“You need to hold on,” he says.

I look down. “Hold—what?”

“Me.”

“Oh.” I shuffle forward a bit so our bodies are nearly touching. “Um...”

“Here, Evans, Christ.” He takes my arm and wraps it around himself. I grudgingly follow it with the other. Now we’re almost flush against each other. I hold deathly still, recoiling from every point of contact. I guess this is how it’s going to be.

“Ready?” He says.

And then before I can answer, we’re rocketing into the sky. My shriek of surprise is lost to the air as he zooms upward and then forward. Despite myself, I tighten my arms around him. I’d rather live with this contamination than die today.

He makes a wide circle around the pitch. The sprawling green of the grass fans out beneath us, beautifully bright in the early morning mist, but I’m trying not to look down. I cling on to him for dear life, even though he flies steadily and naturally. If anyone could be secure on a broom, I suppose it’s him. After a few minutes, I begin to ease up, but of course he takes that moment to torture me again.

“Faster?” He asks, and again doesn’t wait for my confirmation. Suddenly we’re soaring upwards, then taking a steep dive. 

“Potter!” I scream over the noise.

He rights us again, laughing, and speeds through a figure eight. The wind whips through my hair.

“You’re evil,” I say, and I’m not sure he hears. 

“Relax,” he yells back. “You might enjoy yourself for once.”

I huff at that, but try to relax anyway. He’s right, it is a little fun, when I’m not thinking about how my body will look crushed against the grass far below. I remind myself he does this all the time.

I open my eyes wider despite the wind and watch the stands rush by, the sun coming up over them. It’s kind of beautiful out here. It’s like when you drive fast with the windows open, and it feels like flying. It is flying. 

There are moments when I’m amazed by the life I lead. I spent the first eleven years of my life coming to terms with the fact that magic was fake, only to find out that it was real all along. So much about it is still novel to me, and there are some parts of this world that I don’t think are ever going to get old. Flying is one of them, even if I never liked it. And maybe I was wrong about that too.

At last, he slows down and we head for the grass. When I step away, my legs feel weird standing on solid ground.

“Well?” His hair is all blown backwards, and his glasses are crooked, but he’s beaming.

I run a hand through the knotted mess my own hair has become. “I guess I see why they let you on the team.”

“A rare compliment,” he says. “I’m flattered.”

“Don’t get used to it,” I say, but I’m smiling. Damn him. I start to walk away.

He jogs to catch up. “So did you have fun?”

“We’re doing games for the activity,” I say.

“Of course,” he says, like that’s been the case all along.

“What?” I turn to him. “So why did you make me do this?”

“Did you have fun?” He repeats, dodging the question.

I sigh, hating what I have to do. He’s insufferable, but I suppose it’s the truth. “Yes, Potter, I had fun.”

He grins. “Come on. We can plan in the common room.”

The castle is slowly waking up as we walk back. I can almost hear the flagstone creaking to life. Our footsteps echo through the empty corridors.

“Isn’t it exhilarating?” Potter says.

“Yes,” I say. I’ve given up.

“I knew it. I knew you’d have fun.” He’s gloating. It’s obscene.

I’m tempted to ask why he cares if I had fun, if he was okay with doing card games all along. I guess when you love something you want other people to love it too, but I’m not forcing him to read my favourite books or listen to my music. I don’t trust him around anything I love.

When we get back to the common room, I summon my quill and parchment from my dorm and sit on a sofa.

“Okay,” I say, writing games at the top.

Potter leans over and takes the quill from my hand. I can only see his glasses hanging over the back of his ear and his messy brown hair as he scribbles something, then leans back. Next to games it now says (NOT quidditch) in his messy handwriting.

I roll my eyes and take the quill back. “So glad you’re doing your part in this process.”

“It’s a team effort,” he says cheerfully, ignoring my sarcasm.

“Hooray.”

I write cards , chess , and board games in bullets under the title.

“Add Exploding Snap,” he says.

“Oh yeah.” I jot it down. “And then, hear me out—”

“Uh oh.” He grins. “What?”

“I was thinking we could do friendship bracelets also.”

“Friendship bracelets?” He wrinkles his brow.

“Haven’t you ever been to summer camp?” I say. “Bracelets you make with embroidery floss. I think it would be good if people don’t want to play games.”

He looks at me with a come on kind of face. “You mean if girls don’t want to.”

“Why can’t boys make friendship bracelets?” I raise my eyebrows at him. “Just because you’re not aesthetically inclined...”

“What’s that supposed to mean? Are you saying you don’t like my outfit, Evans?” He stretches out his legs and gestures down the length of his body.

I look him up and down. Black slacks, dark green jumper, cream collared jacket in a pile next to him on the sofa. It’s not a bad outfit, but I’d never let him know it.

“About as much as the person wearing it,” I say disdainfully.

He scoffs. “I’ll have you know my jumper is very soft. Here.”

He grabs my hand and puts it on his upper arm, looking at me expectantly. I give it a little pat.

“Okay, that is soft,” I concede.

“Thank you,” he says proudly. “Alright, so friendship bracelets.”

“Right.” I pull my hand away and look back down at the parchment.

“I think it’s a good idea.” He nudges my shoulder. “Put it down.”

The social is the weekend after. McGonagall helps us acquire enough games for everyone to play, as well as an assortment of embroidery floss. After teaching and facilitating a few games, I spend most of the time sitting on the floor of the common room with a small group of girls very dedicated to making candy stripe bracelets. On the other side of the room, Potter schools some second years in Exploding Snap.

All the first year girls are obsessed with him, it turns out. Maybe I would be too if I were a first year, but these girls wouldn’t like him so much if they’d known him when he was actually their age.

When he walks by and compliments one of their bracelets, they nearly swoon from excitement.

“He’s so amazing,” Annie sighs. She’s the blondest person I’ve ever seen, with two tight plaits and rosy cheeks.

The others echo their agreement. 

“What’s he like?” They quiz me. “Yeah, what’s he like when you’re together?”

“Um...” I try to think of something nice enough to say about him without lying. “He’s... clever, and, um, enthusiastic.”

Their unimpressed stares tell me I did not do a good job.

“And smart and nice and funny,” I add with a hefty sigh. It might not be the truth, but at least they’re satisfied.

They start fawning again. It reminds me of the way some of the girls in our year will talk to Tommy, twirling their hair around their fingers and asking questions like, “What’s it like in America?” then giggling loudly at the answers. I don’t suppose I’m any better than them, just more ashamed. Maybe they’re right to be upfront about what they want. My tactics don’t seem to be too effective.

“Why don’t we talk about something else?” I suggest. “How are your classes so far?”

“Ugh, History of Magic is so boring,” Lucy with fringe groans. She’s intently focused on making a blue, green, and yellow bracelet for Lucy without fringe, who’s making a pink and orange one for her.

I laugh. “That doesn’t change.”

“I love flying,” Bella gushes. “Mum never lets me fly at home, but I knew I’d be great at it. Do you like flying, Lily?”

I think about being on the back of Potter’s broom last week, the wind in my hair. “Sort of.”

“I think I’m gonna try out for the team next year,” she goes on. “Probably keeper.”

Annie gasps. “Oh my gosh, you should talk to James about that! He’s gonna be captain again next year, right, Lily?”

“Probably.” I tie another knot in my bracelet. “I think you’d be a great keeper, Bella.”

When I look up, I see Potter standing at the edge of his group, waving for me to come over. The girls’ conversation babbles on as I get up and walk over to him.
“What?”

He doesn’t answer, just pulls my arm so I’m standing next to him, then gestures vaguely at the rest of the room. 

I look. A bunch of kids sit in clumps, some on the floor and some dotting the sofas, their laughter and chatter echoing off the walls. On my next breath, my chest inflates with pride. It worked.

“We did pretty well,” he says at last.

I roll my eyes. “ We .”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him look at me. “You,” he says. “You did well.”

It’s that same tone again, like admiration, or approval. I don’t want his approval to matter to me, but it’s nice to be appreciated.

“Do you remember our first social?” he says.

I laugh. “Duelling club. What a nightmare.”

“Hey, I had fun,” he defends.

I roll my eyes again. “Of course you did.”

He’s grinning. “As I recall, you were the only one who could give me a run for my money.”

“That doesn’t mean I enjoyed it,” I say.

“I thought fighting with me was your favourite activity.”

I look over at him, my jaw suddenly feeling very tense. “Not everyone loves competing like you do.”

I think he knows what I’m referring to, based on the way he looks down, with a bit of that same guilty expression from after the party flecking his face.

“Yeah,” is all he says. And then after a moment, he adds, “I’m sorry.”

I don’t think he deserves forgiveness, so instead I say, “Thanks.”

It serves its purpose.