Daydream Believer

“This sport is going to kill me,” Mary grumbles as we’re making our way into the frigid October wind for the first quidditch game of the season. It becomes a prophecy for the entire expedition.

First, it’s the fact that we have to wake up at eight, on a Saturday, in order to have time to eat breakfast before the game. Then it’s the rain that starts halfway through as a light sprinkle and turns into a full pour by the end of the game, drenching those of us without enough foresight to bring umbrellas. We jump up and down in the stands with our coats buttoned up to our ears until Potter finally catches the snitch, and then we’re carried down to the pitch in the current of scarlet and gold, while Slytherin stalks off, disappointed.

We push through the crowd to find Marlene surrounded by the rest of the team, her face red and lit up.

“Congratulations!” I yell over the buzzing crowd. I give her a hug.

“Thanks babes.” She plants a big kiss on my forehead. “Good start to the season, eh?”

While she hugs Mary, I turn to look for Tommy in the crowd. Unfortunately, it’s Potter I find first.

“Evans,” he says from behind me, sounding surprised. “Come to congratulate me?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” I say, turning around.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” 

He’s grinning widely, his hair plastered to his forehead and his glasses speckled with raindrops. Suddenly I wonder how soggy and gross I must look after standing in the rain for a half hour. I comb a hand through my hair.

“I’m only glad you caught the snitch so we can all go inside,” I say as I pull my hand away soaking wet.

He laughs. “Yeah, I did that just for you.”

I roll my eyes at his sarcasm. “How kind.”

The party in the common room is especially rowdy that night with everyone celebrating the win. The Gryffindor song is drunkenly yelled through the entire room several times throughout the night, and I get enough alcohol in me that I join in, Marlene’s arm around my shoulders.

Actually, I get drunk enough that most of the night fades into memory even while it’s happening, which is probably for the best.

On Sunday, I wake up aching. It’s not a headache, or a stomach ache even, more like an everything-ache—nothing actually really hurts, but my whole body feels a bit like it’s being ground to sawdust. I vow to never drink again.

By the time I wake up, breakfast is lunch, and neither meal is really anything because I just push some eggs around my plate and can’t manage to get anything down. I slog through some homework in the afternoon before dinner, and then Potter and I are on rounds that night. Seems uniquely evil, when every bone in my body is calling for sleep.

When I come out of my room just before ten, Potter is shutting his door across the hall. I sigh loudly at the sight of him.

He looks insulted. “Well good to see you too. I’ll try not to take offence.”

“I feel terrible,” I groan.

“Oh no, don’t worry,” he says with a sweet smile. “A simple apology will do the trick.”

“Ugh no.” I smack his arm. “I mean physically. My head hurts, my stomach hurts—”

“Hungover?” he offers.

I narrow my eyes at him. “Why do you ask?”

“Well you were a bit sloshed last night, weren’t you?”

I groan again and cover my face with my hands. “I’m never drinking again.”

He laughs. 

We’re out of the common room now and on the way to Ravenclaw Tower. I light my wand belatedly, noticing Potter’s already lit in his hand. Did he do the spell nonverbally? Damn him for being so good at magic.

He yawns. “What did you get on the Potions exam?”

“Exceeds expectations,” I answer with a matching yawn. 

We got it back on Friday, but I wasn’t worried. Potions has always been one of my best subjects. Plus Slughorn loves me, and everyone knows he plays favourites. 

“You?” I ask, but I already know his answer.

“Same,” he says.

I curse him again in my head. Please be more stupid, I pray, but I don’t think god has ever been in the business of not giving Potter exactly what he wants.

We pass Ravenclaw tower and start heading to Hufflepuff. I realise suddenly that we’re in the seventh floor corridor—the same place Tommy took me on Monday to show me the magically-appearing piano room. But there are no doors across from the unicorn tapestry now, just the cold, weathered stone of the castle walls. I think of Tommy walking back and forth down the corridor and wonder if that’s the key that opens it somehow. For a second, I almost consider trying it, but I remember Potter at my side.

I glance over at him. His face is shadowy and sharp in the torchlight, his glasses glinting. His perpetually messy brown hair is possibly messier than usual, and I wonder if he’s suffering from an everything-ache too.

He looks over at me and I look away immediately, my face heating up. I’ve never been good with eye contact.

“Well, weren't you sloshed last night?” I ask. “Celebrating the game and all.”

“Which you still haven’t congratulated me on,” he says, not answering my question.

“My apologies, Mr. Captain,” I reply, rolling my eyes. “But I guess I understand the need for validation, considering it’s the only thing you’ve got going for you.”

He scoffs. “Besides my superior Potions skills, you mean.”

“Superior is a strong word,” I say with an eyebrow raise. “Your fire resistance potion in third year was definitely subpar.”

He gasps. “How dare you bad-mouth my fire resistance potion? I got an exceeds expectations on that.”

“So did I.”

“And I accept that,” he says emphatically. He takes on an affected tone and clutches his hands to his chest. “Evans, all I ask is that you accept me. Abnormally good Potion-making abilities and all.”

I roll my eyes and try really hard not to smile. “You are ridiculous, you know that?”

He’s grinning. “I’ve been told.”

Suddenly, in the moment of silence, my stomach rumbles loudly.

He looks at me sideways. “Was that...”

“I didn’t eat all day,” I confess.

His expression changes to mischief, a look I unfortunately know quite well.

“Ever been to the kitchens, Evans?”

“The kitchens?” I give him a doubtful look. “Isn’t that... not allowed?”

“No one will know,” he says confidently. “Are you hungry or not?”

I let out a breath, aware that I’m surrendering somehow but powerless to stop it. “Starving.”

He grins and picks up his pace. “Come on, we’ll pass Slytherin on the way.”

Sure enough, we follow our usual patrol route down to the Dungeons, but then we keep going. The corridor, already dark and dim in this part of the castle, only gets darker and dimmer, and I have the nonsensical urge to reach out for Potter’s hand for safety.

“I’m beginning to think you’ve brought me down here to murder me,” I say. My voice echoes in the long hallway.

He clicks his tongue. “I am not going to murder you, Evans.”

“Sounds like something somebody who was going to murder me would say.”

At last, the corridor ends in a small, splintery wooden door that’s hanging off its hinges. Potter pushes it open and waves me in with a flourish. 

I hold a brief conference with myself.

Don’t go into mysterious rooms with strange men, one delegation of my brain says.

Potter’s not strange, the other argues. Or a man, for that matter. He’s just a boy and you’ve known him for five years.

Said boy is giving me a quizzical look as I hesitate in the hall. “Well?”

Despite my best instincts, I go in.

My jaw drops. There is food everywhere. Countertops line the walls, covered in dish after dish of mashed potatoes, bean stew, and a ridiculously large assortment of salads. Atop of a large table that takes up the rest of the floor, countless silver platters sit filled to the brim with tiny pastries of every variety under the sun.

I turn back to Potter, but I’m speechless.

He laughs at the face of astonishment I must be making. “Good, right?”

“Good,” I say incredulously. “Phenomenal. How is all of this just sitting out? Doesn’t it go bad?”

He shrugs. “Magic.”

“Right. That.” I gaze at the array in front of me, my stomach suddenly feeling emptier than before. “But don’t the house elves have to remake whatever we eat?”

“No, it’s enchanted,” he says. “So everything that’s eaten is magically replenished.”

To demonstrate, he lifts a piece of toast off a nearby plate and takes a bite. An identical piece of toast appears in its place.

“Oh my god,” I say. “Heaven is real.”

“Now you’re getting it.” He pushes a few dishes to the side and sits on the countertop, taking another bite of toast.

Still agog, I turn around to survey my options again and gasp. “Eclairs!”

I pull one from a platter and watch in amazement as another takes its place. Then I take a big bite and follow Potter’s lead, hopping up on the table across from him.

“I love magic,” I say through a mouthful of cream. “I haven’t had one of these in years. Me and my sister used to always force our mum to buy us some after dance class. They were her favourite.”

Potter is watching me like I’m a wild animal in its new enclosure, and he’s curious to see what I’ll do when left to my own devices.

I shoot him a look. “What?”

“You never talk about your sister,” he says. “What’s her name?”

“Petunia.”

He laughs. “And your mum isn’t a florist?”

“Ha ha,” I say. “Well she does love gardening.”

He’s entertained. “What’s your sister like?”

I shrug, pausing to swallow. “She’s fine. We’re not very close anymore. Actually, she happens to think I’m a bit of a freak.”

“What? Why?”

“For being a witch,” I say.

He looks at me seriously then, like he’s about to say something very important. What he does say surprises me. “You’re not a freak, Evans. You’re a real witch.”

“I know that, Potter,” I say. 

And I do, but it’s kind of nice to hear it from somebody else for once. Most people here don’t have to contend with the outside world like I do. They’re doing what their family expects of them. It’s not that Mum and Dad don’t support me, it’s just that they don’t really understand. I’ve had no choice but to forge a new path, and occasionally a girl needs to hear that she’s doing it right. Funny that it took Potter, king of Gryffindor, to reassure me.

“I’ve never thought about that,” he says after a moment. He’s got one knee up on the countertop and his head leaned back against the wall thoughtfully.

“About what?” I ask, starting on my second eclair.

“That your sister wouldn’t be a witch.”

“My parents are muggles,” I say. I resist the urge to add, Duh.

“I know,” he says. “I just didn’t think about siblings.”

“What a luxury,” I say, and I immediately hate how bitter it sounds. I’m not in the business of bitterness. I’m an incredibly lucky person.

I clear my throat. “You’re an only child, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Sort of.”

“What’s ‘sort of?’”

“Sirius lives with me.”

“He does?” I look over at him, but his expression is blank. “Why?”

He takes a second to answer, like he’s deciding whether he should or not. I begin to wonder if it was an insensitive question, and stop from licking the cream off my fingers just in case it was. That would be the wrong thing to do in a serious conversation, right?

“His parents sort of, um, kicked him out,” Potter answers at last. He lets out a heavy breath.

I let the information roll around in my brain. The Black family is an ancient wizarding dynasty—all that traditional pureblood crap. I knew that Sirius was rebellious, but I didn’t know it was like this. I don’t know what to ask next, or rather, what not to ask, so I settle on, “Is he okay?”

“Yeah,” Potter says. “It was a while ago now. They’re really terrible, his family, all of that pureblood stuff. And he never gave into it, so they’ve just always been... bad to him, and then I guess it got too bad. So now he lives with me.”

“Wow,” I say, feeling a little shocked. It’s a lot to take in, isn’t it? The levels of compassion and selflessness that Potter is showing right now are unprecedented, to say the least. I wonder for the first time if he might actually be a good person. “That’s really nice of you.”

He shrugs, like it’s nothing. 

I get a weird feeling in my chest, like respect. It compels me to go on.

“You’re a really good friend,” I say.

He meets my eyes at last but doesn’t say anything. For a second he just looks at me, and I feel my face warming up under the spotlight of his gaze.

Then he hops off the counter and says, “Alright, we should get back to it.”

With a shock, I’m reminded that we’re in the middle of our rounds. Why did I let him distract me for so long? And why did I forget so easily? I was on cloud nine for a moment, and now I feel like an astronaut coming back down to earth. 

“Right,” I say, and scramble off the table. I grab another eclair and follow him out the door.

We get back to the common room after one. Luckily, nothing disastrous happened while we were in the kitchen, or at least nothing immediately noticeable. I still feel fairly guilty, and worried that the guilt didn't kick in sooner, but I guess this is the kind of irresponsible thing Potter does all the time because he shows no signs of remorse.

We walk down the hall to our dorms in silence and he pauses outside his door.

“See you tomorrow, Evans.”

“See you,” I say. My hand is on the doorknob when I add, “Congratulations, by the way. On the game.”

He smiles, but he’s too tired for it to look like his usual evil grin. Instead it just looks kind of nice. “There it is,” he says.

I roll my eyes. “Goodnight, Potter.”

I’m halfway over the threshold when he says softly, “Goodnight.”