Have Another Dream
The days went by fast. It seemed no time at all before they had to leave, and that was a day of mad scrambling, of tossing books and clothes willy-nilly into trunks, and tipping everything out to pack again, properly. Steve lost his asthma medication, prompting a frantic search until it was discovered in Bucky’s trunk by mistake. Bucky almost turned the house upside down looking for a Charms textbook that he swore he’d only taken out to read last night – it was eventually found in the kitchen. Finally, though, they were both ready, with their trunks loaded onto the handcart and Steve refusing to let anyone help him pull it. The girls were left with a neighbour to watch, and Steve, Bucky and Winifred set off walking to King’s Cross.
Platform 93/4, the tickets said. Steve had asked about that, but all Winifred had said was, “You’ll find out when we get there.” He and Bucky had discussed it endlessly, late at night. Secret underground station? Illusion, like the wall in Diagon Alley? Invisible train – that was Steve’s favourite theory. Bucky had wondered if it flew.
“Steve, don’t be silly,” Winifred had said as they hurried down the street. “Let James take the cart.”
“I’ve got it,” said Steve, stumbling as the cart caught in a rut between two cobblestones. Bucky caught one side of the handle, bumping his shoulder against Steve’s.
“We’ve both got it.”
King’s Cross wasn’t far, and they made good time even with the heavy trunks. Steve stared around the platforms, hunting for 93/4, but it didn’t seem to exist. Platform 9 and Platform 10 sat alongside each other, with nothing but a brick pillar separating them.
“Where is it?” he whispered to Bucky.
“I don’t know!”
“Well,” said Winifred, “follow me.” And with that, she walked straight towards the pillar and disappeared into the brick.
“Ma?” Bucky let go of the handcart, hurried forward a few steps. “Ma, where did you go?”
“In there, I think,” said Steve, pointing to the pillar and trying not to feel nervous. Just then, Winifred’s head popped back out of the brickwork, and both boys jumped.
“C’mon, you two,” she said. “Walk straight at the pillar. You’ll go right through.”
She disappeared again. Steve and Bucky looked at each other, took hold of the cart’s handles and stepped forwards.
Walking through the bricks felt strange and slightly chilly, like walking through a waterfall. Steve’s hand tightened on the handle. Before them spread the hurry and bustle of Platform 93/4, filled with children – some wearing robes, some normal clothes – and their parents, pushing carts or lugging heavy trunks. Many carried owls in cages, or had cats riding on their trunks or padding alongside their feet. The air was filled with the babble of hundreds of voices.
At the centre of it all was the train. It was huge, painted a shiny dark red and patterned with gold chasing. The funnel leaked steam.
They walked up to the middle of the train, and Winifred hugged them both and ruffled their hair. “Don’t forget to write to me,” she said. “Get one of your teachers to tell you about owl mail. And please don’t go getting into any more fights than you absolutely have to.”
Steve smiled and hugged her back, and together the boys clambered onto the train. She hefted their trunks up after them, adding, “Make sure Stevie takes his medicine, James!” as she passed up Bucky’s. “I love you both.”
Inside, the train was divided into compartments, linked by a long corridor. The boys wandered down the length of it until they reached an empty one, with long bench seats on either side and a wide window.
The train jerked and began to pull away. Bucky hurried to the window, and Steve followed suit. There was Winifred, standing by the abandoned handcart and waving a handkerchief. The boys hung out the window and waved madly back until she was out of sight.
A voice from the doorway startled them. “Mind if we join you?”
Steve turned. Two people stood in the doorway – a well-dressed, wavy-haired girl and a short, slim boy with a mischievous face. “Uh, alright,” said Steve, at the same time as Bucky said, “Sure.”
The other two sat down opposite them. Steve could feel the level of awkwardness rising.
Bucky broke the tension.
“Bullseye?” he asked, producing a bag from his pocket and offering it around.
Steve took one, and so did the girl. The boy looked puzzled.
“From actual bulls?” he said, frowning.
Steve shook his head. “No, it’s a sweet. You know . . . sugar? Don’t wizards have sweets?”
“Not that sort, no,” said the boy, taking one. His eyes widened. “But we will, as soon as I can work out how to replicate it. This is seriously good.”
The others laughed. “Who are you, anyway?” Bucky asked.
“Howard. Howard Stark. Pleased to meet you, and thank you for the . . . uh . . . bull’s ball?”
“Bullseye,” corrected the girl, covering up the sound of Steve and Bucky choking on their own sweets. “I’m Peggy Carter.”
She held out a hand and Steve shook it, slightly taken aback. “Steve Rogers.”
“And you?”
“James Barnes – call me Bucky.”
“So . . . looking forward to Hogwarts?” Howard asked, words slightly garbled by the bullseye. “What house d’you think you’ll be in?”
“Houses?” That was Steve and Bucky, at the same time.
“Wow,” said Howard, “you are green.”
“Shut up, Stark,” said Peggy, easily. “You’re Muggleborns, aren’t you? Non-magic parents,” she added.
“I think so,” said Steve. “Never met my dad.”
“My ma said she was a . . . Squib, I think,” added Bucky.
“Well, there’s four houses,” said Howard, leaning back. “Gryffindor are the brave ones, Hufflepuff are the loyal ones, Ravenclaw are the smart ones and Slytherin are the sneaky ones.”
“It’s a bit more complicated than that,” said Peggy, “but my brother says the Hat does a song to explain it. You’ll find out when we get there.”
Steve was getting a little tired of hearing that, but there were more important things. “Wait,” he said, frowning. “There’s a hat that sings?”
Howard laughed. “Apparently.”
Bucky shook his head. “This magic thing is bloody weird.”
The train was rattling through green fields now, with a few houses visible on the hills. Steve turned sideways in his seat and propped his sketchbook on his knee – he’d been given a new set of coloured pencils for his birthday, and he wanted to try them out. Bucky had leaned his head against the window, gazing out at the rushing scenery, and it was too good an opportunity to miss.
They were good pencils, and Bucky was used to being sketched – he stayed still, staring out the window. Soon, Steve was absorbed in his drawing. He didn’t notice Peggy crossing the compartment to sit beside him, or Howard leaning forward in his seat, watching avidly.
He was pulled out of his sketching reverie by the rattle of wheels at the door. “Want to buy anything?” called a voice.
Steve looked up. A woman stood in the doorway, one hand on a shining metal cart piled high with . . . nothing Steve recognised. He had no money, anyway.
Howard jumped up and hurried over to the cart. He paid with several of the odd bronze wizard coins and returned clutching a large paper bag of what looked like jelly beans.
“Behold, Muggleborns!” he announced. “Wizard sweets!”
“Sit down, you silly git,” said Peggy, grinning.
Howard ignored her, and offered the bag around.
Steve shook his head. “I’m fine, thanks.” He didn’t like being given things. He had no way to pay back the favour, and he preferred to make his own way.
“C’mon!” said Howard. “You too, Becky. They’re Every Flavour Beans, I’ll feel embarrassed eating them by myself.”
“What are they like?” asked Bucky, taking one.
“Don’t know!” said Howard cheerfully. “Never had them before. They’ve only just been invented.”
Steve took one. It was pale green, and had a pleasant apple flavour. Bucky, however, screwed his face up after a single nibble. “Sour . . .” he managed.
Howard waved the bag at Peggy. “Come on, Peggy-my-girl!”
“Not your girl, Stark,” said Peggy, but she took a bean. “Mmm, raspberry.”
Howard had one himself . . . and immediately spat it out. “Gah, they really do mean every flavour!” He shuddered. “I think that was pond slime.”
That took the edge off Steve’s enthusiasm for the Every Flavour Beans, but not enough to stop him trying another one, which turned out to be salt. Bucky got a coffee-flavoured bean, Peggy a toothpaste, and Howard a bright yellow one that he swore was pineapple.
Steve, who had no idea what a pineapple was, refrained from commenting.
Peggy had been looking at the half-finished sketch in Steve’s book. “You’re not a bad artist, you know, Rogers,” she said.
Steve ducked his head and began to mutter something, but Bucky shook his shoulder. “Shut up and thank her, punk. We all know you’re good, quit acting modest.”
“Nick off, jerk,” Steve grinned, earning himself a playful cuff on the ear. “Thanks, Peggy.”
“Hey, you should draw Stark,” she said. “Might make him sit still for five minutes together.”
“Okay.” Steve retrieved sketchbook and pencils. Howard would be a good challenge, with his loose clothing, bright face and cock-eyed grin. Peggy watched him as he drew, and he found himself stealing glances away from his sketchbook to look at her. Howard and Bucky chattered quietly about engineering, of all things, with Howard quizzing Bucky about Muggle vehicles and Bucky wondering whether magic could actually make a car fly.
The train rocked on into the darkening evening.
Finally, it was too dark for Steve to see the paper anymore, and someone was knocking on their compartment wall. He looked up. An older girl stood in the doorway, wearing a green and silver tie and black robes with a badge on the chest.
“First-years?” she asked. Without waiting for a reply, she continued, “Better get your robes on. We’re nearly there.”
She withdrew, and they could hear her knocking on the wall of the next compartment along. Steve put down the sketchbook and began digging in his trunk for the black robes that were apparently uniform at Hogwarts.
“So, do they just go on over our clothes, or what?” Bucky was asking.
“Yep,” said Peggy, already pulling on her own robes.
Pretty soon they were all dressed, and Steve was trying his hardest not to feel awkward. Peggy and Howard’s robes were clearly new and fitted them perfectly, while Steve was uncomfortably aware that his own were faded and slightly too long, even after Winifred had re-hemmed them. He told himself that he was being silly, that it didn’t matter how old his robes were so long as they were clean and respectable – just like his mother had always said – but it didn’t really help.
By his face, Bucky felt the same way. He was tugging at his sleeves, trying to pull them down over his wrists.
Howard lifted his trunk down from the luggage rack, wobbling under the weight. Hesitantly, Steve moved towards Peggy.
“Do you need a hand?” he asked.
Peggy looked over at him and smiled, not unkindly. “No, but thanks for offering.” She turned away and lifted her trunk down in one smooth movement – certainly more gracefully than Howard had managed.
Feeling slightly chastened, although no telling-off had taken place, Steve turned to his own trunk. He’d wedged it under the seat, rather than ask Bucky to help him lift it.
The train rattled to a stop. Steve looked out the window, but it was fully dark outside and his eyesight wasn’t the best. He could find no clue as to where they were.
They left the compartment, towing their trunks behind them. Howard’s had little wheels on the base, Steve noticed. Good idea. He struggled to tow his own over the carpet, and felt a hand grip the handle next to his, helping him. He opened his mouth to thank Bucky, but it wasn’t him. It was Peggy.
Outside, the air was chilly, and Steve was grateful for the thick robes. He felt Bucky’s arm go round him, sharing their body heat as they’d done a hundred times before, and found himself smiling widely.
“First-years this way!” called a voice. That was them, Steve supposed.
They hurried after the voice, joining a small crowd of kids their age who were gathered around a tall, dark-skinned man. “That all of you?” he was saying, and his finger skipped in a fast headcount. “Right, off we go.”
The man lead them towards . . . a lake? “This place is underwater?” Steve muttered to Bucky, but then he saw the fleet of little boats waiting at the lake’s edge.
They ended up wedged into the same boat. With the four of them plus trunks, it was a tight fit, and Steve found himself in the stern, sitting more on Bucky’s lap than not.
“How do these move?” Bucky asked Howard, who’d perched himself in the bow, staring down at the dark water rushing past the keel.
“I have no idea,” replied Howard, “but they’re amazing.”
Almost before the words left his mouth, the boat swayed as something passed underneath it. Howard, caught off-balance, gave a squeak and pitched face-first into the lake,
The boat rocked wildly. Steve felt Bucky’s arm for round his chest, holding him safely in place like a seatbelt.
But Peggy’s reflexes were even faster than Bucky’s. She lunged across the bow and caught the hem of Howard’s robe, hauling him back on board. He tumbled across Steve’s legs, setting water soaking through his trousers.
There was silence for a moment as they all took it in. Peggy, crouched in the bow and not even breathing hard. Bucky, buried under the other two boys’ bodied. Steve, still wide-eyed with shock and amazement. And Howard, sprawled half in Steve’s lap and half in the bottom of the boat, dripping wet from the waist up.
“Stark, you’re a twit,” said Peggy eventually, and that did it.
They lost it. “I object!” shouted Howard, but he was laughing too hard to continue. Steve’s ribs ached. They were still giggling as the little fleet glided up to the shore and a massive building looked over them – a castle, windows glowing with candlelight.
The tall man – a teacher, presumably – gave them a startled look. “What happened to you, kid?” he asked Howard.
Which, of course, set them off again.
The teacher raised an eyebrow, but didn’t question them further. Instead, he removed a wand from his pocket and pointed it at Howard, who flinched. Steve glanced over at Bucky, and knew his friend had seen it too. There was a story there, but it was Howard’s to tell. None of their business.
“Aridio!” said the teacher, and instantly Howard’s clothes were dry. His hair stuck up in ruffled spikes, like the world’s worst bedhead.
The teacher grinned and turned away, and the small mob of first-years followed him up the slope, towing their trunks behind them.