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—» 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬, 𝐬𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐥𝐬, 𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐬 »

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"𝐁𝐋𝐈𝐌𝐄𝐘, 𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐍'𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔—" "He is. Aren't you?" "What?" "Harry Potter."

"Are you really Harry Potter?" "And have you really got — you know..."

"I know all about you, of course—"

"I'd be careful if I were you, Potter."

"Potter, did she say?" "The Harry Potter?" "We got Potter! We got Potter!"

"Look! I think I can see him from here!" "Hey, I want to see him!"

"Tut, tut — fame clearly isn't everything."

"You must be the youngest house player in about—" — a century. Wood told me."

"You're going to be brilliant out there!" "We'll be waiting to catch you when you fall."

Harry sighed as he looked out the window, watching the full moon light up the navy-blue clouds. Even though his first ever Quidditch match was in a couple of hours, he couldn't sleep. It was like a pack of worms had been released into his stomach and were having a party.

The whole dorm was silent, save for the loud groans and snoring from his roommates. Neville dangled over the edge of his bed, an arm and limb off the mattress. Seamus and Dean both mumbled in their sleep, and he had a vague suspicion that they were continuing their heated debate about Quidditch and football for the umpteenth time. Ron sounded like a trumpeting elephant as usual. Harry was the only one up.

He held a quill — he finally got used to using it after a few months of classes and mounds of homework — tight in his hand and tapped the tip onto a blank sheet of parchment in front of him. This was his first time writing a letter, and he was nervous. Was it because it was his first time, or was it because of who he wanted to send the letter to?

Turns out, you couldn't use phones in Hogwarts. Something about too much magic in the air that interfered with the signals. He asked Hermione just last week when he found the strip of paper again tucked into the folded map Yasi had given him in the summer, the string of numbers blurred at the edges from friction.

His gut filled with guilt as he remembered his promise to her. What would she think of him? What did she think of him? Did she still think he was her friend? Did she want to still be his friend? Because he still wanted to be her friend.

Maybe he should start with that.

Dear Yasi,­

Dear? Did anyone use that anymore? Was that too personal? Would she still want him to call her Yasi?

He ripped the top off the piece of parchment and started again.

To Hyacinth,

That didn't sound right either. Another rip.

To Yasi... Dear Hyacinth... To H.D. .... To the girl I can't get out of my head — Rip. Rip. Rip. And definitely rip. Where did that last one even come from? He balled up the short scrap of parchment left and pointed his wand at it.

"Incendio." A spark lit on a wayward edge sticking out of the crumpled ball and snuffed out again. He flicked his wand again, furrowing his eyebrows as he glared daggers at the crumpled draft. "Incendio."

The ball of parchment roared up into flames, almost taking his eyebrows with it. Before he could panic about the desk catching on fire too and waking everyone else up, the paper turned into a pile of ash.

He cheered in his head. Professor Flitwick — and more importantly, Hermione — would be proud that he managed to get it on his second go.

Taking another piece of parchment from the side of his desk, he gripped his quill and bit his lip.

Deep breath in and breathe out. He was overthinking this.

Yasi,

How are you? How is Stonewall? Is it boring? I think I would have liked boring compared to Hogwarts if you were there.

Wait. Was he allowed to even talk about Hogwarts? He really should have asked Hermione what he could and could not write about.

He crumpled the parchment, lit it on fire with more ease this time, and started again on a fresh sheet of paper.

Over and over again, he started a new letter, each getting more harried than the last. Words jumbled in his mind, apologies and incoherent thoughts made it all onto the parchment, before going up again in flames when he declared the letter to be rubbish. Often, it was more of slip-ups and off-hand mentions of magic in the letter.

The dawn peeked through the misty line of mountains in the distance, glistening across the fog, crystal droplets of water rebounding and reflecting like scattered diamonds in the white field of clouds. Light crept into the room through the window, not bright enough to wake everyone up, but bright enough to banish the moonlight from the room. Shadows shrank, and metals shone. It wasn't long now until Wood would be calling him down to eat breakfast, and they would be on the pitch soon.

Harry craned his neck up and groaned, neck stiff and stomach still full of wriggling worms. He stood up from the desk and shuffled to his trunk, getting his things out to change into.

There was still a blank piece of paper staring up at the ceiling when he left the room.

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༻✧༺

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"𝐘𝐎𝐔'𝐕𝐄 𝐆𝐎𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐄𝐀𝐓 something, Harry."

"I feel like I eat anything, I'm going to throw up."

Harry shot a lingering gaze at the pile of fried sausages on Seamus's plate and blanched. His hand shot to his stomach, trying to still his nerves. Anything but tiny sips of pumpkin juice made him feel like his friends — and the rest of Hogwarts — were about to find out what yesterday's dinner looked like half-digested.

A massive sound of wings flapping in the wind resounded through the Great Hall as owls swooped in to give packages to the students. He didn't look up. The thought of anything flying made him think of him flying and him falling and making a great fool of himself. Besides, it's not like he was going to get any letters anyways. Hagrid had already sent one a few days prior about an invitation to tea at the gamekeeper's hut after the game.

He reached over to pick up his glass and stopped dead in his tracks.

"Hoot." Beady yellow eyes stared back at him, unflinching as it held out a pink envelope with a dozen flowers stickers littering the sides. Harry blinked, staring at the brown barn owl that stood on the rim of his glass of pumpkin juice. The owl cooed once more, impatience leaking from it. "Hoot hoot."

Ron nudged him from the side. "Go on, Harry. The owl's not going to wait forever."

Harry didn't move, couldn't move. Who would be writing to him? There was no one who would write to him of all people.

Hermione reached out to the owl herself and made quick work of untying the letter from its leg. The owl gave a grateful screech and took off again, leaving the trio with a letter and a frozen seeker.

"Harry Potter," Hermione said, reading out what was on the envelope. Her voice lifted up in amusement and confusion. "'Elitist British boarding school, Scotland?' That's an odd way of addressing a letter."

His hand shot out to grab the envelope, faster than when he caught the Remembrall from the air, knocking down his glass of pumpkin juice. ("Hey!" Hermione exclaimed, trying to avoid the dripping juice.) The writing... the stickers... even the way the 'k' and 'h' looped up and down.

That was Yasi. Is Yasi. This was from Yasi. But how? It didn't even have a proper address on it. How did it get all the way from Yasi, who lived all the way in the tiny town of Little Whinging, to Hogwarts, which was somewhere in Scotland?

He looked over at Ron, then thought otherwise when he saw his friend's blank face as he stared at the letter, absentmindedly taking bites from a piece of toast. He didn't know anything about this either. Ron was their expert in terms of the magical world ins and outs, — barring the knowledge Hermione got from books — as he was the only one from the trio that grew up around wizards his whole life. If both Ron and Hermione didn't know, then Harry had no clue whatsoever.

Hermione, who was also looking at the letter, pointed out there was something red beneath his fingers. He flipped over the envelope, spotting a big red stamp branded on the backside with the words 'Ministry Intercepted' in bold capital.

"Well, that solves that question." Ron chewed out, words garbled from the food he shoved into his mouth.

"Yeah," Harry mumbled, "I suppose so."

His eyes focused on the sticker in the corner, a glittery lightning bolt shining in the early morning light, and the corners of his lips lifted in a smile. Yasi got this letter to him, and if she could do that...

Harry stretched out his fork towards the plate of sausages, speared one onto the prongs, and took a nibble of it.

Maybe he could do this.

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