Content Harry Potter Miscellaneous
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Harry blinked awake, disoriented.  He knew there were several places he ought to be when he woke up, but none of them came to mind, and he was somewhere entirely different in any case.  The light was stronger than he was used to, so early in the morning, and only one other person slept nearby, where he ought to hear either four or none at all.

He took a deep breath and sighed happily.  Somewhere nearby, a hot breakfast was in the last stages of cooking.  Hunger prodded him to get up and find it, but the sheets were smooth and the bed was soft.  Harry wondered whimsically where he was, that he was getting such royal treatment. 

A finger of memory poked him.  Cair Paravel.  In Narnia.  And you’re getting royal treatment because you are royal here...

That brought back the rush of everything that had happened over the last few days, including why a lot of it seemed distant and out of reach.  The closed door in Harry’s mind beckoned alluringly, but he turned away, reaffirming his trust in the presence he’d experienced at the Silver Spring. 

It said—he said—I don’t need those memories now.  And if I ever do, I know where to find them. 

He arched his back and yawned.  Time to get up. 

Harry washed his hands and face in the bathroom, then cleaned his teeth with a finger and the jar of salt sitting on the ledge below the mirror.  Another quick wash and some brief, fruitless experimentation with his hair, and he returned to the bedroom to get dressed. 

Malfoy still slept in the other bed.  Harry hooked his glasses on and regarded the other boy.  He looks a lot younger when he’s asleep...

Then the thought turned inside out in his mind and started him wondering what had happened in Malfoy’s life to make him look so much older when he was awake. 

Harry finished dressing in silence and slipped out of the room.


A strain of music, wild and piercing, insinuated itself into Draco’s dreams and wrapped around him.  He shouted and struck at it, and it backed off as if surprised.  I want to be friends, its whole demeanor proclaimed.  What did I do wrong?

Draco wavered for an instant, then relented.  “Come here,” he said, holding out his hand. 

The music bounded to him, nuzzled at his hand, and flowed smoothly up his arm and into his ear.  Draco shivered but let it happen. 

Slowly, within his mind, the sounds unfolded.  Dissonances put him in mind of crashing waves and undertows, while sweet harmonies summoned calm sunny days with no ripples on the water.  All of it, cacophony and euphony alike, touched something within him that he had thought, hoped, prayed was long dead.

No!  I can’t let this happen!  It’s weakness where I need strength—it’s softness where I have to be hard...

But it would fool Potter and the others, and the Kings and Queens, he realized suddenly.  I can tell them part of the truth—that I’ve always loved music, always wanted it—and they’ll think I’m truly going soft, where I’m just putting it on to fool them. 

His physical eyes opened.  The music was still echoing in his head, coming in through the open  window, he realized, from somewhere close by.  He’d get up and go out to see who was playing and singing, and maybe even ask them to teach him something—show off how well-rounded he would become as a prince, and regain favor that way...

He ignored the high, sweet, repeated notes in the strain that sounded very like laughter.


Meghan tiptoed down the steps of the castle still in her white nightdress, her feet and head bare, tasting the salt of the sea on her tongue as she breathed.  The merpeople were singing.  She had seen them from her window, and seen, too, Queen Caelin standing by the shore and answering their wild song with one of her own, one that seemed to bridge the gap between the wildness of the sea music and the known strains of the land. 

Dew chilled the soles of Meghan’s feet, but she ignored it, pattering around into the orchard, where fruit was beginning to swell on the trees.  The mersong was quieter here, but she could still hear it, and she needed clear space and soft terrain to try the dance that had woven itself into her dreams and woken her with the urgency of its steps. 

Her feet were moving almost before she had asked it of them.  Back and forth, up and down... sway and bend and up again... a long way out, and back I come, leap up high and fall like so...

She danced the dawn into morning and the mersong into silence, and her dance became slower but no less wild, as another song crept into her mind and ordered the steps of her feet.

The Trees are singing now.  Not these trees around me, but the great Forest beyond—the dryads and hamadryads, the Talking Trees, like Oren...

Her feet moved slowly, as though wading through the good earth below, and her arms waved like branches in the sweet summer breeze.  She turned her face and hands upward to the sun, the bringer of warmth, and her toes dug into the ground, seeking the water without which no tree could live. 

She spun in a great circle, her arms outstretched.  Water and wood, sun and stone, we are all one at the heart.  We live as we may, and pay honor to Aslan, and thus are we all truly the same. 


Hermione awakened with the feeling that she’d just missed something wonderful, but she couldn’t think of what.

But I’m in Narnia.  Wonderful things will happen every day now.

She sat up, noting Meghan’s rumpled bed, the door of the room slightly ajar, the bright sunlight warming the boards of the floor.

I only hope that doesn’t mean wonderful things will become everyday to me.  I’d hate myself. 

It happened a little, back home.  She stood up and went into the bathroom, letting her mind run over the blurred images of “home” as she cleaned her teeth.  Several places came to mind, and several presences, three vague adults and two or perhaps three her own age, one clear—Harry—and the others set aside for the moment.

She rinsed her mouth and spit salty water into the basin, then poured clean water over a cloth to wash her face.  We had to stop being amazed by everything, because then there wouldn’t have been time to deal with what was happening to us.  Still, I hope we never lose all our wonder, especially not here in Narnia.  Imagine not being even a little excited to see a centaur, or a giant, or a dwarf... or Aslan...

A glint of gold above the bedroom door caught her eye as she came back out.  A tiny image of the Lion, done in real gold leaf, hung where Aslan could watch over any who entered or left the room.

Hermione curtsied deeply to the image.  I will meet you someday, she vowed to herself.  And you will not find me lacking as a princess, or a queen.  I don’t know why you chose me, but you did, and you don’t make mistakes.  I must be worthy, somehow. 

And I will be.  I promise.


Harry’s feet carried him upwards, and he let them.  The halls were deserted, though occasionally he heard the patter of paws on carpet or the rattle of claw against stone as someone passed nearby.

Are they avoiding me? he wondered.  Is it royal orders that no one bothers the heirs to the throne?  Or is it just that there’s no one living here, so no reason for servants to come up? 

But as he started to climb the spiral stair inside a tower, he knew he wasn’t going to be alone at the top. 

He’d been half-hearing music for a while, but it had stopped a minute or two before he’d found the door to the tower.  This singing was only one voice, following a melody that hinted at holding fast and delving deep.  The singing outdoors had been choral, with a mood that changed as often as its melody. 

I think I like this better.  I wonder who’s singing?  It could be a man with a high voice or a woman with a deep one... 

He peered cautiously around the corner of the towertop door at the singer. 

Woman.  Or girl.  Or whatever you call it when she’s a dwarf.

Garnet, Kargin’s younger sister, sat cross-legged on the circular platform, her back to the battlements.  In front of her rose a castle in miniature, the reddish-brown of good clay and so detailed that even Harry, who had only seen the place once from the outside, could identify it as Cair Paravel.  As he watched, slender-fingered hands stroked patterns of dressed stone into one of the outside walls, moving in time to her singing.

She’s good.  Though I suppose it’s in her blood—dwarves make things, fix things, build things.  I wonder if Kargin does anything like this?

Garnet traced one final ripple along the edge of a tower and stopped, voice and fingers releasing together.  She rose and stepped carefully around her work, which Harry now saw rested on a small board.  Facing the east, she began to sing again. 

Sun in its rising,

Moon in its setting,

Join me in praising,

Join me in song;

Honor and bless him,

Aslan who rules us,

And with me beg him,

Come before long.

Harry had been leaning closer and closer to the door as Garnet sang, and only as she finished did he realize that he was resting a significant portion of his weight on it, and that it wasn’t even latched, just resting on its hinges—

He pulled back just in time to save his balance as the door squeaked in protest and swung farther open.  Garnet whirled, a shining dagger appearing in her clay-covered hand.  Harry’s reflexes took over, pulling his wand from his trouser pocket before his conscious mind had even registered Garnet’s weapon.

They stared at each other for a moment, dagger and wand at the ready.  Garnet moved first, relaxing her grip on the dagger and coming out of her fighting stance.  “That’s a bit small for a staff,” she said, nodding towards Harry’s wand.  “Or do your people use them differently, Your... Harry?”

Harry let his wand come down from casting position.  “You’ve talked to Kargin,” he said.  “Or you wouldn’t know about that.”

“He is my brother.”  Garnet smiled.  “One of many.”

Harry nodded.  “He told me.  You have six brothers, I think he said?”

“Yes, six.  I was the oddity.”  Garnet sheathed her dagger.  “There aren’t many dwarf girls, and almost never in my family.”

A question occurred to Harry, but it seemed too rude to ask bluntly.  He cast about for a way to phrase it delicately.  Garnet spared him the trouble.  “Dwarf women always have many children,” she said.  “It’s Aslan’s gift, so that our race never dies.  And many of our men are wedded to their work, so they don’t want wives in any case.  Others marry outside the race.  My eldest brother has his eye on a dryad.”

Harry couldn’t repress a snicker at the thought. 

“You needn’t be rude about it,” Garnet said haughtily, but Harry could see a trace of answering laughter in the brown eyes.  “But you never did answer me.  We have stories about people who use small sticks to do magic, but they may well be just stories.”

“They’re called wands.”  Harry sorted through two or three possible explanations but discarded them all.  “May I show you some of my magic, instead of telling you?”

“Of course.”

“Hold out your hands.”  Harry hoped he’d get this right.  He’d never had much practice cleaning things by magical means, but he knew the incantation and the movement, and that ought to be enough.  He hoped.

Another worrying thought came crowding in to join the others. What if magic doesn’t work in Narnia, or doesn’t work right?  Could I hurt Garnet with a spell, if it goes wrong?

But the dwarf girl had her clay-caked hands stretched in front of her, and was watching him with anticipation and a hint of challenge on her strong-boned face.

There’s magic in Narnia, Harry reminded himself.  Maybe not the type I’m used to, but it should be close enough. 

He aimed the wand tip just below Garnet’s hands, then flicked it up, concentrating on clean.  “Scourgify!

The clay on Garnet’s hands vanished.  Garnet jerked back, and Harry flinched inwardly.  Oh no, something happenedI hurt her, or I hit her too hard, or it sent the clay somewhere I don’t want it...

“Lion and Knife,” Garnet breathed, flexing her clay-free hands.  “Not even Mother can clean like that.  And your wand can do other things, too—unless you were planning on cleaning me to death with it...”

“I wouldn’t do anything to death with you.”  Harry realized an instant too late how that sounded.

Getting back downstairs will be hard with my foot in my mouth this way.

“I’ll remember that,” Garnet said with a wicked smile.  “In the meantime, I believe breakfast will soon be served.  Will you escort me to the dining hall?”

“If you show me how to get there.”

“Gladly.”  Garnet curtsied slightly.  “Follow me, Your Highness.”

“Harry.  Please.”

“Very well.”  Garnet bent to pick up the board holding her work.  “Follow me, Harry Please.”

Harry kept his groan strictly internal.


Hermione pushed open a door and squinted into the bright morning sunlight.  She’d followed her nose downwards, but a rhythmic thumping noise had distracted her once she’d reached the ground floor.  

Hmm. Poles, targets, swords, arrows... I do believe I’ve found the training ground.

The source of the noise was apparent as soon as Hermione’s eyes had adjusted fully.  Kargin stood halfway down the field, turned away from Hermione, the quiver slung over one shoulder clearly visible against his back. As she watched, he drew out another arrow, nocked it, aimed, and fired, all in one easy, fluid movement.  The straw target at the far end of the field sprouted another set of feathers in the ring closest to the center.

Hermione moved out onto the field, surveying the target critically.  Most of Kargin’s arrows were clustered near the center, though a few had struck other portions of the target.  None had missed entirely, and only two were outside the three innermost rings.  He’s good. 

Four arrows later, Kargin’s quiver was empty.  Hermione waited until he had relaxed from his poised position, then began to applaud. 

“Aslan’s blood!” Kargin shouted, spinning around.  His face was flushed with anger, which melted immediately into surprise and worry.  “Your Highness, forgive me—I didn’t know...”

“It’s all right,” Hermione reassured him.  “I’m sorry I startled you.  You’re a good archer.”

“Thank you, Your Highness.”  Kargin bowed.

“Do stop it, please.  I’m not Draco.”

Kargin cracked a smile, and Hermione laughed aloud.  “I wish I could shoot a bow,” she said.  “Do you think I could learn?”

“Perhaps.  Is your eye any good?”

“Good for what?”

“Seeing where things are, and getting your hand to send them there.” 

“I think I’m all right,” Hermione said dubiously.  “My spells always seem to get where they’re going.”

“Spells?”

“Do you have any more of those?” Hermione asked, waving at the targets.

“Of course.”  Kargin’s face brightened.  “Your people have their own way of fighting, don’t they?  Harry told me some yesterday, but I can’t see it.  How could a little light do so much?  It sounds like something from a story.”

Hermione smiled.  “If you can help me get a new target out, I can show you.”

Dwarf and princess together dragged the arrow-riddled bale to one side, then set a new one on the blocks in its place.  Hermione stepped up to the line Kargin had been toeing and drew her wand. 

Color-Changers, I think.  They’ll show up nicely.  She took a deep breath, conscious of her heart racing.  Easy, Hermione, it’s just like a practical exam.  Show what you know.

But she dearly wanted to impress Kargin, far more than she had ever wanted to impress her professors.  Not for any personal reason, of course, but because he was Narnian, and in training to be a knight, and if he thought well of her, so might all the other people of Narnia...

You’re babbling. Relax and cast.

Another deep breath, and Hermione’s hand came up.  “Commuto Coloris,” she whispered.

The central circle on the target, which had been red, became a brilliant white.  Kargin sucked in a breath.  Hermione let hers out.  I didn’t even know if it would work.

Systematically, she changed every ring on the target, turning it alternating white and black, then red and gold, then, whimsically, green and silver. 

“I like that one,” chirped a voice from the direction of the palace.  “Can I try too?”

Hermione turned, lowering her wand.  “I thought Color-Changers were a third year spell,” she said. 

“Mum teaches me things at home sometimes.  She thought I should know that one so I could fix up my robes if they get stained.”  Meghan ran lightly down the practice field.  She wore only her white nightdress, and her feet were bare.  “Can I use your wand?  Mine’s still in our room.”

“If you think it’ll work,” Hermione said, handing it to the younger girl. 

“Is that like trying to use another’s bow?” asked Kargin, bowing to Meghan in greeting.  “A different grip and pull than you’re used to?”

“Something like that.”  Hermione stepped back, letting Meghan take her place at the line.  “Different wands are made from different woods, and have different magical cores, but it’s more than that.  The man who made mine for me used to say that the wand chooses the witch, not the other way around.”

“I think I understand.”  Kargin moved back beside Hermione, watching Meghan intently.  “Does she often run abroad with so little clothing?” he murmured. 

“I don’t know.  We’d only just met.  She shouldn’t, should she?”

“She’s a princess.  She can do what she wishes.”  Kargin’s tone spoke volumes.

“She shouldn’t,” Hermione said certainly.  “Shoes, at least.”

“If you say so, Your Highness.”  Kargin looked up at her, a wry grin touching his face.  “If you speak with that tone, I doubt the little princess will disagree.  I doubt any would dare disagree.”


Draco sat cross-legged on the sand of the beach, staring out to sea at the sunrise.

It looks so much closer than it does at home.  Like I could walk out there and touch it, take it in my hand...

He heard the footsteps behind him a moment before a familiar voice spoke.  “What does the young prince think of our Narnian mornings, then?”

The young prince thinks they’d be better alone.  But the memory of his scolding the day before was still fresh.  Draco held his tongue and instead stood up as he turned to face the naiad Nata.  “They’re very pretty,” he said.  “I never liked to watch the sun rise at home, but it’s different here.”

Brilliant.  So eloquent, I’m floored myself.  His self-criticism function was working overtime.  She’ll fall for you any minute now.  “It’s different here”?  What a fascinating observation...

“How is it different?” Nata asked, flowing downwards until she sat on the sand with her knees gathered to her chest. 

“Well...” Draco sat down himself, and found his thoughts from earlier intruding on his mind.  I don’t think she’ll laugh... she’s a mythical creature herself...

Tentatively, he told the naiad how much closer the sun looked here, but how it didn’t burn his eyes as the sun of his home world might have done.  How he’d imagined himself walking out along the paths the sun’s rays made on the ocean, walking up to the sun and taking it in his hand, feeling that power radiating through his blood and bones, the light and strength of a whole world under his control...

Nata’s eyes were fixed on his, her face raptly attentive.  Encouraged, Draco spun the story out longer.  “I’d hold onto it and let it carry me across the sky.  I’d see everything—Narnia, Archenland, Calormen, the Northlands, the desert, the ocean... and then, when the day was over, I’d find out where the sun goes after it sets.  I’d see where it rests, and what its home is like, and how it gets back into the east in the morning when it goes down in the west every night.”

I have never heard such a pack of nonsense in my life, the critical voice in his mind sneered.  Hold onto the sun and let it carry you?  See where it rests at night?  Ridiculous.

“How beautiful,” Nata breathed.  “Do you always speak in such poetry, my prince?”

“Maybe not always,” Draco said after a moment of silent astonishment.  “But I like beautiful things.” 

“You must, to speak so.”  Nata turned to regard the sun, now almost all the way above the horizon, then lifted her hand.  A fine spray of water, a mist really, began to shower from her fingertips.  “Behold,” she murmured.  “I, too, can create beauty.”

Draco drew in his breath eagerly.  Rainbows spun within the mist, forming and reforming as Nata wove patterns with her fingers.  She ran her hand through her hair, and her head, too, was haloed about with shifting color.  One step at a time, as slow as the first trickle of a stream after winter’s freeze, the naiad began to dance. 

Draco forgot where he was, forgot to be critical, forgot everything.  The fluid motions of arms and feet, the sparkle of colored light in the fine haze about Nata’s body, held him mesmerized.  His eyes kept pace as she spun and leapt ever faster, bending in ways a human girl could never have managed. 

I know who that voice sounds like, he thought absently.  The one that tells me everything I do is wrong.  It sounds like my father.

And I don’t need to think about my father right now. 

Nata spun faster still, and a fine dew beaded Draco’s face.  He licked his lips, tasting again the water of the Silver Spring.  Go away, he willed the critical voice.  I don’t need you. 

The voice tried to argue, but Draco was firm.  I’m not interested in you just now.  When you learn to do something like this—Nata posed with both arms flung above her head, then sank bonelessly to the sand before rising again with fluid grace—let me know.  Until then, leave me alone. 

The door in his mind opened and shut again, and Draco Malfoy was alone with his own thoughts.  The silence echoed between his ears, but he filled it quickly with the sight of Nata bent backwards into a perfect arch, then straightening and rising on one leg, her arms extended like a swan in flight.

“Beautiful,” he whispered aloud, and for the first time since he could remember, his mind echoed it truthfully, with no sneering taunt appended. 

Beautiful. 

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Author Notes:

A little shorter than the last few, but verbosity is not always a virtue.   Especially considering I’ve been trying to get this out for months, and it’s been stalling on me.   Hope this was worth the wait.   Let me know!