Hogsmeade

When Clara returned to the common room, Rowle was still sitting on the sofa in front of the fireplace, holding a copy of Witch Weekly with Rita Skeeter's perpetually obnoxious face on the cover. She had clearly grown impatient with waiting. The moment she saw Clara emerge from the passage, she tossed the magazine aside and sprang off the sofa.

"Merlin, you're finally back! I thought Dumbledore had kept you in his office for detention." Rowle tugged at her sleeve and looked her up and down, seemingly checking that she still had all her limbs. "So why did you go see Dumbledore? What did you do? Or do you want to join that legendary Order of the Phoenix or whatever it's called? My dad says it's really cool."

Clara couldn't help laughing. That was Rowle for you: she could always go from demanding answers to making things up in her head in three seconds flat, her imagination racing so fast even Merlin couldn't keep up. She patted Rowle's hand where it gripped her sleeve. "It's nothing. I just asked him a question about a spell. I've been especially interested in protective magic lately."

Rowle narrowed her eyes, clearly unconvinced, but she didn't press the matter. That was what Clara liked most about Rowle: she knew when to ask questions and when to let go.

"All right, all right, mysterious Miss Lyla. But you owe me an afternoon now. You said we'd go to Hogsmeade after lunch, and look at the time! If we don't leave soon, Gladrags Wizardwear will close, and don't you cry if someone buys that silver-white dress robe before we get there."

Clara glanced out the window. The afternoon sun was just right, and the sky, clear after the snowfall, was blue as if it had been washed clean. It suddenly struck her that she really did need an afternoon like this: going to Hogsmeade with her best friend to buy a beautiful Yule Ball dress robe, as a fifth-year student at Hogwarts.

Between countless June twenty-thirds and twenty-fourths, she had long since forgotten what it felt like to do things like this.

"Come on," she said, taking Rowle's hand. "You lead the way."

Students had trampled a long path through the snow on the road to Hogsmeade, with waist-high drifts piled up on either side. They walked along it in twos and threes: some were having snowball fights, some were hurrying along with their necks tucked into thick scarves, and others stood by the roadside casting spells on frozen bushes, trying to conjure something resembling ice sculptures.

Rowle walked beside her, talking nonstop the entire way. She went from the new color-changing filled sweets at Honeydukes to the window display at Gladrags Wizardwear, then from the display to Krum of Durmstrang, and began imagining her chances of being asked to the ball by him. Clara listened, nodding and murmuring now and then, a smile on her lips that she didn't even notice herself.

The streets of Hogsmeade were livelier than usual. With Christmas approaching, nearly the whole school had poured into the little wizarding village, including the students from Durmstrang and Beauxbatons.

The window at Gladrags Wizardwear had been redressed with the latest Christmas collection. A dark green velvet dress robe floated in the air, turning slowly, with a ruby brooch shaped like a holly berry pinned at the neckline. On a silver sash beside it, the words "Exclusive Yule Ball collection" were written in fancy script.

Rowle practically shoved her into the shop.

The shop smelled of cashmere and lavender. Several older Ravenclaw girls were weaving between racks crowded with dress robes, exclaiming in admiration every now and then. Rowle headed straight for a display rack beside the window and carefully took down a silver-white dress robe. The satin had a soft, pearly sheen under the magical lights, and fine silver thread edged the neckline and cuffs.

"This is the one!" Rowle thrust the robe into Clara's arms, her eyes shining. "Try it on, quick. I thought it would suit you perfectly when I came in last time."

Clara held the dress robe, the satin cool and smooth against her fingertips. She went into a fitting room and unfolded the silver-white robe. It was lighter than she had imagined, and wearing it felt like draping herself in moonlight.

She stood in the fitting room, looking herself up and down in the slightly blurry mirror. The girl in the mirror wore a silver-white, one-shouldered satin gown. Her hair was loosely pinned up, a little mussed from walking through the snow, and her cheeks were faintly pink from the cold wind.

Last time, she hadn't even gone to the ball. Although Rowle had brought her this outfit, she had never ended up wearing it. What a terrible waste.

But now, she thought, she had a chance to wear it.

Whether or not she had a partner for the ball, whether or not she would stand in a corner that night watching him dance with Cho Chang, she would wear this robe.

She would live every day before June twenty-fourth to the fullest and leave herself no regrets.

She took a deep breath, pulled back the curtain and stepped out.

Rowle had changed into a pale lilac robe and was chatting with another girl in the shop. She turned at the sound. Her mouth fell open in an O, then spread into a grin from ear to ear.

"Merlin! Lyla! You look-oh my, it's as if this was made for you! If anyone dares say you're not beautiful, I'll fight him! You just don't usually care much for dressing up."

Clara felt a little embarrassed by the praise and looked down at the hem. She turned in front of the mirror, the skirt lifting gently and settling again with a faint rustle.

"Does it really look good?"

"It looks incredible." Rowle spoke with absolute certainty, then pushed her toward the counter. "Now get out your Galleons, buy it, and then we're going to the Three Broomsticks for Butterbeer. I'm starving."

Clara's hand shook a little as she paid. The robe cost her almost a month's pocket money. Rowle bought the pale lilac robe, and her purse had taken a hit too.

The streetlamps came on, and the scent of caramel and butter in the air was stronger than it had been that afternoon. Mixed with the smell of roast meat drifting from the Three Broomsticks in the distance, it finally made Clara's stomach rumble in protest.

The Three Broomsticks was more crowded than usual. The air was filled with the sweet aroma of Butterbeer and the distinctive smell of damp wool scarves drying by the fire. Madam Rosmerta carried a tray between the tables, her signature rose-red robes like a bright flag in the crowd.

Clara and Rowle had a hard time finding a wobbly little round table in the corner. Its surface was covered with initials and hearts carved by generations of Hogwarts students, polished smooth by the bottoms of countless cups.

Clara carefully placed the paper bag containing her dress robe beside her chair, sat down and rested her chin on her folded arms, gazing absently at the view outside the window. Rowle had gone to the counter to buy food, saying the meat pies were especially popular today and would be gone if she was too late.

"Two Butterbeers, two meat pies, and one order of chips." Rowle returned with a tray of food, set the cups and small plates on the table one by one, then plopped down opposite Clara, making the chair creak.

She gulped down a mouthful of Butterbeer, leaving a white ring of foam on her upper lip, then lowered her voice and spoke as though reporting momentous news. "Merlin, guess who I just saw at the counter? Harry Potter! He's sitting over there by the fireplace! And Granger and Weasley are with him."

Clara looked in the direction Rowle indicated with a tilt of her lips.

Three figures sat around the table by the fireplace, bathed in its warm orange glow. Hermione Granger was bent over a thick book, her bushy brown hair falling on either side and hiding almost all of her face. Ron Weasley was leaning back in his chair, his mouth full of meat pie as he mumbled something to Harry. He waved his fork now and then, nearly poking a Ravenclaw boy who was passing by. Harry Potter, sitting between them, had his head down as he tried to open a packet of Fizzing Whizzbees, the wrapper glinting gold in the firelight.

He looked rather different from the Harry in Clara's memory.

In her memory, the boy was always that survivor slumped on the grass of the Quidditch Pitch, trembling all over and howling in despair.

But now he was just a fourteen-year-old boy. The tip of his nose was a little red from the cold, his scarf hung loosely around his neck, and he was looking down, struggling with a sweet wrapper.

She stared at Harry, at the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead half-hidden by his black hair, at the slight curve of his lips after Ron said something, and then at him biting the wrapper he still couldn't open.

Hermione raised her head and gently tapped the back of Harry's hand with her book. Harry muttered something and passed her the wrapper. Ron rolled his eyes and made a joke, and Harry shoved him. All three of them laughed.

Perhaps sensing her gaze, Harry looked up.

Their eyes met across the room. Clara didn't look away. His green eyes were like the still-unripe beech leaves at the edge of the Forbidden Forest in summer, and there was a trace of puzzled but polite curiosity in his gaze.

Harry blinked and gave her a friendly smile. Perhaps because he was stared at so often, he had grown used to responding to such blatant gazes with that smile, polite and restrained.

But Clara still didn't look away.

After a few seconds, Harry's smile began to stiffen. He lowered his head and pretended to reach for the Butterbeer on the table. The tips of his ears quietly turned red. He lifted the cup, took a sip, and said something to Ron beside him.

Ron turned and followed Harry's gaze in Clara's direction. His mouth was still full of meat pie, his cheeks puffed out like a hamster's. He saw her staring fixedly at Harry, then appeared to nudge Harry with his elbow and say something. Harry's ears grew even redder at his words, and he gave Ron a hard kick.

Rowle had witnessed the whole thing. She put down her fork and gave Clara an "I knew it" look, her eyebrows raised almost to her hairline.

"Merlin, Lyla." Her voice held a mixture of shock and excitement. "Have you fallen for someone else? You don't want Cedric anymore?"

Clara abruptly came back to herself and realized how long she had been staring at Harry.

"I haven't. It's not what you think."

"You were just staring at Harry Potter for a whole"-Rowle tilted her head, did the math, and held up three fingers-"thirty seconds! In a crowded pub! Across three tables! Without blinking! Do you know what that is?"

"Rowle..."

"That is love," Rowle declared with absolute certainty. Then she picked up a chip and pointed it at Clara's nose. "But seriously, from Cedric to Harry Potter, that's quite a range in taste. One is the Seeker everyone at school agrees is the most handsome, and the other is... well, the Chosen One. Potter's not bad, though. He's just a little short, his hair's a little messy, and his glasses are a little round—but his green eyes really are pretty, aren't they?"

"He'll still grow taller," Clara retorted instinctively. Then she immediately realized what she had said and buried her face in her cup. "No—that's not what I meant-"

"You're even sticking up for him!" Rowle let out a cry of betrayal, the chip wagging even more vigorously at Clara's nose. "And you still say you haven't fallen for someone else! Cedric isn't even with Cho Chang yet!"

"I haven't fallen for someone else." Clara cut her off, keeping her voice very low, wishing she could cover Rowle's mouth before her secret crush on Cedric became common knowledge.

"I just think," she said slowly, "he's not quite what I imagined."

Clara chose her words carefully. "The Boy Who Lived, the hero who defeated You-Know-Who. I thought he'd be more, more unapproachable. But he looks like an ordinary schoolmate."

"He is one." Rowle took a bite of meat pie and spoke indistinctly, seemingly unimpressed by Clara's observation. "He and Cedric know each other pretty well. Didn't you watch that practice match last month? Potter was chased halfway across the pitch by a Bludger, and his Nimbus broom saved him in the end."

Clara had of course watched the match, but her attention had been entirely on Cedric. Quidditch matches had been canceled that term, but a few of the houses still organized a practice match or two among themselves. She had sat in the Hufflepuff stands, watching Cedric catch the Golden Snitch and the whole crowd erupt in cheers.

Rowle had only been teasing, but Clara gave it serious thought. She thought of her conversation with Dumbledore. At the end, Dumbledore had told her that Harry still needed to be told about it, though not now.

This perfectly ordinary-looking fourteen-year-old boy would, in a few months, become the only witness in the graveyard, standing closest to Cedric when he fell, facing You-Know-Who alone. She suddenly felt a little regretful. It seemed that in all those countless loops, she had never told him the truth beforehand.

"You're right," Clara said, standing up and setting down her Butterbeer. "I really should go say hello."

Rowle's fork fell onto her plate. "Wait! I was joking! Lyla! You're really-"

"The Butterbeer's gone cold. I'm going to get another hot one." Clara looked back and gave Rowle a huge smile.

They would get to know each other, but not now.