Chapter Text
A philosopher once asked,
"Are we human
because we gaze at the stars,
" or do we gaze at them
because we are human?"
Pointless, really-
Do the stars gaze back?
Now, that's a question-
There is a misbelief in the minds of men that, individually, they were all rather unimportant in the grand scheme of things. No one was watching their stories play out, and when they went underground, all they were went with them. But nevertheless, they lived those stories, carved their lives out of stone and wood, laid back in the grass, and watched the stars, dreaming of what their stories held for them tomorrow.
Not one of them ever considered, that perhaps the stars were watching them back.
On a little hill few people know, tucked into a valley few people will ever visit, a small village stood. It was quite an unimportant place, full of ostensibly unimportant people.
The name of this village was Hogsmeade, so named by people who long ago signed the final pages of their books. A little village, where everyone knew everything there was to know, or so they thought.
Everything about Hogsmeade was quite ordinary. There were the standard people, who worked the standard jobs, lived the average lives, and had the expected children who would grow up to take up those standard jobs and start again. Hogsmeade, even, had its own standard local legend.
That legend said that beyond the wall that ran along the town, into the forest that no one dared enter, that magic and creatures existed in droves. In this wall, there was a gap. A small hole that had been worn away by time, large enough for one to slip through, and a promise sure enough that some fantastic beast waited to devour you kept that gap, by and large, unused.
In this village, there lived a boy. Isn’t that how all good stories start?
Fleamont Potter was a young man, once upon a time, as most men were. He was a wildly curious boy, with a nose for trouble, a mess of hair, poor eyes, and knobbly knees, all inherited from his father.
One night, that trouble would change the very fabric of the story. Not his story, oh no. How could one boy know just how many fates hinged on the fact that Fleamont would take a simple bet?
“There’s a reason no one goes beyond the wall.” Eileen Prince demanded, looking equal parts cross and sullen, though Fleamont thought she always looked crossed and sullen. Her words did nothing to assuage Fleamont's determination.
“Tell me one good reason, other than no one's done so,” Fleamont called over his shoulder, several paces ahead of her as they descended the hill leading to the very wall in question. He’d rather hoped she would not have followed him this far; he found her unprepossessing and officious, though he’d never say such a thing for fear his mother would somehow hear and clip him over the ear for it.
“Tell me one good reason to go, other than to prove something to Tobias Snape!” And Fleamont suppressed to urge to gag at the name itself as Eileen said it.
“I’m not doing this to prove a damned thing to that greased-up swellhead,” Fleamont muttered, very much on his way to prove a point. Fleamont hated little in life more than a bully, and Tobias Snape was the worst crybully he had ever had the misfortune of meeting.
The two had jeered and scrapped and been forced into niceties for years, by teachers, by mothers, once by a nebby shopkeep who then told their mothers. Childhood rivalries had taken a backseat to pure young adult hatred, though at the fresh age of nineteen, juvenile jeers still dug beneath Fleamont's skin.
Fleamont did not throw a single punch, and really Eileen should have been proud that waltzing into a forbidden forest was all he was doing; he thought he was rather mature to walk away even as Tobias laughed with his skeezy- well, not friends, but other young men who all took solace in being miserable together, at others' expense.
When he came to the crack in the wall, worn by the weather and the years into one boy-sized gap, he turned to his companion with an easy smile, and the wild glint of adventure in his eyes, also inherited from his father
“It’s just a bunch of trees, innit Lyn?” Fleamont said, and before she could even grumble at the childhood nickname, he disappeared into between the stones.
Many children are told stories at bedtime, of monsters and magic and love at first sight, and Fleamont thought that these things were just those. Stories.
Until he heard the bells.
The forest was dark, the setting sun casting the world in deep shadows that Fleamont pretended did not scare him as he walked into the trees.
The only lights he saw, to his stupefaction, were small glowing creatures flitting in the air around his head. They were unlike anything he’d ever seen in Hogsmede. Moths, glowing orange and seemingly laughing as they flew about his head.
Fleamont had thought that he had known, certainly not all there was to know, but at least that the world was not a magical place, but he was unable to deny the wonders he saw as he delved deeper into the woods. Without a care for getting lost, Fleamont wandered and observed creatures he knew most certainly did not live on his side of the wall.
He saw little creatures the size of his hand that appeared to be living sticks, with tiny eyes that watched him distrustfully from their trees, worms the size of his feet that left slimy green trails behind them that Fleamont tried very hard not to step in, and small creatures that had a nasty sense of humor, Fleamont found, as one tripped him over, sending him sprawling into a well worn path.
After scrambling down the road to escape the impish creatures, he found the most unimaginable. A town.
How far had he walked, he considered, as he approached the bustling street, filled with people who looked not much different than himself, though odd colored robes seemed to be quite in fashion in this place. He had not walked more than a half hour, yet how could he have lived a whole life so close and not known anything of this place?
Fleamont wondered at the town, shops, and vendors lining the cobbled streets. Foods that delighted his nose mixed with the scent of herbs, oils, and incense. Everyone chattered, and no one noticed one boy who was reconsidering all he’d ever known. As he roamed, he noticed more and more.
He saw other beings, walking and talking like him, some only as tall as his knee, others standing several heads taller than any man he’d ever seen before. He saw windows filled with broom displays, shops selling robes and pointed hats, and others filled with cages and cages of owls. There were books filled with illustrations for things he’d never seen, written in languages he didn't know, though he assured the bookseller that while ten nuts sounded perfectly reasonable (what kind of people bartered in food?), he would have to pass.
Fleamont did not have much of a penchant for glass flowers, but he’d gladly pretend so long as the bewitching woman selling them smiled at him. Which she did, as he’d stumbled over his feet and fallen into her stall.
“Oh, dove, you’re a long way from home.” She reached out a hand, and Fleamont knew in that moment that love at first sight was not a fairytale.
“Call me Effie.”