A/N: As the title suggests, this is a transition chapter. On the bright side, Hermione finally joins my cast of characters (then again, so do the Dursleys). Thanks to all who have reviewed, and to those who have been graciously patient as my story (slowly) unfolds.
Disclaimer: The characters are not mine; neither is the money (only fair, I guess).
Chapter 3: Planes, trains and automobiles
Harry gripped the armrests of his seat as the small jet taxied down the runway of the Castle's private airport. Of course he'd seen airplanes flying over the Dursleys's house, and he knew that airplanes could fly…it was just that, like Arthur Weasley, he didn't have the foggiest idea how they did so without using magic. Harry wondered if his magical powers were strong enough to levitate the entire jet, if need be, and wished that his Firebolt was with him, rather than packed in his trunk aboard the Hogwarts Express.
The Prince had arranged for the London-bound flight and told Harry that the Durlsleys would be made aware of Harry's travel plans. Actually, what he said was that he would "take care" of them, but only smiled when Harry asked what that meant. He did tell Harry that he had arranged ground transport and dinner once he arrived in London.
Looking around, Harry noted that the airplane's interior was just as luxurious as some of the rooms in Balmoral. There were a dozen comfortable leather seats, and the cabin interior was trimmed in mahogany with a plush crimson carpet. Although the cockpit door was closed, Harry had been promised a full tour by the flight captain once they were in the air.
One of the plane's uniformed stewards stopped next to Harry's seat and showed him how to fasten his seatbelt. "Is this your first flight, then?" he asked.
"No…but it's the first time I've flown in an airplane."
The steward smiled, somewhat quizzically. "Well, then, just sit back and relax, Mister Potter, there's nothing to worry about."
Harry was tempted to ask the steward just how worried he would be if he were about to make his first flight on the back of a thestral, but thought better of it.
The plane lifted smoothly off the ground and banked into a gentle curve. It felt strange to be flying through the air without the wind in his face and his feet dangling off of a broomstick. After a few minutes, Harry raised enough courage to look out the window at the ground below.
The view looked amazingly similar to what he'd seen perched high above Hogwart's quidditch pitch - the green hills and valleys, the lochs and the forests. Harry wondered whether Hogwarts might somewhere down there within his view.
He recalled Hermione quoting from Hogwarts, A History, a few years back. The location of Hogwarts was unplottable - a wizard couldn't mark it on any map. It was also supposed to be hiding in plain sight from the views of any muggles that happened to stumble upon it. Instead of seeing the castle, a muggle would see a hovel with a sign saying "Danger - Do Not Enter," or something like that.
Except Harry was a wizard; while a muggle airplane pilot flying over Hogwarts might not see the castle, a wizard passenger just might…
But then again, the converse should be just as true. If wizards riding in muggle airplanes could see Hogwarts, could wizards at Hogwarts see muggle airplanes?
Harry couldn't remember ever seeing an airplane fly over Hogwarts. The airplane he was aboard was flying much higher than he ever dared fly on his broom; he could see for dozens, maybe even hundreds of miles. If Harry could see the tiny outlines of houses and communities, then why wouldn't, by corollary, somebody at Hogwarts be able to see an airplane? Sure, there were probably established flight corridors for air traffic, but never a plane within sight of the castle?
He considered the possibility that wards had been established not only to keep muggles from seeing the magical world within Hogwarts, but to keep wizards from seeing the muggle world outside. Sort of like muggle repelling charms in reverse. Harry decided to add that to the list of things he needed to discuss with Hermione.
Harry stopped looking for castles and started to look for train tracks. Somewhere, down there, Ron and Hermione were aboard the Hogwarts Express. He wondered what they were doing right now, and if they knew that he wasn't on board. He hadn't failed to notice Ron's arm around Hermione after the service, and he wondered whether they were using the time to sort out where they stood with each other. Harry knew that they had promised to stay with him at the Dursleys, but he really didn't imagine how his Aunt and Uncle would allow that, and seriously wondered how Ron would survive more than a day or two in a non-magical household.
Wishing to drift away from that topic, he turned away from the window, leaned back into the seat, and drifted off to sleep.
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A few hundred kilometers ahead, the Hogwarts Express was snaking through the green hills of the Lake District and Hermione Granger was snaking through the aisle of one of its carriages. It was a far different experience than when she first conducted patrols as a prefect.
The previous Fall, the train was filled with the typical assortment of animated and excited students (except for the first years, who were, of course, terrified). Most of her time had been spent confiscating forbidden items that students were trying to smuggle into Hogwarts (by the end of the trip her bag of goodies would have done a fair job of stocking a branch location of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes).
This trip was, in contrast, quiet. Extremely quiet. All of the students on board seemed to be aware that Hogwarts might not reopen that Fall, aware that they might not see their friends and classmates for a very long period of time, and (except for a few Slytherins) aware that Dumbledore's death made their world a far more dangerous place. Once the train pulled out of Hogwarts Station it became readily apparent how this awareness was going to manifest itself.
One of the other muggle-born students had nicely summed it up.
Terror-snogging.
On past trips home Hermione had seen (and been disgusted by) the frantic tonsil-tickling of soon-to-be-separated-for-the-summer couples. But this went well beyond that, both in terms of frequency and intensity. Nearly half of the upper-year students, and far too many of the younger ones seemed to be searching for comfort in the arms of another. Couples who had been together all year, couples she had never seen together before, even couples Hermione would never have paired in a million years. She was glad to have been assigned a car mostly filled with younger-year students - it would have been dreadful for her to have to get in between, say, Lavender Brown's lips and those of Merlin knows who (or how many).
From an intellectual perspective, it was easy for Hermione to see why this was happening. She had scandalized some of the other prefects when she argued, during a hastily called meeting at the start of the trip, that the snogging was actually therapeutic (up to a point). From an emotional perspective, Hermione could see the need as well, and a small part of her longed for a bit of therapy herself.
"But there are limits to enforce," she thought to herself, "and 'snog-free' zones to maintain, and Ron's patrolling a different car, and Harry isn't even on the train….."
Hermione let out a small gasp when that last thought passed her mind. "Harry? Why did I even think of him? He's my best friend, he's Ginny's boyfriend. Okay, so he did break up with her this morning, but it was Ron who had his arm around me after the service, it was Ron I was so jealous over when he was snogging Lavender Brown, it was Ron, right?
It took her more than ten minutes to formulate a rationalization that could stand on its own legs.
Why are the other students snogging? Because they are scared, and they need to feel safe, and the easiest way to feel safe and secure is in another person's arms. But in her case, it was Harry that always made her feel safe and secure, even without the snogging. Harry - the eleven-year-old boy that saved her life before they were even friends. So, when in her mind Harry showed up in the same train of thought as snogging, it really didn't mean that she wanted to snog her best friend.
Terror-snogging is to other students as Harry is to Hermione.
Yes. Of course. That had to be it.
Hermione leaned up against a compartment door. She was scared about what might happen that summer. She was terrified about what needed to happen that summer. She wanted Harry on that train.
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It was raining in Little Whinging. Hard. The rain beat down with an intensity that betrayed the new neighbors who had failed to properly clear their gutters. Vernon Dursley noted with smug satisfaction the ponding along the house foundation directly across the street, and wondered whether the two men who had scandalized the neighborhood when they had moved in the previous month were getting water in their basement. "Would serve those poofters right," he muttered, to nobody in particular.
And it was that lack of audience, rather than the weather, that was souring Vernon's disposition.. For once he wanted to bask, to bathe, to wallow in the rare differentness of Number 4 Privet Drive. Oh sure, there had been the odd wedding party or two that had hired a fancy car to show off around the neighborhood. But nothing close to the 1937 Rolls Royce Phantom III whose sideboards Vernon had one foot up upon, in what he imagined to be a dashing pose.
A white-gloved driver held a large black umbrella over Dursley's head. Given the umbrella's limited size and the awkward pose that Vernon insisted on striking whilst next to the car, one white glove and a bit of sleeve were the only parts of the tuxedoed driver that weren't getting soaked. "All part of his job," Vernon rationalized to himself.
The front door of the house opened tentatively as a second well-dressed man attempted to protect both Petunia Dursley and her son Dudley from the elements. As there wasn't an umbrella in all of England big enough to cover both of them, the man shuttled Mrs. Dursley to the car first, then returned to keep any rain from striking Dudley, his clip-on tie, or his soon-to-be-autographed boxing gloves.
The invitation to join the current European Heavyweight Boxing Champion for lunch had arrived two weeks ago. Vernon had been forced to call most of his chits in at work to get the day off on such short notice, and Petunia had given up her weekly bridge club meeting, but that was no matter. Their son, the current All-Schools Boxing champion, was to be personally congratulated and recognized for his success. The car and driver were all part of the package. The only bad part was the fact that they would have to swing by King's Cross station after the event to pick up his cursed nephew Harry.
The thought of his nephew caused Vernon to scowl. Just a few short weeks and they'd be forever done with the boy, done with his type, done with the owls. But not before, of course, he earned his keep. Vernon noted with some satisfaction that Harry's list of summer chores was just as long as ever. Every weirdo cloud has that silver lining…he looked despondently up at the clouds that were presently shedding rain, then up and down the street, searching for anyone who might be positioned to glimpse their due.
An admonishing voice called out from inside the car. "Oh for goodness sake, Vernon, get in the car or we'll be late."
Dursley reluctantly ducked into the rear of the car. The car's two attendants climbed into the front; a moment later, the car pulled away from the curb and started towards Central London.