Bearings
Disclaimer/Author's notes: JK Rowling owns Harry Potter. This chapter is as `out-of-canon' as this story gets; it is the only chapter that focuses significantly on who Harry meets in the States. Feel free to review.
Look, if you had one shot, or one opportunity
To seize everything you ever wanted-One moment
Would you capture it or just let it slip?
Eminem
Lose Yourself
Chapter One: Dawn
March 2002
Dear Harry,
I know that is has been entirely too long since we've written each other…over a year, in fact…but I'm sure that we've both been very busy. I'm sorry that you couldn't make it home for Christmas or last summer; I would have liked to see you. I'm rather bored right now, and I felt that sending a letter to you would be a good use of my limited free time.
So, how are you? What have you been doing, since we last wrote? How was your summer and fall? You said that you were playing baseball, right? That's certainly a surprise. I never figured you for the Muggle sports type. What position do you play? Are you a good hitter? Any home runs? Don't laugh…I do actually know some things about baseball, since my Dad prefers that to cricket.
And you're a senior now, too! I almost forgot about that. I must admit, the fact that you majored in business was very surprising to me, although I suppose it shouldn't have been since you've been helping the twins these past few years. With your capital, it shouldn't be too hard for you to be a major entrepreneur. Do you have any kind of thesis or final project you have to do to graduate? If so, it would be interesting to know what that is. Maybe I could provide you some help, like the old days.
Well, on to news from home. Neville and Ginny just got engaged! They announced it at a get-together at the Burrow! Isn't that great? It kind of chokes me up to think of how far we've all come, from those days in Hogwarts. And before you start wondering…no, Ron and Luna haven't made it official yet. They both seem content to just have a really serious relationship, but not be engaged…yet. Molly doesn't approve, of course, but I think Ron and Luna are being very careful about that, so she doesn't really have anything to complain about.
Fred and George are as single as ever, but they are so busy these days I don't think they mind. Molly and Arthur are on their cases, but they are doing a pretty good job ignoring them. They opened a new shop in Hogsmeade, and have plans to open another, though they aren't sure where yet. I haven't seen Bill and Fleur in a quite a while, as they live in Paris now, but I'm sure they're doing fine. Remus and Tonks send their best, as does William, who is about the cutest little four-year-old I've ever seen.
As for me…I'm just really busy. I've been putting in sixty to seventy hours a week most of the past year, but I think all of my extra work is paying off, because I just received notice that I'm a definite candidate for the Muggle Liaisons chair position. I would still be under Arthur, of course, but it would be a huge step up from where I am right now, which is barely anywhere. The Ministry is a good place to work, now that most of the corruption has been weeded out, but sometimes I think it's too hard to move up or change things.
Ok, I'll stop whining now. I guess I'll wrap this up, because I should go into the Ministry sometime today. I hope you're safe and happy, Harry, and I hope you're having the time of your life. Please write back…it would be really nice to hear from you.
With love,
Hermione
"Harry? You ready yet? We're gonna be late, man!" came a voice, startling Harry from his reading. He laid the sheet of paper, since it came through Muggle post, on his desk and looked over his shoulder at his open door. His teammate, John Sanders, was standing there. He had a baseball equipment bag slung over his shoulder and was dressed in his Stanford practice uniform.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm ready," Harry said, standing up and retrieving his own bag from his bed. He looked at the clock, which said 5:45 am.
"Ugh," Harry intoned. "Too bloody early," he added, stepping through the door and closing it. He locked it with the key and turned to John.
"Yeah, I agree," John said, rubbing his eyes. John was a tall bloke, probably almost as tall as Ron, with sandy blond hair and a powerful frame.
"It's not even light yet," Harry whined as they made their way toward the elevator.
"Well, you're lucky you decided not to go out with us last night. We didn't get in till fuckin' 2:30."
Harry laughed. "No wonder you look like shite, mate."
John was silent for a moment. "All this time you've been here, and you still talk like a Brit. I woulda thought you'd have picked up some of our slang by now."
"Dude, no way," Harry said, in his best impression of his friend's accent.
They both laughed at that, and got into the elevator, riding it down to the first floor of the apartment building. Harry lived on campus in an apartment complex set aside for juniors and seniors. Most of the rooms in the place were singles. John lived just down the hall from him.
"Any idea what we're doing today?" Harry asked.
"I heard something about circuits, but I really hope not," John replied, and Harry silently agreed with him. He had never been that adverse to all-out physical exertion, even back in Britain, but circuits just hurt, plain and simple. Their coach, Don Mains, told them that the point of circuits was to push them all to their limits…to build their endurance, and all that. The only time Harry had been pushed to his real limits was during his fight with Voldemort, and he didn't want to repeat that feeling, ever.
His step faltered for a moment as images of Voldemort and Britain flashed through his mind-the first time that had happened in quite awhile-but he soon fell into step right beside John once again. There was some light on the eastern horizon, Harry noticed, as they stepped out into the crisp morning air.
"Hey guys, wait up!" a voiced called, and Harry and John turned toward it. Tom Rockwell, another teammate of theirs, was rushing to catch up to them. He was short and stocky with black hair much like Harry's; he was an excellent catcher and was the team's starter.
"How are ya, Tommy?" John asked, clapping the smaller man on the shoulder as he fell in between Harry and John.
"Besides the fact that it's not even six fucking o'clock, wonderful," he said, smiling all the while.
"Yeah these morning practices are going to be a bitch," John agreed. "Too bad we have to go to class during the day…"
"So," Tom said, turning to Harry.
Harry merely raised an eyebrow at him. "Can I do something for you, Rockwell?"
"What kind of spectacular grabs are we going to see from our star shortstop today, eh?" Tom asked him.
Harry laughed and shook his head. He supposed that his Seeker reflexes had paid off after all, because they had landed him a starting position on Stanford's baseball team, at shortstop no less. Harry had only made one fielding error in his previous two seasons; he was also a decent hitter and a smart base runner, and therefore was the apple of his coach's eye. He remembered all too well a conversation he'd had with the man at the end of the last season…
"So Potter, have you given any thought to going pro?"
"Pro, sir?" Harry asked his coach.
"How many times do I have to tell you to call me Don…and yes, pro, as in Major League."
"Oh," Harry replied. It was habit calling his teachers (or coaches) sir or Professor, so it was hard to call his coach by his given name. It felt disrespectful.
"Is that a yes or a no, Potter?"
"I haven't really thought about it, to be honest. Why…do you think I have a shot?"
Don nodded. "I know for a fact several MLB teams already have their eye on you, mostly because you're probably the best shortstop in the NCAA right now."
Harry shrugged. He had played against other shortstops that he'd thought were just as good, if not better. What he didn't realize, though, was that he had never really seen himself play, and was really just comparing the other shortstops to each other.
"If you say so, sir," Harry said, earning an amused smile from Don.
"Obviously, you don't hit very many home runs, but you have a great eye and are on base so much that your lack of power is really a non-issue."
"At this point, I don't know what I'm doing when I graduate from here. Don't forget that I grew up in Britain," Harry replied.
"You'd pass up a lucrative contract and a spot on a professional team just to return to Britain?"
That statement had given Harry quite a pause, and it had been several moments before he'd responded, noncommittally once again. If what his coach had said were true, about several teams being interested in him, he would have another hard decision when he graduated. It had been hard deciding to come over here in the first place, but to stay? That was another matter entirely, and one that he avoided as much as he could.
"Earth to Harry," someone said, and Harry shook his head. He looked over at Tom's bemused face.
"I think it might be too early for our friend here, John," Tom said.
"Shut it," Harry said. "In answer to your question, I'll make sure I commit an error just for you."
Tom and John burst out laughing. "Right, Harry, you couldn't do that if you tried," John said.
"Although there was that one time…" Tom said.
"Sun was in my eyes," Harry said, although there was a smile on his face.
"Harry…it was a throwing error. Sun was in your eyes my ass," Tom retorted.
"A bloke can try, can't he?" Harry asked.
The three of them were nearing the practice field now, and they could hear several voices, indicating that some people were already there. It was so early that the lights had to be on.
"Well, here's to another season," John said, holding out his fist. Both Harry and Tom knocked knuckles with their star pitcher.
"Indeed," Harry replied. "To many strikeouts, throw outs, and errorless games," he said, and the other two men nodded.
"With less sun," Tom added, snickering as he did so. Harry just shook his head. His teammates would never let him live down that one error. He supposed it was for the best though, because he knew how much pressure would be on him if he hadn't made any. Everyone would have wanted him to keep the streak alive.
The three men rounded the backstop and entered through the gate into the field. Harry saw that Don and several others were already there, though it appeared that the rest of the team had yet to make an appearance.
"Potter! Get over here!" Don called out, immediately after seeing Harry.
"Go get `em, tiger," John chuckled; Harry just sent him a withering look.
"Sometimes I wonder about you, Sanders," Harry called over his shoulder, as he jogged over toward his coach. "That blond hair…those dreamy blue eyes…" Harry trailed off, laughing outright at the look on his friend's face.
"I was waiting for you to get here," his coach said. Harry put his bag against the fence and merely raised an eyebrow at the older man.
"Do you remember that conversation we had awhile ago, about the pros?" Don asked. Harry nodded, thinking it ironic that he had indeed just been thinking about it.
"Of course."
"Have you thought about it anymore?"
"Er…" Harry magnificently returned. He had given it very little thought, actually, and whenever he did, it always lead to thoughts of Britain and his old friends. He didn't know when he'd started using that modifier-old-to describe Ron and Hermione and the rest, but at some point it had slipped into his consciousness, and he just couldn't get rid of it.
He knew that he hadn't exactly been the best at keeping in touch with everyone from Britain, as evidenced by his letter from Hermione that he had just received, but for some reason, it didn't really bother him a whole lot. He hadn't had real contact with most of them since the Christmas of 2000, since that had been the last time he'd been in Britain. Hermione's letter was actually the first he'd talked to her since then; Ron had sent him a short letter during the last summer.
If Harry was honest with himself, he loved university. He loved all the new people he'd met and all of the new experiences that had come his way. He loved seeing a new region of the world, and learning more about American culture. He would never give up his British habits, but living in a foreign place had granted him some insight he hadn't previously had, and he wouldn't trade that for anything.
When he was faced with the question of staying in America after uni or not, though, he knew that he had no idea whatsoever, and that the idea actually scared him a bit. Even though he hadn't kept in great contact with his Hogwarts friends, some part of him knew they would always be important in his life.
"No, sir, I haven't," Harry finally replied.
Don just smiled at him. "I figured that would be your answer." He reached into his pocket and pulled out three folded sheets of paper, all with official-looking seals printed across the top in bold colors. Harry thought he recognized those logos…
"These are official correspondences from the Baltimore Orioles, the New York Yankees, and the Seattle Mariners. All three of them are requesting permission to attend some of our games to observe you and the way you play," Don said. He was clearly waiting for Harry's reaction, though Harry did not know how he was supposed to.
"Oh."
"Oh? That's all you have to say?"
"What do you want me to say, sir?" Harry queried.
"Potter-Harry, all of the players on this team," he said, indicating the rest of the team with a sweeping gesture of his hand, "would do just about anything to have a professional team express interest in them. Hell, most of the NCAA would. They're all going to have to enter the draft and hope for the best; you, on the other hand, are already past the hardest step." He paused for a moment, putting the letters back into his pocket.
"That is, of course, assuming you want to go pro."
Harry was a modest person. He was always uncomfortable being in the spotlight, which he knew was a small part of why he left Britain. Therefore, the next words out of his mouth really surprised him.
"Am I really that good, sir?" Harry was sure shock was written on his face for having asked that.
Don chuckled. He indicated that Harry should wait a moment, and then turned to the rest of the team, which was assembling by the dugout.
"Work out the kinks, fellas! We have a hard practice ahead of us!" he called out. He then turned to Harry.
"Walk with me, Harry," he said.
He began walking around the edge of the field, away from the dugout, and Harry followed, falling in step beside him.
"I must admit, the first time I laid eyes on you, I couldn't believe what people had said about you. You were quite scrawny, a few inches shorter…" he trailed off. That was true, at least. Harry had grown several inches since coming to America; he now stood at 6', weighing in at 180 pounds. He had put on quite a bit muscle, simply from training with the team.
"It was actually John that first told me about you," Don continued. "He said he knew this kid that he'd met in his Accounting class who had `the most amazing reflexes' he'd ever seen. In retrospect, I guess it's a good thing you two became friends, because who knows if you'd be on the team otherwise.
"Anyways, as I was saying, my first impression of you wasn't that great, but that quickly changed. You showed great natural talent that first day, stuff that I knew could be molded into real skill."
Harry was silent as they walked on, listening to his coach. It was very rare that he allowed another person to talk about him without interrupting them, but he had asked the question, so he supposed it would be awfully rude if he cut Don off.
"There is an unassuming air about you, Harry, that I know I appreciate, and I'm sure others do, as well. I've seen a lot of conceited players in my time; most with much less skill, and you don't qualify as one. The fact that you even asked me that question shows me how different you really are.
"In answer to that question, I will simply say: Yes, you are that good. You move about the field with a natural ease I don't think I've ever seen. You're an excellent base runner and rarely strike out. Players with much lesser talent have left college early and gone pro; I'm proud that you haven't. Though, I guess it's not a surprise since you're so unassuming.
"So, now that I've answered your question, let me ask one of my own." Don looked over at Harry, and Harry nodded.
"What are you so scared of?" They had reached center field now, and Harry looked toward home plate for a moment, watching his teammates go through stretching routines. The eastern sky was pink now, heading toward orange.
"I came here on a whim…Don," Harry said, using his coach's given name for the first time. The man had humored him with an honest and heartfelt response, Harry thought, so he decided to humor his coach on that aspect.
"I came to America with no forethought, with no plans other than to attend uni for four years. I gave no thought to what would happen after because…well, because I guess I just assumed I'd go back to Britain."
"You came here on a whim…but something must have pushed you. No one just leaves their home for this long without a good reason," Don said.
Harry nodded, sighing a bit. "I was just frustrated. There were too many expectations…too much pressure," Harry said, careful to avoid anything too specific about the Wizarding World.
"And you don't feel pressure here," Don asked, sounding slightly surprised.
Harry shook his head. "Why should I? No one knows me except for the Harry they've seen here. No one has any expectations."
"Except your legion of adoring fans," Don said, chuckling once again.
Harry shrugged. "I'm used to it," he said. Don didn't know that he'd dealt with all that crap to a much larger extent back in Britain.
"So…when-if you go back, will those pressures still be there? Those expectations?"
"I don't…" Harry started to respond, but trailed off. He had never really thought about that before. He had just assumed he'd go back to Britain after the four years at uni knowing what he wanted to do with his life, therefore avoiding all of those old questions. What if he didn't, though? Would people pester him just as they had been before? He was an adult now, his own person, and took criticism and skepticism much better, but he knew he still wouldn't like it.
"I have no idea," Harry finally said.
"I mean no offense, but were you happy there?"
Harry flinched slightly, but he didn't think his coach saw it. Happiness was a word that had plagued him in Britain and to a certain extent here, as well. He knew he was very `happy' here, but sometimes he found himself questioning if it was for the wrong reasons. Whatever the word actually meant, he did know that his friends-Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and all the rest-made him happy. They supported him during the rough spots, stood by his side when he fought for his existence, and accepted his decision to leave with little real resistance. Sure, Hermione and Molly had been hard to convince, but they'd come around in the end…
"There are people that make me happy in Britain, Don," Harry said, finally figuring out how to answer.
"Can you say the same for here?"
Leave it to his baseball coach, of all people, to ask Harry the questions that really got him thinking. He had made some very good friends during the past three and a half years at Stanford, but he knew deep within his heart they just weren't as substantive as his old friends. John and Tom and many others just hadn't been there with him during his adolescence, when he'd been faced with nothing short of his mortality.
"Not as much, if I'm being totally honest, but I'm glad I've made a lot of the friends that I have," Harry replied.
"Well, Harry, it is ultimately up to you, but you need to understand that this is an amazing opportunity. I know none of these teams have said anything official, but if the rumors I'm hearing are true, you'll probably get an offer the day after you graduate."
"I understand, sir," Harry said.
Don grinned at him. "Back to that, huh?" The two of them had completed their loop of the field, and were now back by home plate.
"Go get some stretching in, Potter. Don't want you seizing up on your first day back," he joked.
"Thanks for-" Harry started, but Don waved him off.
"No problem. Now go warm up," he said, and turned away. Harry strode over to his teammates and started loosening up.
----------
Harry dumped his books on his bed, freshened up a bit, and headed back out of his door. John was already there, standing in the middle of the hall. He was yawning.
"I feel ya, mate," Harry said, yawning himself. It was only 12:30, and he was already exhausted. John looked like he was falling asleep on his feet, though. After practice, he had gone to breakfast and his morning classes, and now he was on his way to lunch.
"Fuck going out tonight," John mumbled, rubbing his eyes. "I don't know how I'm gonna get through the rest of this day."
"Caffeine. Lots and lots of caffeine," Harry responded.
"No doubt," John said, nodding.
"Wonder what shite the dining hall will serve today?" Harry mused.
"Aww, it's not that bad."
"Yeah well, you'll stuff your face with anything put in front of you."
"I gotta eat, don't I?" John asked, rhetorically.
"Excuse me for having slightly more refined tastes." They were now walking along the sidewalk toward the dining hall. It was a beautiful day, for March. They were both enjoying the sun.
"You're a funny guy, you know? Refined…more like, `Hey, my name is Harry, I'm from Britain, I'm better than you, so anything you have to say…don't.'"
Harry was laughing out loud by the end, more so from John's imitation of his accent than what he actually said.
"Don't ever talk like that in Britain," Harry said, as his laughter subsided.
John was smiling. "Oh? Why not?"
"Because you'll be shot… Or buggered by a bloke," he added, almost laughing again at John's horrified expression.
"What would possess you to say something like that?"
"Those dreamy blue eyes…"
John made a gagging sensation, and held up his hands. "Ok, Potter, you win. For now."
"I always do," Harry said, smugly, as they entered the dining hall. It was already very crowded with the lunchtime throng.
John scoffed as they picked up trays and proceeded to the food queue. "I beg to differ."
A stunningly beautiful brunette walked past them just then. "Hey, Harry," she almost cooed, waggling her eyebrows coquettishly on the way past. Harry pursed his lips, but he noticed John's eyes following her as she walked away.
"Now that's one fine piece of ass."
"Is that all you think about?" Harry asked.
John shrugged. "More or less. After all," he continued, picking up some food, "when you look like Adonis, it's not like it's hard to get."
"Now who's conceited?" Harry asked him, though he was smiling.
"Eh, well…you do realize you have something to be conceited about, right?" John replied.
"We weren't talking about me, you know, even though I know how much you want to," Harry said, as they finally exited the queue with their food.
"Really, Potter, I was trying to be serious."
"Mm hmm." Harry got his drink, waited for John to do the same, and they made their way to a table.
"No, really though, how can you be so modest all the time?" John asked.
"I have manners?"
"Harry-"
"Look, I don't know what you're getting at here, John. So what if I'm a modest guy. Maybe I don't like all the attention."
John tried a different approach. "What were you and Don talking about today?"
Harry smirked indulgently. "So that's what this is about? You could have just asked."
John gave him an impatient look; one that surprisingly and very strongly reminded him of one Hermione would have given him. He didn't tell John this, though, as he didn't think the other man would appreciate being compared to a girl-no, woman.
"Well?"
Harry stayed silent for a moment. "Nothing really," he eventually said.
"You're lying."
Harry looked up from his food. "Oh?"
"You don't make eye contact when you're not telling the truth."
"Well, I'm flattered that you notice me so well," Harry said, although he began to sense he was pissing his friend off. He sighed.
"We talked about the pros, and what it meant after graduation."
"MLB?"
"What other `pros' are there?" Harry asked.
John shrugged. "Just clarifying. So…you're going into the draft then?"
Harry shook his head. "No. It was more…whether or not I wanted to be signed directly out of school."
John's eyes widened a little. "Don told you that? There are teams that interested in you?"
Harry made a noncommittal gesture. "From what I gather."
"How can you be so blasé about this?" John asked, gesturing wildly.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, isn't it a no-brainer? Fuck, I'd kill for that opportunity."
Harry was getting a little impatient. "Well, what you and everyone else seem to be forgetting is that I'm not from America. I don't know if I'm going to stay after graduating or not. And it'd be pretty fucking hard to play in the majors if I didn't live in the country." His voice was heating up a bit at the end.
"Whoa, whoa, ok…" John said, attempting to placate Harry. "What's gotcha all riled up?"
"Nothing…I'm sorry…I've just got a lot on my mind right now, and this whole MLB thing just adds to it." Not to mention, Harry didn't add, that he'd been thinking quite a bit about the people from Britain since that morning, probably because of what his coach had said.
The two men ate in silence for a little while, content with enjoying their meal. Harry noticed John watching just about every good-looking girl that walked by. His friend was utterly hopeless.
"So how's Monica?" John asked.
"Who?"
"Oh, come on, don't play dumb," John said, a mischievous smirk on his face. "I know you and her hooked up."
"Uh…"
"I heard she gives great head," John added, a little longingly.
"Whoa, fuck John, too much information," Harry interrupted, not wanting to hear the rest of his friend's musings on whoever this Monica girl was.
"First of all, I have no idea who this Monica is, and second of all, that's really no one's business if I did. Who told you that, anyway?"
"Oh, I heard it around campus."
"Around campus?" Harry didn't like the sound of that.
John nodded. "You know, even though you refuse to accept it…and capitalize on it…you are quite the popular guy, Harry. I think just about every upper class female would give up their first child for one night with you."
"I think you're exaggerating," Harry said, very flatly.
"Oh, on the contrary, my friend. I am not exaggerating one bit. Even you, as oblivious as you seem to be, must have noticed Ms. Walking Tits, not ten minutes ago in the lunch line."
"Sure," Harry replied, trying to sound uninterested. He hated these conversations. They always made him highly uncomfortable.
"Well, there you go. Her name is…hmm, I think it's Erin, but I could be wrong. Anyways, I've heard she has the sweetest pussy imaginable, and the tightest ass-"
"I swear, if you say `arsehole', I will puke all over you," Harry said, thoroughly turned off from the rest of his lunch.
"What?" John asked.
"What is it with you and arse?" Harry asked, with a raised eyebrow.
"Can't blame me for a being a butt pirate."
Harry was silent for a moment, and then burst out laughing. By the time he had to catch his breath, he was wiping tears from his eyes. John was looking at him with a dour look on his face.
"That has to be the most retarded thing I've ever heard," Harry said, forcing down even more laughs.
"Laugh it up, Potter."
Harry shrugged. "You can't honestly say something like that and expect someone to take it seriously. And…how do I always get pulled into these conversations with you?"
"We're babe magnets," John said, deadpan.
"Ah, there's that elitism I had missed. It's only been," Harry said, checking his watch, "twelve minutes since I last heard it."
"Notice how I said `we're'."
"Whatever. Let's just agree to disagree. You're obsessed with sex and you'll take it out on anyone who'll listen," Harry replied.
"Fair enough. And you're too afraid about all the good things in your life to use them to your advantage," John said, finishing his drink. "I still haven't figured out why, though."
John didn't realize it, but his statement hit a lot closer to home with Harry than the taller man could have ever imagined. It was true that Harry was afraid of all the good things in his life. He was afraid of them because he knew what life was like without them, how hard everything was when you were hated, and how different fighting for your life makes things. He had never burdened his Stanford friends with anecdotes about his years in Britain, especially nothing in regards to the Wizarding World, and he was not about to start.
"Should have majored in Psychology. Awfully smart for a bloke whose thoughts are on tits and arse 99% of the day."
"Trust me, it's far more productive than actually doing work," John responded. They put their trash in the bin, placed their trays on top of it, and exited the dining room.
"Says the bloke with the 4.0," Harry returned. His own GPA was 4.0, as well.
"Well, I am taking Nipples 334 and Hindsight 603 this semester."
"I think you need to take Basic Comedy 101," Harry shot back.
"Ha ha. I do believe Anatomy 101 is on your schedule this semester?"
Harry looked sideways. "That was funny?"
"I thought it was," John said. They were back in the sun once again. "Ok…maybe not. Whatever, man."
"Well, it's been fun," Harry said, turning toward the apartment building.
"Indeed. I'm going to work out. Don't work too hard, Potter."
"Don't think too hard, Sanders," Harry replied; he was rewarded with the sound of John's laughter as he crossed the threshold of his building.
----------
The morning and afternoon were catching up with Harry, and as he entered his apartment at five o'clock, having completed his afternoon classes, he could feel the exhaustion creeping up on him. He let his books crash down on his bed and plopped down in his chair, leaning back a bit and stretching out his neck. He rubbed his eyes for a moment, trying to invigorate himself, and then looked around. He didn't own a computer, so his desk was filled with papers and odds and ends; his eyes fell on the letter he'd received that morning. He picked it up off his desk and read it once again.
As he came to the end, it really hit him how long it had been since he'd talked to his friends. It was easy to get caught up in the business of every day life, but it had been a long time. There was something about Hermione's letter; something Harry couldn't put his finger on, that just made Harry imagine Hermione, as he had last seen her, with a frown on her face, or perhaps a sad smile.
He placed the letter back on his desk, vowing to write back to her after he'd finished his work for the night. He swiveled around toward his bed and began digging for his class work. He had to review quite a few pages of charts and graphs for his Management class. He then had to analyze them in the context of keeping a struggling business afloat.
What he hadn't known, though, was that the questions his Professor had given him required some Calculus. That sent him digging through the piles of papers on his desk, because he knew his old Calc notes were somewhere in there.
Finally he found them, and just dumped the rest of the papers back on his desk. He turned back to his work and dove in, and before he knew it, the clock read ten pm. He'd been working for five solid hours, and although he was still tired, he seemed to be getting his second-or third-wind. He closed his Management folder, stuffing all of his work inside, and threw it on his desk, on top of the big mess he had created earlier. Just then, a knock came at his door.
"Come in," Harry called out.
The door opened and John walked in. He was rather dressed up, Harry noticed. He was wearing a nice polo shirt and a pair of pressed khakis.
"Yo man, wanna go out?"
"Eh?"
"Some of us are gonna go out to MaXM, you know, over on Broadway."
"I'm fucking knackered, John," Harry said.
"You weren't napping all this time?" John asked, honestly surprised.
"Uh…no…I was doing work."
"Jesus, Harry. You definitely need to come, then. Take a break from all that shit."
Harry thought for a moment. "Do we have morning practice tomorrow?"
John shook his head. "Wednesday, not tomorrow. If we did, I wouldn't be going out again."
Harry had finished most of his work, all that was due the next class, so he finally just shrugged and nodded.
"Sure, why not."
"That's the spirit. I'll meet you downstairs in…5 minutes?"
Harry nodded. John left and Harry picked out some nicer clothes from his closet. He cleaned himself up a bit, shaving quickly and throwing some deodorant and cologne on. He stared at his hair in the mirror for a moment, lamenting internally how wild it always looked, but left it, because he knew nothing he could do would ever fix that. Magic, something he had done very, very little of in the past three and half years, wouldn't even help. It seemed James had wanted something for everyone to remember him by.
Shaking almost-foreign thoughts of his parents from his mind, he turned around, grabbed his wallet and his keys, and left the apartment. When he exited the elevator into the lobby, John, Tom, and few more of his teammates were waiting there.
"About time," Tom said. The short, stocky catcher was leaning up against a pillar.
"Shut up, Rockwell. You take ten times as long as I do," Harry replied, smirking at him.
"When you look this good, you have to," he replied, and the rest of team started laughing. As they all exited into the rather cool night air, they gave their catcher some good-natured ribbing.
"I think Potter has you solidly beat in that area, Tom," their centerfielder, Adam Poole said.
"Aww, thanks Adam, didn't you know you felt that way about me," Harry said, laughing.
Adam sized Harry up. "For the right price, I could," he said, wagging his eyebrows, sending everyone into laughter again. The rest of their walk to the MaXM club, which was only a few blocks from the campus, was filled with similar banter. They saw quite a few people they recognized heading toward the club, as well.
"Quite the popular place tonight," Harry commented.
"Buy one get one free on drinks," John said.
"Well, that explains it. Wave booze around and everyone comes running."
"You've never had a problem with liquor," John replied, looking at him.
"Was merely an observation," Harry said.
Drinking was never something Harry had shied away from, and he prided himself on his very high tolerance. It had gotten his friends out of trouble more than once, when they'd all been drinking, and he'd been the only one coherent enough to get them all back. He supposed it had something to do with Butterbeer, which actually did have alcohol content. He'd drank that a lot when he was younger. He also wondered what proof Firewhiskey was, now that he understood what it meant. Something told him that it was very high, probably rivaling some of the stronger Muggle rums. In any case, he didn't mind drinking.
As they drew near the club, they could hear and feel the bass thumping within; there was a large line waiting at the entrance, as well.
"Shit," someone said.
"That's gonna be an hour, at least," Tom said, eyeing the line. Harry looked over at John, who seemed to be squinting. He was looking at the head of the line.
Suddenly, he spoke: "Hey! Don't we know the bouncer?" The whole group zeroed in on the large fellow standing at the head of the line, and sure enough, Harry did recognize him. His name was Ethan Kenner, and Harry had shared several classes with him over the years. Ethan was also a big baseball fan, and came to nearly every one of Stanford's games.
"Yeah, that's Kenner, isn't it?" Tom asked.
"Think he'd let us in?" Adam asked.
"Eh…" Harry said. "I doubt it."
"What, you gonna feel bad cutting the line?" John queried.
"I don't give a shite about the line; he has a job to do, though," Harry replied. "But, whatever, probably doesn't hurt to try." Harry smiled.
"I nominate Sanders," he said, and before John could react, the rest of them had nominated their pitcher to do the talking. John glared evilly at them for a moment.
He made his way over to Ethan, and Harry and the rest of them watched as John talked to him. They saw Ethan look over their way, then glance at the line; finally, Ethan nodded to John, smiling, and waved the rest of them over.
"Hey guys," Ethan said, when they reached him.
"Hey man," most of them returned.
"This is no problem, the club doesn't care who goes in as long as they get paid, so just head on in."
"Wow, thanks Ethan," Harry said. Ethan nodded to him and the rest, and they started through the door into the club. There were some angry yells, but more noticeably, there were some calls of "Harry!" or "Potter!" or some such thing. Harry ignored them as best as he could, though he could see all of his friends smirking at him. It seemed like even in America, thousands of miles away from where he was known for what he really was, he had somehow attracted attention again.
He had begun noticing it after his first season of baseball, but didn't think too much of it. He just assumed that he was more recognizable because he played on one of the university's sports teams. He realized that with every passing day, however, his popularity was growing. He did his best to ignore it, and tried to go about his university life as normally as he could. During and after his second season of baseball, it became much more of an issue, though, and he was forced to actually acknowledge many of the people that talked to him.
Sometimes it seemed to him that his fame would follow him wherever he went, in some form or another, for as long as he lived. He knew that most people would give up quite a bit to have half of his fame, whether back in Britain or here in the NCAA, but he wasn't like that. It wasn't like the pressure bothered him, or anything; rather, he just felt that what he did wasn't noteworthy enough to call all that attention to him.
Some part of him knew, on the other hand, that he was in fact a very good shortstop, but he would never willingly admit that to himself. He had known he was a good seeker, but it never went to his head. He was modest to a fault-even he knew that-but it wasn't something he'd ever give up. One of the smaller reasons he'd come to America was to blend in, for a little while at least, and he had succeeded for his first year.
Then, he'd started playing baseball, and all that had changed. It's not that he hated it, but it embarrassed him slightly. The Stanford team wasn't as good as they were just because of him, and sometimes he felt like he got all the credit. The credit was due elsewhere, as well, and he hated to think he was accidentally short-changing his teammates. They never complained, though, and most often just teased him mercilessly about it.
"I think you just cut some of your fans, Potter," Tom said, raising his voice quite a bit to be heard over the pounding bass. The group entered the main part of the club, and they all immediately bypassed the dance floor for the bar. They had to start off their night with a few drinks.
"You might have to find someway to make it up to them," John added.
"Bugger off, you two," Harry replied, ordering a shot of Bacardi. He downed it quickly, signaling the bartender for another.
"Easy Harry," Tom laughed. "The night is still young."
"He could drink all of us under the table," Adam said, ordering a beer.
Harry smirked. "Can't hold your liquor?"
"Never did I say that, Potter," Adam replied, drinking half of the beer. The men stood around the bar for a few minutes more, warming themselves up with a few more drinks. Slowly, they were peeled off one by one by recognizable faces asking them if they wanted to dance, to which most of them readily agreed.
"Oh, hey look, here comes Erin," John said, looking to his left. Harry looked over there, and the girl that greeted him earlier that day during lunch was walking over to them. She smiled at Harry when he met her eyes.
He had to admit, she was gorgeous. There was no other word for it. She was shapely, had wavy brown hair and an amazing face with a pert nose and full lips. She was also very lithe, moving with an almost cat-like grace. She wore a small black dress, revealing much of her tanned legs…legs that were almost impossibly long. Black stilettos completed the look.
She walked up to the bar between Harry and John, and placed an order for a strawberry margarita. She then turned around, leaning back against it, and looked at Harry and John.
"I must admit I'm surprised to see you both here," she said, in a sultry voice. Harry didn't think it was her normal voice, though if it was, she certainly was gifted.
"Have we met?" Harry asked, trying to hide his slight annoyance. Erin must have taken it as an invitation, however, because she turned to Harry. Harry raised an eyebrow over his shoulder at John, who shook his head and smiled, and started to walk away.
"Erin Lowell," she replied, sticking out her hand. Some of the sultriness seemed to have left her voice.
"Harry Potter," he replied, shaking her hand and draining his fourth shot at the same time.
"Yes, I know," she said, and he could hear the laugh in her voice.
"What year are you in…?" he asked, secretly enjoying the putout look on her face when she realized Harry really didn't know who she was.
"Senior, same as you," she replied, sipping from her margarita. She took a seat, placing her elbows on the bar. Harry had to avoid the temptation of looking at her cleavage, which was now in full view because she was leaning forward slightly. Harry took a seat next to her, asking the bartender for a beer, figuring he should slow on the alcohol a bit. He'd barely been there fifteen minutes and had already had four drinks.
"Oh," Harry said, tipping the beer back. "What's your major?" Harry asked, trying to keep the small talk going.
"Engineering," she replied. For some reason, he was surprised. He then chided himself for his preconceived notions. He had expected her to say Philosophy or PolySci, or something like that.
"That math must be fun," he said. She looked at him and smiled, sipping her margarita once again.
"Math is my specialty. You're Business, right?" she asked.
"I don't know whether I should be scared or not that you know that," Harry tried to joke.
"Come on, Harry, everyone knows that."
"Why do they care what my major is?" he muttered, but Erin heard him anyway. She must have exceptional hearing, because the music was awfully loud.
"Same reason they care about your batting average," she replied. Harry looked over to her, and couldn't read her face. She wasn't smiling, and therefore he didn't think she was flirting.
Harry took another swig of beer. "They should concern themselves with themselves more," he said, making a face at the ineloquence of what he'd said.
"Was that as stupid as it sounded to me?" he asked.
Erin had a small smile on her face. "I don't know if I should criticize the `great' Harry Potter."
"Oh, don't start with that shite. That's all bollocks, anyway," he said, reverting somewhat to his native slang, as he often did when he spoke quickly.
"I like your accent," she said, in reply.
"Thanks," he said, dryly.
"You know, you're not at all like I imagined."
This is not what Harry needed tonight. He didn't need some fan girl praising his many great aspects, all of which were imagined, of course, and was just about to tell her off when she continued speaking.
"I had this image built up of someone who was really full of himself," she said. That caught him off guard. What had he ever done to this girl to make her think that?
"Why is that?" he asked, cautiously. The beer now sat empty on the bar, although Erin had ordered a second margarita. She was rather small; maybe 5'4", and he found himself wondering how much alcohol she could possibly hold.
"You're always so aloof. No one really knows you that well outside the baseball team, although most of them claim to," she said, rolling her eyes at the last part.
"What are they claiming?"
"Oh, you know, that they've done this and that with you…" she responded, trailing off. She started giggling at the horrified look on his face.
"However, it is quite clear after talking with you that all of what those people have said is a load of bullshit. You're charming, in your own way."
"Well, now that I have your approval, my life is complete," he said.
"You also seem to have quite the sarcastic streak."
Harry shrugged. "When you've dealt with that kind of crap all your life, you tend to develop a defense to it. I guess that's mine."
"Touchy, touchy," Erin said, though he sensed some nervousness in her voice. He wasn't trying to intimidate the poor girl.
"Sorry. It's been a long day."
"So you decided to the end the day with a bang?" she asked. He glanced over at her, but once again her face was unreadable. He didn't even know if she realized the second meaning in what she'd said.
"You could say that."
"You know, you're not very talkative."
Harry ordered another beer. As it was handed to him, he turned slightly toward Erin.
"Were you expecting something else?" he asked.
"Oh, low blow, Potter," she said, turning toward him. "That's not what I meant. Look, why don't we just dance? That way you can avoid having to talk to me."
He raised an eyebrow at her. "You like to make assumptions, don't you?" It was barely noticeable, but her face fell slightly.
"If you don't want to dance-"
"No, no," he said, genuinely laughing, "that's not what I meant. Who said I was avoiding talking to you?" She didn't say anything for a moment, though it looked like she was fishing for a response.
"Come on," he said, saving her the trouble, "let's go dance." He didn't know why he did it, because he hadn't really planned on dancing, but why not? He placed their drinks on a nearby table and led her by the hand to the dance floor. He ignored the envious looks sent Erin's way; he was actually rather angry with that. If this girl, who actually seemed to be pretty sweet, got flak just because she'd been seen with him…
But, his train of thought trailed off as they found a spot on the floor and started dancing to the music. It was a mix of techno and hip-hop, and the beats were easy to move to. Erin was a spectacular dancer, probably having some experience at some point. Harry just went with the beat, doing his best to keep up with the far more talented girl.
At some point, the alcohol must have caught up with her, because Harry found himself supporting her on more than one occasion. After quite awhile on the floor, they went back to the table their drinks had been on, and he saw that they had been cleared away.
She sat heavily into her chair, and he sat across from her. He glanced around the large room for a moment, trying to locate his friends. He saw most of them on the dance floor, so he returned his attention to Erin. She was trying to cool off, waving the rather low neckline of her dress back and forth. It certainly didn't leave much to the imagination.
"So he can dance, too," she said. He detected a very slight slur in her words. "What other tricks does he have?" Ok, now she was definitely flirting with him.
"Erin-" he started, but she cut him off.
"Another margarita!" she called out to a passing waiter, who then looked at Harry. He shook his head; something told him drinking more would be a very bad idea. The margarita was on the table in seconds, and Erin immediately started sipping it. Her wavy brown hair fell over her shoulders when she dipped her head, hiding her face slightly.
"That was fun." She was nearly bouncing in her seat. There was something about her posture, something in her voice, that Harry couldn't read though.
"Indeed."
"Indeed! Is that all you have to say?" she pouted, playfully. Harry rolled his eyes slightly at the blatant flirting. Perhaps this girl wasn't as sweet as he'd originally thought, having pretty much forgotten what John had told him about her earlier in the day.
"What? I agreed with you," he replied.
"Sure you did," she said, smacking her lips as she finished the margarita. Harry stared at the empty glass. She had gone through that very fast.
"Come on, let's keep dancing," she said, standing up quickly and pulling him from his seat. He followed her, noticing that she stumbled once. Someone clapped him on the shoulder as he went past, and he turned his head, seeing that it was Tom. The shorter man was grinning unabashedly at Harry. Harry just shook his head at him. He was getting quite exasperated with all of the assumptions people were making, as evidenced by the types of looks he was receiving. If just being in the presence of this girl was leading to that, maybe he should just call it a night and head back to bed.
However, when they finally reached an open spot, and Erin turned around, he saw that abandoning her right now wasn't the best of ideas. She was clearly intoxicated, and was heading further down that road every moment, and he didn't know if she'd come here with anyone. He wasn't going to leave her alone, drunk like that, wearing what she was. He knew what went on around campus, how often people were taken advantage of, and he didn't need that on his conscience.
So he danced with her for quite awhile longer, watching the steady progression of her drunkenness, until he was supporting her more than dancing. He glanced at his watch after awhile, and saw that it was a little after twelve o'clock.
He slowed his dancing, making eye contact with Erin, and nodded his head toward the side of the floor. He thought he saw something flash through her eyes, but he didn't know what. He led her from the floor.
"Where do you live?" he asked her.
"Uh…Carter Residences," she replied.
"I'll take you back," he said. He was almost completely sober, as he stopped drinking about two hours before. She, on the other hand, wobbled a bit in her stilettos as they made their way for the door. He reached out a hand to steady her, placing it on her lower back. She tensed up a bit.
"S'alright," she lightly slurred. "I'll just take them off when we get outside." She moved ahead of him a bit more, pushing through the crowd. He almost lost her, but when he made it outside, she was standing there, alone, with her heels in her hand. She was shivering lightly so he gave his jacket her.
"Thanks," she said.
"Carter Residences, huh? Are they nice?"
She nodded, but didn't say anything. He thought her newfound reticence odd, and coupled with her strange tone of voice and odd body language he knew that something was off. He couldn't put his finger on it though. She stumbled just then, and he grabbed her just in time. She would have eaten pavement, otherwise.
She laughed, although it was a much different one from her earlier giggles. "I see they don't lie about your reflexes," she said. Harry kept a hold of her, not wanting to see her fall.
"I do what I can," he said. She just needed to be back in her room, sleeping it off. He would walk her back and make sure nothing happened to her.
They crossed the few city blocks in relative silence, entering the campus and heading toward the Carter residences, which were south of where Harry lived.
"…walking me back…" he heard her mutter, though he didn't catch the rest of what she'd said. He didn't ask. He just wanted to get her home, and head back to bed.
When they reached the Carter buildings, Harry was impressed. He hadn't actually been down here in a long time, and had never realized that the Carter residences were actual houses. Erin stopped in front a smaller one, and went fishing in her purse for her keys. She found them, but dropped them. Harry picked them up for her.
"Which one?" he asked, holding up the keys. She bit her lip for a moment.
"That one," she said, pointing. He slid it into the lock, turned it, and opened the door. Erin crossed the threshold first, and Harry followed just beyond the door, reaching for a light. Erin had her back to him when the room was illuminated, and Harry saw that it was a rather posh living room.
"Wow, you weren't lying when you said it was nice." He moved toward her to hand her the keys. She turned before he reached her though, and what he saw surprised him beyond belief. There were tears streaming down her face.
"Erin…?" he asked, setting her keys on the arm of a chair.
"I'm s-sorry," she said, in between shuddering breaths. "I j-just don't think I c-can do this."
"Do what?" he asked, perplexed.
"You know…everything. What you're h-here for," she said, and then started crying harder. She sank to her knees-dropped to them, really-and let the tears come. Harry was so bewildered for a moment that he could do nothing but stare at her crumpled figure. So that was what had been bothering her most of the night. She had expected him to want something from her. He replayed the last ten minutes of their night in his head, going over everything he'd said and done, and he could see how she'd taken it all the wrong way.
"Erin," he said, getting on the floor next to her. She recoiled slightly. "Erin, look at me," he said. He didn't know it, but his voice changed a bit when he told her to look at him. If Ron or Hermione had been around to hear it, they would have told him that it was his `leader voice,' one that they said supposedly instilled confidence and poise into anyone who heard it. He thought it was a load of rubbish, personally.
She slowly raised her face to his; the tears had not let up, and make-up was smeared down past her lips now.
"I walked you back because I thought you were a little too drunk to do so on your own. I didn't want you falling, or anything…" he trailed off, trying to be as sincere as he possibly could. He hated that this misunderstanding even had to take place, but he wondered what she was so insecure about. She was absolutely gorgeous, and apparently liked to flaunt herself around.
"I thought you expected something o-out of me," she replied, sounding every bit like an insecure fourteen year old.
"The only thing I expect out of you is for you to get a good night's rest," Harry said, standing up. He reached out both of his hands, and she hesitantly took them. The tears were starting to abate.
"From everything I've heard about you, I expected you to-"
Harry shook his head sadly, cutting her off. "We've been over this already. Everything you've `heard' about me is probably rubbish."
Erin wiped the tears from her face, smudging her make-up even more, but she obviously didn't care.
"Well, I don't know what to say," she said. She was still intoxicated, so she was still slurring a little, but the crying had gone out of her voice.
"Just answer me one thing," he said. She nodded. "Why do you go around like this," he started, indicating her dress, "if you don't want people to have that idea?"
She laughed bitterly. It was very unexpected, as was the acid in her voice when she responded. "It's expected. I'm sure you've heard at least some of the stories about me."
Harry nodded. "What was that at lunch today, then? That little `Hey, Harry' or whatever it was you said."
She crossed her arms, trying to block some unseen chill, and seemed to think for a moment before responding.
"Again, expected of me. I was…" she trailed off. "I was very stupid my first year here. It's very hard to escape that kind of reputation, and I guess I always found it easier to just go along with it as much as I could.
"Tonight, I guess I thought I'd gotten carried away, and had led you on or something, and who would I be to suddenly say to Harry Potter that I didn't want to…"
Harry was angry beyond belief at his stupid fucking reputation for a few seconds, and couldn't respond to what she'd said. His reputation was quite clearly out of control, if it made some girl almost do something she didn't want to do-or think he wanted her to do something she didn't want to do. He finally took a deep breath, settling his rampant thoughts.
"I hope I proved to you tonight that I'm not that kind of person, Erin," he said. "I hope you can tell your friends or whoever it is that tells these lies about me that you know the real me, and I'm not like that."
She nodded at him, and he looked at his watch. "Look, I'm really sorry for the misunderstanding."
"S'ok," she slurred, reminding him she was still drunk.
"I need to get going, though; I'm quite knackered." He leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the cheek, on impulse, as hopefully just a friend. He pointed to the chair.
"Your keys are there," he said, though he was looking amusedly at her hand, which was on her cheek where he'd kissed her.
"What was that for?" she asked, though she was smiling as well.
Harry shrugged. "Seemed like the right thing to do," he responded.
"And he has manners, too," she said. "What other tricks does he do?" She obviously remembered the whole night, which was a good sign. Maybe she wasn't totally plastered.
He smiled and shook his head, turning for the door. As he opened it and passed through, he turned back.
"Have a good night."
"You too, Harry."
He left and shut the door, and began walking back toward his apartment. He was still angry with everyone and everything for that whole situation, but it was fading a bit. Really, he was just exhausted, and he wanted to sleep. Upon reaching his room, he just threw all the crap that was on his bed over on his desk, removed his shoes and shirt, and flopped down.
He was asleep within a minute or two, having totally forgotten about responding to Hermione's letter, which was nowhere to be seen under the piles of papers and books.
-->