JKR owns HP

To Narniafan7: Like I said, he's eleven years old.

Disclaimer: Opinions expressed are those of the characters. Yes, I retconned in that Kevin story. It's not important. Reread the full chapter, as some changes were made to 13A.

Attention Christians (or ex-Christians) with knowledge of British denominations: many of you have messaged me to point out Terry-related inaccuracies. If you'd like to spend a few minutes helping to fix them, please PM or email me. I'm serious.

He has not acted in accordance with our errors, nor repaid us in accordance with our sins. (Tehillim 103:10)

Hogwarts owls were never meant to be borrowed long-term. They were meant for emergency use, and for official school correspondence. An owl feels no loyalty to a student who repeatedly gives it letters but no treats, and that was how Yehuda's letter ended up half-buried in silt in a remote wooded creek somewhere south of Edinburg. Had he glanced out the train window, he might have even seen it.

As the train wended its way south, he paged resolutely through his kitzur. On his father's schedule, by after Pesach he ought to have drawn up a list of all the conditions necessary for shehiya and chazara, with a scenario given for each one, and he was only up to se'if yud-tes. But more importantly—what was he going to say to Esti and Sholom, Meyerson and Danziger? Chag kasher v'sameach, my yeshiva in America only let me come home the day before Yom Tov?

He flipped idly to a page about two-thirds of the way through, scanning for something to say. He read aloud: "Throughout the month of Nissan, we don't say Tachanun or tzidduk hadin." Frustrated, he slammed the kitzur shut and went back to staring at his Shabbos summaries. His Charms notes rested in a sheaf beside them.

Rows of benches stretched out in front of him. Yehuda's car was empty, as was the next car and the one after that. Exams were coming; nobody wanted to go home. Even Michael had stayed behind. Of all the first years, only he and Terry were going.

Terry.

He closed his halacha notebook and stared out at the hills rolling past. He had never felt so guilty, so stomach-twistingly wrong. From everyone is being so bad to me to I am being so bad to everyone, in the space of a single day, followed by two weeks of terrible cold silence in the dormitory. Everything, everything was wrong.

There was no way to fix this. What could he do—get up, walk down the train to wherever Terry was, some other car, roll open the door, and say "I'm sorry"? Say "You were right all along"? Were you even allowed to say "You were right" to a Christian? Was it sort of like avodah zara? They didn't have problems like that in Yesodey, he thought wistfully, and then startled as it occurred to him that this was the first time in months that Yesodey had even crossed his mind.

The door to his compartment rolled backward. "Hello," Terry said.

Yehuda didn't turn his head. "Hello," he said stiffly. He did not say you can sit here or would you like some of my fruit. What was happening? Well, whatever Terry did, he would do; that would be the safe thing. When he finally lifted his eyes, Terry was sitting opposite him, hands folded primly on the table. "I wanted to say I'm sorry."

Yehuda was suddenly scared. He wanted to say something mean, so that Terry would go away, but his mouth opened and closed and no words came.

"Not just for signing you up for Easter," Terry said. "But also for asking you a thousand questions all the time, and everything. My dad always says I come on too strong. I never even met a Jewish person before, I guess I thought it was interesting—I thought you were interesting. And I wanted to know everything, so I just asked. I didn't think…I mean, I didn't realize it's different for you. When you're the person who's getting asked."

He looked at Yehuda expectantly, but there was no answer. He kept talking. "My dad wrote me a letter and he asked me how many people were annoyed with me this far, and I was too embarrassed to say 'the whole Ravenclaw house.' I didn't realize I could make everyone so upset just because of you. But everyone likes you. Even if you're too shy to like them. And you don't yell at anyone, but you yelled at me. So, I'm sorry. You don't have to be my friend, but I don't want you to hate me. I just didn't realize. I'm sorry." He fell silent at last. The tips of his ears were bright red.

Yehuda struggled to form thoughts. He had to say something, but it was all too much. "I don't hate you." Not enough, not enough. "I thought you were trying to convert me." It sounded silly out loud. "There's a lot of stories about Christians who made Jews become Christian…"

"That wasn't me," Terry protested. "I really was only trying to help you."

There's a lot of stories didn't quite seem to cover it. Christians were goyim, and they wanted you gone. Either they wanted to kill you, or they wanted you to become just like them, and it was just something he had always known—had never been told, but inhaled from the air of Golders Green. It was too embarrassing to explain.

"Did you start studying for exams?" he asked instead.

Terry looked startled by the abrupt swerve in conversation. "Only Binns. But that's because it's easy. Just memorizing."

That much was true. "Have we learned anything from him that you couldn't learn by reading A History of Magic?" Yehuda still remembered that day at the beginning of the term, when Terry and Padma had walked out and left him there, frozen to his seat. The class had not endeared itself to him since.

Terry looked at his notes and read in a monotone: "Uric the Oddball, born at the turn of the eleventh century, was renowned for his advocacy for the health benefits of the Fwooper call. That's word for word in A History of Magic. I don't know why I bother to write it down."

Yehuda laughed. "Not much, then. And Transfiguration—that will probably be about turning some little animal into a box."

"It could be Avifors, though," Terry said.

"But that's in the second-year Standard Book of Spells," Yehuda said. "Why would it be on our first-year exams?"

"You've read A Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2?"

"Yes, but I can't actually do any of the spells yet."

"Because you can't," Terry asked, "or because you're too scared to try?"

Yehuda thought about it. "Some of both. I probably couldn't do them perfectly, and lots of things could go wrong. If I was mental enough to try them anyway, I would be in Gryffindor, not Ravenclaw. Did you do the essay on the properties of valerian, for Snape?"

By the time they pulled into King's Cross, the sun was directly overhead. The platform was quiet, just a scattered few Hogwarts students disembarking, brushing off clothes and gathering bags, and the one or two parents who had met them there.

"Maybe they're in the station proper?" Terry suggested. "My dad doesn't like coming through the wall, even if my mum or my brother's with him. Does yours?"

Yehuda didn't answer. No one had ever responded to his letter, he realized with alarm. They wouldn't forget about him. They wouldn't. He looked for a black hat, a jacket, but there was nothing. Perhaps they were late. It was Erev Yom Tov; they were busy.

"There! There's my dad!"

Terry ran, his bag swinging against his back. Yehuda followed cautiously, unsure what to expect in a father who wrote to his son asking how many people were annoyed with him. Terry's dad wore a polo shirt and very clean jeans and a bright white smile, and each of his hands was attached to a small Terry-faced boy. Yehuda had never seen anyone so unmistakably non-Jewish.

"Terry!" the smaller boy screamed, jumping up and down. "Terry's back, Terry's back! Daddy took us to the zoo, Terry! And we went to the London office and put our faces in the photocopier!"

"I'm sure you did!" Terry became a big brother in an instant, ruffling the smaller one's hair and slapping the bigger one's back. "Ben, you too?"

The bigger one shrugged, embarrassed. "Well, you used to do it."

Where was his father? Where was anyone? Yehuda stood awkwardly, still holding his bags, still scanning the crowds. Terry's father smiled at him distractedly. "Who's your friend, Terry?"

"Oh! This is Yehuda Goldstein, Dad. He's from Golders Green. We're the only two in our year that came home. Yehuda—my dad."

"Pleased to meet you," Terry's father said. "I'm sure you're just delighted to get back into a car, Terry, but Mum and the girls are waiting. I parked across the street. Are you ready to go?"

"All right." Terry shouldered his bag. "Have a happy holiday, then, Yehuda."

Terry's father looked concerned. "You shouldn't wait in the station alone. Where are your parents?"

Yehuda caught his breath. He was about to be all alone in King's Cross, and he could no longer fool himself into thinking the sun was directly overhead; the light was golden and the rays blinded him from the side. It was late, honestly, truly late, and there was nowhere to go. "My father isn't here," he said frantically, his face numb, tears choking him just beneath the surface. "My father's not here, and the holiday is going to start, I'm going to miss it, I can't—"

Terry put a hand on his arm. "Shhh," he said. "My father will drive you. Dad, can we drive Yehuda home?"

They could. It was out of the way, but the Boots lived so far away that the half-hour detour didn't matter. Terry's car was shiny and unscuffed, with a blue-and-white checkered circle above the number plate, like the car Danziger's family had once had. The two little boys clambered in, while Terry's father took their bags around to the back. There was a slam, and he settled in and tilted the mirror back to look at Yehuda. "Golders Green, eh? Where in Golders Green?"

"Number ten Finchley Road," Yehuda whispered. His voice was still wobbly.

"Muggle-born, then?" Terry's father asked conversationally. He laughed at Yehuda's surprise. "I've picked up enough of the vocabulary from my wife. Hogwarts seems absolutely barking mad, the way she tells it, but Benjamin'll be going next year, too. Leo, though—"

"I gets to stay in Nottingham," the smaller one interrupted. "'Cause I'm a Muggle like Daddy."

"At least I've got one," Terry's father said affectionately. "Is yours a wizarding family, Yehuda?"

Wizarding? Was that a verb or an adjective? "No," he said. "I'm the only one."

The car turned onto Lyndhurst Road. Yehuda stared out the window, crammed up against Terry, thigh to thigh. It was odd to see his neighborhood through the Boots' eyes; everything seemed so small and dingy. They reached Finchley at last, and there was his house, and—oh, no. Danziger was walking up the block, his arms full of groceries. Did he see the car idling in front of the Goldstein house, so close to Yom Tov? Was he wondering what it was doing there?

"Here we are," said Terry's father. Danziger was almost at his front walk. In a minute he would be looking right at them. Terry reached for the door handle. "Let me help you with your bag."

"No!" Yehuda almost yelled. Terry froze. He forced himself to take a deep breath, and began again. "No don't. My neighbors—they don't know I go to Hogwarts. They think I'm in yeshiva in America. I don't want them to see…" He had almost said goyim. "I don't want them to see you."

"Oh. All right."

Yehuda went around to the back and got his bags. "Thank you very much."

"Have a happy holiday!" Terry called. Yehuda smiled and waved, wincing internally. Did he have to yell it in English so loudly? Then again, he should have said "you, too," he thought as he rang the bell. That would have been the nice thing to do. To show Terry, in case he was still afraid, that he really didn't hate him.

"Yehuda!" his mother shrieked. Feet pounded the floors and the whole family crowded into the front hallway. The girls were already wearing robes, he was so late. "What—how did you—?"

"I decided to surprise you!" he said, baring his teeth in a smile. It was a lie. I sent you a letter, he wanted to shout. I sent you a letter and you didn't even come get me, I waited and waited for you and you didn't come.

"But how did you get here from the airport," his father said, raising his eyebrow. Reminding Yehuda that he was supposed to be in yeshiva in America. Another lie.

"There was an American family on my flight, and they gave me a ride from the airport." Three lies.

"Well, you don't have to stand in the doorway!" his mother said. "Adina, go make up Yehuda's bed—"

"I'm still wiping down the refrigerator!" Adina protested. She glared at Yehuda. "Which is your job. Just because you're in America—"

"It's all right," he said. "I can make up my own bed."

He made up his own bed. He had to do it quickly, because Yom Tov was less than two hours away and he still had to shower—he had cut it very, very close. He didn't want to think about what he might have done if Terry hadn't been there.

"You almost missed Yom Tov," Adina said accusingly. She stood in the doorway, watching him shake the duvet into its cover. "You should have come earlier."

"Well, I came, all right?" he said tiredly. His arms ached from lifting the duvet. He straightened the pillowcase and grabbed a towel, heading for the bathroom.

"You didn't even see Baby Yosef!" she shouted after him.

He wanted to slam the bathroom door in her face, but made himself close it gently. He showered as fast as he could before yanking on a fresh pair of tzitzis, buttoning his shirt, and scrambling into his suit. In the kitchen, Esti was bouncing the whimpering baby against her shoulder, and his mother was moving pots from the stove to the foil-covered counter and back, snapping orders. "Adina, check the eggs, they're boiling out—Esti, I told you to cut Brochie's hair, please, it's a long way to Lag BaOmer—"

"I did," Esti muttered, thrusting the baby at Yehuda. "Brochie, c'mere, Mummy wants me to cut your hair shorter—no, now, Brochie, it's almost Yom Tov!"

He looked down at the baby—his brother, he reminded himself, Yosef—and the baby looked up at him with teary-eyed interest. His face had gotten fatter since the picture from the bris, with dark blue eyes and uneven patches of brown curls. Yehuda pulled his fist, squirming his finger inside, and the baby's hand tightened around it.

"Hello," he whispered.

Clang. Adina had dropped the pot. Water sloshed across the floor, eggs rolling everywhere. The baby stiffened and started to cry. Yehuda awkwardly shifted him upright—support his head, he doesn't know how to use it, his mother had said of Eliyohu—and bounced gently in place.

"Ta! Yehuda!" Sholom paced in the front hall, holding a machzor. "Maariv's in ten minutes!"

Adina scuttled across the kitchen floor, picking up eggs. "Go to shul, then," she said crossly.

"I'm holding the baby."

"Well, I'm going," Sholom huffed. The door slammed shut. Esti swept up Brochie's hair, shoved the broom back in the closet, and spun around to take Yosef from him.

"Yehuda?" His father looked at him questioningly. "Are you ready?"

They left to shul. It was a warm night, and after the frantic activity in the kitchen, the street seemed very quiet as they walked to shul under the glow of the streetlamps. "How did you get home?" his father asked. "Did they give you a holiday? Did they know about Pesach?"

"Easter," Yehuda said quietly. It felt wrong to say it here, back home on Pesach, walking next to his father. "I wrote you a letter, it must have gotten lost. Another boy in my year's father drove me home from the train."

"A goy?"

Yehuda traced the toe of his shoe against the floor.

"Well, I'm glad you found a way home, at any rate," his father said, after an uncomfortable silence. "I'm sorry we can't have you send your letters straight here, but we've always gotten them, Rabbi Zeller always passed them on. Does the post often get lost?"

"I don't know," Yehuda said miserably. His father was his father, he knew everything about how the whole world worked, but with Hogwarts, he was the one who was supposed to be a grownup. It wasn't fair. "Everyone uses owls, I think. To send their letters."

"You should get one, then," his father sighed, putting an arm across his shoulders, "if you're going back there."

He didn't know what to say: thank you wrestled with I'm sorry on his tongue, although he wasn't sure what he was apologizing for. His father's arm stayed protectively across his shoulders as they walked in. The shul was three-quarters full, hushed, and Sholom threw a disapproving glance from where he stood, his siddur already propped open.

Asher bidvaro maariv aravim…

"Ta, can we learn tomorrow afternoon?" Sholom asked as they left. "If you're not too tired?"

"I was hoping to catch up with Yehuda," his father said, with an affectionate tweak of his yarmulke that made him warm and happy. "See where he's holding—where his yeshivah's holding."

"But I have so much to cover if I want finish in time for Saba Sholom's yahrzeit!"

"I can help," Yehuda offered. "If you want to give me some mishnayos to learn..."

"Well…" Sholom's voice wasn't unkind, but he spoke with the voice of a benevolent adult. "You've probably got a lot to do. I've done all of them already, for my bar mitzvah, so this is a review, and besides, it won't really count. You're a katan, you know."

His hands felt hot. Sholom thought he was so much better, just because he was two years older and already bar mitzvah—no. I made up with Terry, he told himself resolutely, and Terry's a goy, even. Sholom was his brother. He didn't have to be his friend, but he didn't have to hate him. He smiled at Sholom as they entered the house.

"Good Yom Tov!" his father boomed into the doorway. The dining room was bright, the table draped in white and spangled with silver bechers. His mother was in the kitchen, Esti was arranging a roasted egg on the ke'arah. His father's seat, and Sholom's and his, were set with pillows.

They made Kiddush, the family standing around the table, just like an illustration in a picture book. His hands shook, and cold grape juice dribbled over his fingers, reminding him that it wasn't a dream, and he raised his kos a little higher. And when his father raised the matzah and called out, "Ha lachma anya!" Yehuda followed in his Haggadah, one finger on the words: "…hashata hacha, leshana haba b'ara d'Yisrael."

It was a blessedly, beautifully normal Seder. Baby Yosef started to cry, and his mother went to feed him and fell asleep. Sholom read a thousand long divrei Torah from his fat Haggadah with a million peirushim that looked like a sefer instead of a Haggadah, until Adina announced that she was bored and hungry and it had to be past chatzos already and chatzos was more important than his stupid dvar Torah, so there, her teacher even said. His father sent Esti to the kitchen to check. (His father did not ask him to say a dvar Torah, although if he really did go to yeshiva in America it would have been the natural thing to do.) Adina fell asleep in the middle of Nishmas Kol Chai. Sholom shook her, and she crawled off to curl on the living room couch next to his mother. Yehuda struggled to keep his eyes open. "Chasal siddur Pesach," he yawned.

"Get ready to take him to bed, Ta," Esti smirked.

"I'm not tired!" he protested, and to prove it, he didn't yawn once through the singing of L'shana Haba B'Yerushalayim, though his eyelids felt like they had been Transfigured to stone. Unlike the easy familiar Hallel, it was harder to piece out Vayehi Bechatzi Halayla, and he had to squint at the terse syllables, his vision swimming. His head dropped to the tablecloth, just for a minute. "Tisas negid—Charoshes silisa—b'kochvei…layla…"

Everything was so far away. He thought he heard Sholom and his father singing, and then he was being carried up the stairs in the dark, his father's arms strong around his waist. The floor was nodding far away and his head drooped over his father's shoulder, as though he were a little boy, and not a young wizard-in-training.

It was the second day of the Omer now, and it seemed that he had grown up at Hogwarts, more than he'd expected. When Eliyohu was born, he had been Adina's age, and she was so jumpy and babyish he wondered how Mummy had ever let him hold any of the babies. Brochie, too. Now he was careful. He'd never let anything hurt someone so tiny.

"I want to hold him," Adina whined, tugging at his arm. He tried to throw her off, but without waking the baby.

"Adina!" their mother said. She was standing by the car, wearing her bank clothes. "Don't do that over the steps, it's not safe. You can push him at the aquarium, but now it's Yehuda's turn. Behave for Tatty, all of you."

"I can't believe Mummy's going to work on Chol Hamoed," Sholom said disapprovingly, as the car backed out.

Esti sat down on the front steps, Eliyohu on her lap. "If you didn't need to buy a new suit every ten minutes, she wouldn't have to."

"It's not my fault I grew—"

The last few days had taught him that once Sholom and Esti got at each other's throats, they could go on for ages. He was casting around for a distraction that didn't involve Adina dropping the baby when the door on the next house slammed shut. "Guten Moed, Yehuda!" Danziger called. "How's America?"

"Guten Moed!" He ran toward the hedges, mindful to cradle Yosef's head against his shoulder. "How's Yesodey?"

"I asked first!"

"All right, all right. It's been great. Bit hard to keep up, though," he added, thinking of how he had fallen behind in halacha.

Danziger put on a terrible drawling accent. "Is it nice to be back in London with your mom and dad?"

"What?" America, America, America. "Oh, shut it. I'm not talking like that, am I?"

Danziger laughed. "No, you're still all right. Oh—happy birthday. I know it's a bit late, but you weren't here."

"Thank you," he said, humoring him. Danziger had used to have birthday parties, a little embarrassing for all involved, but that was before his mother had cottoned on to the fact that birthdays were only important when you were bar mitzvah, or when you wanted to make a fuss for a small child. She came out of the house now, standing on the front step. "Shua! Are you ready?"

"Well, you can take me driving some other time," Danziger said with a quick wave back to his mother. "My family's getting together with Meyerson's, we're leaving in a bit."

"With Meyerson?" Yehuda gaped. "But—he always used to make fun of your family."

Danziger flushed. "He's not that bad. He's really straightened out in yeshiva, ever since Hillman got expelled—"

"Expelled?"

"I forgot, you weren't here. You should leave your address so I can write to you. He doesn't anymore. My father's been going to his father's shiur. I think he feels bad about it and made him stop. We're going to the park, do you want to come?"

Nothing in the heavens or earth could make Yehuda voluntarily spend time with Moshe Meyerson, especially when they were going to the aquarium after lunch, so he said goodbye to Danziger and went back inside. Remembering the winter holidays, he hung round the shul for a while, but Abulafia was nowhere to be seen.

His birthday, that was right. He was twelve. When Sholom was twelve, their father had recorded his bar mitzvah parsha onto a tape for him to practice between lessons. But he couldn't have lessons, had never given a thought to how he would learn a parsha on his own. At the back of his mind he had drawn a division between Golders Green and Hogwarts: in Golders Green you could have a bar mitzvah; in Hogwarts you couldn't.

But on the fourth day of the Omer his father called him down to the basement to present him with a brand-new tape recorder, and opened two Chumashim to the first page where the cantillation marks were drawn. It was as though he was no different than Sholom.

"Mapa-ach," his father sang, pointing to the left-facing arrow.

"Mapa-ach," he sang back obediently.

"Pashta."

"Pashta."

"Zaka-aif kata-an."

This one was harder, the pitch lowering with each syllable and no breath in between. "Zakaif…" he trailed away.

"Again. Zaka-aif kata-an."

When they had gone through each symbol, his father turned to the middle of the Chumash. "We'll go through it again," he assured him. "I just want you to have it all on tape." Then he cleared his throat, motioned for silence, and Yehuda sat perfectly still for the next half-hour, only his finger moving, following along in the Hebrew and English as his father leined the entire parshas Vayikra into the recorder.

"Vayikra-a el Moshe vayedaber Hashem eila-av mei'ohel moed, leimor…"

Yom Tov came again, with more five-course meals than anyone wanted and potatoes in all their forms: boiled, baked, mashed, mashed and baked, kugel. Even the sponge cake had potatoes, Adina announced to the whole table at Bubby's house. In the afternoon, his father learned with him instead of Sholom, listening to him read aloud the parsha to make sure he could sound out all the korbanos words smoothly, and understand what they meant.

Rabbi Zeller walked into shul as he was carefully parsing out which pieces of the bird went up in the fire and which went on the ashes. Except for a wave from across the room, they hadn't spoken at all, but he felt as though they were friends, as much as you could be friends with the rabbi if you weren't even bar mitzvah.

During Mussaf, he followed his father, Sholom, and all the other levi'im outside to the sinks. Sholom moved to stand next to his father at the front of the line, but his father beckoned to Yehuda instead. Sorry, Sholom, Yehuda thought gleefully, you're not a katan anymore, you know; you'll have to wash some stranger kohen by yourself. His father filled the cup, and together they poured the water over Rabbi Zeller's hands.

"Shkoyach," the rabbi smiled as he dried up. "Lovely to see you in person, Yehuda."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Levitt asked, as he and his father stepped up to wash Rabbi Rappaport.

He startled. "Oh—nothing. I wrote him a letter."

He was getting better and better at lying, but also at pretending that he wasn't afraid he was going to give something away. At pretending everything was normal. Was that a good thing or a bad thing? He wasn't sure.

His parents were, too; they had all become very good at keeping secrets while acting like they weren't. Motzei Yom Tov, the eighthday which is one week and one day of the Omer, his father said with faux nonchalance, "You'd better get to bed, Yehuda. Don't you have a—flight to catch tomorrow morning?"

On his first night back, the ninth day which is one week and two days of the Omer, he unzipped his bag and before extracting his clean shirts, or pajamas, or anything else, he took out the pocket cassette player and the tape, and laid them carefully on his bed.

He called to Moshe—God, speaking to him from the Ohel Moed, saying, "Speak to the children of Yisrael…"

He was going to have a bar mitzvah. He was going to step up to the bimah, blushing, draped in a borrowed tallis too big for him, and chant out the brachos and the parsha in a little-boy voice that Esti would laugh at, and he would stand up in front of his grandparents and all his cousins and make a siyum, and say Kaddish—he was going to have a bar mitzvah. He propped the Chumash open on his crossed legs, opened the cassette player, inserted the tape, and clicked it closed to start practicing.

"Expelliarmus!" Michael yelled, and the tape recorder flew out of his hand, bouncing to the floor between his and Michael's beds.

He scrambled to pick it up, turning on Michael in indignation. "What are you playing at?"

"You don't want to turn that on, mate," Michael said. "Kevin tried it in September—it just bloody exploded. You can still see the scorch marks on his mattress. Burned up the whole tape, too. Don't you remember?"

"I don't think I was paying that much attention in September," he said ruefully, frowning down at the Chumash. Mapach, pashta, zakeif katan. He could remember which symbol went where, but not what it was supposed to sound like; he could barely remember the trop, much less how to lein the whole thing. "Why doesn't it work here?"

"Dunno," Michael said. "Kevin, do you still have the pieces of yours?"

"Threw 'em out, sorry!" Kevin called from the bathroom.

He flipped the cassette player over and tapped on the hollow back.

"Get a screwdriver?" Terry suggested.

Stephen looked curious. "How do you drive a screw?"

"I have a better idea," Yehuda said. He pointed his wand at the back of the cassette player, imagining the screws spinning left. "Alohomora!"

Screws shot in every direction. As Stephen chased them and held them up to the light, to the others' laughter, Yehuda stared at the guts of the cassette player—spindles and tape and circuit boards. What if he broke it, and magic couldn't fix a Muggle machine?

Professor Flitwick. Professor Flitwick would know.

They didn't have Charms until Tuesday, the morning of the tenth day which was one week and three days of the Omer, a day and a half of not practicing for his bar mitzvah. After class, he put his things away rather more slowly than the others, repeating the words he was going to say over and over in his head. Michael nodded to him encouragingly as he left.

The door shut behind Michael, leaving the classroom empty. He cleared his throat and approached. "Excuse me, Professor?"

"Yes, Mr. Goldstein?" Flitwick looked up.

He took a deep breath and slid the cassette player across the desk. "I need to use this Muggle machine at Hogwarts. I was hoping you could help me make it work. It's—"

"Excellent!" Flitwick cut in, turning over the machine. "Fascinating things, tapes. Such a simple collection of bits and bolts, such a wonderful little contraption."

Yehuda stared, remembering Snape's dismissal of his paper and pen. "But you're a wizard!"

"I am the Head of Ravenclaw House," Flitwick corrected absently as he removed the screws in the back of the cassette player. The batteries fell out and rolled across the desk. "Only the most pretentious pretender would decide that some things were beneath his dignity to learn. Or her. Easier, of course, to use a Pensieve, but I take it your tape is Muggle, and that you do not wish to listen to those terrible Weird Sisters on the nearest wireless instead?"

"I need it to practice my…for my bar mitzvah," Yehuda said lamely, embarrassed, but Flitwick was barely listening, engrossed in the innards of the machine. He beckoned to him excitedly. "Look, look. When you make the recording, your voice lays a pattern of magnets on the tape. When you play it back, the magnets make electricity, which comes through the front of the player as sound. Electricity tends not to react well with magic, as Mr. Entwhistle certainly won't forget, so you will need…magical batteries, as it were, and a magical current, to replace it. The atmosphere at Hogwarts won't be enough—although it's close, for something this simple."

"How do I do that? Professor," he added quickly. They had a generator at home in case of a power out, but somehow he was sure Hogwarts did not.

"Think for a moment, Mr. Goldstein. Where is magic found? What is its source?"

A spell, he thought, but that was too easy. Spells come from wands. He looked at the tip of his wand, then down the glossy wooden length to its rest on his index finger, his thumb and three fingers wrapped at the base, his tilted wrist, steady arm…

"Me?"

"Very good! As you know, the wand is only a conduit to transfer power from one place to another. Rather like lightning, or electric wires. Without it, there is only raw expression—like your fire-making, which continues to be a manifestation of your anger rather than actual conjured flames; don't think I haven't noticed, Mr. Goldstein. Luckily, a little bit of raw expression is all you need here. Now, you'll need to keep your hand on the wand, and the wand touching the tape deck…it's tricky business, adapting Muggle machines, and it doesn't always work, but tapes are simple enough."

A few fourth-years began drifting into the empty classroom, stacking books on the desks and readying for class; Terry's friend Cedric smiled at him. Flitwick replaced the cover of the cassette player, handed him the batteries, and sent him on his way. The tape recorder was so light without batteries; there was no way this would work. He knocked at the common room door.

The voice was pleasant as always. "What is a boggart's boggart?"

"Uh…what's a boggart?"

No answer.

He supposed he could always bring the cassette player with him to Defense, but he wanted to put it back. B-O-G-G-A-R-T. He had seen that word shape somewhere before, he could see it in his mind's eye on the left side of a page, toward the bottom. The sentence was a comparison. Much like a boggart flourishes in a dark, enclosed space—he couldn't remember the rest. "Is it some sort of mold?" he tried.

No answer.

Well, nothing to do but wait for someone else to come along. He sat down, back to the wall, and put the tape into the tape recorder. Was there an incantation? No, Flitwick surely would have mentioned that; he didn't need to shape the magic, produce a specific effect—only funnel it down the wand. Only replacing the electric current. He held the wand to the empty battery compartment and pressed play.

And his father's voice filled the landing: "Vayikra-a el Moshe vayedaber Hashem eila-av mei'ohel moed, leimor…"

Kevin huffed his way up the stairs. "You couldn't have gone to Flitwick before I blew up my tape player?" he complained, knocking. The door repeated the question, and he looked over at Yehuda. "What's a boggart?"

Today was forty-five days which were six weeks and three days of the Omer. Michael fidgeted in the corridor outside the Charms classroom. It was a beautiful day, warm sunlight streaming in through the giant stone windows, but none of them could relax. "What's taking him so long?"

"It can't be that awful," Yehuda said, more to himself than to Michael. He pointed his wand at Michael's notes. "Wingardium Leviosa!"

"Hey!" Michael protested. "Uh—Accio!" Nothing happened. Michael slumped back against the wall. "Give me my papers, Goldstein."

He released the charm, just as the door to the Charms classroom opened and Terry emerged. Both boys shot to their feet.

"How did you do?" Yehuda asked. He was next.

"Wasn't bad at all!" Terry said brightly. "But I can't give it away. You'll be just fine. Good luck!"

And the door closed behind him. Professor Flitwick stood at the front of the dimly-lit room, somehow managing to be imposing despite looking like the elves that appeared on all the tissue boxes every December. There was a bruised-looking pineapple on the desk in front of him.

"Goldstein, An—Yehuda!" he corrected, marking something down on his scroll. "Welcome, welcome to your Charms exam."

"Thank you," Yehuda said, and regretted it—what he'd thought was a pause for a response was merely Flitwick taking a breath.

"You're welcome," Flitwick said. He sounded surprised to have been interrupted. "Now, then, your task is to have this pineapple dance across the desk. You may use any spell, but you must identify it first. Are you ready?"

He took a deep breath, steadying himself. "All right. I'm going to use Tarantallegra."

"Classification?"

"Jinx," he said immediately. He studied the fruit carefully, judging its placement on the desk. He wanted to hold the wand with both hands, but that would probably get him points deducted. Instead, he drew the movements slowly and carefully: swirly up, cut corner, across, down, curl. The pineapple bounced and bobbled and he smiled with how easy it was when it wasn't a fire spell. He tapered the charm out with a flourish. The pineapple stilled, then toppled off the end of the desk.

"I think that'll be the end of this one," Flitwick mused. "Would you like a piece?"

"Thank you, professor."

He watched as Flitwick performed a Severing Charm. Nine months ago he would have run screaming at the sight. Now, though he couldn't do a spell like that, he could follow the movements of Flitwick's wand and understand the theory of it. It wasn't Torah, but he knew so much more than he had a year ago.

In yeshiva at the end of the year you gave the rabbi a fruit basket or a gift certificate or something, and you thanked him very much for teaching you Torah, and he wished you a good summer and much hatzlacha. Did you do that at Hogwarts too?

No matter. He had learned. "Professor?"

Flitwick looked up. "Ah, you're still here?"

Yehuda squared his shoulders, picturing his mother's handwriting on the gift certificate. "I wanted to say…thank you very much for teaching me. I learned so much this year and…"

"Nonsense, Anthony!" Flitwick was beaming at him. "What good is teaching without students to learn? And with a score of ninety-eight percent on the theory exam, I'd say you learned! Now get out and enjoy your summer!"

Yehuda emerged, blinking, into the bright hallway, sticky fingers full of pineapple.

"He's giving out fruit?" Michael said.

Yehuda shrugged apologetically, unsure if he was allowed to give away the topic of the exam. "He gave me fruit."

After that, History and Defense Against the Dark Arts were a letdown. Memorizing was easy for him; as in yeshiva, the names and dates came to his pen before he even realized that he remembered them, but why would you want to write out answers and draw pictures of wand movements? The next few were better—he collected samples of dittany and wormwood for Professor Sprout's scavenger hunt and brewed a passable Forgetfulness Potion, but his real shining triumph was successfully Transfiguring a mouse into a matchbox, without even a hint of fur left behind. "Full marks, Mr. Goldstein," McGonagall said approvingly.

And that was that. He had completed a year's worth of learning at Hogwarts. It felt surprisingly normal. Today was forty-seven days which were six weeks and five days of the Omer, from one day to the next. The letter he had sent off with Mandy's owl might be his last.

Dear Rabbi Zeller,

1. When I count Sefirah on Friday night, do I count before or after I light the candles?

2. In the case of destroying something with the owner's permission, why does the Mishnah give so many kinds of examples when the only thing that really matters is the tone of voice of the owner?

And on and on it went. He'd had trouble thinking of a tenth question, but the same obvious thought kept insinuating itself into his thoughts, and to relieve the itch he finally put it down on paper although he already knew the answer.

10. Do I still have to come back next year?

Thank you,

Yehuda Goldstein

The year had drawn to a close so quickly he couldn't believe he was still counting Sefirah with a bracha—surely he must have missed a huge chunk of days somewhere? He told the house-elves about the upcoming holiday, and they promised to produce a cheesecake. Today was forty-eight days which were six weeks and six days of the Omer.

There was a Quidditch game Shabbos morning; he could tell because the team strutted proudly into the Great Hall in their blue smocks, to Ravenclaw cheers. Yehuda nudged Kevin. "Who're we playing?"

"Don't you keep track of the schedule at all, Goldstein?" Kevin said. "Gryffindor. It's the last match of the season!"

Sure enough, there were seven red-robed Gryffindors scattered among the students at the last table. All the Quidditch addicts, of whom Yehuda was not one, leaned forward, while Davies gesticulated earnestly, explaining that Bradley would distract the Weasleys so Cho could get a good head start on—McLaggen?

All the speculation and strategizing stuttered to an awkward halt. Everyone had heard; You-Know-Who had been after something hidden in the school, and Harry Potter and two other Gryffindors, including the genius Granger, had gone after him. He was in the hospital wing, though, Yehuda thought—it must have been serious. Davies looked sorry to have mentioned it. "Well, anyway, they're playing McLaggen instead. But he's awful, they only found him yesterday. Cho will make mincemeat out of him."

Upstairs, Yehuda opened the curtains, tipped open one of the arched windows, and dragged a comfortable armchair into the sunshine. The Chumash was open on his lap, his father's end-of-year review sheets were spread out on the table in front of him, and the distant whoops and hurrahs of the Quidditch crowd made him feel like he was a part of the school, even in the quiet common room.

Vayedaber Hashem el Moshe b'midbar Sinai…

Davies had said Cho would make mincemeat of Gryffindor, and from what he could make out of the commentary, he was right. Hours later the sounds of a crowd (Ugh, it's another story riddle, wait wait I know this one, seriously not the boat and the animal again, hate those) echoed distantly up the stairs and a yelling throng of blue and bronze tumbled back into the common room and Michael bounded toward him. "We won! We won!"

On quiet days, the common room was a low hum of pages turning, books returning to shelves and debates in low voices, but when it was noisy, it was noisy. He closed the Chumash and kissed it. Michael sat on the arm of his chair nattering on about the game as everyone laughed and passed around the strange sweets from the train, Sugar Quills and Chocolate Frogs and an assortment of drinks in clinking glass bottles.

Yehuda had never seen a party quite like this one. There had been Sholom's bar mitzvah, of course, but that was very orderly, and this one went on and on into the night. He went upstairs to light and daven Maariv, but when he came back the room was just as lively. People sat cross-legged on tables, there were candy wrappers all over the floor, someone stood on a chair and reenacted the game's more spectacular moments to the whoops of the crowd, including one Chaser's hanging by the crossbar of his broom to whack the Quaffle with its handle. "And McLaggen's just watching Stretton swing and score with that stupid look on his face, when Chang swoops up below and grabs the Snitch from behind his head—"

"Cheers," Davies said lazily, raising his bottle. "To Chang."

"To Chang!" fifty voices echoed. Cho, curled on one of the armchairs and surrounded by girls, smiled and blushed as they toasted her.

"I'm going to bed," Michael said. He yawned. "Yehuda, are you coming?"

"No," he said proudly. He gestured to the stack in front of him: his Kitzur, Chumashim, Rabbi Zeller's letter, volumes of the Gemara borrowed from the library, and all his Bava Kama notes from the whole year. "I'm staying up the whole night."

Terry opened his mouth and closed it again, clearly itching to ask; Michael looked confused. "What?"

"What's that, Yehuda?" Penelope peeled herself off a laughing group of older students. "You're not going to bed?"

His stomach flip-flopped, but he looked the prefect in the eye and spoke calmly, without stammering. "It's a holiday. We celebrate getting the…Torah, by staying up all night learning it. It's just the feast tomorrow; I won't be sleeping through class."

The nice thing about Hogwarts was that no one had to know that at home, his mother made him go to bed on Shavuos night because he was too young to stay up so late. The torches went out, one by one, the seventh-years stumbled up to their rooms smelling like Purim at the Chabad house, and it was quiet.

He smoothed down the spine of the Gemara. Rashi had asked his question on the Mishnah, Rabbi Zeller wrote, but if he found the answer there unsatisfying, he was not in the minority; even Tosafos agreed with him. He mouthed the words, running his finger along the column, unable to stop the smile that bloomed across his face. No classes, no obligations, no sheets to fill out, nothing to do but learn learn learn from now until the sun came up, hours and hours away.

Terry woke him for the end-of-term feast. Slytherin had won the House Cup, and the Great Hall was swathed in green and silver pennants, a huge picture of a snake hanging over the High Table. He sat at the end of the row, next to Terry and across from Michael, and every few seconds his face split with a huge yawn. When the famous Harry Potter walked in, there was a sudden hush, then everybody started talking loudly at once, but Dumbledore arrived moments later, and the babble died away.

"Well, another year gone!" Dumbledore said. "And I must trouble you with an old man's wheezing waffle before we sink our teeth into our delicious feast." (Easy for you to say, Yehuda thought, looking at his plate.) "What a year it has been! Hopefully your heads are a little fuller than they were, and you have a whole summer ahead to get them nice and empty before next year starts."

At this, he looked over at Michael, incredulous. "What?"

"Shh!"

"Now, as I understand it, the house cup needs awarding," Dumbledore said. "The points stand thusly: in fourth place, Gryffindor, with 312 points. In third, Hufflepuff, with 352. Ravenclaw has 426, and Slytherin, 472."

Whoops and drumrolls broke out from the last table, and Dumbledore smiled indulgently. "Yes, yes, well done, Slytherin. However…recent events must be taken into account."

The room went very still.

"I have a few last-minute points to dish out. Let me see. Yes...First, to Mr. Ronald Weasley...for the best-played game of chess Hogwarts has seen in many years, I award Gryffindor house 50 points."

Yehuda applauded politely as all the Gryffindors cheered. Had the house-elves had prepared cheesecake for this meal, too? Could he eat it on the same table where everyone else would be eating roast beef and steak? When the room finally quieted, Dumbledore was smiling, still looking at the Gryffindor table. "Second, to Miss Hermione Granger... for the use of cool logic in the face of fire, I award Gryffindor house 50 points."

"Didn't know any Gryffindors could do logic!" Marcus shouted over the Gryffindors' roar of excitement. "Well done, Granger!" Yehuda laughed, as did quite a few Ravenclaws.

"Third, to Mr. Harry Potter..."

The room went deadly quiet. Yehuda looked longingly at his plate. When would this be over?

"For pure nerve and outstanding courage, I award Gryffindor house 60 points."

The storm of cheering shook the walls of the hall. Yehuda quickly calculated—Gryffindor now had 472 points. It was a tie. What did you do if there was a tie? On second thought, what did you get for winning, anyway? Dumbledore raised his hand again, and slowly the room quieted.

"There are all kinds of courage," Dumbledore went on. "It takes a great deal of bravery to stand up to our enemies, but it takes just as much to stand up to our friends. I therefore award ten points to Mr. Neville Longbottom."

The explosion was deafening; a hundred Gryffindors flung themselves on top of Neville Longbottom in a hoarse, hysterical mess of excitement. Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs stamped their feet, yelling, punching the air, and even Hilliard got to his feet and cheered. The green and silver flags, the giant entwined snakes, all shuddered and faded to a vivid red and gold, an enormous lion looming over the head table. Gryffindor had won the House Cup.

Yehuda sneaked a glance at the Slytherin table, where several furious students were shouting red-faced into the din, and one first-year was crying. He looked away quickly. "Is he allowed to do that?"

"He's Dumbledore," Michael shrugged. "He can do anything."

Dumbledore, Yehuda remembered, was a Gryffindor. It seemed unfair.

Glossary

Kitzur, short for Kitzur Shulchan Aruch. Abbreviated Code of Jewish Law.

Shehiya, literally "waiting." Leaving a pot on a flame from Friday afternoon into the Sabbath.

Chazara, literally "returning." In this context, returning a pot to a flame after the onset of the Sabbath.

Se'if yud-tes. Paragraph 19.

Chag kasher v'sameach. A happy and kosher holiday.

Kosher. Adhering to Jewish dietary laws.

Yom Tov. Holiday.

Tachanun, tzidduk hadin. Prayers omitted during the month of Nissan.

Halacha. Jewish law.

Avodah zara. Idolatry.

Goyim, literally "nations." Non-Jews.

Tzitzis. Ritual undergarment.

Shul. Synagogue.

Machzor. Prayer book for specific holiday.

Lag BaOmer. The thirty-third day of the Omer (see below). Customs of the Omer are suspended.

Maariv. Evening prayers.

Goy, literally "nation." Non-Jew.

Asher bidvaro maariv aravim. He who brings on evening with his word. First words of the evening prayer.

Yahrzeit. Deathday.

Katan. Minor.

Becher. Ceremonial goblet.

Ke'arah. Ceremonial Seder plate.

Kos. Synonym to becher.

Ha lachma anya. This is the bread of poverty.

Hashata hacha, leshana haba b'ara d'Yisrael. This year [we are] here; next year [may we be] in the Land of Israel.

Divrei Torah. Torah thoughts or interpretations.

Peirushim. Commentaries.

Sefer, literally "book." Holy book.

Chatzos. Seasonal midnight.

Nishmas Kol Chai. Every Living Soul.

Chasal siddur Pesach. The Pesach Seder has been completed.

L'shana Haba B'Yerushalayim. Next Year in Jerusalem.

Vayehi Bechatzi Halayla. And It Happened at Midnight.

Tisas negid Charoshes silisa b'kochvei layla. The attack of the prince of Charoshes [Sisera] you swept away with the stars of night.

Omer. Forty-nine days between Pesach and Shavuos, as counted each night. It is customary to refrain from music, haircuts, and weddings.

Pesach. Passover.

Shavuos. Pentecost.

Chol Hamoed. Intermediate holiday. Family trips are common.

Guten Moed. Happy holiday.

Halacha. Jewish law.

Shiur. Class.

Parsha. Weekly Torah portion.

Mapach, pashta, zakaif katan. Cantillation marks.

Lein. Chant the Torah.

Vayikra el Moshe vayedaber Hashem eilav mei'ohel moed, leimor (Leviticus 1:1). He called to Moshe—God, speaking to him from the Tent of Meeting, saying.

Korbanos. Sacrificial offerings.

Levi'im. Descendants of Levi.

Kohen. Descendant of Aharon.

Shkoyach. Colloquially, "good job."

Motzei Yom Tov. Night immediately following the end of a holiday.

Bimah. Stage.

Tallis. Prayer shawl.

Brachos. Blessings.

Siyum. Completion of a book of study.

Trop. Cantillation marks.

Hatzlacha. Success.

Sefirah. The counting of the Omer.

Vayedaber Hashem el Moshe b'midbar Sinai (Numbers 1:1). God spoke to Moshe in the Sinai Desert.

Chumashim. Five Books of Moses.

Gemara. The Talmud.

Tosafos. An essential commentary on the Talmud.

Note: One more, and an epilogue. Start thinking about what you want to see in Book 2!