Wendy

From day one he calls her Wendy.

"Like in Peter Pan," he says when she asks, and he puts her hand over hers as they lie in the grass and look up at the clouds. "Hogwarts is your Neverland. You've heard all the stories—I've been telling you about them all summer—and now we get to go there."

"Neverland," she says dreamily, flipping her hand over so she can lace her fingers between his. "What will it be like, I wonder?"

"Magical," the boy says with a grin, and his Wendy laughs and throws a handful of grass in his face.

(The breeze picks up and whisks it away before it ever touches his skin.)

"If I'm Wendy, I want you to be Peter Pan," she tells him.

"Done," he says.

"It's fitting." She sits up and squints down at him, breaking the contact between their hands. "Peter Pan wears green, and so do Slytherins."

"Meant to be," her Peter Pan says.

"Wendy wore blue," she says quietly. "That's not very Slytherin."

"So maybe you'll be Sorted into Ravenclaw." The boy shrugs. "Slytherins get along with Ravenclaws."

"Or maybe we'll both be Sorted into Hufflepuff!" She says it with a grin on her face, because she loves to watch him cringe at the thought, and maybe that sliver of cruelty is enough to get her into Slytherin with him after all.

"If I'm in Hufflepuff, I'm leaving," he says, and she lies back down and takes his hand again.

"You can't," she says. "Wendy in Neverland without Peter Pan? That's not how the story goes at all."

"No, I suppose it's not."

She rolls up on her side and looks at him, and even though her hair is Gryffindor-red and her dress is Ravenclaw-blue, her eyes are Slytherin-green, and she thinks her Peter Pan falls into them more deeply than he'd like to admit. "You won't really leave me all alone, will you?"

He shakes his head. "Of course I won't."

"You'll always be my friend, won't you?"

He gives her just one nod. "Always."

The boy she meets on her first night in Neverland—she ends up in Gryffindor, and her Peter Pan gets shuffled off to Slytherin, and she's scared—has never heard of Peter Pan.

"You've never read it?" she asks the Gryffindor, eyes wide. "You've never seen the film?"

He crinkles the space between his eyebrows and pushes his glasses up his nose. "Is it for muggles?"

She nods.

"I'm pureblood," he says, as if that explains everything.

"So?"

Behind his glasses, the Gryffindor blinks.

"You don't have to be a muggle to like muggle books," she says. "It's got magic in it."

"There's a muggle book about magic?" The boy looks confused. "Why hasn't the Ministry destroyed it yet?"

She has to try very hard not to roll her eyes. "It's not about our magic. It's about a flying boy who never grows up, and he lives on an island with fairies and pirates and Lost Boys and—"

"I don't really read," the Gryffindor interrupts, thrusting a hand through his choppy black hair. "Sorry."

She turns red. "Oh."

"But it's nice to meet you anyway." He offers his right hand, and she shakes. "What's your name?"

She smiles faintly. "Wendy," she says, and the Gryffindor has no idea she's joking.

"Wendy's from that book."

She looks up from her Charms essay to see that Gryffindor sitting down across from her in the library. It's been six months since that first night when he'd told her he didn't read, and since then she's learned she doesn't care for this boy. "Pardon?"

"You told me your name was Wendy," he says. "On our first night at Hogwarts. And of course I realized that your name wasn't Wendy in class the next day, when all the professors took role. But I didn't realize it was from that book."

"What book? Peter Pan?"

"Yeah."

She scrawls down another sentence on her parchment. "What brought on this knowledge?"

"Heard a Slytherin bloke explaining it last night."

"Oh." She knows exactly which Slytherin bloke he's talking about, and there's a prick of loneliness in her throat. She hasn't seen her Peter Pan in nearly a week. "How much did he tell you?"

"He wasn't exactly talking to me," the Gryffindor admits. "I only overheard him."

"How much did you overhear?"

"The gist." He shrugs. "Peter Pan's got magic. Wendy's his girlfriend."

She looks up sharply at that. "He said Wendy is Peter Pan's girlfriend?" Her mouth curls up into a smile as she says it.

"Yeah, I think so." The Gryffindor shrugs. "He said there was a kiss."

"Oh." The image of a thimble jumps into her head, and suddenly her heart feels oddly deflated. "A kiss is not a relationship."

The Gryffindor shrugs. "Guess they're only friends, then."

"Yes." She starts to go back to her essay, then stops. "Why were you spying on him?" she asks.

"Spying?" he repeats, but his eyes are too innocent. "I wasn't—"

"You said you overheard him talking. Why were you eavesdropping?"

He gives her a grin and shrugs. "Looking for future ammunition, I suppose."

She clenches her jaw. "So you can bully him some more?"

"Not bullying," he says, pushing a hand through his hair. "It's just friendly teasing."

"I don't think he sees it that way."

"Have you seen him? Have you seen his hair? He brings it upon himself. If he doesn't want people to comment on him, he should take a shower once in a—"

The sound of her pushing back her chair is muted by the carpet, but he stops talking anyway. "He's my best friend," she says as she stands to gather up her parchment. "I won't sit here and listen to you insult him."

"Oh, hey, don't leave." The Gryffindor snatches her quill and holds it over his head, tipping his chair back on two legs so it stays just out of her reach. "I came here to ask you something."

She narrows her eyes. "What?"

"I was planning on sneaking up to the Astronomy Tower at midnight tonight," he says. "I like to watch the stars."

"Second star to the right?" she asks before she can think it through.

He looks confused. "Huh?"

She closes her eyes. "Never mind. What are you asking me?"

"Well, it's peaceful up there, not to mention romantic, and I wondered whether you'd join me?"

She blinks. "Romantic?" She says it flatly, not like a question at all.

"Yeah." He waves her quill in the air. "If you come, you can get your quill back."

She smirks. "Keep it," she says, pushing in her chair. "I have other quills." She turns on her heel and heads for the door.

"What?" She hears his chair slam down onto all four legs. "Wait! Was that a no?"

She stops in the doorway and turns, hugging her parchment to her chest. "I want absolutely nothing to do with a bully like you," she says as calmly as she can, and then she sweeps around the corner and begins the trek back to the Gryffindor common room, trying as hard as she can to get the words Peter Pan's girlfriend out of her head.

She's just turned fourteen the next time he brings up the book.

"Oi," he says breathlessly as he comes into the common room, covered in mud and carrying his broom in his right hand. "What're you doing here?"

She puts down the book she's reading and raises her eyebrows. "I live here?"

"I know, but why're you not out there?" He gestures toward the portrait hole.

She looks at him as if he's insane. "I live here?" she repeats slowly.

"Everyone else is celebrating on the Quidditch pitch," he says. "We won the Cup. We beat Slytherin. Did you not even come to the match?"

She shakes her head. "You look awful," she says.

He looks down at himself. "Well, yeah," he says, shoving a hand through his dark hair. "I just played Quidditch for an hour and a half."

She purses her lips. "Maybe you should take a shower. People might start making fun of you. You're practically begging for it."

He doesn't pick up on her double meaning. "That's where I'm going, yeah. To take a shower."

She sighs and picks up her book. "Carry on, then."

He looks as if he wants to say more, but she puts her book firmly in front of her face, and with a sigh he walks away. She's reading Peter Pan again—her father just sent her a brand new copy for her birthday, and something about the smell of fresh pages makes her feel calm even when faced with a slew of exams next week. The story plays itself out in her head like a film; her Wendy has red hair and green eyes, and her Peter has long dark hair and a hooked nose but a wide smile, and when they wander through Neverland together she imagines him threading his fingers through her own while she tosses handfuls of grass in his face, just like another duo she used to know . . . used to, because she hasn't seen her Peter Pan at all since the train ride home at Christmas, and he hadn't even sat with her, had barely said hello . . . used to, even though he'd told her always. . . .

"You sure you don't want to come celebrate with us?"

The voice startles her out of the book, and she looks up to see the freshly-showered Gryffindor sporting non-muddied clothing and damp hair. "I'm sure," she says, holding up her book. "Better things to do."

He smirks. "Always reading," he says, coming over to see the title. "Peter Pan," he says, eyebrows raised. "Thought you already read this one."

"Is there a rule that I can't read a book more than once?" she snaps.

"S'pose not." He sits on the couch next to her armchair and leans forward until his knee is nearly brushing hers. "What's it about?"

"Magic," she says shortly. Her eyes do not leave the page.

"There's magic down on the Quidditch pitch," he says. "If you want to go down there, we can—"

"I don't want to go anywhere with you."

He doesn't come back with anything right away. "I could stay here, if you want."

She looks up with a laugh. "What on Earth makes you think I want your company?"

"Because to be perfectly honest, you look like you're about to burst into tears, and I'd rather not leave you alone to be miserable."

"Maybe I like being alone."

"Nobody likes being alone."

"Don't miss your big Quidditch party on my behalf," she says, but he notices her trying to change the subject, and he shakes his head.

"What's wrong, Wendy?"

Something in her throat begins to ache at the sound of that name. "Nothing," she says, raising the book up in front of her face and closing her eyes. The first tear slides down her cheek, but she doesn't dare wipe it away for fear he'll see.

"Something is."

Wendy and Peter Pan lie in the grass and hold hands and promise they're going to be friends forever, but that's not how it ends, is it, because Wendy grows up and Peter Pan remains the same, and they're different people now than they used to be, and "always" doesn't exist. . . .

"I'll just go, then," the Gryffindor says after a few seconds of silence, and as soon as he disappears through the portrait hole, she puts down the book and draws her knees up to her chest and sobs.

("I'm sorry," says her Peter Pan a year later, when their O.W.L.s are over and he's called her a name he can never take back.

"I'm sorry, too," she whispers, but their sorries mean two different things.)

"I've figured it out," the Gryffindor says around eleven o'clock at night in the autumn of their sixth year. He leaps over the back of the Gryffindor common room's couch and lands next to her. "Ask me what I've figured out."

She barely glances up from her Transfiguration textbook. "What've you figured out?"

"You're not Wendy."

It gets her attention. "Excuse me?"

"I read the book," he says, and he holds up the book in question. "Peter Pan. Took me all summer."

"It took you all summer to read one—"

"Hush," he says as one of his friends begins to laugh behind them. "Point is, I read it. And I've figured out why you're always so uptight and miserable."

"Uptight?" she repeats. "Careful."

"It's because you're trying so hard to be this Wendy character."

She shakes her head. "I'm not trying to be anything."

"Oh, please. You introduced yourself to me as Wendy the very first time we met. You obviously feel some attachment to this girl."

"Do you have a point, or are you just talking to hear your own voice?"

He snaps his fingers. "That. Right there."

She furrows her brow. "What?"

"What you just said. That was not something that would have come out of Wendy's mouth."

"Oh, no? Who made you an expert on fictional characters?"

"I don't have to be an expert to see what you're missing!"

She crosses her arms. "What am I missing?"

He jabs a finger at the book. "You're not Wendy."

"You've already said that."

"You're Tinker Bell."

She raises her eyebrows. "I'm the fairy?"

"It's because you're so fiery," he says with a grin. "Fiery and small."

"I'm not fiery," she says, purposely ignoring the comment about her height.

"You absolutely are."

"I'm not!"

"Everything you say is cheeky beyond belief," he says. "You don't let people walk all over you, you fight to get things your way, and even though you come off a bit judgmental—don't look at me like that, I'm not finished—you come off judgmental, but it's only because you won't put up with anyone stepping out of line."

She bites her lip. "I . . . I actually have nothing to say to that."

"And both of you glow," he adds with a grin and a wink, and she rolls her eyes.

"That I may have a cheeky response to," she says, but she allows herself to smirk. "So who do you identify with, then? Peter Pan?" (Her heart twinges as she says it, but not as painfully as it might have three months ago.) "The immature troublemaker who does what he wants independent of the consequences?"

"Of course not." He looks mildly offended. "I'm Captain Hook."

She snorts. "Can't wait to hear how this one works out."

"We share a first name, for starters. And we both have marauders."

(Two of the marauders in question are playing chess in the corner, and one is on his stomach in front of the fireplace working on his Potions homework. All three are trying not to be obvious as they listen in on the conversation happening on the couch.)

"Hook lost his hand," he continues, "and last season I broke my wrist playing Quidditch."

She rolls her eyes. "You spent ten minutes in the Hospital Wing and jumped back into the game at halftime. Not exactly the same."

"Still counts." He taps the cover of the book again. "Anyway. Hook's a monster. And you think I'm a monster."

"I don't think that."

"Oh, no?" He's grinning, and she knows she's walked into a trap.

"I think you're a bully who hurt my friend," she says stubbornly.

"Is he still your friend?"

She clenches her jaw. "I don't want to talk about him."

"You brought him up."

"I didn't mean to." She reaches for the book; he hands it over. "Do you really see yourself as Captain Hook?"

"Only for the marauder pun."

She lets out a laugh.

"And because he's an adult."

She runs her hand over the cover of his book. "You see yourself as an adult?"

"Not yet. But I want to be one someday." He lifts a shoulder and lets it fall. "I don't mind growing up. Merlin knows I wouldn't want to stay sixteen like this forever. Would you?"

She thinks about it for a moment. "I would."

"Good thing you're Tinker Bell, then."

She laughs again and hugs his book against her chest. "Actually," she says, looking down at the book, "maybe I'd want to change just a little more. Start a family. Have a career. Make something of myself."

"Yeah," he says softly. The marauder on the floor has finished his Potions essay, and he's gathering his things and heading for the boy's dormitory; the two boys playing chess must have wrapped up their game a long time ago, because they're gone, too. "So, Tinker Bell?"

She smirks. "Yes, Captain Hook?"

"Please," he says, holding up one hand to stop her. "Captain is too formal. It's just Hook."

"Hook, then."

"Much better." He reaches an arm around the back of the couch so it rests against her shoulder. "Tinker Bell, are there any male fairies that catch your eye?"

(Images of Wendy lying in the grass and holding hands with Peter Pan pop into her head, but she shakes them away.) "None that I can think of."

"How about pirates?"

She quirks an eyebrow. "A fairy and a pirate?"

"Love knows no bounds."

She is suddenly very aware of how empty the common room is. "A pirate, huh?"

He nods.

"Captain Hook dies at the end, you know," she says, and it comes out more softly than she wants it to.

"Does he? I didn't make it to the end."

She closes her eyes and shakes her head, but she's smiling. "It took you all summer to read half of a book?"

"I skipped around," he says, and his arm tightens around her shoulder. "Only really read the bits about Tinker Bell."

She swallows. "Why's that?" She asks it even though she knows the answer.

"Isn't it obvious?"

She goes to bed that night wondering what it would be like to kiss him.

The funny thing is, on the day they die, all she can think about is bloody Peter Pan.

"Hook dies at the end," she whispers over and over as she runs up the stairs to her son—and it's already over, death is at their door, someone has failed them. "He dies, he dies, he dies," and the words come out of her short bursts that harmonize with the tick-tock of the crocodile's clock, and doesn't it just make absolute sense that Peter Pan is the one who sent the monster here to kill them?

"Mummy's here," she tells her baby as she bursts into the nursery, and she holds him against her chest the way she used to hold on to that book, back when she thought Peter Pan was the hero and Hook was the monster, back when she thought always meant always and tick-tock was the sounds of the cavalry arriving and her name was Wendy instead of Tinker Bell—and then she's cursing herself for playing with fiction when something so real is happening outside her door.

"I love you," she says over and over, and she isn't sure if she's saying it to soothe her son or to reassure her husband or to beg Peter Pan himself.

(It doesn't matter, because none of them can hear her.)

At the very end, she can no longer tell the difference between her life and her book.

When the crocodile tells her to move aside, she comes back with a cheeky retort.

It's what she does, after all.

The words haven't even ceased to echo when the crocodile lunges.

Tinker Bell's light is out by the time she hits the floor.

[Gift Giving Extravaganza 2015: Hook/Tinker Bell, for Safari]

[The Competition that Must Not Be Named: Do not mention any character's first or last name]

[2015 New Years Resolution: Fairytale!AU]