Chapter 2: Old MacDonald Had a Farm

"Ah, look at that!"

The small boy jumped, his fork dropping with a clatter as he stared at the older boys. They were pointing at him, their faces stretched in horror.

"What?" he squeaked in a terrified whisper.

"Your head's on fire!" one shouted, still appearing appalled.

The boy's hand flew to his head in alarm, feeling all over frantically.

"Oh, wait, never mind," said another. "That's just your hair. Our mistake."

The whole group burst out into uproarious laughter, clutching at each other like it was the funniest thing they'd ever heard. Color to match his hair climbed up the young boy's cheeks as he let his hands drop, studying his mostly empty plate with determination.

"See ya later, Gingy!" one of the bullies teased, the group still snorting as they walked away.

Watching the entire scene play out in front of him, Charlie McLauchlin frowned. It was only the second week of term but already the group of seventh year boys had chosen to focus their torments on the small first year Gryffindor with the flaming red hair, patched robes, and spectacles way too large for his freckled face.

Suddenly, a wave of compassion and camaraderie surged through Charlie. He shut the book he'd been reading with a snap, rising to his feet.

"Hey," he said, sliding onto the bench next to the younger boy. "Don't let Perry and his mates get to you. They just can't handle people who stick out," he added, pointing to his own ginger hair with a wry grin.

The younger boy looked him over then hesitantly returned the grin.

"I saw you in the common room the other night. I'm Charlie by the way – third year."

"Arthur," the kid replied. "But most people call me Artie." Artie glanced at the book in his hands. "What's that?" he asked, his freckled face curious.

"Oh, just a book of Muggle farm machinery…" said Charlie, suddenly embarrassed as he tried to slip the book out of sight.

"Really?" Artie cried, excitement flashing through his eyes. "Can I see? Please?"

"You like Muggle things?"

"I think they're brilliant!"

"Here, look at this one on page fifteen! It's my favorite!" Charlie shoved the forgotten breakfast dishes out of the way and flopped the book down on the table in front of them, rapidly flipping pages. A strange excitement was filling him; he'd never before met anyone else who shared his love of Muggles and their amazing inventions!

Together they poured over the book for hours, never noticing as the breakfast dishes disappeared. By the time the tepid, Saturday morning sunshine in the Great Hall had slipped into the bright light of noon a fast and lasting friendship had been born.

With a heavy sigh, Charlie refolded the letter. Hesitantly, he walked the length of the great hall to the end of the Ravenclaw table.

"She wrote again," he said softly and without preamble, leaning against the old wood. The thin, pale girl of seventeen shrugged.

"Annalise, she just wants to know how you are, what you've been doing!" he said, his frustration thickening his Scottish accent. "It's been three months since you wrote to her yourself!"

His sister finally turned to face him, her eyes dark against her freckled face as the candlelight caught in her auburn hair.

"Tell her I'm fine," she said without emotion, her own accent flat and dull.

"It's just Mum. Why don't you write to her yourself? What did she do to make you so angry?" he pleaded. It cut at his heart to see these two people he loved at odds with each other.

"You're too young to understand," Annalise answered, turning away.

"I'm thirteen!" he said stubbornly, his own anger flashing. "I'm not a baby!"

She ignored him, her back stiff.

Charlie sighed again. "Just write to her, okay, Lisy." He set the folded letter down on the table and pushed it forward until it touched her arm, then walked dejectedly back to his own table.

He didn't see her again that evening, but when he walked past the empty Ravenclaw table he noticed the letter was gone.