Chapter Four: Experiencing Computers and Food

Harry, simply put, had never tasted a single morsel of American cuisine. He knew, thanks to stories from various peers at Hogwarts with families who vacationed around during the summer, that their food was really a mess of various cultural dishes and unexpected combinations. Depending on what part of America you found yourself, you could be eating shrimp tacos with a side of state-grown greens, you could be eating deep-fried grits and baby-back ribs, or you could be eating clam chowder with a slice of grape pie. And that was just the tourist food for muggles. The American magical community had probably the most complex meal list of all the magical communities, due to the fact so many different regions imported their goods to them. But, the most signature food American wizards and witches ate involved Native American bread products, deer meat, and acorn gruel, an apparent tradition that was observed because of the magical community that had been in place before the new world had been discovered by the Europeans. Their long history of shamans had left an undeniable impact on their cuisine, one fellow at the Gryffindor table had commented.

Thus, watching his new roomie Corita Jacobs whip up something she called an "All-American Breakfast" from his bar seat at the open counter space was more of an educational show than something to assuage his waiting, morning boredom. Harry liked cooking, despite the fact he'd been cooking for three ungrateful relatives without so much as a 'thank you' for numerous years, and he didn't mind perusing cookbooks. He'd read about old-fashioned french recipes in some of Aunt Petunia's mother's cookbooks by Julia Child, and a handful of random books Uncle Vernon would buy his wife for holidays about easy-bake recipes. And, whenever he was left alone with Mrs. Weasley, he'd pick up a few recipes that circulated in cookbooks on the magical community's end. Seriously; one would be shocked by what kind of weird dishes wizards and witches thought up, especially when they danced between potion making and normal cooking. So watching Corita was not only a mild culture shock, but a surprising chance to broaden his knowledge of the culinary realm.

"Yo, stop making goo-goo eyes at my bacon. Good packaged bacon is fuckin' expensive, and I don't need any accidental hocus-pocus turning quality pork strips into shit. Eyes away!"

But the mystical display of an American mutant's culinary prowess quickly lost its luster after she spoke, breaking the silence.

"Can you manage not to use an insult in a sentence?" Harry asked. He hadn't meant to be rude, but it came out somewhat rudely, almost sarcastically. The young wizard was starting to think his new default setting in this reality was going to be permanently sassy. Corita wasn't even slightly bothered.

"Me? Not cuss? Sure, but I grew up around kids who started cursing when they were barely older than ten. I'm not a native-born New Yorker, Harry. 'Was born and raised in Sacramento, California, thank you very much," she answered. Somehow, that made perfectly good sense to Harry; he'd heard quite a few things about California and how diverse the people were.

"My parents still live there, and I have an elder sister who lives in Los Angeles," continued Corita. "Oh, and a godmother. I'm a ninth generation Californian who got shuffled off to Xavier's at fourteen and then secreted away by S.H.I.E.L.D. after I left that private school."

Potter's brow furrowed in confusion, arms crossed and resting on the counter as he waited for his food. "Xavier's?"

"Yeah, Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters," Jacobs recited, nodding her head of brunette-auburn hair. "It's like your school, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, except for mutants and-or extraordinary kids. Mostly mutants, though. They have extra classes, beyond the normal subjects, to teach the students how to control and defend themselves with their talents. Most people in the know call it the X-Mansion."

"So you went to a special school as well? Like Hogwarts?" the young wizard prodded, sounding hopeful and slightly eager. He was desperately trying to draw similarities between his world and theirs, and Xavier's was probably the first. The mutants were the second, due to the fact they sounded like people who were only capable of one type of spell or magical skill. Not that Corita wasn't an excellent example of a Herbologist on steroids, because she really was.

Jacobs hummed in agreement, tapping a bit of salt and pepper on the scrambled eggs she had in a pan. "I did. When I was younger, before I hit puberty, I could go to school like any other kid. My X-gene hadn't activated yet, and none of the genetic shit I have going now was happening then. By middle school, I looked different and interacted with my environment differently. I managed to get away with going to public school by having a disability noted in my record, stating that I had a rare congenital disorder that had been dormant until I became pubescent.

"But, by the time I reached high school, it became obvious that I was a mutant; not a victim of poor genetics. Bullying became a thing, and my mom wouldn't stand for it. So, she researched, she called Xavier's, a teacher from the school interviewed me, and I got enrolled. A week later, I was flown to New Jersey and had been living at the school until just recently. As I said before, certain events put me on the map, so I needed to get protection that'd warn any lurkers off. Thankfully I finished my high school education, so it has all gone over fine."

She turned her head in his direction, "What about you, Harry? From what that report I read said, you've been suffering from some shit events yourself."

Potter scoffed. That phrase wasn't even scratching the surface of what he had to deal with, and what he would have been dealing with if he was still with his friends.

"That's a nicer way of putting it," he spoke, though there was a gruff, mildly bitter tone to it. "I've nearly been killed consistently since I started at Hogwarts, and despite that, I manage to keep up proper marks. Or, I guess you could say managed. Before that magical event which you probably know about, all thanks to that report Fury wrote up about me, I was going to skip my last year at school and try to stop a Dark Lord. You've read the report, Corita, you tell me."

"Do I look like somebody who's gonna' give you crap for your history?" she questioned, as blunt as ever. How does she manage to be so easygoing about everything?

She wandered over to the two plates she'd set aside, scraping scrambled eggs onto each one equally before grabbing the skillet full of bacon, shaking her head at whatever thoughts that bounced around in her head. "Jesus, Harry. I dunno' how many times I've gotta say this: I'm a mutant; I've been through some shit myself. You're not the only angst bucket gathering rainwater, trust me."

Jacobs finished portioning out bacon and hashbrowns, dumping the dirty pans and spatula in the sink before grabbing each plate. She placed one in front of him, then turned to fetch appropriate utensils and two glasses of milk.

"I hope you drink milk with breakfast," Corita stated, "Because that's what I've been raised on, and I don't make special trips to the store for anybody."

Harry wisely did not try to strike up an argument for orange juice (or pumpkin juice, but that was a drink wizards and witches were fond of; he doubted muggles in this reality ever heard of it). Instead, the young wizard busied himself with eating the tasty breakfast, which he found himself enjoying. It wasn't that much different from his breakfast in the Great Hall, though there was an obvious lack of sausages, muffins, pastries, fresh fruit, and hard-boiled eggs. Potter almost wanted to ask, since Corita was a human plant with a strong affinity for plants of all kinds, if she could provide fruit, but his good manners held him back. Or, really, the twisted manners the Dursley's ingrained into him.

But, without even having to speak, an array of freshly cut strawberries, oranges, apples, and pears appeared to his right, along with Jacobs and her breakfast. He stopped to stare at the girl for a few moments, briefly entertaining the idea of Corita possessing a hidden talent for Occlumency. She responded to his gaze with a confused blink of her rust-cherry red eyes.

"What? I thought you might like some fruit. I don't usually eat any of it, since I get the sugars and nutrients I need through my own plant-energy-photosynthesis-whateverthefuck process, but most people usually like something a little sweet with their first meal of the day."

Potter chewed and swallowed, shaking his head in amusement. "You do not know how much I appreciate that. Hogwarts had a breakfast spread that included fruit."

She still looked at him funny, due to how funny he was acting, but she smirked. "Damn, Harry, you sound like my dad when he gets sentimental. Whatever... Mágico."

He shoved her, leaving Corita giggling up a laugh while he made faces. They went about eating, Harry asking after American cooking and Jacobs offering to find him a few cookbooks she knew he'd probably enjoy. She also joked about how a guy who took joy in cooking was in touch with his feminine side, to which he quipped back that it was painfully stereotypical for a girl like her to like flowers. The two quickly found a great amount of amusement in throwing one-liners at each other, sarcastic comments and dry bits of humor at the most. It almost felt, to Potter, that he was talking to a more humorous and casual Hermione. She was undeniably smart, proven to him by her counter argument about girls liking plants with a novel's worth of scientific explanation on why flowers were a statement in progressive evolution, and had the quick wit to keep throwing back every sarcastic remark Harry launched. But, she had charisma that Hermione didn't have; a false sense of dramaticism that was patronizing like Malfoy but delivered with an exact serving of sarcasm. And, well, she cursed like a sailor.

"So what, you magical humans didn't listen to any "muggle" music? I mean, sure, the late nineties wasn't exactly the 'Age of Rock n' Roll,' but there were boy bands and the beginnings of mainstream rap!"

Harry shrugged. "Maybe Hermione did, and I sometimes heard a few tunes on the radio, but no. The wizarding world had their own radio, their own bands, and tried hard to separate themselves from muggles. Remember: I grew up in a sheltered household that chose to hide me in a cupboard than acknowledge my existence. Most of what I know is about the magical community from my reality. Mr. Weasley thought it was a loss to the wizarding world that we didn't try to learn from the muggles, and believed it was the primary reason our society hadn't moved forward in a few hundred years."

"Christ, you're worse than our neighbor across the hall! All he'll listen to is his big band records from the forties and only a smattering of seventies motown. Now I've got two dinosaurs to educate in music," Corita complained, gulping down the little puddle of milk in her glass.

"And what would I need educating in?" the young wizard asked wryly.

"Everything from the thirties up. You're lucky I'm really into music, Harry; and, you know, that I'm a' awesome roomie."

He gave her a look. "I've only known you for part of a day."

"That's good enough for me when it comes to establishing friendships! I mean, we're already sharing breakfast and chatting about your world, I'm being sarcastic with you, and we've come to an agreement that you are a very manly cook and I'm a womanly plant lover. We're officially past the point of strangers and drifting into the ocean of acquaintanceship."

Harry chuckled, shaking his head. "Whatever you say, Corita."

"Damn straight," she said, nodding as she gathered their dishes and placed them in the sink. "And, since we're on a vein of conversation where whatever I say goes, I believe the two of us should go out shopping."

Potter blinked. "Didn't you say you don't make special trips to the store?"

"Yeah, I don't, but I realize that you probably can't live a very healthy lifestyle by eating only meat, carbs, and grease like I usually do. I don't really need to watch what normal person food I shovel down my throat, since most of my nutrients and whatever I process through sunlight and specialized drink-shakes I consume. All I need is lots of water, sun, drink-shakes to simulate the absorption of stuff from dirt that plants do, and some carnivorous shit to please my human-animal-cell processes. You, however, need to have a balanced diet."

"Thus the shopping," he said. To think she doesn't have anything else in cabinets in case of guests...

She nodded, smirking. "Thus the shopping. Plus, while we're out, I can get you clothes that actually make you 'blend in'," she held up her fingers as air quotes as she spoke with a glint of humor in her rust-cherry red eyes.

"No offense," the mutant girl said, "But your clothes are pretty plain and they don't really fit you right. My inner caregiver feels are telling me I should help you out. Your owl might also need some dead mice or something; I don't really think she'll be able to hunt any of New York's famous pigeons without possibly getting a stomach ache. Not that I'm saying he-she isn't big enough to hunt them… those rats with wings just eat too much crap."

"You really don't like taking trips, do you?" commented Harry.

"Oh, I hate them. No, scratch that, I loathe them. I'm the kind of person to want to get it all done in one go so I can fuck off for a month or so."

"Well, you don't have to buy me anything," the young wizard spoke up kindly, "I can just transfigure what I already have into something more suitable. Just give me an idea on what they should like, and that should be that."

She stared dumbly at him for a beat. "You do not even know how useful that sounds. All I can do is grow fruit n' shit."

"I guess I'm useful for something," he quipped.

Corita rolled her red eyes, absently combing her fingers through her unkept, brunette-auburn hair as she drifted out of the kitchen. "Let me get my laptop running, and I'll let you look up some clothing designs."

Harry watched her pull up the lid of the electronic, pressing a little button to bring the screen to life. He felt awkward again; or out of his depth, if he was going to use a proper phrase. Dudley, sometime in the early 1990s, had been given a computer for his birthday. The young wizard remembered the thing: it was bulky, unattractive, and colored a dull tan. The laptop appeared to be a futuristic version of the ugly monstrosity Dudley spent hours using, with a much larger screen and impressively slim.

"That's your computer?" he asked tentatively.

Jacobs glanced over at Harry, who stood uncomfortably in the middle of the living area, her hand paused in combing her hair. She stared for a moment, like she had been caught up in a jumble of thoughts, before those red eyes of hers lit with realization.

"Shit, I'm sorry! This is the second time I've done that. I keep forgetting you're from the early nineties; you handle everything else so well, I sort of forget. But yeah, this is my computer. It's a laptop, which basically means it's a computer that can sit in your lap or be carried around. Not a completely stationary computer, which you're probably used to seeing."

She waved him over, "Here, sit down. I'll give you a crash course in using new-age tech. Really, after you learn this, it'll be easy to use your phone."

"Phone?"

"Yeah, that communication thing that people carry around obsessively nowadays. Didn't Coulson give you one?"

"Err, more like he gave me a thin rectangle of glass and called it a phone."

"Dude, that's the fanciest version of a StarkPhone! It may look like nothing, but it's seriously advanced tech. I'm actually kinda jealous. Maybe I can guilt-trip Tony into giving me one… " Corita expressed.

"Oh, my laptop's booted up. Okay, Harry, here's how it goes…"

Jacobs spent a few minutes explaining everything, clicking through it all at rapid speeds before leaving Harry to try on his own. It was a pretty simple operating system, generally, much like the old systems back in the nineties. I will never admit that I spent a few hours on Dudley's computer when they were out of the house; Solitaire kept my boredom away.

"So I just 'Google' whatever I want to look up?"

"Yep. Type in something."

"...Wow, that's a lot of links to websites."

"Google only puts that estimate there so you don't feel discouraged about your web search. Did you really have to look up owls?"

"It was the first thing I could think of to type, Corita," Harry said flatly.

"Well, amend that and search 'pet owl food' or something. Since we're going to go out and around sometime today, you can look up where we can get your snow owl something to eat."

Harry frowned at the backlit screen upon changing his search, adjusting his sliding glasses. "These are all sites on how I can take care of an owl, not where I can buy food."

"Okay then, change your phrasing."

The young wizard went on changing what he entered into the Google search box, but continued getting the same general results. Corita was becoming less than patient.

"This is ridiculous. I know people who have pet owls, and they manage to get food! Harry, type in Petsmart; the words are run-together."

"Like this?"

"Yeah, go."

"...Alright, what do I enter in their search box?"

"What the fuck do you think, ya' nimrod? Type rats or mice, maybe chicks. Your bird probably would want a rat, since they're bigger than a mouse-sized morsel."

"You really need to get better at cursing less." He glanced at the results, "Merlin, look at all the pet stuff they've got for rats! What is this?"

"Welcome to America, Harry; we waste our money on pets and get fat from eating too much fast food. Keep scrolling."

"It's a bloody rat; it doesn't need all this rubbish. Ron fed his rat scraps and it was perfectly happy."

"Wasn't that rat a shape-shifting wizard in disguise?"

"That's beside the point."

"Just keep scrolling, Mágico. There! Frozen rats, all in various packs. A bit pricey, though."

"Seventy-one dollars and ninety-nine cents for a hundred rats? That's nearly a hundred in cost."

"Thank you, Captain Obvious. If you need a cost equivalent, that much money can buy you three or four steaks from the cheap side of the grocery store spectrum here," she said dryly.

"We can't possibly spend that much money."

"Harry, you do know that S.H.I.E.L.D. gave you a huge amount of money, right? They're expecting you to be buying furniture, clothes, and other shit; that you'll be completely rebuilding your household from scratch. Instead, you used that bippity-boppity-boo stick and essentially made your own. You have plenty unspent cash to recklessly blow on your owl."

The young wizard wasn't completely confident in the organization that now held his life in their hands. All his life, he was either without money by the order of his cruel relatives or rich beyond compare thanks to the money he inherited from his parents and godfather. Money, either in pounds or wizard currency, was not a problem because he had none or not a problem because he had so much. Harry had lived by that vice-versa pattern. But now, in a reality where he had nothing but was apparently promised something, Harry felt a bit unsure. Would he have to owe them? Most likely, the sneaky dunderheads. He really didn't want to be tied down by anything, or be indebted to the wrong sort of people. Perhaps it was inevitable, since S.H.I.E.L.D. had been the one to find him and fish his sorry buttocks out of the Thames.

Harry just didn't like how the idea of owing secretive, underhanded types anything; it was comparable to dealing with Slytherins on a bad day.

"I don't exactly have a way of proving I have that sort of money," he said at last.

"Easy; call up Coulson and request a credit card. The man was probably flustered by the fact I slammed the door on him and didn't give you the rest of your stuff. I have a bad habit of getting on his nerves sometimes."

"A credit card?"

"Please don't tell me you don't know what a credit card is. American Express has been around since 1958, and you were fuckin' born in the eighties."

"..."

"Oh, motherfucking Jesus Christ!"

"I'm a wizard, and my relatives were arses!" he defended.

"Doesn't mean I don't want to strangle them with climbing roses or grapevines! Hell, maybe I'd feed them Manchineel, better known in some circles as the 'little apple of death,' and watch them have seizures on the floor! You're so isolated culturally, dude, it's basically a social handicap!"

"... You are right terrifying when you plot the murder of people with plants," Harry stated.

"I can produce natural toxins found in plants at will; it's another reason S.H.I.E.L.D. watches me. I can kinda kill people by covering my hands in thorns and slapping them in the face."

"Ow?"

Corita rolled her red eyes. "C'mon, Harry, just go look up clothing styles of 2012, call Coulson about a credit card, and get ready to go out the door. I need to go prepare shit, water all my plants, and fix my hair into something more presentable. Don't you dare type in anything about porn while I'm busy, or I'll poke your epidermis full of phorbol and watch your arm break out into a gruesome rash."

There was something to be said about Corita Jacobs and the spectacle she displayed herself as when walking the streets of Manhattan. When she had said "I need to go prepare shit," the teenaged girl had actually meant she needed to outfit herself in a completely different getup from what she had solely worn around Harry. Gone were the unflattering baggy sweats, the overly-large shirts, and the glasses that hung about her neck by braided string. In their place was a pair of men's cargo pants in military green (which suspiciously bore the logo of S.H.I.E.L.D. on the right thigh pocket), an abused set of athletic shoes, a black canvas slide belt, a bright red sports bra, and an exceedingly baggy tank top that hung at her ribs. It wasn't exactly a blizzard outside, but one wouldn't be seeing Harry walking around in anything without sleeves or fabric that didn't hug his lower torso.

Then the backpack; no, it wasn't a Jansport or something you'd normally see a high schooler tote around. It was a deluxe Camelbak, what Corita called "the Mule," capable of holding a gallon of water in a plastic reservoir and two extra plastic reservoirs to drink down. The little blue tube hung from the corner of her mouth, which she sucked on absently as they walked along the sidewalks of New York. In her free hand was what she called a "nutrient shake," which appeared revolting with its sluggish consistency and unappetizing, vomit green color. In all, with Jacobs' hair tied up and pinned back to her skull, the teenaged girl was a bizarre statement in fashion and essential outdoor gear.

"Do you really need all that water? And that mush?"

Corita's cherry red eyes, with its murky pupils and mesmerizing texture, glared at Harry.

"I told ya,' Harry; I'm a goddamn plant. I've got sun energy sinking into my skin, my eyes and hair are vibrantly red with my bizarre brand of plasma-chlorophyll, and the water I'm slowly sipping at in combination with this shake feed me. Did you know I have to drink over five gallons of liquid before I actually have to go to the bathroom? Even that breakfast I had wasn't enough for my body to actually dispose of any unneeded material."

The young wizard wrinkled his face, "That's not something I wanted to know."

"You made an open-ended inquiry, dude. I just took it upon myself to respond. That beanie really goes with your outfit, by the way."

Harry smiled awkwardly, while inwardly he felt like screaming. He'd done his best with transfiguring his marbles-transformed-into-robes that he had stored in his chest into current age muggle clothing. A pair of faded blue jeans, colorful athletic shoes (he went for the most inoffensive pair, which were silver grey and indigo), a collared flannel with muted Gryffindor tones, a heavy indigo hiking jacket with plenty of pockets, and a scarf he nicked from his school robes (also Gryffindor colors, with the Hogwarts emblem emblazoned at one end). The young wizard almost felt like he was using his school house as a mental crutch, which he might have subconsciously been doing. Then, Corita appeared with a burgundy beanie, shoving it over his wild head of hair. She'd commented that his scar looked too weird for people to ignore, and that it was probably best if the two of them kept a low profile. How exactly are we going to do that if she's whomping about with a water-bearing pack and that infernal mush of nutrients?

"You're horrible," he said.

"I'll take that as a compliment. Anyway, dude, tell me about what was going on before you plopped into the Thames. You seem somewhat high-strung and almost needy when it comes to involving golden yellow and velvet red in your wardrobe."

"Here? Right now?"

"Why not? We're keeping a low profile, and if anybody hears anything about wizards, dark lords, or magic will think you're talking about a book. Hell, maybe a videogame. So, go; spill, Mágico."

He scowled, shoving his hands under his pits. A little chilly. They walked down the sidewalk in silence for a few minutes, Harry taking a moment to calm himself and Corita a moment to chug down her nutrients. The streets weren't exceedingly busy, since it was only six-something in the morning and most of the New York commute rush began around six-thirty. The two walked side-by-side, and nobody even glanced their way. Harry absently wondered if normal people subconsciously sensed Corita and went out of their way to avoid her, but figured that was nothing but a coincidence.

"I'm not sure where to start."

"Well, the beginning is often the best place."

"The beginning of my year at Hogwarts wasn't extremely interesting."

"Oh, c'mon, Harry. I'm a unique flower, but I don't know anything about wizards. Describe, detail, extrapolate!"

He shifted his shoulders awkwardly, snuggling his arms against his upper torso. "In order to get to Hogwarts, you have to board a train. It's in King's Cross station, on platform nine and three-quarters. After you get off the train, you either take boats across the Black Lake to the castle-"

"Woah, a castle? Like, a King Arthur-level castle, or a wildly overdone castle?"

Harry paused, chuckling a little at Corita's plain interest in the simpler aspects of his magical world. "I guess a bit of both; there are staircases that magically move inside."

"Shit that's cool."

"Yeah, it is at first," the young wizard agreed. "Anyway, you can get to the castle by boat as a first year and the rest take carriages. You enter through the courtyard, where the teachers lead you into the Great Hall. The ceiling literally reflects the sky; if it's night, you can see stars."

"That must have been awesome to see as a kid. I'd find that awesome now, if I could see it."

"You probably would, except for when it decided to simulate a vicious thunderstorm. It was trying to kill the dark wizard that had infiltrated the castle as our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher for the year. The wizard managed to charm it back to normality."

"Crazy stuff."

Their conversation went back and forth like that as they wandered through the crowded streets of New York, with Harry regaling to Corita his recent school year. She badgered him incessantly about Herbology, forcing him to divulge all that he could remember off the top of his head about magical plants. He told her about Neville and his penchant for magical plants, how he had been a bit of a clumsy person when they were young, and how he joined the DA during his fifth year because of his parents in St. Mungo's. Then the conversation turned to the uncomfortable topic of wizard hospitals, to the fiasco in the Department of Mysteries, and to the death of his godfather. Corita listened, unfazed, though at times wincing at what was said.

"Jesus, Harry, you're one tough chicken. I'd like to think I'm that resistent to strife and chaos, but I think I'd have crumbled if I was in your place. I can see why some of the wizarding community sees you as a hero; you're two points short of earning sainthood from what you've been telling me. You, and your friends."

"What about you?" he asked, "You said you'd been put under protection because of recent events?"

"I wouldn't say recent, but I wouldn't say it was too far into the past. There was this mutant, Jean Grey, who was an Omega-level mutant. By definition, that means it's a superhuman being that either has the unholy gift of immortality, god-like powers, or an ability that allows someone to have a vast amount of control over matter and energy," she recounted. "I, at the time, hadn't really shown off my powers. Our principal, Charles Xavier, thought I was hiding my true potential. Apparently I was, because I went from nearly choking on pollution one moment to literally using it to heal my body like a plant on photosynthesis steroids. Jean had this insane second personality that basically personified her power, and it was hellbent on destroying everything; it called itself the Phoenix. When Wolverine, a fellow Omega-level mutant who has some serious metal claws, couldn't manage to stop her, I… W-Well, there's a very beautiful oak tree with scarlet leaves and pale bark in the middle of a trashed facility now that nobody dares to dig up," Corita finished quietly.

Potter stared at the young woman dumbly. The formerly charitable mood dove dangerously into darker waters, and the wizard was hyper aware of it.

"You melded her into the tree, didn't you?" he spoke low and tentatively. Professor Sprout had told his class back in second year a few tales of mentally unstable witches and wizards that immortalized their lovers by magically growing a tree with their body, but the fact that Corita had the ability without a single ounce of magic was… mildly unnerving but not completely unexpected. He found himself surprised at his easy acceptance.

"It was either that, or everyone would die," the young woman stated, "She's still alive, just… simpler, I guess. Once a week I visit her, have conversations that only plant people like me and her could exchange, water her roots. I hung ornaments on her branches for Christmas last year, helping her to feel festive."

"Did.. Did you know her well before?"

"Yeah, she was one of the teachers at the school. Real nice, and still is, as long as her second personality doesn't surface. Sometimes it does, and the chlorophyll in her scarlet leaves literally flare an angry neon red as she shouts abuse at me. I know Wolverine sits under her canopy and drinks a bottle of whiskey until there's about a cup left. Idiot pours it on her roots, but Jean never seems to protest."

They fell to silence for a few minutes, the two of them not making eye contact as they walked close to shoulder, until Harry seemed to have gathered his courage. Touching her shoulder, the wizard held her attention.

"Don't drown yourself in all that happened. My godfather, Sirius Black, died partly because of me and partly by the wand of his crazed cousin. I still… I feel I am to blame, and sometimes I dream about his death. About the Veil… about the beckoning voices. Don't allow yourself to drown, Corita. I still don't know you well at all, but I know enough that I think you probably don't deserve to suffer."

It was Corita's turn to stare dumbly at him, as a faint smile slowly grew into a slightly watered grin. "For a dude close to my age, you have a way with words."

And like that the serious moment was completely shattered, and Harry sighed in a dramatic fashion that would have made Malfoy jealous. "C'mon, you. I think that's the shop you had me look up on your computer up there. Petsmart, right?"

Corita stared up ahead, where a pharmacy and an Urban Outfitters framed the pet shop on either side. "That be the one," she remarked, glancing over at her roommate, "Ready to experience new-age shopping?"

"Not at all."