Vice versa (Harry Potter)

"Har-ry! Har-ry!" someone was yelling at the top of their lungs at the gates of the Dursleys' house. "Get out here!"

"Your friend is here," Petunia Dursley said, pursing her lips disapprovingly. "Hurry up and go outside before he wakes up the whole street!"

"Of course, Aunt Petunia!" Harry exclaimed with exaggerated enthusiasm as he dried the dishes, skillfully managing to drop a plate in the process. "Oh no, what a pity… If only I could use magic during the holidays, I'd fix it in no time!"

"Get out of here!" his aunt snapped, waving a towel at him. "I'll finish this myself."

"Thanks, Aunt Petunia!" Harry called as he dashed away, grabbing a couple of apples and oranges from the fruit bowl and snatching his jacket off the hook. In no time, he was gone.

"Be back by dinner!" she shouted after him, but Harry had already disappeared. "That boy is nothing but trouble," she muttered to herself.

Outside the gate, Harry and Terry exchanged friendly jabs, stuffed handfuls of snow down each other's collars, and grinned at each other.

"So, how are you?" Terry asked.

"You first."

"Me? Nothing new on my end. You tell me! Let's head to our tree."

"Better to climb the big apple tree," Harry suggested. "You can see far from there, and Dudley won't be able to sneak up or eavesdrop. Plus, he's way too fat to climb it."

"Well, he's not that fat anymore," Terry chuckled, walking alongside Harry. "He's taken up boxing, sweating buckets, and doesn't even complain to his mum about it."

"How do you know?" Harry squinted his green eyes.

"My older brother helps coach the boxing class—didn't I tell you?" Terry grinned. "Think we can climb it? Or is it iced over?"

"We'll climb," Harry said confidently, starting up the massive apple tree. "Here, grab my hand. Perfect. Want an orange?"

"You know I'm allergic to those!" Terry grimaced.

"Catch an apple, then!" Harry laughed, tossing him one.

Both boys bit into their fruit simultaneously, only to freeze in surprise.

"What's this?"

"They're wax!" Harry realized.

"Ah, Mrs. Dursley must've figured out how to safeguard the kitchen from your raids!" Terry burst out laughing, draping himself over a thick branch like a satisfied leopard. "Smart move! Watch out you don't end up drinking glue instead of yogurt!"

"I'll be vigilant," Harry promised, settling into the tree's fork. "Well, there goes my snack. Never mind. Ask your questions—I'm not even sure where to begin."

Terry pushed his striped knit hat back, revealing reddish-brown hair.

"What's it like, anyway? And, by the way, are you even allowed to talk about it?"

"I showed you the letter, and nothing happened to me," Harry grumbled, rummaging through his pockets. "Oh, chocolate bar! Want some?"

"I'm allergic to chocolate!" Terry groaned. "Just start talking already!"

Harry paused, tugging at his overgrown black hair.

"It's almost too magical," he said finally. "Probably so first-years like me don't get overwhelmed—or maybe so they do and stop asking too many questions. Honestly, they should've just sat us down in a classroom and started teaching. Instead, it was all like a circus show..."

Terry listened, slack-jawed, as Harry recounted the massive castle, the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall, the living portraits, the ghosts, the Sorting Ceremony, and the school houses.

"So, where did you end up?" Terry finally asked. "Judging by your antics, you'd fit either Gryffindor or Slytherin!"

"Ha! The Hat said the same thing," Harry replied smugly. "And then I ruined their plans!"

"What do you mean?"

"Exactly what I said! I'll explain once I tell you about the people I met." Harry scratched his head again. "Okay, picture this: I got on the train, and right away, people wanted to buddy up. One kid even tried earlier when that giant guy—Hagrid, I told you about him—took me shopping. That kid's the son of some lord or other, blue blood and all. I figured it wouldn't hurt to stay on his good side—water to drink and all that. Didn't make a fuss, that can wait! Anyway, I sat in the compartment, barely opened my book, and another kid barged in. Red-haired, I'd spotted his family at the station—super weird lot, terrible clothes, and that rat of his... Then I heard all about their family: tons of brothers, one works at a bank, another with dragons…" He paused. "Maybe the first shuffles papers and the second shovels manure, but they could at least buy him new clothes! I politely sent him on his way. Then a girl showed up! Talk about a know-it-all… But, you know, she's not bad, just clearly a bookworm and a Muggle-born."

"So why didn't you hit it off with her? You could've…"

"Terry!" Harry sat up straighter. "As Uncle Vernon says, I'm too young to befriend girls and not old enough to court them! Give me a couple of years..."

"By then, all the good ones will be taken, and only duds will be left," Terry said matter-of-factly.

"I'll survive. It's not like Hogwarts is the be-all and end-all for me," Harry smirked. "They say Beauxbatons—a magical school in Europe—is full of gorgeous girls! But enough about her..."

"Who else?"

"Oh, right after she left, a chubby kid showed up—not Dudley-fat, more pudgy. Lost his toad. I decided to keep him around."

"Why?" Terry swung his leg over the branch.

"I liked the look in his eyes. Remember Jimmy McCair? Always got picked on, also chubby... This kid has the same look."

"Yeah. And Jimmy drowned in the pond."

"Yeah. But not before saving little Todd. Couldn't even swim but jumped in to push her out. Gotta keep people like that close," Harry said seriously. "You never know..."

The boys sat in thoughtful silence.

"So what did you ruin?" Terry broke the quiet.

"Guess," Harry said with a sly grin. "I'm no fool. I skimmed Hogwarts: A History and kept my ears open—Hagrid babbled a lot. Everyone expected me to go to Gryffindor, like my parents. But why would I? They're always feuding with Slytherin. Ravenclaw would've been too much—too brainy. So I convinced the Hat to put me in Hufflepuff. You should've seen their faces!"

Terry laughed so hard he nearly fell out of the tree.

"The Headmaster nearly swallowed his beard! Everyone else looked stunned, and there I sat, all innocent-like…"

"Innocent? You?"

"Who'd tell them I blew up the biology lab last year? Anyway," Harry sighed, "our common room's cozy, everyone helps if you ask, but no one bothers you otherwise. There's no pull-up bar, though…" He slid down and did a few pull-ups on a thick branch. "Need to get someone to teach me how to enchant one."

"Yeah, you're losing your edge," Terry teased.

"You try pull-ups on an icy branch! It's awful, no P.E. at all!"

"No way!"

"I'm serious, Terry. Nothing. No sports fields, no pool… There's a great lake, but no swimming—it's got a giant squid, mermaids, and who knows what else! They couldn't clear it out? So I'm stuck working out in the common room or an empty hall…" Harry snorted. "At this rate, Dudley really will beat me with his bare hands."

"Sure, like he'd stand a chance," Terry scoffed. "They must feed you like royalty there."

"That they do," Harry admitted. "Lots of food, and good too. But Aunt Petunia still cooks better—when she's in the mood."

"So, what do wizards even do? Do they have no sports at all?" Terry asked after a moment's thought.

"They do," Harry answered grimly. "A dumb game called Quidditch. On broomsticks."

"Like curling or something?"

"Curling?!" Harry almost jumped from the branch. "No, people get on broomsticks, take off, and go crazy smashing into each other! But Terry, I've never seen rules as idiotic as those!"

Terry gave him his full attention.

"At first, it's almost normal. Goals, attackers, defenders, a keeper—it's kinda like football, except you can get seriously whacked—those balls are heavy and fly like maniacs. And then comes the Snitch."

"What's that?"

"A tiny ball with wings, flying around, of course," Harry gestured with his fingers. "And whoever's Seeker catches it wins the game. Well, most of the time."

"I don't get it…"

"Imagine a Brazil vs. Argentina match. The score's 2–3, the tension's at its peak… and suddenly they toss in a second ball. Then some substitute rushes in, grabs it, and boom, the score's now 15–3. Make sense?"

"That's ridiculous," Terry said, scratching his ear.

"Exactly what I told them! Luckily, there's this guy in Gryffindor I can talk to about football—though we support rival teams. And anyway," Harry added, "flying on a broomstick is a no-go for me. Just think about it!"

"I've thought about it," Terry giggled, wriggling on the branch. "And I can guess exactly what you told them."

"Just this: if it's higher than—well, okay, two meters, since I've fallen from two without dying—I'm not going up unless there's a safety net below. What, do I look suicidal? No, listen to this!" Harry straddled the branch. "Just imagine their safety regulations! First flying lesson, Slytherin and Gryffindor together, and I went to check out what it's like. Half the kids had only ever used a broom for sweeping—those who'd never seen a vacuum cleaner. And off they go—straight to the field—fly, pigeons! One chubby guy's broom bucked him off, he crashed, and thankfully broke only an arm, not his neck. The teacher took him off to get healed and didn't leave anyone in charge…"

"And, of course, you got involved," Terry said gently.

"Wrong!" Harry smirked smugly. "When the chubby guy fell, he dropped a Remembrall—this little ball thing, like an organizer. Malfoy—the aristocrat—snatched it up and started going on about how useless people with clumsy hands are… You know, the usual."

"And then you punched him?"

"Didn't even get the chance! The Weasley kid and Granger got there first! Malfoy jumped on a broom and was like, 'Catch me if you can!' He's a good flyer. So he and Weasley started racing! When the teacher came back, all three got chewed out."

"What about you?"

"What about me?" Harry stretched lazily. "While Malfoy was running from Weasley, he dropped the Remembrall again. Didn't I mention they wear robes? One good thing—big pockets and lots of hiding places—but if you flip over, that thing's on your head in no time. So the ball fell out. I picked it up and returned it to Longbottom—the chubby kid. Everyone else got scolded, and I was the good guy."

"And you're still not gonna fly?" Terry teased.

"I read you can do it without a broom. If I learn, yeah," Harry answered seriously. "Or on some winged creature. That'd be cool—a dragon, maybe. But on a stick? No thanks. I even told Malfoy when he started bragging about how first-years can't join the team, and it frustrates him: 'I value my assets, thank you. If you don't—be my guest.' Or maybe you don't have any to worry about…"

"How many teeth did you lose?"

"They didn't figure it out right away, so I managed to bail," Harry snorted. "By the time they got it, it wasn't worth it anymore. They just grumbled and moved on. But they did think about it."

"I bet they did… So, you promised to tell me about the castle."

"Ah, it's like Escher's dream," Harry sighed. "They say the Founders built it, but if so, they were completely nuts! Moving staircases, disappearing steps, you can't figure out where to go… Remember when we got lost in first grade? Hogwarts is a hundred times worse! Maybe it's their idea of PE—by the time you reach your classroom, you're sweating buckets. Then there are the ghosts, and a poltergeist… Oh, by the way, thanks for the slingshot!"

"I knew you'd put it to good use," Terry grinned. "Need more ammo?"

"Yeah, lots more. I've been shooting from the upper galleries—sometimes at a prefect, sometimes at an older student's backside. So I go through plenty. Usually, you just say 'Accio ball,' and it comes back, but sometimes it doesn't…" Harry admitted sheepishly.

"Tell me about the classes," Terry prompted.

"Piece of cake, sir," Harry answered shortly. "History is taught by a ghost—everyone sleeps through it. Who cares which goblin rebelled against whom in the year one-thousand-whatever? It's all in the textbook. The cool ones are Charms, Transfiguration, and Potions. The rest, we'll see later. Herbology… meh, I've dug up enough flowers in Aunt Petunia's garden, thanks very much! As for the rest, I don't even bother. And I'll never understand why we have to write essays for almost every class. It's just copying from the book, adding a few of your own words…"

"Which you totally do, of course," Terry said sarcastically.

"I learned from the older kids how to enchant my quill," Harry said proudly. "I skim the book, mark what I need, and it writes by itself. Then I just add a conclusion, and I'm done. And it still scratches in my handwriting, and you know how bad that is!"

"Yeah, you can't read a thing."

"Exactly! So I'm pretty sure no one actually reads my scribbles—they just slap on a 'satisfactory' grade and move on. Except," Harry added thoughtfully, "the Potions professor. He reads everything—every word—and rants like you wouldn't believe. It's worth listening to sometimes! Otherwise, while the quill scribbles, I'm doing math homework or writing another essay. By the way, how are things back home?"

"Mr. Jones says you're doing surprisingly well for a distance learner," Terry reassured him. "But how are you planning to pass your exams?"

"I'll enchant the examiners," Harry grinned. "By then, I'll be considered an adult wizard, so…"

"Why not just enchant them now and get your diploma for free?"

"Ugh, that's so unfair," he replied, swinging his legs. "And I won't know anything anyway, so what's the point? Everything else in Hogwarts is rubbish. Say a few words, wave your wand one way—it works. Wave it another way—it doesn't. Boring. They don't even teach anything serious; I've already asked around. What do I need to know about turning a mouse into a mug for? Or Divination—based on what I've heard, it's a complete joke! The teacher is always tipsy, so you can say whatever nonsense you want. The crazier it is, the better! Honestly, the only decent subject is Potions, but good luck approaching the teacher—he'll eat you alive! He's like Miss Lindsay from primary school—remember her?"

"You haven't told me much about the teachers yet," Terry said, perking up. "Go on!"

"Well…" Harry tugged at his hair again. "There's Dumbledore, the Headmaster. How can I describe him… Imagine Gandalf! Remember the book? The robe, the hat, the beard, but no staff…"

"Got it."

"Yeah! But instead of gray, he's in lavender or baby blue, with sparkles and stars. Sometimes with bells in his beard and glasses. And he's got this kind, kind look!"

"Dear God, that's terrifying!" Terry said sincerely.

"Exactly!" Harry said triumphantly. "He looks like a fool, but sometimes he gives you this look that makes you shiver. I try not to meet his eyes—what if he can read minds? I've heard of that! So when he talks to me, I stare at his beard or the tip of his nose…"

"Or the bridge of his glasses," Terry finished. "I know that trick of yours—it's maddening! Who else?"

"Then there's his deputy, McGonagall. She's like a dried-up codfish, already quite old. But she's alright—not too annoying, though strict. She teaches Transfiguration. She's also the Head of Gryffindor. Poor woman! Oh, and she can turn into a cat. Then there's our Head, Professor Sprout. She's great! She teaches Herbology—it's like our Botany, but with magical plants. Some of them can even eat you," Harry added for clarity. "Ravenclaw's Head is Flitwick. Now, he's something else! He barely reaches my waist! They say he's half-goblin…"

"Is that even a thing?"

"Well, if Hagrid's half-giant…"

"Whoa, what a zoo!" Terry marveled. "I mean, I can sort of imagine some weirdo falling for a goblin, though the way you described them, that seems unlikely. But giants? They must be massive!"

"I still don't get how that works," Harry admitted. "A regular guy wouldn't… well, you know. And if a giant…"

"The woman would pop," Terry concluded, and they both burst out laughing.

"I do have a theory about that," Harry said. "There's this thing called Polyjuice Potion. Drink it, and you can turn into someone else for a while. I guess it works on non-humans too."

"I don't want to know where centaurs come from," Terry muttered. "Go on…"

"Well, there's a Divination teacher, Trelawney, like I said. Then there's this other nutter, Quirrell, who teaches Defense Against the Dark Arts."

"What makes him a nutter?"

"He wears a turban and carries garlic everywhere. The smell is awful! Says he's afraid of vampires."

"Definitely a zoo," Terry sighed.

"Madam Hooch handles flying lessons," Harry counted on his fingers. "And then there's the great and terrible Snape, Head of Slytherin. He teaches Potions."

"What's so terrible about him? Does he shout a lot? That doesn't faze you."

"Exactly," Harry agreed smugly. "Shouting doesn't work on me; my aunt and uncle toughened me up. But everyone else's terrified of him, especially the Gryffindors. They call him the Dungeon Bat and gossip that he can turn into a bat. Honestly… he does look like he could play a vampire in a movie. And for some reason, he's been picking on me since day one."

"Maybe it's your handwriting?" Terry teased.

"Nope," Harry shook his head. "He singled me out on the first day, before we'd even started learning anything! Luckily, I'd skimmed the textbook beforehand, so I answered some of his questions, but he still wasn't happy. Everyone was shocked."

"Then there's definitely a reason," Terry said. "You just don't know it yet."

"Whenever he hears my last name, he looks like he's going to explode," Harry complained. "Something's up—I'll have to ask the older students. They might know something. I like the subject, though, and I'm doing fine at it. It's the only one where I occasionally get 'Exceeds Expectations.' But every time Snape gives me that grade, he looks like he's about to be sick."

"What's the subject like, anyway? Chemistry?"

"Sort of. You mix stuff, brew it, and get something weird with interesting properties. I've borrowed a few advanced textbooks—it's amazing! But way beyond me for now."

"Looks like you're hanging out with the older students more," Terry observed.

"Why not? Kids my age are either annoying or dumb. There are a couple of decent ones, sure, but older students know all the cool stuff—what's allowed, what's not, what's overlooked… and secret passages. Everyone thinks Hufflepuff is the quiet, peaceful house, but they forget our mascot is a badger!"

"Yeah, and you don't mess with a badger," Terry chuckled. "Learned that the hard way."

"And they help out, too. They share old notes and stuff…"

"I see. Harry Potter doing his thing—batting those innocent eyes, looking angelic, and now everyone adores you!"

"Not everyone," Harry said modestly. "But most. They're so naive, especially the ones who didn't grow up around Muggles. Sometimes I feel bad tricking them…"

"You? Feeling bad?" Terry reached over to touch his friend's forehead. "No fever… Anyway, back to Snape. You didn't mess with him, did you? I know you."

"I did," Harry admitted. "But only later. I asked him if you could make something like dynamite with magical ingredients. Lost ten points for that. No sense of humor, that guy!"

"What's with these points?"

"Oh, right! Forgot to tell you. There's this silly system. If you answer correctly in class—five points. If you screw up or break the rules—minus five points. It's a team thing, though—it affects your whole house. At the end of the year, the house with the most points wins a trophy. Oh, and Quidditch scores count too. Everyone's obsessed with points. I don't care, but the girls get upset. The guys wanted to beat me up, but…"

"But?" Terry prompted.

"In the end, we walked arm-in-arm to the hospital wing to get our bruises healed," Harry said with satisfaction. "So, how's the system?"

"Ridiculous," his friend agreed. "Did you cover everyone?"

"There's this crazy caretaker! Looks ancient, but he knows the school inside and out."

"Well, yeah, he's a wizard…"

"He's a Squib," Harry explained. "Born to wizarding parents but without magic. He doesn't really fit anywhere, so he works at the school—catches rule-breakers and stuff. His cat's like a guard dog. If anything happens, she's there, and he's right behind her. Off you go for detention!"

"What's that?"

"Basically, punishment. Cleaning classrooms or scrubbing lab equipment without magic. No big deal."

"Writing 'I won't do it again' a hundred times on the blackboard?" Terry joked.

"That happens too," Harry admitted, "but I'd rather clean. At least it's useful. My aunt made me such a pro at housework, it's no trouble. I got caught by Filch a couple of times—nothing awful. He grumbles, but fair's fair. Don't know why everyone else hates him."

"Wizards," Terry scoffed. "They probably think manual labor's beneath them."

"Yeah, seems like it… Anyway, I'm freezing and starving! Let's go grab something to eat."

Without waiting for a reply, Harry jumped down, caught Terry as he stumbled, clapped him on the back, and dragged him along.