because of the colossal vitality of his illusion

[likepalegold]

There's a strange sort of energy behind him, at Gatsby's back as if heralding his exit from one world into the next. It's as if he stepped over the threshold and found himself in a new world, only he doesn't quite recall how he got here, only that he's clasping a wand in his hand, wearing a fine suit (the finest that money can buy, old sport, the very finest of them all) and his tie bears the distinguished hint of his alma mater.

Supposing he can call it that. It's hardly as if he can call Hogwarts his alma mater when, really, after the war, he'd been invited to study there, being so far from home and possessing the right blood for it, but not the right age. Still, war had displaced them and made immigrants of them all and so Gatsby feels safe calling himself a man of Hogwarts.

And what better place than Hogwarts in the 1920's, resplendent with its fineries, looking every bit the dazzling wonder that he remembers.

(Does he? Does he remember this? Surely this can't be, surely there is another world and another war and another life, but Gatsby has told himself a grand story since his earliest childhood days and despite twists and turns, they have a tendency to stick)

He shakes the self-doubt as he strides forward, towards that gleaming past. "Alohomora," he speaks the incantation, striding through the open door and into the grand hall, decorated with the finest ornamentation of the times. Perhaps Gatsby will stay a while, this time, and turn this visit into something else.

Yes, perhaps he'll start again. Perhaps this is the next chapter in his story.

Comments

[likepalegold]

"It truly is," Gatsby says, peering upwards into that starlit sky. "Maybe if you don't feel comfortable here, we might take a walk and you can regale me with your story. I'm Gatsby," he introduces himself. "And I thought perhaps to head to Hogsmeade and remind myself of the nostalgia it carries with each breath," he says, extending an elbow to her. "Shall we?"

[followsthewisps]

The name of the township by the school echoed in her head, as if it were distantly familiar. Like the spells. But it might be nice to pretend this world was her own briefly, even if this was a land where dragons were much more dangerous beasts than the one she knew and loved to play with, and there were no Hiccup or Liberty keeping her company.

"Merida. Of Clan DunBroch," she says as she takes the gentleman's proffered arm. "I'm not uncomfortable per se. It's just... odd. I seem to be experiencing things in the reverse of what you are. I know I'm not of this place, but the spells and details of this world feel like their things I'm familiar with anyhow. Like I can sense another me that never really shot a bow, but did charms that create arrows that fire on their own instead."

[likepalegold]

It's odd, to say the least, and perhaps Gatsby ought to be more concerned with this dissonance, but it's hardly the first time he's lived with two different lives in his head (one rich and sumptuous, one dirty and worn). Still, she does have a point and perhaps that bears a sort of investigation. "To whom do you think we should alert about our little problem?" he asks, given that she's right in that it's a strange thing. "There has to be some sort of authority, doesn't there?"

[followsthewisps]

"The Headmaster?" she suggested with uncertainty. Merida remembers walking through a door, but her memories are overlapping and she can't remember what door to walk through. She knows there was one that should lead back to the hotel. But explaining that to someone might be problematic.

"Door... Dumbledore! The transfiguration professor. He might be willing to hear us out."

[likepalegold]

While Gatsby had attended, though, it hadn't been that man. It'd been someone else, but as he strains to recall it, it doesn't come to him. "I'm afraid I never had dealings with the man, but I was only here for the brief time of a single semester," he confesses. "Perhaps he'll be open to listening and to giving an opinion on the matter."

"Though," he does say, trying to entice with his tone, "perhaps a butter beer before we make our march?"