Small Magic

Dedicated to my family and all of my friends, FF and everyday; imaginary and otherwise. This has a mixture of references from the book, live action movie and animation, but you'll have to figure all that out for yourself ;)

Disclaimer: unfortunately, I do not own Peter Pan, and never will.

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- The Girl Named Amelia Rose-

It is a commonly known fact that young children, unlike adults, have the uncanny ability to forget the wrongs of others. It is an amazing ability, because though it disappears over time, the years in which the child has this ability are the years when they are most innocent. A ten-year-old teeters on the brink of oncoming adolescence, but can still be ignorant of reality. A ten-year-old can forget wrongs so easily. Small wrongs perhaps, but wrongs that- in the eyes of an adult, and magnified to adult proportions –have needlessly lead to countless conflicts; hundreds of thousands of deaths that could have been prevented, had the factions been able to forgive each other and move on. But for adults, that is not the way things work.

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The body curled on the sill rocked gently, as though by the wind. Peter vaguely recalled this scene from long ago. Years and years ago. Wendy. But this time, something was different. The lock of hair was too fair, too long to be hers, illuminated to a pale gold in the glow of the lamplight by the window. Peter tipped his head, and scratched his own mop of presently dirty blonde hair. He didn’t even know why he was here. How had he got there?

The girl let out a tiny sigh, and curled tighter into herself as a soft breeze tugged at the long curtains on their rails. She might have been reading, or even napping, what with her face resting lightly on the wall, the looseness of her shoulders and the soundless, slight breathing. Peter considered going closer, but something stopped him. That something splashed onto the book the girl was holding. Peter hovered backwards, eyes wary. Crying meant unhappiness. Unhappiness meant worries. Worries were for adults.

Then the girl looked up. Strangely, Peter didn’t get to see her eyes, as at that moment he was pulled- pulled harder than was comfortable- and then, he was lying on something soft. Above him was a small hollow that contained a little lamp made from wicker and grass. With some strange logic he mused that it must have been the lamp that made him dream, as usually he never dreamed. It was quite nice to experience one, though, and it had put him into a good mood. He rolled onto his front and peered down into the flood of moonlight that had settled over the Lost Boys.

Tootles, Curly, Nibs and Slightly lay at one end of the bed, hidden beneath a swathe of furry blanket, while Cubby, Marmaduke and Binky lay at the opposite. Curly’s quiet snoring stirred, snorted, then resumed. A sleepy smile crept onto Peter’s lips as he turned back to the wall. Though the dream would shortly be forgotten, Peter’s last thoughts were of how, in the strangest way, it had reminded him of something. And that something happened to make him feel peculiarly happy.

-

I tried to keep my breathing level as the blue lights flashed outside on the road below my window. I’d been in the middle of a pleasant dream of bright and wonderful forests, but now the memory of those faraway places faded. Even through the falling snow, the lights were vicious on the eyes. I’d never understood before why the police had to have such bright visual indication to emergencies before, but now I knew why. When the vehicle halted loudly outside your home, it gave you precious seconds to prepare for the worst. The pounding on the door echoed in the silence like the solemn toll of a bell. As Jasper, my father by marriage, stomped down the stairs, I could only stand and stare. The policeman took off his hat.

“I’m afraid I have some bad news,” he said. Then my world came crashing down.

-

“Ms Margaret Regale was in a car accident a few hours ago. Her vehicle slipped on a patch of ice near the Thames Bridge and went out of control. She was declared dead on arrival. I’m extremely sorry.”

I had felt sadness like this before; when father had died. Yet then I’d been only six years old. Being fourteen made all the difference.

“Mother…”

Clinking bottles resounded from the room below. I couldn’t tell whether this was through grief or otherwise. Jasper Antoine Regale. For the first time in four generations, the Darling name had been overruled, but I refused to become Amelia Rose Regale. My name was Amelia Rose Darling, and would always remain so. My eyes stung as I rubbed the salty tears away and slid onto the sill of my window, clutching a leather-bound book to my chest.

Mother had always told me the same story: “Peter Pan visited your grandma, Wendy, long ago. He taught her to be a child… and a mother.” My mother was an extraordinary storyteller. Simple stories that were otherwise mundane could be turned into adventures that enchanted and enraptured the hearts of everyone through her lips. She was the one who spoke of dreams filled with colour, adventure and the handsome boy named Peter Pan. No one had wrote them down; they had simply been passed down from Wendy to Jane, to mother, and then to me. Perhaps being part of them had made them too vivid to capture in writing.

Leaning my head against the wall and curling my legs up beside me, I lay the book gently on my lap.

Grandma Wendy had fallen in love with Peter Pan. So much that soon she couldn’t bear to be near him any more. That is when she went home and became a grown-up. I tried to imagine the face that so often evaded my thoughts. Opening my eyes, a nonsensical swirl of colours swum before them. Something dripped onto my nightdress. These were the kinds of things I would talk with mother about. Now I didn’t have her any more. The only remaining figure in the family portrait was me.

I fixed my eyes on the golden lettering spelling out my name on the book. It was the diary handed down from Grandma Wendy, from even before she had met Peter; for some reason the yellowed pages were amiable to me now. The name Wendy Moira Angela Darling shimmered; something fell with a tiny splash. The tears collected and rolled away. I blinked the last one away, and when I looked again, the surface twinkled with what looked like tiny diamonds. I was too numb with emotion to notice the freezing air blowing in, but I could feel the stiffness from my slouched position. Sitting up marginally straighter, I lifted my head to the always-glorious night sky: deep, midnight blue with a sprinkling of icing-sugar snow and a faint twinkle of stars.

“Second to the right and straight on ‘til morning…” My voice was carried away with the wind.

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Hey everyone! This is my newest (and only) fanfic up at the moment. It's a special dedication to my friend CullensGrl, because it was her gorgeous fanfiction that inspired me to write this. I have a really bad habit of losing concentration on my writing, so please review as it feeds my drive! ^_^

Cookies and good stuff to y'all if you review,

~chellybaby xo