Chapter 1- The Flaw In The Plan
"I've had enough trouble for a lifetime" - Harry Potter.
(Not touching that)
30 YEARS LATER
Jacob’s stationery shop was not built to hold this many people.
The space was narrow, almost claustrophobic, with shelves pressed tightly against each wall and books stacked far beyond what seemed structurally safe. Old parchment, fresh ink, and dust hung in the air, forming a scent that clung to everything. Towers of second-hand books leaned dangerously, as though the entire place might collapse if someone reached too carelessly.
No one seemed concerned.
Students crowded every inch—arguing over titles, stretching across one another, competing with a quiet desperation that came from knowing there wouldn’t be enough for everyone. It wasn’t chaos exactly.
It was controlled scarcity.
And at the center of it all was Jacob.
He moved through the shop with practiced ease, slipping between bodies without touching them, pulling books from impossible stacks, catching falling piles before they tipped. There was nothing rushed about him, nothing uncertain. If anything, he looked like the only stable thing in the room.
“Alright—The Power of Potions—last copy. And I mean last.”
The effect was immediate.
“Mine—!” A boy lunged forward, nearly colliding with someone else as he snatched the book. “Finally. Thought I’d never get this.”
Jacob was already moving.
“The Lawmaker’s Dilemma. One copy. Don’t make me regret announcing it.”
A second student forced his way through. “Here—give it—!”
Jacob raised a brow. “You do realise you won’t need that till your NEWTs?”
“Please,” the boy shot back. “In this shop, you’re the Muggle. Not us.”
Jacob didn’t even pause. “Chapter 11. Page 344. Right to Knowledge Act. You’re allowed to learn ahead. You’re just not required to understand it.”
A few students nearby laughed.
“Jacob!” someone called. “I asked for Fantastic Beasts ages ago! You said you’d keep one aside!”
“And I did,” Jacob replied, reaching behind a leaning stack without looking. He pulled out the book and handed it over. “I just didn’t say where. Try not to lose this one.”
The boy grinned—but then his attention shifted toward the door.
“Oh look—Potty Harrow’s here. No mummy today?”
The laughter that followed was light. Thoughtless.
At the entrance stood Peter Harrow. He was thin, slightly hunched, his clothes hanging loosely on him, sleeves a little too long. He looked like someone who had learned to take up less space than he was given.
For a moment, he didn’t move.
Jacob’s voice cut through the noise.
“Oi. Not in my shop, Billy. Out.”
It wasn’t loud, but it ended the moment. Billy lingered just long enough to smirk, then left, still amused with himself. Jacob turned, and the sharpness in his expression softened.
“Hey, Pete.”
Peter stepped forward.
“Big day, isn’t it? New school. New start. You excited?”
Peter shrugged, avoiding eye contact. “Not really. Mum’s already decided.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“Slithers School.”
There was a flicker of something in Jacob’s eyes.
“And you don’t want that.”
Peter looked up, the answer escaping before he could stop it. “Hogwarts.” The word hung there—bright, unguarded.
From behind, Billy’s voice drifted again. “Yeah? You know your kind’s not getting in, right?” Jacob didn’t even turn. “The door’s still open, Billy. Use it.” Footsteps faded.
The shop seemed to settle, just slightly.
Peter shifted. “He’s not wrong. Everyone’s been saying it.” He hesitated. “It’s not for people like me.” Jacob studied him. “People love deciding what things aren’t for,” he said. “Saves them from trying.” Peter exhaled quietly. “Mum says it’s better this way. Safer.”
“She might be right,” Jacob replied. “Doesn’t mean it won’t feel like you’re giving something up before you even had it.” That landed, Peter didn’t respond.
Jacob held out his hand. “Go on. Let’s see the damage.” Peter handed over the list; the parchment creased from being folded too tightly. “You think you’ll have most of these?” Peter asked.
Jacob glanced through it. “For you? I’ll make it work. Might not be pretty. Might not match. But it’ll do the job.”
Peter gave a faint smile. “That’s kind of how I’m feeling about everything right now.” “Then you’ll fit right in,” Jacob said dryly. A brief silence passed as Jacob scanned the list.
Peter hesitated, then asked, “Hey… who’s winning duelling this year?”
Jacob didn’t look up. “Ah. So that’s where your mind is.”
“I just want to know.”
Jacob glanced at him. “No, you don’t. You want to imagine.”
Peter didn’t deny it.
“There’s a new one,” Jacob continued. “Durmstrang transfer.”
“What’s special about him?”
“He’s thirteen.”
Peter blinked. “…Thirteen?”
“And already dismantling students twice his size. Calm. Clean. No wasted movement.”
Peter leaned forward slightly. “What’s his name?”
“Ivan Karkaroff.”
The name settled into him.
“Big family,” Jacob added. “History, influence… expectations.”
Peter absorbed that, then said quietly, but firmly, “One day… I’ll be there.” Jacob looked at him, not dismissive, not indulgent, just measuring.
“Then you’d better learn to stand your ground here first,” he said. “Start with your mum.”
Jacob had already turned back to his work by the time Peter gathered his books. The stack was heavier than it looked—awkward, uneven, pressing into his arms as he tried to hold it all together. He adjusted his grip twice before even reaching the door.
Behind him, the noise of the shop continued without pause. Ahead, the street waited.
The moment he stepped outside, the sound changed—less contained, more scattered. Voices overlapped with the hum of movement, footsteps, and distant calls. The open space felt larger, but no easier to navigate.
Peter moved carefully at first, trying to keep the books steady, but the crowd didn’t adjust for him. People brushed past without slowing, forcing him to shift, rebalance, tighten his hold.
The stack slipped.
He tried to correct it, and walked straight into someone; the books fell.
“Peter!”
He froze.
Matilda Harrow was already kneeling, gathering the scattered books with quick, efficient movements.
“Why didn’t you call me?” she said, stacking them neatly. “I told you to call me once you were done.”
“I was managing—”
“Clearly.”
She didn’t look up.
Within moments, the books were restacked. She lifted most of them herself, redistributing the weight without asking.
“You don’t prove anything by struggling when you don’t have to.” Then she handed him something cold.
“Here.”
Peter blinked. A large fudge ice cream. “At least hold something you won’t drop.” Despite everything, he smiled.
“You went to Diagon Alley?”
“No. Florean’s opened branches all along this street now.”
“Muggles?”
“They love it,” she said. “Turns out magic is more appealing when you can buy it with a receipt.”
Peter frowned slightly. “Why did we tell them? About all of this. It was better before.”
Matilda glanced at him. “Better for whom? For us? Or for the people who had no idea what existed around them?” A small pause. “Secrets don’t keep people safe, Peter. Understanding does.” He didn’t fully agree, but he didn’t argue.
“So… we’re going to Diagon Alley now? For my wand?”
“Yes,” she said. “That’s one thing you won’t find second-hand on a London street.”
They turned into a quieter side street, the noise of the market fading behind them. It looked ordinary. Too ordinary. “Watch closely,” Matilda said. She stepped forward.
“Diagon Alley!”
The bricks began to shift. Peter watched, barely breathing, as the wall folded and rearranged itself, opening into something far larger than it had any right to contain, a hidden world.
Diagon Alley was alive, not just busy, layered. Magic didn’t simply exist here. It evolved.
WizTech mobiles hovered in midair, their surfaces flickering with shifting enchanted interfaces. Teenagers streaked overhead on sleek Nimbus 2027s, cutting across the sky with reckless confidence while a guard shouted after them, half-serious at best.
Nearby, a small puppy floated lazily beside its owners, drifting as though gravity had become optional.
Newspapers projected full three-dimensional scenes into the air, headlines unfolding into moving images.
Peter turned slowly, overwhelmed, “Mum, look at those! The new WizTechs, when can I get one?”
“When your grades say you deserve one.”
“They’ll be outdated by then.”
“Then you’ll learn not to chase things that expire.”
They continued walking.
Matilda’s gaze moved across the alley, something quieter settling into her expression, “It’s changed…” she murmured. “But it hasn’t lost itself.”
Peter answered without thinking. “How would you know? You never went to school.” The silence that followed was immediate. Matilda didn’t stop walking, but Peter felt it the moment the words left him, but it was too late to take them back.
Ollivanders felt wrong the moment they stepped inside.
Not empty, no, the shelves were still there, lined with long, narrow boxes. The air still carried that faint, dry scent of polished wood and old magic. But the precision—the near-sacred order the shop was known for—had been disturbed.
Boxes lay open where they should have been sealed. Some were stacked carelessly, others left half-slid out as if abandoned mid-selection. Papers were scattered across the counter, curling at the edges. A ledger lay open, ink smeared across a page that had never been finished.
A single lamp flickered overhead, its light uneven, stuttering between brightness and shadow. It didn’t feel abandoned, but interrupted.
Peter slowed as he stepped in, his eyes moving across the disorder, instinctively trying to make sense of it. Even without having seen the shop before, he could tell this wasn’t how it was meant to be.
“Apologies,” a voice called from the back, followed by the sound of something being hastily moved aside. “Shop’s… between identities at the moment.”
A young man emerged through a curtain, pushing it aside with his shoulder. Marcus Ollivander didn’t look like what Peter had imagined.
He looked… unfinished.
His sleeves were rolled unevenly, ink smudged across one wrist. His hair hadn’t quite decided whether it had been arranged or abandoned. And yet—his eyes were sharp. Alert in a way that didn’t match the rest of him.
“What can I do for you?” he asked, brushing his hands together, as though clearing dust that didn’t bother him enough to actually remove.
Matilda didn’t answer immediately. Her gaze moved past him, across the shelves, the open boxes, the scattered papers.
“Mr. Ollivander?” she asked finally.
“Grandson. Marcus,” he replied, with a small, easy grin. “Got the training. Less… discipline.”
“I can see that.” Her tone wasn’t insulting.
It was observational.
Marcus followed her gaze, then gave a slight shrug. “Depends who you ask.”
There was a pause—long enough that the flickering lamp became noticeable again.
“Did something happen here?” Matilda asked.
Marcus tilted his head slightly, as though weighing the question rather than answering it. “Define ‘happen.’”
“Something bad.”
For a moment, he said nothing. Then, with a quiet exhale, “Then no.”
“Just… bad decisions.”
The answer lingered in the space between them—not quite reassuring, not quite dismissive. Matilda didn’t press further. Marcus shifted, as though deciding not to stay in that line of conversation.
“So,” he said, turning toward Peter now, his attention sharpening almost imperceptibly, “wand?”
His eyes scanned Peter—not superficially, but deliberately, as if measuring something that wasn’t visible.
“Hogwarts this year?”
“No,” Matilda said, too quickly.
Marcus blinked, caught off guard, not by the answer, but by the certainty behind it. “No?” he repeated.
“We’re Slytherins,” Matilda said, her voice calm but firm.
That hung there. Marcus didn’t respond immediately this time. His gaze moved between them, Matilda, then Peter, then back again.
“…Right,” he said slowly. “That explains a lot.” Peter wasn’t sure what it meant. But it didn’t feel like agreement.
Marcus shifted his weight slightly. “Your father’s wand?”
“He’s not with us.”
Marcus gave a reflexive shrug. “His loss.”
“He passed away.”
This time, Marcus didn’t recover immediately. The words didn’t just interrupt; they recalibrated something. “…Right,” he said, quieter now. “Sorry.” The ease didn’t fully return.
“Yours?” he asked, glancing at Matilda.
“I don’t use one. I’m a Squib.”
That changed the room, not dramatically, but unmistakably.
Marcus’s posture straightened just slightly. His eyes lingered on her now, not dismissive, not surprised, but… attentive.
“Any wand will do,” Matilda added, her tone controlled, almost deliberately so. “He won’t need much.”
That was the first statement Marcus didn’t let pass. He didn’t argue immediately. But he didn’t look away either. Instead, he studied her—really studied her—as if trying to understand whether she believed what she had just said, then his gaze shifted to Peter. “Can I talk to him?” he asked.
Matilda didn’t respond. Not right away. Her eyes narrowed slightly, not in anger, but in recognition. She understood the question. Understood what he was trying to do. And she didn’t like it. But after a moment, she stepped aside.
“Go on.”
Marcus moved closer, not abruptly, not forcefully, but with a kind of quiet intention. Something in him had changed. The casual ease was still there, but underneath it now was focus.
“What do you want to be?” he asked.
The question felt heavier than it should have. Peter’s first instinct was immediate; he looked at his mother.
“Not what she wants,” Marcus said, softer now, but firmer. “You.”
Peter hesitated. The answer that came to him first was familiar. Safe. Practiced.
“Something stable,” he said. “Ministry job.”
Marcus shook his head slowly.
“That’s not an answer.”
He took a small step closer, not enough to intimidate, but enough to close the space.
“That’s a plan. Try again.”
Peter swallowed. The shop felt quieter now. Even the flickering lamp seemed to have settled into a slower rhythm. He could feel his mother behind him.
For a moment, he almost repeated himself. Almost chose the safer answer again. But something held him there.
“…I don’t know,” he said, quieter this time.
“Good,” he replied. “That means we’re getting closer.”
Peter frowned slightly, thrown off. Marcus’s voice dropped just enough to pull his focus in completely. “What do you see when you imagine yourself there?” That question landed differently.
Peter didn’t answer immediately. Because this time, he wasn’t searching for something acceptable. He was remembering.
A flash of movement.
A wand raised.
Precision.
Control.
Victory which wasn't loud or celebrated, but earned.
He exhaled slowly. “…A Duelling Champion.” The words came out softer than before.But this time, they stayed.
Behind him, Matilda stiffened while Marcus smiled. Not broadly.
“There it is.”
He turned without another word, moving through the disordered shelves. This time, Peter noticed something he hadn’t before. Marcus didn’t hesitate. Not once. His hand moved across boxes, pausing briefly—just briefly—before selecting one. When he returned, the wand in his hand didn’t look remarkable. Dark wood, simple and almost unassuming.
“This one,” he said. He didn’t explain and placed it in Peter’s hand.
For a fraction of a second—nothing happened. Then, something shifted. There was no light, no sound, no dramatic reaction, but Peter felt it. A subtle alignment, like something inside him, something he hadn’t fully acknowledged—had just… settled into place. His grip tightened slightly.
Marcus watched him, his expression no longer casual.
“The wand chooses what you won’t admit out loud,” he said quietly.
That was when Matilda moved.
“I know what you’re doing,” she said, stepping forward, her voice cutting through the stillness. “You're selling my child false dreams. Just do your job!”
Marcus didn’t look away from Peter. “I am sorry, but no. I think this should be his decision.”
“It’s dangerous.”
Now he looked at her.
“So is burying what he is.”
Matilda’s jaw tightened. “You don’t know what he is.”
Marcus held her gaze.
“No,” he said calmly. “But this does; wands don’t lie.” Silence stretched, then Matilda reached into her bag, pulled out the money, and slammed it onto the counter harder than necessary.
“We’re done here.”
She didn’t wait; she gripped Peter’s arm, pulling him toward the door. Peter moved, but not fully, not willingly; his attention hadn’t left. It remained fixed on the wand in his hand.
Far away in the land of magic stood Hogwarts Castle, its towers rising above the dark waters of the lake, its countless windows catching the last light of day. For generations, children had arrived beneath those towers with trembling hands and trunks full of everything they knew, only to leave years later carrying memories no trunk could hold. The staircases still wandered. The portraits still whispered. And somewhere within its ancient walls lingered the warmth of a place that, once loved, could never quite be forgotten.
Inside the Great Hall, however, that love had begun to look rather careworn.
The house banners hung unevenly above the long dining tables. Scratches scarred the stone walls, alongside scribbled names and stickers whose bright colours looked strangely cheap against the ancient masonry. Beneath the tables, chewing gum clung in hardened little lumps to the wood.
At the far end of the hall, a formal ceremony was underway.
Minister Howard Brookes stood upon the dais beside Professor Mary Richard, the retiring headmistress. His expression suggested that he had already noticed the crooked banners and was holding someone personally responsible for them.
Beside them stood Alexander Flamel.
At sixty, Flamel had the composed bearing of a man who seldom found it necessary to hurry. His grey suit was immaculate, his bow tie neatly fastened, his hair carefully arranged. There was nothing particularly imposing about his appearance, yet when he stepped forward, the scattered sounds of movement in the hall began to subside.
The senior staff stood in honour nearby: Mr Harrington, Professor Feline, the Snowman, Professor William Lincoln, and Miss January.
Flamel looked across the hall before speaking.
“I, Professor Alexander Arthur Joseph Nicolas Flamel, take upon myself the full charge of responsibilities and duties as the Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”
His voice carried clearly to the back of the room.
“I vow to protect its honour and its legacy for the duration of my term, and to provide an education that is wise, disciplined, and rooted in humanity.
“During my tenure, it shall be my responsibility to ensure that every student who walks through these halls leaves not merely accomplished, but capable. Capable of contributing meaningfully to both the wizarding and the Muggle worlds.”
Mary Richard watched him with her hands folded before her.
“As Headmaster, I shall not discriminate. I shall not be biased. And I shall not allow favouritism to cloud my judgment. I will be fair in all my decisions, academic or moral, especially in the moments when fairness is most difficult.”
He allowed a brief silence to settle before turning towards Brookes.
“Thank you, Minister, for entrusting me with this responsibility. And to my friend and fellow philosopher, Professor Mary Richard—my respect, and my gratitude.”
He inclined his head towards her.
“Once again, thank you.”
The applause began politely, then gathered strength. Flamel acknowledged it with a small bow and stepped back from the front of the dais.
Brookes moved close enough to speak without being overheard.
“Welcome, Flamel. I hope this marks a change for the better.” His gaze travelled over the hall. “Hogwarts was once a standard of excellence. Now it’s closer to a holiday resort.”
Flamel did not answer immediately.
From where he stood, he could see a name scratched deep into the stone beside one of the doors. Farther along, several stickers had been plastered over an old stain. And on a particularly conspicuous stretch of wall, someone had written:
I LOVE YOU, MISS JANUARY.
His eyes rested on the message for a moment. His expression remained composed, though his attention sharpened as he surveyed the rest of the room.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “This place is in need of a new life.”
Mary Richard drew nearer.
“I truly am sorry, Professor, for the condition in which I’m handing things over.” She glanced towards the dining tables. “I don’t know what gets into them towards the end of term. They behave as though the castle belongs to them. As though it were their bedroom.”
Her gaze caught the declaration on the wall.
“And the message for Miss January…” She hesitated. “We’re not certain who wrote it, but it can be removed rather easily.”
Flamel offered her a faint smile.
“It’s quite all right, Professor. Nothing here is beyond repair.”
Then his tone became more businesslike.
“I would like the house-elves to have the Great Hall restored before the new term begins. And Minister Brookes, if you would, I’d like a word with you and the senior staff.”
Brookes nodded.
The five teachers gathered around them at the side of the dais. Behind them, the applause had given way to conversation, the sound spreading through the hall as those assembled began to stir.
Flamel waited until the circle had drawn close.
“What I’m about to say may come as a surprise to some of you.”
He paused, looking from one face to the next.
“I intend to make a change. We will be reinstating Slytherin House at Hogwarts.”
No one spoke.
Brookes stared at him.
“Flamel,” he said at last, “tell me you’re not serious.”
“I am entirely serious. Slytherin House will return.”
“Have you forgotten why it was shut down?” Brookes’s voice rose, and he lowered it with visible effort. “Have you forgotten what that house produced? Dark witches. Dark wizards. Death Eaters. Voldemort himself. Every time history turned against us, it came from there. We tolerated it after the war. You know that.”
He stopped briefly, his jaw tightening.
“And fifteen years ago, we ended it. For good reason.”
“I have forgotten nothing, Brookes. I was not merely present at that decision. I helped make it.”
Flamel took a step closer.
“But today, I took an oath. An oath that I would not discriminate. That I would not judge entire generations by the failures of the past. And I intend to honour that oath.”
“You call this honour? You’re reopening the very house that nearly destroyed us, and you expect what? Gratitude?”
“No. I expect resistance.”
The answer came without hesitation. Brookes glanced at the teachers, but none of them intervened.
“But I also expect better,” Flamel continued. “Everyone deserves the chance to choose who they become. Not be told, in advance, who they are. Slytherin does not create darkness. It reveals it—or it disciplines it. That is what we failed to do. That is what I intend to correct.”
“And the parents?” Brookes demanded. “How do you plan to explain this to them? Because I assure you, they will not see philosophy. They will see risk. No one wants their child near that legacy.”
“I am a parent, Brookes.”
The Minister fell silent.
Around them, the Great Hall remained full of voices, but within the little circle no one moved. Flamel held Brookes’s gaze.
“And I know exactly what I am choosing.”
Brookes studied him for several seconds. The anger in his face had not quite faded, but something more guarded had taken its place. His eyes searched Flamel’s expression, as though he might yet find a trace of uncertainty there.
At last, he drew himself upright.
“Very well. Do as you wish. But when this begins to fall apart—and it will—do not come to me asking for rescue.”
A faint, controlled smile returned to Flamel’s face.
“Thank you, Minister. And I assure you, nothing will fall apart.”
He turned towards the waiting hall.
The staff remained where they were, exchanging uncertain glances. No one seemed ready to be the first to speak.
Behind them, untouched upon the ancient stone, the message still read:
I LOVE YOU, MISS JANUARY.
Back at Peter Harrow's home, the television flickered in the corner of a small, carefully kept sitting room.
The armchair had faded at the edges, and one end of the table beside it had been repaired more than once. Everything was clean, though there was little in the room that looked new.
Peter noticed none of it.
On the screen, a duelling arena blazed with light. The crowd roared as two spells collided above the polished floor, scattering sparks across the protective barriers.
Ivan Karkaroff stood at the centre of it all.
Young and unnervingly composed, he watched his opponent through the fading glare. His wand moved almost before Peter saw the next spell coming. A sharp turn of the wrist, a flash of light, and the attack glanced harmlessly aside.
Peter leaned forward.
He tried to follow Karkaroff’s feet, the angle of his shoulders, the tiny pause before he struck. It all looked so effortless until Peter imagined himself standing there, trying to do the same.
Beside him, a wand lay on the table.
He picked it up and turned it slowly between his fingers. Then he adjusted his grip, copying what he had seen on the screen.
Click.
The television went black.
“Mom! I was watching that!”
Matilda stood beside the switch.
“You are not going to watch duelling.”
Peter stared at her, still holding the wand.
“You are not going to turn yourself into some performer for strangers,” she continued, “risking your life so they can clap. You will do as I say.”
“It’s not performing. It’s skill!”
“Peter—”
“It’s my dream, Mom. Don’t dreams matter?”
She pressed her lips together.
“Doesn’t it feel awful,” he demanded, “when you want something and it just sits there and rots because you never get to do anything about it?”
“Yes,” Matilda said.
The answer checked him for a moment.
“I had dreams. I had ambitions.” She glanced away, then back at him. “And sometimes you give those up for something that matters more.”
“I don’t get it.” Peter set the wand down. “Why are you doing this to me? You never let me play with the other kids. They laugh at me! You never let me try magic because you’re always scared I’ll get hurt.”
His voice grew louder.
“I’m eleven, Mom. I’m not a child.”
“Not a child?” Her expression hardened. “All right, then. Tell me, grown man—how are you planning to pay for all this? Your training? Your school? Your dream?”
“Dad left money. Plenty of it.”
The words came out before he thought to stop them.
“I don’t get why you don’t use it. Why do you work all day when we could just live?”
Matilda went very still.
“You do not tell me how to live my life.”
She spoke quietly now, but Peter was too angry to take the warning.
“Of course. I’m not allowed to question anything, right? You decide everything. My school, my life, what I can and can’t want—”
“Stop repeating that nonsense that idiot shopkeeper filled your head with!”
“It wasn’t nonsense! He actually cared what I wanted.” Peter’s voice cracked. “Something you’ve never done!”
Matilda looked at him.
He had expected her to shout. He had already drawn breath to shout back.
But she said nothing.
The anger left her face, and Peter wished suddenly, desperately, that it would return. He could have argued with her anger. He did not know what to do with the hurt in her eyes.
He opened his mouth.
For a moment, the apology was there, ready to be spoken. Then he looked down at the wand and said nothing.
Matilda turned away. She brushed at her cheek as she left the room, but he had already seen the tear.
Peter remained beside the dark television.
Upstairs, a door closed.
That night, he lay awake in the room above the stairs.
He heard Matilda moving about downstairs, then her footsteps on the landing. As they approached his door, he held his breath.
They passed.
For a long time afterwards, he watched the thin line of light beneath the door. He rehearsed what he would say in the morning.
I didn’t mean it.
But he had meant to hurt her when he said it. That was the part he could not find a way around.
He turned onto his other side and started again.
Matilda was already at the breakfast table when he came downstairs.
Peter paused in the doorway.
“Good morning.”
She did not look up.
He pulled out a chair, taking care not to scrape it across the floor.
“You can help yourself to breakfast,” she said after a moment. “Grown man.”
His hand tightened around the back of the chair.
All the sentences he had prepared during the night seemed awkward now. He looked at the food, then at her, trying to find a beginning.
The doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it,” he said quickly.
He hurried down the passage and opened the front door.
No one was there.
Peter leaned out and glanced along the street. Then he noticed a small bundle of letters on the doorstep.
He picked them up, turning the first envelope over.
Electricity Board. Final Notice.
The next was from the landlord.
Payment Due.
He shifted them aside without opening either.
Then he reached the third envelope.
Mr Peter Harrow
Room above the stairs
14 Green Street
Alberta Town, Surrey
Peter read the address twice.
The room above the stairs.
He turned the envelope over. On the back was the seal of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
The other letters slipped from his hand.
For a moment, he could only stare. He checked the name again, half afraid he had mistaken it.
Peter Harrow.
His name.
Behind him, Matilda appeared in the passage.
“Who was—”
She stopped.
Peter scarcely heard her. He pushed a finger beneath the flap and tore the envelope open, clumsily enough to catch the edge of the letter inside. He eased it free with greater care and unfolded it.
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Dear Mr Harrow,
We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.
Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31.
Yours sincerely,
Peter went back to the first sentence.
Then he read it once more.
A smile began to spread across his face. He tried to contain it, as though showing too much excitement might somehow put the offer in danger, but it kept growing.
“Mom,” he whispered.
He turned towards her, holding out the letter.
“I got in.”
Matilda stood motionless in the passage.
At Peter’s feet lay the final notice and the landlord’s unopened envelope. In his hands, trembling slightly, was his place at Hogwarts.
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