Author's Notes: This story is an outtake to Robin's Unbroken Universe. It is set in 1983, and you might want to read the rest of the series (go to for details, or see Robin's profile at fanfiction.net-author name Robin4). If you wish to know where in the timeline this fits for the UU, it is set about 8 years before the beginning of Promises Unbroken, during Remus Lupin's first year of teaching at Hogwarts. Thanks go to Ren for the beta. Chapter One "My, but don't you look absolutely dashing!" Horace Smeltings's mother uttered from behind the eleven-year-old. HOGWARTS SCHOOL Dear Mr. Smeltings, ***** The front door opened, revealing a young woman dressed in black robes with what could only be a witch's hat perched precariously on her head. Horace, remembering his manners, held his tongue on the matter. ***** Once Horace and his parents returned to the sitting room and reclaimed their original seats, George spoke. ***** "How can you tell a wizard from a Muggle," Mr. Smeltings asked, "if you've never even met them?" ***** "You know your way around here," Mr. Smeltings said after they had passed through the gateway and into the Alley. "Where to first?" ***** "Well," Professor Nathan said nearly two hours later. "We're almost done here; all you need is your wand. I also recommend an owl, so you can send your decision to Hogwarts." ***** Before Professor Nathan bid them farewell that afternoon, she left instructions to reach the school train on the first of September.
A Joke?
"Mum!" Horace exclaimed in surprise as he whirled around to face the doorway of his room where his mother stood. He'd been so absorbed in admiring the fit of his new school uniform that he hadn't heard her footsteps in the hall. "I didn't see you there."
"I'm sorry, dear, I didn't mean to startle you," his mother murmured, looking him over with a proud little smile. "But you do look so very precious in that uniform. Just like your father . . ." She sniffed and wiped away a tear. "Now, come downstairs and show him how well it fits. Oh, George'll be so proud!" She took his hand, beaming, and Horace obediently followed his mother out his door and down the stairs.
"Oh, George, dear," his mother called out from the parlor. "Horace and I have something to show you."
When there was no answer, they walked over to George Smeltings's study, the sturdy oak-finished door slightly ajar. His mother rapped gently three times on the door, pushing it open.
"Father?" Horace questioned, peering into the study, where Mr. Smeltings was perusing a bit of the day's post with a rather disturbed expression. "Look, my uniform fits."
Mr. Smeltings held up a hand, silencing Horace so that he could finish the letter he was reading. After a moment, he set it on his desk before he further acknowledged their presence. When he looked up, his previous solemnity had deepened into a worried frown. While staring directly at Mrs. Smeltings, Mr. Smeltings addressed Horace.
"Son, could I please have a moment to speak privately with your mother?" His voice belied a tinge of confusion, and perhaps-Horace speculated-a bit of suspicion. "Some rather pressing matters have just come to my attention."
A bit confused himself, Horace obeyed his father by backing out, closing the oak doors behind him. He was a bit disappointed that his father hadn't noticed his attire, but when George Smeltings said something was important, there was no distracting him from it.
With a heavy sigh, Horace made his way to the parlor where his school books had been left after the family's shopping trip the day before, grabbing them and lugging the lot up to his room. Granted, term didn't start for another few weeks, but he wanted to get a head start on the material.
While Horace knew no one would dare imply he did well in his courses because of his father's position as headmaster of Smeltings School, Horace was determined to earn every mark he got in case anyone was foolhardy enough to try.
He had just completed the first short story in the text and was pondering what questions the Literature professor would ask when his mother appeared in the room, looking a bit shaken.
Horace dropped the book onto the table and jumped up. "Mother? Are you all right? What's the matter?" He offered her his vacated seat, but she shook her head slightly.
"Horace, darling, please come back to the study with me," she said-was she trembling? "Your father and I need to speak with you."
"What is it?" the boy asked anxiously. "Did I do something wrong? Whatever it is, I'm sorry, really, I am. Does dad want to compliment me on my uniform? What were you two talking about? Is it something good or something bad?" Horace kept up his litany of questions until he and his mother once again reached the doors of his father's study.
Mrs. Smeltings knocked. "George? He's here."
"Come in," Horace heard his father respond from behind the doors.
Mrs. Smeltings pushed the right-hand door inward, then motioned for Horace to precede her into the room.
Horace walked in, listening to the door creak shut as he sat in one of the burgundy-colored leather guest chairs facing his father's desk. Nervous at his parents' silence, Horace waited barely long enough for his mother to cross the room and take the last seat before blurting out, "Am I in trouble?"
"We're not sure yet, son," George Smeltings replied unhappily, holding an off-white sheet of crude-looking paper in his hand. He sat back in his revolving leather armchair, and put the paper on the desk, steepling his fingers in front of his chin.
"I received a letter for you today that was a bit... odd," he began. "Do you know why it was odd, Horace?"
"No, sir." Horace answered, furrowing his brow.
"Well, first of all, it was on this rather old-fashioned parchment." George replied, leaning forward again to pick up the odd-colored piece of parchment and wave it slightly in front of his son's face. "And second, it was an acceptance letter to a school-one that is not Smeltings, might I add. Do you know anything about this, Horace?"
Unconsciously shrinking away from his father's stern gaze despite his innocence in the matter, Horace protested.
"But I didn't apply to any other schools besides yours; I didn't want to go to any of them, I swear! But how could I have been accepted if I didn't apply?"
Mr. Smeltings sighed, rapping his fingers on the desk continuously. "That, I do not know, son. Someone was probably just trying to play a joke on you; that would explain the rather ridiculous notion that there is a school for such things, after all, would it not?"
Horace cocked his head to one side, wondering if he had missed something in his father's previous words.
"A school for what things, Father?" he asked.
George hesitated, but his wife spoke up.
"Show him, George."
"Are you sure, Allison? It's just a bit of rubbish; there's no such thing," Mr. Smeltings replied.
"That may be so, dear, but he might be able to tell us which of his friends would think of something so ludicrous."
Watching the exchange between his parents, Horace became more curious than ever.
"What is so 'ludicrous' about this school?" he interjected.
George looked to Allison; she nodded, gesturing for George to pick up the parchment again. George sighed.
Very well," he said, handing the parchment over the desktop to his son. "See for yourself."
Accepting the letter, Horace read it over, commenting every now and then and snorting derisively once or twice.
"I see what you mean, Dad," Horace said once he had finished the letter and the other pieces of parchment that had come with it. "But... none of my friends believe in... y'know... that stuff... anymore. Not since we were little."
"Are you sure you don't know anyone who could have sent it, Horace?" his mother asked anxiously.
"Not a clue, Mum," he replied, scanning the letter again. "But I guess we'll find out next Tuesday."
"Why? What happens next Tuesday?" his mother asked quizzically.
"They're sending someone here," George answered, scoffing. "Well, I'll believe that when I see it with my own two eyes."
Abruptly, he changed the subject. "Well, now that the "funny business" is out of the way for now, dear, what's for dinner?"
Allison smiled, standing up while Horace and George followed.
"I made your favorite," she said, smiling, opening the study doors for her son and her husband to leave.
But the mystery of what George Smeltings's favorite meal was disappeared into the other rooms of the house as Allison Smeltings closed the oak doors of the study. The letter containing the so-called "funny business" had long since fluttered to the grey shag carpet where Horace had dropped it, emerald green ink flowing across the parchment to proclaim:
of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY
~~~~~@~~~~~
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc. Chf. Warlock,
Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. Of Wizards)
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.
Should you have any trouble finding the necessary materials, an escort will be sent to your home this Tuesday morning at precisely eleven o'clock. At that time, you will be free to ask any questions you may have.
Term begins on September 1. We will expect your decision by the weekend following next Tuesday's visit.
Yours Sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
Minerva McGonagall,
Deputy Headmistress
"Hello," she said, smiling, nodding her head slightly toward Horace, the point of her black hat tipping forward as she did so. However, the base of the hat still refused to move from its perch atop the woman's blonde hair. Horace briefly wondered if the hat was alive. "Is this the Smeltings residence?"
Horace nodded mutely, still taking in the woman's black robes, a rather interesting crest sewn up in the upper left corner, and her blue-striped necktie. Contemplating the embroidered lion, badger, snake, and eagle, Horace barely caught the Latin inscription beneath. Translating what he knew from his early lessons and guessing what he did not, Horace laughed inwardly at the result. "Never tickle a sleeping dragon." Now, that can't be right.
Horace shook himself out of his thoughts. "Yes it is, uh, I'm sorry," he replied, gesturing into the house. "Would you like to come in?"
The woman seemed to notice the boy's surprise and confusion as she stepped into the foyer. "Oh, dear," she exclaimed. "Have I got the wrong day? I was certain Minerva told me Tuesday morning at eleven o'clock-er, it is Tuesday, is it not?"
Again, Horace nodded-then it hit him. Tuesday at eleven! Of course! After making sure the woman was comfortable in the sitting room, Horace quickly excused himself, muttering something about needing the water closet. Hurrying to the study, Horace burst through the doors.
His father's eyes jumped up from paperwork and met Horace's wide ones sternly. "Horace, what is the meaning of-"
"There's a woman . . . from that strange school . . . down in the sitting room." he blurted out, breathing heavily from his sprint to the study.
His father practically jumped out of his leather armchair onto his feet. "Go fetch your mother."
As Horace ran out, he noticed out of the corner of his eye that his father was reaching for a yellow legal pad and his favorite fountain pen-apparently, Mr. Smeltings had prepared in the event that someone did show up from the "school."
A few moments later, Horace and his mother met his father before the doorway of the sitting room. Taking a deep breath, Mr. Smeltings opened the doors and walked in, Horace and his mother following.
"Hello," Mr. Smeltings said with false cheerfulness, greeting the woman in the strange attire. "I'm George Smeltings, and this is my wife, Allison, and my son, whom you've already met, Horace." He gestured to Horace and his mother.
"Sadie Nathan," the woman answered, standing to shake his father's hand. "Professor of Muggle Studies at Hogwarts."
"What's 'Muggle?'" Horace asked as the four sat down.
Professor Nathan smiled at Horace. "A Muggle is what wizards and witches call non-magic folk, like your parents."
"And me." It was more of a statement than a question.
"Actually, Horace..." Professor Nathan responded, looking warily at him and his parents, "you are what we in the wizarding world call a Muggle-born, which means that your family is mostly Muggle, but you are a wizard."
"No, I'm not!" Horace exclaimed, wide-eyed. "You're nutters, that's what you are. Only little children believe in hocus-pocus and all that rubbish."
"Horace!" his father interrupted, glaring at his son. Turning to the woman who claimed professorship at a magical school, he said, "I'm terribly sorry about my son's reply, miss." He frowned. "You must admit, however, the idea is really quite farfetched."
"Oh, it's no trouble, really," Professor Nathan replied reassuringly, "I completely understand. You see, I'm Muggle-born myself. It's school policy that we try not to shock prospective Muggle-born students or their families any more than necessary for the initial interview, but we also have to break through the common Muggle belief that magic does not exist. There is a fine line between enough convincing information and culture shock.
"How do you mean?" Mr. Smeltings asked.
"Well, if any of the wizarding-born professors were to visit Muggle parents like yourselves," Nathan explained, "some of the things that they would take for granted-like, for instance, Apparating or Floo'ing directly to one's home-would be a rather large shock to Muggles. Those of us who grew up in Muggle families, however, would know about non-magical transport and how to use it properly."
"Also, in some cases, the whole idea of magic goes against prospective students' religions. These parents refuse to allow their children to attend, but some of them allow their children to make the choice, regardless of their own decisions. Headmaster Dumbledore has been sending Muggle-born professors as liaisons to prospective Muggle-born students for decades, and the attendance rate of Muggle-borns is higher now than it was in any other Headmaster's time."
"I see," Mr. Smeltings said, still looking skeptical. "I'm still not convinced that my son is magical, though, nor do I see any proof of this "magic" you claim to have."
"Well," the professor replied, "if there is anything that might convince you of my sincerity concerning the existence of magic, feel free to suggest it, and I will do so."
"Could you, er . . ." Mrs. Smeltings hesitated, but continued a moment later, "show us some magic?"
Professor Nathan smiled. "Certainly," she said. "I am not permitted to do much magic in the presence of Muggles, but as a Hogwarts liason, I do believe I can show you a bit of a demonstration."
Rummaging in a hidden pocket of her robes, she pulled out a wooden stick roughly the length of Horace's eleven-year-old forearm. Clearing her throat, Nathan pointed the stick at a basket of wax fruit sitting on the end table nearest her, and spoke while making an odd swishing movement with the stick.
"Wingardium leviosa!"
To the Smeltings' amazement, the basket of fruit lifted off the table, floated toward Mr. Smeltings, and stopped in midair. As though checking for strings, Mr. Smeltings ran his right hand all around the basket-over, under, left, right, in front and behind-and concluded, "There's nothing holding it up. But there was no one in here for five minutes after you arrived. There could be some sort of magnetic repulsion system you've hidden in here somewhere."
Professor Nathan nodded. "Why not let your son try, then?" she suggested. "Surely, I could not have set up something so elaborate as to guess which objects an eleven-year-old might attempt to levitate."
"Are you sure that's a good idea?" Allison asked her husband.
"What harm could there be in it?" George replied, turning toward their son. "What do you think, Horace? Would you like to try it?"
Horace shrugged. "All right. What do I have to do?"
Professor Nathan flipped the stick, offering it to Horace.
"First, hold my wand," she stated. "I must warn you, however, that the charm may not work as well for you as it would if you had your own wand-they are very personalized magical focusing tools, you see."
Horace took the wand, almost jumping out of his chair at the tiny tingling sensation that had started in his fingertips as soon as he touched it. As it was, he abruptly let go, pulling his hand back before mustering his resolve and reaching for it again.
"Okay," Horace looked from the wand, now firmly in his right fist, to the professor, a bit suspiciously. "Now what?"
"Now," Professor Nathan replied, "pick an object-a small one works best for beginners-but don't tell me which one." She waited a moment as Horace looked about the room for a suitable subject. "Are you ready?"
Horace nodded.
"All right," she said, "I'm going to show you how to move your hand now." Taking Horace's hand, wand and all, into her own, Professor Nathan demonstrated the "swish and flick" technique. "Now, when you're ready, repeat the words wingardium leviosa," she said, stressing the proper pronunciation as she backed away, "and move your hand just like I showed you."
Still skeptical, but determined to prove once and for all whether or not magic existed, Horace did as he was told. Swishing and flicking at an old knick-nack on the mantle, Horace repeated, "Wingardium leviosa!"
The knick-nack-thankfully a rather sturdy piece, despite its age-rose off of the mantle a few centimeters before lurching forward and falling with a soft thud onto the plush hearthrug.
"Very good!" Professor Nathan exclaimed. "Professor Flitwick, our Charms teacher, will be pleased to have you in his class. Not many students can get even that simple charm correct on the first attempt."
Wide-eyed, Horace returned the wand to its owner. Turning to his parents, he steadfastly proclaimed, "I want to go to the magic school."
Surprised, Mr. and Mrs. Smeltings turned to the professor. "Will you excuse us, please?" George asked, motioning for Allison and Horace to follow him out of the room. "I'd like a few minutes to discuss this with Horace and my wife in private."
"Certainly, Mr. Smeltings," Professor Nathan nodded. "Take all the time you need."
Mrs. Smeltings quietly closed the sitting room door behind herself as she followed Horace and his father to George's study on the other side of the ground floor. Once she and Horace had sat down, George paced behind his desk.
Back and forth, back and forth he went. Just as Horace thought to break the tension with a repetition of his earlier assessment, Mr. Smeltings sat down in his own chair, folded his hands on the desk, and spoke.
"Now, Horace," he said calmly, "Why do you want to go to this school? I... was under the impression that you wanted to go to the family school."
"I did, Father," Horace answered carefully. "I did not apply to any other school because I did not think that I would feel at home anywhere else, and I had not heard of any other schools-other than Eton-which compared to Smeltings' reputation. But Father," he paused, "when I made that little statue float, it felt-well, I don't know what it felt like, but it was nice. As though all my life, I'd been missing something without knowing what it was, and had finally found it."
Mr. Smeltings nodded, and Mrs. Smeltings merely looked at her son thoughtfully. "Go on," Mr. Smeltings prompted.
"I've been thinking also," Horace continued, "that if I go to Smeltings, the other students might think I was getting special treatment if I do well. But if I go to Hogwarts and do well, Dad, then the other students will have to acknowledge that I did it on my own merits, and not just because my father is the headmaster."
"And furthermore," Horace concluded. "No matter where I go to school, I want to be the best I can."
"All good reasons," Allison provided. "But do they teach the higher, er-non-magic-disciplines there? Perhaps Calculus or Physics?"
"If not," Mr. Smeltings answered, "Horace, would you be willing to have a tutor in the summer holidays to teach you the subjects you would miss?"
Horace thought for a moment. "No, I wouldn't mind," he finally said. "The holidays are mostly boring after our annual trip to Majorca anyway, and I'd like to be able to do well non-magically as well."
"It's settled then," George clapped his hands, getting up from his seat. "But if I hear about any trouble you've gotten into-I'm not saying you would get into any, but in case you do-then I will pull you out, and you will attend your final years at Smeltings, is that clear?"
"Yes, Father." Horace smiled, then nearly knocked his father over with the force of his ecstatic hug. "I'll be the best wizard ever, I promise!"
George laughed, ruffling his son's hair affectionately. "Well, I guess we'd best let the professor know then, shouldn't we?"
A spring in his step, Horace led his parents from the study and back to the sitting room, where their somewhat unusual guest awaited their decision.
"We've decided to allow Horace to go to Hogwarts in the fall," he said. "However, I would still like to ask a few questions."
"Ask anything you wish," Professor Nathan replied. "That is what I am here for, after all."
"Of course, of course," Mr. Smeltings nodded. Clearing his throat, he glanced at the tablet of lined paper he had been carrying throughout the morning and into the afternoon. "I guess the first question I have now is about the curriculum. I heard you mention Charms and Muggle Studies, which sound pretty self-explanatory, but what other subjects will Horace encounter while at your school?"
Carefully, Professor Nathan explained the concepts behind Transfiguration, History of Magic, Potions, Herbology, and Astronomy, giving a short overview of each professor's instructive style and teaching background.
"Students are also given the opportunity to learn to fly in their first year," she continued. "Madam Hooch has been our flight instructor, as well as Quidditch referee, for almost a decade."
"And what is Quidditch?" Mrs. Smeltings asked.
"It is the most prominent sport of the wizarding world," the professor answered. "If you like, I can point out a book outlining the rules and strategy later on."
Mr. Smeltings nodded. "That would be fine," he said, getting the conversation back on track. "Are there any more classes offered at Hogwarts?"
"Oh, yes," Professor Nathan replied. "I seem to have forgotten one more core subject, and there are still the third-year electives to consider. Defense Against the Dark Arts is what some wizards these days call the most important class at Hogwarts. Students learn to defend themselves against attacks, not only from dark wizards, but from some of the more dangerous magical creatures as well."
Horace's eyes grew wide, and his father held up a hand to halt Professor Nathan's explanation.
"Just one moment," he said. "Dark wizards?"
"I won't lie to you," Professor Nathan replied seriously. "For every good, as you know, there is a bad, and the wizarding world is no exception; in Great Britain, there is one particular dark wizard-Voldemort-who has caused so much destruction in the last thirteen years that most are afraid to speak his name."
At this news, Mr. Smeltings narrowed his eyes, and Mrs. Smeltings grew very pale. "How much danger will our son face if he goes to this school of yours?" Mr. Smeltings asked.
Professor Nathan leaned toward the Smeltings family.
"Hogwarts is one of the safest magical locations in all of Great Britain, and even-some say-the entire world, Mr. Smeltings," she said. "But I must also warn you: the dark wizards in" she swallowed, "Voldemort's employ believe that Muggle-borns should not be allowed to study magic at Hogwarts. Instead of attacking Horace--trying to breach the protections at such a fortress--however, they would, most likely, come after you and your wife, since you cannot use magic to defend yourselves."
"Thank you for your honesty," George said, going a bit pale himself. Resolutely, he continued the discussion. "In light of this new information, how is the Defense instructor?"
"I do not know," the professor replied. "You see, Professor Parker, the previous instructor, was killed just a few short weeks ago. I am told that her replacement, Professor Remus Lupin, did exceptionally well in Defense classes in his own time at Hogwarts. But that is all I know; this is his first year teaching, so I cannot tell you anything about his methods."
"That sounds sufficient for now," Mr. Smeltings replied. "I remember as well that you mentioned third-year elective courses, but an explanation of those can wait until Horace is ready to take them."
He turned to Horace, who had gone a bit paler as Professor Nathan explained the situation with Voldemort. "Are you sure you want to go to Hogwarts, son? Either way, your mother and I will support your decision."
Horace sat up straight, swallowing his fear and resolutely setting his jaw.
"I want to go, Father," he declared.
Mr. Smeltings nodded and turned back to the professor.
"All right," he said. "So, he's going. But I don't know of any shops that sell cauldrons, quills, or parchment, unless you count costume shops. Where do we go to get his school supplies?"
"To Diagon Alley," Professor Nathan answered. "It is a hidden venue in downtown London. I can give you directions to find it, or I can take you there myself. Either way, you will need someone with a wand to access the Alley itself."
"Why don't we have a bit of a late lunch then," Mrs. Smeltings interjected, "and then you can show us the way there? I'm not sure I would be comfortable asking any other magical people for help just yet."
"Certainly," the professor replied. "I'd be happy to."
With that, Horace, his parents, and Professor Nathan adjourned to the dining area for lunch.
Professor Nathan's answer came from the back seat of the Smeltings' Mini Cooper.
"The Ministry of Magic can pinpoint occurrences of accidental magic anywhere in Great Britain. Accidental magic is most common in children under the age of eleven who have not yet had any magical instruction."
"But when did I do magic?" Horace asked from beside the professor.
"Has anything strange ever happened to you, Horace?" Professor Nathan asked. "For instance, when you were especially scared or upset, maybe even angry? Any strong emotion can elicit a magical response. Do you remember anything like that?"
Horace thought for a minute, then responded in a contemplative tone, "When I was four, and old Mrs. Smithers was minding me while Mum and Dad were away, there was a thunderstorm. I remember the first few thunderings waking me up, and the lightning scaring me, but then they stopped a few seconds later; I couldn't see or hear any of it, just my bedroom walls and the shadows my toys and furniture cast on them. When I woke up the next morning, Mrs. Smithers was shocked that I'd slept through the whole storm, but I didn't hear a thing."
"Hmmm," Professor Nathan mused. "An accidental Silencing Charm, very interesting. Can you remember anything else, Horace? Turn right here," she directed Mr. Smeltings.
While George made the turn onto Charing Cross Road, Horace recounted another odd occurrence.
"Last week," he said, "I was trying on my Smeltings uniform; it didn't fit."
"Horace, dear," Allison interjected. "I saw you wearing that uniform, and it fit perfectly."
"Not at first," Horace recounted as the four exited the Mini, following Professor Nathan to a pub bearing the name The Leaky Cauldron. "At first, it was much too large. I remember I was very disappointed and did not want Dad to be as well. By the time I found a belt to keep the trousers on though, the whole uniform fit. I was wondering what happened as I looked in the mirror when you walked in, Mother."
"Now that's an occurrence of accidental magic I've never heard of!" Professor Nathan exclaimed, waving to the bartender inside the pub as they walked by. "Automatically re-fitting clothing; you might just have a propensity for Transfiguration, Horace."
Horace couldn't tell whether she was completely sincere about Transfiguration or not, but the thought left his mind as Professor Nathan tapped a brick at the back wall of the Leaky Cauldron's small courtyard. The bricks rearranged themselves, forming a doorway into what looked like a mediaeval-era marketplace. There were regular shops with doors and windows, as well as stalls where smaller business owners sold their wares. Horace was mesmerized.
"Welcome," Professor Nathan intoned as Mr. and Mrs. Smeltings gasped, "to Diagon Alley."
"First," Professor Nathan answered, "you must change your money into wizarding coinage. Therefore, the first stop is Gringotts Bank." She pointed ahead, a bit off to the right, and the Smeltings saw a large white building on the far side of the road, just around the bend of the Alley.
"What's the exchange rate from pounds to wizarding currency?" Mr. Smeltings asked.
"I don't know," Professor Nathan answered, "but the goblins do; we can ask them."
"Goblins?" Mrs. Smeltings squeaked.
"They are the bankers," Professor Nathan said. "I'd be careful dealing with them though; if they think they can get away with asking more from you, they will."
The four climbed the marble steps to the bank's entrance, and Professor Nathan held the door open for Horace and his parents. When all of them were inside, Professor Nathan directed them toward a short queue leading up to a tall desk counter. Behind the desk, they noticed a short being with a long nose and a shrewd air.
"That is Ragnok," Professor Nathan explained. "He is in charge of exchanges. The other tellers are strictly for wizarding-only transactions, like deposits, withdrawals, and new vault account openings."
At that moment, the woman ahead of them in the queue finished her transaction, and Ragnok spoke as though he had said the same thing many times; he probably had, judging by Professor Nathan's familiarity with him.
"Welcome to Gringotts. The current British exchange rate is-" here, he paused, taking in Horace and his parents. His eyes narrowed in disappointment when he noticed the professor, however, so he continued. "-three pounds, fourteen pence to the galleon. How may I be of service?"
"I would like to exchange this into wizarding currency," Mr. Smeltings answered, setting onto the counter the two hundred-pound notes that he had acquired when they returned the books and uniform that Horace would not be using at Smeltings School that year.
"There is an exchange fee of five sickles, twelve knuts-that is, one pound-for transactions over fifty galleons, or one hundred fifty-seven pounds," Ragnok remarked, scowling again at the professor. Horace thought he looked a bit put out that someone who knew, reasonably, how much Mr. Smeltings should receive had accompanied the Smeltings. Ragnok continued, "And every five galleons after that is two sickles, twenty knuts more, which is the equivalent of fifty pence."
"Mr. Smeltings nodded. "That sounds reasonable."
"Very well," Ragnok said. "One moment."
Picking up the notes that Mr. Smeltings had set down, Ragnok turned to the safe behind him and inserted a small, golden key. The Smeltings noticed that inside, the safe was split in half. In one half was money familiar to them: paper notes and small coins. In the other side, there were only coins, some were rather large and gold, others were silver, and yet more were bronze.
Ragnok carefully counted out the coins, putting them into a small cloth sack he had pulled from under the counter. Placing the hundred-pound notes in the other half of the safe, Ragnok closed the box and turned back to Mr. Smeltings.
"Sixty-three galleons, twenty sickles, and three knuts," he said, carefully dumping the contents of the cloth sack onto the counter. He quickly and obviously counted out ten of the silver coins, and twenty-three of the bronze coins, and said, "the fee is ten sickles, twenty-three knuts. You may count the rest."
On the professor's advice, Mr. Smeltings counted the coins once, but refrained from doing so a second or third time in front of the goblin. With their new money pouch in hand, the Smeltings then followed Professor Nathan back into the Alley to make their purchases.
"But I already said I wanted to go," Horace said, confused. "Can't you just tell them that I'll be there?"
"I'm afraid not," the professor answered. "You see, Horace, the Board of Governors in charge of the administration of the school requires your decision in writing. You could, however, write it out while I am here and send it with me. I also suggested an owl so that your parents could keep in touch without you having to write to them first; there are owls at the school for student use as well."
Mr. Smeltings thought for a minute. "I think, Horace," he said, "that we should wait and see how much your wand costs, before we go shopping for any kind of pet."
"A wise decision, Mr. Smeltings," Professor Nathan remarked. "Each wand is unique, and has a unique price to match. Besides the sentimental reasons for keeping an old wand to pass to one's children, one never knows how much a new wand will cost. In fact, many wizards pass their own wands to their children for that very reason; why risk buying two new wands, with two new prices, when there is a perfectly good wand at the child's disposal, if the adult's wand no longer performs to expectations?"
"Why, indeed?" was Mr. Smeltings' only reply.
Professor Nathan halted Horace and his parents in front of a shop near the end of Diagon Alley.
Ollivander's, it read, Makers of fine wands since 382 B.C. A lone wand sat on a faded purple cushion in the dusty window, and Horace peeked farther in, noticing only a single spindly chair on the customers' side of the counter.
"After you," the professor said, pulling the shop's door open with one hand, and gesturing inside with the other.
"Thank you," Mrs. Smeltings nodded to the other woman as she ushered Horace into the store before her. Mr. Smeltings followed close behind his wife, and Professor Nathan followed, shutting the door behind her.
There was a customer ahead of the Smeltings family. An old man ran back and forth between shelves stacked to the ceiling with long, thin boxes and the counter at the front of the shop. Every time he disappeared, the old man would return with another of the boxes in his hands. Opening the box, he would then hand its contents-which Horace could only assume was another wand, since the customer's back blocked his view-to the customer, sometimes snatching it back immediately, and others, nodding and mumbling to himself as he returned to the stacks.
Horace found it all terribly fascinating, and when one of the wands produced a bunch of blue and silver sparks, he heard his parents gasp in wonder.
The customer paid for his new wand, and on his way out, nodded and smiled, saluting the professor with it.
As Professor Nathan nodded back, the old man came out from behind the counter. "Ah, Professor Nathan," he said, "I was wondering if I had seen the last of you this summer." He looked at Horace, who took in his wild eyes and disheveled white hair with a bit of trepidation. "New student, I presume?" Horace could tell that the old man was still addressing the professor, so he did not answer.
"Yes," the professor answered, politely gesturing toward the Smeltings family. "Mr. and Mrs. Smeltings, Horace, this is Mr. Ollivander; his family has owned this shop for centuries."
"How do you do?" Mrs. Smeltings answered with a small nod to the shop owner.
"Quite well, I thank you," Ollivander replied before turning deferentially to Mr. Smeltings. "Shall we to business then? I take it that Horace is the first with magical ability in your family?"
Mr. Smeltings nodded. "Yes, Sir."
"If it helps, Mr. Ollivander," Professor Nathan broke in as the wand maker measured Horace's arm, fingers, and other, stranger body parts, "He seemed to do passably well with my own wand."
"Mahogany and dragon heartstring, twelve and seven-eighths inches, a bit flimsy?" Ollivander questioned absentmindedly as he made his way to the stacks, perusing a few labels here and there. He did not see Professor Nathan's nod, but said nonetheless, "That should do as a start; best to work from what we know, after all." The last bit was muffled, since Ollivander had gone deeper into the back of the shop, but the Smeltings heard it anyway.
"Aha!" came the shopkeeper's voice a few seconds later. Opening a box as he made his way to the front of the shop, Ollivander handed Horace a wand. "Mahogany and unicorn hair, thirteen inches," he said. When Horace merely stared at the wand in his fist, the old man, startling Horace, said, "Well, give it a wave."
Recovering from his surprise, Horace shook his head and wove the wand in front of him. Nothing happened.
"Perhaps not," Ollivander intoned, leaving to retrieve another wand. The second wand, unlike the first, had a reaction when Horace waved it, but not a positive one. The stack of wand boxes left over from the previous customer exploded when Horace tried that wand.
"Not quite," the wand maker mused, going to get another.
Horace had tried a few more wands by the time Mr. Ollivander remarked to Mr. Smeltings that he felt he had the right combination.
"Walnut and unicorn hair, thirteen and one half inches. Good for Defense and Charms work," he said, handing over the seventh wand.
Horace grabbed the mahogany-finished handle of the most recent wand. He barely had a firm grip, when he felt a warm tingle, much stronger than the one he had felt with Professor Nathan's wand, spread from his hand, up his shoulder, and through the rest of his body. "Woah!" he breathed, staring at the walnut shaft held in front of his nose.
Horace's parents noted the green and silver sparks that had shot out of the tip of this wand as Horace took hold of it.
"Does that mean it's the right one?" Allison asked.
"Indeed it does, Madam," Ollivander replied. "The wand chooses the wizard, you see, and this one has chosen your son."
After paying five galleons for Horace's wand and bidding Mr. Ollivander farewell, the Smeltings and Professor Nathan exited the shop. "Have you decided whether or not you'd like a pet?" the professor asked.
"Not quite," Mr. Smeltings replied. "I'd like to look at the prices first, and then make a decision."
"In that case," the professor said, "How about we take a break, and head to Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor to rest our feet? My treat."
"Oh, Mum," Horace pleaded, "Can we please go to the ice cream parlor?"
Allison looked at her husband, and George shrugged. "It's only two in the afternoon," he said. "What harm could it do?"
Mrs. Smeltings looked back at their son, and said, "All right, but not too much; I'll not have you spoiling your dinner."
Sadie Nathan smiled. "It's settled then. This way to Fortescue's."
"If you have any trouble finding the right platform, just look for children with owls."
With that final remark, the professor pulled out her wand and disappeared from the Smeltings' sight.
"Cool," Horace breathed, staring another thirty seconds at the recently vacated spot, before turning to his parents. "Can we stay here and look around the shops some more? I saw some things that looked interesting, and I was wondering what they were."
By the end of the afternoon, Horace's feet were sore and blistered, but he was happy.
The Smeltings family made their way home, Mrs. Smeltings going to the kitchen as soon as she crossed the threshold.
"I'll heat up some tomato soup and sandwiches for dinner," she called behind her. "Shopping itself takes a lot of energy, but shopping twice in the same summer for school things is exhausting!"
Horace laughed, hopping on one foot into the sitting room with the day's lighter purchases. His father followed, a bit more subdued, but no less joyful.
Mr. Smeltings set the heavier items, and an owl cage, on the sitting room table, and sat in his favorite chair by the mantle with a contented sigh.
"So," he said. "What should we name this lovely bird?" He waved his right hand at the tawny owl that Horace had chosen for his parents earlier that day.
Horace tried to come up with a good name, scrunching up his nose in concentration. Absentmindedly, he passed the leftover wizarding coins his father had given him for pocket money from hand to hand.
Chink-unluh-chink, went the coins. Chink-uhluh-chink.
"I don't know," Horace finally replied, holding the coins still. "Is it a boy owl, or a girl owl?"
George Smeltings' eyes widened. He laughed. "I hadn't thought of that, and I think we forgot to ask the shopkeeper at Eyelop's."
Horace joined in his father's laughter, and Allison came to the sitting room to see what was so funny.
"Is it really that funny?" she asked, bemused.
"You'll never believe, Dear," George replied, "the one question we actually forgot to ask today."
Mrs. Smeltings smirked. "What?"
"None of us knows the owl's gender, so Horace and I are having a bit of trouble naming it."
Mrs. Smeltings giggled. "That is a dilemma," she replied. "Why don't you give it a name that could go for either gender?"
"How about Oublie?" Horace suggested once they had calmed down. "In school last term, there was a French student who never remembered when homework was due. She'd tell the teachers, "J'ai oubli," and when I asked her what it meant, she said that it was, "I forgot."
"I like it," Mrs. Smeltings remarked. "Good for male or female, and very appropriate, as well as-" she giggled again, "memorable." While Horace and Mr. Smeltings started to laugh again, Mrs. Smeltings went back to the kitchen to make sure the soup did not burn.
"Oublie it is, then," George said, turning to the owl's cage and giving it a treat. "Why don't we put Oublie in the breakfast room? We can send your acceptance to Hogwarts with a note to the shopkeeper tomorrow."
Horace promptly walked to the table and carefully picked up the cage, walking out of the room.
"And get your school supplies upstairs!" his father called after to remind him, chuckles echoing through the house.
Chapter Two
There's a What?
September first had dawned cool and crisp, so the family of three had pulled woolen jumpers over their heads before piling into the Mini Cooper to get to King's Cross Station.
Horace and his father each got a trolley when they arrived, and while Horace and Mrs. Smeltings made their way through the barrier to platform nine and three-quarters, Mr. Smeltings said his goodbyes and went to platform three to catch the train to Smeltings School.
Once through the barrier, Mrs. Smeltings hugged her son, admonishing him to write often.
"I will, Mum," Horace replied, anxious to get on the train. "I promise." He backed away when his mother came toward him, spitting on her handkerchief. "Best get on the train!" he stuttered by way of explanation.
"Of course," Allison Smeltings sighed, watching her son carry his trunk full of school supplies onboard.
The train pulled out of the station at eleven o'clock, and Horace, in a compartment by himself, waved through the window until he could not see his mother anymore. Once out of sight of the station, Horace contented himself to sit in his compartment, studying the book about Quidditch Professor Nathan had recommended during their trip to Diagon Alley that summer.
Around noon, a witch came by his compartment, pushing a cart loaded with sweets, sandwiches, and other refreshments. He purchased a sandwich and some orange-colored juice which the woman told him was pumpkin juice and–at the woman's suggestion–bought some sweets as well. Although he was a bit skeptical about the Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans–surely, they didn't mean every flavor?–he was quite surprised when his Chocolate Frog hopped out of its open container and into his lap.
Horace saw a card inside the box that his interesting bit of chocolate had come from, and picked it up, shoving the frog head-first into his mouth.
"Gwenog Jones," he read through his mouthful of chocolate, "Captain and Beater of the only all-female national Quidditch Team, the Holyhead Harpies."
Setting the card aside excitedly, Horace again took up his new copy of Quidditch Through the Ages. "Beater . . . Beater . . ." he muttered, paging quickly from the Table of Contents to the appropriate page. "Ah!" he said once he found the description of positions. "I get it now!"
Again picking up the card, Horace sought Gwenog Jones' picture. He was about to look at the book again when he noticed that the figure in the picture was moving. "Wow!" he exclaimed. "That's the best hologram I've ever seen!"
Looking closer, Horace realized that the picture was not, indeed, holographic. The picture actually looked more like a five-second clip from a movie than a hologram.
Horace decided that he could wait to learn about wizarding pictures for another time, and set the card aside, opening another Chocolate Frog.
By the time night fell, Horace had collected six new cards, including Gwenog Jones, Albus Dumbledore, and Ptolemy. As Horace started to doze in the early-evening gloom, an older student–the only other student he'd seen since boarding the train–came by, instructing him to don his school robes, because the station was just ahead. Horace did as he was told, then gathered his luggage, carefully putting his new cards into his trunk with his other clothes, and waited for the train to stop.
*****
Dear Mum, Horace wrote later that night as he sat on the four-poster he’d chosen in the dormitory, surrounded heavy green curtains and straining to see by the light of the lantern he dared not turn brighter for fear of waking his new classmates.
Hogwarts is brilliant! he continued after a moment. We all got off the train, and this large man yelled for the first-years to follow him to a lake where some boats were waiting. The boats ran by magic, and when we turned a corner, Hagrid (that’s the man’s name) showed us the school.
It’s huge, mum! It’s in this ruddy great castle up on a cliff, and the view from the lake is—
The boy in the bed next to him, a snobby blond lad—or was it the snobby brunette?—he had met at the feast, snorted in his sleep, startling Horace. Unused to writing with quill and ink on parchment, Horace thought it the better part of valor—it would certainly save his ears from his mum’s rants about handwriting next time he was home—to put off finishing the letter until morning.
Horace felt he could also use some sleep. After all, classes would start the next morning, and he wanted to be well-rested so he could start becoming the best wizard ever.
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