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Discovery
by
Zenathea
Chapter 1 – A School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
It was a sunny, cloudless day – one of those hot to the point of the heat being almost unbearable sort of days. Many Londoners had given up all pretense of enjoying the muggy, July heat that choked them, upon stepping outside their homes and offices, and had sequestered themselves inside air-conditioned buildings or taken up residence for the day by one the of the many public water fountains or pools.
In a far from wealthy neighborhood, where the streets were lined with Edwardian era houses in various states of disrepair, a boy with messy, black hair and intelligent, green eyes braved the heat of the day. He sat behind one particular house that looked to be in worse shape than the others on its block, although the house's back garden was considerably well tended to in comparison to any other in the neighborhood.
It was in the back garden that the boy sat, hidden within one of the flowerbeds that lined the garden fence, behind a grouping of Hydrangea bushes in specific. A contemplative, longing look marred his young face. A book rested open in his lap, propped against his bent, knobby knees. Neither the book or the fact that the rough, hard bricks of the weathered fence he rested against were cutting painfully into his back through the threadbare t-shirt that he wore seemed to concern him. He was lost in his thoughts and not pleasant thoughts at that.
Such was the state that Cole Trafalgar found himself in more often than not when the slow, tediousness of day to day existence caught up with him. Summers were the worst. They were always the worst. During the school year, he had school and homework to keep him occupied to an extent, but summers … they dragged on with each day pointedly reminding him of his lot in life.
“Cole!”
Cole sighed, knowing the voice calling to him all too well. A look of annoyance overtook his features and deepened, as noisy, hurried steps approached his hiding place – a perfectly good hiding place that he'd rather not have compromised by the shear stupidity of Adam Marsden. It was bad enough that Adam had discovered his hiding place a month back and could now find him where he'd once been free of Madam Taft, Leanne, and Adam, as well.
Cole glowered at the red haired, pudgy boy of eight, as the younger boy crawled between the largest Hydrangea bush and the fence, causing the entire bush to shake noticeably with his clumsy movements. Several of the purplish blue flower petals fell free of the plant and drifted to the cool, shaded soil that defined the small cavity behind the Hydrangeas that was just big enough for the two boys to share.
“I knew you'd be here,” the pudgy boy said with a trace of relief on his round face.
“How many times have I told you not to come out here shouting for me?” Cole demanded, glaring at Adam. They weren't supposed to be in the flowerbeds. Madam Taft would have their heads, if she ever found out that they'd been defiling her precious plants, as her garden was her pride and joy. The old bat cared more for her plants than she did for the children she fostered, Cole was sure of it and Adam knew it as well. “You best hope Leanne didn't see you.” The older girl wouldn't waste such an opportunity to get them in trouble.
“She didn't,”Adam said adamantly. “She's busy spyin' on Madam Taft and –”His mouth snapped shut and his hand flew to his left pocket in a frantic gesture, as if remembering something he'd put in the pocket and needing to assure himself that it was still there. Relief flashed across his face, before he bit his lips and looked to Cole in a familiar, nervous manner that made Cole want to smack him.
“What've you done now?” Cole asked resignedly, knowing that Adam was about to ask him to help clean up one of his mess, fix something he's broken, or replace something he's lost before Madam Taft or Leanne noticed.
“I didn't mean to,” Adam wailed. “I swear that I didn't. But … but I was curious a-and –”
“Whatever you've done, I'm sure it's not that bad,” Cole said, as the boy choked on his own words and buried in head in hands.
“I'm going to be is so much trouble,” the boy said with mumbled words, sounding truly distressed.
Cole let out an exasperated breath, reminding himself that it wasn't Adam's fault that his parents were druggies who shouldn't have ever been allowed to conceive a child, just as it wasn't Leanne's fault that her parents were drunkards and thieves who were currently rotting in their respective prison cells and so forcing him to endure their daughter's snide remarks on a daily basis. It was just their lot in life, and they had to deal with one another the best that they could. He was merely the lucky one out of the three of them, as no one could prove that his parents were complete and total disappointments. As the black haired babe found on 1 November 1981 at the base of the Nelson Column in Trafalgar Square, he had the luxury of pretending that his parents were honest, decent folk who just hadn't been ready for a kid or perhaps had misplaced him or something. Although, it was getting harder and harder for him to convince himself of as much with each passing year.
Adam handed Cole an odd envelope from his pocket wordlessly. Cole took it from the younger boy, who continued to snivel into his hands.
As Cole weighed the strange envelope in his hand, he marveled at the weird texture of the paper it was made out of and the emerald ink scrawled in perfect hand across it's front. The envelope was addressed to him. It had his name on it, M. Trafalgar, and specified his residence down to the first floor, far left bedroom facing east. He frowned at the lack of return address and stamp. He turned the envelope over and his frown became even more pronounced at seeing an official looking wax seal holding the envelope closed.
With curiosity and a small amount of trepidation, Cole peeled back the wax seal and pulled out the sheets of ink riddled paper of a similar texture to the envelope. The top sheet read:
HOGWARTS SCHOOL
of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock,
Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. Of Wizards)
Dear Mr. Trafalgar,
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.
Term begins on 1September. We await your owl no later than 31 July.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall,
Deputy Headmistress
“Witchcraft and wizardry?” Cole mouthed, completely perplexed by the strange letter. He looked to Adam. The boy was still sniffling beside him.“Where did you get this Adam?”
“T-the man dropped it.” Adam's eyes remained locked upon his lap, his lower lip trembling. “It's odd, i-isn't it? – and has that fancy crest. I picked it up and was just lookin' at it. I w-wanted a look, tha's all. I swear it.” He looked up at Cole with pleading eyes that silently begged the older boy to believe him. “He didn't realize he dropped it at first. I was g-gonna give it back, Cole. I was. But then I heard him sayin' that he had a letter and you know how Madam Taft gets when she thinks we're up to no good. I sh-shoulda just returned it. I know I shoulda, but I …” He gestured wildly towards the house beyond the Hydrangeas and then to where he'd crawled between the fence and the largest Hydrangea bush.
“You ran,” Cole concluded for him, frustration rising within him at just how stupid Adam could be at times. Yet, he couldn't help but wonder who the man carrying about a letter addressed to him, which speaks of a school of witchcraft and wizardry, was and if the letter in his hands was actually authentic. Magic was real, after all. Cole had done it. He'd just never heard of any school that teaches it.
Adam nodded, only for his eyes to widen, as they settled upon the open envelope and the unfolded sheets of the letter in Cole's hands. “Cole!” he exclaimed, half whined fearfully, as his red, watery eyes turned miserable and filled with tears that he'd not be able to hold back.
“It's mine,” Cole said quickly, hoping to calm Adam before the boy drew attention from inside the house. He made to show Adam that the envelope was addressed to him.
“I hate you!” Adam yelled loudly and jumped to his feet, ignoring the emerald writing on the envelope. “I h-hate you!” he yelled again, as his tears spilled over and slid down his reddened cheeks. “You're always g-getting me in trouble with Madam Taft!” He kicked Cole in the leg, just as a great sob escaped him, and before Cole could stop him, he barreled out of the Hydrangeas and dashed for the house.
Cole winced, as he touched the scuffed skin of his calf. It was pink and stung a bit, but didn't hurt too horribly. Adam was pudgy, not strong.
“Madam Taft! Madam Taft!”
Cole heard the sound of the back door close behind Adam. He grimaced. He knew what Adam was going to do without even needing to hear Madam Taft yell for him. Hastily, he stuffed the sheets of the letter back into the envelope and settled the envelope between the pages of the book that he'd been reading prior to having become lost in another day dream about what he might have been doing on a summer day like today, if he had parents. He certainly wouldn't have been hiding out in Madam Taft's Hydrangea bushes, he knew that.
“Cole Trafalgar! You get in this house this instant!”
“Coming, Madam Taft,” Cole yelled back. With his book under his arm, he checked to make sure the cost was clear, before exiting the Hydrangeas with far more stealth than Adan had and making for the house.
The house that Cole had been forced to call 'home' for the last three years wasn't a large house, yet wasn't super small either. Like many townhouses, it was narrow in design. There was a cellar accessible by the backyard, the ground floor, the first floor, and a second floor that was part of the attic.
Cole entered the plain, white walled entrance hall, leaving behind the sweet perfume of the garden and the heat of the day. He slipped off his dirty trainers by the door – a habit instilled into by Madam Taft – before making his way up the long, narrow hall that extended from the front door to the back door with just enough room for a rickety set of stairs.
“In the sitting room,” Madam Taft instructed brusquely.
Cole gritted his teeth and picked up his pace, passing the kitchen, a small dining room, and all too soon rounding the archway of the sitting room. More so than the rest of the house that Cole was allowed access to, the room smelled of Madam Taft, the scent of old woman that was a cross between a floral sort of smell and the stench of decay. He wrinkled his nose, as he took in the sight of Adam standing near where Madam Taft sat in her favorite armchair, looking stubborn. The woman herself was looking less than pleased.
“He's got the man's letter. I saw him nick it, Madam Taft. I swear I did,” Adam piped up almost instantly.
“Cole, is what Adam says true?” Madam Taft asked severely, her aged face full of condemnation.
“I haven't nicked anything,” Cole said truthfully, yet knew it was no use. The old bat didn't like him and had never liked him, none of his caregivers ever do. He was only still under the madam's care after three years of old happenings dubbed 'the work of the devil', because the woman had a reputation to protect. Supposedly, she took in the worst of London's foster kids and turned them into proper citizens without fail, before they aged out of the system. With Leanne, Adam, and him, however, Cole thought that she had finally bitten off more than she could chew. The madam wasn't as young as she once was and Leanne and Adam were always keen on stirring up some sort of trouble, purposefully more often than accidentally. As for Cole … well, trouble usually found him without him ever having to go looking for it, especially since Adam's arrival eight months back.
“He's lyin'!” Adam yelled furiously. “I saw him. I saw him!”
Madam Taft held up her hand for silence and looked purposefully at the mid-aged man dressed in an old fashioned suit with his dark brown hair styled in a sleek ponytail, who was sitting straight-backed in the armchair across from her with his legs crossed at the knee, looking the picture of a civilized gentleman. “You may speak with Cole if you insist upon it, Professor, but as I've told you and you can now see plainly for yourself, the boy is hardly fit to attend such a prestigious establishment.”
The man, the professor, regarded Cole with a critical gaze. Cole shifted uneasily under the man's perceptive eyes, feeling himself being judged and knowing that he'll be found wanting.
“Mr. Trafalgar, is it?” the professor asked.
“Yes, sir.” Cole tried not to fidget.
“Have you opened the letter?” The question wasn't accusatory, merely curious.
“Yes, sir. I have,” Cole confirmed, while avoiding looking at Madam Taft. She'd do her worst later.
“Are you interested?” The professor's brown eyes swept over Cole once more, before capturing and holding the boy's gaze. “A simple yes or no will suffice.” He glanced meaningfully at Adam and Madam Taft, leaving Cole with the impression that the two weren't supposed to know what his letter contained.
Surely, Cole thought to himself, Madam Taft wouldn't consider aschool that teaches witchcraft and wizardry a prestigious establishment.
“Yes, sir. I am,” Cole answered with more confidence than he actually felt, while trying not to sound too eager. He had a feeling that the letter and the man weren't all a part of some elaborate hoax, but to be on the safe side, he didn't want to show how much a school of witchcraft and wizardry excited him, so they couldn't laugh at him too hard when they pulled the proverbial rug out from under him.
“Very well,” the professor said with a smile lighting his features and made to stand. He looked to Madam Taft. “I will be taking Mr. Trafalgar to get his school supplies.”
“But, sir,” Madam Taft protested, standing up as well, her movements slow and riddle with her age. “The boy –”
“Has been down on our list for several years now,” the professor cut off Madam Taft sharply, his smile faltering and eyes narrowing at her in displeasure. He looked as if he had many things that he'd like to say to her, none of which would be very nice. He took a slow breath and returned his attention to Cole. “Go put on your shoes, Mr. Trafalgar. I'll meet you at the front door.”
Cole didn't need to be told twice, as Madam Taft was glaring at him with the loathing that she had long since abandoned trying to hide. He was entirely unsurprised when Adam darted out of the room after him, knowing just as the younger boy did that the red haired boy would need the head start on escaping Madam Taft's wrath.
Cole slipped on his beat up trainers, pulling at the stubborn tongue of his right trainer that always got tangled as he did so. Upon turning back towards the front of the entrance hall, he saw the professor waiting for him.
“You should leave that here,” the professor said with a nod at the book Cole still carried, as the boy approached him.
“Yes, sir.” Cole opened the book and extracted his letter from its pages, knowing that it no longer mattered if Madam Taft demanded that he turn out his pockets and not wanting to leave his letter behind with the book. He tucked his letter into the right, back pocket of his shorts with care and placed the book on the sideboard by the door. When he looked back up at the professor, the knowing look in the man's eyes was unmistakable.
The professor said nothing, as he pulled open the front door and ushered Cole out of the house, down the stone steps of the front stoop, and onto the pavement.
Cole bit his lip, falling into step beside the man, as they headed left up the walk. He had so many question that he wanted to ask about magic and the professor's school that he felt as if he might burst, yet the man's silence held his tongue.
They walked for some time, leaving behind the familiarity of Cole's neighborhood. The sun was merciless at their backs, while the pavement reflected the day's heat up at them. Cole could feel himself panting and his shirt clinging to the skin between his shoulder blades, yet the professor didn't even look so much as flushed and the man had on a full suit. Magic, Cole thought with certainty and a touch of envy.
Upon catching sight of a cab, the professor hailed the vehicle. He gave the cabby an address on Charing Cross and directed Cole into the air-conditioned backseat, much to Cole's relief. The cab ride passed in continued silence with Cole forcing himself to look out the window and not fidget in his seat. After several drawn out minutes that felt more like an hour than a mere fifteen minutes, the cab pulled to a stop along a busy street with towering building on either side.
“This way, Mr. Trafalgar,” the professor said and steered Cole past an old, second-hand bookstore towards a dingy looking pub. A sight reading 'The Leaky Cauldron' protruded over the door, hung on rusted iron.
Glancing around to see if anyone else found the pub to be strange and looking very out of place, Cole noticed that no one else, outside of the professor and himself, seemed to be aware of the pub's existence, for most people's eyes slid from the bookstore to the record shop on the opposite side of the pub without even sparing the pub a glance.
“Can they see it?” Cole asked curiously, watching as a woman and her two daughters walked past the pub as if it wasn't even there.
“No,” the professor said simply and pulled open the door of the pub in an assured, inviting manner that had Cole stepping into the pub without question or hesitation.
The inside of the pub wasn't much of an improvement over its outside, in Cole's opinion. It was darkly lit with oil lamps and candles and had an overall worn and shabby feel to it. There were only a few patrons. An elderly man at the bar was talking to the barman in slurred syllables and a young witch sitting at one of the shadowed back tables was writing with a feather on paper that appeared similar to the paper of Cole's envelope.
Quill and parchment, Cole realized with a jolt of surprise and a surge of interest.
“I imagine that you have a lot of questions,” the professor said and gestured for Cole to take a seat at the nearest table.
Cole sat and looked up at the professor expectantly.
The professor gave Cole a genial smile, as he lowered himself into the seat opposite the boy. “I am Demetrius Cornfoot, professor of History of Magic at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I am here to answer whatever questions you might have about the magical world and guide you in buying your school supplies.”
Cole shifted uneasily in his chair. “How much do the supplies cost?” He hope that the supplies didn't cost much and that he didn't have to pay form them, as he didn't have any money. If he did have to pay for them, well, he hoped that he might strike some sort of deal with the professor. He liked magic and wanted to attend the professor's school and learn more about magic and what all could be done with it. The most he'd ever been able to do with meaning to was to make things move without touching them. Though, one time, when he hadn't meant to, he had turned Leanne's skin purple with bright green spots. He still wasn't sure how she got back to normal. All he knew was that the next time that he had seen her she was normal again and neither she nor Madam Taft remembered the incident.
Professor Cornfoot pulled a velvet pouch with the same crest as the one stamped into the wax seal of Cole's letter stitched into its front from an inside pocket of his suit's jacket and dropped it on the table in front of Cole. There was a distinct clink-clink-clink that rang of several coins knocking together. “That will be enough to buy you everything you need. If you get some of your supplies second-hand, you'll be able to buy a bit more than the basics.”
Cole stared at Professor Cornfoot, waiting for the man to elaborate on what exactly 'the basics' were. When the professor didn't, he thought back to his letter and remembered there being a second parchment. Under Professor Cornfoot's approving gaze, he pulled his letter from his pocket and shifted his acceptance letter aside. Along with his acceptance letter, he'd been given a train ticket and a supplies list. The supplies list read:
HOGWARTS SCHOOL
of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY
UNIFORM
First-year student will require:
1. Three sets of plain work robes (black)
2. One plain pointed hat(black) for day wear
3. One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)
4. One winter cloak(black, silver fastenings)
Please note that all pupils' clothes should carry name tags
COURSE BOOKS
All students should have a copy of each of the following:
The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk
A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot
Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling
A Beginners' Guide to Transfiguration by Emeric Switch
One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore
Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger
Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander
The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin Trimble
OTHER EQUIPMENT
1 wand
1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)
1 set glass or crystal phials
1 telescope
1 set brass scales
Students may also bring an owl OR a cat OR a toad
PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICKS
As Cole looked over the list, Professor Cornfoot got up and went over to the bar. He returned just as Cole finished reading the list with two bottles of a yellowish substance labeled 'Butterbeer' in his hands.
“It's good. You'll like it,” the professor said encouragingly, upon sitting back down across from Cole and setting down one of the bottles in front of the boy.
Tentatively, Cole reached out and picked up the bottle that Professor Cornfoot clearly intended for him to drink. “Thank you, sir,” he said, before taking his very first sip of the concoction. As creamy and smooth as butterscotch, yet no so sickeningly sweet, the liquid crossed his tongue and slid down his throat. Its coolness was refreshing, and he couldn't help but smack his lips and take another sip as soon as he was through with the first. Madam Taft never allowed them treats like this. As he swallowed down his second swig of what was now his new favorite drink, he forced himself to put the bottle down and not drink anymore of it right away. He wanted to savor it.
When Cole looked up at Professor Cornfoot, he found the professor watching him with sadness that the man tried to hide behind a friendly demeanor. It was a look that he was more than familiar with. As he looked back down at his supplies list, he vowed not to drink anymore of the butterbeer, his pride rejecting the professor's pity.
“What all can I get second-hand?” Cole kept his eyes fixed upon his supplies list. While having brand new things sounded wonderful and a bit like a dream, he was a realist. New things would become old things, meaning that he might as well have boughten them second-hand to begin with. It was how he had justified the hand-me-down cloths, toys, book-bags, and the like that he'd owned over the course of his young life. He saw no reason for his status quo to change just because he'd be going to a school that taught magic in September. After all, it wasn't like he could be marked anymore of an orphan by second-hand things than by his very name and his inability speak with confidence when he told people that August 1st was his birthday. He'd been given a name and a day of birth, because he needed a name and day of birth. What his parents had actually named him and what day he'd truly been born on … he'd give anything for that sort of information.
“You can get your robes second-hand, probably a lot of your books as well,” Professor Cornfoot said informatively. “I wouldn't suggest getting a second-hand wand or cauldron. It's best to know what potions have been brewed in your cauldron and a second-hand wand won't ever allow you to reach your full potential. Phials are rare to find second-hand, but you should have some luck with getting a second-hand telescope and scales.”
Cole nodded and looked up at the professor. He noted that the man's butterbeer was almost empty. “Can we go and get my things now, sir?Madam Taft won't like it if I come back late.”
“Don't you want to finish your butterbeer?” Professor Cornfoot asked with a slight frown
“No, sir.” Cole stood and met the professor's gaze with a defiant jut of his jaw.
Professor Cornfoot regarded Cole quizzically, before nodding to the boy's letter and the pouch of money. “Very well, Mr. Trafalgar,” he stood, “collect your things and we'll be on our way.”
Discovery
by
Zenathea
Chapter 1 – A School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
It was a sunny, cloudless day – one of those hot to the point of the heat being almost unbearable sort of days. Many Londoners had given up all pretense of enjoying the muggy, July heat that choked them, upon stepping outside their homes and offices, and had sequestered themselves inside air-conditioned buildings or taken up residence for the day by one the of the many public water fountains or pools.
In a far from wealthy neighborhood, where the streets were lined with Edwardian era houses in various states of disrepair, a boy with messy, black hair and intelligent, green eyes braved the heat of the day. He sat behind one particular house that looked to be in worse shape than the others on its block, although the house's back garden was considerably well tended to in comparison to any other in the neighborhood.
It was in the back garden that the boy sat, hidden within one of the flowerbeds that lined the garden fence, behind a grouping of Hydrangea bushes in specific. A contemplative, longing look marred his young face. A book rested open in his lap, propped against his bent, knobby knees. Neither the book or the fact that the rough, hard bricks of the weathered fence he rested against were cutting painfully into his back through the threadbare t-shirt that he wore seemed to concern him. He was lost in his thoughts and not pleasant thoughts at that.
Such was the state that Cole Trafalgar found himself in more often than not when the slow, tediousness of day to day existence caught up with him. Summers were the worst. They were always the worst. During the school year, he had school and homework to keep him occupied to an extent, but summers … they dragged on with each day pointedly reminding him of his lot in life.
“Cole!”
Cole sighed, knowing the voice calling to him all too well. A look of annoyance overtook his features and deepened, as noisy, hurried steps approached his hiding place – a perfectly good hiding place that he'd rather not have compromised by the shear stupidity of Adam Marsden. It was bad enough that Adam had discovered his hiding place a month back and could now find him where he'd once been free of Madam Taft, Leanne, and Adam, as well.
Cole glowered at the red haired, pudgy boy of eight, as the younger boy crawled between the largest Hydrangea bush and the fence, causing the entire bush to shake noticeably with his clumsy movements. Several of the purplish blue flower petals fell free of the plant and drifted to the cool, shaded soil that defined the small cavity behind the Hydrangeas that was just big enough for the two boys to share.
“I knew you'd be here,” the pudgy boy said with a trace of relief on his round face.
“How many times have I told you not to come out here shouting for me?” Cole demanded, glaring at Adam. They weren't supposed to be in the flowerbeds. Madam Taft would have their heads, if she ever found out that they'd been defiling her precious plants, as her garden was her pride and joy. The old bat cared more for her plants than she did for the children she fostered, Cole was sure of it and Adam knew it as well. “You best hope Leanne didn't see you.” The older girl wouldn't waste such an opportunity to get them in trouble.
“She didn't,”Adam said adamantly. “She's busy spyin' on Madam Taft and –”His mouth snapped shut and his hand flew to his left pocket in a frantic gesture, as if remembering something he'd put in the pocket and needing to assure himself that it was still there. Relief flashed across his face, before he bit his lips and looked to Cole in a familiar, nervous manner that made Cole want to smack him.
“What've you done now?” Cole asked resignedly, knowing that Adam was about to ask him to help clean up one of his mess, fix something he's broken, or replace something he's lost before Madam Taft or Leanne noticed.
“I didn't mean to,” Adam wailed. “I swear that I didn't. But … but I was curious a-and –”
“Whatever you've done, I'm sure it's not that bad,” Cole said, as the boy choked on his own words and buried in head in hands.
“I'm going to be is so much trouble,” the boy said with mumbled words, sounding truly distressed.
Cole let out an exasperated breath, reminding himself that it wasn't Adam's fault that his parents were druggies who shouldn't have ever been allowed to conceive a child, just as it wasn't Leanne's fault that her parents were drunkards and thieves who were currently rotting in their respective prison cells and so forcing him to endure their daughter's snide remarks on a daily basis. It was just their lot in life, and they had to deal with one another the best that they could. He was merely the lucky one out of the three of them, as no one could prove that his parents were complete and total disappointments. As the black haired babe found on 1 November 1981 at the base of the Nelson Column in Trafalgar Square, he had the luxury of pretending that his parents were honest, decent folk who just hadn't been ready for a kid or perhaps had misplaced him or something. Although, it was getting harder and harder for him to convince himself of as much with each passing year.
Adam handed Cole an odd envelope from his pocket wordlessly. Cole took it from the younger boy, who continued to snivel into his hands.
As Cole weighed the strange envelope in his hand, he marveled at the weird texture of the paper it was made out of and the emerald ink scrawled in perfect hand across it's front. The envelope was addressed to him. It had his name on it, M. Trafalgar, and specified his residence down to the first floor, far left bedroom facing east. He frowned at the lack of return address and stamp. He turned the envelope over and his frown became even more pronounced at seeing an official looking wax seal holding the envelope closed.
With curiosity and a small amount of trepidation, Cole peeled back the wax seal and pulled out the sheets of ink riddled paper of a similar texture to the envelope. The top sheet read:
HOGWARTS SCHOOL
of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock,
Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. Of Wizards)
Dear Mr. Trafalgar,
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.
Term begins on 1September. We await your owl no later than 31 July.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall,
Deputy Headmistress
“Witchcraft and wizardry?” Cole mouthed, completely perplexed by the strange letter. He looked to Adam. The boy was still sniffling beside him.“Where did you get this Adam?”
“T-the man dropped it.” Adam's eyes remained locked upon his lap, his lower lip trembling. “It's odd, i-isn't it? – and has that fancy crest. I picked it up and was just lookin' at it. I w-wanted a look, tha's all. I swear it.” He looked up at Cole with pleading eyes that silently begged the older boy to believe him. “He didn't realize he dropped it at first. I was g-gonna give it back, Cole. I was. But then I heard him sayin' that he had a letter and you know how Madam Taft gets when she thinks we're up to no good. I sh-shoulda just returned it. I know I shoulda, but I …” He gestured wildly towards the house beyond the Hydrangeas and then to where he'd crawled between the fence and the largest Hydrangea bush.
“You ran,” Cole concluded for him, frustration rising within him at just how stupid Adam could be at times. Yet, he couldn't help but wonder who the man carrying about a letter addressed to him, which speaks of a school of witchcraft and wizardry, was and if the letter in his hands was actually authentic. Magic was real, after all. Cole had done it. He'd just never heard of any school that teaches it.
Adam nodded, only for his eyes to widen, as they settled upon the open envelope and the unfolded sheets of the letter in Cole's hands. “Cole!” he exclaimed, half whined fearfully, as his red, watery eyes turned miserable and filled with tears that he'd not be able to hold back.
“It's mine,” Cole said quickly, hoping to calm Adam before the boy drew attention from inside the house. He made to show Adam that the envelope was addressed to him.
“I hate you!” Adam yelled loudly and jumped to his feet, ignoring the emerald writing on the envelope. “I h-hate you!” he yelled again, as his tears spilled over and slid down his reddened cheeks. “You're always g-getting me in trouble with Madam Taft!” He kicked Cole in the leg, just as a great sob escaped him, and before Cole could stop him, he barreled out of the Hydrangeas and dashed for the house.
Cole winced, as he touched the scuffed skin of his calf. It was pink and stung a bit, but didn't hurt too horribly. Adam was pudgy, not strong.
“Madam Taft! Madam Taft!”
Cole heard the sound of the back door close behind Adam. He grimaced. He knew what Adam was going to do without even needing to hear Madam Taft yell for him. Hastily, he stuffed the sheets of the letter back into the envelope and settled the envelope between the pages of the book that he'd been reading prior to having become lost in another day dream about what he might have been doing on a summer day like today, if he had parents. He certainly wouldn't have been hiding out in Madam Taft's Hydrangea bushes, he knew that.
“Cole Trafalgar! You get in this house this instant!”
“Coming, Madam Taft,” Cole yelled back. With his book under his arm, he checked to make sure the cost was clear, before exiting the Hydrangeas with far more stealth than Adan had and making for the house.
The house that Cole had been forced to call 'home' for the last three years wasn't a large house, yet wasn't super small either. Like many townhouses, it was narrow in design. There was a cellar accessible by the backyard, the ground floor, the first floor, and a second floor that was part of the attic.
Cole entered the plain, white walled entrance hall, leaving behind the sweet perfume of the garden and the heat of the day. He slipped off his dirty trainers by the door – a habit instilled into by Madam Taft – before making his way up the long, narrow hall that extended from the front door to the back door with just enough room for a rickety set of stairs.
“In the sitting room,” Madam Taft instructed brusquely.
Cole gritted his teeth and picked up his pace, passing the kitchen, a small dining room, and all too soon rounding the archway of the sitting room. More so than the rest of the house that Cole was allowed access to, the room smelled of Madam Taft, the scent of old woman that was a cross between a floral sort of smell and the stench of decay. He wrinkled his nose, as he took in the sight of Adam standing near where Madam Taft sat in her favorite armchair, looking stubborn. The woman herself was looking less than pleased.
“He's got the man's letter. I saw him nick it, Madam Taft. I swear I did,” Adam piped up almost instantly.
“Cole, is what Adam says true?” Madam Taft asked severely, her aged face full of condemnation.
“I haven't nicked anything,” Cole said truthfully, yet knew it was no use. The old bat didn't like him and had never liked him, none of his caregivers ever do. He was only still under the madam's care after three years of old happenings dubbed 'the work of the devil', because the woman had a reputation to protect. Supposedly, she took in the worst of London's foster kids and turned them into proper citizens without fail, before they aged out of the system. With Leanne, Adam, and him, however, Cole thought that she had finally bitten off more than she could chew. The madam wasn't as young as she once was and Leanne and Adam were always keen on stirring up some sort of trouble, purposefully more often than accidentally. As for Cole … well, trouble usually found him without him ever having to go looking for it, especially since Adam's arrival eight months back.
“He's lyin'!” Adam yelled furiously. “I saw him. I saw him!”
Madam Taft held up her hand for silence and looked purposefully at the mid-aged man dressed in an old fashioned suit with his dark brown hair styled in a sleek ponytail, who was sitting straight-backed in the armchair across from her with his legs crossed at the knee, looking the picture of a civilized gentleman. “You may speak with Cole if you insist upon it, Professor, but as I've told you and you can now see plainly for yourself, the boy is hardly fit to attend such a prestigious establishment.”
The man, the professor, regarded Cole with a critical gaze. Cole shifted uneasily under the man's perceptive eyes, feeling himself being judged and knowing that he'll be found wanting.
“Mr. Trafalgar, is it?” the professor asked.
“Yes, sir.” Cole tried not to fidget.
“Have you opened the letter?” The question wasn't accusatory, merely curious.
“Yes, sir. I have,” Cole confirmed, while avoiding looking at Madam Taft. She'd do her worst later.
“Are you interested?” The professor's brown eyes swept over Cole once more, before capturing and holding the boy's gaze. “A simple yes or no will suffice.” He glanced meaningfully at Adam and Madam Taft, leaving Cole with the impression that the two weren't supposed to know what his letter contained.
Surely, Cole thought to himself, Madam Taft wouldn't consider aschool that teaches witchcraft and wizardry a prestigious establishment.
“Yes, sir. I am,” Cole answered with more confidence than he actually felt, while trying not to sound too eager. He had a feeling that the letter and the man weren't all a part of some elaborate hoax, but to be on the safe side, he didn't want to show how much a school of witchcraft and wizardry excited him, so they couldn't laugh at him too hard when they pulled the proverbial rug out from under him.
“Very well,” the professor said with a smile lighting his features and made to stand. He looked to Madam Taft. “I will be taking Mr. Trafalgar to get his school supplies.”
“But, sir,” Madam Taft protested, standing up as well, her movements slow and riddle with her age. “The boy –”
“Has been down on our list for several years now,” the professor cut off Madam Taft sharply, his smile faltering and eyes narrowing at her in displeasure. He looked as if he had many things that he'd like to say to her, none of which would be very nice. He took a slow breath and returned his attention to Cole. “Go put on your shoes, Mr. Trafalgar. I'll meet you at the front door.”
Cole didn't need to be told twice, as Madam Taft was glaring at him with the loathing that she had long since abandoned trying to hide. He was entirely unsurprised when Adam darted out of the room after him, knowing just as the younger boy did that the red haired boy would need the head start on escaping Madam Taft's wrath.
Cole slipped on his beat up trainers, pulling at the stubborn tongue of his right trainer that always got tangled as he did so. Upon turning back towards the front of the entrance hall, he saw the professor waiting for him.
“You should leave that here,” the professor said with a nod at the book Cole still carried, as the boy approached him.
“Yes, sir.” Cole opened the book and extracted his letter from its pages, knowing that it no longer mattered if Madam Taft demanded that he turn out his pockets and not wanting to leave his letter behind with the book. He tucked his letter into the right, back pocket of his shorts with care and placed the book on the sideboard by the door. When he looked back up at the professor, the knowing look in the man's eyes was unmistakable.
The professor said nothing, as he pulled open the front door and ushered Cole out of the house, down the stone steps of the front stoop, and onto the pavement.
Cole bit his lip, falling into step beside the man, as they headed left up the walk. He had so many question that he wanted to ask about magic and the professor's school that he felt as if he might burst, yet the man's silence held his tongue.
They walked for some time, leaving behind the familiarity of Cole's neighborhood. The sun was merciless at their backs, while the pavement reflected the day's heat up at them. Cole could feel himself panting and his shirt clinging to the skin between his shoulder blades, yet the professor didn't even look so much as flushed and the man had on a full suit. Magic, Cole thought with certainty and a touch of envy.
Upon catching sight of a cab, the professor hailed the vehicle. He gave the cabby an address on Charing Cross and directed Cole into the air-conditioned backseat, much to Cole's relief. The cab ride passed in continued silence with Cole forcing himself to look out the window and not fidget in his seat. After several drawn out minutes that felt more like an hour than a mere fifteen minutes, the cab pulled to a stop along a busy street with towering building on either side.
“This way, Mr. Trafalgar,” the professor said and steered Cole past an old, second-hand bookstore towards a dingy looking pub. A sight reading 'The Leaky Cauldron' protruded over the door, hung on rusted iron.
Glancing around to see if anyone else found the pub to be strange and looking very out of place, Cole noticed that no one else, outside of the professor and himself, seemed to be aware of the pub's existence, for most people's eyes slid from the bookstore to the record shop on the opposite side of the pub without even sparing the pub a glance.
“Can they see it?” Cole asked curiously, watching as a woman and her two daughters walked past the pub as if it wasn't even there.
“No,” the professor said simply and pulled open the door of the pub in an assured, inviting manner that had Cole stepping into the pub without question or hesitation.
The inside of the pub wasn't much of an improvement over its outside, in Cole's opinion. It was darkly lit with oil lamps and candles and had an overall worn and shabby feel to it. There were only a few patrons. An elderly man at the bar was talking to the barman in slurred syllables and a young witch sitting at one of the shadowed back tables was writing with a feather on paper that appeared similar to the paper of Cole's envelope.
Quill and parchment, Cole realized with a jolt of surprise and a surge of interest.
“I imagine that you have a lot of questions,” the professor said and gestured for Cole to take a seat at the nearest table.
Cole sat and looked up at the professor expectantly.
The professor gave Cole a genial smile, as he lowered himself into the seat opposite the boy. “I am Demetrius Cornfoot, professor of History of Magic at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I am here to answer whatever questions you might have about the magical world and guide you in buying your school supplies.”
Cole shifted uneasily in his chair. “How much do the supplies cost?” He hope that the supplies didn't cost much and that he didn't have to pay form them, as he didn't have any money. If he did have to pay for them, well, he hoped that he might strike some sort of deal with the professor. He liked magic and wanted to attend the professor's school and learn more about magic and what all could be done with it. The most he'd ever been able to do with meaning to was to make things move without touching them. Though, one time, when he hadn't meant to, he had turned Leanne's skin purple with bright green spots. He still wasn't sure how she got back to normal. All he knew was that the next time that he had seen her she was normal again and neither she nor Madam Taft remembered the incident.
Professor Cornfoot pulled a velvet pouch with the same crest as the one stamped into the wax seal of Cole's letter stitched into its front from an inside pocket of his suit's jacket and dropped it on the table in front of Cole. There was a distinct clink-clink-clink that rang of several coins knocking together. “That will be enough to buy you everything you need. If you get some of your supplies second-hand, you'll be able to buy a bit more than the basics.”
Cole stared at Professor Cornfoot, waiting for the man to elaborate on what exactly 'the basics' were. When the professor didn't, he thought back to his letter and remembered there being a second parchment. Under Professor Cornfoot's approving gaze, he pulled his letter from his pocket and shifted his acceptance letter aside. Along with his acceptance letter, he'd been given a train ticket and a supplies list. The supplies list read:
HOGWARTS SCHOOL
of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY
UNIFORM
First-year student will require:
1. Three sets of plain work robes (black)
2. One plain pointed hat(black) for day wear
3. One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)
4. One winter cloak(black, silver fastenings)
Please note that all pupils' clothes should carry name tags
COURSE BOOKS
All students should have a copy of each of the following:
The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk
A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot
Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling
A Beginners' Guide to Transfiguration by Emeric Switch
One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore
Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger
Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander
The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin Trimble
OTHER EQUIPMENT
1 wand
1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)
1 set glass or crystal phials
1 telescope
1 set brass scales
Students may also bring an owl OR a cat OR a toad
PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICKS
As Cole looked over the list, Professor Cornfoot got up and went over to the bar. He returned just as Cole finished reading the list with two bottles of a yellowish substance labeled 'Butterbeer' in his hands.
“It's good. You'll like it,” the professor said encouragingly, upon sitting back down across from Cole and setting down one of the bottles in front of the boy.
Tentatively, Cole reached out and picked up the bottle that Professor Cornfoot clearly intended for him to drink. “Thank you, sir,” he said, before taking his very first sip of the concoction. As creamy and smooth as butterscotch, yet no so sickeningly sweet, the liquid crossed his tongue and slid down his throat. Its coolness was refreshing, and he couldn't help but smack his lips and take another sip as soon as he was through with the first. Madam Taft never allowed them treats like this. As he swallowed down his second swig of what was now his new favorite drink, he forced himself to put the bottle down and not drink anymore of it right away. He wanted to savor it.
When Cole looked up at Professor Cornfoot, he found the professor watching him with sadness that the man tried to hide behind a friendly demeanor. It was a look that he was more than familiar with. As he looked back down at his supplies list, he vowed not to drink anymore of the butterbeer, his pride rejecting the professor's pity.
“What all can I get second-hand?” Cole kept his eyes fixed upon his supplies list. While having brand new things sounded wonderful and a bit like a dream, he was a realist. New things would become old things, meaning that he might as well have boughten them second-hand to begin with. It was how he had justified the hand-me-down cloths, toys, book-bags, and the like that he'd owned over the course of his young life. He saw no reason for his status quo to change just because he'd be going to a school that taught magic in September. After all, it wasn't like he could be marked anymore of an orphan by second-hand things than by his very name and his inability speak with confidence when he told people that August 1st was his birthday. He'd been given a name and a day of birth, because he needed a name and day of birth. What his parents had actually named him and what day he'd truly been born on … he'd give anything for that sort of information.
“You can get your robes second-hand, probably a lot of your books as well,” Professor Cornfoot said informatively. “I wouldn't suggest getting a second-hand wand or cauldron. It's best to know what potions have been brewed in your cauldron and a second-hand wand won't ever allow you to reach your full potential. Phials are rare to find second-hand, but you should have some luck with getting a second-hand telescope and scales.”
Cole nodded and looked up at the professor. He noted that the man's butterbeer was almost empty. “Can we go and get my things now, sir?Madam Taft won't like it if I come back late.”
“Don't you want to finish your butterbeer?” Professor Cornfoot asked with a slight frown
“No, sir.” Cole stood and met the professor's gaze with a defiant jut of his jaw.
Professor Cornfoot regarded Cole quizzically, before nodding to the boy's letter and the pouch of money. “Very well, Mr. Trafalgar,” he stood, “collect your things and we'll be on our way.”
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