Chapter Text
Gareth had looked forward to his eleventh birthday as long as he could remember. But his yearning for a Hogwarts letter had little do with chocolate frogs or butterbeer, or even Quidditch. Even magic was only a secondary interest, strange as it was to have learned magic was real, when his sister got her letter.
For Gareth, a Hogwarts letter meant escape.
He sat crosslegged on his bed, pretending to watch YouTube on his phone. He’d seen Legally Blonde dozen of times—twice already today—and could sing along while glancing at the window every other line.
Snick!
His duet with Elle (as she made over Elliot’s wardrobe) was interrupted by the sharp sound of someone knocking on glass. Or something. Something sharp and hard. Like a beak.
Although he’d been waiting for it all day, the sound managed to catch him by surprise, as if he’d been afraid it wouldn’t come.
Which was, of course, the truth. Unlike his brother and sister, Gareth had not had the terrifying (but reassuring, once they’d learned about magic) experience of ‘odd’ things happening around him. He didn’t realize, until the owl’s knock, that he hadn’t really, not really, been expecting it.
With shaking hands he pushed up the window. The owl dipped its head and stepped gracefully into his bedroom, then spread its wings and glided to perch on the footboard of his bed. It was a beautiful owl, although he hadn’t a clue what kind of owl. Its feathers were mostly brown, but gold flecked the tips of its outstretched wings and its tail. As he watched, it folded its wings with an air of slow dignity. Its beak was more black than brown.
A letter was clamped in that beak.
Gareth’s breath caught. Even an owl knocking on his window had not entirely, one hundred percent, convinced him a Hogwarts letter had come.
The owl stretched its neck slightly, as if holding out the letter to him. He raised a hand to take it. But then he saw the writing on the envelope. His breath huddled in his chest. Hope shriveled to dust on his tongue.
Hogwarts would not be the escape he’d hoped for.
His heart crashed from wild excitement at the owl’s arrival to a dull, throbbing—but all too familiar—ache. He thought about shooing the owl back out the window, letter still in its beak. About not taking, not opening, that envelope.
But…how would that help? Would staying here be better? He shuddered, trying to imagine surviving at home six more years until he came of age. No, seven more years, if he stayed in the Muggle world. Not. Possible. Hogwarts might not be better. But it could hardly be worse.
The owl blinked patiently, but stretched its neck a few millimeters closer.
Gareth sighed, still staring at the address. Agnes Warwick, 150 Croxton Road, Thetford. “Thank you,” he told the owl as he reached out his hand. The owl released the envelope as his fingertips closed on the corner.
Hogwarts can’t be worse, he told himself again. Hogwarts could not possibly--
As he grasped the letter, the address shimmered. The ink blurred, swirling, then reformed. Gareth Warwick, 150 Croxton Road, Thetford.
The writing blurred again, but this time because Gareth was blinking away tears. One small change. Hardly anything. But it was everything. Someone at Hogwarts knew. Someone understood. Understood enough to even enchant the letter, so he, and only he, would see what it really said. Who it was really addressed to.
He opened the letter carefully, sliding his finger under the seal, not breaking the wax. When he set the envelope down, the ink blurred back to its original appearance, so he picked it up and set it on his knee. His real name promptly returned. Grinning, he unfolded the letter.
Dear Mr. Warwick,
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. Terms begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31.
Yours sincerely,
Deputy Headmaster,
Filius Flitwick
Pleased as he was, Gareth merely skimmed the letter. After all, except for the surprising but exhilarating use of his real name—which he had written over and over for years, Gareth Alfred Warwick, but never said aloud to anyone, and he decided to put aside for now the question of how they had known—the words themselves were exactly the same as Abby’s had been. It was the post script that caught and held his attention.
Once you are in residence, you may wish to consult with me. I have been giving thought to your situation and may be able to offer some assistance. I was, after all, professor of transfiguration for many years.
Sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall, Headmistress
This time Gary’s smile could have ignited a torch. Hogwarts knew, and they wanted to help. He touched the letter. They had helped. The Headmistress was thinking about ways to help him. He tried to contain his excitement. She had not, after all, promised anything. She didn’t say she knew of a spell that could make his body match his mind. She had said she would try to help. Nothing more.
But nothing else.
Hogwarts was going to be wonderful.