As far as anyone could remember, the Thatchers had never been a normal family. In fact, the whole town of Arbridge was more unusual than most. Nothing in this place would lead anyone to believe that ordinary people lived here. Lining the streets stood several wooden houses of varying shapes and sizes. The yards of the many homes kept far from average plants and far from average people and none of the dwellings looked like the ones on either side of it. Each one did have something in common, however; they were owned by wizards. Decorated with odd-fashioned weather vanes and golden wind chimes, the house at thirty-one Mather Street held a very excited family and one resting ten year-old. Inside, a tall and lanky figure pulled away the covers concealing his lazy, snoozing brother.

"Patrick, wake up! Come on, everyone is waiting downstairs; today might be the day.” Patrick squinted at his brother's long face and then buried his head once more into his pillow.

"If today's the day, then wake me when it gets here," mumbled the drowsy boy through his pillow.

Patrick had been waiting for the day that all Wizarding children anticipate. Before they turn the age of eleven, wizards are sent their most cherished letter�”the letter admitting them to the best Wizarding School in America. Patrick, who figured he could read his letter at any time once it arrived, was not keen on having his slumber interrupted. His ears could hear the sound of many chattering voices from downstairs. Patrick knew that these belonged to his large family who had been spending the past couple days waiting along with him, for his letter. This type of gathering was a tradition in the Pureblood family of Thatchers.

Paul looked down at his brother with a frown, reached into his pocket and withdrew a thin wooden wand from inside. He waved it with a simple swish and flicked it while muttering, "Wingardium Leviosa."

Leaving his bed well beneath him, Patrick's body hovered mid-air, above his room. Flailing his arms in the air, he exclaimed, "All right, all right, I'm up!"

"That you are," said Paul, as he dropped him back onto his bed and turned to leave the room. Patrick stumbled to his feet, wearing only his pajamas, and followed his brother out the door.

"I'm going to be honest, if it doesn't come today, it'll never come," remarked a bemused Paul.

Patrick's face had changed from indifferent to worried. He had always taken his Wizarding abilities for granted; if he did not get the chance to learn how to use them, he feared he would end up disgracing the long Pureblood line of Thatchers. So far, no one in his family had turned out to be a Squib (a wizard who had inherited no magical prowess). This thought brewed inside his mind while walking down the long flight of stairs, separating him from those chattering voices. The many faces moving excitedly in their parlor grabbed Patrick's attention. He had heard several voices, but not as many as there were people to lend them. Almost every family member he knew was sitting, standing, or drinking tea in the living room, which had definitely held a much larger crowd than those who had turned up yesterday.

Before Patrick could be barraged with never-ending embraces, his owl, Icarus, had swooped down and perched himself on Patrick’s shoulder, screeching and flapping his wings; he was clearly as excited as everyone else. Icarus' wings shielded Patrick from his Aunt Ordna, whose fingers had tried to pinch his mildly-freckled face, and the rest of the clambering crowd who had gathered around him. They backed away fearing to be cut by his great, grey claws.

"Let the boy through," croaked a gruff voice. "He's only just gotten up. The sooner you all leave him alone, the sooner he can shut up that bird!" The voice belonged to Emeritus Thatcher, Patrick's grandfather. He was very well known in the Wizarding World as he was one of many notable, living, American wizards. Everyone listened reluctantly, ensuring that Grandpa Thatcher got his way. This was what usually happened whenever he made a request. The Thatchers obeyed not so much out of respect, but because if they didn't, he would start firing off in rants about how he did his part serving his country, but his own family would not do theirs and assist him.

"Come here, Patrick," requested Grandpa Thatcher, "just you wait and it'll be here in no time.”

Patrick patted his owl’s neck and set him on the back of the couch, just behind where his grandfather had asked him to sit.

“Ah, I remember when I got my letter. Back then, it had to be delivered by hand. Wizards weren't very popular in my day, but we�”."

A crack was heard outside and before he could finish his sentence, a large brown owl had flown in through an open window that the Thatchers had decorated for this momentous occasion. Draped over the window were streamers and banners with pictures depicting Patrick showered in confetti. The owl circled the room and landed on top of one of the stairway banisters clutching an ivory white envelope. Patrick ran over to it, and removed it from the owl's claw, which immediately flew away through the same window, not without carrying a "Congratulations Patrick!" banner with him.

Patrick ripped open the letter quickly, not even bothering to glance at the envelope. He was so relieved that his letter had arrived he wasted no time tearing through the navy-blue seal and quickly skimmed the words. His face fell...

The room, once filled with smiling faces, stared intently at Patrick as he stood silently holding both the unfolded letter and envelope.

"What is it boy? Read it!" Grandpa Thatcher was clearly annoyed at Patrick's statuesque behavior. He waved his wand and the letter flew out of his grandson's hand. He, too, read the letter with a puzzled expression.

The rest of the Thatchers began to get restless, as neither Patrick nor Emeritus would explain all the fuss. One of Patrick's stockier uncles removed his yellow hat violently and furrowed his brow.

"Well, are you going to tell us what it says?" he spat.

"With a tone like that I can just keep it to myself. I didn't risk my neck�”talk to me like that, will you?" Grandpa Thatcher dabbed the small beads of sweat dripping from his pearl-white hair.

"Please Dad, just read it," pleaded Patrick's father, Charles Thatcher. He unfolded his long limbs and strode across the room so that he was peering over Grandpa Thatcher’s shoulder, trying to read along as his father read aloud:

WENTWATER CONSERVATORY
of MAGIC

---

Dean: Miles Montgomery
(Fmr. Rep. of New England Legislative Chamber)

Dear Mr. Quinn,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been admitted to the Wentwater Conservatory of Magic. Please find enclosed a list of necessary school supplies and equipment.

The school term begins August 20. We expect your reply by return owl no later than August 1.

Yours Sincerely,
Ernest Snerkin
Asst. Dean

Mr. Quinn? Everyone seemed to be pondering what that name was doing on Patrick's letter. Once he finished, Grandpa Thatcher folded the letter and placed it back in the envelope. He turned it over and he could clearly see the name that Patrick overlooked in his excitement. Sure enough, the letter was addressed to a Mr. William Quinn. Grandpa Thatcher inclined his head toward the envelope after reading the name, and surveyed the room.

Suddenly, his family had understood the state of shock that Patrick was in. Mr. Thatcher took the letter from his father and opened it once more, as if to check that what his father had read was accurate. Many others got up from their seats and gathered behind him to do the same.

Patrick watched as his relatives’ murmurs filled the room; he had disappointed them, he was the first to ruin the tradition of the Thatchers. He did not know what he wanted to do. Perhaps, he would run away and try to make it as a Muggle, he thought.

Was this really the culmination of Patrick’s life as a wizard? He was stricken with a disappointment so grave that there seemed as though nothing could quite console him. It was as if there was no way to fill the void of rejection that was resting inside his body. Patrick now regretted his earlier indifference even more than ever.

He had not moved at all until his mother walked over and embraced him. Her light brown hair tickled his ear as she whispered her assurances.

"Don't worry, Patrick, we'll get this straightened out. We know you're a wizard�”even your brother can vouch for that! Remember when he used to stick out his tongue at you when he got the last piece of pie? It took quite a while for your father and me to find a spell to re-arrange his face again."

Patrick let out a soft chuckle and his mother flashed a wide smile. There was one thing that could console him and had always been there to console him, his mother. He had been foolish to think that his past demonstrations of magic could be overridden by an incident such as this. His realization of this truth sparked the remembrance of yet another, moment of budding Wizardry. One that included the spontaneous appearance of no less than fifty crystal vases, after breaking the original one with a new Quaffle he had received for his sixth birthday.

"Catherine! Come now, we're heading down to the school to check on this," Mr. Thatcher beckoned. The rest of the family stood behind him primping their robes and brushing off their shoulders ready to investigate this oddity. Uncle Latimer was busying straightening his hat in a nearby mirror, fixing it on top of his thinning hair.

“More to the left!” The mirror shouted at him, with a harsh woman’s voice. Uncle Latimer frowned just before walking away and tipping his hat slightly into place.

Mrs. Thatcher turned once more to her son. “Ok, Patrick, we'll be back soon. Why don’t you start sending some owls to your relatives thanking them for coming?" She hugged and kissed him on the cheek and moved to join her husband.

Aunt Ordna was carrying his letter now and was holding it up to her wand, Patrick supposed, in order to check its authenticity. Her face was furled up in a sort of mystified expression, as though she was trying to solve an incredibly hard math problem.

Patrick slowly climbed the stairs back to his room, listening to the cracking sounds of twenty wizards and witches Disapparating away. He did not know what they would be able to do, but we hoped they would do everything in their power to get him in.

He sat on his bed where his blankets had been untouched from before. Not feeling in the mood to write letters at a time such as this, he lay down on his bed watching his poster of Ryan Custford from his favorite Quidditch team, the Wickenburg Warblers, fly around a large field. He surveyed his room, looking around at all that he had ever known, glancing out the window looking at the tiny Wizarding community that he had grown accustomed to knowing and now, all that was in jeopardy. He did not wish to linger on the thought any longer. He sat up, reached for his blankets and wrapped them around his body, sitting in solemn silence.

After falling asleep in his wandering thoughts, Patrick awoke later in the day. He looked outside his window and noticed that the sun had already began to set. Surely, everyone had returned from Wentwater, he thought, as he followed the same path downstairs that he had taken earlier that morning.

He walked through the house until he came across his brother and their house elf, Merton. Merton was a very young elf with sparkling grey eyes and long bat-like ears. He wore a well-kept green vest that was a bit too large for him that contrast with the small bits of brown hair on his head. He had been scurrying back and forth fixing Paul a sandwich when he moved to usher Patrick through the door. The house-elf dragged Patrick by the wrist towards a chair next to his brother. Merton could be incredibly forceful especially when it came to doing things around the house. Every Thatcher could attest that whenever Merton was not offering food to the closest person, he was busy keeping everything in the house spic and span. Merton tended mostly to Patrick, making sure that his room was usually clean; which meant Patrick had a hard time finding things that Merton had rearranged.

“Please sit down, sir. Merton isn't wanting his newest wizard to be uncomfortable," the elf squeaked. Patrick shifted his eyes from the elf to his brother, who obviously had not bothered to inform Merton of the events that occurred earlier. Patrick dropped into a chair and once more looked at his brother; this time furtively.

“Thanks Merton,” he smiled, as the elf shuffled back to the half-made sandwich. “What happened to everyone? Did they come back?" He asked frantically, as if his whole life depended on his brother’s response.

“They all decided to move to Honduras. Said something about you being a disgrace and having to cut their losses," said Paul, licking mayonnaise off his fingers.

“Seriously, where are they?!" said Patrick, recognizing his brother's horrible habit to joke at the most uninviting time. His hand hit the table, almost knocking over the plate of sandwiches Merton had just put out for them.

“Don't blow a gasket, Patty! They straightened everything out.” Paul threw his hands up in the air pretending to surrender to his little brother. “They're probably out ‘buying stuff to celebrate,’” he finished in a high-pitched mock voice. "You're lucky. I didn't get half the attention you did."

Relieved, but still confused, Patrick took a chunk out of his sandwich and began to question. "Well, why did I get William's letter?"

“Heck, they don't even know," he mumbled between bites. "They said something like this is pretty rare, especially for a school with a reputation like Wentwater. Turns out that Quinn kid already got his letter a while back. They must have forgotten to cross him off the list."

It was definitely a possibility, albeit an unlikely one. Surely, the school would not be so reckless as to forget such a minute, yet simple, task. Maybe, Patrick thought, they had simply forgotten to write his letter, although this scenario was a far worse predicament than his previous one.

“Wentwater doesn’t make mistakes like that,” issued a gruff voice behind them. Grandpa Thatcher was tottering in the kitchen, wearing a look of disbelief. “Trust me, it’s unheard of.”

Patrick was surprised to see his grandfather still here.

“You didn’t go with everyone else?” he asked.

“They don’t need me there adding to all the bustle,” he growled. “They can take care of it without me. I don’t like leaving here unless I have to. Nowadays, these folk never stop hounding you.” He took a seat and grabbed one of the untouched sandwich halves from the platter sitting on the table. His white hair was brushed back out of his face and sat limply on his head. As he took a bite, his grizzly sideburns shifted up and down, right in time with his chewing.

“What do you think happened, Grandpa?” Patrick questioned.

“I’m not completely sure, Patrick,” he sighed, setting the sandwich down and wiping his face with a handkerchief. “I’ve never seen anything like this happen before, granted the school was much smaller when I attended. Less students, less mistakes.”

Neither Patrick nor Paul knew exactly how old their grandfather was. Whenever either of them asked, he would simply respond that he was old enough to be their grandfather, and due to the fact that the two of them could never come up with a good enough response, that usually ended the conversation. They continued to assume he was at least eighty and had served in the second Muggle World War.

“Of course, everyone was probably out fighting the war. No time for school.” interjected Paul. “That’s where I’d rather be.”

“You say that now. It not all glitz and glamour. It’s a lot different when you’re out on the field and the state of your country is at stake,” he said, looking right at Paul. “There is no way to pre-determine a winner when it comes to war. You can strategize all you can, but it comes down to instinct and luck. You better hope you’re lucky and your instincts are right. As for you,” he turned to Patrick, “my instincts tell me you have nothing to worry about. I’ll make sure you’re always on the right track. Once you get to Wentwater, you’ll just have to trust your instincts.”

Patrick smiled and tried to look reassured. He pondered several possibilities while stuffing his face with the large amount of food on his plate. Now that he was sure that he was going to Wentwater again, his appetite mirrored his growing excitement.

After a couple more refills of Merton's sandwiches and tea, the sounds of whooshing flames signaled the return of the Thatchers. Patrick raced out of the kitchen followed by Paul. One by one, they emerged from the giant brick fireplace in the Thatcher's living room dusting off the soot from their clothes. Merton wasted no time cleaning up the layers of ash the wizards had smuggled inside the house from their trip as Grandpa Thatcher finally entered the room from the kitchen. There were considerably less people now than there had been earlier today; Patrick assumed his other relatives had returned home after the commotion.

Patrick was greeted with hugs from those family members who had not yet left for home, all of which were eager to tell him the news. It was refreshing, this time, to meet their embraces and even their fingers (Aunt Ordna was able to reach his cheeks now). They sat around chatting as Merton once more carried in an arsenal of food and drinks to be devoured. Patrick’s relatives discussed which Residence Hall he might be assigned to when he finally arrives at Wentwater.

“Both Catherine and I were Allards, he’s bound to follow in our footsteps,” triumphed Mr. Thatcher.

“Nonsense,” croaked Patrick’s stocky Uncle Latimer. “I’ve watched the boy. He’s a Kinsey if I’ve ever seen one.”

Patrick shut his eyes, hardly listening to their words. Seeing his family roused with excitement confirmed his admittance; it was a great feeling that he could now share with them. While dozing off, his grandfather tapped him on the shoulder wearing a sly grin on his face.

“Over here, I have something for you."

He got up unnoticed, his family still fussing over his new home, and followed his grandfather down the hall. Grandpa Thatcher hustled around the corner and toward his bedroom door, pointing his wand at the door’s lock. Patrick heard a click and the door swung open. Patrick had just realized that he had rarely been in here as he shut the creaking door behind him. The previous occasions he had only been instructed to leave something on his grandfather's bed or another task where his time in the room was kept short. Otherwise, Grandpa Thatcher’s room was normally locked and he was rarely seen outside of his room for any extended period of time. Patrick used this opportunity to survey the room. It was decorated with numerous medals and several old pictures of his grandfather, some of them from his younger days, others more recent. Old banners of navy-blue hung on the walls and there were several old, odd objects scattered across his grandfather’s furniture. He focused on something that lay resting on his dresser.

“What is this?" Patrick inquired pointing to a picture of ten, twenty-something-year-old wizards, each of them wearing plus-fours and long, navy-blue, coat-like robes.

"That's one of my old regiments, but you’ll have no interest in that," he replied.

Patrick stared at their waving hands until his grandfather snatched it from his grandson’s view. Grandpa Thatcher was struggling to open a drawer with his wand and Judging by his difficulty opening it, the drawer had been sealed with a hefty bit of magic that even his grandfather had trouble conjuring.

Poking and prodding it over and over again he got past this obstacle and he finally jolted open the drawer, dropped in the photograph, then reached inside for something within its dusty contents. He searched around until his arm was half-way inside the small drawer. His grandfather’s arm disappeared inside it, reaching much farther inside the drawer than its outward appearance would have suggested one could reach. He frisked the edges, screwing up his face�”presumably pushing aside other objects�”until he pulled out a smooth, carved wooden box.

“Here, I want to give this to you," he said offering the box forward to Patrick. "It helped me when I was growing up and I want you to have it, too.” His grandfather’s face released a wide smile. Patrick had never seen him with any such expression. “I would have given it to your brother, but you know him. He was insistent that he could handle himself and didn’t want any help…so I saved it for you."

Patrick took the box and noticed a pair of hinges on one side of the wood. He tried to pry it open, but he had no luck.

His grandfather chuckled. "You can't open that box, just yet. It'll open when you need it."

"How will I know when I need it?" he asked.

“I don't think you'll have to worry about that, trust your instincts," he said with a smirk. "Now go on and get out of here, and don't show that to anyone, you hear?"

Patrick nodded, and hurried outside the room. He stared at it for a moment, shaking its contents. He could not hear anything, but the excitement brewing inside made up for momentary disappointment. Placing his present comfortably between his two hands, he ran up the stairs to tuck away his new gift. In his excitement he took the stairs two at a time. About halfway up, he was stopped, mid-jump, and was called by his mother.

“Patrick!"

He hastily hid the box behind his back and answered her.

"Yes mom?"

“Go to bed early, we're going to go out to the Square tomorrow and get your supplies for school."

Patrick nodded his head quickly and ran upstairs to his room, plowing through his clothes-strewn floor and straight to his dresser, placing the box directly underneath a jumble of socks. He surveyed his room greeting it much better than before, with a huge jump on his mattress and a face full of smiles. Not only was he admitted to his school, but he was no longer a disgrace to his family. With a new gift that was sure to help him if he needed it, he was more excited than ever for the start of the fall term. It was hard to believe that earlier today he had been worried at all.

Too eager for school, Patrick sprang out of his bed the next morning, dressed quickly, threw on a pair of scarlet robes and raced down to meet his mother. He had never been so happy to go anywhere before, especially when it came to shopping. His mother was holding a small brown pot in her hands when Patrick toddled down the stairs. She smiled at him.

“I take it you’re ready to go?” Patrick nodded quickly. “We’re just waiting for your father, who should already be out here,” she said, looking toward their kitchen. “Charles! Come on, dear, you know there are going to be huge crowds. There always are at this time of year,” she yelled. She looked at her son softly. "Are you ready to go? Whatever you need we'll get it, just ask." Patrick nodded and his father came walking out of the kitchen clutching the current edition of The Warlock Examiner.

“This country has been going downhill since Filibuster stepped into office," Patrick’s father worked at the Agency of Magical Transportation in Virginia’s division of the Republic. He would frequently come home ranting and raving about all the changes made by the Republic of Magic and how his workload was constantly rising. He entered their parlor, setting his mug and newspaper down on the table in front of them.

“Don’t put that paper there!” Mrs. Thatcher said, disapprovingly. “At least have Merton place it with the rest of them.”

He kept every paper he ever bought in their broom closet. Their house-elf, thankfully, stacked them in three, nice and neat piles. Had it not been for Merton, there would have been several issues strewn on top of items at various places around the house.

Mr. Thatcher, grudgingly, picked it up himself and carried it over to the broom closet with the others. He opened the door, tossed the paper inside, and shut the door again.
“If anyone needs to pick up their slack, it’s those bums over in Pennsylvania. I voted for Elmer and for good reason, too. He knows what�””

“Later, Charles," Mrs. Thatcher interrupted, wiping off a few stray crumbs from her husband's face, "you can talk about politics later. You know your father has very strong views when it comes to that." She checked her family over again before handing Mr. Thatcher the brown jar. He reached in, pulled out a fist full of grey powder, and threw it at the red flames, turning them a brilliant green. Mr. Thatcher stepped inside his enormous fireplace, and spoke very clearly, in the direction of his family, the words "Agnomon Square." At these words he was swept away in a rush of green flames, leaving behind a display of bright sparks.

Patrick's mother had reached for the jar to hand some of the grey powder to her son, but Patrick had already grabbed his share and threw a fistful into the fireplace before stepping amongst the fire. He, just like his father, stood in front of his mother and spoke the name of his destination, "Agnomon Square!" and was taken away, giggling with excitement, by the same emerald green flames.

No matter how many times he traveled by Floo Powder, his initial shock at being jolted down never went away. Patrick was sent spinning around and around, being hurled about like a cannonball soaring through the air. He tucked his arms and knees in closely, careful not to run into any of the objects spinning along with him. His eyes saw flashes of many other fireplaces as he tumbled around toward the Square, some recognizable as other stores and others leading to places he had never seen before. When he finally arrived, he fell flat on his bottom to the hearty laughs of his father.

“You keep at it,” his father chuckled. “It’s only a matter of time before you manage a perfect landing.”

Patrick’s father helped him up and they waited only a few seconds before his mother arrived through the same fireplace. She dropped crisply to her feet and took a moment to regain her composure as she dusted herself off. Mr. Thatcher bent down next to Patrick’s ear.

“Your mother makes it look easy,” he said. He straightened himself out and they made their way through the several other wizards who, too, had just arrived.

The irony in Agnomon Square was that it was not shaped like a square at all. Agnomon was in fact a large, two-story circular plaza, with a magnificent silver sundial situated in the center. It was surrounded by several stores, some larger than others, that were concentric from the shining, sterling centerpiece. Patrick stared down at the sundial, currently reading 7:13. He could see the reflections of numerous bustling shoppers on the second floor and looked up to see another level full of shops and several busy wizards. Some had stopped to chat and others were hustling from shop to shop, arms full of boxes and books, clearly trying to accomplish their back-to-school preparations in a hurry. After glancing around the square once more, Patrick turned to his mother; it was just as crowded as she suspected.

Patrick’s gaze bounced between the attire of the large group of wizards and witches noticing the differences in each one’s clothing. Patrick's eyes followed one thin and rigid wizard as he perused a book in Wickburner’s Bookstore. The sun was shining on the glass window and Patrick could barely make out the title, but he caught the name Help with Hexes: How to Hinder Those You Hate just as the man placed it back on the shelf. Patrick's attention was suddenly snatched by a short witch wearing very colorful, flower-print robes, who Patrick figured must have been Hawaiian, who walked into Fancour’s Wizarding Sports Shop. Her hair was long, black and flowing and a single purple orchid rested comfortably behind her left ear. Patrick watched her enter the shop until she was blocked by an elaborate display in the store's front window. The shop bore a collection of items from a popular Quodpot team, the Bloomfield Barons. A large, moving poster hung from the ceiling showing ten players attempting to hurl a ball into a medium-sized, black pot. The player wearing robes with “Jewkes” across the back came close to scoring before the ball he was holding exploded as he attempted to throw it in the pot.

Patrick had been here quite often. His mother owned The Aviary, the Agnomon Square owl shop, and had always decided it would be best to bring her son along rather than to leave him in the, as she considered, absent-minded care of Grandpa Thatcher. Over time, Patrick had taken to playing with one owl frequently, the very same owl that was given to him on his ninth birthday.

He was well acquainted with the whole of the Square and was well known by many of the shopkeepers in the plaza. Patrick’s favorite store was Gallivant’s Gifts and Gags, which was perhaps the best place to find self-folding napkins, that would fold themselves into an array of patterns and designs, and a pair of shoes that would hurl the wearer into dancing anything from the foxtrot to the tango the second they were placed on the owner’s feet.

Patrick frequented The Quod Pot, and couldn’t resist arguing with owner, Silas Swinden. As a retired Keeper for the Elmira Eagles Quodpot Team, Mr. Swinden never gave in to Patrick’s attempts at convincing him that Quidditch was a more interesting sport. He did, however, admire Patrick’s zeal and usually offered to buy him a slice of cheesecake from Dilly and Dally’s Delicious Desserts.

Whenever Patrick passed Gladstone and Gibbs’ Robe Shop or Jotting’s Quills and Parchment he would wave to the workers inside. And it was almost unthinkable for Patrick to walk alongside The Bestial Bazaar without peering inside to see if Mr. Ollerton had received more Puffskeins or if his pack of Jarveys had learned any phrases that were appropriate to speak in public. Wherever Patrick went at the Square, he was sure to be known.

Patrick had, however, been given strict warnings not to follow and explore the steps leading beneath the Square found at various places around the shops. Patrick would sometimes look down at them wondering where they led, but all he could see was darkness, an abyss that seemed to swallow up the light the second it reached the shadowy depths. His mother warned that if he wanted to keep his owl he would stay away from there, so he never contested. Paul teased that it was where the hags and vampires lived, waiting to feed on wand-less wizards or witches who had accidentally dropped a Galleon or two down the long dark steps. Patrick, as gullible as he was, from then on held closely to every Knut he ever handled at Agnomon, careful not to let it slip away from him.

“Let’s just see what we’ve got here,” said, Mr. Thatcher as he removed an ivory piece of parchment from his cloak and unfolded it. He briefly skimmed the list and passed it over to his son. Patrick, who amongst the tumult had neglected this piece of paper yesterday, carefully read its contents:




WENTWATER CONSERVATORY

of MAGIC

---

UNIFORM
First-year students will require:
1. Three sets of plain work robes (Navy-blue)
2. One pair of protective gloves (Dragon hide or similar)
3. One winter cloak (Navy-blue, silver fastenings)


COURSE BOOKS
All students should have a copy of each of the following:
The Essential Spell Book (Volume 1) by Tyler Hewden
A Historical Look at Magic by Andrew Plinius
Introduction to Transfiguration by Jeffrey Flexing
Common Charms and Enchantments by Otfried Joltt
Magical Properties of Plants by Wynona Pistil
Playing with Potions by Digory Mediment
Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander
Fending off Forces: A Journey in Self-Defense by Oscar Tutham


OTHER EQUIPMENT
1 wand
1 cauldron (copper, standard size 2)
1 telescope
1 set brass scales
Students may also bring an owl OR a cat OR a toad.



PARENTS PLEASE NOTE THAT FIRST YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICKS.





“Come on Patrick," his parents called, "we have to go get your wand first!" Patrick tore his focus from the list and turned to follow his parents as they stepped over to one of the larger stores. A bell chimed as the Thatchers creaked open the door and walked into Wedgewood's Wand Shop. It was a very neat and tidy store filled with nothing more than armchairs an old wooden counter and many rows of shelves that stretched towards the back of the store. Sitting upon the shelves were hundreds of long boxes, carrying what was undeniably handcrafted wands.

Patrick and his mother and father stood behind another group of people who were waiting just a few feet in front of them, at the counter. They were very oddly dressed. All of them were wearing black clothes with many silver links and chains that were hanging, attached, to various areas. Their daughter, standing in between who Patrick believed were her parents, was sporting black nail polish and matching lipstick. When the middle-aged man at the counter returned holding a thin box, the family nodded appreciatively and walked quickly out the door. Patrick caught a glimpse of the girl's face as she passed, and he could tell that she was clearly embarrassed.

“Hmm, odd group,” the man said, as the family left the shop. “Ah, Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. Thatcher,” he greeted, happily.

“Hello, Walter,” Mr. Thatcher replied “What’s your father up to? Doesn't he usually run the counter?"

“Yes, he's away at a wand-making convention, meeting with all the top makers,” he beamed. Walter Wedgewood was the owner’s son and was rarely seen in the front of the store. He mostly sat in the back helping with paperwork or restocking wands that had failed to be matched with a customer. Patrick could hardly remember the last time Mr. Wedgewood had left his son in charge of the shop. Walter was clearly proud to be filling in for his father.

“What about Emeritus? How's the ol' hero holding up?"

“He's doing fine, especially for his age, but,” Mr. Thatcher shifted, seeming tired of their small talk, “from the oldest of the Thatchers to our youngest. We're getting Patrick, here, his first wand." Mr. Thatcher moved Patrick who had been looking out the nearby window at balloons that were gradually appearing on the other side of the glass, to the front of the counter. Patrick watched as a tiny, floating dot slowly swelled to a full-sized red balloon.

“Ah… I bet you are excited, Patrick. I'm sure your grandfather has told you stories of his daring exploits. I bet he’s even given you a few pointers on being a first-class wizard."

Patrick nodded, not paying attention. His eyes were browsing the numerous boxes on the numerous shelves behind Walter. He knew that among them, one of these had to be his, and he would not be ready to leave until he tried every one.

“Let's see...how about this one? Twelve and one-quarter inches, Hazelwood, strong and durable." He handed it over to Patrick. Patrick’s hands felt his hands warm up as his palm grasped the wand. He gave it a wave and out shot a marvelous display of gold sparks, to everyone’s amazement.

“Wow, I've never gotten it right on the first try. Heh, I must be getting better," Walter said with a soft chuckle. "I feel relieved that I don't have to go through all of these wands. I had to do that the other day with a little red-haired girl, almost had to close off the shop so we could find it." He took Patrick's new wand back, and placed it inside its box and handed it over to him. “There you go, 'Use it wisely,' dad would say."

Patrick held the box in his hand, clutching it as though he had received a long awaited toy for Christmas. He finally had his wand. The box weighed in his hands; he was beginning to feel more and more like a wizard.

“I wonder what is going on out here." Patrick's mother, who had walked over to look out the window, just as her son did before, motioned for her family to join over. The balloons that had been suddenly appearing earlier were now plentiful around the sundial and a huge banner hovered over the crowd, though the words were not visible from where they were currently standing.

“Looks like some sort of show," Mr. Thatcher suggested. He dropped several galleons on the counter, waved goodbye to Walter, and ushered his family out the door to see what the commotion was all about. They walked around the perimeter of the group of spectators until they were able to make out what the banner read:


Agnomon Square Welcomes President Filibuster!

Upon reading it, Mrs. Thatcher cautiously turned her head to look at her husband. He could not have been more displeased to see any name gleaming in red, white and blue, than he was now. His brow was furrowed and lips curled with disgust.

“He must be up to something. The Examiner didn't mention anything about an appearance at the Square.” Patrick could see his father’s face flush with irritation. It was the face he wore whenever Mrs. Thatcher informed him that her parents were coming to visit.

“Well, I’m not going to stand here and listen to whatever nonsense he’s going to spit out." He finished his sentence with a slight sound of loathing and focused his eyes toward Mortar and Pestle's Potion Emporium, which was currently holding a sale on glass vials. He tore off from them, the ivory list of supplies in hand and headed away from the center of the square.

Mrs. Thatcher seemed aggravated at her husband’s behavior, whispering under her breath, “So stubborn.”

Patrick, meanwhile, was shocked at his fortune. Everything he came across poured a little more excitement into him and being able to see the president was no exception. He tucked his new wand in his robe pocket and ran forward into the crowd. He had slid past a couple of gossiping witches before hearing his mother call after him to return, but he kept weaving and squeezing through until he reached the front of the spectators.

Standing just before a wide platform, were several more young wizards, around Patrick's age, that were bunched up as close as they could to the stage. Spread across on top, in front of red curtains, were several wizards who all were wearing the same black robes and had positioned themselves on every end of the floor. Patrick stood amongst the others until a wizard dressed in very nice green robes and holding a small piece of parchment, stepped from behind the drapery and stood before the viewers. The noisy crowd began to quiet down at his sudden appearance as he pointed his wand at his throat and said, "Sonorus." He adjusted the small spectacles that he wore on his slender, unfriendly face and looked down at his parchment. In a huge, booming voice that rang throughout the Square he spoke.

“I am most proud to present, the executive in-chief of the United States Republic of Magic, President Franklin Filibuster!" His delivery lacked the enthusiasm one would usually expect from an introduction, and from an introduction of one of the most influential figures of the Wizarding World, no less. It was dry and listless, bordering on monotone, as if he had read from this parchment a hundred times before. His tone was of no concern to the wizard-laden audience. As he announced the name, bursts of jeers and applause erupted from the surrounding mass of wizards. Patrick looked up onto the stage as the President emerged along with another group of black robed wizards following behind him. President Filibuster looked very noble walking out waving to the large crowd. His brown hair crept out from under his navy-blue hat, and his handsome face beamed down at the young wizards Patrick was standing among.

The president, just like the man before him, pointed his wand at his throat and said, "Sonorus." The words that followed were spoken in the same booming voice.

“My fellow wizards and witches, thank you for such a warm welcome,” he said, ignoring the jeers. “I know most of you are surprised to see me here unannounced," Patrick knew that that his father was definitely one of those people. "As this is the start of the first school year since my election, I wanted to get a chance to meet some of Wentwater's new students," his eyes scanned the group of first years below him as he spoke. "Why don't we have a couple of you join me?" All those gathered at the front of the stage began to jump up and down waving their hands in the air to grab the president's attention.

“Why don't we have....you," and the president pointed to a boy on the far right of the stage. The boy he selected was a tall black boy with long, braided, dark brown hair that had been tied behind him, falling down his back. He walked slowly up to the side and stood next to one of the robed wizards. The president skimmed the crowd again for another child. Patrick was having a bit of trouble getting himself noticed. He was being thrown around by the other boys and girls next to him, craning his arm to raise his hand barely as high as the others.

“Hey now, that's no way to treat a future classmate," the president had clearly seen Patrick being thrashed about. "How about you join me up here, too." Those around Patrick felt cheated and leered at him as he climbed happily up the stairs with the robed security wizard and the other boy. The crowd looked much larger from where he was now standing. He tried looking for his mother, but she was as good as invisible in a crowd this size.

“Come here, come here," the president called. "Why don't you introduce yourselves? You first," he said to Patrick.

“My name's Patrick Thatcher, and I...I can't wait to go to Wentwater," he said, but only loud enough for the first few rows of people to hear.

“Do you hear that? Patrick Thatcher?" the president's voice rang, "like Emeritus Thatcher?" Patrick nodded. "Well, with a relative like him, of course you're to be excited!" He placed his hand on Patrick’s blond-hair, ruffled it up a bit and moved from Patrick over to the second boy standing next to him, "and who might you be?"

“I'm William Quinn." Patrick's eyes grew wide and he stared, fixated at him. He had come face to face with the same person whose letter he received only a morning ago. Patrick still could not see his mother, but he was sure that she was wearing the same expression as he was.

“And what are you looking forward to at Wentwater?" asked the president, who continued to look at William, oblivious to Patrick’s shock.

“Becoming captain of the Quidditch team," he responded confidently, as if he already held the position.

“Hmm...Quodpot I'd say, but Quidditch is just as good a sport." The President walked around guiding Patrick and William along with him to the corners of the stage where a couple of photographers snapped several pictures. The flash from their cameras was blinding, making it near impossible for Patrick to see the fingers on his own two hands.

"I think this is just as good a time as any to make my announcement." Several members of the crowd turned to each other, seemingly in speculation of what his announcement could be regarding. "We at the Republic of Magic gladly invest our resources into our future wizards and witches. As such, I'm proud to announce that Wentwater Conservatory will be welcoming a new member to its very knowledgeable staff.” Patrick, who had been gazing out over the crowd, listening only mildly before, began to focus his attention on the remainder of the President’s words. “With the approval of Mr. Montgomery, himself, our very own Dominick Sumpton will be taking over the post of Transfiguration for this year. We know he’ll contribute a great deal to the new and existing batch of students.”

Just like the President’s arrival, his speech was met with mixed remarks. While some applauded his announcement, a fair share shouted their disapproval. The president, keeping a pleased face, smiled and waved over the group of wizards. He stayed a bit longer, shaking hands with the students below, taking more pictures, and handing out buttons until he was quickly ushered off the stage, through the same red curtains from which he appeared.

Still standing on the stage not far away from Patrick, was William, whose hand was placed up to his forehead, apparently looking for his parents. Patrick went over several thoughts in his head as he walked slowly towards him trying to piece together all of the things he wanted to know about the boy whose letter he had received.

That was still one of the main mysteries that had not been resolved. Why is it that he had received a letter addressed to William of all people, especially, if William’s letter had already arrived several months prior?

Patrick did not know if William would have all the answers, but he opened his mouth and was just inches away from William before being abruptly interrupted by one of the wizards robed in black.

“Here you go, young man.” The wizard reached out his hand and offered Patrick a small button. On it was a picture of President Filibuster standing very proud in front of a waving American flag. As Patrick took notice that the president looked thinner and his face more handsome, the button changed to show a thin and younger man with golden-blonde hair, presumably the vice-president. Underneath him was labeled “Perlston Honeybell” who was also positioned in front of the same rippling banner.

“Um…thanks,” Patrick answered softly. He quickly grabbed the button and swirled around to find that William had already left the stage. After a hasty look in the crowd, Patrick could see William making his way from the where he was just standing seconds before.

“Patrick!” He shifted his body in the direction of the voice. He was not surprised to see his mother sitting near the sundial, her arms folded across her chest. Standing next to her was his father, hands stacked full of boxes. Patrick rushed over to them stuffing the button inside his robe pockets. “Well, didn’t you have fun today?” his mother commented toward her son and his amused smile.

“D’ you think we can head home now?” Mr. Thatcher said, trying to juggle the numerous packages to the ground.

“Yes, dear,” Mrs. Thatcher replied, holding back a laugh, “your father didn’t much care to listen to what President Filibuster wanted to say, so he volunteered to pick up the rest of your school things.”

“I wonder what my teachers will be like,” Patrick said to his mother as they walked toward the fireplaces at the entrance to Agnomon Square. Mr. Thatcher, deciding that he would rather maintain the functionality of his arms, was conducting the tower of merchandise from behind with his wand.

“I’m sure all of your teachers will be great.” Patrick listened to these words before being whisked away, back to his house. He tumbled out of his fireplace upon his arrival, with his parents bringing up the rear. Merton came shuffling through the living room, duster in tow, cleaning up the mess the three Thatchers had made. Trailing him, was Patrick’s grandfather, who looked quite happy to see the family return home.

“Patrick this arrived for you, while you were gone.” Patrick reached out his hand to take an ivory white envelope from his grandfather. He carefully examined the envelop this time and was overjoyed to see the scarlet-inked words on the front.

Mr. Patrick Thatcher
31 Mather Street
Arbridge, Virginia
He opened the envelope and found the same Wentwater letters he received before, with one important difference. It was his name on them this time. He could not have been more delighted to finally have what he and his family had waited close to eleven years to receive. He hugged his grandfather tightly around the waist, just before doing the same to his mother and father and running up to his room. Merton grabbed the bundle of supplies from Mr. Thatcher and scurried up the stairs behind Patrick, their footsteps together hitting like large hammers against the wood of the floor.

Patrick threw open the door of his room, searched his drawers for a couple of pins, and posted his letters up along his wall. They hung there directly over his bed. He placed them up in such a hurry that he did not hesitate to move his ticket from the first Warblers match he ever attended, against the Altamont Airfleet, which was now poking out of one side of his letter. His calendar was now, also, hidden and had almost been completely covered except for a bit of the lower half which had the date August 20th circled three times in red ink.

“Is Patrick needing anything else, sir?” offered Merton setting down Patrick’s things.

“No, Merton, I’m okay.” He watched the house-elf straighten a few more things before stepping out of his room leaving the door slightly ajar. Patrick once more took comfort in his bed listening to the heated discussion of his father and grandfather. He imagined they were talking about what had transpired at the Square today. Surely with all the pictures being taken an article must have surfaced in the Examiner’s evening edition. He listened to their shouting while concentrating on the fact that in a few weeks time he would be attending, in his opinion, the greatest Wizarding school in the world.

The next few days flew by rather quickly. On Monday, Patrick sent his reply to Wentwater with his owl Icarus, who was more than happy to take the job. So happy, in fact, that he managed to return with Patrick’s ticket to Wentwater the very next day. Patrick received many presents on the days leading up to his eleventh birthday on Saturday. When August 4th finally rolled around, his gift toll had reached unexpected heights. He got presents from people that he did not expect to receive gifts from. Even his brother, Paul, managed to impress everyone with his gift; an almost complete collection of wizard cards (he never managed to collect them all).

On the afternoon of August 19th, the Thatchers threw on their “Muggle best’ for the seeing-off of Patrick’s first year of school. Paul, who was in his seventh year, pulled this off with ease, wearing a basketball jersey and a pair of long, baggy jeans. One of Paul’s best friends was a Muggle-born, who educated him on dressing like non-wizard folk. Patrick especially remembered this because that was the same day that Paul and his friend “accidentally” locked a gnome in his bedroom.

Grandpa Thatcher was the only member who decided to stay home. Patrick wasn’t surprised. Grandpa Thatcher never left the house if he could avoid it. Patrick supposed it was due to the large crowds he’d inevitably draw, especially on this day, where they were sure to be around large amounts of witches and wizards. Grandpa Thatcher stood along with the rest of his family as Mrs. Thatcher did the usual pre-departure check.

“Have your tickets?” Patrick and Paul nodded. “Have all your supplies?”

“Yes, mother,” they said together with the same tone of impatience, gesturing to their tightly-sealed trunks.

“You can never be too sure,” Mrs. Thatcher defended, looking at her sons’ irritated faces. “What kind of a mother would I be if I just let my sons take off unprepared? Now let’s hurry up, we have to be at Nortwick Corner by two o’clock.”

The four of them left their house, strolling down Mather Street, passing by more of the wooden houses. They walked by their next-door neighbor, the Harpers. Mr. Harper was an avid Herbologist and was usually seen tending to his garden which flourished with all kinds of flowers and trees. He and his wife, Nebby, had no children and moved to Arbridge to lead a quiet, simple life. He waved at the Thatchers while struggling to handle a stray Knarl that had wandered into his yard.

After a few minutes of walking through the town, passing by the Pudderly’s and the Bartlett’s, Patrick began to wonder where exactly they were going. He had witnessed Paul depart for school six other times before now, but he had never actually gone with him and did not know how he was supposed to get there. He took a second from dragging his trunk and inquired.

“Well, Patty, it’s simple really,” Paul explained, “there are loads of students in the United States, but there is really only one way we can manage to get all the wizards from across the country to Wentwater.” He finished his sentence and pointed to a small, tin tomato can lying on the ground near a roughly constructed wooden fence, at Nortwick Corner. “It’s a portkey.”

Patrick looked closely at it. “We’re going to take a portkey to Wentwater?”

Mr. Thatcher laughed. “That wouldn’t be wise, now would it? Any dark wizard could just walk right in. This portkey will take us to South Station in Boston. That’s where we’re headed.” Mr. Thatcher was eyeing his watch. “I suppose all the others must have taken the one o’clock key,” he mumbled to himself looking either way along the street.

There were only a few minutes left to go when Mr. Thatcher grabbed Patrick’s trunk.

“Wouldn’t want this thing burying you before you can get it on the train,” he said glancing at his watch once more.

The time whittled down to about half a minute, and Mrs. Thatcher instructed her family to grab hold of the can. Mr. Thatcher, eyes still fixated on the second hand, began to count down the time.

“Five…four…three…,” but his voice was cut off by a sharp jerk behind the navel. Patrick had done most of his traveling by Floo powder and this sensation came as quite a shock, especially as he had been caught off guard. He felt as though someone was dragging him backward by an invisible string, as if he was a kite. Flying around, tin can in hand, he finally released it falling, as expected, to the ground. While regaining his composure, Patrick surveyed his surroundings. He and his family were standing in a narrow alley which was completely dark other than the gleaming bits of light on both ends of the pathway.

“Easy now,” said a dark-haired wizard that Patrick did not notice until now, “must be a first timer.” He, too, was dressed in Muggle attire and was quite convincing.

“Must have been a bit off,” Mr. Thatcher said, looking at this watch.” He turned to the wizard standing in the alleyway. “How’s it going, Progall? Everything running smoothly?” he asked. Patrick assumed he was one of his father’s co-workers.

“Clean as a whistle. Every key on time and every person in one piece,” he replied in a firm and confident voice. “You might want to head inside. We’ve got one more key to go. I’ve got people to look after, you know.”

“I know, I know,” muttered Mr. Thatcher. The man named Progall, tipped his grey ball-cap and stood watch over the alley as the four of them walked away. When Patrick reached the end of the alley, onto Summer Street, he was blinded by the glaring sun; he almost ran into a man walking his dog. It barked at him while his owner scowled and continued on down the sidewalk.

Patrick followed his parents and brother toward a towering granite building, bearing a clock and a very large eagle. He was admiring the wide columns supporting the building before he was pulled from his gaze and moved through the open door, by his mother, his eyes now falling upon hundreds of Muggle travelers. Many were drinking coffee, others buying a newspaper, most were standing around waiting for their departure, he supposed. The Thatchers had to maneuver their way through a large number of hurried people. Patrick wondered how a place so packed with Muggles would be able to transport so many wizards.

“Are you sure we’re at the right place? How could they not notice what’s going on?”

“Easily,” Mr. Thatcher said approaching an elevator with an Out of Order sign across it. “Our magic prevents Muggles from seeing things like this,” he opened the door disregarding the sign. “That’s why people like Progall are here, too,” he continued. “Just in case someone does somehow see something, he can take care of it.”

Patrick looked around searching for more disguised wizards or someone who must have seen them trying to use a broken elevator. The people were still sitting down minding their business; it was almost as if Patrick and his family were invisible.

“You know, Muggles. Most of the time, they can’t see what’s three inches in front of their faces,” Mr. Thatcher finished. Patrick followed inside the elevator, again watching cautiously as he did so. The sign on the elevator certainly reflected the interior. All the buttons were indeed broken and the floor numbers slightly scratched. Mrs. Thatcher withdrew her wand and poked it through a hole where a button clearly once was. Strangely, the writing on the nameplate next to the hole, barely legible though it was, was not a number, but a letter; the letter “W.” A small spark jolted from Mrs. Thatcher’s wand and the elevator slowly moved down beneath the first floor.

“Almost there,” Mrs. Thatcher said to Patrick. Of all the things he had encountered over the last few weeks, nothing was more exciting than this. Just as the elevator doors parted, Patrick stood in awe, while his family moved out onto the track.

Walking around were several young wizards with their parents chatting and preparing their children to board a magnificent midnight blue train underneath the Muggle station. The conductor was waving to some of the students who had just arrived. Standing under the sign reading “Track 6 ½,” he saw his father speaking to his mother who was wrapped in his arms.

“He’ll be fine, dear,” Mr. Thatcher reassured, “and I’m sure Paul will look after him.”

Patrick heard Paul snort loudly behind his parents.

“I’m not going to watch the little runt,” Paul added looking slightly insulted at the idea.

“You will if you want to come home for winter break,” Mrs. Thatcher warned. Paul let out a small “hmph” and her statement ended the conversation. She, cautiously, kneeled down to talk to Patrick. “Don’t you worry about him, he’ll make sure you’re taken care of. I want you to send me an owl if anything happens to you, anything at all. Okay?”

“Of course, mom.”
Mrs. Thatcher wiped away at her eyes, which were beginning to water. Mr. Thatcher, meanwhile, grabbed Patrick’s trunk and rolled it over to his son placing his hand on Patrick’s shoulder.

“We’re always here for you, Patrick, and no matter how stubborn your brother is, he’ll take care of you, if he knows what’s good for him. Now, here’s your ticket. You run along and I don’t want find out you’ve been slacking off. You make your mother and me proud, you hear?,” he said, giving him a short hug. When it came time for Patrick to hug his mother, he felt as though she’d never let go, as though he was wrapped in a warm blanket. She finally released her grip and Patrick waved good-bye rolling his trunk along behind his brother.

They finally boarded the train and handed their tickets and their trunks to a short attendant at the entrance. Both of them passed by the man and Paul turned around to address his brother.

“All right, mom and dad are gone, I’m going this way. There are plenty of seats on this train, so I’m sure you can make some friends without me.” At these words, he walked down toward the back of the train. Patrick decided this was a good thing. He did not want to cling to his brother anyway. He decided he should attempt to look for William, but after a short perusal of the compartments in his car of the train he did not find him. Patrick kept dragging his trunk along the hallway until he came to a compartment with a girl who looked somewhat familiar.

“Excuse me, are these seats taken?” Patrick had opened the door and leaned his head inside. The girl took a quick look at him and shook her head. “Mind if I sit here, then?” The girl shook her head once more, hiding her face behind her hair and quickly searched for one of the school books from her bag, burying her face in it. Patrick eyed her curiously; he knew that he had come across her. “Have we met before?” he asked.

The girl lowered her copy of A Historical Look at Magic and replied with a low, “yes.” Patrick searched his mind for where he could have met her.

“It was in Wedgewood’s, back at Agnomon Square,” she helped, noticing the contemplative look on Patrick’s face.

Patrick frowned. He did not remember seeing anyone remotely like her in the shop. The girl sitting in front of him had long brown hair, with very pretty green eyes. Her nails were nothing like the black ones the girl he had met in Agnomon was wearing. Her face was also free of any and all black makeup as well. “The only girl I saw there looked nothing like you. She looked…well...she was�”“

“Different?” she said looking just as embarrassed as that day. “My parents are what you call Muggles. They had a very different view of what you all--well we, looked like. They were only trying to fit in.”

Patrick laughed. “We don’t wear anything close to that. At least no one I know does. My name is Patrick Thatcher. What’s yours?”

“Sarah, Sarah Forrester,” she replied. “You know,” she started, putting her book back in her bag, “that guy they were talking about at the Square? We asked around about him and it looks like most of the wizards�””

She broke off. The compartment door slid open and an exhausted, girl, her red hair pulled back with an Alice band, came stumbling through and sat next to Patrick.

“Phew, almost missed it.” The train’s whistle blew and the train jerked forward and began advancing its way out of the station. “I hope you don’t mind, the train looked pretty packed.” She threw her things down on the seat, huffing and puffing between words. “Elizabeth Crane.”

“Sarah.”

“Patrick.” He looked at her strangely, Elizabeth was still panting a bit trying to catch her breath. “Why did you almost miss the train?” he inquired.

She sighed. “We had trouble finding the portkey. We weren’t sure if it was a soda bottle or an old newspaper.” She leaned forward to take off her shoes and her wand slipped out of her pocket and onto the floor. She hastily reached for it and placed it back in her robes. “Don’t want to lose this. It took me quite a while to get this one,” she said smiling.

“I’m not very familiar with all of this wizard stuff yet. I’ve been reading this book trying to figure things out. It’s really interesting stuff.” Sarah had been flipping through the pages until stopping and looking at Patrick. Hey, did one of your relatives fight in the Revolutionary War?” she asked.

Patrick paused. “Maybe,” he thought, “We are purebloods. I must have family that goes back that far.”

“Perhaps, you should take a look at this.”

She flipped to a page in the book with a short list of soldiers:

D. Bimeby
T. Eckstine
F. Garrison
E. Hickle
E. Mapplethorpe
N. Peebles
J. Singleton
A. Tawter
H. Thatcher
C. Whuffing

He skimmed through the list quickly. Patrick tried to recall all the relatives he knew but he could not think of any “H. Thatchers”. He locked up after reading the list.
“No, I can’t think of any,” he said, puzzingly.

“H. Thatcher?” Elizabeth said to herself. “Could have been a witch.”

“Just curious,” Sarah asked. “There’s just so much to take in at once.”

The train had finally risen from underground and was now chugging through amazing scenery. For a majority of the ride, Patrick and Elizabeth answered as many of Sarah’s questions about the Wizarding world as they could. Elizabeth had grown up with a witch mother and a Muggle father so she was just as able to field some of Sarah’s questions as Patrick was. They chatted well after the sun began to go down mostly about their excitement. The number of trees surrounding them grew and the train once more dipped beneath the ground.

“I think we’re almost here,” Patrick said enthusiastically, “we should probably change into our robes.” Patrick waited outside while the girls changed, and they did the same for him. Before the train finally stopped, a voice, sounding like the short wizard who had collected their tickets, chimed through the train.

“We have arrived at Wentwater Conservatory. You may leave your items on the train. All students that are not first years, may proceed to the Main Hall.”

Patrick secretly took his grandfather’s gift and put it in his pocket. He did not want anything to happen to it on its way to the school. The three of them struggled their way out of the train among the other students. Once they stepped off, they stood next to a larger group of people, inarguably first-years as well, while they watched the remainder of their classmates stroll down a narrow path towards what obviously led to the school. Gradually more and more students joined them and the large group began to turn into a great mass of navy-blue. Finally, a man with oval-shaped glasses, and a flurry of white hair approached the assembly.

“Welcome to Wentwater! I’m Professor Obelus and I’m the Arithmancy teacher here at Wentwater, but you won’t see me teaching you anything for a couple years,” he laughed. “But that’s beside the point,” his voice straightening out, “if you’ll just take these,” and with a twirl of his wand he conjured several lanterns and lowered them above the crowd. One of them managed to hover in front of Patrick and he grasped it. “We can be on our way to the ceremony.”

The group trotted along a cobble-stone pathway holding their lanterns high above their heads. The pathway led around a small hill, giving all of them their first look at Wentwater. The school was apparently made up of several buildings, all of them constructed of red bricks and ivory accents. As they walked by they passed a large, circular, grassy common on the left, and several greenhouses on their right. Great, green trees were planted all along the grounds filtering some of the New Moon’s light, scattering it over the grass. Patrick awed, along with the impressed murmurs of his peers, at the sight of everything. Professor Obelus halted in front of a pair of wooden doors at the largest building on the grounds.

“All right, you all, in you go.”

Professor Obelus opened the large doors. As each of the students walked by, he waved his wand like before and the lanterns hovered out of the first-years’ hands and into a neat pile just inside the doors. Patrick’s lantern flew out of his hand just as another wizard stepped before them. This man was rather tall and his blonde hair stuck out from under a violet hat that matched his long robes. On his hat was perched a tiny bird which would, every so often, flutter around his head, chirping and singing. He had a very kind and playful face that smiled to all the new students.

“Don’t mind the hat, it’s the start of the Quidditch season. I’m a big fan of the Warblers,” he spoke pointing to the little bird on the brim. Patrick began to like him even more. “I am Professor Snerkin, Charms teacher, and Assistant Dean of Wentwater. Your time here will be spent along with many other students and in order to settle you all in, you must be placed into your residence halls.

“There are six halls that you may be placed in: Allard, Garrison, Kinsey, Rylan, Mendel, or Templeton. All of these halls have been named in honor of wizards and witches of great regard and you would do well to follow in their footsteps.” The bird on his hat had begun to chirp uncontrollably. Professor Snerkin removed it to quiet him down. “I suppose I should do away with this for now. I will return when it is time for you all to enter.”

Patrick now wished he hadn’t left his things on the train. He desperately wanted to search through the wizard cards he received to discover who the wizards were that had lent their names to the Wentwater Halls. He took his mind off of it and wondered how exactly he’d be placed in them.

“Do you know how this is going to work, Patrick?” Sarah asked. This was one question they did not go over on the train.

“Well I have an idea, but I don’t think it’s likely,” Patrick replied as something Paul had told him came to mind. “Hopefully, Wentwater cares enough about its students not to have them cross a blazing moat of flames.”

Professor Snerkin returned, hat-less, waving his hand, “Follow me.”

Patrick and the other students were led down a corridor lined with velvety red carpet. It directed them straight into what must have been the largest room Patrick had ever seen. The Dining Hall was a long rectangular room that stretched down until it rounded off into a circular one. Patrick and the others cautiously walked between six long tables admiring everything in the hall. There were six colored banners hanging over each of the tables which had been set with rows of silver goblets and plates. A look out of the windows of the hall almost startled Patrick. Instead of showing the bright moonlit grounds, the glass revealed an image of a cloudy sky, and grounds that were only lit by the dim light given off by the flood of stars in the sky. He supposed they were enchanted, because their stroll outside appeared to show much more light than the windows suggested. The staff table bowed around the perimeter of the circular end where many teachers had been seated. Patrick noticed Professor Obelus taking a large sip from his goblet, apparently eager to watch the ceremony. The students were standing between in the middle of the hall between two tables soaking in every detail of the room.

Professor Snerkin pulled a scroll of parchment from his violet robes and addressed the first years, garnering their attention.

“When I call your name you will step up and place your hands on this,” he said, gesturing behind him.

One of the other professors came in holding a large wooden box. He conjured a thin column, placed the box on top and comfortably took his seat at the staff table. Professor Snerkin opened the box to reveal a sparkling clear, crystal orb that slowly rose out of its container and floated effortlessly above it.

“This ball was used by Wentwater’s founder, Josephus Allard. As you may already know, his name is given to one of the residence halls here. He came to this very ball for guidance whenever he needed to make a decision, and it will also guide you to the hall in which you will stay.

“You may notice that each hall has a different color,” he said, gesturing to the banners hanging high above them, “and this ball will direct you to the hall of that corresponding color. Now, when I call your name please step forward to the column.”

He paused to unroll his parchment.

“Akamatsu, Shinobu,” he projected.

A tiny Japanese girl split apart from the crowd. There were whispers coming from curious first years as she shuffled toward the ball. Her short, black hair reflected the light being refracted off the orb. She looked at Professor Snerkin, timidly, before taking the orb into her hands. The other first years waited cautiously to see exactly what would happen. The clear ball suddenly became red, then green�”now yellow. It quickly rifled between the six colors of the halls. The light emanating from the orb was so bright that it could be seen by everyone in the hall, even though her body, as petite as it was, blocked most of the students from seeing the actual ball. It continued to shuffle the colors of the halls until it stopped, glistening, at the color red.

“Garrison Hall,” Professor Snerkin announced. The students sitting at the Garrison table had erupted in cheers; clearly happy to have the first student. Shinobu walked coyly to the table, struggling to hide a smile that was breaking onto her face.

“Aldridge, Nicholas,” was called, and yet another student cautiously stepped forward. He grabbed it tentatively, perhaps assuming it would react differently for him. The ball, however, did nothing different and again flashed many colors ending, this time, on green.

“Rylan Hall.”

More cheers ensued, as Nicholas found his way to the second table from the left and “Barlett, Jacob” approached Professor Sumpton and joined Shinobu at the Garrison table.

“Bellew, Henri.” Henri surfaced from the crowd; more bold than the other students. This didn’t appear to be because he was eager. His body was short in stature, and his crisply cut brown hair ruffled as he clomped his way toward the professor.

“Eet’s pronounced, ‘On-Ree Bell-Oh,” he corrected. By his tone it sounded as though it was not the first time his name was mispronounced. Professor Snerkin issued a short “sorry” and Henri began to be placed. When the ball stopped flashing on blue, those sitting at the Allard Hall table cheered even louder than all the tables before him.

The Mendel table applauded loudly as “Connor, Laura” became the first student to join their Hall and Professor Snerkin called another name.

“Crane, Elizabeth,” the professor announced, and she strolled casually to the orb. She hardly looked worried and stood holding it for almost a minute before she joined Henri at the Allard table.

There didn’t seem to be any way to figure out which hall each student would end up in. Patrick tried to look for patterns as “Crowder, Morgan” went to Garrison and “Davis, Mitchell” wandered over to Rylan, but he had a hard time making any connections between student and hall. The selections appeared to be made at random as there was no noticeable reason why “Dawes, Justin” was more fit for Templeton and why “Dempsey, Charlotte” would make a better Allard.

Patrick watched as “Denton, Caleb” was placed in Kinsey. He remembered that his Uncle Latimer ended up in Kinsey Hall, but knew nothing more about the hall than the fact that was used to be his uncle’s home.

Sarah, who was a bit nervous before entering the hall, had finally settled down; perhaps due to the relief of not having to trek a river of fire. It was after “Englert, Madison” was placed in Templeton and “Finley, Glen” was issued to a cheering Garrison table that she walked to the ball with more confidence as Professor Snerkin announced, “Forrester, Sarah.” The Garrison table cheered again when the red light shined from the orb.

The ball guided one “Gladwick, Maureen” to Rylan Hall with bright streaks of green and “Goldstein, Dexter” found a place at the Garrison table with a flash of red light.

Perhaps, there was a sequence that determined the hall and no matter what the order of students, this same sequence would repeat itself to place the remaining first years, Patrick thought. It didn’t seem to line up, however. More sporadic placing put “Hawbuck, Steven” in Garrison, “Hiller, Jonathan” in Allard, and “Horner, Jessica” in Kinsey, providing no indication between them of any formula used to help select halls. The placement ball put “Hudgens, Katie” along with the other Allards before Professor Snerkin called for “Huntington, Gregory” to be placed.

He approached, swaggering towards the column. Yellow. Templeton.

“Lawley, Edwin.” Orange. Mende. “Lickspittle, Marcus” found his way to Templeton with a yellow flash.

Blue. Green. Violet.

“Ludington, Samantha”, “MacDuffie, Jason”, and “Mickle, Martin” all found places to sit after their turn had passed.

Even though there were fewer students left than there had been to begin with, it seemed that there were so many left to place. It wasn’t until “Middling, Clarence” left for Templeton and “Minsky, Adam” became a Garrison that Patrick realized a fact that he had neglected.

“Moad, Orenda” a Native American girl, had stepped forward to the center before Patrick was lost in his own head. He had forgotten that along with Sarah, Elizabeth, and himself, William was also here. Patrick looked around at the bunch of students left and noticed William standing toward the front of the group waiting for his turned to be issued a hall.

The room flashed a bright violet, and Patrick was temporarily blinded as Orenda was placed in Kinsey Hall. He tried to maneuver his way between the dwindling group of students, but once again his small stature was a hindrance; especially since the other first years wanted to see where the others were being placed and did not budge from their comfortable viewing positions. There had to have been less than half of the original group left in the crowd and yet Patrick was relegated to the back of them.

“Morrison”…, “Ortega”…, “Owens”…, followed quickly by “Pinsley”…and “Plunkett”…, and “Pudderly”…

As the number of people being placed increased, Patrick had an easier time making it to the front of the line, but as his luck would have it, Professor Snerkin called the next name�”

“Quinn, William,” and the boy, black hair still tied behind him, walked to the ball. Patrick froze where he was, eager to see which hall William would be placed in. The orb flickered for only a second and immediately flashed blue, placing him along with the others, in Allard.

Having missed his chance, once again, Patrick tried to think of things to pass the time until his name was called. I think Grandpa was in Garrison…or was it Templeton?

The group was beginning to diminish dramatically and waiting was becoming more of a chore.

“Rigby, Aaron.” Kinsey.

“Rivas, Arturo” and “Ross, Joshua.” Mendel.

“Singh, Leon.” Kinsey.

“Spinks, Lillian.” Mendel.

“Sweeney, Travis.” Allard.

“Tarpley, Jennifer.” Mendel.

When the professor finally called, “Thatcher, Patrick,” it was both a relief to put an end the wait and to learn which hall he would become a permanent student of.

Putting all other thoughts aside, Patrick ambled up to the column. The orb looked much bigger the closer he got to it. He placed his hands on the ball and a rush of warmth flew through his fingertips. The colors spun a bit faster than it did for the other students and Patrick began to feel very strange.

The gift his grandfather had given him inside of his robe pocket began to vibrate. What was he to do? He could not chance reaching in and opening the box in front of the entire school and he did not know how long the ball was going to take to select a hall. Hurry up and place me, please, he thought, fearing that he was drawing too much attention to himself. The ball, as though listening to him, finally halted at a glimmering blue.

“Allard Hall,” Professor Snerkin said, gesturing to the cheering table of navy-blue.

Patrick calmly walked over to his new table, grabbing a seat next to none other than William Quinn himself.

“Hello,” he said rather calmly for a boy who had just been rattled inside.

“Looks like we’re going to be together again,” William replied setting down his goblet, “first at Agnomon Square and now here.”

Patrick let out a nervous laugh, “Yeah.” His mouth was growing dry. He hastily grabbed his goblet and swallowed a mouthful of pumpkin juice. He finally had a chance to talk to William. Patrick had so many questions he wanted to ask, but he wasn’t sure how William would react to them. He tried to approach the topic casually and uttered the first question that came to mind, ignoring the violet flash that momentarily lit the room.

“Say, you didn’t happen to receive any odd letters before the school year did you?”

“No, I don’t think so. All of my letters have been fairly ordinary,” William said, as the placement ball assigned “Thisby, Rebecca” to Kinsey.

Patrick was unsure if William was being sarcastic. He decided it would be best to elaborate a bit further, as “Thornfield, Simon” took a seat next to him.

“It’s just…I received a letter with your name on it accepting you to Wentwater,” he sputtered.

“That’s strange. I got my letter almost a year ago.” The placement ball shined orange and illuminated Patrick’s curious, scrunched up face. “I’ve got a late birthday,” William added.

“You don’t think that’s normal do you, for me to get a letter for you?” Patrick asked.

William put down his goblet after taking a sip and a green flash filled the room.

“Well, I’ve never heard of that happening before. You’d probably want to find out what happened.”

Patrick took notice of his words. He very much intended to discover what the cause of his letter mix-up was. Even though he had now met William he was no closer to finding any answers. Patrick turned around to watch a bit of the last students to be placed. An orange flash put “Wilde, Nathan” along with the Mendel table, red ones sent “Woods, Caroline” and “Worley, Ellen-Anne” to the Garrison crowd, while yellow and violet ones separated brown-haired twins, “York, Beverly” and “York, Wendy” into Templeton and Kinsey, respectively.

Professor Snerkin lowered the ball back into its box and took it away. The Hall was buzzing with the excited mutterings of several hundred students, but all the chatter ended when the wizard sitting in the middle of the staff table, at the head of the hall, stood to speak. He looked rather young to be the dean of a large wizard school, although his dark brown hair was not without its streaks of white, and his face without wrinkles. He wore the most outstanding sapphire robes that successfully hid his body of medium-build. Looking smug, as though he had given this speech a million times, he opened his mouth to speak.

“Welcome, everyone, to the beginning of a brand new year. It is my sincere hope, that both the new and returning students find comfort here, as Wentwater will be or has been your second home. I’d rather not drag on because I’m just as anxious as you young ones to eat. So, let us feast!”

His last word seemed to have been the trigger to an abundance of food that had magically appeared across all of the Hall tables. Professor Montgomery was right. At the sight of the mountains of food, everyone began tearing into anything they could get their hands on. Steak, corn, mashed potatoes, bread rolls all were being devoured by starving students. Patrick quickly filled his plate and began to chomp down the items before him.

The most popular topic at the Allard table�”and it probably was at the other five tables as well�”was family.

“I’m a ‘alf blood. My family wanted to move back to France so I could go to school where zey did,” Henri said, over loud noises of chewing and sipping.

Patrick had already heard about Elizabeth’s family on the train to Wentwater. The rest of the table, however, found Elizabeth’s father’s occupation rather intriguing.

“Yup, he works with the Muggle post office. Hand delivers most of the mail,” she said, surprised at the amount of people interested in her dad. “My mom and I keep trying to get him to use one of our owls to help, but he always refuses.”

“What about you, William?” Elizabeth asked.

“I’ve grown up with my father,” William began, “my family has had wizard blood in them as far back as you can trace.”

Patrick began to think maybe he and William, both Purebloods, were next to each other on the recipient list. It was a simple mistake where they had issued an extra letter to William instead of sending one to Patrick.

Patrick had opened his mouth to share with the others before he was cut off by William. “There’s no need to ask where you come from Patrick,” he spoke towards his direction.

“Yeah, I suppose not,” he said softly.

“We’ve all heard of the magnificent heroics of Emeritus Thatcher!” said Elizabeth, pronouncing ‘Thatcher’ as if it was the most important word in her sentence.

Patrick had never been recognized until people heard his last name. They would make a short comment about his grandfather and comment about how he, Patrick, is probably just as great as he was. Considering how he had never had any formal training, he always scoffed underneath his breath.

“You all probably know more about it than I do.”

“Oh, come on, Patty,” he heard his brother call, eavesdropping from a little ways down the table. Paul, too, was in Allard Hall, and since Patrick had joined him Paul had no excuse not to take care of his brother. “What do you mean? All those times he’s lectured us when we refuse to fetch him the paper or when we forget the sugar in his ginger root tea? Don’t tell me you haven’t heard a word of that?”

Patrick felt uncomfortable screaming across the table to reply. Before he could open his mouth, thankfully, the silver plates had been wiped clean and Professor Montgomery had stood once more to speak.

“For most of you it has been a long journey here, but before I send you off I must deliver the start of the year announcements,” he cleared his throat, pulled a small scroll from his pocket and placed a small pair of spectacles on his face. They made him look much older than he was, as the dean squinted through the lenses. “Let’s see…Although we never seem to have this problem, I must remind all students that it is not permissible to roam across the grounds after hours. The same rule applies for all buildings and your hall officers will assuredly be enforcing this strictly.

“Additionally,” he started moving the scroll down and squinting harder to read it, “it many interest and sadden some of you to learn that Wentwater will be starting its first Inter-Hall Quidditch cup in place of Quodpot this year.”

Most of the students, who apparently preferred Quodpot, groaned at the news; William, on the other hand, was the only one who applauded.

“The same procedures will apply as with the Quodpot team: only those who are second year or above may own their own brooms, but all students are allowed try out for the team. Your Hall Masters will inform you of any and all tryout dates.”

William looked genuinely excited and turned to another Allard sitting next to him.

“Are you going to try out for the Quidditch team?” he asked.

The boy merely shrugged his shoulders.

“I’ve never heard of�”of ‘Kwidditch’ was it?” he responded. “Both my parents are Muggles, remember?”

“Oh, right. Sorry, Jon, just wondering,” said William, turning back to listen to the rest of Professor Montgomery’s speech.

“Lastly, I would encourage all of our new students to visit the Wentwater Historic Hall located in front of the commons. It’s always nice to know who came before you, so that you may learn from their examples.” He put back the scroll and the glasses into his robes and rubbed momentarily at his eyes. “I suppose I’ve talked enough, this evening. I won’t be keeping you. Hall officers you may show your students to their common rooms.”

Patrick and the other first years of Allard Hall rose from their seats and walked toward Paul and the same Muggle-born friend that had assisted in tearing apart Patrick’s room. Douglas Pickett was one of the senior officers of Allard Hall.

“New Allards, this way! Over here!” He waved his hands high above his head, signaling the others to follow him.

They marched outside the large doors of the Dining Hall back onto the cobblestone walkway. Patrick looked around for the lanterns that Professor Obelus had given them before he noticed that he no longer needed them. The grounds were now illuminated by bright yellow lights in several glass containers that were suspended from the numerous trees. The lights were bouncing around, sending their beams randomly against the ground, landing on the faces of the students. Once Patrick walked close enough to one of the containers, he realized that they were not lights, but in fact, fairies who had been dancing around inside their limited space.

Trotting along, Patrick and the others passed the Commons and what was unmistakably the Wentwater Historic Hall that Professor Montgomery had mentioned, across from it. Of all the buildings he had seen, Patrick judged that this building was definitely the oldest. He kept following the others noticing a few strands of ivy hanging off of some of the building’s corners. Douglas led the group into another building not far from the Historic Hall that had a large bell fixed upon a tower. Inside, they turned left down one corridor while a group behind them, Garrisons, headed right. The passageway was decorated with several portraits of wizards and witches who, as Patrick thought, were all former Wentwater students. They were very well kept, each with the same gold frame. When the group had finally come to a halt, they were standing before the largest of the portraits; a full-length picture of a man in colonial military garb hanging between two small ivory columns. The man in the portrait stood proudly, hands grasping his coat, and gazed down at the group huddled in front of him. Patrick looked up toward Douglas who had not yet said a word since stopping in front of the portrait. His face wore the distinct expression as if he was about to present a king to his kingdom. He stepped from among the other Allards and bowed in front of the portrait cracking his knuckles and recited a short poem:

“We’ve come at last to start anew,
I’ve brought forth students to welcome you.
Continuing traditions from years past,
Ones that, I do hope, will forever last.
Your time has come, it is now your turn,
We have bonds to make and lessons to learn.
But first, Admiral Polk, permit us through,
For a place to rest we now pursue.”


Many of the students standing behind him started giggling at the thought of a person speaking to a portrait and with poetry, no less. Patrick, while well aware of paintings that spoke, had never attempted to speak to one in rhyme; the thought had just never occurred to him. The snickering in the back of the crowd ended quickly once the man issued his own reply.

“Aha, very well done. And new pupils, yes…come in, come in!” he smiled gleefully while maintaining his dignified stature.

Douglas stepped directly through the portrait disappearing to the other side. Bewilderment flushed across Patrick as the portrait’s canvas rippled upon every student’s entry. He leaped quickly to the other side afraid and excited. A feeling of stepping through a sheet of frigid water swept all over Patrick’s body. When the icy cool sensation from entering the portrait had melted away, Patrick paraded into a large common room about a quarter of the size of the Dining Hall. There were fireplaces on each corner, and several tables with candles and chairs about them. Walking through to the farther end, admiring more portraits donning the walls, he stopped once more in front of Douglas, awaiting directions.

“That was Theodore Polk. Every year he demands we greet him with poetry in order to gain access for the year. I’ve heard one year the Allards were forced to stay on the Quodpot field because the officer forgot to write a poem. Anyway, from here on out all you’ll need is a simple, ‘hogwash’ and he shouldn’t give you any trouble. Over through this hallway are the boy’s rooms and this one leads to the girl’s,” he yawned a bit in between his words, the drowsiness could almost be seen growing in his eyes. Some of the older students stayed up chatting and playing games. While Patrick very much wished to join the festivities, he, like Douglas, was very exhausted from all of the day’s events. Patrick ambled down the hall of many doors and even through his drowsiness, he was able to find his room upon his first guess. He did not bother to survey the room but, instead, plopped onto the closest bed, wrapped himself in the blue covers, and dozed mindlessly off to sleep.

When Patrick woke up the next morning his room had already been empty. The three beds on the other side of the room had been made up, just as the two beds next to him, on Patrick’s side, were. He searched through his trunk grabbing a clean school robe, emptying his pockets from his current robes, stopping once he removed his grandfather’s gift. Why had it quivered in his pocket while being placed last night? He supposed that perhaps it worked periodically, but his grandfather said it would open when he needed it. He did not exactly need it last night; none of the other students had a mysterious box tucked away in their robes did they? Placing on his new robes, he decided that he could not figure it out on an empty stomach. Patrick put the box in his trunk, locked it tightly, and walked down the hall towards the common room. He fumbled, clumsily, into William as soon as he turned the corner.

“I didn’t think you’d ever wake up. You just missed breakfast.”

Patrick’s stomach growled, his face furled in a frown. “I hope it’s not long until we have lunch.”

“We got our schedules this morning. I managed to grab one for you while you were asleep.” He handed Patrick a short piece of parchment. “We won’t have lunch until after Magic History.”

The rumbling sounds of Patrick’s stomach were louder than those of the unraveling of his new schedule.
Patrick and William soon found that wandering through the many halls and buildings of Wentwater was no easy task. Several of the doors were dead-ends, leading them around in circles. Not only was it hard to navigate the halls, but the many buildings of the school were uniquely difficult to find a way around. There were some detours that were specific to certain buildings; remembering these differences stacked more frustration on Patrick and William’s already full plates. Some of the older students were kind enough to help them, while others intentionally directed them into doors with brick walls or classrooms with angry portraits, who would not allow them to leave until they had been lectured thoroughly on the importance of punctuality. When they finally managed to find their classes, they quickly picked their favorites out of the bunch.

Magic History was mildly interesting at most. Their teacher, Professor Mott, was particularly snobbish to anyone who asked questions. This was especially the case when she went over the various attacks of large golden-furred oxen, called Re’ems. The classroom was filled with students who fired off many queries about exactly how much destruction was done. Initially, she just tried to ignore them. Whenever she was forced to stop, she glared at whoever had raised their hand and ended up shoving her large, pointed nose back between the pages of the book she was reciting. As the questions became more frequent, she simply continued to speak louder and louder until the room was free of any frantically waving limbs.

At the greenhouses, near the Dining Hall, Professor Marigold instructed Herbology. Of all the teachers Patrick had met so far, Professor Marigold was perhaps the youngest. Her blonde hair, that was tied up in a clutter in the back, occasionally drifted in front of her pretty face as she spoke and she had to move it out of the way several times during the class. Patrick could tell that she was very fond of her work, as seen by her enthusiasm when it came to discussing dull topics like garden safety, which most of their first lesson was spent on.

Professor Snerkin’s class was by far the most entertaining. His jolly demeanor kept everyone’s attention while he performed several amazing feats. He gave a brief explanation of the course, even while performing a dance number with their textbooks.

“Charms are very important, as these are the ones you’re most likely to use in everyday life.” The class listened, their eyes transfixed on their copies of Common Charms and Enchantments as the books waltzed around the table that separated them and their teacher. “Now, you probably won’t be doing anything of this sort for years to come,” he remarked, “but over time, if you work at it, you’ll gradually be able to attempt some harder spells.” He waved his wand and each of the books returned to its rightful owner.

“Boy am I glad he’s our Hall Master. I’d hate to end up with some grouchy, stern old lady,” William commented, as he and Patrick found their way to their Defense Against the Dark Arts class. “Imagine, having some old, stern witch breathing down our necks.” They stepped inside the door of the classroom for their next lesson, not knowing what to expect. His parents had told Patrick that if there was any class he needed to excel in, it was Dark Arts Defense.

When they finally met their teacher, William’s description of a strict witch seemed fittingly accurate when referring to the appearance of Professor Wiggins. Even though Professor Wiggins was a wizard, he did, indeed, appear grouchy, but was never-the-less a knowledgeable teacher.

“The name‘s Professor Angus Wiggins,” he said, his voice ringing with confidence, “but I don’t want none of you callin’ me Angus, ya’ hear?” Patrick glanced over at William, and he looked even more relieved that Professor Wiggins was not the Allard Hall Master. “I was born ‘n raised ‘n Texas and if there’s one thing we don’t tolerate in Texas, its any misbehavin’.”

Firm as he was, his class was very engaging. Even the Garrisons, who shared this class along with the Allards, were greatly impressed with every morsel of information Professor Wiggins told them. Henri, who had lived in France, was particularly astounded by his knowledge of particular incidents in Marseilles, in which the rise of dark wizards were abruptly halted.

On top of the pile of work they had amounted over the beginning week at Wentwater, first years had to spend their Tuesday evenings gazing at the stars from the, newly dubbed, Quidditch field for Professor Dextra’s Astronomy class. Elizabeth, who was not very fond of staring at the stars for any period at time, usually found a way to accidentally break her telescope each class period.

Breakfast Thursday morning met the students with mixed feelings. Transfiguration was scheduled for the period after breakfast that day and none of the first years knew exactly what to expect from their newest teacher, Professor Sumpton. He stared out the Dining Hall windows (now showing a rainy day) and remembered the rants and ravings his father would make after coming home from work. How his lack of appreciation for the Republic fueled much anger and contempt for the selection of this year’s Transfiguration teacher.

When the morning post arrived, it seemed that Patrick’s father was not the only one with a disliking toward President Filibuster and any and all of his decisions. Owls soared in, greeting many of the students with cautious letters from worried families about their impending lesson. While staring out across the grounds displayed on the walls of the Dining Hall, Icarus, had arrived with a letter that Patrick guessed, was his family’s own warning of his first Transfiguration lesson. He opened it, skimming his father’s neat handwriting.

Patrick,
You already know how I feel about this Filibuster business and I don’t want you getting involved in anything. Try not to attract any attention and don’t put too much stock in any of his opinions. Your mother is already in stitches over being away from you and the last thing she needs is to hear that you’ve been socializing with those Republic of Magic folk. I want you to send me an owl right after you get this and another one after your first lesson, and I mean it.
Stay out of trouble,
Dad

Patrick asked to borrow William’s quill, which he had just finished using to write assurances to his father. He quickly scribbled a few words just to assure them that he had, indeed, taken his father’s warning seriously. I’ll be careful, I’m sure everything will be fine. He attached the letter to Icarus’ leg, feeding him a chunk of bread and patting him softly on the head. Icarus’ great wings took flight and Patrick’s questions began flying around inside his own head, as well. Surely, no one person could be causing this much of a commotion.

“Do you think he’s really as bad as everyone says he is?” Patrick asked, wanting William’s opinion.

“Probably not,” William shrugged, “my father doesn’t have an opinion on the matter. He just told me to be careful. If everyone else is suspicious, then I should watch out. He’s probably not that bad. I just think people are blaming him because they don’t like the President. He could end up being the best teacher we’ve had yet.”

Patrick and William left their clean breakfast plates and left the Dining Hall. They ran into Elizabeth and Sarah who they had caught talking excitedly with their faces squeezed together reading a single article in The Warlock Examiner.

“What are you two looking at?” William asked.

“Just the newspaper,” replied Elizabeth.

“I thought it might be a good idea to subscribe,” said Sarah so I know what’s going on in the Wizarding World. You two might want to take a look at this.”

Apparently the newspapers had caught wind of the uproarious sounds of parents’ disapproval. A moving picture of the president’s face took up most of the front page. He looked less noble than he did on the button Patrick was given at the Square. President Filibuster, this time, was wearing a mildly nervous grin underneath the great, bold faced headline of the paper.


Filibuster Flusters at Outcry Against Sumpton
While many voiced their concerns over President Filibuster’s appointment of Dominick Sumpton to Wentwater Conservatory of Magic a few weeks ago, it was nothing to the amount of complaints being received now that the fall term has begun. Many thought that the president would not go through with his selection. Disappointed, protesters directed their anger toward him during a press conference, yesterday afternoon.
“If I thought that my decision to appoint Mr. Sumpton would have caused this much commotion I would still have chosen him anyway.” When asked why he was chosen, the president was interrupted by his Secretary of State, and father of the Wentwater appointee, Timothy M. Sumpton.
“There is no better choice, in my opinion, for a transfiguration teacher. The spells I’ve seen him do…it’s incredible.”


While reading, Patrick’s eyes glanced at the photo of President Filibuster. His generous face was pushed aside by another, one with a slender face that wore a pair of small glasses and graying blonde hair.

“Isn’t that the man who introduced, the president back in Agnomon?” William and Sarah both looked at the man, appraisingly, gave their murmurs of assent, and they stole another glance before turning their eyes back to finish the article.


The current Dean of Wentwater, Miles Montgomery, who supposedly approved this appointment, gave a short response to the protesters’ remarks, saying that he approved the appointment, reluctantly. Further explaining that either way he chose, his opinion would not have been enough to overrule that of the school council.
The coming months will decide whether or not, the president’s first big decision, since his inauguration in July, will be remembered for being a wise fit, or a disastrous mistake.


“A couple of months?” William chortled. “How about ten minutes?”

He was right. Their first Transfiguration lesson was in just a few minutes time. Patrick had been eager to attend every lesson, that is, before he was barraged with the warnings of his parents and the entire country. With his book bag slung over his shoulder, he walked along the grounds toward the Kinsey Hall building, the rest of his friends in tow. Once inside, he again had more trouble with his directions. He could not remember whether it was on the second floor to the left or around the corner on his right. Elizabeth helped; being quite certain it was around to the right.

When they reached the turn they could see that Elizabeth was, indeed, correct. A large huddle of students had gathered outside one of the classroom doors, some peering in through the keyhole beneath the knob, others reviewing the Filibuster article from the newspaper. William spotted Henri amongst the crowd, holding in his hand a letter than he had, no doubt, received at breakfast.

“Are your parents all jumpy, too?” Elizabeth asked, motioning toward Henri’s letter.

“Sort of. Zey just want me to tell them eef I see any’zing ‘zuz ‘picious.” He tucked his letter into his book bag and patted his hair, picking a small twig from it.

Much of the chatter outside the door instantly subsided once their, now famous, Transfiguration teacher emerged from inside their classroom. He looked as though the massive cries of disgruntled parents had not bothered him in the even the slightest way. His young face was bold, wearing one of the most heart-warming grins for someone being attacked the way he was. Judging by the condition of his neat brown hair and matching eyes, no one would ever guess that he had been under the intense scrutiny of thousands of wizards. Patrick immediately began to think that all of the newspaper coverage and warnings from parents were a bit over the top. After all, it had almost been a week and there had not been a single report of Professor Sumpton so much as sneezing the wrong way.

He gestured the horde of first years to enter, his scarlet robes billowing behind him as the class held the door wide open.

Patrick and the others tailed the large class of students. The tables in the back of the class room filled up quickly. Apparently, the grin on Professor Sumpton’s face was not as inviting to the other students as it had been to Patrick. He and William took a table to themselves leaving Elizabeth, Sarah and Henri to another. Professor Sumpton had positioned himself in the front of the classroom taking in the nervous glances of his new students.

“Good Morning. My name is Professor Sumpton and I’ll be teaching Transfiguration this year. Now if you open your books…”

“Why does everyone hate you?” one of the other Allards, Patrick knew as Jonathan Hiller, interrupted; he was another boy in Patrick’s room. During the placement ceremony, Patrick was so lost in thought that he had not paid very much attention to all the students that had been placed. Based on the amount of first years he noticed before the ceremony, Patrick imagined that he had probably only glimpsed a small portion of his classmates being put into their Halls.

Jonathan looked annoyed at the fact that Professor Sumpton was going to ignore everything being said about him. Surveying the room, Patrick noted that upon Jonathan‘s interruption the class had become a bit more attentive. Those sitting in the back probably wished that they were at least sitting near the middle so they could better hear Professor Sumpton’s response.

Professor Sumpton heaved a heavy sigh. He was obviously hoping to avoid having to discuss his current popularity with the country.

“Perhaps,’ he began, “it is your parents you should be asking that question to. I wish I knew what all of this calamity was about,” he finished, his voice wrapped with an irritated quality of voice.

Apparently, his answer was enough to silence any further questions; no one seemed brave enough to touch on the subject again. The students seemed to agree that they should be asking not who is under attack, but those who are throwing the stones.

The remainder of the class went smoothly. Professor Sumpton spent a large portion of the period getting to know more about the students. Each of the students shared something about themselves, usually something about what kind of family they had come from. It felt much like the Allard Hall table’s conversation after the placement ceremony.

Patrick learned some interesting things about the other students in his class. Charlotte Dempsey, another Allard girl in Patrick’s grade, had a star-shaped scar on her shoulder after being bit by a doxy. The entire class was especially surprised to head that Garrison, Glen Finley had a twin brother who had not inherited any magical abilities. After William finished telling the class about his uncanny resemblance to his father, Professor Sumpton moved, without haste, to Patrick.

“And you’re…,” he said glancing down the parchment that he used to take roll, “Patrick Thatcher.” His voice swung upwards with interest upon speaking his name. “You must be the grandson of the, ever-so-famous, Emeritus Thatcher, then?”

“Yes, sir.” Patrick tried to keep his words short; he wanted to at least attempt to heed his father’s advice.

“Your grandfather is quite the hero. I suppose he’s given you pointers on how he accomplished those great feats during the war?”

“Err…not�”not really.”

Professor Sumpton looked disappointed. “I would have loved to hear some of the stories, as well as the rest of the class, I’m sure.” He once more flashed that heartwarming smile at Patrick. “Surely, he has told you how he did it?”

Patrick was beginning to look confused. He had no idea what Professor Sumpton was talking about. When it came to his grandfather’s accomplishments he knew surprisingly little. Patrick shuffled in his seat, becoming uncomfortable.

“No, sir, he didn’t.”

Professor Sumpton moved behind his desk and stared down at one of the textbooks, laying flat on its back. “If I’m correct, I believe most of our time here is spent. Be prepared to start working hard next class period. Despite what you may be reading in the papers, Transfiguration is not going to be a walk in the park; at least not while I am teaching it.”

Patrick felt relieved when the school bell had finally rung. He and William did not dawdle when leaving Professor Sumpton’s classroom. They rejoined Elizabeth, Sarah, and Henri, outside of the Kinsey building.

“’e doesn’t seem so bad,” Henri said, stretching his arms, his face covered in the sun’s warming light. “Maybe everyone iz wrong about heem.”

William snorted. “And I suppose you think he was going to answer John’s question and tell us why everyone thinks he’s the worst thing since dragon pox? He may not seem as bad as everyone is making him, but he’s not in the clear yet.”

Elizabeth looked quite pleased with their new teacher. “Well, I like him already,” she smiled, “he didn’t even assign us any work! As long as he keeps that up, I wouldn’t mind if he wanted to be school dean.”

They walked back along the grounds to the Dining Hall for lunch before their next class. Patrick was still unsure of how he felt about Professor Sumpton. He was sure that however his impression, it would not be enough to change his father’s mind, he thought, remembering that he was supposed to write a letter detailing what had happened in their Transfiguration class today. He placed a bit of parchment and an inkwell next to the plate holding his roast beef sandwich and scribbled some words. He finished, writing just a bit more than he wrote in his last letter, and folded it in quarters tucking it away in his book bag. He took a quick bite of his sandwich and a giant gulp of pumpkin juice.

“What’s our last class?

“Potions,” William said, skimming down his schedule. “With Professor Litmus, Mendel Hall Building.”

They continued to discuss Professor Sumpton over lunch. Most of them, while cautious due to the newspapers, still found him harmless. Most of them tried to offer reasons as to why he was so disliked. Henri had the idea that he might have been involved in a mass werewolf cover-up; endangering the lives of many wizards. While his idea received a couple of well-deserved chuckles, it was hardly a theory worth investing in.

They got up to head to their next class where Sarah followed them out of the Hall.

“I was giving it a thought over lunch and, well maybe he’s not to blame at all,” offered Sarah. “For all we know he and President Filibuster could both be innocent; just victims of public hatred.”

It was very much a possibility. The only question at this point was, why? Was is just general contempt for the government that was fueling this extreme disgust or were there other reasons for the uproar against these two people?

Her idea was received much better than Henri’s. They continued to give it though after passing by the greenhouses while waving goodbye to Sarah; she had Herbology next. Elizabeth led the way to their Potions class giving Patrick time to make mental notes of which passages to turn around, desperately trying to avoid the taunts of the portraits that decorated this, and every, hall in Wentwater.

“Well, here we are,” Elizabeth said, marching up to the door of Professor Litmus’ classroom. They entered and immediately took notice of how very organized the room was. The walls, however, did sport the occasional streak of a smelly or bubbling liquid. Professor Litmus wasted no time getting to know the students as Professor Sumpton did, she merely ushered her thick, tawny hair behind her ears and motioned for the class to join her next to a large cauldron that was placed in the front of the class.

“Now gather ‘round and take a look.” Her voice reminded Patrick of a wizard carnival that he once attended. One of the wizards there had asked him and his mother to attempt to levitate a silver ring around a large tooth. His mother told him that there must have been an Imperturbable Charm on it, because she had received an “Impeccable” on her Charms C.A.T.

Professor Litmus had begun swirling the runny, orange liquid in her pot before she spoke again. “I’m going to show you what making a mistake in my class could cost you.” She pulled out a vial from her indigo robes, jerked the cork from the top, and held up a thin blade of blue grass.

“Every…single ingredient is important.” She parted her fingers and the small plant swayed slowly down into the cauldron, taking the gaze of all the surrounding students with it. When it disappeared under the surface, nothing had happened immediately, leading some to think that it was just a joke to break the ice for the new term. The orange color, however, began to shift to a scarlet one. The cauldron, that was once half-full, began to rise rapidly to the surface. Patrick and his classmates backed away from the over-sized cauldron, eyes still affixed to the rising liquid. He shot his eyes toward his teacher who not only seemed to have a very patient expression, but looked as though her hair had flickered red for a moment. Professor Litmus pulled out another vial, this time dropping a handful of small brown roots into the cauldron.

“That wasn’t a huge disaster. This was, after all, a controlled mistake. I must impress upon you the importance of following directions, especially in my class. Potions is not to be taken lightly, that is, unless you take your own life as such.”

William and Elizabeth hardly felt anxious to make any potions after Professor Litmus’ demonstration. Never-the-less, when it came time to brew one they would, assuredly, check the instructions several times.

The class period went by without anymore potentially deadly exhibitions. They took turns reading and going over the first few pages of Playing with Potions, during which, Patrick noticed, William had taken to reading even the title three times.

The group returned to the Allard common room where Icarus was waiting for Patrick almost as if he knew that his services were needed. Patrick withdrew the letter he had written earlier and attached it to his owl’s right leg. He carried him over to the window and lifted him out to deliver his message.

“We’ve got one more lesson tomorrow and we’ll have most of the day off. We might actually get to relax for a bit!” William said, throwing his feet on top of one of the tables, right where Elizabeth was preparing to sit. She shoved them off and set her things down. “I guess I’ll have time to finish this description of the solar system for Professor Dextra, then,” she sighed. Patrick and William both laughed.

“It’s not funny!”

They continued to talk about their wide assortment of teachers and staff. No matter how strict, humorous, or unpopular they were, Patrick enjoyed them all the same. He could not have asked for a better bunch.

The next morning, talk of their new teacher had settled. Many had sided with Patrick, feeling that the bad press about Professor Sumpton had been blown out of proportion. Even during breakfast, while a small portion of students received what must have been follow-up letters from the previous day, Patrick did not receive a reply from his father as he expected. He did however receive a short taunt from his grandfather. Hope it’s been helping you.

Patrick scoffed at his grandfather’s measly message. His grandfather had obviously taken a bit of amusement at the game he was playing with his grandson. Patrick had not bothered trying to open the box; after all he did not know how. He, also, had not told anyone else about it either. He thought about mentioning it to William, but decided against it; he figured that he would be just as clueless in opening it as he, himself, was. He decided it would be best to carry it around a little more at least to increase the chances that its use would make itself known.

“I’ll be right back. I forgot something back in our room,” Patrick said, as he scarfed down his last piece of bacon.

“Hurry up, our first flying lesson is going to start soon. You know how you are with directions!” William called after Patrick.

He raced out of the Dining Hall across the grounds, past the Commons, and into the Allard and Garrison Hall buildings. He made his way toward the portrait of Theodore Polk, not without enduring the now daily remarks from the other boastful paintings.

“Hogwash,” he breathed at the man.

“Out of breath? With the work they’ve got you all doing? When I was a student we didn’t�”“

Patrick sliced his words mid-sentence rushing through the portrait. Its rippling, cool surface refreshed him for a second, just before he took to running through chattering Allards towards his room. He took a quick left and a right into his room, bolting to his trunk to search for his grandfather’s gift. Patrick quickly tried once more to pry open the wooden edges of the box, before he took off again out the common room and through Admiral Polk’s portrait.

“You find your map, Thatcher?” cackled one of the short wizards from a golden framed painting.

He hurried around the corners and outside the building. Patrick was supposed to meet the others for his lesson in one of the Rylan Hall classrooms. He feared he would not make it in time due to his increasingly poor sense of direction. He astounded himself, however, when every turn he made inside the building seemed to let him know he was making the right one. He did not have time to second guess himself; he was aware that he was cutting close on time. Around the final turn, he arrived just as his classmates were filing out of a classroom, broomsticks flung over their shoulders. A great sigh of relief flushed over him, he had never been late for a class and he would not break that trend today. Patrick sidled past the exiting students and made his way through the door. He saw William and Elizabeth towards the back of the crowd. He moved to join them before being pulled back by a hand on his shoulder.

“Hello, you’re Patrick I assume? Mr. Quinn told me that you would be on your way.” His teacher greeted, she did not seem to mind that Patrick had just scraped by on time, although her firm grip seemed to contrast with her friendly personality.

“Err…yes ma’am,” Patrick strained, the pressure of Professor Pennipot’s hand hurting him.

“I’m Professor Pennipot,” she finally introduced, removing her hand from Patrick and placing it on her waist. “Flying teacher and Quodpot�”well Quidditch referee at Wentwater.” She laughed, “That’s still going to take some time to get used to. Go on, grab a broom and join the others.”

Patrick smiled into Professor Pennipot’s light blue eyes. Her shoulder length, red hair swished a bit as she turned to lead the others outside. Patrick grabbed one of the old brooms that were lined up along one wall of the room. He had chosen one of the brooms, called a “Shooting Star”, and hustled over to William and Elizabeth.

“I’ve got to admit,” started William, brushing a spare broom bristle off his robes, “I didn’t think you’d make it.”

“Yeah, me neither. I really didn’t want to be late; I guess I just learned to trust my instincts,” he finished, thinking back to the advice his grandfather had given him before the start of the year.

The long line of first years winded its way out of the Rylan Hall building and filed out onto the large, circular, grassy Common. Professor Pennipot waltzed right to the middle of the grass and turned to face her pupils.

“All right…stand around in a circle if you please. Place your brooms on the ground on your right side.”

Slowly, brooms and students encircled Professor Pennipot. Patrick placed his broom down on the damp grass, standing in between William and Elizabeth.

“Now, place your right hand over the broom and say, ‘up!’” She demonstrated this, herself, with a better looking broom than the ones her students were using. The broom bolted upward as she summoned the wood frame to her palm.

The Common was filled with the cries of several students attempting to beckon their brooms off the ground. William had his broom in the air and grasped in his hand within the first few tries. Patrick, who had ridden a broom a few times before during a neighborhood game of Quodpot had no difficulty in clearing his first obstacle of bringing his broom to waist height.

The other students were not as skilled at performing this initial feat. Patrick looked over at Elizabeth who was struggling furiously with her Shooting Star. She had successfully managed to lift it from the ground, but it hovered slightly over the grass only to lower itself before it could reach her hand. Patrick and William seemed to have been the only ones capable of completing Professor Pennipot’s first task. They had to wait for further instructions; Professor Pennipot was tending to Henri, who was having the most trouble with the first of his flying directions.

“Conviction, Mr. Bellew! You have to convince yourself that you want to fly!” she said, rounding on him and his lifeless Shooting Star. Henri certainly did not look as though he was eager to take to the sky. He had both of his eyes closed and his head turned in the opposite direction as he gave a meager attempt at bringing up his broom.

The circle of first years laughed and giggled even though most of their attempts were tragedies as well. One of the York twins, Wendy, had successfully summoned a broomstick, although it had been one from the Kinsey student next to her. Orenda Moad simply chuckled as her broom sideswiped Wendy, forcing her to trip over the broom she had been trying to summon. Professor Pennipot turned around at the sound of laughter to the smiling and smirked faces of her class. Her eyes perused them disapprovingly until she caught the only pair of students with their hands clutching a broom and their feet firmly planted.

“Well, it looks like we have some success! How about I demonstrate with you two?”

Patrick and William looked at each other. There was an unspoken agreement of competition between the two of them. Patrick felt confident that they could out-fly William, and he was sure William felt the same after receiving what was unmistakably a broad smirk from his best friend. Patrick had not ridden a broom in quite some time and this opportunity was as good as any to re-familiarize himself with the art of flying. They both nodded at their teacher in agreement.

“Excellent! Everyone, come closer,” she beckoned. The circle began to close in. “Now, Patrick you come across over here and William you stand right over there. Give them some room!’ she waved her hands at the group that had crowded around. “Okay, all ready? Watch closely everyone, and you two,” he turned her head from Patrick to William, “you just follow my directions. Mount your brooms.”

Patrick swung one of his legs over the gnarled wooden handle. In front of him, he saw William do the same. The students’ eyes flickered from the faces of Patrick, over to William’s, and onto Professor Pennipot’s, who once again opened her mouth to deliver instructions.

“On my word, I want you two to kick off the ground and hover around in the air. You two seem as though that’s something you can manage.” Patrick eyed William. His facial expression could not have been clearer. It was evident that he considered hovering a bit of a remedial task and Patrick quite agreed. While his flying skills were nowhere near perfect, certain things, like hovering, seemed effortless.

“Ready? Fly!”

Patrick shoved his foot against the ground launching himself several feet above the other students. He remembered back to the last time he flew, and his takeoff was much shakier than this one had been. Granted, he was only nine and he was very nervous after being told that the ball the others were throwing around had the ability to explode at any given moment.

Even still, glancing straight ahead, Patrick took comfort in seeing William wobble a little on his broom, trying to keep balance on the old-fashioned transport device, but William looked pleased to be in the air all the same.

“Well done! Well done! Excellent work both of you. I hope you are all noticing the firm grip they’re using to steady themselves.” Apparently, Professor Pennipot had not noticed that Patrick was only scarcely holding one hand on his broom. William, looking bored at hovering, swiftly moved toward Patrick.

“What do you say to a little race?” William offered, gesturing to Professor Pennipot who was fielding several questions down at ground level. “Nothing too much, just a little lap around the Commons.”

Patrick looked back down at the ground. Their teacher had once more been showing Henri proper flying etiquette along with a perplexed Wendy, a giggling Orenda, and frustrated Elizabeth.
“Uh…I don’t know,” said Patrick.

“Oh come on. It won’t take long, unless you’re afraid you might lose,” William taunted.

Patrick glanced at Henri, who was standing at body’s length from his broom and Professor Pennipot who was set on convincing him to at least touch the handle. He contemplated backing down, but he began to sway on his broom could already feel the wind in his hair.

“Well, sure, I guess, I’ll take you up on that race,” he said fastening the buttons on his robes.

William smiled.

“Winner gets the other’s dessert?”

“Deal.”

They shook hands and lined up side-by-side. Patrick surveyed their course. The perimeter of the Common was littered with trees, which made Patrick hesitate for a second. Walking along the grounds were other students, from the looks of them Templeton, who had probably just been released from their class. Patrick shirked his fear quickly, the thrill of the challenge was too good to pass up.

“One trip around the Common, on my count, okay?”

Patrick fixed his robes on himself and gripped his Shooting Star tightly.

“Three…two…ONE!” William spoke “one” quicker than he had the other two numbers and had already darted off. Patrick directed a loud Hey! and dashed behind him.

The air flapping about Patrick’s face was fierce, making it very difficult for him to keep his eyes open. William, who was by now three lengths ahead, was already shooting between the trees scattered randomly around the Common. He was, however, having a bit of difficulty moving through the branches on such an old broom.

Patrick began to feel wary, again, of his choice to compete in this race. If it was difficult for William, who was much more enthusiastic about participating in the race, how was he, Patrick, supposed to navigate through the numerous trees?

He was flying straight, ready to swerve into the perennial-filled labyrinth. Patrick held onto his broom as firm as ever as he passed the first tree. No sooner had he entered the throng of trees had a familiar feeling struck him in the chest. The box his grandfather had given him began to tremble in his robe pocket just as it had during the placement ceremony. Patrick questioned whether or not he should reach for it while zooming through such dangerous scenery. There were so many thoughts swirling in Patrick’s head, he hardly could hardly focus on his flying. Upon realizing that he was dedicating more attention on his pocket than his current race, Patrick suddenly become conscious of the fact that he was moving around the tree-infested Common with such ease, that he was well within William’s range now. His difficulty in dodging these obstacles had decreased. Patrick kept his eyes cautiously in front of him, finally passing by William.

“Hey! Where’d you learn to fly like that?” shouted William from behind him.

Patrick could not explain it himself. As a matter of fact, the only thing he could think of was the one thing that had not normally been a part of his outfit. He shoved his hand into his pocket, scrounging his fingers around searching for the crack that separated the two halves of the wooden box. Patrick struggled to push a finger through and the box finally opened. Many different ideas hung in Patrick’s mind about what might have resided in his mysterious wooden box. Now, he had the chance to find out. Patrick’s fingers felt inside pressing on the surface of a cold circular object, like glass. He pulled out the box, still effortlessly dodging the trees, and stared at a gleaming brass compass, resting among its wooden container.

Patrick looked at it bafflingly, as though doubting that it was this that was allowing him to brush past the scattered elms. Either way, he could not explain his sudden burst of flying talent and remembered the warning his grandfather gave telling him not to show it to anyone.

He was nearing the end of the circuit. Patrick shut the box, returned it to his pocket and glided past the last tree towards roaring applause from the other students. Their class had clearly enjoyed watching the race. Patrick found a patch of grass to land on, feeling that his teacher would not be harvesting the same enthusiasm as his classmates. He watched as Professor Pennipot hurried over to him looking a bit torn.

“Mr. Thatcher, I ought to put you and Mr. Quinn in detention for flying off like that,” she said as William landed nearby; twigs sticking from his black hair. Her normally soft face flickered with a dose of disapproval. “But to do so would be to punish exceptional skill. Flying such as that, Mr. Thatcher…well, the last time I’ve seen such talent, and from a first year, no doubt…must have been Maximus Brankovitch, himself!”

She was referring to one of the greatest players in America. Some said that he is responsible for the rise in Quidditch’s popularity. Patrick said that he is the only thing standing in the way of a Warbler championship. Maximus Brankovitch III captains the Fitchburg Finches, the team that managed to knock the Wickenburg Warblers out of the American League Finals for the past two years.

Patrick shifted his newly discovered compass around in his pocket, and laughed nervously. Considering it was his compass, that he believed was the cause of his great flying, he did not want to take credit for what it might have done.

“Really, it wasn’�””

“Nonsense. Heck, you two should try out for the Quidditch team, especially you Patrick. It’s normally a long shot for first years, but Quidditch has never been played here, it should even out the odds a bit.” She turned to address the others who had just been standing around fiddling with the bristles of their brooms. “Well? You’re not going to become a first-class flyer by picking at your brooms. Up, up!”

.Even though Patrick and William had taken off during their lesson, Professor Pennipot was so impressed, they were exempt from the rest of the lesson. Patrick was glad that he didn’t have to worry about flying lessons anymore for the day. He was even more glad that Professor Pennipot’s soft spot for good flying did not land him in detention. As they sat watching their class, William took this time to badger Patrick about his outstanding flying skills.

“Where did you learn to fly like that? Don’t tell me your grandpa taught you that, too,” he said, disbelievingly.

“No, he didn’t teach me,” started Patrick, avoiding his grandfather and having to mention the gift he was given. “To tell the truth I haven’t flown that often. I’ve only done it a couple times playing Quodpot in my neighborhood.”

“You mean you’ve only ridden a couple times? Bu-but the way you moved…you don’t even have a scratch!” William said incredulously, tugging at a gaping hole in his navy-blue robes and comparing them to Patrick’s clean, unscathed ones.

“Yeah well, I didn’t know I had it on me�”Er…in me,” Patrick said, placing his hand over his pocket. He could imagine the ear-to-ear smirk his grandfather would most likely be sporting had he seen what had just transpired.

“We should take Professor Pennipot’s advice.”

“What?” Patrick spurted. William’s words shook him from his thoughts.

“We should try out for the Quidditch team. I saw Professor Snerkin post a bulletin for tryouts this morning. It’s like the professor said, most people have never played Quidditch before. We’d stand a better chance than most first years and some of the other student,” he finished.

Patrick had never thought about playing for a Hall team, although he had found his recent race exhilarating. He mulled it over while watching Elizabeth and Henri return from the end of a horrendous flying lesson. Elizabeth had finally managed to grab hold of her broom, but remained unable to lift off. Henri had barely made any progress.

“I do not want to fly! Why do we ‘ave to do zis? How come we cannot just watch uzzer people fly? I do not want to play Quidditch. I will jus’ ‘earn ‘ow to apparate when I get older. Zis class ees stupid!”

Henri’s account of his poor flying attempts was the only thing able to break Elizabeth’s somber mood. She let out a laugh, realizing that she was not the worst flyer in their class. Her mood returned, however, when she and Henri headed back to the Allard common room after lunch. Professor Dextra’s astronomy essay was still yet to be written. As she trampled away, grudgingly to the bell tower-topped, Allard Hall building, William threw his hands behind his head and sighed.

“We’ve got the rest of the day free. What’s there to do? Think we could convince Henri that he only needs to eat more muffins to help him fly?” William asked.

“I’ve got an idea,” he said, nudging his thumb to an ivy-wrapped building. “How about we pay a visit to the past?” Patrick started off towards the school’s Historic Hall.

“Wha…wait up! We’ve got all this free time and you want to go nosing around a museum of old wizards?”

“Professor Montgomery told us we should learn more about those who came before us,” he said moving into a run. Patrick figured that if he could not learn something about his new compass in there, he would at least get a little help in Magic History class.

They walked up the stone steps and swung open the door. It was a most interesting building; one that was sure to hold as many stories as there were threads of the red velvet carpet on the floor. Like the other Wentwater halls, the walls were adorned with wizard paintings. These portraits, however, were much larger than the others. The light from the candles that were affixed between each picture glazed on the faces of the wizards and witches as the flame danced on its wick. They walked in slowly trying their hardest to take in all the room had to offer.

“Wow, I just wish I owned one winged horse,” said William aloud. It appeared that William had eaten his words; he seemed very interested in the portrait of one, Phillip Equine and was already deep in conversation.

“Sure, you do. You can have them. I don’t even like the things.”

“What do you mean? It says right here you were the biggest owner of Aethonons in the 1700s.”

“Well, you’d think that after bringing all of those beasts over from England, having to clean them and pick up their slop, anyone would be in love with them, wouldn’t they?” ranted a tall, thin wizard with short black hair.

Patrick walked over to William and pulled his face away from the silver plate underneath the portrait that read the engraved words, Phillip Equine. There was a large paragraph underneath that Patrick passed by in his rush to get away from the unfriendly painting.

“We’re not going to get anywhere fighting with portraits,” he said coolly.

“Tell that to him!” William said, squinting his eyes cautiously as his arm was dragged away from the wall bearing Phillip’s picture.

They passed many more wizards and witches as they admired the achievements of other notable warlocks. Marcellus Bravura, an accomplished wizard musician, played a tune on his Armonica as Patrick and William browsed the Hall. It was not until they passed the portraits of Abraham Peasegood, inventor of the American Wizarding game, Quodpot, and Zelda Anglesey, founder of The Warlock Examiner, that Patrick found someone who interested him more than any of the others.

At the end of the Hall in the largest room, hung the biggest portrait they had seen. Its frame stretched from both sides of the wall, and it was, by far, the shiniest of any in the building. Underneath the portrait, on the same silver plate, was inscribed several words that Patrick and William both stepped closer to read:


Josephus Allard
(1663-1771)

Celebrated founder of Wentwater Conservatory of Magic. Feeling the need fororganized magical education in the New World, Josephus Allard helmed the role of teaching wizards and witches present in the American Colonies before the school was officially opened in 1704. Allard remains one of the most influential wizards in American History.



Patrick looked up into the face of an older man, dressed in clothing very similar to early Muggle colonists. His hair was covered by a white, powdered wig, whose ponytail fell on his green overcoat. His left hand was cradling a familiar object; the placement ball orb which had been occasionally changing colors, landing each time on blue. Patrick was admiring the illustration while William was the first to break the silence between themselves and the portrait.

“Excuse me, um…Professor?” William said, looking at Patrick, wondering if he had used the correct honorific. Patrick shrugged and the portrait looked down on the two students.

“Yes, Professor Allard is right,” the man in the portrait said, warmly.

“Er…yes, Professor Allard. Are you really the founder?” William questioned.

“If that plaque does read the truth, then yes, I really am the founder of Wentwater,” he said, eloquently. He had a smooth and charming voice that sounded of assertiveness. It was a tone that Patrick could easily tell belonged to a great teacher.

“Professor, we were learning in Magic History about all the Muggles that were settling here. How did you manage to start a school with all them around?”

“Ah…’twas no simple task, I shall assure,” he sighed. “I began teaching young pupils nearby, from a surrounding town or two. I taught them within my home careful not attract an excess of attention. It was regrettable the way events unfolded as they did.”

Patrick was puzzled.

“What events? What was regrettable?”

“Some wizards,” he continued, “attempted to cooperate with Muggles, believing that our non-magical occupants would be increasingly receptive those of our variety. These wizards however were extremely fortunate. They attempted these feats before the International Code of Secrecy was created, although, it was these same wizards’ audacious behavior that called for the Code’s creation.”

“You mean they knew about us? Wizards, that is?” Patrick inquired, further. He was beginning to find this lesson interesting. Much more interesting than anything that Professor Mott had attempted to teach him.

“There have been times that, yes, we have been known by Muggles. Many of the earlier endeavors were unsuccessful. Many trained Oblivators were contacted to assist in relieving the chaos that ensued. They had a very busy job, especially during the late 17th century. Some of us became reckless with our magic, exercising it before the public, where it could be spotted by anyone, wizards and Muggles alike. Shameless,” he paused, shaking his head, “just shameless. Wizards who were adept at mimicking the habits of Muggles had to be strategically placed to keep the number of wizards, and those Muggles who were accused of being wizards, to a minimum. But alas, our efforts were not great enough to save all that had been accused. It only started a panic; one even we could not prevent. It was that which entailed the need for a law to avoid future attempts at Muggle integration without International Confederation approval.”

Patrick became more interested at every word. Surprisingly, William had also been listening attentively. “So there were some that worked? All of them couldn’t have failed, could they?” Patrick asked.

“No, not all of them. In fact, just before I died, wizards had begun successful talks with a collection of the more prominent Muggle figures. From what I have been told by some of those who passed through this very hall during those times, we assisted in the battles of America’s rebellion. Apparently, our aid was known only to a select few Muggles.”

Patrick found this lesson in wizard and Muggle history very fascinating. He took a few steps back to admire the large portrait better. The placement ball was still gripped in Professor Allard’s fingers. Patrick caught another flash of blue before suddenly falling backwards onto the harsh hall floor. His wand and compass in its wooden box were lying on the red carpeting of the room. William rushed over to help him.

“Are you all right?” William said, handing Patrick his wand.

“Yeah, thanks.”

Patrick patted his robes, checking inside his pockets. He saw his compass lying out in the open, the wooden box open once more revealing his gift.

“Say, now! Where did you get that!”

Professor Allard was pointing one of his fingers at the circular compass lying just a few inches behind him. Patrick stood up grabbing the wooden box.

“This? I…bought it. Some shop at Agnomon Square,” he said, remembering once more his grandfather’s request to keep it a secret.

“Nice try,” he chuckled. “You cannot and would not find that in any shop.”

William stood in silence, unsure at first, of what the interest in a small compass was about. “How do you know he couldn’t find that in some shop? They’ve got just about everything at Agnomon.”

“Because that compass,” he said reaching deep into one of his coat pockets, “belonged to me.” He withdrew another compass. The wooden box in Professor Allard’s hand matched exactly with the one resting in Patrick’s palm.

Patrick stared at Professor Allard, flabbergasted. “You…yours?” he questioned.

“Yes, that is correct.” He was gazing intently at the instrument in his hand; Patrick was doing the same. “The captain of the Peregrine, the ship my family and I boarded to attend the New World, offered this to me after we arrive. It was only three years before he died. I was rather young then, probably but a year or two older than you are now.”

“Well, you must know how to use it then?” Patrick said happily, hoping to gain answers.

“Of course I do. Surely you are familiar with the functions of a compass, boy! It reveals directions!” he looked as though Patrick had asked a very strange question. “Didn’t I tell you I got it from a captain? I would have guessed it was this compass that aided us to the New World. It seemed have worked exceptionally well. After hearing stories of other voyages, our trip seemed pleasantly speedy compared to the others; it appeared that, others did not arrive as quickly as we did, nor smoothly.”

Patrick looked a bit disappointed at the portrait’s response. “That’s all you used it for then? Finding your way?

“You sound saddened, young man. I am afraid so, yes, this compass has always helped me find my way. I have followed its every direction; it has never led me astray. I was very fortunate to obtain it,” he said, grinning.

Patrick frowned. He had gained some interesting facts and was certainly closer than he had been to finding out its use, but was nevertheless disappointed at his current position.

“Oh,” he paused, “Mr. Bravura is playing my favorite tune. You are to be welcomed back at anytime, but I find this song most relaxing and I am sure you could grant me the pleasure of listening in peace?”

“Yeah…um, sure,” Patrick said, tucking his compass back into his robe pocket. “Thanks.” Patrick started to walk away leaving Professor Allard to enjoy the harmonious sounds of Marcellus’ armonica. He moved past William who had bent down to pick up something on the ground.

“Really,” he said, “you’d think people would find a better place to play games than in here!” He held up a small yellow stone that had been lying on the ground. “You must have tripped over this.”

Patrick would have minded had it not helped him find out more information about his new compass, although what he gained was still somewhat of a mystery. Professor Allard had said it, it was a compass and it was used to find directions. However, he felt there must have been more to it than that.

He pondered over his meeting as he and William walked to the Dining Hall for dinner. When they arrived, Elizabeth and Henri were already sitting at the Allard table, both looking utterly exhausted.

“Hi, Elizabeth, did you finish your essay?” William asked.

“Yes,” she sighed, “took me all day. It’s a lot harder describing the constellations of stars during the afternoon.”

“She even dragged me into ‘elping ‘er,” remarked a winded Henri. “Eet is bad enough I cannot fly, but ‘aving to do extra work on top of zat?”

They shared a few laughs before the several platters of food were full, and they shoveled assorted mixtures of meats and vegetables on their silver plates. Just like earlier after their flying lesson, William interrogated Patrick, this time about his compass.

“How in the world did you get Professor Allard’s compass?” he spoke loudly.

“Shh…keep your voice down,” Patrick hushed. He continued, only after several surprised faces turned back to their plates of food. “My grandfather gave it to me, just a little while before school started. He told me not to tell anyone so you have to promise not to say anything.”

“You can count on me,” William said proudly. “I just wonder how your grandfather got it.”

“Who knows, but you can bet I’m going to ask him.”

Their dinner plates had been wiped clean and in place of the empty platters of food were several slices of apple pie. William took his slice and slid it over to Patrick. “Here, it’s yours, you won the race.”

“No, it’s alright you can have it,” Patrick said, thinking it unfair to accept William’s dessert. He could not help but think that the compass played a part in helping Patrick win the race earlier today.

“Really? Thanks!” William was already devouring his slice, clearly glad Patrick refused it.

The Allards left dinner, stuffed with food, walked back to the Allard hall building and sprawled themselves on the furniture that was placed around the common room. Patrick sat down to write his third letter of the week, pulling another roll of parchment for a message to his grandfather.

Dear Grandpa,

I had a chance to visit the Historic hall at Wentwater and I even talked to the portrait of Professor Allard. He told me that the compass you gave me was once his. He didn’t tell me much about how to use it or how you got it. Can you tell me what this thing is supposed to do? Please answer!
Your grandson,

Patrick

Icarus once again, discovered his services were needed before they could be requested, and landed next to Patrick’s, half-full, inkwell.

“I know I’ve been giving you a lot of work lately. I promise, you’ll have a nice long break after this.” Patrick assured, rolling up his letter and attaching it to his owl’s right leg. He flew off through the open window from which he came, and Patrick sunk into his chair and turned to William. “What’s this you were saying about, Quidditch?”

Several weeks flew by and Patrick received no word from his grandfather. He found the anticipation the most taxing task, focusing much of his attention upwards during breakfast in search of his grey and white owl.

Patrick barely focused his attention to anything else in the morning and it was apparent in the way he ate. He paid so little attention, that it was not uncommon during breakfast for William to inform Patrick that he had been attempting to eat eggs through his nose. In fact, William had, taken up the duty of keeping Patrick alert while he anticipated his grandfather’s response.

Patrick spent most of that week thinking about what his grandfather’s letter would address and, as a result, inadvertently shirked his lessons. Fortunately, with Patrick frolicking in his own mind, William developed a habit of paying close attention to instructions; a habit that prevented Patrick from decimating their grade by adding porcupine quills too early for their boil cure potion.

Charms was no different. While Professor Snerkin was teaching the rest of the class a simple water charm, Patrick was busy thinking about his compass, indolently waving his wand in front of him. William, seeing Patrick knock over books and quills with his unfocused wand work, removed the wand from his partner’s hand and set it just out of reach; Patrick, however, still continued to swish about his wand-less hand as if conducting an imaginary orchestra.

To William’s relief, Patrick had been considerably more alert in Magic History. He listened to Professor Mott’s recitation of early wizard colonization, hoping for even the vaguest reference to anything that could be applied to what Professor Allard told him. While she did discuss, or read aloud, rather, the pitfalls of early wizard/Muggle relations, nothing else was mentioned that served as any help to Patrick.

“I just don’t see what’s taking him so long,” Patrick said to William, during one of their Dark Arts Defense lessons. “It’s not like we’re very far away.” Patrick was finally beginning to fall out of his vacant-minded slump after a couple more days without an answer; he realized that he would get the letter when it came and there was no use in continuing to flout his schoolwork. It was also due to the fact that Professor Wiggins had become more attentive of Patrick’s idle behavior.

“Thatcher!’ he shouted, “’pparently you didn’ hear me the first three times I asked ya’. What’s the incantation for the knock-back jinx?”

“I…it’s got to be,” he spluttered.

“Flipendo. Ya’ need to shape up, Thatcher.,” he injected, looking disappointed. “It’s only the start of the year. Don’t be gettin’ lazy already.”

Patrick noted Professor Wiggins’ expression. It was clear that the mystery of his compass was becoming a distraction.

“You should take your mind off of it,” William said, continuing their interrupted conversation. “I’d kind of like some help in Potions,” William added; he did not want Patrick to slide back into his vacant mood. “I say you focus on something else, like Quidditch. Tryouts are Saturday and Professor Snerkin expects a lot of students to show up.”

“Maybe you’re right,” he said, leaving the Templeton Hall building. Patrick found it hard to avoid the topic of Quidditch during the two days leading up to tryouts. Travis Sweeney and Simon Thornfield, two other boys in Patrick’s year who were almost always seen together, could not keep Quidditch out of their conversations. Even though they had both confessed to being avid Quodpot fans, the prospect of being a part of the first Allard Hall Quidditch team was too exciting to pass up. Even Henri, who was by no means intending to tryout for the team, could not wait for Saturday to arrive.

“This iz so exciting,” Henri exclaimed, reading the bulletin Professor Snerkin had posted in the Allard Common Room. “Eet reminds me of ze times my fahzer took me to see ze Quafflepunchers

“That wasn’t the one where they played the All-Stars was it? You know, the one Quiberon lost in?” grinned William.

“No, I didn’t,” Henri defended. “Isn’t zat ze match zat took five days for ze All-Stars to win?”

“Sweetwater still won and a win is still a win,” William triumphed.

Talk filled the common room the night before the tryouts. Almost all the Allards were up discussing their chances, while others were trying to discover the rules. One girl in particular, another from Patrick’s year, was busy thumbing through a book. Her short, straggly brown hair barely revealed the name of the book, Quidditch Through the Ages.

“How many people did you say were going to try out tomorrow?” Patrick asked, peering back over at the girl reading.

“I didn’t,” William replied, “I just said Professor Snerkin expects a lot of people. There’s no telling how much experience anyone’ll have.”

“If you’re concerned about her,” Elizabeth said, as Patrick looked back at the girl for a third time, “then you might want to give up now. That’s Myra Pudderly. She’s hardly anything to worry about.”

“I wasn’t,” retorted Patrick. “It just seems like a lot of people may be going out for the team.”

“Well, I’m just surprised she’s reading something other than Magic History books. She seems to be the only one interested in that class,” finished Elizabeth.

She stood up and walked over toward Patrick, William, and Elizabeth, using a finger to hold the book open as she approached.

“Excuse me, but I have a question, er…Patrick,” she started. She had a low voice, one that would be the exact opposite of a very talkative person. She didn’t look directly at any of them, but continued to talk, her eyes never leaving the word-covered page of the book she was holding.

“Do you know of any other books about Quidditch?” she asked.

“I don’t know of any other than that one,” Patrick replied pointed to her copy of Quidditch Through the Ages.”

William had suddenly perked up. It was as if he was waiting for this question to be asked and had done more than his fair share of research to answer it.

“Well, there’s Chasing Victory, that’s by Waxham Brast. Then there’s The Quintessential Quidditch Guide and Keeping Up With the Pros. Those are by Brast, too. Now, that I think of it, those are all apart of his Quidditch series.” William was counting them off on his fingers, looking upward trying to remember them all. “He’s written tons of�””

“Um, thank you,” Myra said, glancing at Patrick once more then closing her book and shying away back to her table. William had been talking incredibly fast and it didn’t appear that he was entirely focused on Myra anymore.

“Then you’ve got the Quodpot stuff. Everyone should own Quodpot: Past and Present.”
“William,” Elizabeth interjected, “she left.”

He snapped out of his sports trance and finally noticed that Myra was already absorbed in her book.

“Well, if she doesn’t want to learn more about Quidditch, who am I to help her? I’ve got enough to worry about.” William stared toward the bulletin board where the tryout announcement was pinned. Patrick, after realizing that Myra only wanted to learn more about the sport, relaxed a bit and hoped that there would not be as big a crowd as he feared.

After waking up early the next morning, it appeared that Professor Snerkin’s expectation was accurate. That morning at breakfast, the Allard Hall table was filled with excited students all hoping for a spot on the new Quidditch team. Patrick, William, Elizabeth, and Henri sat eating their toast, while watching the other Quidditch hopefuls chatter excitedly. Robed students, some shouldering brooms, walked in and out of the doors of the hall. Patrick followed each one as they turned the corner counting every student to pass by their table, while swirling his goblet of pumpkin juice.

Patrick was becoming increasingly nervous. As great a flyer as Professor Pennipot said he was he couldn’t help the feeling that his skills were not entirely his own. Patrick made a decision, one that perhaps was adding to his nervousness, to abandon his compass to the bottom of his trunk for today’s tryouts. Just as he thought it unfair to take William’s dessert, he wanted to make the team on his own talent.

He took some assurance in his performance during his other flying lessons. After flying, without the compass, he found that, even on an old broom, his flying ability had gotten better since he last remembered it, granted he didn’t have to fly through trees this time around.

He did not, however, plan on using the outdated Shooting Star that he had ridden during his first flying lesson. Professor Pennipot had approached both Patrick and William, offering to allow them to use some of her more advanced broomsticks. They both accepted her offer, graciously, and she let them know their brooms would be waiting for them in the Quidditch field locker room.

“Think we should get going?” William said, dropping his fork on his plate that cleaned itself, instantly.

He could not hold it off anymore. The majority of the students in his hall were already filing out from breakfast. Noticing them, he sighed, uneasily, “Yeah, we might as well.”

Patrick rose from the table, William, Elizabeth, and Henri behind him, and walked, shakily, to the Dining Hall’s exit. A long snake of navy-blue robes could be seen slithering down the cobble-stone path to the Quidditch field making the knot in Patrick’s stomach tighten; it appeared that every Allard in the hall was going to be attending the tryouts, hopefuls and spectators alike.

Henri and Elizabeth were busy chattering all the way to the field, but Patrick had once again slipped into thought. His compass, which he believed had helped him during his first flying lesson, would not be able to assist him now. How would he be able to manage against the other students in his hall? What was keeping him from being any more impressive than any of the other students? It didn’t matter. He could only gain from giving it an attempt and had nothing to lose.

Before they reached the locker room, Patrick and William waved goodbye to Elizabeth and Henri. They pushed aside the curtain and made their way past the crowded locker room until they saw a boy waving a muscular hand, attempting to flag them down.

“Patrick? William?” he asked, his green eyes shifting between the first years.

“Yeah, that’s us,” Patrick replied.

“Hi, Gerald Flynn, fourth year,” he smiled. “Professor Pennipot left you a couple brooms. They’re over there.” One of his thick fingers was aimed at a single wooden locker, exactly like the ones that were aligned on both sides of the room. They both hustled over to it and pried open the knob affixed to the door to reveal two, mildly dusty Cleansweep Tens. Patrick grabbed the Spanish oak handle and he could immediately feel the difference between this and the shabby Shooting Star he was used to tolerating during Professor Pennipot’s class. William, too, looked pleased; his broom was floating mid-air and he was spinning it around with his finger on the handle. After a minute, Gerald butted in on Patrick and William fiddling with their new brooms.

“So what positions are you two trying out for?” he inquired.

Which position was he trying out for? So much time had passed between his compass revelation, being nervous about tryouts and now, that he had not given much thought to what position he felt he was right for. William, however, knew exactly which role he wanted on the team.

“Seeker,” he answered, looking just as confident as he did that day in Agnomon Square.

“Wow,” uttered an impressed Gerald, “good luck with that. That seems to be the most popular spot. Gets a lot of the glory, doesn’t he? I’m going for Beater, myself. I used to be a Swiper for our Quodpot team last year. So, I’ll stick to something I can do.” Patrick agreed. Gerald’s build was certainly in the range for a first class Beater. His shoulders were broad and his arms thick.

“What’re you going to play, Thatcher?” he asked, folding his arms across his chest.

He gave it a quick thought. With William trying out for Seeker and Gerald for Beater, he narrowed it down to the remaining two positions. “Chaser,” he coughed up. There were three Chaser spots to fill and he had better odds of making the team by picking a position that needed the most players. Not only was there only one Keeper spot, but Patrick didn’t like having the responsibility of defending three goals with only two hands.

“Hmm,” Gerald was studying Patrick’s physique, “a little on the thin side, but that could work to your advantage. It’s worked well enough for Gravel with the Starlings. They’re on a three-match winning streak.”

They heard a shrill whistle blown from the Quidditch field and the head of their Hall Master, Professor Snerkin, peered through the curtains, once again sporting the chirping bird on his hat brim and wearing a broad grin. It appeared that he had performed a silencing charm on it, as its chirping was no longer audible.

“Allard hopefuls, this way,” he said quickly, and his head disappeared to the other side of the curtain.

Patrick, William, and Gerald were the first to exit the locker room and emerge on the other side to a large, grassy Quidditch field. On the opposite side, the female players were doing the same, joining the boys around Professors Snerkin and Pennipot in the center of the field. Patrick glanced up at the towering stands that surrounded the entire field; he could see that a large majority of the seats were filled with, what looked liked, the remaining Allards. He squinted to try and find Elizabeth and Henri, but they were too high and there were too many people to dedicate time to finding them.

“Seven of you here,” Professor Snerkin started, “will be apart of Allard Hall’s first Quidditch team. Before we start, I’m going to ask you to divide into four groups, depending on the position you intend to tryout for. The Keepers should gather over there,” and he pointed to the Northwest area of the field. A small portion of the crowd broke off and trampled along the grass to where they had been directed. “Beaters,” he continued, “over there.” Gerald and a group just a bit larger than the keepers moved their way to the Southeast area. “Seekers right over there.” William departed from Patrick along with the largest group of tryouts on the team. Gerald was right about seeker being the most popular spot. At least half of the original group had departed to the Southwest area of the field to await their turn to tryout. “Well that just leaves the Chasers. Over that way, please,” and Patrick, alongside the other Chasers, made their way to the only corner not occupied.

Both Professor Pennipot and Professor Snerkin crossed the field making their way over to the Beaters, Professor Pennipot magicking a large, brown chest as she walked. Patrick realized that it may be a while before he would actually get a chance to fly and plopped down on the grass, his Cleansweep beside him. His attention bounced from the conversations around him to the cheers of the crowd and the group of Beaters across the field who were flying up and down, one-by-one whacking iron bludgers with small, wooden bats. He spotted Gerald’s trial, which appeared to be one of the best of the bunch. He thought, for sure, Gerald would be on the team.

Several hours passed between the trials of the Beaters and keepers, offering few talented players. The keeper trials instilled laughter from the audience. The majority of the keepers had trouble guarding the three hoops, perhaps owning to the fact that Quodpot had only one pot to defend. Professor Snerkin selected the keeper among them and finally walked over to the group of Chasers to begin their trials.

“All right, Chasers, your time has come. I’ll be trying you three at a time. You will have to demonstrate basic flying skills, passing ability, and of course, shooting accuracy. You’ll each have three shots against your new Allard keeper, Allison Sinclair.” Patrick looked over at the short-haired girl floating between the first and second goal hoops of the field, before glancing back to his Hall Master. Professor Pennipot had approached from behind him, carrying a red, leather ball and handed it to Professor Snerkin. “Thank you,” he said, taking the Quaffle. “All right, why don’t we have…Gaines, Stilley, Emmert, you’re up first.”

Two boys and a girl carried their brooms to the center of the field where they stopped for a minute, listening to more instructions from Professor Snerkin, and they took to the air. Passing among them was okay; one of the boys kept fumbling with his tosses. The girl, Emmert, made some superb flying moves to prevent the Quaffle from falling and scooped up several of the boy’s, Stilley, faulty passes.

Patrick watched many more students miss passes, make goals, and be dismissed before it was finally his turn to begin his trial.

“Thatcher, Mulligan, Whitmarsh…you’re up!”

He took many deep breaths as Professor Snerkin issued the final instructions before he mounted his broom.

“You will each have three shots at the goal. Each one of you will shoot three shots at a time, while the other two will assist in passing. Once you’re all finished you can have a seat along the outside of the field. Good luck, and mount your brooms.”

The other two players in Patrick’s group, both male, were much taller than he was and by the look of them, they appeared to be either sixth or seventh years. Professor Pennipot blew her whistle and the three of them rose into the air. Patrick was worried how he would fly without his compass to assist him, but he was surprised at his lift-off. He fidgeted a little, but his Cleansweep was much easier to control and Professor Allard tossed him the Quaffle.

“Thatcher, you go first.”

He handed the Quaffle to the boy next to him and they took off to pass. Patrick swooped up slightly above the other two, while the boy on his left, Mulligan, flung the Quaffle to the boy on his right, Whitmarsh. Patrick was steadily approaching the goals and the right-boy signaled an imminent pass. Patrick was thinking about which hoop to shoot for when, luckily, the Quaffle slipped comfortably under his right arm. He watched closely at Allison’s position; she was hovering between the left and middle goals like she had done during some of the other Chaser trials. Patrick took another breath, feigned towards the left hoop and hurled the Quaffle at the right goal. Allison gave a great dive to Patrick’s left and the leather Quaffle soared into the ring on his right initiating much cheering from the stands as Patrick made his first of three goals.

“Good one,” Allison called after Patrick before he turned back to start his second attempt, “I didn’t expect someone your age to try something like that. You won’t get away with it next time.”

Patrick just smirked and realized that he had gotten under her skin. He took this round with more confidence, and after catching the Quaffle successfully, again, he aimed at the right goal once more. Allison, thinking that Patrick was attempting another feint, dove to the opposite side and Patrick once again sank another goal. He hustled back to the center to more applause, trying to avoid a sure-to-be-frustrated Allison.

Patrick did not know how he would make his third goal; he now knew that Allison would not fall for another attempt at the right goal and narrowed his choice to the left and middle. Mulligan heaved the Quaffle too high and Patrick had to extend his right hand and broom up to grab it, making the catch none the less. Left or middle…left or middle…Patrick could not decide. He chose at random and chucked the Quaffle toward the left goal. Allison watched Patrick’s arm and she was moving to intercept his throw. For a moment, Patrick thought his last goal had been blocked before he saw the Quaffle brush against the top of Allison’s fingers, bounce on the bottom of the ring, and topple downward into the hoop.

The stands erupted in the loudest of cheers; they probably did not expect Patrick to make all three goals, and neither did he. He was very much relieved and his passing to the other two boys during their trials, reflected that; they were both crisp and accurate. Neither Mulligan nor Whitmarsh sank three goals. Mulligan, who had thrown Patrick a bad pass, made two while Whitmarsh only managed to make one. Patrick felt proud of his trial and grabbed a patch of grass to sit on while waiting for the rest of the trials to finish. Once the last three flyers finished with a missed goal and Oohs from the crowd, they were summoned to the outside of the locker room that the boys had used prior to tryouts. Professor Pennipot was moving to talk to the Seekers, while Professor Snerkin was ready to make his announcement.

“There were some good Chasers among this group,” he addressed, “and it is a shame that I can only pick three. Having said that, our Allard Chasers will be, Josephine Emmert,” the girl from the first group of flyers jumped up and down excitedly. “Kyle Argenbright,” a red-haired boy with a handsome face stood proudly as his name was called. “And last, but certainly not least, Patrick Thatcher.”

He could feel his face flush red. He had not believed he made the first ever Allard Quidditch team and without the use of his compass, no less. Although clearly disappointed, many of the Allards who tried out congratulated him with a pat on the back, impressed at his talents for a young boy.

“Thank you all for your efforts and I’ll be speaking to the three of you,” he said, looking at Josephine, Kyle, and Patrick, “soon to talk about practices.”

He dismissed them and joined Professor Pennipot with the Seekers. Patrick flung open the curtains of the locker room and moved to put the Cleansweep away in the locker as a Chaser of the Quidditch team. Patrick began to think that maybe his compass had not helped him at all and his improved flying was a result of the upgrade in the broom he received from Professor Pennipot. He could not help but feel good about himself to accomplish such a feat by his own merits.

Patrick wrenched open the locker door to put away his Cleansweep and heard the soft, slow claps of someone behind him. He put the broom inside and turned to see Professor Sumpton standing feet away.

“Bravo, Mr. Thatcher, bravo,” he said, twirling his wand between his fingers advancing a little bit towards Patrick. “However did you learn to fly so well?”

“I don’t know, really, I suppose I’m a natural,” he said, cautiously. Professor Sumpton was looking at him oddly and the contents of Patrick’s father’s letter came flooding back to him.

“Well, you’d have to be with flying skills like that. Let me congratulate you. It’s not everyday you make the Quidditch team.” Professor Sumpton extended his left hand to Patrick. He moved further to shake Patrick’s hand when his foot appeared to be caught in a crack. He stumbled forward, muttering something Patrick thought must have been a swear word, and his wand fell down onto the ground blowing a fierce breeze at Patrick, causing his robes to flap open, furiously. Professor Sumpton shot his head up, looking very embarrassed, to offer his condolences. “So sorry about that, Patrick, I must’ve lost my footing. Anyway, I just wanted to congratulate you,” he said finally giving Patrick a handshake, a firm one, “and say that I look forward to seeing your first match.”

“Thanks,” Patrick replied, fastening his robes. Professor Sumpton waved goodbye and headed toward the exit.

Loud cheers were coming from outside on the field. The tryouts were not yet over. Patrick had almost forgotten that the Seekers had yet to tryout and he wanted to catch William’s trial. He darted out of the room and around the outside of the stadium to the entrance of the stands. He reached the top and spotted Elizabeth and Henri who, thankfully, had found seats close to the entrance.

“How did it go? We saw you, Patrick. You did very well,” Elizabeth perked.

“I must have done well enough,” he said, “Professor Snerkin put me on the team.”

“Zat is such good news,” Henri piped up. “’opefully, both of you will make ze teem.”

Patrick turned his attention to his best friend. “William! Has he gone yet? How did he do?” he said, quickly.

“You just missed him; he was the first to go. He looked like he stood a good chance, though. He caught that fast yellow thing,” Elizabeth frowned, not knowing the proper name for the Golden Snitch, “just a bit after he started.”

“The Snitch,” helped Patrick.

“Right, the Snick.”

The three of them sat watching the tryouts. There were a fair few that were good enough to be Seeker; one in particular was an older flyer, who made an impressive catch by swiping the Snitch after barreling on his broom and flying upside down. It took a couple hours to sift through all the students vying for Seeker and finish the trials. Once Simon Thornfield and Travis Sweeney finished their raucous attempts at being Seekers, both paying less attention to the Snitch and more to the screaming crowd of Allards cheering in the stands, and the large group down on the field retreated to the side, just as the Chasers had done.

“Come on, Professor Snerkin is about to name the Seeker,” Patrick said, standing up and leading the way back to the locker room. Before they could go inside the curtains were already being thrown back and many disgruntled Allards were stomping their way back to the school, ranting and raving. Instead of trying to enter the stampede of unhappy students, the three of them waited until they could slip past without being trampled. Patrick was the first to walk inside to see William finish a conversation with Professor Snerkin, who once again disappeared behind the curtains towards the Quidditch field.
“William!” Patrick called, his voice filled with excitement. William turned around to face the three of them, his face was hard to decipher. “Did you make the team?”

“No,” he said, softly, “not exactly. Professor Snerkin went with Harvey Pinniger, one of the seventh years.”

Elizabeth and Henri both bowed their heads, disappointed, while Patrick stood looking confused.

“What was Professor Snerkin talking to you about? We saw him leave.”

“He allowed me to stay on as Pinniger’s backup,” William said, no happier than his first statement. “He thought I had potential for a first year.”

“Well, zat means you can still play!” Henri offered, hopefully.

William scoffed, “Sure. Did you see his trial? Flying upside-down catching the Snitch, there’s no way I’m going to make it into a game with him playing.”

“Doing tricks like zat ‘e might fall off ‘is broom!” said Henri.

The only other thing Patrick wanted other than himself making the Quidditch team, was William to do the same. He found himself wishing that Harvey would come up sick before the first match so that he could be playing Quidditch along with his best friend. Elizabeth tried to get William to talk, (he hardly said a word the whole way to the Dining Hall) but he helped himself to extra servings of everything on the table trying to avoid having to speak again.

It was even harder to avoid the topic as almost every Allard in the hall was expressing their contempt about the outcome of the tryouts. Even Travis Sweeney and Simon Thornfield went back into their usual rants about how much Quodpot was better than Quidditch after their laughable trials.

The three of them were so exhausted from trying to cheer up William, when they reached the common room Henri and Elizabeth quickly retreated to their rooms. Patrick would have followed suit, but the hoots of his Great Horned owl stopped him from turning the corner, after realizing that the one thing he had been waiting for finally arrived.

He pulled on William’s robes preventing him from following Henri to bed and dragged him over to grab his much awaited letter. Icarus followed the usual routine, sticking out his leg carrying the letter, which Patrick unfurled immediately. He read the letter quickly, perhaps faster than anything he had ever read.



Dear Patrick,

I’m so very sorry my letter has taken so long. I’ve had a bit of a run-in with the Republic. I cannot tell you very much, for fear that this letter will come across unwanted hands, but I can say that your gift is driven by your thoughts and feelings. You may want to look into the name Abraham Ortelius; it might give you more answers than I can currently provide. Until then, I must ask that you send no more letters, for my own reasons and that, I daresay, your owl cannot handle any further trips.

Don’t give up!

Grandpa



P.S. Congratulations on making Chaser. Professor Obelus informed me by Floo. Your parents are proud.



Patrick looked at the black-inked words slightly disappointed, yet again. He was being sent on another hunt towards the meaning of the compass. William, who was reading drowsily over Patrick’s shoulder, gradually became more attentive.



“Why’s your grandfather trying to keep this a secret?” William said, rubbing his eyes and opening his mouth to issue a yawn.



“I don’t know. Since he told me not to send anymore letters, I probably won’t find out for a while, either.”



Icarus picked at his feathers and flew off out the window, leaving Patrick and William standing together letter held between them. They both returned to their dorm, finding Henri, Travis, Simon, and Jonathan fast asleep. Patrick tried to sit up and begin his usual habit of endless contemplation, but his eyelids grew heavy and, no sooner had he laid down, he was asleep.



With his trials finished, Patrick found the next morning less nerve-wracking than the day before. While the Allards could finally relax, the other halls were not as fortunate. The Dining Hall was filled with jittery Garrisons, whose habits strangely resembled the behavior of the Allards, from yesterday.



“You’d think they were about to face a dragon,” William said, dismissively. This was, apparently, the way he responded to Professor Snerkin’s decision, forgetting that just twenty-four hours ago, he had acted and looked the very same way.



Both, Patrick and William, sat through the Keeper and Beater trials for the Garrisons, trying to get a look at the competition. They watched as Professor Obelus ran through the many deplorable attempts at playing Quidditch as well as those that proved they had enough talent to be apart of the Garrison team. They rose to leave after the last Garrison’s Beater trial, a tall dark-haired girl who faltered for a minute before missing her last of three targets. They were walking back to the school when the two of them ran into Sarah who was coming approaching the entrance to the stadium.



“Here to check out the trials?” said Patrick, greeting her.



“Yes, hopefully we’ll have a good team. Are you going to stay and watch the rest?” she asked.



Patrick flicked his eyes over at William. “We already watched a little bit,” he said, fearing that William would become a grouch once more if forced to sit through another trial.



“We’ve, actually, got some studying to do at the library.” William let out a moan.



“Oh,” Sarah replied, “okay, well, I’ll see you both later, then.” She continued on towards the field and disappeared around the corner.



“You couldn’t come up with anything better than the library? I don’t want everyone to think I’m a bookworm!” William bellowed. “Where are we really going?”



“The library,” Patrick said, and William let out another moan; this one louder. “Well? You read the letter. My grandpa told me that I should look up Abraham Ortelius and that’s what I’m going to do.” Patrick swept off towards the library, knowing that William had nothing better to do than to follow him as well. Sure enough, William was walking side-by-side with Patrick on their way to the Templeton Hall Building.



“I just want you to know that I’m only going because I’m curious, too.”



The Wentwater library was a towering room with shelves that rose forty feet in the air. The bookcases were packed tightly with thousands of books, maps, and graphs, and all kinds of periodicals. Between the two of them, they had no clue where to look. Patrick approached the desk at the entrance to the library, where a short and stooping man was having a conversation with their Herbology teacher, Professor Marigold. He looked as though he was more engaged in the conversation than she was; although talking to Professor Marigold about anything other than Herbology seemed like a wasted conversation. Patrick looked down at the name plate on his desk and prepared to ask a question.



“Hi, Mr. Bowdle? I’m looking for a book about Abraham Ortelius. Can you help me?”



Mr. Bowdle glared at Patrick and William. “Excuse me, but I’m in the middle of a conversation.”



“We just want to know where we can find…”



“I know, I know,” Mr. Bowdle, interrupted, “where you can find a book on Abraham Ortelius. I heard you the first time.” Looking at the pair of them, realizing that they were not going to leave until they had received help, Mr. Bowdle heaved a large book onto the counter and pulled a pair of spectacles from his front pocket. He shuffled through the pages with his wand until it stopped a little more than halfway through. He grabbed a scroll of parchment and jotted down something, handed it over to Patrick and quickly turned back to talk to Professor Marigold, who had been talking to herself about lovage plants while Patrick distracted Mr. Bowdle.



“Lovage plants? Oh yeah, they’re great for,” Mr. Bowdle paused, fishing for words, “um…flavoring tea.”



Professor Marigold looked shocked. “My goodness,” she started, “I’ve never met anyone who was immune to the confusion and befuddlement effects of lovage.”



Mr. Bowdle laughed nervously. Patrick felt a short pull on his elbow and turned to see William gesturing to leave.



“We should probably leave them alone.”



Patrick read what was scribbled down on the parchment he was holding:



Muggle Influences on the Wizarding World

by Edipus Snelling

M713 .S04 (1998)



Now he knew where it could be found, but neither he nor William had a clue to what the numbers meant, or how to use them. Patrick certainly did not want to ask Mr. Bowdle for help again; they looked back and he was still chatting fervently with Professor Marigold. They, instead, decided to search on their own amongst the shelves. The pair of them searched through several bookcases for up to half an hour, coming across Bubble On O’ Melting Cauldron: A Compendium of Immigrating Wizards, The Life and Habits of the Nundu, and The Truth About Diricawls, but the book they were looking for was nowhere to be found. Tired of searching, they sat down at one of the tables scattered across the library, next to a group of Templetons playing a game of Gobstones.



Patrick stared at the parchment once more before sliding it across to William, standing up, and placing his arm against one of the nearby bookshelves.



“We must have looked around here a hundred times! Mr. Bowdle probably wasn’t even paying attention when he gave us those numbers!”



“Maybe we were the ones not paying attention. Look!” William said, pointing vigorously at the place where Patrick’s arm was resting.



Patrick lifted his hand to find the characters M713 engraved neatly on a golden plate fixed to the edge of the shelf. He ran his fingers along the spines of the books, looking desperately for the name “Snelling.” There, at last, on the second row was the book they were looking for. Patrick yanked the book from the case and opened it to a page in the middle. He looked at the book, stunned. Not a single word was printed on any of the pages. Patrick stood there holding the cover until he heard a voice speak from the book.



“We’re very sorry, but this book has already been checked out. If you’d like to be notified when this book is available, please bring this placeholder--”



Patrick smashed the book shut, chopping off the rest of the sentence with a loud slam and placed it back on the shelf. One of the boys playing Gobstones got up from his seat and moved over toward the two of them. His brown hair shifted as he walked and he extended a hand toward Patrick.



“I heard you slam that placeholder. Are you having trouble finding a book?”



“Yeah…well, no. I’ve found the book, but it’s not here.”



“I’m Gregory Huntington,” he said, shaking Patrick’s hand then offering it over to William. “Which book are you looking for?” Gregory asked.



Patrick did not want to tell him the name. Upon first thought, it seemed harmless, but he would rather not chance giving away any information, especially since his grandfather was so adamant that the subject of the compass stay quiet.



“It doesn’t matter, really, it’s not even here,” Patrick responded, dodging Gregory’s question



“We spent all this time in this lousy library and the book’s been checked out!” William looked as though he definitely regretted coming. He plopped down on one of the table tops, arms folded across his chest.



“You know, it still may be here,” Gregory said, lowering his voice.



“What do you mean?” Patrick and William asked, in unison leaning closer to Gregory.



“There are tons of books that have placeholders on the shelves. Most of them actually are checked out, some of them are still in the back waiting for Mr. Bowdle to stop chatting and place them on the shelves again. The others,” he lowered his voice even softer, “have permanent placeholders. You’ll never see those books, unless you know where to look.”



Patrick and William listened, hoping that their efforts were not wasted after all. There was still a chance that the book they were searching for was still around.



“Where are we supposed to look?” William questioned. “I’ve never heard of anything like this at Wentwater.”



“You haven’t heard it from the right people then.” Gregory shrugged his blocky shoulders. “A couple of sixth years told me, found a whole bunch of books that they could never have found on the shelves.”



“Why don’t you tell us where this place is?” asked Patrick.



“If you want, I’ll show you,” Gregory offered.



“Even better!” said William, his voice suddenly ringing with excitement. “Let’s go!”



“We can’t go now,” said Gregory, shaking his head. “There’s no way we’d get in at this time of day unnoticed. We’ll have to wait a bit…like during dinner.”



Patrick grew unsteady. As much as he wanted to find out about the compass, Gregory’s plan sounded a lot like something that would land them in detention, for sure, and Patrick was not certain that he wanted to take part.



“I don’t know. Isn’t sneaking around during dinner going to get us in trouble?”



“That’s only if we get caught, but we’re not planning on doing that, are we?” defended Gregory.



Patrick looked over at William, who looked excited to embark on this adventure and had not realized what could happen if things did not go according to the plan. William glared back, his eyes large.



“No, of course not,” William replied, turning sharply back to Gregory. “We’ll be there.”



“Great! Meet me at the front of the Historic Hall at seven o’clock. Don’t be late.” Gregory swirled on his heel and joined the other Templetons in their game. Patrick, again, rounded on William.



“What if someone finds out what we’re doing?”



“Calm down,” William said. “You’re the one that wanted to find this book in the first place. We’ll just get it and go.”



Patrick hoped it would be as smooth as William made it sound. They walked by Mr. Bowdle and Professor Marigold, who appeared to have just finished their conversation, and stepped out of the library.



“Don’t you think it’s going to look funny if three of us are missing from dinner? Then, of course, Elizabeth and Henri are going to start asking questi�””



William put up a hand, cutting him off. “We’ll just tell them we’re not hungry and head off once they leave. What’s the matter,” he raised an eyebrow, “don’t you want to find out about a compass that you, your grandfather and the founder of Wentwater owned?”



“Of course I do,” Patrick replied. “I…I just don’t want to get in trouble. I have a big family and all…”



“Don’t worry. We’ll be in and out.”



The two of them walked to the common room, Patrick hardly reassured, still discussing their forthcoming escapade.



“Gregory’s putting himself on the line, too, but he doesn’t seem too worried. Hogwash,” William said, stopping to give Admiral Polk the Allard password. “And neither should we,” he finished, stepping directly into the portrait.



The hours leading up to dinner seemed painfully long. Patrick had already finished both his Magic History and Astronomy essays early, feeling bad that he neglected his classes. He rifled through his wizard cards, while Elizabeth and Henri struggled through their descriptions of Ursa Major and Minor. He flicked through several names, Mittimus Rawling, Geldon Lurgy, Pertina Trott, Magnus Brattle, among them, until many of the Allards in common room closed their books, rolled up their parchments, and made their way to the Dining Hall.



“Boy, am I glad we get to eet dinner. I am so ‘ungry,” Henri said, putting the cork back in his well of ink.



“So am I,” Elizabeth agreed, “I’d do anything to get away from Astronomy homework. Are you two ready?” she asked, looking at Patrick and William, who had been entertaining himself by poking his wand at a handful of Knuts, making them spin around the table.



Patrick looked over to William who spoke first. “I’m not very hungry.”



“Neither am I,” Patrick added, quickly.



Elizabeth and Henri did not wait around to inquire more, their growling stomachs loud enough to overshadow any questions they may have had.



The last of the Allards filed out of the common room prompting Patrick and William to slip through Admiral Polk’s portrait and down the hall. Patrick felt it best to leave his compass back in his room. Should he get caught, the last thing he wanted was his gift taken away, and exposing the object he was supposed to keep secret.



“First you were lost, Thatcher, now you’re late,” called the same short wizard’s portrait from the morning of his flying lesson. “I say, that’s some way to start off the year.”



William looked annoyed, but instead of speaking he kept walking. Patrick turned to respond to him for the first time since his arrival.



“Look…Mr.,” he paused, glancing at the silver name plate attached to his frame, “Vexing, I’m in a hurry, so if you don’t have anything nice to say, can I please walk along in peace?”



“How now, Thatcher? Can’t take a little banter?” Mr. Vexing called after Patrick, who was now moving to follow William out of the Hall. “Don’t be such a Knarl. You jus…” his voice trailed off, disappearing as Patrick’s steps grew larger and his pace faster. He rejoined William just outside the doors.



“What’s wrong with that guy?” Patrick asked.



“Don’t pay him any mind. He teases everyone who walks through there, even teased my dad when he was here.” William said. “Come on, I think I can see Gregory from here.”



The cool air brushed against their faces as they approached the ivy-embossed building. Sure enough, Gregory was there, his body was bent over as though leaning down to tie his shoe. Once Patrick and William were in front of him, he straightened out, removed his hands from his pockets and offered them forward to each of them just as he had done in the library.



“Hello, Patrick…William, glad you could make it.”



“Are you sure we’re not going to get caught?” Patrick asked. He was still very much worried about the consequences of getting caught.



“I can’t be sure of anything,” he countered, “but if we’re going to do this, we should probably hurry.”



Outside on the grounds, everything was quiet. The only noise that could be heard were the sounds of incoherent buzzing by the fairies that illuminated the school at night and the soft crunch of the grass beneath Patrick, William, and Gregory’s feet as they cut across the Common to the Templeton Hall Building.



They entered and walked past the entrance to the library towards a full-length painting of the entire world, hanging some five feet high. Every country in the picture had its name labeled in black cursive script and it looked like a living atlas. The land in the painting was alive. The waves of the Pacific Ocean could be seen crashing against the shores of California, snow was falling briskly towards the North Pole and the swaying rainforests of South America covered most of the area around the Equator. Patrick found it almost impossible to tear his eyes away from the action on the map.



Patrick and William stood admiring the painting while, Gregory reached into his robes and pulled out his wand hovering it just above the surface of the picture. Patrick and William’s eyes focused on the illustration as he began to lightly tap on the cursive-labeled countries.



“Let’s see…Brazil…Oman,” he climbed on his tiptoes to reach for this one, tapping it twice, “Kenya…and…Spain.”



To Patrick and William’s surprise, tiny whirlpool formed right in the middle of the map, where the Atlantic Ocean was drawn. The water swirled and swirled gradually getting bigger, until there was a hole roughly the size of a tire situated in the middle of the map.



“This is where you’ll find what you’re looking for,” Gregory said, smirking.



He stood there with a great smile on his face as if he had just performed the greatest magic trick known to Muggle or wizards. Gregory heaved himself in and disappeared for a moment, during which Patrick and William were unsure whether he was going to come back out or perhaps retrieve the book for them. Looking confused, Gregory quickly poked his head from the middle of the waves and stared at the two of them.



“Well? What are you waiting for?”



They climbed in without hesitation, Patrick first. He struggled a bit to ease his way up, but soon found himself peering out on the other side of the wall. Patrick dropped to his feet and was dumbstruck. He appeared to be in the library, except everything here was in reverse; as if looking at a mirror image of the room he had visited earlier today. Instead of Mr. Bowdle’s desk being on the left side next to the entrance, it was situated on the right much like everything else had been positioned on the opposite side. The shelves of this library were nothing like the book-crammed ones of the other. The cases were organized with only a few books on a shelf, spaced sparingly apart from each other. He heard William topple down from the gap, standing just a few feet behind him and he, too, stared at the room in awe.



“So, where are we supposed go?” inquired Patrick.



“Well, I was told that all of these books still on the shelves are books that the school doesn’t want you to read. So it’s going to be one of those,” Gregory said.



“We should start looking. Patrick and I will stick together,” William stated. “Gregory you can�”” he paused remembering that Patrick’s grandfather wanted to keep the compass a secret. ‘Why don’t you stick around here, in case anyone comes?”



“Fine, you two go ahead.”



Gregory folded his arms and leaned against the library desk, while Patrick and William moved into the towering shelves. They walked past a couple of bookcases until they heard a several tiny pinging sounds and swung around to see if anything had happened to Gregory. He was stooped over again, like he was when they first saw him before dinner, and the two of them turned around setting off towards the back of the library. Patrick tried to think of the route they took earlier today in the library.



William was looking at the small number of books still in the room, picking up an untitled one and flipping through the pages. The book started to vibrate violently underneath William’s fingers. He quickly tossed it back on the bookcase which, in coming in contact with the book, started to shake loudly before calming back down and returning quiet.



“Wait a minute, this looks familiar,” Patrick said, looking around. “Don’t you recognize it?”



“Not really. Why?” William’s head was darting from each of the bookshelves.



“Look at that table, that’s where Gregory was playing Gobstones. Except, this time, it’s on the right now instead of the left. So, the book must be there.” Patrick turned to find the edge of a bookcase engraved with M713 on a gold plate, but where a placeholder had been in the other library, there was nothing here.



“I don’t get it, it’s not here either!” William shouted. “I don’t think Mr. Bowdle gave us the right numbers. You saw how distracted he was, talking to Professor Marigold!”



“No, I’ve seen the placeholder, you’ve seen the placeholder. If it’s not�””



“Hello, young Allards,” a different voice, one that clipped off the end of Patrick’s sentence, said. To their surprise, they did not find Gregory keeping watch as he should have, but found instead Professor Sumpton leaning over both of them. He did not flash a smile, but rather displayed a contemplative look at the two Allards. “It really is heartbreaking to have to give two outstanding students, such as yourselves, detentions for being somewhere they shouldn’t.”



This is exactly what Patrick feared would happen. It was one thing to be caught sneaking into a secret library, but to be caught by Professor Sumpton, the one person his father had warned to stay away from, was simply a predicament that would be too hard to evade had his father questioned him about it.



“So,” Professor Sumpton began, his eyes raised in a curious fashion, “which one of you is going to attempt to explain your reasoning behind your trespassing?”



Somehow, Patrick knew the “we got lost” excuse was not going to cut it, but he tried it anyway.



“We got lost, sir,” he lied. He looked over at William, who seemed to have finally realized the seriousness of their adventure.



“One of the other first years told us to go here,” William started. “Gregory Huntington.”



Professor Sumpton stared at the boys, clearly not believing a single word they were saying. “Well, it seems that Mr. Huntington has disappeared,” he said, sarcastically looking around the room, “and I highly doubt that both of you stumbled across this room. Please, tell me, what did you boys intend to find here?”



Both of them looked at each other again, this action becoming a familiar occurrence. Neither of them knew how to respond, at least not in a way that would warrant an intrusion into a hidden library. The room was silent, as silent as most libraries aspire to be, while Professor Sumpton waited for a response. Growing impatient, he released a large, exasperating sigh.



“I’m sorry to have to do this, boys, but I’m going to have to give you both detentions.”



Patrick’s face couldn’t hide the disappointment he was harboring at those words.



“Surely, you cannot protest such a punishment as neither of you have a sufficient reason for being here,” Professor Sumpton continued, noticing Patrick’s unhappy expression. “You will be notified prior to the day in which you are to serve. For now, it would behoove you to promptly return to your Hall and not to ‘get lost,’ was it on your way back.”



“Yes, sir” Patrick and William replied, together.



Both of them marched back to the front of the library, glancing at the librarian’s desk to see that, just as Professor Sumpton said, Gregory was nowhere to be found. Patrick turned back to see that Professor Sumpton had not moved and was standing still, perhaps watching to make sure that the two of them did not wander around on their way out. Patrick followed William into the hole, down the short passageway, and out of the ocean-surrounded opening in the painting. The whirlpool shrank back to a blue swirl before disappearing entirely into a tiny ripple.



The walk back to the common room was quiet, except for some faint sounds of rustling stone. Patrick knew it was going to happen. He told William that they would get in trouble and now they had.



“That detention is going to look really nice when my family sees it,” Patrick groaned. “I knew we shouldn’t have gone in there.”



William looked back at him. “Yeah, we probably shouldn’t have, but it’s a good thing we did.”



“What? Why’s that?” said Patrick in disbelief. “You mean there’s an upside to being caught in a secret library by a man who’s been targeted as a hate symbol?”



“Yep, Gregory,” William issued, simply. “He saw us looking for that book today. I’ll bet you anything he went in and grabbed it after we left the library. Then, he tipped Professor Sumpton off that we’d be waltzing around in there! You heard what Professor Sumpton said, he didn’t see Gregory; he must have sneaked out before he got there so he didn’t get caught.”



“But, why would he want to get us in trouble?” Patrick wondered. He never had any reason for Gregory to dislike him, owning mainly to the fact that they never conversed much.



“How should I know? But, now that I think about it he was really nice to us for no reason. I’d never talked to him before, and to just turn us in like that? He probably knows something we don’t, or someone told him something that made him want to do this,” William offered. He was certainly just as clueless as Patrick was to everything that had just happened.



“Maybe…hogwash,” Patrick said, allowing himself and William through Admiral Polk’s portrait. Elizabeth and Henri were sprawled on one of the sofas, slouching into the cushions, their feet hanging off the edges.



“What happened to you guys?” Patrick asked.



“We ate too much. The walk back was horrible,” Elizabeth explained.



“It ‘urts, but it was good,” added Henri, clutching his stomach. “What were you two doing, since we know you didn’t eat dinner?”



“Getting a detention,” Patrick said, under his breath.



“Oh, just doing a little reading,” William said, shooting an eye at Patrick who was less enthusiastic about receiving a detention than William was. Elizabeth looked confused, and managed to hold her stomach in enough to sit up.



“I might be able to see you doing that, Patrick, but what’s your excuse William?”



“Just keeping him company, is all,” William uttered, quickly. “It’s so easy to fall asleep in there.”



“Or get caught by a teacher,” Patrick commented again only loud enough for William to hear.



Elizabeth pursed her lips and leaned back again.



“Patrick when is your first Quidditch practice?”



Patrick had not talked with Professor Snerkin about the Quidditch team since tryouts, but he assumed he would find out sooner or later.



“I don’t know. He said he would be talking to us soon. Why?”



“Oh, just wondering,” she said, “I was thinking maybe a little exercise could help me get to my feet.”



The four of them talked into the wee hours of the night, mainly due to Henri and Elizabeth’s inability to remove themselves from the sofa after gaining such comfortable positions. The Allards in the common room returned to their rooms as Patrick’s eyelids slowly drooped down, the warmth of the candles comforting his eyes into slumber.

Faint noises filled Patrick’s ear, growing increasingly louder until he pried open his eyes to a bright beam of blinding light.

“Patrick…Patrick, wake up!” William was sitting up, his hand on Patrick’s shoulder attempting to shake him awake. It was apparent from the bags under his eyes that he had, also, just managed to force his eyes open to finally wake up. “Come on, we’re going to miss breakfast.”

Patrick rubbed sorely at his eyes while stumbling behind William to their room. They quickly tossed on their dress robes and scampered off to the Dining Hall. It wasn’t long before they found a seat next to Elizabeth and Henri and grabbed what was left on the breakfast platters. Henri was tearing through a large plate of sausage, while Elizabeth sat contently with a single muffin. She was obviously still full from the previous night’s feast.

“We tried to wake you two up,” she began, “but you guys wouldn’t budge.”

“’N I couldn’t miff breakfuss…” Henri mumbled, through a mouthful of meat. Judging by his inability to move the night before, Patrick was amazed to see Henri scarfing down as much food as he was. William was already chewing through a stack of pancakes when the familiar screeches of hundreds of owls echoed off the walls. A tiny Scops Owl, glided down the Allard table stopping right next to Patrick’s goblet of pumpkin juice. The small bird lifted its leg and Patrick withdrew two scrolls from inside the bird’s pouch, one addressed to Patrick the other to William. Patrick handed William his scroll and unraveled his own.

You will meet me at the Quidditch field for your detention tonight, at 7’o clock.

-Professor Dominick Sumpton

Patrick was once again reminded of the fact he had earned himself a detention after reading the note. He looked up at Henri and Elizabeth, who was feeding crumbs of her muffin to the little owl, before tucking the scroll safely inside his robes. He turned his head to William who, after reading his own note, did the same.

“Who was that from?” Elizabeth asked, lifting the bird up and down on her index finger.

“Um…meeting with Professor Snerkin,” Patrick said, hastily. “You know, Quidditch stuff.”

“Right,” agreed William.

“Sure,” Elizabeth said, doubtfully. “Come on, we’ve got Magic History.”

Elizabeth got up followed by Henri, who wedged himself from between his seat and the table, full but able to stand. Patrick and William rose from their seats as well, dropping back behind Elizabeth and Henri while they walked out of the hall.

“Quidditch field at seven with Professor Sumpton?” Patrick asked.

“No, greenhouses at seven, with Professor Marigold.” William replied.

“What?!” roared Patrick. Elizabeth nudged her head back at the two of them, finally realizing just how far ahead she was walking in front of the pair. William smiled weakly at her.

“You heard me,” William whispered, through clenched teeth, “I’m with Professor Marigold. Sumpton must have split us up. He’s taking this punishment thing a bit too seriously.”

“Yeah, well it wouldn’t be much of a punishment if you were hanging out with your friends now would it?” Patrick added, his mouth barely moving as well.

Elizabeth stopped suddenly and turned around on the spot.

“Are you two going to join us or are you going to walk behind us whispering the whole way to class?” she asked apparently fed up of all the mutterings going on behind her.

“We’re preparing Quidditch strategies, unless you’d like to help us.”

Elizabeth stuttered for a moment.

“Do you think a Sloth Grip Roll is the best way to dodge a Dopplebeater Defense?” William questioned, looking at Elizabeth for her response.

“W-Well, the Donklebeater move i-is very tricky…I wouldn’t know what the best way is….” She trailed off looking embarrassed.

“Oh well. Hopefully, Patrick and I can figure it out,” William finished smugly.

Patrick took the paper back out of his robes and stared at it again. He sighed and continued walking toward the Allard and Garrison Hall buildings.

Professor Mott’s class could not have gone by faster. The last thing Patrick was looking forward to was a detention with Professor Sumpton, and Magic History was hardly a speed bump between now and seven o’clock. Patrick was listening intently, hoping that focusing on Professor Mott drone on about early Wizarding governors would slow things down. The muffled sound of Professor Mott’s voice, as she blocked her face with the large book she was reading, aside, Patrick actually found the lesson interesting. He caught himself thinking about the foolish wizards that attempted to use magic openly during the early stages of Wizarding government. He pondered how the first wizard governor of Massachusetts, could actually wish that those wizards be sentenced just like the Muggles wrongly mistaken for witches. It was a horrific scenario, but fascinating one nonetheless.

In Herbology, Professor Marigold had obviously been informed of her and William’s detention session and tried to lighten William’s load for today’s class, on Gribbleseeds. The class waited for her to speak, while resting their hands on the tiny pot she had placed out for each of them.

“Be very careful, Gribbleseeds do not care to stay still for very long. You will have to hold them very tightly.”

She took a vial containing a small, pale white seed that was bouncing around, and handed it to each student, except for William.

“You can share with Patrick.” She lowered her voice, “I’ve got something more exciting in store for later.” She gave a giddy smile and continued handing out vials.

“At least she’s pretty,” William confessed. “Maybe it won’t be too bad. It definitely won’t be as bad as you and Sumpton.”

“Thanks for cheering me up,” Patrick said holding the vial.

“Now,” Professor Marigold said after handing out the last vial. “You’ll need to bury them quickly or they’ll burrow back out. Once you’ve dug a hole in your pot, hold the vial upside down, drop it in and bury the seed at once.”

William sat back and watched Patrick drop the seed into his pot and hurl handfuls of soil over it.

“I wonder what could be more fun than this,” Patrick smirked.

“Anything,” said Elizabeth, who had put her gloves on as not to get her hands covered in soil.

For the most part everyone seemed to have managed their task fairly well. Professor Pennipot did have to assist one of the Rylans, Jason MacDuffie, whose Gribbleseed bounced into his partner Mitchell Davis’ pot and was fighting for control of the container.

Dinner passed, and even sooner than he realized, it was seven o’clock and he was departing from William to go meet Professor Sumpton for his detention. He debated whether or not he should walk slowly to prolong the wait or walk fast to get it over with. Deciding on a medium pace, Patrick ambled along the cobbled path, pushing his way through the curtains of the changing room past the locker which his borrowed Cleansweep was kept, and emerging on the inside of the grassy Quidditch field. To Patrick’s surprise, Professor Sumpton was not the only one waiting for him to arrive. Professor Pennipot, her red hair resting on her shoulders, was chatting casually with Professor Sumpton as Patrick made his way over to them. He was a little worried. Was his trespassing so severe that he needed two teachers present to be punished? Was William also serving a detention with more than just Professor Marigold? Clenching his hands tightly behind his back, Patrick strode cautiously over to the pair of teachers, his legs quivering with each step.

“Ah, Patrick…glad you are here on time,” Professor Sumpton welcomed, flashing the same comforting smile he gave when they first met. “Unfortunately, I will not be able to administer your detention this evening; urgent call to the Republic. However, Professor Pennipot has graciously agreed to step in on my behalf. I hope you do not mind spending the evening with her instead.”

A wave of relief flushed over him stopping Patrick’s knees from knocking heavily against each other. Professor Pennipot was one of his favorite teachers, not to mention the person who gave Patrick the nudge to try out for the Quidditch team. Professor Pennipot stepped closer to Patrick as Professor Sumpton departed through the curtains.

“Well, I suppose we can get a move on now.”

“What…what exactly are we going to be doing?” Patrick asked.

“Don’t worry it’s nothing big. Wouldn’t want to endanger one of my best flyers,” she said, leaning closer and winking. “We’re just going to re-mend some of the school’s old brooms. As you’ve probably seen, everyone isn’t as adept at flying as you and Mr. Quinn are and those brooms aren’t quite up to the shape they used to.” Patrick’s mind quickly flickered to Henri, imagining his hair littered with twigs from another poor test flight.

They walked to a room not far from the entrance to the lockers. Professor Pennipot pulled a tiny key from her robes and opened the wooden door in front of them. Upon entering, he was immediately drawn to several shelves along one wall each with at least twenty, medium sized cauldrons resting on top. Patrick peered over a cauldron on the lowest shelf to see a red leather ball submerged in a yellow liquid.

“Quods. Don’t know when we’ll be using those anymore. If this season goes well, we could be seeing a lot more Quidditch at Wentwater,” Professor Pennipot explained. “Go on, grab a seat.”

Patrick sat down on a stool in the middle of the room while Professor Pennipot shifted aside the trunk she and Professor Snerkin used to carry the Quidditch balls at the tryouts from in front of a cabinet. She handled thirteen brooms, dropped them on the floor and grabbed a stool next to Patrick setting down her key. Most of the bristles had already fallen off, leaving a trail from the closet. Professor Pennipot instructed him to gather as many bristles of the same length as he could while she fastened them one by one to the shaft of the broomstick with an adhesive charm. It was a simple, but tedious task, one that practically forced the two of them into holding a conversation.

“How was your summer, Patrick? Must have been exciting to finally receive your letter,” she said.

Patrick thought back to the uneasy feeling he got from reading a letter addressed to his current best friend, William. His excitement had been temporarily drained from him. It was perhaps one of the worst feelings he had ever experienced.

“Shocked, more like,” he muttered. “I just wonder, how it does it all get done?” He decided since he no longer had to serve his detention with Professor Sumpton, he might as well use this opportunity to gather any answers Professor Pennipot might be able to give him.

“Oh, you’d have to talk to Professor Snerkin about that. He’s the one that handles all the Wentwater letters. I reckon he’s got a good system worked out for things of that nature, with all the kids that go through here.”

Patrick was certain she was talking about a different Professor Snerkin, one that wouldn’t send the wrong letter to a prospective student.

“Some think he’s more efficient than the Republic, even,” she continued, “although, most wouldn’t consider that a compliment.”

“Why is everyone against the Republic, Professor?” Patrick never really understood the contempt everyone had against their government. His father of course complained all the time, but he never really gave any specific reasons, either that or Patrick never cared much to stick around and hear them.

“Not everyone is against the Republic, dear, but many aren’t very fond of President Filibuster. A while ago, there had been much trouble elsewhere in the world. People were dying, both wizards and Muggles. When President Filibuster was just was a senator, he had taken a great stand against helping those fighting the war overseas. He felt it would be best to let the country deal with their own problems. His opinion wasn’t well received, many called for his resignation, but his supporters knew it was ridiculous to have him lose his job for doing it.”

Patrick was still a bit confused.

“If so many people didn’t like him, how did he become president?” he asked.

“Well, his supporters outweighed his contester, that and his opponent, Elmer Slommack, had shown himself as being a less decisive leader than in his previous term. He lost his bid for re-election and I suppose Filibuster’s track record was enough to give him a commanding victory.”

“So, he is a good president? Why doesn’t everyone just leave him alone?”

“Well, even I can’t say whether or not he’s a good president at this point. But you can see that those who were against him are still speaking out. They probably found his stance against helping overseas unforgivable, assuming that should something happen again he would easily take up the same position.”

“That isn’t fair. They shouldn’t judge him like that,” Patrick said, grabbing a handful of bristles. “He hasn’t even done anything yet.”

“That’s how it is when you’re President. Whenever you make a move, you’re under scrutiny. It’s probably why everyone is focusing so much attention Professor Sumpton.”

“So you mean people only hate him because they actually hate Mr. Filibuster?” inquired Patrick.

“That’s my guess. It’s a shame, really. He’s a very pleasant man, always been very nice to me and the rest of the faculty. A little uptight, but that’s probably because of his job at the Republic and his father.”

Patrick thought back to the article he had read before his first Transfiguration class and the man in the picture next to President Filibuster.

“What about his father?” Patrick inquired.

“Timothy Sumpton. He’s the Secretary of Magic Defense. He’s got a no nonsense attitude that seems to be very popular with most wizards these days. The same people that don’t like Filibuster are raging fans of Sumpton and were really surprised that he was kept in Filibuster’s cabinet after being elected. It makes their contempt for Professor Sumpton even more peculiar, which means they must really dislike President Filibuster.”

“Why does it have to be so complicated?” wondered Patrick.

“Well, that’s the simple part,” Professor Pennipot said, smiling, “because it’s politics.”

Patrick and Professor Pennipot finished mending all of the brooms by the end of the hour. Once the last bristle was adhered, Patrick helped carry the sticks back into the closet where they were kept. The two of them were shuffling their way out when Patrick glanced over at one of the stools and noticed the key Professor Pennipot set down earlier.

“Professor, your key, you were going to leave it,” he said, pointing a finger at it.

“Oh, thank you. I’d hate to lose this. Only Professor Snerkin and I have a key and I’d hate to have to bother him with something as trivial as this.”

She placed it in her front pocket and bid goodnight to Patrick. He walked back to the common room to find that William had not returned yet. After gaining so much valuable information about the government he wanted to share it with him. It was Professor Snerkin who was responsible for sending Wentwater acceptance letters and it was President Filibuster’s views as a senator that was making him such a target of the public’s disdain. Not to mention, that Wizarding world decided to split their approval between the only two Sumptons in the government.

Patrick sat down in a chair, resting his feet from the long walk from the Quidditch field. Elizabeth entered the room from the girl’s dormitories, halting for moment before smirking and advancing on Patrick.

“So, how was your meeting with Professor Snerkin,” she asked, one of her eyebrows rising higher than the other.

“Oh…it was fine. Just went over some basics.”

“Is that so? Well, where’s William?”

Patrick was fumbling around for words. “He had t-to stay…’cause of all the�””

“Nice try, Patrick, but I’m not stupid,” Elizabeth said, cutting in. “None of the other players on the team have even left the common room in the last thirty minutes, not to mention that Professor Snerkin came in, himself, to post the Quidditch schedule.”

“He did?” Patrick rushed over to the bulletin board, finding a white piece of parchment announcing the first Quidditch match on November third against Templeton Hall.
“Where were you, really?” she asked.

Patrick’s face was buried in the schedule, completely ignoring Elizabeth.

“Don’t think you’re going to get away with this. You and William aren’t telling me something and I’m going to find out what it is.” She stalked off back to her room muttering words inaudible to anyone around her.

Patrick examined the schedule. His first match was in a little more than a month and a half, but he still had not been approached by Professor Snerkin about a single Quidditch practice. He was beginning to think he wouldn’t be prepared when, at that moment, William came wearily into the common room, his face and robes smeared with dirt.

“What happened to you?” Patrick asked looking at William’s robes. There was dirt scattered all over William’s knees and sleeves.

“Professor Marigold happened,” he breathed, rubbing at his sleeves trying to clean off some of the gray patches. “She had me digging through plants trying to find Flobberworms. You should have seen the grin on her face, while I had to sit and listen to her talk about articles from Herbology Helper.”

Patrick laughed.

“Well, what did Professor Sumpton have you do? It must not have been much work seeing as your clothes are still clean.”

“He was only there for a minute, actually. I had my detention with Professor Pennipot. Didn’t have to do anything rough,” William looked cheated. Patrick had a much easier detention than he did. “I did learn some things.”

Patrick told William all about Professor Pennipot’s speculation about Professor Sumpton. How he was only being targeted because of President Filibuster’s previous decisions, how Professor Snerkin was the one in charge of sending each student their Wentwater letter, and even how she thought he and William were good flyers.

“So, wait,” William started, “does that mean Professor Snerkin didn’t want you to come to Wentwater?”

“Maybe, but Professor Snerkin has always been friendly to me. He even put me on the Quidditch team. If he hated me, why would he do that?”

“Don’t ask me, but we should probably find out.”

- - -



The remaining Quidditch tryouts wafted into October. A couple days after Mendel finished their trials, Patrick finally received word of the first Allard Hall Quidditch practice. Another notice was posted, directly below the match schedule, which announced the first practice to be held on the forthcoming Saturday. William stood impatiently behind him, watching Patrick check the schedule several times before leaving for Defense Against the Dark Arts. As they moved down the hall, the back of Theodore Polk’s portrait rippled revealing Patrick’s brother, Paul, and his friend Douglas push through into the common room.

“How’s it going, Patty,” Paul said, wearing a big grin. “Staying out of trouble? I wouldn’t want mom and dad to find out their little Patrick’s been in another detention.”
Douglas chuckled behind him. It took no time at all for Paul to hear about Patrick’s detention and to begin teasing him at every given chance. Patrick screwed up his freckled face staring right at his brother. “I was just telling Douglas, Patty, that I should really write home more often.” He cleared his throat, “Dear Mom,” he recited, Douglas behind him pretending to scribble a letter, “Patrick’s been awfully strange lately. He just can’t seem to stay out of detention and I think he might even lose his place on the Hall Quidditch team. Boy, I hope he doesn’t get expelled.” He finished, and both he and Douglas erupted in fits of laughter.

“I should probably be writing mom. You’re the one that’s been skipping Transfiguration lessons,” Patrick shot back. Patrick had seen Paul several times sitting around the grounds when he should have been sitting through Professor Sumpton’s classes.

“Do you think they care if I miss Sumpton’s class? They probably prefer I don’t sit in on classes taught by Republic clowns like him. I’m not going to waste my time,” he uttered.

“What about your C.A.T.s? You’ll need high scores if you�””

“I’ll be fine. I’ve had Professor Goodstock the last six years. He knew what he was doing. I’ve got nothing to worry about,” he said, trailing off on the way to his room.

Putting his brother’s taunts aside, Patrick’s excitement for his first Quidditch practice grew during the week. His classes stood as nothing but obstacles in the way of Saturday afternoon. Professor Wiggins’ lesson on Horklumps, bristled carnivorous animals commonly mistaken for plants, seemed particularly trivial.

“Now, this is another one-a those pesky critters that can be taken care of with that Knock-Back Jinx I taught you,” he said, pulling out what looked like an overgrown pink mushroom. “Now, all you’ve gotta do is say the word Flipendo!” he jabbed at the creature covered in bristles as it bent backward onto the table. “Doesn’t harm ‘em, just stuns ‘em for a while, long enough for ya to feed ‘em to a gnome er somethin’.”

Patrick found plenty of time to doodle images of Snitches and Quaffles during that Thursday’s Charms class. Professor Pennipot was taking over for Professor Snerkin who, over the past five weeks, would periodically be summoned to the Republic. As was the case with anything Professor Pennipot did, classes run by her typically involved various references to anything related to flying. With the Quidditch season approaching, she managed to relate a lesson involving transfiguring socks into coin satchels into a rant about the rising cost of a decent Quaffle.

“Excuse me, Professor,” said Rylan girl with brown hair in pigtails. “This is Charms class.”

“Oh,” she said, clearly embarrassed. “I’m so sorry. Thank you for pointing that out Laverne.”

“I’m Lillian,” she corrected, again. “Laverne is my older sister.”

“That’s right, that’s right,” she responded. “Laverne Spinks, not a bad flyer. Made Chaser for Mendel didn’t she?”

Lillian nodded.

“No matter. We’ll just review what you’ve been practicing already.” She scanned the lesson plan that she obviously ignored the first time around.

“Fire charms,” piped Lillian again, afraid she might veer off again.

“Ah, thank you La…er…Lillian. That reminds me, the Burney Buzzards have been spectacular this season. On fire, you might say…”

While Patrick did not mind the decrease in work, people like Travis Sweeney, who much rather preferred Quodpot, dreaded finding Professor Pennipot teaching their lessons instead of Snerkin.

Potions class, which the Allards shared with the Templetons, had grown to be quite competitive. Patrick and William never let down their suspicions of Gregory since his narrow escape in the library. That day, William tried levitating extra cockroaches into Gregory’s Forgetfulness Potion, but he had not quite mastered the levitation charm Professor Snerkin had taught them, sending the cockroaches into Beverly York’s cauldron, which flashed momentarily before issuing a puff of wispy grey smoke.

“I can’t believe he’s getting away with it. We’ve got to get that book back from him somehow,” William said, glaring between Gregory and the unfinished potion he and Patrick were working on.

“I want that book back more than anyone else, but if this means another detention count me out,” said Patrick, definitively. He had been extremely fortunate with his first detention, there was no telling how he might handle another one if it wasn’t with Professor Pennipot.

William gave Patrick an annoyed grunt. “Not this again. If we don’t get it from him no one else will. Besides, I’m the one who had to tunnel like a Niffler with Professor Marigold while you and Professor Pennipot sat around chatting.”

“I got just lucky. I’m sure if he stayed, Professor Sumpton would have made me do something a bit more challenging than gather sticks.”

Patrick scooped a large amount of his potion into a vial and set in on Professor Litmus’ desk before walking out of her classroom.

“I’ll think of something and when I do, we’re going to get that book back,” William affirmed, looking back at Gregory who was looking smug while adding the last ingredients to his potion. His friendly demeanor had disappeared and he acted very different from the day that they met.

When it came time for Patrick to leave for his first practice on Saturday, William was sitting in the common room scrawling ideas on a sheet of parchment, stopping every so often to frantically scratch out a plan he did not think would fit. Patrick passed the floor ridden with William’s dismissed suggestions.

“You might want to pick these up,” Patrick said, grabbing and reading few of his ideas off the ground. “Use a summoning charm to retrieve the book. How are we going to do that? Can you perform a summoning charm?”

“No, but I’m sure we could find someone who can,” defended William.

“Besides you can’t just summon any book. We could have the whole library flying at us!” Patrick placed the crumpled paper on the table and read the next one. “Pay a goblin to find it…”

He looked at William, questionably. These ideas were hardly plausible ones.

“Get a drago�”. This is ridiculous. You think that’s going to work?”

“Well, I wasn’t planning on using that one unless we really need to.”

Patrick tossed the balls of parchment on the table next to William.

“Hopefully, you come up with something better than this by the time I get back.”
Patrick walked through the portrait, out the Allard Building and to the Quidditch field. The locker room was empty and Patrick quickly changed into his robes and grabbed his broomstick before sprinting out to the field, fearing he was late.

He was first drawn to Professor Snerkin, who was lugging a large stack of papers, then focusing on the six others surrounding him, all in the same blue Quidditch robes that he was wearing.

“Ah! Patrick, now we can start!” he managed to say, speaking around the papers. “All of the House Masters are supposed to be present during the first practice, but as you can see here, I’ve still got many things to sort out, so I’ll leave you with Harvey Pinniger, your captain.”

Harvey smiled momentarily, as Professor Snerkin moved toward the Quidditch shed. With some difficulty, he turned the key, disappeared inside the room and appeared again, a moment later managing to levitate a large trunk, which carried the Quidditch balls, over to Harvey, setting it down at his feet. “Good luck!” he called, just before exiting the field.

“For those of you who don’t know who I am, I’m Harvey Pinniger and I’ll be playing Seeker this year. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’d really like Allard Hall to be the first hall ever to win the Inter-Hall cup. So, if we could…”

His voice was lost along with Patrick’s attention due to a slight tugging on the sleeve of his robes. Patrick turned his head, his eyes meeting the two fingers pulling on his clothing then moving upward to see the round face of Gerald Flynn.

“Hello, Patrick. Are you ready to fly?”

“Yeah,” as excited as he was to finally start practice he was very curious about Professor Snerkin. “Do you know why Professor Snerkin isn’t staying around for the practice?”

“Well, he’s the Assistant Dean. You saw that stack. He’s probably got loads of papers to sign and fill out in order to finalize the change from Quodpot to Quidditch. You’d think it’d be easy to just shift sports, but Quidditch is a bit more dangerous. Professor Snerkin has to make sure everything passes through the Republic before we can play our first match. I should know, my father works at the Agency for Wizarding Games and Events.”

“Why doesn’t Professor Montgomery take care of that?” asked Patrick.

Gerald thought for a second. “Well, Professor Montgomery is really more the face of the school. Whenever I’ve seen him he’s never really been doing much work. It’s always been Snerkin that’s been putting in the extra mile.” Gerald twirled the Beater’s bat in his hands, looking toward Harvey as his speech finally came to an end.

“…and we’ll be taking the trophy to the common room in no time. So, everyone, mount your brooms,” Harvey said, his fingers reaching for the latch on the trunk.

“I should probably go over and join Ben,” Gerald said, walking over to the other Beater, Benjamin Speckley, and mounting his broom. Patrick heaved one leg over the frame and rose into the air. Allison Sinclair took her place in front of the set of goals on the left, while Gerald and Benjamin sat, hovering, above the center. Josephine and Kyle flew beside Patrick, just before Harvey unhooked the latch on the trunk and released the balls to begin practice.

The Bludgers shot upward, whizzed around in place then dashed around the field. Gerald and Benjamin were clutching their bats as if itching to get a chance to finally whack one. Harvey lifted out the Quaffle.

“Let’s put one person defending, and the other two attempting to score.” He tossed the ball up and down in his hands while he spoke, until finally heaving it upwards into Josephine’s hands. “Kyle, you defend first.”

Over an hour and several blocks later, the whole of the Allard Hall Quidditch team was exhausted, from what was a very heavy practice. Patrick managed to score a little more than half of his attempted shots on goal and even more blocks. Harvey was able to catch the Snitch three times during their practice. He would have caught four if it had not been for one of Benjamin’s stray Bludger hits. While they had no idea how good the other teams were, the Allards felt very confident with their performances when leaving the field.

No sooner had he pulled the drapes away from the locker room, had Patrick come face to face with Elizabeth’s strawberry red hair.

“Hello, Patrick,” she said, smiling. “How was practice?”

“It went well…I can’t wait until our first match,” Patrick beamed. They had started walking back from the Quidditch field.

Elizabeth smiled, “Yeah, I really hope we win! So, what are you and William up to?” she shifted, suddenly.

“What?” Patrick stopped walking for a moment, caught off-guard. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, what is that nonsense William was scribbling about in the common room earlier today? I managed to read a little bit before he waved his quill at me. Something about setting ‘the weasel-brain, Huntington’s, head on fire.’ What’s going on between you and Gregory?”

“Nothing,” Patrick replied. Patrick knew what William was writing about before he left the common room. If William was continuing to scribble the same nonsense that he came up with prior to Patrick’s Quidditch practice, it seemed that their book would never be retrieved. “I don’t know what William is writing about.”

Elizabeth let out a derisive laugh, “Right, and I’m getting an ‘A’ in Astronomy. I just don’t see why you won’t tell me now. I will find out later.”

“I…I don’t think so.”

“We’ll see,” said Elizabeth, surreptitiously.

When they returned to the common room, the floor was completely clean of rumpled parchment and William leapt to his feet, pulling Patrick away from Elizabeth.

“Ok, I think I’ve got it. We’re�”do you mind?”

Elizabeth had walked right next to the pair of them listening in.

“Actually, I do,” she retorted.

William led Patrick back to their room, listening to Elizabeth’s shouts. Her voice faded away as William shut and locked the door.

“So what’s your plan?”

“We’re going to sneak into the Templeton Common Room.”

Patrick groaned, which sounded oddly familiar to the one William gave before they headed to the library. “I think your dragon idea was better than this. You really think we can just waltz into their common room without anyone noticing?”

“Of course not,” he said, “that is, if we try and do it now. If we wait until later we’ll have a much better chance.”

“When should we do it, then?”

“Halloween. Just about everyone third year and up will be going into Wentley for Halloween, and all the rest will probably be here enjoying the feast. We’ll just go in, look around, and come right out.” The way he finished was as though there could not have been another plan simpler.

“Right, and how are we supposed to get in, exactly?”

“Leave that to me,” William said, “I’ll find the way in.”

The only thing on Patrick’s mind that was worse than getting caught sneaking into another Hall’s common room, was Elizabeth’s attempts at forcing his and William’s plan out of them. Elizabeth did not waste a single chance to pester Patrick or William. During the two weeks leading up to Halloween, she caused Patrick to incorrectly label his Astronomy charts, write over his History of Magic notes onto the desk and lose count of his stirrings in Potions; not to mention cause William to drop his focus on the Gust Charm Professor Snerkin was teaching them. Her interruptions became so frequent, it seemed as though she was appearing out of thin air, catching Patrick and William as they left the boys’ restroom.

It was almost impossible to concentrate on Halloween day. With double Defense Against the Dark Arts along with the Garrisons, Patrick and William fought between tuning out Elizabeth and listening to Professor Wiggins give the class instructions.

“Now, a lot of ya’ll’ve still been havin’ trouble with that knock-back jinx…”

“Come on, I know it’s killing you inside that you can’t tell me,” Elizabeth pressured.

William chortled. “Not as much as you’re killing my grades.”

“…just a simple twirl of ya’ wand, then point it at ya’�”“

“If you just say what you’re up to, it’ll save you the embarrassment later,” she continued.

“Please,” Patrick pleaded, “I’m trying to listen.”

“…‘bout we all try knockin’ back those cushions right there on ya’ desks.”

“If you could find out what we were doing, then you would have done it by now,” William said. “And you’d already know that we were planning on grabbing extra sweets tonight, at the Halloween feast.”

“Is that right?” She raised an eyebrow and turned to her cushion. “Well, make sure you grab some for me, then. Flipendo!”

Her cushion flung itself a couple feet landing on the floor next to some of the other students’ successful attempts.

“How is it that she can spend so much time bugging us and still get her work done?” William asked, while leaving Professor Wiggins’ class. They rushed out the door as he dismissed them, leaving Elizabeth behind and almost toppling over Henri.

“I don’t understand either,” Patrick admitted, “but the sooner we get this over with the sooner she’ll stop bothering us. Do you know how to get in?”

“Yep, I overheard one of the older Templetons telling Justin Dawes the password. I guess he was having trouble remembering it.”

“Great, so when do we go?” questioned Patrick.

“Just like last time. We’ve got to wait for everyone to leave the common room.”

Patrick and William paced around their room waiting for the common room to clear out. Once the excited and raucous voices of Allards dissipated, they both crept cautiously out of their door and out the common room.

The grounds were illuminated by the Full Moon overhead, and howls could faintly be heard in the distance. The two of them passed by the greenhouses, seeing Professor Marigold on her knees waiting and watching intently for something near the trunks of the surrounding trees.

“She would be out waiting for Mooncalves while everyone is celebrating,” William remarked. “I’ve never seen anyone as crazy about Herbology as she is.”

They passed by her unnoticed, to the Templeton Hall building. Instead of heading straight, where the library and location of their last escapade was situated, they turned left and headed down another hallway. They marched up to a wall bearing two lanterns, both burning a bright red flame.

“Well,” Patrick said, looking to William. “Go ahead.”

Patrick nudged William in front of the wall.

“I know. I know…” William cleared his throat, “Sanctuary.”

The flames flashed from red to a golden-yellow, revealing a crack between the lanterns. The wall split apart exposing a previously concealed staircase.

The two of them hurried inside, hearing the wall close quickly behind them. The stairs covered a lengthy path, winding to the right and up into the Templeton Common Room. Stepping inside, Patrick could not help but feel as though he had walked into a large attic. The same lanterns that hung at the entrance were also affixed to the walls of the room, their flames golden-yellow as well. Where the Allards had red furniture, the armchairs and couches of the Templetons were yellow and were arranged around a large table in the middle of the room. On both ends of the hall next to a fireplace more, smaller flights of stairs, presumably led to the girls’ and boys’ dormitories. Patrick and William headed to the one on the right, putting their foot on the first step. Before they could place their feet on the second step, the third stair sprang up, stopping at the ceiling, forming a large wall preventing them from entering any further.

“Must be the girls’ dorms,” William said, stepping down from the stairs and hurrying across to the boys’ rooms.

“Any idea where his room would be?” Patrick asked, climbing up the other, non-threatening stairs.

“Well, if they’re anything like our dorms…” William pushed open the first door on the right leaving it ajar, and walked through the room that was positioned in the same place as the first years’ room in the Allard Hall. After a moment of quick perusal, Patrick knew he had found the right room. There was a picture of Gregory fighting intensely with an owl on a dresser to their right, next to a poster of the Darby Daredevils, Quodpot team.

“William, over here!” Patrick called. “You take his trunk I’ll search his dresser.”

Patrick tugged on the drawers searching frantically through them. Socks, scarves, ties, and pants were all that he could find, even after shifting them aside to look deeper. Patrick rearranged Gregory’s things as best as he could, before shutting the drawers altogether.

Patrick turned over to William. “Find anything?”

William was rummaging through Gregory’s trunk, taking less care than Patrick had been. Parchment, quills, schoolbooks, scales, a box of Sour Snails candy, and several wells of ink were lying on the floor surrounding William.

“Nothing here...maybe it’s in his bed?”

They both moved to start grabbing pillows and tearing away at his sheets, before hearing the soft taps of shoes through the open dorm door. There was someone moving around in the common room outside.

“Oh no, it’s Gregory.” Patrick said.

He quickly put the pillow he was holding down and moved to shove as many of Gregory’s things back into his trunk.

“Good,” William said, withdrawing his wand, “he’ll finally get what’s coming to him.”

“No,” Patrick warned, in an urgent whisper, “if we just stay quiet we can still get out of here without getting in trouble again. Quick, behind those curtains!”

Patrick climbed on top of another bed, the closest one to the door on his right, waited for William to jump in next to him and hurriedly jerked the yellow curtains of the four-poster bed shut. Patrick carefully peered through the drapes of the bed watching the door that they left open. A short hooded figure, wand raised, crept inside the room surveying the remaining mess William had made. It kneeled down in front of the trunk holding up a well of ink.

“Come on, Patrick, let me do it. Let me jinx him right now.” William demanded, forcing a whisper.

“No,” he hushed. “Wait ‘til he leaves.”

The hooded person placed the items still on the floor back into the trunk and closed it tightly.

“He’s probably just going to poke around a bit longer and then we can make our way ou�””

“Flipendo!”

William’s yell was released before Patrick could finish his sentence. His attempt at casting the spell was unsuccessful, leaving both of them exposed. William leapt had leapt from the bed forcing Patrick to tumble off the mattress and land on the floor. The figure swirled around, its hood sliding down revealing several locks of red hair pulled back with an Alice band, and an amused freckled face. Patrick, now lying sideways, was dumbstruck.

“Elizabeth?” he and William said, together.

“I told you I’d find out sooner or later. You two decided it should be later.”

“Great,” Patrick said, picking himself up. “How’d you get in here?”

“I followed you,” she said, simply. “Didn’t you think I’d figure out that you weren’t actually getting more sweets when I didn’t see you leave the common room? I stuck around, watching from the girls’ side of the dorms, until you both sneaked out. Now,” she paused, lowering her wand, “are you ready to tell me what you’re up to?”

“It’s none of your busin�”” William began, before he was interrupted, this time, by Patrick.

“Not now. We need to get out of here before anyone else comes back.”

Patrick fronted the way out of the room (after Elizabeth’s disappointed Fine!), down the small stairs and to the long path leading out of the Templeton Common Room. The wall parted once more as it had done on their way in. The three of them took two steps before seeing Professor Snerkin talking to an excitedly giddy, Mr. Vexing in one of the portraits.

“There they are now, Professor! Oh, trouble such as I’ve never seen before!” His sentence ended with a high pitched cackle, which clearly disturbed the witch whose portrait he was occupying.

“Great,” Patrick thought, again. “And just three days before our first match.”

“The three of you…to my office.” Professor Snerkin, spun around, his orange robes billowing behind him.

“Good way to spend a birthday, huh?” William uttered to Patrick out of the corner of his mouth.

Patrick looked shocked, and not for the first time this evening. “What?”

Mr. Vexing was bouncing from portrait to portrait following them out of the hall, hurling taunts at the three of them.

“The tykes tumbled into trouble! Surely, you haven’t got such a poor sense of direction that you can’t find your own common room, Thatcher!”

Patrick hardly felt like hearing Mr. Vexing’s comments at the present moment, but he didn’t have the will or confidence to offer a rebuttal to the portrait’s mockery.

“Today’s my birthday,” continued William. “I thought maybe we could get the book back as a present, but so much for that.

Patrick looked at him and gave a half-smile, while following behind Professor Snerkin. “Happy Birthday, William.”

The three of them walked back to the Allard Hall Building, without uttering a single word. They had been caught by their own Hall Master while sneaking into another hall common room. Surely, nothing they could say at this point would help the situation.

Patrick glanced over to where Professor Marigold had been earlier, hoping to focus on something else for a portion of his walk. She, however, was no longer kneeling by the trees and had apparently found what she was looking for.

By the time they reached Allard Hall, Mr. Vexing had beaten them there, cackling. His finger was pointing at the cheerless faces of Patrick, William, and Elizabeth.

“Foolish children. Hang ‘em from the top of the Allard Tower, I say. They’ll never forget where�””

“Julius,” Professor Snerkin hushed calmly, “I will handle this. If you please, you have already done enough for tonight.”

Mr. Vexing’s wide grin dwindled into a pair of thin lips as he stalked off back to his own portrait. Professor Snerkin continued to walk forward bringing the three of them to a staircase that wound up to the left onto the second floor. Professor Snerkin approached a large tapestry of an American flag that had only thirteen stars, before speaking aloud the word, “Warbler.” The thick cloth sprang up, rolling itself into a tight bundle above a bare wall. Professor Snerkin reached out, turning his hand on what seemed like nothing. Before he could open his mouth to point out the fact that his hall master was trying to walk through a wall, Patrick saw a shiny brass knob appear in Professor Snerkin’s hand, attached to a door that, too, had just appeared before the four of them. Professor Snerkin walked in first, moving around his large desk scattered with papers, to his chair.

“Please, sit down,” he said, looking at the group of Allards he had just apprehended. Patrick crept down into his chair, William on his left and Elizabeth to his right, all of their eyes were shifting around the room in an effort to avoid having to face Professor Snerkin. The only thing of immediate interest was his collection of Wickenburg Warblers memorabilia, which Patrick would have liked to look at more closely had he not been in the circumstances that he was currently in.

He fixed his eyes on an immobile, navy-blue bird which appeared to be the same warbler that could be seen chirping and flying around Professor Snerkin’s head from time to time. Patrick thought that now would have been as good a time as any for it to ring out into its usual outbursts of tweeting, but it remained still and the growing silence prompted Professor Snerkin to speak.

“I don’t believe one of you can explain what you were doing in the Templeton Common Room?” he asked.

Patrick did not remove his gaze from the bird. He did not even bother to look to William or Elizabeth for help, figuring that neither of them could possibly come up with a suitable excuse.

“Needless to say,” he continued, “I’m very disappointed. Mr. Vexing didn’t hesitate to inform me that he had seen a group of Allards headed toward the Templeton Common Room. You can imagine my disbelief at his words and how I felt when I saw you three exiting the very place Mr. Vexing had warned me about.”

“It’s just someone stole our book and�”” William, who had been the first one brave enough to speak, was quickly cut off.

“�”and you didn’t think enough to inform me or Professor Dextra concerning the matter?” William slouched a little into his seat; defeated.

“Are you even sure that the book you’re looking for is in the possession of one of the Templeton students?”

Patrick continued to avoid eye contact. He, William, or Elizabeth could not give a definitive answer to that question. Professor watched them as none of the Allards opened their mouth to speak.

“Just as I thought. You know, I have every reason to give each of you detention until Christmas break,” he said.

“But you three have never given me reason to do so or demonstrated any prior example of such behavior. And you,” he said, turning to Patrick whose eyes were now looking up past Professor Snerkin’s ear, “with a match in just three days. I hope whatever event possessed the three of you to do this will not interfere again,” he finished, still looking at his Allard Chaser.

Patrick finally moved his eyes to land on his hall master. Professor Snerkin’s face did not seem as angered or as fierce as it could have been for a person in this situation. He was instead staring at Patrick with a concerned look as though worried about him. Professor Snerkin broke their eye contact and waved them out of his office.

“You may return to your dormitories.”

The three of them sat perplexed, not budging an inch from their spots, relieved and confused at the same time.

“Excuse me, sir, d-does that mean I can still play on Saturday?” Patrick asked.

“Fortunately, for you, yes. It would be much too late for us to bring in a reserve player this close to a game. Besides, the first game usually sets the mood for the season. If we don’t start off strong then it’ll be hard to finish strong.”

Patrick tried to contain himself. Somehow, he not only managed to avoid detention, but he was not going to miss his first Quidditch match. It was the most fortunate venture of law-breaking he had ever taken part in.

The three of them quickly left without another word wanting to exit the room before Professor Snerkin could overturn his own decision. The old flag rapidly unraveled, falling back to the ground as the door slammed behind them.

“What just happened?” asked Elizabeth, her eyes wide and her mouth slightly gaped.

“I think we just got off easy,” William said. “Thanks to Patrick, I think.”

“Huh? What did I do?”

William looked at him as though he had not heard a word Professor Snerkin said. “You’ve got a Quidditch match on Saturday. He can’t pull you out three days before then. There’s no way Allard would be able to win. People would start asking questions and�””

He was cut off once again, this time by Elizabeth. “I have a question. What book were you two talking about? Is that what you were looking for in that room?”

Patrick glanced over at her, temporarily forgetting that she did not know about the book they were looking for or the compass. “We might as well tell her,” he said to William.

“Why should we?” William asked, rudely.

“I don’t know, perhaps she could help us. You’ve seen where both of your bright ideas have landed us.”

“Is it my fault that the stupid portrait can’t mind his own business?” retorted William.

“You just have to promise you won’t mention this to anyone,” said Patrick.

They walked slowly back to their common room. Patrick and William gave Elizabeth a full account of everything that had happened since Patrick received William’s letter. Their meeting with Professor Allard, how Patrick’s grandfather suggested they look for a certain book and how Gregory bailed in the hidden library during the search.

“Wait, so you mean you have a compass that the founder of this school once owned?” They were crammed in a corner of the common room, speaking as soft as they could. “If Gregory knows you have that you can bet he’ll want it. Do you know how much something like that could go for?”

“Enough Galleons to fill the Quidditch stadium, probably,” William said.

“If he has that book,” Elizabeth pondered, “he might be able to figure out what it does and then all he’ll need is to take it from you.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” Patrick placed his hand on his forehead trying to find out how he could possibly retrieve the book from Gregory.

“Don’t worry about it Patrick, you’ve got Quidditch soon. You heard what Professor Snerkin said, the first match sets the mood.”

Patrick agreed with her. It was probably better to keep focused on the upcoming match; he did not want Professor Snerkin to regret his decision to allow him to play against Templeton. The golden-yellow lanterns were the only image Patrick could picture in his head before he finally fell asleep.

The three of them were relieved to find that none of their peers seemed to know about their exploits in Transfiguration class the next day. Professor Sumpton gave Patrick an early wish of luck upon leaving class without so much as mentioning the Templeton Common Room. In Potions, Gregory did not even hint at the idea of someone breaking into his room. Apparently, Elizabeth had done an adequate job of placing Gregory’s things back in his trunk.

Friday rushed by until Saturday finally rolled around, making Patrick more anxious than ever. The Dining Hall was louder than it had ever been; even louder than it had been during the placement ceremony. The students eating were uttering words inaudible to Patrick, obviously waiting for the first ever Wentwater Quidditch match to begin. Patrick could hardly focus on eating breakfast thanks to the Allard and Templeton tables that were already carrying around large banners and shooting confetti from their wands. He found himself unable to finish his hash browns, watching as the shredded potatoes slid down the edge of his fork and back onto his plate next to a pile of red steamers.

“What’s wrong, Patrick?” Elizabeth asked. “It’s not like you aren’t ready. You had plenty of practice.”

Patrick twirled his fork on the hash browns, the fork clanging against the silver plate. “It’s different. I’ve never actually played against another team before. I might not even be good in games, just practices.”

The rest of the Allard Quidditch team appeared behind Patrick. Gerald grabbed him by the shoulders, “Are you ready to go?”

“I suppose,” Patrick shot a uneasy glance at William.

“Just watch out…everyone isn’t used to playing Quidditch, they’ll try and get away with as much as they can,” William warned, as Patrick stood up from his seat and nodded, hastily joining his teammates.

Patrick walked along cautiously to the Quidditch stadium, stepping over the grounds littered with fallen yellow, red, and orange November leaves. The collective sound of the Allards walking together over the foliage could easily be mistaken for hundreds of tiny bones cracking. Gerald turned to Patrick, whose hands were tucked nervously into his robe pockets.

“You excited for our first match?”

“Yeah…excited, that’s the word,” he said, uneasily. “Aren’t you scared at all?”

Gerald’s lips stretched into a large smile. “Yes and no. I’ve played Quodpot so I’m not afraid of playing,” he started, “it’s the new competition you never know what to expect the first time so there’s always a little fear, but there’s no sense in thinking like that. If you go in thinking the worst, you’ll usually get it.”

Gerald was right. Patrick began thinking of the best scenarios he could has they finished the walk to the locker room. Ideas like the Allards winning by three-hundred points, or Harvey catching the Snitch within the first two minutes of the game.

Once he reached the locker room, Patrick changed quickly, ideas still floating around in his mind. He stood pacing around, his broomstick shouldered in his hand, as their captain Harvey stood to address the team.

“Okay, now the Templetons have an older team, but we’ll have a good chance against their Keeper, Hodges, since she’s only a second year. Gerald, Ben…I want you keep those Bludgers flying away from Patrick. They’re going to be gunning for him because he’s a first year. I’ll do my best to take care of McLendon.”

Harvey’s speech wasn’t entirely reassuring. Patrick’s grip on the broom started to loosen as he and the rest of the team walked toward the entrance to the stadium.

“Thatcher!” called a boastful voice from behind him. Gregory Huntington was swaggering over to Patrick. “I just wanted to say goodbye before Templeton blows you right on your back.”

Patrick narrowed his eyes. He waited, but there was no sudden burst of courage as he had hoped. There was a match to be played and he instead turned quickly to join behind the other Allard players, his back against the derisive laughs of Gregory.

They walked out on the field to raucous cheers and applause as they moved toward Professor Pennipot, who was dressed in black and white robes, holding her own broomstick and wearing a shiny silver whistle around her neck. The stands were filled with students waving flags, looking through binoculars, or shooting more rounds of confetti and streamers.

“And here’s the Allard Quidditch team walking onto the field. Emmert, Argenbright, Thatcher, Sinclair, Speckley, Flynn, and Pinniger! They’re the team Professor Snerkin decided to go with. Even though I’d make a great Chaser, I’d much rather play Quodpot, anyhow.”

Patrick squinted up to the stands to see an older boy, who he remembered as Eric Stilley from the Allard tryouts. Eric was commentating the match while Simon Thornfield and Travis Sweeney occupied two of the seats around him, both noticeable from the large hats they were sporting, each with a huge dangling crown-feather from, presumably, the Quinby Quails Quodpot team.

“Now there’s the Templeton team: Barnes, Swoppins, Bannock, Murphy, Greene, Hodges, and McLendon!”

The Templetons, uniformed in yellow, met the Allards in the middle of the field. They certainly did look a great deal older than the Allards. Their youngest players were a second year, Hodges, a short girl with mild curls in her brown hair, and a fourth year, Greene, a bald and somewhat robust black boy, the rest all looked at least fifth year or older.

Professor Snerkin emerged from the storage room levitating the game trunk over to Professor Pennipot, before leaving the field. He shot Patrick a glance as he swished the curtains closed.

“All right, let’s get this game on the road,” Professor Pennipot began. “You all should know the rules and I’m not going to be lenient if any of you try and be sneaky. So, that means no blagging, no blatching, no blurting, no bumphing, no cobbing, and no skinning. Got it?”

The teams gave a collective murmur of assent.

“Now, mount your brooms.” Patrick heaved a leg over his Cleansweep and Professor Pennipot unlocked the trunk. She released the Golden Snitch and two iron Bludgers which zoomed around the field without so much as a second’s hesitance. Fifteen brooms rose into the air as Professor Pennipot clutched the red, leather Quaffle. She gave a great blow on her whistle and heaved the ball upward, starting the match.

“And Bannock’s got it! Look at him go!” cried Eric, over the cheering stands. Josephine and Kyle were already positioned to block potential passes to the other Templeton players. The match had just begun, but Patrick had barely moved.

“Patrick, come on!” called Josephine. She was struggling to yell at Patrick and intercept the Quaffle which had just been thrown to another Templeton Chaser, Barnes. Patrick sped off looking for an opportunity to steal.

“Anita Barnes has the Quaffle…a quick throw to Bannock…Templeton scores!” The cheers from the Templeton side were earsplitting. It was less than a minute in and Allard was already losing. Patrick turned his head upward looking for Harvey. Please just grab the Snitch, he thought; hoping that the game would be over before he could screw up.

“Get open, Thatcher!” Allison was hovering around the goal posts looking to pass. After noticing Kyle flying high and unguarded, she hurled the ball at his direction. Patrick raced next to him, waving a hand in the air to signal a pass. The only male Templeton Chaser, Bannock, a Native American boy with dark brown hair, missed a potential steal as he swerved close by just as Kyle pitched the Quaffle to Patrick. The red leather felt soft, almost moist, to the touch as Patrick made his first possession of the game ball. He cradled it under his arm and made his way toward the hoops.

“Jeremy Greene, with a great Bludger hit…and it’s coming Thatcher’s way!”

Patrick forced his head behind him to find a single iron Bludger following behind him. He was just outside the scoring area before he was struck with an idea. Lining his broom up with the center hoop and the Templeton Keeper, Hodges, Patrick kept flying straight. Taking a quick look back, he bolted right and chucked the Quaffle into the rightmost hoop. His eyes glanced back to the Templeton Keeper to see the Bludger heading straight for her.

“Allard scores! Smart move by Thatcher, forcing the Bludger onto Hodges. Although Melinda should probably let go of the goal post now…” Melinda dove out of the way of the Bludger and was now clutching both of her hands around the post of the goal, her brown hair tossed about her face. She finally regrouped enough to put the ball in play; her body was quaking as though a Bludger might strike her down for merely thinking of throwing the Quaffle. Melinda hastily tossed the ball, and instead of landing in the intended hands of her Chaser, Swoppins, the ball carried itself back into the possession of Patrick.

Dumbstruck, he made a dash for another goal, he felt more confident this time, having already made one. Patrick tucked the ball safely in front of his stomach, dodging a swipe from Barnes. He looked over to see Josephine flying wide-open.

“Looks like Thatcher is tossing it off to Emmert an--oh no…”

No sooner had the thought to pass came, had Patrick felt so much pain. The Quaffle he had been holding exploded, shaking violently and knocking him from his comfortable seat on his Cleansweep. Patrick was clinging onto his borrowed broom as it veered sharply downward to the ground.

“Thatcher takes a tumble! It looks like we’re going to get a Quodpot match after all.”

The once roaring crowd diminished into a group of scattered whispers. The fall seemed like forever and the closer Patrick came to the ground, the fainter the sounds of the stadium became. One hand still gripping the wooden handle of his broom, Patrick finally hit the ground, his back scraping along the grass until he came to a sudden stop, motionless and unconscious.


- - -

Patrick could no longer smell the scent of fresh grass. Instead, his nose was blocked as though thick rags had been stuffed inside his nostrils. All of his senses felt smothered by the sudden change in environment; he couldn’t open his eyes, feel, or hear anything. He was lying still until his arm began to tingle. Patrick tried to wiggle it, but stopped when he heard a calming voice pierce through his inaudible surroundings.

“Please, you’ll have to stop fidgeting if you want me to help.” Patrick’s eyelids were heavy, he strained as he attempted to wrench them open. A witch, wearing robes as white and as pure as pearls, was crouched over beside him. Her voice was poised, but it rang of a Southern accent so evident, that it was unmistakable even in Patrick’s current state of awareness.

“Wh�”who are you?” Patrick managed to force out.

“You can call me Ms. Altricks, but I’m,” she said, pushing down Patrick as he tried to sit up, “going to have to insist that you lie down and don’t move. You’ve taken a great fall.”

Ms. Altricks grabbed a vial filled with blue liquid off of the nearby table, lowered Patrick’s chin, and tipped the contents of the vial into Patrick’s mouth. It tasted sweet momentarily, but left a horrible aftertaste of stale bread. Five minutes had passed before Patrick fully recovered his senses, strong enough to sit up.

“Ouch!” he exclaimed. His side, amplified by the sudden recovery of the ability to feel, ached.

“I suggest you don’t make any sudden movements, it may take a while before all that pain goes away.”

William and Elizabeth rushed in side-by-side from the far end of the Hospital Ward. Their echoing footsteps thrashed against Patrick’s ear drums.

“Patrick! Are you okay?” asked William.

Ms. Altricks set the vial back on the table. “I’ll just let you three alone.”

“All that practicing you did,” Elizabeth added. “You barely got to play.”

Patrick had not gotten a chance to rerun the events in his head. “What happened?”

“That Qwiffle thing you were playing with exploded,” explained Elizabeth.

“Quaffle�”” William corrected, “and that wasn’t a Quaffle, it was a Quod. Quaffles don’t explode.”

“How did we end up playing with a Quod? Only Professor Snerkin and Pennipot have the key to that shed,” Patrick wondered. “No one else could have entered in there.”

“It’s simple,” William continued, as if it suddenly made perfect sense. “Why else do you think Professor Snerkin let us off so easy? Because he needed you to play today and make it look like an accident.”

Patrick could not have been more confused than he was now. Professor Snerkin had always been more than pleasant to Patrick. “Why though? It doesn’t make sense.”


“Well, he is the Hall Master of Allard Hall. We know that your compass used to belong to Professor Allard. Don’t you think that he would know some things about that? He probably knows more about it than we do,” offered Elizabeth.

“You mean you think he wants it, too?” Patrick asked, growing frustrated. “If everyone knows about it, how come we’re the only ones that can’t figure out what it does?”

William and Elizabeth shrugged. At that moment, the rest of the Allard Quidditch team came bustling through the two large Hospital Ward doors, hastily walking over to surround Patrick’s bed. Kyle and Josephine were squeezed next to each other and Gerald was standing in the forefront. Patrick had almost forgotten that he was part of a team, a team that had to finish the match.

“What happened? Did we win?” he asked Gerald.

“Yeah, luckily,” he responded. “Harvey caught the Snitch just over five minutes after you left. No one else scored, they were afraid that the new Quaffle Professor Pennipot brought out would explode again.” He shot an eye over at Josephine and Kyle.

“Well? Who knows what happened to that first one?” Josephine began. “I didn’t want to be the next victim!” William gave her a sharp poke with his elbow.

“Ahem…sorry, Patrick.”

Through the same doors, a squat, black woman approached the group fussing under her breath. Irritation could be seen carved in the wrinkles of her broad face as Ms. Altricks followed behind, trying to calm her down. The woman had the presence of someone who had cared for and tended to hundreds, even thousands, of people during her lifetime. The other Allard team members backed away from Patrick, while William and Elizabeth stood pressed against his bed.

“Listen here, I can’t have this place swarmin’ with chil’ren,” she said, circling the group, her hands seemingly attached to her hips.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Hortshorne,” Ms. Altricks said, apologetically, standng close behind. “I only let two in. I didn’t know this many people would follow.”

“Well, I’m sorry, but you’all are gonna have to go. This boy needs his rest, and Merlin knows how he’ll get it with all this ruckus about. Shoo! G’on…Shoo!”

The remainder of the Quidditch team hurried out glancing between each other and Mrs. Hortshorne cautiously.

“We’ll visit you again later, Patrick,” Elizabeth said, stepping backwards.

“And don’t worry,” William spoke, his voice dropping low to a whisper as he approached Patrick’s bed, “we’ll find out what’s going on with Professor Snerk�”Okay! Okay! I’m going! We’re going!”

Mrs. Hortshorne had reached out her fingers and clenched them to William’s ear. Elizabeth shot for the door just out of reach of Mrs. Hortshorne’s free hand and William, who was being dragged out of the Hospital Ward while Mrs. Hortshorne muttered to him about respecting his elders. Patrick chuckled silently before plopping back down on his bed. Mrs. Hortshorne closed the door behind them and turned around to address Patrick.

“If your friends come back you can tell them you’ll see them tomorrow. Ya got nothin’ I can’t fix up in a bit and I don’t need to be bumpin’ elbows with any other chil’ren. I’ve already got a mess on my hands with Ms. Altricks. Always fiddling around with things….”

Mrs. Hortshorne’s words faded away like smoke billowing into the air. Patrick suspected that the blue liquid Ms. Altricks gave him was beginning to take effect, lulling his mind away from Mrs. Hortshorne’s voice and the rest of the room. He was back in the air hovering over the Quidditch field just as he had earlier that day.

“Allard scores! Smart move by Thatcher forcing the Bludger onto Hodges. Although Melinda should probably let go of the goal post now…”

He looked over at Eric Stilley who was providing the same commentary as he had earlier. Patrick could not have been more confused than he was now. He saw Melinda Hodges dive out of the way of an oncoming Bludger clinging tightly to the goalpost exactly as before. Patrick found his situation very convenient owning to the fact that this same incident lead to his current injury. He had gone back in time! He watched Melinda stammer back onto her broom and force a half-hearted pass to put the Quaffle in play. Patrick tried as hard as he could to steer out of the way, but his hands outstretched to seize hold of the ball. He soon became a spectator to his own actions, sitting helpless as he rushed underneath Barnes, the Quod tucked safely in front of his stomach. The scene replayed exactly as it had before, except this time it moved by much faster.

“Thatcher takes a tumble! Looks like we’re going…”

Patrick did not bother to pay attention to Eric this time. He was falling just as rapidly, his body automatically performing its previous motions. He had fallen halfway until he was suddenly suspended mid-air. Professor Snerkin had flown up beside him staring right into Patrick’s frightened blue eyes. Professor Snerkin’s face was wrapped with beaming white teeth.

“You don’t belong here, Thatcher…perhaps you could join us next fall.” Professor Snerkin zoomed away on his broom cackling as Patrick resumed his plunge toward the ground. His stomach was twisting as he let out a loud scream. Patrick’s eyes ripped open and he was sitting bolt upright in his Hospital Ward bed.

“What’s the matter with you? I knew you couldn’t handle Quidditch, but I figured with over eleven years of experience you’d have figured out how sleeping works by now.”

Paul was walking coolly up to Patrick’s bed, his hands resting comfortably in his pockets. Mrs. Hortshorne was hunched over a several beds away tending to a girl whose hands had swelled to twice their normal size.

“Shut up, I was having a bad dream.”

“Oh, it’ll be all right, Patty,” Paul started, scrunching up his lips and cooing his voice, “…the dream’s over now and, apparently, so is your stay here…Mrs. Hortshorne told me you can go now.” Patrick had only just begun to realize that he was sitting up without feeling any pain at all. As severe as Mrs. Hortshorne was, she was a good healer.

“Did you come to visit me?” asked Patrick, in awe.

Paul raised an eyebrow. “Not so much because I wanted to as it was mom’s doing. She heard about your little tumble from Professor Obelus and practically begged me to check up on you. She’s already got your ticket to come home for Christmas.” Paul started toward the door, his hands never leaving his pockets. “Oh, she said you can invite your little William friend, too,” he added, quickly. Patrick leaped out of bed and grabbed his brother by the cuff of his robes. “Well, it looks like you’re all better…”

Mrs. Hortshorne had seen Patrick’s bound from his bed. She turned from the girl she was treating and called across the room at him. “Don’ be jumpin’ outta beds like that. I can’t be havin’ chil’ren fillin’ up this ward ‘cause they wan’ to be foolish,” she reprimanded.

Patrick looked at her, nodded rapidly and turned back to Paul, his excitement never leaving his face. “She said William can come, too?!”

“Yes,” Paul responded, haughtily, yanking his sleeve from Patrick’s grip. “That’s what I said, didn’t I?”

The two of them walked back to the Allard Hall Building, Paul taking large steps and Patrick short, rapid ones. Patrick was very excited and kept badgering Paul until Admiral Polk interrupted him for the password.

“Ah, the young one arrives from a great and mighty fall, speak the password and you may return to your hall.”

“Poppycock,” piped Patrick.

“In and make haste, there is no time to waste!” shooed Admiral Polk. His voice echoed as the two of them passed through his rippling picture. Patrick walked along the passageway into the common room and noticed William, Elizabeth, and Henri huddled at one of the tables playing a game of Sizzling Flip. Henri was holding up a single, flashing card, triumphantly. He slammed the piece of paper down on a pile of cards, also flashing, before the entire stack went whizzing and whirring into the air releasing several fits of blinding light. Tiny flecks of color sparkled over their side of the common room. Patrick had covered his eyes to protect them from the bright beams and found a single card resting in his hair after the strobes of light subsided. He grabbed the card from under his tresses and shook off the fizzling sparks remaining on it.

“Patrick!” Henri’s eyes had been the first to recover and quickly found their way to Patrick. William and Elizabeth turned to look while feverishly rubbing at their eyes, obviously trying to regain their sight.

Henri jumped from his chair toward Patrick. “Do you want to play ‘Zizzling Flip wizz us?” he asked, holding up a handful of cards that, upon closer inspection, showed no signs of being able to burst into large flashes of light.

Patrick waved his hands, afraid the cards may blow up in his face. “No, no thanks Henri. I’m not exactly in the mood for games where things explode.”

Henri moved to one of the armchairs away from the table and was quickly joined by Jonathan Hiller who apparently had seen the flashes from across the room. Patrick slumped down into a chair next to Elizabeth and William, finally happy to be back in the Allard common room.

“Are you all right?” Elizabeth asked, leaning in and speaking slowly, almost as if she thought the accident had affected his ability to listen.

“I’m fine,” he responded, “What about you two? Did you learn anything?”

“Nothing,” Elizabeth sighed. “We haven’t even seen him since the match yesterday.”

“Yeah, and everyone thinks Professor Pennipot is in on it, too. How else could Professor Snerkin have managed to get a Quod into play?” William added.

Patrick could not understand why, of all the people at Wentwater, he was the one that was being targeted. He thought back to his mother’s prediction that his teachers would be great. He was becoming unsure of whether her assessment was anywhere near accurate.

“Well, if he isn’t around for a while I can take a bit more time on my Wind Charm,” Elizabeth confessed. She stood up behind Henri and pointed her wand at the stack of cards.

“Flabra!.” Three cards flew off the top of the deck leaving the remaining cards untouched. Henri and Jonathan were furious and spun their heads around to yell at Elizabeth.

“What did you do that for? I was about to beat him,” shouted Jonathan.”

No you weren’!” defended Henri.

Elizabeth had placed one hand over her ear and was repeatedly trying to blow more cards off of the top of their deck. Elizabeth’s screams of “Flabra!” could barely be heard over Henri and Jonathan’s collective yells.

Patrick, suddenly remembering his earlier excitement, shifted upright in his chair. “I almost forgot. If you want, my mom said that you can join us for Christmas this year.”

“Really? At your house? With your grandpa?”

“Yes,” Patrick said, “my brother told me this morning.”

“Yeah, sure. I’d have to let my dad know, but I’m sure he’d let me.” William said, his face beaming. “Then we can ask him about your compass and see if he knows why the whole school is breathing down your neck.”

“Right,” he said, uneasily at William’s last few words. “Maybe we can actually learn what’s going on.”

Over the next two weeks, Patrick was greeted by students and staff in many different ways. With matches looming ahead, various members of the Garrison, Mendel, Rylan, and Kinsey Hall Quidditch Teams approached him with questions of what to do should their Quaffle suddenly explode. Most of his teachers were very concerned about his well being. Professor Marigold, in particular, decided that Patrick was too disoriented to work on their Puffapod lesson and gave him a list of plants in the Invigoration Draught that would assist in bringing him back to a “tolerable” state.

While many acted with concern for Patrick’s safety, others gathered quite a laugh from that Saturday’s match. Gregory Huntington would periodically sneak around corners shooting sparks into Patrick’s face when he least expected it. It did not bother Patrick very much, as Gregory’s sparks tended to miss their target. It was Gregory’s buddies who would fire their sparks at William and Elizabeth whenever their paths crossed. Marcus Lickspittle was the smallest of the three. His head was covered in messy, light brown hair and his front teeth stuck out to give the impression that he was snickering whenever he opened his mouth. The boy presumably second in command, was Clarence Middling. He was a black boy, roughly the same height as Gregory who was usually the least enthusiastic of the bunch when playing pranks on other students. The three of them together were perhaps the most unlikely bunch of friends Patrick had ever seen.

Professor Snerkin’s class had taken the most noticeable change. His classes had been taken over by none other than Professor Montgomery, himself, which sent Elizabeth frantically searching through Common Charms and Enchantments trying to find the proper way to fix her faulty Wind Charm.

“Good Morning, students,” Professor Montgomery started. He was cleaning his wand against his sapphire blue robes before he looked up at his temporary class. “Professor Snerkin will be on leave for quite a while and I will be taking over until he returns.’ He waved his wand, magicking a textbook out of thin air, and sighed. “Ah, it feels great to be teaching again,” he confessed, “it just so happens that I used to be a Charms teacher. Can anyone tell me which lesson you were on?”

A Mendel boy in the front of the room with dirty blonde hair and a thin face raised his hand.

“Yes, Mr….”

“Lawley, sir. Edwin Lawley. We were working on Wind Charms,” he said, while sorting through his notes.

“Very good, Mr. Lawley.” Professor Montgomery instructed each student to perform the charm on a pile of books in the front of the room.

The whole class period passed without anyone mentioning Professor Snerkin’s absence again. Simon Thornfield attempted to raise his hand before it was quickly yanked down by Travis Sweeney. Patrick and William kept looking back to Jonathan Hiller for another loud outbreak, but they supposed he had more manners than to direct such a feat at their school dean.

By the time the Thanksgiving feast rolled around, the remaining four halls had successfully completed their Quidditch matches without a report of as much as a broken twig. Although none of the matches suffered from any mishaps, talk still had not subsided due to the fact that Professor Snerkin was still absent from the school’s premises.

This did not put a damper on Henri’s appetite, which seemed to have grown instantly as the silver plates filled with large turkeys, stuffing, cranberry sauce, and mashed potatoes.

“I’m soo zhankful for Zhanksgiving,” Henri said, grabbing his fork and eyeing a turkey leg in front of him.

Patrick, William and Elizabeth followed shortly joined him, taking their share of the Thanksgiving meal. Patrick, however, was still concerned about the whereabouts of Professor Snerkin and had taken to glancing up at the staff table during bites. He was watching Professor Wiggins slice his turkey up with his wand in sharp jabs, while Professor Marigold sat beside him mixing her gravy in her mashed potatoes.

“Doesn’t anyone care that he’s gone?” Patrick asked William. “He is the assistant dean.”

“Probably not. They must have known something was wrong with him. They’re probably happy that he’s away.”

Professor Sumpton and Professor Obelus were chatting casually amongst themselves. Professor Sumpton was occupying Professor Snerkin’s old chair and looked as though he was enjoying both the food and conversation. Patrick looked down at his plate still half full of food and sighed. He would be home soon enough and could finally get a break from everything that has happened at school. He could finally get some of the answers he was looking for. He could finally be just an eleven year-old boy, again.

William’s letter from his father did not arrive until it was time for the first years to take their mid-terms. By then, the grounds of Wentwater had already been covered in thick sheets of snow. Professor Obelus had been seen paving back the paths of cobble to allow the students a way to and from their classes without having to trek through inches of ice. His father explained that his delay was, in part, due to issues he had to sort out at home and his growing reluctance to spend a single Christmas away from his son.

Nonetheless, William had been given permission to join Patrick which helped fuel the pair to do well on their mid-term exams. Patrick felt very confident that he answered all of the questions about the Floo Act correctly on his Magic History exam and with Professor Marigold still not completely convinced he was okay, Patrick was pretty sure he had scraped up an easy grade in Herbology.

Patrick’s Charms exam passed by easily as Professor Montgomery only asked him to levitate a one of the classroom chairs. He sat back, however, and watched Elizabeth’s Gust Charm sputter, knocking over only one of the seven books Professor Montgomery had lined up.

“I was thinking about Astronomy,” she admitted over lunch, while finishing up the take home chart for their Astronomy exam. “I’ll be glad when this is over. So I can finally relax,” she confessed.

“You’re not going home are you?” asked William.

“No, my parents are visiting my Aunt Martha. She’s got a bad case of Pruritis. They’re going to make sure she doesn’t go crazy from the itching and try and hex her arms off,” she finished. Henri was thumbing through the pages of Fending off Forces: A Journey in Self-Defense trying to find which spell he needed the most practice on. It turned out that everyone in the class needed a bit more work when it came to the Full-Body Bind, as only Dexter Goldstein, a Garrison with thick glasses and curly black hair, was close enough to conjure it.

“I will assign more work if I have to. I’m not fixin’ to sit here idly n’ allow y’all to slack off,” Professor Wiggins, announced, after Shinobu Akamatsu timidly sat back down from her attempt to bind an enlarged ant. “Y’all get outta here. I wanna see some work gettin’ done next term!” he called as the Allards and Garrisons rushed out.

Patrick, William, and Elizabeth were all the least worried about Professor Sumpton’s Transfiguration mid-term, which was scheduled for that Thursday. Since Thanksgiving, Professor Sumpton had become incredibly relaxed in his lessons, spending most of his time discussing Transfiguration instead of performing it. When it came around to their exam, their whole class was successful in turning their corks into spools of thread.

The first years only had their Potions exam left to worry about and William and Elizabeth had their books pressed firmly against their noses studying for it. Patrick sat sluggishly in his chair next to them, completely assured that he didn’t need to read his Potions book two more times in order to feel fully prepared. Patrick already had his mind on winter break and couldn’t tear it from thinking about getting home and talking to his grandfather about all that had occurred since he first left for school.

“Three turns counterclockwise,” Elizabeth said, miming the motions with her right hand, the other holding her textbook within reading length. William was listening to her read the instructions.

“Er, William?” Patrick said pointing at the direction of William’s hand. He had been miming along with her, but he had been stirring clockwise.

“Oh,” he said, while quickly reversing the movement of his hand.

Professor Litmus’ exam was not as awful as they thought it would be, owing mainly to the fact that it she made their test a partner exam. The class quickly broke into pairs, Patrick sticking close to William, and Elizabeth to Henri.

“Cleaning Solution, page thirty-one,” Professor Litmus instructed, in her firm voice.

Patrick opened his book and started reading over the list of ingredients. William had his head turned back toward Gregory Huntington and his partner, Marcus Lickspittle.

“Look at him,” he snarled. “Sitting over there probably laughing inside because he’s got that book we’re looking for. I just want to toss these tubeworms right over th�””

“Well don’t,” Patrick interrupted, snatching the tubeworms away from him and placing them on his scale. “We need these.” Patrick measured out two ounces and tossed them in the cauldron. “Don’t worry about him. After the break we won’t even need that book anymore. We’ll just be able to ask my grandpa all about it.”

William tossed another angry look at Gregory before reading the instructions again. For the most part, their exam ran smoothly. Travis Sweeney and Simon Thornfield did, however, stir their potion too long which caused their concoction to release an unexpected bang into the room. It was so loud that Beverly York accidentally dropped an extra leech into her and Clarence Middling’s own potion.

Patrick scooped a ladleful of his and William’s potion, finishing first, corked it and placed it on Professor Litmus’ desk as they left her classroom.

The two of them waited outside the Mendel Hall Building for Elizabeth and Henri to finish. Patrick supposed she had been reading the instructions too many times and was, ironically, distracting herself from finishing the potion in time.

The large wooden door of the building creaked as it was pushed open. Both Patrick and William turned their heads to see Simon Thornfield and Travis Sweeney, followed closely by Jonathan Hiller and Miranda Pinsley, another Allard in Patrick’s year, leave the building. They waited a few more minutes, watching almost a dozen more students leave the building from their classroom.

“What’s taking so long?” Patrick asked, looking at William suspiciously. He shrugged.

The door opened again this time revealing Gregory Huntington and Marcus Lickspittle. The two of them burst out the Hall in fits of laughter.

“It’s like they wanted to fail!” sniggered Marcus, his front teeth dangling out of his mouth.

“I’ve never seen a sadder, more pathetic bunch!” Gregory hooted, his hands resting at his stomach. He turned and looked at Patrick and William who were standing there confused, but notably angry. “Perhaps, you two should teach your friends how to make a potion. That way our school doesn’t look like it’s been covered in dragon dung!”

“What happened?” Patrick demanded.

“There aren’t words to describe the stupidity of those two. You should go see for yourself.”

He and Marcus stalked off, Marcus jumping around Gregory as if he had just said the greatest words known to man.

William glared back at him and scowled.

“Come on,” Patrick said, noticing the look in William’s eye. He tried to pull William through the door, but William shirked him off.

“One second,” he said pulling out his wand and pointing it at Gregory. “Conligo,” he said, as a sharp purple light flashed from his wand.

Gregory had previously been walking, quite smugly, taking in all the attention he was getting from Marcus. He suddenly stumbled forward and had fallen flat on his face. Marcus hastily bent down next to him, trying to help him up. Gregory was having a difficult time getting to his feet and fell once more before the three of them, Patrick included, finally realized that Gregory’s shoelaces had been tied together.

“Now, we can go,” smiled William following Patrick inside the building.

Patrick hurried down the hall toward their classroom. There was a very pungent smell floating about the building that reeked of leftover beef and onions. The closer they got, the greater it became. By the time they had reached Professor Litmus’ door, it was palpable.

The room was slathered all over in a dark blue liquid covering the walls, desks, chairs, and floor with the strange sludge. Henri was sitting on top of his desk, the liquid splashed over parts of his robes, while Elizabeth and Professor Litmus sorted through their cauldron. She was swirling her wand in the remaining bits of their failed attempt.

“You know why we’re doing this, don’t you?” she asked Elizabeth.

“Because we’re complete failures at Potions?” Elizabeth said, gloomily.

“No,” Litmus muttered, “Because you’ll never get better unless you learn from your mistakes.” The content of their cauldron was slowly draining itself, lowering farther and farther until none of the liquid in the cauldron remained. “And one of the most essential rules of potion-making,” she began after reaching into the bottom, “is to be careful that nothing else falls in.” She held up a tiny green stone that had somehow found its way into their copper cauldron.

“My Fahzer, always told me to pay a lot of attention to potions. ‘Ow, could I let something so small slip in?” Henri said, hitting his forehead with his hand.

“It’s easy to get smaller things lost. Now, if you had managed to drop a whole graphorn in, then I might be a bit concerned,” she uttered with a smile. “You all get going, you’ve got a full break ahead of you. Scourgify!”

She pointed her wand at Elizabeth and Henri’s clothes, cleaning off the putrid liquid from their robes.

“Well, it’s a good thing this is cleaning solution. I can grade these while I clean the rest of my classroom,” she said, cheerily.

Patrick and William stood by the door as Elizabeth and Henri, robes now completely clean, left Professor Litmus’ class.

The four of them exited the Hall, leaving the dirty classroom and the wretched smell far behind them. As silent as he was in Professor’s Litmus’ room, Patrick had grown quite curious.

“How did it happen?” he asked, looking toward Elizabeth and Henri, whose heads were hanging down at the ground.

“Well, I was reading the instructions,” said Elizabeth.

“�”and I was about to reach for ze last bit of bubotuber pus,” added Henri, “which I knew was perfect. I had measured out exactly 6 ounces. And zen…” He imitated a great explosion by throwing his hands up into the air and making a loud spurting noise. “Eet was everywhere.”

“You should keep a better watch on what’s going on,” interjected William. He had breathed on his nails and rubbed them against his robes trying to polish them. “Spend too much time trying to get it perfect, you’ll end up with a mess on your hands.”

Elizabeth groaned.

“Oh, be quiet. Just because you had Patrick to help you, doesn’t mean you knew what you were doing. If Patrick was my partner I wouldn’t have to worry much either.”

Henri looked as though he had been inadvertently offended. Patrick could tell that Elizabeth had made a poor selection of words.

“Worry? I did most of ze work! I measured everyzing just ze way eet was supposed to be.” Patrick could tell from his voice that Henri was deeply insulted. Although short in stature, Henri looked as though he might have grown a few inches in his anger. “Eef you would keep a better eye on what you were putting in the cauldron, our potion wouldn’t ‘ave messed up!”

Elizabeth was slightly shocked and looked carefully at Henri before replying, shakily.

“I-I didn’t mean it like that, Henri. It’s just you know Patrick doesn’t�””

“’ave to worry about me for a partner,” Henri interrupted. “neither do you. I’ll find anuzzer partner when we come back from break!”

He stomped off ahead of them back to the Allard Hall building. Elizabeth opened her mouth to try and defend herself, but she could not find any words to redeem her of her comments and she closed it back again.

“What was that all about?” William said, looking to Patrick.

“I dunno,” he replied. “But how would you feel if you botched your potion and then were told you weren’t a good partner.”

“That wasn’t what I meant!” insisted Elizabeth. She tilted her head down and let her red hair dangle about her face. She looked genuinely hurt at the idea of replacing Henri and Patrick knew she was telling the truth. Upon thinking about it, whenever Elizabeth wasn’t hanging around Patrick or William, she was usually around Henri and was rarely seen with any of the other Allard girls. Patrick did not want to see two of his friends apart and on bad terms. He placed a hand on Elizabeth’s shoulder and tried to reassure her.

“I’m sure you two will be fine. You’ll have plenty of time to work things out over the break,” he said, remembering that Henri’s parents were away in France leaving him at Wentwater for Christmas. “By the time William and I get back, you two will be the best of friends again.”

Elizabeth curled her lip, not looking anymore comforted at Patrick’s words. The three of them returned to the Allard Common Room after a few minutes time. They waved good-bye to Elizabeth as they went to their room to pack their things. The train back to South Station was set to depart at four o’clock leaving them only an hour to gather their things and prepare to leave. William began sorting through his dressers, haphazardly tossing his clothes into his trunk. Patrick looked down into his own trunk, his clothes neatly folded inside. He shifted aside a couple of his shirts to reveal the wooden box containing the very compass he was heading home to inquire about. He brushed his hands across the top of it wiping away a bit of lent that had been residing on the outside of the box. He shoved it in his pocket, afraid of being separated from his luggage on the train, locked his trunk, and turned to William.

“Are you ready to go?” he asked.

“Ju-just about…,” he said, sitting on his trunk, reaching for the locks. He gave a great push down on the lid and the fastenings clicked shut. “Okay, now I’m ready to go.” William grabbed his trunk and rolled it behind him; several of his sleeves were hanging out of his trunk and were being dragged on the floor.

They both left the common room, passing by Elizabeth and Henri, who were sitting on opposite sides of the common room. They glanced up as Patrick and William strolled by.

“Good-bye,” they said in unison. They stared at each other and went back to looking around the room.

Passing through Admiral Polk’s portrait, and out of the Hall, the two of them finally made it to the Wentwater train in time for their departure. They stood in the back of line waiting to board while looking ahead at the line in front of them. There were a lot less people boarding the train for home than there had been boarding at the beginning of the school year. In front, Patrick’s brother, Paul, was busy talking to his friend Douglas behind the York twins who were currently boarding.

Patrick and William handed over their tickets to the attendant waiting on the train, and began searching for a place to sit. With less students traveling, many of the compartments were occupied by very few people. It seemed that every compartment, however, was occupied by at least one person. Patrick reached one of the final cabins and found a man whose grey ball-cap was instantly recognizable.

“You’re the man from the station,” Patrick said, taking a seat. “You work with my father. P-Progett… or…Progey…”

“Progall, yes,” he laughed, taking off his hat and revealing a bundle of dark hair. “Progall Ipswich: Supervisor of Portkey travel for the state of Virginia and for Wentwater Conservatory. I don’t just know your father, I work for him.”

William entered the cabin behind Patrick and settled down in the compartment.

“Hi, I’m Progall Ipswich,” he greeted.

“William Quinn.”

“Oh, so you’re Mr. Quinn,” Mr. Ipswich said, interestedly. Mr. Ipswich extended his hand to meet William’s and shook it firmly. “Your grandfather mentioned he might be coming…’

“He what?” asked William, curiously.

“My grandfather?” said Patrick. “I thought you worked for my dad?”

“Oh, I do, I do, but Emeritus and I are well-acquainted,” Mr. Ipswich responded. “He wanted me to keep an eye on the two of you on your way back. Make sure nothing happens to you. I suppose that’s what a good grandparent does. Looks out for his grandson…and his friends, of course,” he said, turning to William.

“He seemed very adamant about making sure no one got too close to you, Patrick. Thievery, I suppose. I’ve always learned that if you don’t stop or drop anything thieves’ll think nothing of you.”

“I won’t drop anything as long as we get a smooth portkey,” Patrick said.

“Oh, don’t worry, you shouldn’t have any problems with your Portkey, especially with me in charge. I’m already getting to work on the Portkeys for next month’s Quodpot finals and next year’s Quidditch World Cup in India. I don’t know about you but I really hope the states make it to the final round. Brankovitch is too good to be sitting out in the second round.”

“Tell me about it,” William interjected. “The Finches wouldn’t be anything without Maximus.”

Patrick, William, and Mr. Ipswich prattled on about Quidditch teams and players all the way back to South Station. When the train finally pulled in, Mr. Ipswich sat up to leave first.

“See you in a bit, kids,” Progall said, “I’ve got work to do.”

“Is your grandpa going to meet us here?” William asked, grabbing the handle of his trunk.

“Probably not,” Patrick said. “He doesn’t usually go out much in public. I’d ask Paul about it, but he’s becoming less and less like a person I’d trust. He’d just tell me we’d have to hitch a ride from a Phoenix or something.”

The two of them made their way off the train. Patrick stepped onto the platform and looked around for one of his parents. Standing a few feet away was his brother, Paul. Since Douglas was nowhere near him, Patrick assumed he must have already headed home. Paul glanced at his brother and gave him an odd look.

“What’re you blind, Patty?” he said. “Mom’s right over there.”

He waved a hand idly over by the elevator that led in and out of Track Six-and-one-half.

Patrick’s mother was walking toward her son, her body crouched down preparing to give Patrick a hug. Her attempt to look like a Muggle was beginning to look more believable, but still with its flaws. She was wearing a long brown robe, that appeared to have been transfigured to look like a winter coat, and a pair of white sneakers that clashed magnificently against the orange scarf she had wrapped around her neck.

“Patrick, are you okay? Does it still hurt?” Mrs. Thatcher was examining her son’s right hand for some sign of bruising or scars. She found none and gave him a big hug. She then turned to look at her other son, Paul.

“How could you let that happen to him? I told you to watch out for him,” she reprimanded.

“I would have helped him, mom, but at school and during a Quidditch match they call that cheating,” he said, sarcastically.

Mrs. Thatcher tore her eyes from her two sons and finally took notice of William.

“You must be William,” she said, giving him a hug, too. “I’m so glad you were able to make it.”

William smiled politely and responded, “Thanks for inviting me.”

Mrs. Thatcher glanced at her wrist watch.

“We should probably get going; we’ve got to portkey to catch.”

The four of them made their way over to the elevator. Mrs. Thatcher pulled out her wand just as she had done on the first day of school and poked it through the broken button hole with a “W” next to it. A spark flickered out of the tip and the doors to the elevator began to close. Before the metal doors could be sealed shut, a woman’s voice called toward the elevator.

“Wait, wait…Hold that door!”

Paul quickly put his hand in the way of the elevator preventing it from closing completely. The Thatchers and William all looked out to see who it was they were holding the elevator for. There was a tall woman in a pin-striped business suit. Her brown hair pulled back behind her head and curled around her face. Along with the briefcase she was carrying, Patrick wouldn’t have been able to tell if she was a witch or a Muggle lawyer. It wasn’t until he saw who was trailing behind her that made Patrick wish his brother hadn’t stopped the door from closing. As if he could not escape him, Gregory Huntington was pulling his trunk towards the Thatcher-filled elevator. Patrick and Gregory’s eyes met and the brown-haired Templeton boy’s face formed one of the snidest faces an eleven year-old could make.

“Oh…Well, hello, Catherine…” the woman greeted as she and presumably her son had stepped inside. Her greeting didn’t sound entirely genuine, but more like a pleasantry that needed to be observed.

“How are you, Lydia?” Mrs. Thatcher returned, her salutation carrying more cordiality. “Have you met my sons? This is Paul and this is Patrick,” she said, pointing them out. “And this is William. He’ll be staying with us for the break.” She directed a finger at him, too.

“Yes, yes, very nice to meet you all. Gregory have you all met before?”

Gregory replied quickly.

“We’re in a few of the same classes, but I don’t really know them.”

Gregory sounded like an angel as he fed that lie to his mother. It was vaguely reminiscent of the day he introduced himself to both Patrick and William in the library. Patrick looked at William to make sure he wasn’t going to try anything foolish, but his hands were tucked safety behind his back. William had decided to be perfectly content with exchanging dirty looks between himself and Gregory.

“You’re more than welcome to stop by if you care to visit,” Mrs. Thatcher said, as she sparked the elevator to life for the second time. Patrick couldn’t believe she made such an offer. Patrick even heard Paul mumble something under his breath, probably something that concerned his distaste for having another boy of Patrick’s age in the house. To Patrick, it was an unthinkable suggestion and he would have wanted more than anything to go back and erase that sentence from being uttered, but he could no such thing; he merely waited for Mrs. Huntington to reply.

“It is very nice of you to offer, but I’m afraid we’ve already made our arrangements for this holiday,” she responded. Patrick, Paul, and William all took a deep breath. “I’ve got a big workload on my hands right now I can’t afford to slow down.”

The door opened leading out to the crowded South Station lobby. Mrs. Huntington and Gregory exited the elevator first, Mrs. Thatcher and Paul behind them. Patrick and William dragged their trunks out last and rolled them to the South Station exit. An unfriendly winter breeze whipped at Patrick’s face as he stepped outside the large granite building. Gregory turned around to issue the first words to Patrick and William that he has said since stepping off the train.

“Merry Christmas,” he said, returning back to the harsh and unfriendly voice they were used to hearing.

Neither Patrick nor William said anything back and Mrs. Huntington and Gregory headed right, Mrs. Huntington giving a half-hearted wave to Mrs. Thatcher.

The four of them continued to the alleyway they had used when first departing. Patrick, however, was curious as always.

“Mom,” he started, “where do you know her from?”

“Mrs. Huntington? Are you telling me you don’t remember? Mrs. Huntington had purchased every Eagle owl in The Aviary about six years ago. I had to wait two months before I was back to regular capacity.”

“Why’d she buy all of those owls?” William asked.

Mrs. Thatcher went quiet. She moved her lower lip as if to speak, but it quickly joined her upper one. Then, confidently she spoke.

“It isn’t my place to say. Mrs. Huntington’s business is her business.”

Patrick wasn’t going to badger her any further. He always knew that, like annoying his grandfather, it wasn’t a good idea to push his mother when she didn’t feel comfortable.

They rounded the corner into the alley and there were two people waiting for them. Progall, as expected, was holding a smashed water bottle in his left hand and a wand in his right. Standing next to him, considerably shorter, was one of the Allard girls, Myra Pudderly, and her school trunk. Her untidy hair was sprawled about her face and she looked up only for a second to see who was approaching only to sharply thrust her head back down, staring at the pavement beneath her. Upon seeing her, Patrick mentally smacked himself. Patrick had completely forgotten about the Pudderlys that lived in Arbridge and failed to make the connection earlier that she could have been their daughter. William didn’t say anything to her. He probably assumed anything he would have said would have fallen on deaf ears, just as they had done back in the Allard common room when he tried to suggest the complete works of Waxham Brast.

“There you are! I didn’t think you four would get here on time. The Bartlett boy stayed for the holidays, did he?” he said, peering back down the alley looking for another student. “All right, you guys know the drill. Get at least a finger on here. You’ve only got twenty seconds.”

The time disappeared quickly and before he knew it, Patrick was being yanked upward and had fallen on a patch of snow at Nortwick Corner in Arbridge.

William was on his knees, obviously more adept at recovering from Portkey travel than Patrick was, while Myra was lying on her back not far away from the two of them. To no one’s surprise, Mrs. Thatcher and Paul had found their way to their feet and were standing in front of the three students.

Patrick got up, brushing off clumps of snow from his clothes and went to grab his trunk that had landed several feet away. William soon found his and nearly tripped trying to drag it through the snow. Myra, however, was having the most trouble finding hers. She was holding her wand close to the ground melting the ice in front of her, turning several inches of snow into puddles of frosty water.

“Let me help you, dear,” Mrs. Thatcher said raising her wand parallel to the ground. “Accio Trunk!”

Far away, behind a tall elm tree, the five of them saw Myra’s trunk rise slowly up from a hill of snow and come darting toward them. Patrick jumped quickly out of the way, but the trunk with Myra’s belongings slowed down considerably and landed safely next to its owner before it could even think about barraging into Patrick.

“Thank you, Mrs. Thatcher,” Myra said, appreciatively. “I’ve got every last one of my books in here.”

She was looking right into Mrs. Thatcher’s eyes. Patrick could tell that she was incredibly sincere with her words. Judging by the way she sounded, Patrick wouldn’t have been surprised if there was not a single article of clothing, but a trunk full of books stuffed carefully inside.

“No problem, at all, Myra,” she replied, tucking her wand in her coat.

“Enough talk,” interrupted Paul. He had been standing idly, his own trunk clutched in his right hand, while the other Allards were searching through the snow. “You think we can get a move on?”

“Fine, fine…We’re going,” said Mrs. Thatcher, setting off ahead of the pack.

The walk from Nortwick Corner to home seemed quicker than it had been to school. After a few minutes the group waved goodbye to Myra as she departed from them to her house at seventy-two Mather Street, before continuing to walk toward their home.

Soon after, the Thatchers and William found themselves in front of the house, the number thirty-one etched into a wooden beam on their porch. Mrs. Thatcher opened the door and entered first leaving the door open for the remaining three. Patrick had just stepped inside and William had just closed the door when they were greeted by the Thatcher’s house-elf, Merton.

“Miss Catherine is back!” he greeted, looking terribly excited. “Oh, and Master Paul and Master Patrick, welcome home…welcome home!” Merton took an appraising look behind Patrick, as Mrs. Thatcher headed up their wooden stairs. “Has Patrick Thatcher brought a friend, sir?”

Patrick was confused for a second then realized that he was speaking of William. Taking a small step back, Patrick directed his hand to his friend, introducing him.

“Merton, this is William Quinn. William, this is Merton, our house-elf,” Patrick said, motioning toward the grey-eyed creature.

“Merton is most pleased to meet you William Quinn, sir,” the little elf said, bowing so that his pointed nose scraped the floor.

William looked absolutely amazed.

“It’s nice meeting you, too, Merton.” William said. He turned to Patrick, his eyes wide. “You have a house-elf?”

As long as Patrick could remember, Merton had been around. He never found Merton’s presence the least bit peculiar and actually considered owning a house-elf the norm for Wizarding families.”

“Yeah, don’t you?” he asked William.

“No, never had one. I’ve only ever seen one, but he’s one of the laziest elves I’ve ever seen. Takes him hours to do what his master tells him.”

Merton was shuffling his way around the two of them and placed a hand on their trunks.

“Let Merton take Masters Patrick and William’s things to their room. Merton is needing tasks to do!”

Before Patrick could open his mouth to tell the elf he could do as he wished, Merton had already Disapparated with a crack along with both of their trunks.

Paul was still standing in the hallway holding his own belongings.

“I see he didn’t take my things,” said Paul, bitterly.

“Maybe,” Patrick began, “you shouldn’t spill potion in the house just so he’ll clean it up,” He was referring to an incident where the Paul spilled a glob of Hair-Raising potion all over the kitchen floor. It would not have been such a big deal if he didn’t allow the potion to flood the room before calling for Merton to come clean it up.

“He would have been disappointed if there was only a small bit of that potion to clean up. Is it my fault his hobby is rinsing this house?”

“No, but it’s your fault you were making a potion after your father and I specifically told you not to.”

Mrs. Thatcher had just descended the stairs. She had changed out of her Muggle attire and looked much more comfortable in the green robes she was now wearing.

“Where are you going?” Paul asked.

“Agnomon Square. I left your grandfather in charge of the shop and I can only imagine how many owls are screaming in their cages, driving him insane. I told him I’d come back after I picked the three of you up. I’ll be back soon.”

Mrs. Thatcher straightened her robes and she, too, like Merton, Disapparated with a loud crack.

Paul started up the stairs to his room, convinced that he wasn’t going to wait for Merton to come back down and help him with his things.

“Hungry?” Patrick asked, grabbing his stomach and turning to William.

“Starving,” William replied, apparently realizing for the first time just how little food he had eaten.

The two of them walked down the hall into the kitchen. Before Patrick could think of grabbing some bread, Merton had Apparated into the room and was insisting that he sit down.

“Merton mustn’t let Patrick Thatcher fix food in his own home.”

Patrick took a seat and William glanced at him, disbelievingly.

“Is he always this helpful?”

“Most of the time,” Patrick said, taking a seat. “I’ve never seen him this eager before, though.”

Merton had just began to buzz around the kitchen gathering ingredients, when Patrick and William heard a loud crack from outside their window followed by the sound of a creaking door. Patrick rose from his seat expecting to find his grandfather entering the house, only to see his dad shivering and removing his cloak.

“Phew, it sure is cold out there.” He was cleaning the ice off his shoes with his wand when Patrick moved to greet his father.

“Patrick! There you are. Progall told me you made it back alright.” Mr. Thatcher gave his son a hug and Patrick could feel several, tiny goosebumps, apparently given to him by the cold weather, as he wrapped his arms around his father’s waist.

“Have you eaten yet?” Mr. Thatcher asked his son.

“Merton is making us something right now.”

The two of them walked from the door back to the kitchen. Mr. Thatcher paused after entering the room and setting his eyes on William.

“So,” he began, “this is the William Quinn.”

William smiled nervously. It was no fault of his that a letter meant for Patrick had been addressed in his name.

“Charles Thatcher,” Mr. Thatcher said, extending a hand. William shook it and the corner of his mouth flicked upward as the uneasy look on his face began to relax into a relieved one.

“Nice to meet you,” William replied. “Thanks for letting me stay here,” he continued.

“Oh, no problem…no problem, at all. I was curious to meet the fellow who I had only read in name and heard in words. We still haven’t figured out how your letter came to this house.”

The two of them, mostly William, had Professor Snerkin pinned down as the person responsible for Patrick’s letter mix-up. He was the one in charge of sending letters and, according to William, had it in for Patrick after somehow realizing that he was in possession of the compass.

“Didn’t you ask Professor Snerkin?” questioned William.

“We asked anyone who might know anything about it, Snerkin included,” said Mr. Thatcher, as he finally sat down. “We didn’t hear anything more than confused utterings and heaps of apologies. No one in that entire school could tell us what happened.”

“How did they let me in, then?” Patrick asked, curiously.

Mr. Thatcher guffawed.

“You were always in, Patrick. Professor Snerkin took one check of his list and apologized. It couldn’t have been easier. It did help that I was backed up by the rest of the family. I imagine that it would have been particularly hard to turn down about fifteen wizards that had stomped in your office, especially if we allowed your Uncle Latimer’s temper to get the best of him.”

There was another loud crack and the same sound of the creaking door. Convinced this time it was his grandfather, Patrick jumped from the table to get a clear view to the door. It was his mother.

“Are you okay,” Mr. Thatcher asked, watching his son shoot from his chair “William is sitting right here. Are you expecting more company?”

“No, it’s only mom,” Patrick replied, taking his seat.

Mrs. Thatcher entered the kitchen and greeted her husband with a kiss.

“How was work, Charles?”

Mr. Thatcher sighed, exhaustedly.

“Not much new today. Found a new driver for the Transit, more Portkey preparation for next month’s Quodpot League Finals.”

Mrs. Thatcher moved near Merton, who had already began placing a feast of t-bone steak, mixed vegetables, mashed potatoes and dinner rolls on plates for the family, and withdrew her wand to begin conjuring pots and pans before realizing that she did not need to cook dinner.

Merton snapped his fingers and the plates jumped from the counter to the dinner table. Patrick stared at his plate of hot food, the smell of it wafting upwards making it impossible to tear his eyes away from it.

“Dinner is served,” the elf triumphed.

“Starting without me? I don’t believe it. My own family doesn’t care about me.”

Perhaps smelling the food from upstairs, Paul walked in the room and found a seat at the table next to his mother, who also just sat down.

“Enough nonsense, you know we wouldn’t forget about you. We’ve always been here for you and we always will,” Mrs. Thatcher said, tugging at his cheeks playfully. Paul rubbed at this face and began eating his supper.

William looked to have stopped breathing in order to quickly devour his food. The sound of silverware chimed against the plates as the five of them continued to enjoy their meal. Patrick stopped for a moment and looked toward his mother.

“Where’s grandpa?” he asked.

William stopped inhaling his food to listen to Mrs. Thatcher’s response.

“Oh, that’s right, I almost forgot,” she began after finishing her mouthful of vegetables. “He said he was going to be around the Square, didn’t say where exactly. He wanted to do some thinking.”

Mr. Thatcher chortled.

“What does he have to think about? I think my father should do more than that around here. He’s got all the time in the world to think.”

“It’s about time for him to think about not lecturing us,” inserted Paul, through two sips of his pumpkin juice.

Mrs. Thatcher glowered at them.

“Give your father and grandfather,” she said toward Paul, “a break. He deserves it.”

“That’s not the point. If he�”” He was cut off as Patrick interjected his own words over his father’s.

“So, he’ll be back tonight right?”

Mrs. Thatcher pondered for a moment set down her fork and spoke again.

“I don’t really know. I figured he’d be back already and it’s close to seven o’clock now,” she said looking at the three-handed clock hanging on the kitchen wall next to a mail divider. “Now that I think about it he was wearing his traveling cloak. You know, Charles, that shabby, navy-blue one he likes to wear. Could be gone anywhere from a day to week, I suppose.”

Patrick turned his eyes to William and his face shared the same expression that Patrick’s did: disappointment. He hoped that whatever his grandfather had to think about wouldn’t take long and would allow him to return home very soon. It was very hard not to get excited over the prospect of finally deciphering his compass’ true purpose which made this visit home even more special. Patrick had been looking forward to talking to his grandfather since he was released from the Hospital Ward after his fall in his first Quidditch match.

The only thing he wished for more than his grandfather’s quick return was his definite return. What if he, Patrick, had spent the whole break at home and his grandpa never made it back? What if whatever his grandpa had to think about kept him isolated and out of contact for several weeks or months even? Patrick could not stomach the feeling of knowing that he could leave home without a single ounce of new information to take with him back to school.

Patrick’s urgency to discover the usefulness of his gift was bested only by his concern for what Gregory and Professor Snerkin had been up to. It was bad enough that he had seemingly gained an enemy spontaneously in Huntington, but to have a teacher, and his own Hall Master at that, trying to pry into retrieving a compass that belonged to Wentwater Founder Josephus Allard was a situation that no eleven year-old would have wanted to encounter.

The five of them continued eating dinner, Patrick leaning back in his chair to look toward the door for his grandfather while his mother informed everyone about the tremendous sales Grandpa Thatcher brought in working at The Aviary. When they finished their supper and the cherry pie Merton had made for dessert they retreated upstairs.

Patrick pushed open his door and entered his room, William following behind him. It had remained relatively the same since he left it in August. Merton had maintained it very well; keeping clothes off of the floor, the very place Patrick usually decided it would be best to put them. The only difference was that another bed had been set up along the left wall for William to sleep and their trunks were placed neatly at the foot of their beds. Patrick sat on his trunk and took the wooden compass box out of his pocket, moving it around on his fingers and staring at it. William plopped on his temporary bed, folded his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling.

“So when do you think your grandpa will be back?” William asked.

“I have no idea. I don’t even know where he is,” Patrick said, opening the box and looking at the needle which was slightly to the right of the “N” that was etched at the top. “He’s gone places from time to time, but it’s never for long. It’s usually a couple days.”

“I hope so,” yawned William, “I don’t know how much longer I can wait.”

Patrick looked from his friend to his compass.

“Neither can I.”


The next morning, Mrs. Thatcher took Patrick and William to work with her at Agnomon Square to give them a chance to purchase Christmas gifts for the rest of the family. Patrick tried hanging around the owl shop for a great deal of the morning hoping that his grandfather would return there at least once, but his mother handed him a satchel with a handful of Galleons to encourage him to go out and buy a few things for the holidays.

Patrick and William split up so they could not see each other’s selections. Patrick, in his haste to get back to The Aviary, shopped quickly, stopping into Gallivant’s Gifts and Gags and Banter’s Joke Shop for an appropriate find for his brother Paul. He hurried around the square picking out gifts for all of his family then finally hustled back to his mother to find that his grandfather had not even so much as walked by the store’s window. Patrick waited there until William had finished and Mrs. Thatcher escorted them back to the Floo grates and sent them back to Arbridge.

The following week ticked away without any sign of the eldest Thatcher. The weekend was spent bringing in and trimming the Thatcher Christmas tree, which was decorated entirely in blue (the Allard Hall color). Patrick and William entertained themselves over the week by inventing games to play while they waited for Grandpa Thatcher’s return. There were the standards of Sizzling Flip and traditional Wizard’s Chess, where moving chess pieces would actually attack those of their opponents (Mrs. Thatcher had to repair William’s bishop which had been split in half by Patrick’s knight), but games like “Guess What Present I Bought,” “Find Merton” and “Which Teacher Am I?” were entirely new and helped the two take their minds of the compass for a while. Even though William had become incredibly adept at mimicking Professor Mott’s book stifled voice, their games just weren’t enough to tear them from completely ignoring the fact that Grandpa Thatcher was gone. Patrick and William found themselves jumping up at the sound of every crack, creak and crunch, running down the stairs hoping to find Emeritus Thatcher. He was, regrettably, no where to be found.

It was Christmas Eve and the Thatcher’s blue-trimmed tree shadowed the neatly wrapped presents beneath it. Having fallen asleep waiting hopefully for his grandfather, Mrs. Thatcher carried her son upstairs to his room and tucked him safely in his bed. She glanced over at William, whose snores filled the room, and smiled before shutting the door and heading to bed herself.

Even though the window was shut and he was wrapped in covers, Patrick found the room incredibly cold. He was shifting around in his bed trying to find the warmest possible way to sleep. The icy temperatures scraped Patrick’s feet as his blanket slid up leaving them exposed. He sat up to tug the blanket back over his feet and released a short, startling yell.

Grandpa Thatcher was standing beside Patrick’s bed. His arms were outstretched, apparently about to attempt to wake his grandson from his slumber. Patrick, who had made this task easy on his grandfather, was sitting bolt upright, the discomfort of the unfriendly cold room disappearing to the back of his mind.

“Quiet!” his grandfather hushed. “Are you trying to wake up the whole house?” Grandpa Thatcher straightened out. He was wearing the same navy-blue traveling cloak that Mrs. Thatcher had mentioned him wearing at dinner and from the looks of it, had just arrived home.

“Grandpa? Grandpa, you’re back!” Patrick exclaimed, trying to remember to keep his voice down, but failing miserably.

“Yes, of course, I’m back. Now that we are both here it’s about time we talk.” William’s loud snores seemed to have been amplified in the silence after Grandpa Thatcher’s sentence. He glanced over at the sleeping boy and gave instructions to his grandson. “Go on and wake up your friend. I’d have to be a fool to think that you didn’t tell him about the compass.”

Patrick smiled nervously and leapt from his bed to shake William awake. The steady rhythm of William’s snores was disrupted as Patrick pushed him vigorously.

“Wh-wha…Patrick what do you think you’re doing?” asked William, rubbing his eyes. “Do you know what time it is?”

“I’ve got close to eleven o’clock,” Grandpa Thatcher said, looking at a pocket watch resting in his palm. “But this thing is hardly as reliable as it should be.”

William’s surprise at Grandpa Thatcher’s arrival was the opposite of Patrick’s. William did not utter a single sound, his mouth was agape, and he sat straight up on top of his bed.

“William, this is my grandfather, Emeritus Thatcher.”

William shut his mouth and stepped onto the cold floor, his right arm extended to shake hands with Patrick’s grandfather. Patrick watched, his body shivering, as William and Grandpa Thatcher exchanged a firm handshake.

“Mr. Quinn. A name I’m always glad to hear, the circumstances earlier in the year notwithstanding, of course,” said Grandpa Thatcher.

William smiled nervously. His body was finally feeling the effects of the cold and Patrick could see a chill sweep over best friend’s body that knocked his knees together. Emeritus looked at William and over to his own grandson noticing both of them seemingly vibrating from the cold.

“I almost forgot I was wearing this coat. Self-warming, can’t feel the cold,” he pointed out. “You two could probably use something to help heat you up.”

Grandpa Thatcher pulled out his wand and conjured a large, green lantern. He placed it in the middle of the room on Patrick’s trunk and pointed his wand at it.

“Incendio!” said Grandpa Thatcher as flames flickered inside the lantern slowly melting the frosty air in the room. “There…that should be better.”

It was. Patrick was able to slowly let go of his own arms and the goosebumps that had been forming on his arms were warming and were evening out on his skin. William took a space on next on the bed next to Patrick, who, feeling much more comfortable now, began to start asking questions.

“Grandpa where were you? Why were you gone for so long?” he said, quickly. Patrick would have asked more questions, but his jaw had not entirely thawed out and it made rapid conversation very difficult. Grandpa Thatcher magicked an armchair for himself to sit on and rubbed at his eyes before speaking.

“With you and William coming back, I needed some time to gather my thoughts. There are many questions that I have yet to figure out and I could not intend to assist you if I could not first help myself. I didn’t plan on staying away for a week, I had thought a couple days at best, but I found that my questions were harder to answer than I had previously expected.”

“What kind of questions?” asked William, curiously. Emeritus scratched at the pearl-white sideburns that rested on his face. He looked for a moment at the lantern and then replied.

“Questions that, at this time, would mean nothing to you,” he said. “They are questions that would be best for me to worry about.”

Patrick did not want to accept his answer as the final word on the matter. He had gone five months with little to no answers and he sincerely wished that his grandfather would stop holding back information from him. Pulling the wooden box from between his mattresses, Patrick looked to his grandfather.

“Grandpa, why did you give me Professor Allard’s compass?”

“Firstly” he began, “It is your first year at school. You’re only eleven and every young boy at your age needs a little direction. At my age, there is simply no use for me to hold onto it. It is much more valuable to you than it would be in my hands. After your letter mix-up, I decided you’d need it more than I would. I’ve gotten my use out of it and I cannot begin to impress the worth of that very compass.”

“So, you know how to use it then?” inquired Patrick, excitedly.
“Yes, to a degree,” Emeritus admitted. “Although, I have reason to believe that it is capable of much more than I have used it for.”

The more questions he asked the more it seemed he was only being given half answers. Now that he was face-to-face with him, he wanted to be sure that his grandfather offered him no more riddles.

“How did you use it, Grandpa,” he questioned. “How does it work?”

Emeritus sighed.

“I don’t know how it works, Patrick. Not a clue. I only know what it is capable of doing. It is my understanding of it’s usefulness that I have come to give it to you. For it is this very compass that has assisted in my fame.”

“You’re famous because of this compass?” said William, awe-inspired.

“In a sense, but I don’t expect that anyone knows it played a role. You see, it was a little over twenty years ago. A war had begun overseas. There were wizards panicking about the rise of a dark wizard that was terrorizing those of shamed ancestry.”

“Shamed ancestry?” repeated Patrick.

“Of Muggle parentage,” continued Emeritus. “He had gained quite a following and his sudden rise to power was never an immediate threat to those living here in the States. However, several wizards looked to this man as a revolutionary, as an example of how the Wizarding world should be. They began to believe that what he was doing was what needed to be done, not only overseas, but here in the United States, as well.”

“There were wizards that agreed with killing Muggleborns?” said William. “What kind of wizard is for that?”

“Evil ones. You can imagine that most people were severely opposed to such acts of any kind, but there were others that began mimicking the ideals that the Wizarding world should be ridden of all Muggle-borns. It was these same people who initiated small waves of killings of Muggle-borns all across the country. They were never very large groups, but no one knew who they were, that was the big problem. It could’ve been your co-worker or next-door neighbor even your own son or daughter. The very though was unsettling. Needless to say, it wasn’t a very happy time. Many were afraid that another dark wizard would arise here in America because of it.”

“And the Republic just let it happen?” said William.

“Yeah,” agreed Patrick. “No one did anything about it?”

“Of course they did,” stressed Grandpa Thatcher. “They did everything in their power to. Undercover Aurors, strict monitoring of Floo Networks; you name it, it was probably done. And it worked very well for the most part. After a while the attacks were dwindling and most of the culprits were being apprehended. It came to the point where only those wizards around Pennsylvania were being targeted. One group had not been scared off by the captures of other wizards and they continued their killings.”

“It couldn’t have been too hard to pick out the remaining few murderers,” William said.

“Oh, but it was. The group thought it would be funny to send letters to the Examiner signed as other people, claiming to be the ones responsible for the attacks. Well, the Republic couldn’t just ignore the letters; they had to look into them. While out investigating the ‘alleged’ killers, that’s when the group would strike.” Grandpa Thatcher stopped suddenly. He tilted his head downward, rubbed at his eye quickly and began again.

“I thought the Republic had the situation well under control. If they had managed to stop the earlier attacks then this small group would surely be no more difficult than the rest.” He paused again, briefer than before. “One night, your grandmother, Patrick, had been invited over for dinner at her friend Diane’s house. Her husband was working late so your grandmother agreed to come over early and keep her company until it was time for dinner and her husband to return. From what I was told, there was a knock at the door. With Diane busy cooking in the kitchen, your Grandmother Amora answered it instead.” At this point, both Patrick and William could tell he was struggling to fight back tears. “She was murdered. Right there on the spot. They went in after Diane, too…killed both of them: a Pureblood and a Muggle-born.” Grandpa Thatcher raised a sleeve to his eyes, dabbing them.

“Is that why everyone told me she died from a faulty broom accident?” Patrick said, in disbelief. His grandmother was rarely discussed and now he knew why. He looked at his grandfather who had obviously taken great strains to relive this memory of his.

“Yes, Patrick, It’s not exactly the easiest news to repeat. By the time I found out, I didn’t care anymore about how fast or slow the Republic was taking. I had to find them, myself, for what they did. I turned to the one thing that I knew could help, that compass.

“It seemed to be able to make the impossible possible. No one in the country knew where those men were, but this compass pointed me right to them.”

“How?” said Patrick, suddenly more intrigued. “When did you learn how to use it?’

“I thought it broken at first. The needle would waiver from its northern alignment every so often leading me to think that it was nothing but a useless device. One day, however, I had misplaced my wand and had spent the greater part of the day searching for it. Then,” he said, with an airy tone of reminiscence, “this box began to shake. It was rumbling on my desk and the needle had not been pointing North, but East. I carried it in my hands following every direction. Soon enough, I was pushing aside cauldrons to find my wand that I had dropped earlier when carrying the cauldrons into the closet for storage.”

Patrick thought back to the two times that his compass had rumbled with him. It was once during the Placement Ceremony and another at this first flying lesson. He couldn’t figure out how his compass was supposed to be used, he wasn’t looking for help in both of those instances.

“So, that’s how you did it,” said William..

“Yes, it was harder not to give them the same punishment they gave all those others. Even with as much pain as they caused, I knew the right thing was to turn them in; it wasn’t my place to bring them to justice myself. As a result, I was able to hand over the three most wanted wizards in the US at the time.”

Through his grandfather’s story, Patrick had received a much better explanation of how it worked. There was one question that both Patrick and William were very curious to find out. It was a question they had on their minds every since visiting Wentwater’s Historic Hall.

“Grandpa,” Patrick started, “how exactly did you get Professor Allard’s compass?”

Emeritus turned away from their eyes and stared out the window. Little flakes of snow were drizzling down outside. He turned his head quickly as if he had finally made up his mind and answered his grandson’s question.

“I found it,” he confessed. “At Wentwater, some time ago.” William looked at him interestedly.

“Where do you find something like that? It’s not like Professor Allard would have just left it lying around.”

“That, again,” Emeritus said, “is a question best suited for my understanding. However, there was…a…name written on a piece of parchment with the compass after I…found it; Abraham Ortelius. I never considered looking up the name myself, which was why I directed you to doing a bit of research for yourself.”

“We tried, Grandpa,” said a frustrated Patrick. “We were so close to getting the book, but we were tricked. This kid named Gregory…he lured us…and he took it and�””

“�”and now we don’t know where the stupid book is,” finished William. Grandpa Thatcher looked back at his pocket watch and rubbed at his forehead.

“That should be one of your first tasks, then, for when you return back to school. Any information you can uncover will undoubtedly help you.”

Patrick agreed wholeheartedly. Even with the information he just heard, he knew it was very important to keep searching for answers in order to completely understand the situation he was going through.

Grandpa Thatcher pulled out his pocket watch again, and then shut it tight.

“For now, it would be best to go to sleep. It’s nearly midnight and you’ll probably want some rest before it’s time to open your presents.”

William scooted off the edge of Patrick’s bed and walked back to his own, rubbing at his eyes. With the lantern still burning strong the urge to sleep became much easier. Patrick had tucked himself halfway in before asking his grandfather another question.

“You’re going to be here in the morning, right?” he asked.

His grandfather guffawed.

“I’ve got no reason to step out of these doors,” he chuckled. “That is, unless your mother is making us eat another one of her fruitcakes.”

Patrick smiled and turned over in his bed holding onto his compass as he heard his grandfather close the door behind him.

It seemed that as soon as Patrick shut his eyes it was time to open them again. The lantern Grandpa Thatcher lit had burned out and the Christmas morning sun heated the room that had returned to its chilly temperature.

Once the two of them realized it was morning, they moseyed down the stairs rubbing the sleep out of their eyes, still slightly drowsy from their discussion with Grandpa Thatcher. Mr. Thatcher was rifling through the paper, his eyes skimming the lines underneath the headline, “Lapwings Look for Win Against Gales in Quodpot Final.” He was sitting in a chair next to the Christmas tree where Merton was busy stacking everyone’s presents into neat piles.

Grandpa Thatcher, meanwhile, with sitting back in a rocking chair with his hand over his eyes. He looked exhausted, as though he had not gone to sleep since he returned late last night.

“Merry Christmas, Patrick…William,” greeted Mr. Thatcher lowering his newspaper. “Go on and open your presents before your mother comes in here and says otherwise.”

Both Patrick and William hurried over to the piles of gifts, Patrick reaching for a medium sized one wrapped in shiny blue paper. He tore away the gift wrap and stared down at a book titled, Owls of Fun: Caring for Your Feathered Friend and a pack of owl treats for Icarus.

Mr. Thatcher peered over the article again to see his son’s present. He folded the paper setting it on the table and sat up a little bit in his chair.

“Your mother, I tell you,” he started, “always with the practical stuff. What am I going to do with this Remembrall?” he said, pulling out a glass ball about the size of a large marble. There was a flurry of white smoke swirling inside which meant the owner had nothing to remember at the time.

“You can remember to put those newspapers in that closet, Charles,” said Mrs. Thatcher coming in from the kitchen carrying a pan of freshly cooked fruitcake. “Looks like you get some use out of that thing after all.”

Mr. Thatcher was going to say something, but stopped, defeated. Patrick looked at his father and set aside his owl book and treats.

“I’ll put it away, dad,” he said, grabbing the paper off the table.

“See, if your son can do it, why can’t you?” Mrs. Thatcher said. “Now, come on, who wants cake?”

Patrick saw Grandpa Thatcher peek between his fingers and turn his head, pretending to fall asleep. Paul was coming from the kitchen, as Patrick made his way to the closet.

“I’m going to be honest, mom, I didn’t like the first six batches what makes you think this one’ll be any good?” Paul questioned, while entering the living room.

Momentarily leaving the chattering voices of his family in the living room, Patrick opened the broom closet to set his father’s newspaper along with the others. The piles were not placed as neatly has Patrick had last remembered it. The corners of past issues poked out along the edges of the stacks some of them, as far as Patrick could read, dating back to October. He straightened the obtrusive copies and set the most recent one on top, closing the door back and retreating back into the living room.

When Patrick returned, Mrs. Thatcher’s pan of fruitcake was half gone. Astonished that so much of it had already been eaten, Patrick looked to the faces of everyone in the room to see expressions of strained concentration. Everyone, except for Mrs. Thatcher, had their mouths closed and were apparently trying their best to gnaw through the piece of fruitcake they had been offered. They looked as though they were chewing at half speed. Mr. Thatcher probably hoped that he still had his newspaper as Mrs. Thatcher was currently staring at him intently watching as he grinded every bite.

“See, Paul,” Mrs. Thatcher started, satisfied, “your father likes it.”

Mr. Thatcher nodded unconvincingly and Patrick turned to see his grandfather pull his wand to his mouth, apparently trying to make his slice disappear.

Patrick didn’t know whether to smile or be afraid of being offered a piece of his own. Either way, he was glad that even after a few months away from home, nothing had changed.

The remainder of Patrick’s Christmas gifts easily improved upon his mother’s dull and practical present. Mr. Thatcher gave Patrick seven, tiny moving figures of the Wickenburg Warblers Quidditch team; the model of Chaser Debbie Muntz zipped around Paul’s head distracting him while he flicked carelessly through the book that he had received from his mother, Motivated Career Choices for the Unmotivated Wizard. Patrick and William each received a card from Paul that would scribble something rude every time it was opened. The two considered it more a gift they’d pass on than to keep for themselves. Their gifts from Grandpa Thatcher, however, seemed to have been purchased at the last minute. Both of them had been handed a Galleon and a smile from Patrick’s Grandfather, who told them never to spend it. Patrick figured that he had probably forgotten to buy a present while out gathering his thoughts.

The rest of the break was much more enjoyable now that Grandpa Thatcher was home and there were no more questions that Patrick and William had to ask him. New Year’s Eve was celebrated with a massive, neighborhood display of Raucous Rocket Fireworks that filled the sky and ears of Arbridge, Virginia.

When it came time to return to school, it was quite a few days into January. With Mr. and Mrs. Thatcher having to go to work and Grandpa Thatcher with his strange habit of wanting to always stay inside, Patrick, Paul, and William departed back to the Portkey unattended. It was only moments before they trekked their way to Nortwick Corner and were joined again by Myra Pudderly. She looked much chipper than usual, as if she had received everything she wanted for Christmas and more. She smiled at them as she approached.

“Hello,” she greeted, still carrying a dash of timidity in her voice. “How was your holiday?” she asked the three of them.

“Great,” replied Patrick, who seemed to be the only one interested in responding to Myra. William was standing the farthest away from her, clearly still hurt that she hadn’t listened to his Quidditch recommendations. “I had lots of fun.”

“Ooh, you must have read something good then!” Myra said, looking suddenly more fascinated

“Er…not really,” said Patrick, thinking of his owl book, which he had barely skimmed since receiving. “Haven’t done much of that.”

“That’s too bad.”

Patrick’s words seemed to have taken a little bit of spark out of her. She relaxed back into the Myra Patrick was used to seeing, the one that would spend most of her time staring at the ground when around other people. Paul, meanwhile, who had been glancing at his watch eyeing the time, set his trunk down and went rifling through it.

“Hey, you like books right?” he questioned. “You can have this one.”

He stopped digging around and handed her the book he had gotten from his mother. Patrick watched the fire once again ignite as Myra’s head tilted up from the snow at her feet and toward the book that now rested in her hands.

“Do you really mean it? I can have it?” asked Myra, unbelievingly.

“It’s yours. Trust me I won’t be using it,” Paul said, fastening the latches to close his trunk. “I’ll no sooner read that book than become President of Magic.” Paul looked at his watch again and instructed the three first-years to grab hold of a tattered shoe. The feeling of being jerked forward was all too familiar now, as Patrick’s feet lifted of the soft white snow and stumbled upon the hard concrete of the Summer Street alley.

“Getting better, almost there…” said Mr. Ipswich, picking up the shoe and hurling it into a bag. He was still wearing the same grey ball-cap that he had now been known for wearing. “Go on, then, I can’t have this alley cluttered up with wizards. Might land on each other.”

Heeding Mr. Ipswich’s words, the four of them exited the alley and headed toward the granite building of South Station. Inside, it was very much crowded and it appeared that there were hardly enough seats to accommodate all of the travelers. Paul, however, did not seem to have been paying them any attention as he strode right to the elevator, whose ‘Out of Order’ sign was still hanging across the door. Patrick thought that they would easily be spotted now that more people were present to witness, but the four of them stepped into the elevator without another traveler so much as sending them a glance. Patrick continued to stare at the Muggles in the station as the doors were closing and as Paul poked his wand through the button-hole, starting the elevator down to the track.

They followed the usual routine of handing the attendant their tickets and finding a place on the train. Neither Patrick nor William was surprised to see Paul abandon them after finding his friend Douglas Pickett in one of the train’s compartments. Nor were they surprised that Myra decided to stick with them for the train ride back. Patrick and William still didn’t feel particularly comfortable around Myra and followed her lead, by spending most of the ride reading the books they got for Christmas. Patrick was flipping through the pages, learning about the appropriate claw length for a Great Horned Owl. The compartment was for the most part silent, being interrupted only by the continual sound of pages turning or of Myra mentioning a career that she found interesting out of the book Paul had given her.

By the time the train pulled into Wentwater Conservatory, William had read his copy of Quidditch Greats of the Twentieth Century three times and was more than ready to exit the train. Patrick quite agreed with him, having spent the latter portion of the trip staring blankly at the inked letters on the page of his book, tired of reading about effective owl care. The three of them pulled their trunks off the train, to the setting sun, and rolled them all the way back to the Allard Hall building and to the portrait of Admiral Polk.

“Poppycock,” said Patrick. His hand was gripped tightly to his trunk handle as he walked forward to step through the picture. His knee, however, went no farther than the paint-covered canvas and Patrick was still standing on the outside of the common room, rubbing at his knee.

“What gives?” asked William stepping in front of Admiral Polk. “Do we have to recite poetry after every break?”

“The password has probably changed,” said Patrick, whose knee felt slightly better now.

“Right you are, young man,” spoke Admiral Polk. “I’m sure you are well-acquainted with the rules. No one is permitted through without�””

“Apple Tonic.”

The three of them swirled around to find Elizabeth strolling toward them, her Alice-band placed firmly atop her head, parting her strawberry red hair.

“Very well,” Admiral Polk said, “the holidays have come to a close, you may now return to your educational woes.”

The four of them quickly passed through the portrait, its cool canvas no warmer than it was outside. Myra continued down to the hall to the girls’ dorms while Patrick and William plopped down on a pair of armchairs leaving their belongings to lie randomly across the floor. Elizabeth, after watching them take a seat, remained standing.

“I don’t get a thank you?” she shot at them.

Patrick and William replied at the same time, but Patrick’s “Thanks” was cut off by William’s response.

“If you hadn’t have done it someone else would have,” replied William. “You just got to us first. Anyway, it’s not like you really had a choice, unless you wanted to be stuck outside, too.”

“Well, next time I see you stranded in the hall, I’ll just turn back and not bother to mention anything that happened over the break,” she said, haughtily.

The two boys sprung off the backs of the armchairs, looking attentively at Elizabeth.

“Things happened? What happened?” asked Patrick. He almost forgot the fact that there might have been a great deal of activity going on at school while most of the students were away.

“All kinds, although,” started Elizabeth, “this place gets really lonely over the break, even lonelier since I didn’t have Henri to talk to.”

“He’s still mad at you?” questioned Patrick further.

“Yeah, he didn’t even sit near me at breakfast and there’re only about twenty students in all of Allard Hall eating!” She was clearly still upset about her argument with Henri and Patrick had hoped for nothing more than their reconciliation over the break. As of now, it seemed that Patrick would not get his wish.

“Enough with that, don’t you have anything important? Something about Professor Snerkin?” interrupted William, looking as though listening to Elizabeth and Henri’s story was not worth tearing himself from his comfortable slouching position. Elizabeth shot him a very angry look. She turned to face Patrick, whom she apparently decided she would direct the remainder of her comments.

“Well, the only teachers I saw here were Professors Montgomery, Sumpton, Pennipot and Obelus. I guess all the other teachers went home for the holiday.”

“What about Professor Pennipot?” asked William. “Did you see he�””

“I rarely saw Professor Montgomery,” continued Elizabeth, cutting off William’s sentence and completely ignoring the furrowed expression on his face. “And I ran into Professor Obelus more often than I liked, but I saw Professor Pennipot once while leaving the Allard Hall, and she was being followed around by Professor Sumpton. Not just once, either. Most of the time that I saw Professor Pennipot, she was with Professor Sumpton.”

“Bet, he’s following up on the Quidditch incident. With everyone gone he’s got�””

“What do you think that means, Patrick?” Elizabeth said, breaking up William’s comments again. Patrick looked over at William who was hinting back, trying to get Patrick to finish his sentences for him. Patrick thought he understood, replying to Elizabeth while still focusing on William.

“Well, was he following her every time you saw her?” asked Patrick.
“Mostly. Professor Pennipot seemed to be talking back to him, but she always looked like she was in a hurry.”

“He’s probably asking her about my Quidditch accident. Having everyone gone for the break…” Patrick paused, trying to read William’s lips, “…w-would make it easier…t-to question her?” William nodded rapidly. “But why would she be in a hurry? What’s there to do during the break that’s so important?”

“Dunno,” said Elizabeth. “I bet the Republic is asking him to get as much info as he can. Speaking of info,” she said, slightly turning her head toward William and glancing at him from the corner of her eye, “what did you two find out?”

“Loads,” Patrick said. He and William described all the things they had discovered over the break. How Grandpa Thatcher had used the compass that lead to his fame, how he told them he found it, and even the real story about his grandmother that he never knew.

By the time Patrick and William relinquished all the information that they knew, two hours had passed and they had talked right through dinner. They did not realize how long they had talked until the common room began to fill up with other Allards returning from the Dining Hall. Patrick clenched his stomach as he watched the well-fed faces of his hall-mates toddle through Admiral Polk’s portrait and amble into the room. William had his face buried in a pillow and Elizabeth sat uncomfortably in the armchair she had been occupying during their discussion. It was not long before Patrick spotted Henri stepping into the common room, his hand shoved in his robe pockets. Henri approached the three of them slowly, looking at Patrick and William, while sparingly tossing an eye at Elizabeth.

“Hello, Henri. How was your break?” asked Patrick uncomfortably, feeling the tension growing between Henri and Elizabeth.

“Eet was fine, Patrick. I-I didn’t see you three at dinner, so I thought you might want these.” He began removing his hands from their spot in his robe pockets, pulling out two handfuls of dinner rolls from within them. “Zey might be a lizzle smashed and I had to sneak some from ze uzzer tables, but…” he didn’t finish his sentence, but merely offered forward the bread to Patrick, before walking through the hall toward the boys dormitory.

“Er…thanks,” Patrick said, quietly; Henri had already disappeared around the corner. William lunged off his seat and grabbed a couple rolls taking only a second before tearing into them. Patrick tossed two rolls to Elizabeth, saving two for himself, and bit into the moist bread. While nowhere near sustaining as a full meal, this roll tasted better than any other piece of bread he had had before.

“I guess that’s a good sign,” said Elizabeth, ripping off a piece of bread and putting it in her mouth. “Even though he barely looked at me, at least he brought me some bread.” The edge of her mouth bended up, optimistically. She put another chunk of roll in her mouth before uttering more words.

“Well, now that you’ve talked to your grandpa, what are you going to do now?”

“We can always go back to my idea and get a dragon,” said William, scarfing down the last bit of bread. Both Patrick and Elizabeth rolled their eyes.

“Where would you get a dragon?” asked Elizabeth, interestedly.

“That’s not important,” Patrick said, before William could finish chewing and reply. “We’ve just got to find out whatever my grandfather doesn't know about this compass."

"Which is?" asked Elizabeth.

"A lot," answered William.

The problem was, neither Patrick nor William knew how to gather that information. They resorted to their usual brainstorming techniques of whispering through Magic History class, although Patrick attempted to pay attention only to be diverted by William’s wild ideas. Professor Mott, who clearly had not made a new year’s resolution to stop concealing her face behind the class textbook, looked up only once as Patrick scoffed loudly at William’s suggestion to use Merton to stand watch in the library should the book suddenly turn up.

“I’m not going to do that to him!” whispered Patrick. “Who knows how long it could take for Gregory to return that book. He probably keeps renewing it so we can’t get to it.”

William had spent all of Monday trying to come up with a solution, giving up finally on Tuesday, just before their Charms lesson.

“It really is no use,” conceded William. “I guess the only choice you’ve got now, Patrick, is to protect the compass and make sure no one gets to it.”

“You’re right,” agreed Patrick, adjusting his book bag on his shoulder on their way to Professor Montgomery’s substitute class. “It’s probably better for me to have it and not know how to use it, then for someone else to have it and do horrible things with it.”

Patrick and William took their regular seats together while Elizabeth, noticing Henri sitting next to Jonathan Hiller, grabbed a spot behind him with Miranda Pinsley in the second row.

Professor Montgomery had placed a basket of apples on the desk in the front of the classroom. He looked eager to partake in today’s lesson and even rapidly twiddled his thumbs as he described what today’s class would entail.

“Today, we will be attempting the Severing Charm on the fruit you see here in front of me.” He pointed to the basket. “The Severing Charm, as its name suggests, cuts objects.” He took an apple from the basket, placed it on the desk, and pointed his wand firmly at it speaking clearly through the room.

“Diffindo!”

The apple fell on the desk in two neatly sliced portions in front of Professor Montgomery. Many of the students gave impressed murmurs as the professor held up the two halves. “This charm is particularly useful for any wizard and it’s just a good spell to know.” He pointed his wand at the apples again, this time causing them to levitate above the class, each one landing in front of a student. “Just as I have done, you are to point your wand at the apple and say, ‘Diffindo’.”

Professor Montgomery walked to the back of the room to observe the class while the room filled with cries of first-years trying to sever their apples. Patrick was focusing carefully on his apple, trying to mimic exactly what he saw Professor Montgomery doing. He pointed his wand closely at it saying, “Diffindo!”, but he only saw a slight tear in his apple’s polished red skin. He turned to William who appeared to be having the same difficulty with his. He was moving his wand all around the apple, as if trying to find a spot that the Severing Charm would work best. His efforts were to no avail, although, Patrick did notice that his apple stem managed to be sliced almost completely off, hanging only by a thin, sinewy thread.

Half of the class period passed and at that point there were quite a few successes on both the Allard and Mendel ends. Mendel boy, Nathan Wilde was the first to slice his apple in two, much to the pleasure of Professor Montgomery. Once Myra managed the feat, she continued to cut them into eights, as though preparing snacks for a party. William became frustrated as Patrick finally separated his fruit into equal parts.

“Not you, too,” William said, dishearteningly. “Maybe, it’s this apple.” He picked it up and tossed it between his hands trying to check if it had been tampered with.

“You’re not the only one struggling,” offered Patrick, hopefully. It was true. A greater portion of the class still had their apples completely whole. One of the Mendel boys, Arturo Rivas, had his wand tucked back in his robes, determined not to finish the assignment. “You’re just going to have to keep trying it. Like everyone else.”

At that moment, both Patrick and William turned back to Elizabeth who released a sound of intense frustration. She, also, had not managed to split her apple apart and looked truly angry at her ability to do so. Elizabeth was pointing her wand furiously at the apple, determined to cut it in half. Miranda, whose own attempts had grazed shards off her fruit, slid away from her partner cautiously. Professor Montgomery, noticing her aggravation, moved from assisting Edwin Lawley in the back, over to Elizabeth and Miranda’s table.

“Diffindo!”

“Ms. Crane.” He began to reason over her continuing shouts of the incantation, which still had resulted in nothing.

“Diffindo!”

“Ms. Crane, frustration will not help your understanding of the Charm. And, frankly, it isn’t safe,” he reached down to grab her apple off the desk.

“Diffindo!”

The fruit made it securely in his hands, but it seemed that Elizabeth’s determination to sever the apple came too late. As Professor Montgomery snatched up the apple, Elizabeth’s wand finally gave in to her resolve, performing the Severing Charm, not on the apple as she was intending, but on the student in front of her; Henri.

“Ahhhh!” he cried, as he jumped up from his seat his hands reaching for his back, but unable to find it. “What did you do zat for?” The class behind them stood up to get a better look at what was going on.

Elizabeth looked even more hurt than she did before Christmas break.

“I…I-I didn’t mean…I wouldn’t…”

“Mr. Bellew, keep still,” Professor Montgomery shouted, trying to speak over Henri’s howls and get him to stay still in order to get a good look at his injury. The professor managed to halt him long enough to see that there, where his robes had been split, was a long gash. Blood was trickling from the cut and moving down Henri’s back.

“Oh, this isn’t good.” Professor Montgomery shot a quick look up, his eyes resting suddenly on Patrick. “Quickly! Mr. Thatcher, look in Professor Snerkin’s desk for a vial with a green liquid. It should be in one of the drawers.”

Patrick leapt immediately from his desk with William over to the one Professor Montgomery used during his earlier demonstration at the beginning of class. The sight of seeing his friend in pain was too much for Patrick to bare, increasing his want to locate the vial quickly.

There were three drawers on each side of the desk, making Patrick wish that there were only one in order to help assist quicker. Henri’s yelps of pain continued to fill the room, stifling the words of the other students making them incomprehensible. Nonetheless, Patrick began rummaging quickly through the drawers on the left, opening and closing them one by one, shifting aside the contents in search of the vial.

Finding nothing but quills and parchment, he began looking through the drawers on the right. First drawer held nothing but useless items. Wizard cards, feathers, candy, Apple Tonic caps; these were all objects Professor Snerkin had probably confiscated or found laying around in his room after class. He quickly shut the first drawer while jarring open the second. Patrick looked down and he simply couldn’t believe his eyes.

Laying in the drawer, visible above all other contents beside it, was a book; the book: Muggle Influences on the Wizarding World. The book they had been searching for since September was sitting boldly right in front of his face, and at such an inconvenient time. More overwhelming was the fact that it was resting right in Professor Snerkin’s desk. Patrick’s astonishment momentarily impaired his senses, leaving him to forget exactly what he was supposed to be doing, allowing another of Henri’s yells to jolt him back into the task at hand. He shut it in the desk, concealing the book he had so desperately sought, and searched through the last remaining drawer. It only took but a second to find the vial resting next to a pile of broken watches and several more to carry it over to Professor Montgomery so that he could administer it to Henri.

“Here you go, Professor,” Patrick said, carefully placing the vial in his hand.

“Thank you, Mr. Thatcher. Now,” he said, uncorking the vial, his voice much louder than a normal tone. “Mr. Bellew, I’m going to need you to drink this. It’s a long walk to the Hospital Ward from here and this will help ease the pain until Mrs. Hortshorne can fix you up.”

Henri quickly guzzled the contents of the vial. When he was done, he did not begin to scream again. Now that Henri had stopped yelling, Patrick was able to get a good look at his face and could see that his eyes were very red and puffy. Needless to say, he was in a great deal of pain.

“That small dose should wear off pretty quickly. We need to get you to the Hospital Wing,” said Professor Montgomery. He led the way out of the classroom with Henri hunched over beside him. “Class dismissed,” he called behind him. “Go on, off to lunch.”

The Allards and Mendels followed closely behind Professor Montgomery and Henri as they made their way out of the classroom. Patrick, however, stayed behind. He did not forget the book sitting in Professor Snerkin’s desk.

“Geez, I know Henri was ignoring her, but cutting his back? That’s kind of extreme,” said William, scratching his head and picking up his book bag. “Hey, what are you doing behind Professor Snerkin’s desk?”

“Getting this,” Patrick replied, holding up the copy of the book they believed to be in Gregory Huntington’s possession. William’s eyes did the same thing Patrick’s did. He stared at the book in Patrick’s hand with wide eyes and a dumbfounded expression.

“You mean that jerk Huntington didn’t have it after all?!” he exclaimed.

“I guess not,” Patrick said. “Come on, let’s go.” He shoved the book in his bag and quickly left the room, William tailing behind him.

“Hurry,” pushed William, “open it up.”

“Hold on, let’s get inside first,” Patrick said. “I’m not going to carry it out in the open.”

They turned out of Professor Snerkin’s classroom and headed down the stairs toward their common room instead of heading to lunch like the rest of his classmates.

The two of them made it into the Allard Common Room and, noticing quite a few students filling the chairs, made their way down the hall and to their dormitory. After realizing it was empty, Patrick hopped on his bed and quickly removed the book from his bag. Finding a place on the edge of the four poster, William peered over Patrick’s shoulder as he flipped to the back of the book, presumably to search the index.

“Hmm…,” Patrick mumbled, while running his finger down the list of names. “Ortelius…Ortelius…Page thirty-one.” He gripped the pages in a thick stack and picked through them until he landed on page thirty-one. There in the middle of the page was a short paragraph. He read the passage:

Ortelius, Abraham: (1527 �“ 1598)
Born on April 2, Flemish Cartographer Abraham Ortelius is widely regarded as the father of the modern atlas. His contributions to the Wizarding world stem from his unrivalled and unparalleled achievements in cartography, that have led many Wizarding scholars to believe that magic may have provided a helping hand in his geographic expertise. His exploits brought him to countries all over Europe, including, Italy, France, Germany, and England.

Patrick turned the page over looking to find more information on the following page, but came across none. No way was that the only information available on him. This was what they had been given detentions to find? What they had sneaked into another common room to search for? Patrick’s face was arranged in an expression of utter befuddlement.

“This is what we got in trouble for? It didn’t tell us anything! We could have found this in a Muggle book!” said Patrick, frustrated.

“Well, it’s a book about Muggles. There couldn’t be much about actual magic in there,” offered William. “Plus, if there were anything specific about your compass written in that book, your grandpa wouldn’t have you worry about keeping it a secret. It’d already be out in the open.”

The book was resting open on the bed, right on the page of useless information. Patrick, irritated, pushed himself off his bed and went to open his trunk. He removed the wooden box from underneath several folds of clothes, looking all around the outside of the compass trying to find something�”anything�”to help make sense of the worthless dribble he and William just read.

“So, according to that book they think Abraham Ortelius had magical help,” said Patrick, examining the box like he had so many times before. “It’s obvious what that means.”

“What does that mean?” asked William.

“Well, this thing had to have belonged to him before the captain of the Peregrine gave it to Professor Allard, and before grandpa found it.”

William was flipping through the pages. “Makes sense,” he started. “There’s just got to be more in here than that. Maybe there’s another person in here that might help. A partner that worked with him or something,” said William, hopefully.

“Doubt it.”

Patrick gazed at his compass. This book was their only lead. Now that they recovered it and found nothing more than a brief biography, there was nowhere else to turn to find information about the compass.

The thing that puzzled Patrick even more was how long they had gone in the dark. Why had Professor Snerkin kept the book for so long if it only gave a short blurb on the man they were searching for? Patrick couldn’t help but feel that he had wasted the past four months looking for something that really held no value.

That was it. It was a ploy. Nothing more than something to distract Patrick and William from discovering what Professor Snerkin was really up to. With Patrick looking for the book, he couldn’t possibility discover Professor Snerkin’s plans to steal the compass for himself. It was such a simple and easy idea, Patrick couldn’t believe he so easily fell for it. For the first time, Patrick finally realized that he shouldn’t have underestimated the Assistant Dean of Wentwater Conservatory of Magic.

“Patrick,” said William, snapping him from his thoughts. “I knew there was something else in here!”

William was holding up an envelope that he apparently found between two of the pages in the book. Patrick dropped the compass on the pile of clothes in his trunk and hopped around to his bed. William pulled out the letter from the envelope, and they both read, now, with even more enthusiasm than they had while reading the Ortelius excerpt.


Everything is falling into place. Since I’ve put the Thatcher boy on the Quidditch team, we shouldn’t have any trouble with getting the Quod into play. You just do your part and I’ll take care of the rest. Before you know it, the boy will be out of our way and the compass will be ours.


“I told you!” shouted William, having finished the letter. “It’s Professor Snerkin! I knew he was in on it. He tried to stop you from getting your letter and he tried to blow you off your broom after putting you on the team! I bet it was his idea to switch from Quodpot to Quidditch this year, too!”

Patrick just couldn’t believe it, but there was no denying the facts; it was all too convenient for Professor Snerkin. Was it merely a coincidence that Patrick was placed in Allard Hall under Professor Snerkin? Or was it by chance that he was selected to be a Chaser for Allard? After all, as far as he knew he was the only first-year student on any of the Hall Quidditch teams. Moreover, how fitting for the Quod accident to occur during the match that any normal Hall Master would have restricted him from playing. Patrick was even beginning to question the validity of Professor Snerkin’s Wickenburg Warbler collection. As adamant as William had been against accusing Professor Snerkin, before now, none of it appeared to be anything more than wild speculation. This letter, however, seemed to have confirmed any and all suspicions William had against their Charms teacher.

“I didn’t think it was possible…,” Patrick said, staring back down at the letter in William’s hand. “He’s just always been so nice. I don’t understand…why?”

William slipped the letter back in the envelope and shut it in the front cover of the book.

“It’s obvious. He knows more about that compass than anyone else does.”

“Well, how would stopping me from coming to school help him get it?” asked Patrick.

William thought for a second.

“It’s got to have something to do with how it’s used. What if Professor Snerkin is hiding something from everyone and your compass will tell us what it is? If we found out how to use it, we might have found something he doesn’t want us to know, and he could get in a lot of trouble. Who knows? He’s just lucky that we haven’t figured it out yet, and you’re lucky you survived that Quidditch fall.”

“I don’t think it’s just him who’s lucky,” said Patrick, thinking critically about the letter. “Look, he’s obviously writing to someone else about this. This other guy must have something to do with it, too.”

“It can’t be a guy. It’s got to be Professor Pennipot, probably,” William accused, promptly. “You said it yourself, only she and Professor Snerkin have keys to that shed. Professor Pennipot would seem like the person who needs help with something like this,” William said, rubbing his chin. “She couldn’t do it all on her own and probably wouldn’t feel comfortable taking all the blame. With Professor Snerkin up at the Republic, she can’t get around anything anymore, that’s why Professor Sumpton was asking her what she’s up to.”

If there was one thing that Patrick, now, wanted to know, it’s what Professor Snerkin is, and was, up to. He had been gone ever since the beginning of November and very little word had been given about his status at the Republic.

“If Professor Snerkin is really behind all of this,” started Patrick. He stepped off the bed and paced around the front of the room. “We need to know what’s been going on with him since he left Wentwater. If we find out that he’s locked up, then maybe I won’t have too much to worry about from now on.”

“I suppose you’re right. You know, Patrick,” William said, his voice swinging in a you-better-be-careful tone. “You’ve got another Quidditch match next Saturday, so, you might still want to look out for Professor Pennipot during the game. Sure, Professor Snerkin is gone, but that doesn’t mean she won’t pull out a trick if no one is looking.”

“I’ll be careful,” responded Patrick. He now needed to find out what was going on and there weren’t many people at Wentwater who could help him the way he needed without getting furrowed brows or squinted eyes in return. Patrick decided he should turn to the one person, well, creature who could assist him the best.

“Merton!” he called, his voice slightly louder than one he would usually use to speak. There was a loud crack and the grey-eyed, floppy-eared house-elf appeared before Patrick and William’s eyes. He bowed magnificently, nearly burying his face in the blue carpet on the floor.

“Master has called Merton?” the elf squeaked.

William looked stunned, as though he never knew that house-elves could be summoned directly. Patrick proceeded to answer the elf’s question, unaware of William’s amazed expression.

“Merton, I need your help. I need to know what’s been going on with Professor Snerkin.”

The elf looked eager to help. He clasped his hands tightly together, staring directly at Patrick.

“Whatever Merton can do to help, master, Merton will do, sir. Merton is very bored at home. He is always having to find things that he has already cleaned before!”

William, his mouth now closed, looked to still be astounded at the helpfulness of Patrick’s house-elf. Patrick, on the other hand, knelt down to speak closely to Merton.

“Merton, you know that closet of newspapers my dad keeps?” Merton nodded. “I’m going to need you to bring them to me. All of them.” His father’s habit of saving every newspaper finally proved to be an asset. Patrick was lucky that his parents managed to compromise on keeping them in the closet instead of his mother’s original idea to transfigure them into napkins for dinnertime.

The house-elf’s eyes were suddenly lit with excitement. He looked extremely eager to carry out his new task.

“Oh, right away, Master Patrick…right away.”

Merton raised his hand and started to snap his fingers.

“Not�”so fast,” Patrick said, quickly grabbing hold of the elf’s wrist, preventing him from summoning a closet-full of newspapers. “You can’t bring them now, the others are probably coming back soon. Just make sure you’re ready to bring them the next time I call, okay?”

“Anything Master Thatcher, sir. Merton will be waiting for his master to call him.”

“Thanks, Merton,” said Patrick, smiling at him. “You should probably get back home now.”

The house-elf nodded, once again took a deep bow, then snapped his fingers and disappeared with the same cracking sound he had made when he entered.

Patrick stood up from the floor, carrying his weight confidently as he strode over to pick up the book from his bed.

“So, whenever you call him…he comes?” asked William, apparently still bewildered at Merton’s enthusiasm.

“Pretty much, but I’ve never really had to call him before. My mom’s done it sometimes when she’s at work and she forgets something at home and can’t leave the store.” Patrick took the book, Muggle Influences on the Wizarding World, and opened his trunk, grabbing his compass that was resting on top of his clothes, and buried them deep inside. When the two items were hidden well enough, he shut the trunk. “Other than that, he usually never leaves the house.”

“So, that’s why he’s so crazy. He’s cooped up inside the house all the time. He’s got to be dying for someone to call him and get him out.”

“Probably,” said Patrick. “He’s home with grandpa all day, so who knows what kind of work he’s doing around the house.”

Whatever that work may have been it was nothing compared to the work Patrick, William, and the other first-years had to deal with on the days leading up to the second Allard Quidditch match against Kinsey Hall. Professor Wiggins and Litmus, both, assigned essays due a few days before Quidditch. Patrick and William also came to the realization that Professor Mott had assigned double the amount of pages she normally did for the upcoming Monday; pages she would surely only re-read in class. With all the work piling up and the growing rarity of finding a moment alone, Patrick couldn’t find much spare time to summon Merton.

Once released from the hospital ward after what Mrs. Hortshorne called, “a dirty mess”, Henri and Elizabeth’s feud only grew. Even though Elizabeth had attempted to calm down Henri by visiting him while under Mrs. Hortshorne’s care, he did not soon forget that it was Elizabeth’s fault that he had a large gash on his back in the first place. He and Jonathan Hiller decided to take the farthest possible seats from Elizabeth in every class, to ensure there were no other accidents aimed at Henri’s way.

“You both know it was an accident, right?” Elizabeth asked of Patrick and William as they left Dark Arts Defense class after they turned in their essays to Professor Wiggins.

“It’s been over a week, Elizabeth!”said William, pushing open the doors to a chilly Wednesday afternoon. “If you keep asking I really am going to think you did it on purpose.”

“I-I’m…just making sure.”

“You shouldn’t be trying to convince us,” began Patrick. “It’s Henri you need to talk to. It won’t matter if we believe you or not, if Henri doesn’t.”

Patrick was right and Elizabeth obviously agreed. She didn’t bother Patrick or William for the rest of the week. The same couldn’t be said of the other Allards, though. On the morning of Saturday’s match, Patrick became very nervous after having to field numerous questions from his hall-mates about whether or not he was ready for the day’s game. He nodded quickly to their questions and tried to be on his way.

After reading Professor Snerkin’s letter he couldn’t help but be a little bit worried about how today’s match would go. All of his Quidditch practices this past week had gone fine and after asking Harvey to check their Quaffle (at the request of Kyle and Josephine, as well) he had no trouble reverting back to the level of play that he had achieved in his trials. Nonetheless, buried in the back of Patrick’s mind was the stinging suspicion that Professor Pennipot may make a harmful shot at him with Professor Snerkin gone.

“She wouldn’t dare…then there’d be no one here to keep an eye on you and then they’d never get the compass,” offered William, trying to give a word of support.

“I hope so,” admitted Patrick, realizing that it was about time for him to head off to the Quidditch field. His stomach was beginning to tighten and his feet starting tingling as Patrick stood up from his bed and opened the door to his dormitory. When they reached the entrance to the common room Elizabeth was standing alongside the wall, as if guarding it from intruders.

“Patrick! William! Is Henri in there?” she asked.

“No. Why didn’t you just go look yourself?” replied Patrick, his stomach loosening up a bit from his short walk own the hall.

“I didn’t want to barge in on him or anything. He’s already mad at me. I don’t want him to hate me, too.”

“Well, you’d have to perform a couple more Severing Charms on him to do that,” quipped William.

“Stop it!” shouted Elizabeth, not finding the slightest bit of humor in William’s remark. “Do you mind if I walk with you guys to the game, instead?”

“Sure,” said Patrick. “Let’s just keep walking.” Patrick’s hands were gently massaging his stomach.

The three of them exited the common room and walked down the hall. The building remained quiet, for the most part, except for a whisper ahead of them. It grew louder as Patrick, William, and Elizabeth approached.

“Will we be seeing you in a stretcher again, Thatcher?” cackled the annoying voice of Mr. Vexing. “I have never much been entertained at the talk of Quidditch, but word of your blunders and well…pitfalls, have made the subject bearable, as of late.”

“Not, now…” said Patrick. Stopping in front of the portrait. He was staring right into the heavily-wrinkled face of Mr. Vexing, who was throwing Patrick an amused look through his squinty eyes.

“Going to be late for another accident, are you? Excuse me, then. I’d rather not intrude. I can’t hear about it unless it happens. Go on, then!”

Patrick walked past the frame, not without wishing he had said something more substantial, had his stomach permitted him.

“There aren’t going to be any accidents, Patrick,” said William, further attempting to keep his mind off of any Quidditch disasters. “Professor Snerkin is nowhere to be found.”

The three of them were rounding the corner out of the Allard Hall building before someone spoke from inside the building.

“You shouldn’t pay him any mind,” a voice behind Patrick called. It was much too far behind him to belong to either William or Elizabeth. The three of them turned around to see Professor Sumpton descending the stairs from the second floor of Allard Hall.

“We don’t, really,” replied Elizabeth. “It just gets annoying sometimes.”

Professor Sumpton chuckled.

“Yes, he can be a handful. He was never one to play the role of the silent portrait.” His eyes glanced at Patrick and William. “Ah, heading off to the Quidditch match are you?”

The three of them nodded.

“Well, I’ll wish the best of luck to both teams, but since you’re the students that are here now, I’ll tell you that I hope Allard wins.” He said smiling.

Patrick tried to force out a “thanks”, but his stomach once again held him back.

“Thanks,” William said, relieving any further attempts for Patrick to utter the word, himself. They continued out the hall up toward the Quidditch field.

“See? All that talk about him earlier. He’s a much better teacher than Professor Snerkin. They should have got him to take over Charms, too,” said William.

“I think so, too,” added Elizabeth. “He gives us the least homework of all the teachers.”

Patrick didn’t join in their conversation. He was now focused on his match. Luckily, his muscles began to loosen up again and by the time he reached the locker room, his stomach no longer felt as though it was constricting him.

He waved goodbye to William and Elizabeth as he stepped through the curtains of the locker room, gathered his broom, and changed into his robes. The sense of impending doom was beginning to die away as the roar of the crowd filled the room from Eric Stilley’s introduction of the Kinsey team.

Gerald, as usual, approached Patrick before it was time to head out on the field.

“Feeling good, Patrick?” he asked.

Patrick shuffled his feet a bit in place and took a deep breath.

“I think I’ll be fine.”

Kinsey’s Quidditch team didn’t seem to be very worried about any accidents that could happen. In much of the early minutes of the game, the Allards allowed Kinsey to make several goals, mostly because Patrick, Kyle, and Josephine didn’t want to take any chances on another exploding Quaffle. Patrick’s only activity early in the match were lackadaisical attempts at defending the Kinsey Chasers from getting near the hoops that even Allison was having a hard time protecting. For much of the match, the Allards didn’t perform with the same ferocity as they did in the opening minutes of their first match, making the game less enjoyable for those rooting for the Allard side.

As a result, the Allards couldn’t stop Kinsey from taking a commanding win, outscoring them 260-50. The Kinsey Seeker, Stewart Dubbs, managed to grab the Snitch with ease, since Harvey Pinniger was too concerned with the performance of his Chasers to search for the tiny winged ball. He had easily spent more time trying to direct the team’s cautious play than trying to salvage the match by grabbing one-hundred and fity points for the team.

After the match, the Allards wasted no time putting their brooms away and changing out of their Quidditch robes while Harvey tried to cheer up the somber mood of his team.

“Let’s face it,” he began, “this wasn’t our best match. We didn’t play anything like we normally do. Especially,” he was directing his eyes at his three Chasers now, “since we seemed too scared play any actual Quidditch.”

“How are we supposed to know if that Quaffle is going to explode or not?” asked Josephine.
“You aren’t, but that shouldn’t stop you from playing the game. It sure didn’t stop Kinsey from making eleven goals,” responded Harvey.

“That’s easy for you to say, you’re not the one throwing it around,” said Josephine. “Patrick was lucky last time that he was able to hold onto his broom. What if we weren’t so lucky this time?”

Patrick didn’t want to make excuses, but there was no denying the risk involved in another piece of exploding equipment. He would have felt even more terrible if another one of his teammates were attacked in an attempt to deliver another blow intended for himself.

Harvey sighed, looking as though trying to avoid a potentially serious debate.

“Look, that’s not the point. What happened was unfortunate, but we can’t let that hold us back from winning. Just get used to the fact that we’re playing with a Quaffle before our match against Mendel, and I’ll be happy.”

The team departed the Quidditch stadium no happier than they were after the game had ended. As expected, Patrick was joined by William and Elizabeth outside the locker room for the walk back to Allard Hall.

“I’m sure you were just thinking about Professor Pennipot and that’s why you barely touched the Quaffle, right?” asked William, as if checking to make sure that was the real reason and he hadn’t just forgotten how to play Quidditch. He, too, looked just as disappointed with the Allards’ performance as Harvey did.

“Yeah,” Patrick replied, softly. “I mean, I knew that nothing was probably going to happen, but that’s what I thought the last time.” He tilted his head down, staring at the cobblestones as they walked. “By the time I knew that there was nothing wrong with the Quaffle, I couldn’t get focused again.”

“Well, I think you did a good job. You’ll just have to make sure you win next time,” said Elizabeth. William looked at her as if she knew nothing about Quidditch at all, and seemed bothered by her “get ‘em next time” attitude.

“Oh, don’t worry,” said William, assuredly. “He’ll win the next game, for sure. If we don’t, we might be out of the running to win the championship.”

Not being able to be a contender for the first Inter-Hall Quidditch Cup wasn’t something Patrick wanted to think about at the moment. He promised himself that he would try not to let his fear prevent him from playing to his fullest in their third match.

Regardless of his Quidditch performance, Patrick had the rest of the day to relax. Once in the common room, Elizabeth departed back to her room and Patrick and William decided to do the same. Patrick wanted to do nothing more than to plop, face-first, onto his bed and bury his head in his sheets. He could already feel his head lying down on his soft pillow and drifting off into a wondrous slumber.

His hand was a mere inches from the door, but before he could turn the knob to the dormitory room, he heard the mumblings of two voices. One was a young voice that was splashed with a French accent, which was unmistakably Henri’s. The other instantly recognizable from the short harps of squeaking that filled every sentence of Patrick’s house-elf, Merton. Patrick quickly opened the door to his dormitory, swinging it wide open to survey the scene inside.

“Master is back!”

Patrick was especially surprised to see Merton waiting in his dormitory, since he had not called him to come back. That was, however, not the only surprise.

Sitting on every bed in the room and resting on several spaces of the floor were numerous stacks of thick newspapers that stood quite a few feet off the ground. Many of the heaps of paper reached up to Patrick’s chin, the ones on the beds towering well over his head. Henri was sitting just a ways behind Merton, the stacks on his own bed leaving just enough room for him to take a place on the edge. Merton was staring earnestly up at Patrick, who now had no choice but to question the house-elf’s intentions.

“Merton, what are you doing here? I didn’t summon you. At least, I don’t think I did,” Patrick said, bringing his hand up to his head, scratching it.

“Oh, but master, sir…Merton waited for almost two weeks. He thought, surely master has forgotten he needed his newspapers. So, here they are…all of them. Just like master said.”

Merton was grinning wildly from one batty ear to the other. Perhaps, he should have been clearer, Patrick thought. He didn’t need every newspaper his dad had collected. He looked around at all the stacks piled in the room. They probably dated back several years and Patrick figured that the ones he wanted couldn’t have been more than three months old.

“Merton, how did you get all of these papers out of the house without my dad seeing?” asked Patrick, knowing that the weekend was a very popular time for Mr. Thatcher to catch up on articles that he might not have had the chance to read during the week.

“It was very easy, sir. Master Charles is away at the Quodpot Final. He has been gone all morning. Merton is knowing he would not be back soon, so he brought master what he was asking for. Merton couldn’t wait any longer.”

Patrick didn’t know what to say to him. If there was one thing that always got the best of Merton, it was his eagerness. It was hardly one of his weaknesses, but his willingness to take on a task coupled with his monotonous daily routine made Merton practically the most motivated house-elf, whether you wanted him to be or not.

“Do you remember which newspapers are which?” asked Patrick.

Merton nodded.

“Good, I need you to take back all the ones that are older than November, okay?”

“Right away, Master Patrick, sir.” Merton turned around on the spot and gave a loud snap of his fingers. All of the newspaper stacks except for one disappeared from the room, leaving the beds and the floor clear, once again. “Is Master Patrick needing anything else?”

“No thanks, Merton. I’ll be fine,” Patrick said, walking toward the single pile of newspapers remaining in the room. “Thanks.”

Patrick smiled back at the elf, as Merton bowed once more then snapped his fingers, disappearing from sight.

“Patrick,” called Henri, now lying comfortably on his bed, “what was your ‘ouse-el’ve doing in ze room?”

“He was bringing me some newspapers,” Patrick said, truthfully. “I just want to know what’s been going on lately.” It didn’t seem to be a good idea to lie to Henri, but Patrick decided to try and cut off their conversation before Henri started to ask more questions. Patrick picked up one of the newspapers from the single stack and tried to bury his face in its pages, but Henri wasn’t as willing to end their chat.

“I wish I knew what was going on, too!” Henri said, sitting up. “First, Elizabeth doesn’t want me as a partner, and zen she cuts me? I don’t understand.”

“Calm down,” William said, who had also grabbed a paper and was sitting on his own bed reading it, his head completely concealed behind the large pages. “So, she hates you…big deal. Don’t worry about it. I’m sure she’ll stop cutting you soon enough.”

Hearing William’s playful comments engaged Patrick more into the conversation and less from the paper. He was afraid that Henri might actually take William’s advice seriously.

“It was all an accident, Henri. She still wants to be your friend and you should really stop ignoring her and give her a chance,” reasoned Patrick.

Henri looked torn between the idea of reconciliation and his own pride. He laid himself back down on his bed, folding his arms behind his head to prop it up.

“Maybe.”

It wasn’t long before Henri was fast asleep and the room was filled with the sound of soft snoring. Patrick and William had searched through half of the newspapers in the pile and were having difficulty in finding many articles about Professor Snerkin or the Quodpot incident. Many of the stories pertaining to them were keep short or had omitted vital information.

“‘Professor Snerkin, Assistant Dean at Wentwater Conservatory of Magic,’” William read aloud, “‘is being questioned at the United States Republic of Magic regarding an incident during an early November Quidditch match. The incident marked the almost tragic beginning of a promising Wentwater Quidditch league that led to the injury of a first-year student, Patrick Thatcher.’ At least they’ve got your name in here,” said William bending down a corner of the page to speak to Patrick. “‘The accidental switch of the Quidditch-standard Quaffle, for Quodpot’s own Quod, not only caused a lot of confusion, but accounted for an unwanted inquiry on the part of Snerkin.’”

“So, all we know is he’s being questioned? How old is that paper,” asked Patrick.

“December 15th,” said William, from behind the periodical. “If they’re only questioning him then they probably think he’s going to help them find out what happened.” William scoffed. “What they don’t know is, he’s not going to help anyone, unless it’ll help him get that compass.”

Patrick quite agreed, but more than understood where they would easily be fooled.

“It makes sense, though. Think about it. You’re the assistant dean to the best Wizarding school in the country. Everyone thinks you’re the best at what you do. There’s no way anyone is going to think he did it.”

William looked as though he was going to attempt to come up with another theory to counter Patrick’s, but he simply flipped another page.

The two of them searched through more of the newspapers finding the references to Professor Snerkin dwindling the closer to the present date they ca. Subsequently, William began turning his focus away from their Allard Hall Master to the sports section, reading articles about the Greenley Gales’ seventh Quodpot Championship win.

Patrick, however, continued to look throughout The Warlock Examiner for more information, but after reading nothing even remotely about the Quodpot incident, he, too, became sidetracked. His attention, unlike William’s, was centered on an article surrounding the United States Republic of Magic and its various agencies.

“William, listen to this,” he said, lowering the newspaper so that his voice could be heard across the room where his best friend was sitting. “‘Several adjustments have been made by President Filibuster regarding many of the employees in numerous sections of the United States Republic of Magic. Areas such as the Wizarding Justice Department and the Agency of Magical Transportation have seen a dramatic shift in the amount of workers and the same departments have even resulted in the replacement of Republic officials. The latest of these replacements has, most notably, forced the substitution of former Wizarding Justice Department Head, Algamus Fairweather with that of Polonius Babbage, senior officer of the Magical Enforcement Office. The switch was approved with a resounding seventy-seven percent majority of the Magical Congress, making it one of the quickest department approvals in years.’”

“That Fairweather guy must not have been very good,” deduced William. “You usually never see a guy fired that’s doing his job.”

“Right, but this isn’t the only article like this. Listen to this one,” said Patrick, setting down the newspaper he was holding and picking up another one. “‘Since the removal of long-employed wizards in many divisions of the United States Republic of Magic, numerous departments are requesting to be informed of changes within the Republic in order to prevent any further losses from their sections,’ finished Patrick, folding the paper in half. “I guess, President Filibuster isn’t worrying about all those articles anymore.”

“He’s got to do his job sometime,” reasoned William. “If he’d just get around to locking up Professor Snerkin, then maybe more wizards would like him.”

Regardless of the articles about President Filibuster’s decisions to remove and replace workers, The Warlock Examiner seemed to have been swayed in favor of news dealing with the president. Patrick and William searched through the remaining papers and couldn’t find a single sentence regarding Professor Snerkin.

Even though their search had returned little by the way of actual information, Patrick still thought it would be a good idea to stay informed should the media suddenly decide they want to actually cover the news. When Merton came to take the stack of newspapers back, Patrick asked whether it would be too much trouble to have the elf sneak the Sunday edition to him and William, in case any big news stories were to break.

Week after week, Patrick found nothing notable in the papers about his hall master. Other than the regular habit of attending classes, Quidditch was the other subject occupying Patrick’s mind. After the other teams completed their matches, Allard Hall managed to take fifth place. Patrick and rest of the team had their work cut out for them in their February match against Mendel, who was only one goal ahead of them in the rankings.

When that Saturday came, it appeared that the match would be an easy win for Mendel, as one of their Chasers, Laverne Spinks, easily scored three goals in the early minutes of the game.

“And that’s three for Spinks! She sure is on fire today!” shouted Eric Stilley from the stands where he was commentating.

Patrick, not wanting to fall into the same hesitance that plagued him in his second match, became more attentive, after catching a falling Quaffle that had been knocked loose from Kyle’s arms.

By the time the match was over, Patrick, Kyle and Josephine had all scored a goal each, all the while allowing Laverne Spinks to add another twenty points to Mendel’s score.

Luckily, Harvey Pinniger’s capture of the Snitch ensured not only an Allard win, but that the team would move up at least one spot in the overall rankings.

Henri and Elizabeth, who were both making efforts, albeit minimal ones, to patch things up, had been able to use Allard’s Quidditch win as a common interest to help bring unity between themselves. They had even managed to sit next to each other in that Thursday’s Transfiguration class. Both Miranda and Jonathan seemed to be pleased with their decision, as they both took a seat together in the back of the classroom.

The class had been diligently working for half-an-hour, concentrating on transfiguring a blue sock into a red boot.

“No, no, Mr. Bartlett,” interrupted Professor Sumpton, as Jacob Bartlett’s sock morphed into a tiny, frilly sock. “A boot, not a bootie.” Professor Sumpton crossed in front of Jacob and made his way to the front of the classroom, passing by Stephanie Topkins who managed to turn her sock orange. Morgan Crowder tried to stuff her unchanged red sock in her text book noticing the frustrated look on Professor Sumpton’s face as he turned around to sit on the edge of his desk. He sighed, rubbing at his eyes.

“In order to perform complete Transfigurations you need to really concentrate on what you’re trying to change. This same principle should be applied in anything you do. You cannot accomplish any of your goals unless you are truly dedicated to what you want to achieve.”

“That didn’t work for Professor Snerkin, did it?” questioned Jonathan from the back of the room. Professor Sumpton looked amused.

“What was that, Mr. Hiller?”

“It’s just,” began Jonathan shakily, apparently thinking that no one other than Miranda had heard his comment. “Professor Snerkin seemed pretty dedicated to knocking Patrick off his broom. He must not have concentrated enough because he was found out and he’s been gone from school for four months.”

“You see, Mr. Hiller,” said Professor Sumpton confidently, “our government has the ability to detect those persons who wish harm onto others, even if they are the most dedicated in their endeavors. To be honest, as dedicated as Mr. Snerkin may have been, he and his accomplice lacked the intelligence to carry-out a plan as complex as his. Fortunately,” he turned his eyes to Patrick, inertly, “Mr. Thatcher’s reflexes were a lot better than, perhaps, anyone had expected. How he managed to maintain his grip is beyond me.”

Professor Sumpton remained rigidly still as he spoke, the topic seeming to be a private subject for him to discuss. It was no secret that Professor Sumpton was the son of a prominent figure in the Republic of Magic and Patrick imagined that whatever information he knew about Professor Snerkin had to have been both important and confidential.

“Patrick iz incredible,” defended Henri. “He’s the only first-year to make a hall Quidditch team.”

The Garrisons began to mutter quietly from around the room. Patrick started to slump a little in his chair. As flattering as Henri’s comment was, he couldn’t help thinking back to the letter suggesting that he had been placed on the Allard Hall team for the sole purpose of being a target of Professor Snerkin.
“And,” continued Elizabeth, “he’s the nicest person I’ve ever met.” Patrick blushed, being able to humbly take credit for Elizabeth’s comment.

“Well, it seems that Mr. Thatcher is also very fortunate to have acquired a bit of a fan club,” commented Professor Sumpton, his eyebrow raised. “And, I’m sure he’s most pleased to have such supportive friends. However, you will not be tested on the admirable qualities that Mr. Bellew and Ms. Crane have so graciously pointed out.” His voice was becoming slightly irritated. “If they could, perhaps, demonstrate the proper way to transfigure their socks, our time would be more valuably spent.”

Henri and Elizabeth, both unable to perform the current assignment, did not respond to Professor Sumpton’s question.

“Right,” he continued, moving stiffly toward Henri. “As I was saying, it takes extreme concentration for one to accomplish their task. Or else, it may turn….” Professor Sumpton picked up Henri’s sock, waved his wand over it turning it into a large boot. Instead of turning a perfect blue as the class had been instructed to do, the shoe remained red. Even more curious still, the boot didn’t bear any of the familiar exterior aspects one would expect from a shoe. It looked as though it had been engulfed entirely by the red cotton sock that Professor Sumpton had just transfigured.

“It may turn into something like this,” he said holding up the cotton boot. “Now, unless you’re purposely trying to sabotage your daily assignments or are just looking to fail my class, I’d advise you to stay away from continuing to produce items of this nature. Understand?”

The class nodded their heads and Professor Sumpton waved his wand over the boot, turning it back into a sock and setting before Henri, on his desk. For the remaining half an hour, the Allards and Garrisons tried harder than before at trying to transfigure their socks. None of them wanted to find out exactly what would happen should they continue to present lackluster transformations to Professor Sumpton.

The Allards continued to give their best efforts in class, as the weeks in February passed by. The remaining four halls completed their Quidditch matches and all of the Allard team was overjoyed to discover that they were now only forty points from taking second place from Kinsey Hall.

“Our next match against Rylan, isn’t for a few weeks, but as long as we buckle down we’ll be able to take them down said Harvey, addressing the Allard team at the end of one of their Quidditch practices. “They had a bit of trouble against Templeton, and even though we had our own troubles with them,” he said trying not to turn an eye at Patrick, “we shouldn’t have a problem taking second place.”

The thought of winning the first ever Wentwater Quidditch Cup ran through Patrick’s mind, like it had taken to doing every so often since he had made the team, as he tucked away his Cleansweep in his locker and left the Quidditch field. Patrick had only walked for a few minutes when he noticed Professor Obelus shuffling toward him, his flurry of white hair waving about in the faint breeze.

“Ah, Mr. Thatcher, so glad I’ve found you,” breathed Professor Obelus, adjusting his oval-shaped glasses.

“Do you need something, professor?” Patrick asked, wondering what business Professor Obelus could possibly have with him.

“Oh no, not me,” he laughed. “Professor Montgomery. He’s been meaning to speak with you and he asked if I could fetch you for him. Naturally, I obliged.”

What had happened that was so important that Professor Montgomery needed to see him about? Had he finally heard word of Patrick’s escapades in the Templeton Common Room and decided to ignore Professor Snerkin’s decision and punish him? That would have meant that he would have also called for William and Elizabeth and Patrick guessed that Professor Obelus would have surely mentioned them had they also been needed by their school dean.

Maybe someone finally noticed Professor Snerkin’s book had gone missing from his desk and traced it back to Patrick. There must be some policy against taking something from the possession of a teacher, whether he was at school or not. It seemed completely unfathomable for Patrick to come up with a reason that didn’t involve him being punished in some form or another.

“Well, you should be on your way, then,” he said, cheerily. He began to turn away to walk back to the grounds before Patrick stopped him.

“Excuse me, professor,” Patrick started, “but, I…I don’t know where Professor Montgomery’s office is.”

“Oh hoh, of course you don’t. You wouldn’t be going there unless you had gotten yourself into some kind of trouble. Not,” he paused suddenly, looking entirely serious at this point, “that you’re in any sort of trouble now, I don’t think.”

Patrick didn’t feel very reassured. The sun had already begun to set as they began walking back to the grounds.

“You know, your grandfather is quite the remarkable wizard,” Professor Obelus said, airily. “What a story his is, eh, Patrick? Just amazing!”

“Yeah,” Patrick said, quietly. With his mind on Professor Montgomery’s business, Patrick wasn’t particularly interested in discussing the accomplishments of his grandfather.

Professor Obelus had led Patrick inside the Allard Hall Building, taking an immediate right to the Garrison side of the building.

“He’s gone through so much, it’s just so amazing that he’s been able to keep himself from going insane.”

“Right,” Patrick said, guffawing softly underneath his breath. Judging by his last sentence, Patrick was beginning to wonder if Professor Obelus was talking about the same Grandpa Thatcher that Patrick grew up with.

“Goodness, I feel like I’m babbling on…it isn’t much farther, anyhow.” The pair of them took a series of turns down several halls, finally coming to a thin and narrow one with a wall covered from top to bottom in a large parchment at the far end. As they stepped closer, Patrick noticed an inkwell and quill sitting on the columns that surrounded the parchment on both sides.

“The password should be,” Professor Obelus thought aloud, as he reached for the quill, scraping off the excess ink on the edge of the well. He lifted the feather up to the wall and quickly scribbled something in thin, slanted writing. Patrick managed to read the word, “Crup” before the black ink dissolved completely into the paper. What Patrick saw next took him by surprise.

Where Professor Snerkin’s tapestry simply rolled up to reveal a hidden door, the parchment leading to Professor Montgomery’s office began to slowly fold itself like an accordion down to the floor, revealing an even narrower hall than the one Professor Obelus and Patrick were currently standing in. Patrick peered inside the walls, looking down to find a seemingly bottomless depth. Professor Obelus placed a hand on Patrick’s shoulder preventing him from coming any closer; and for good reason, too. Once the parchment finally finished folding, it slid up the hall forming a stairway, at least forty-feet high, leading up the hidden hall. Patrick was standing, cautiously, in front of the newly created stairway, unsure of whether it was safe to continue.

“Go on, go on,” prodded Professor Obelus. “Just give the door a knock, he’ll answer.”

He winked and smiled before turning around and heading back out the building. Patrick waved, halfheartedly, and started to ascend the stairs up to Professor Montgomery’s office. The narrow hall was rather dark, the only light coming from a pair of lanterns at the top of the stairs. As he approached the door, Patrick made one last attempt to figure out why he was being summoned. He couldn’t tell if it was due to his building nervousness or the heat from the lanterns as he climbed, but there was something about meeting Professor Montgomery that was making Patrick sweat.

Patrick stood at the top of the stairs, his nose inches from the white wooden door. He tapped feebly three times, figuring it was no use prolonging whatever business he was needed for and perhaps, if he knocked quiet enough, he wouldn’t have to enter. He stood in silence for a second, before the door flung open. Patrick stepped inside, craning his neck around to appraise the office.

It was a very large, rectangular room. Arranged all around the highest portion of the wall were what Patrick could only have imagined were portraits of previous Wentwater Deans. They were sitting gracefully; about fifteen to twenty of them. The setting sun’s waning light was entering through a window to Patrick’s left and there was another to his right, situated behind an old desk where Professor Montgomery was sitting.

“Ah, Patrick you’re here!” called Professor Montgomery, noticing Patrick’s head peering from outside the doorway. “Come in, come in, don’t be shy.”

Patrick stepped inside the office a bit more confidently. Judging by his tone, Professor Montgomery didn’t seem as though he invited Patrick to his office for punishment, which helped somewhat to ease Patrick’s mind.

“Come over here and have a seat,” waved Montgomery.

As he advanced to one of the seats in front of Montgomery’s desk, Patrick couldn’t help noticing the large globe on his left and the various maps that adorned the walls. Resting on a column behind Professor Montgomery, Patrick recognized the case used to hold the Placement Ball as he took a seat in one of the two chairs set before the dean’s desk.

“I’ve been meaning to speak with you for some time now,” Professor Montgomery began, adjusting himself in his seat. “If I recall correctly, there was a bit of a letter mix up between you and your friend Mr. Quinn.”

Patrick relaxed even more. He wasn’t here to be punished at all; he was here to discuss his letter. Patrick perked up a bit, hoping that through this conversation he would be able to gather some answers.

“That’s right, sir.”

“Luckily, it seems that you and Mr. Quinn have become rather close since the incident.”

Patrick nodded. His curiosity was beginning to get the best of him again.

“Do you know what happened, professor?” asked Patrick, earnestly. “With my letter?"

Professor Montgomery, sighed and rubbed at his eyes.

“I wish I knew what happened, Mr. Thatcher. Professor Snerkin is most efficient when to comes to things of that nature. No one has been able to figure out exactly what happened and when word reached Pennsylvania of your family’s visit to inquire about your letter, the Republic of Magic practically insisted that a Republic member fill the Transfiguration position.”

“So, Professor Sumpton was hired because the Republic was worried about me?” asked Patrick incredulously.

“Well, in a sense yes,” started Montgomery, leaning forward on his desk. “Professor Goodstock resigned from his position rather abruptly during the summer and I was already scrambling to find a suitable teacher to take his place.” He paused for a moment, just long enough to chuckle to himself. “To be honest, the suggestion of Professor Sumpton made my job much easier. Time was winding down and there was no way I could refuse the son of Timothy Sumpton to join our staff. Such an upstanding father could only produce a son of similar magical ability and I was very glad to add him.”

“So,” said Patrick, trying to understand, “other than needing another teacher why was Professor Sumpton brought here?”

“Like I said, Mr. Thatcher, the Republic was concerned after your family came to the school, especially with the history your family has.” Patrick knew Professor Montgomery was, no doubt, referring to his grandpa. “But yes, In addition to monitoring any similar occurrences, Professor Sumpton was to make sure that nothing further jeopardized your first year at Wentwater. And well,” Professor Montgomery tugged at the collar of his robes, “he wasn’t able to completely prevent you from harm in your first Quidditch match, I’m afraid.”

Patrick wondered just what Professor Sumpton was doing when Patrick was spiraling down toward the ground at that same Quidditch match. How exactly was Professor Sumpton supposed to protect Patrick if he couldn’t prevent him from plunging hundreds of feet?

“Um…Professor?” Patrick said, unsure of how Professor Montgomery would respond to his question.

“Yes? Go on.”

“What’s going on with Professor Snerkin?” If the newspapers couldn’t tell him anything, the dean of the school surely could.

“Ah, funny you should mention that.” Professor Montgomery reached for one of the drawers in his desk and withdrew a group of envelopes. He pulled out a pair of tiny spectacles, placing them on the edge of his nose and riffled through the stack until he lifted one out and placed the rest back into the drawer.

“I’ve just been informed that he is ready to come back and join us here at Wentwater.”

Patrick was in disbelief. Professor Snerkin was getting off scot-free? Professor Snerkin couldn’t have been deemed prepared enough to return to teach. No, they didn’t question him enough. They just didn’t have enough evidence, that’s all. Patrick pondered for a second about turning over the letter he found, but explaining how he took it from a book in Professor Snerkin’s desk might not help his case. It also didn’t help that Professor Snerkin deliberately left his name off the letter which, from an outsider’s view, might have seem to be forged.

“Are you sure he’s�”he’s ready to come back?” asked Patrick, hoping that somehow Snerkin’s name was mentioned by mistake.

“Oh, I’m sure he’s more than ready and eager to return And,” he said, handing the envelope he was holding toward Patrick. “If you could do me a favor and take this letter to the Owlery, on his behalf, he should be able to return in time for classes on Monday,” he finished, smiling.

Patrick took the envelope in his hands, reading the inked words “Polonius Babbage, United States Republic of Magic” across it.

“Um…sure, professor,” Patrick said, meekly.

“Thank you very much, Mr. Thatcher, I appreciate it. Hopefully the rest of your school year will be pleasant.”

Patrick gave a weak smile, rose from his seat and made his way out the office. As he walked he realized what he was holding in his hands. He had the power to see that the letter he was holding never got sent. It could have been very easy to toss the envelope in the lanterns just outside Montgomery’s office and forget entirely about Professor Snerkin’s return, but it was much easier said than done. Professor Montgomery entrusted the task to him and if for whatever reason the letter didn’t get sent, Montgomery would know that Patrick was to blame.

Patrick tucked the letter in his robe pocket, following the same route out of the hall that Professor Obelus had shown him. Regardless of the logic he already discovered, the temptation to somehow destroy the envelope grew, the closer he came to the Owlery. Once he finally made it to the tall building behind the Historic Hall, he reluctantly tied the letter to the leg of one of Wentwater’s barn owls. He stepped cautiously over the owl droppings that littered the straw floor of the building to release the bird out one of the glassless windows. Patrick watched the bird’s large wings flap rhythmically and couldn’t help but think that he would be responsible for releasing the man who could attack him upon returning to the post of Charms.

Before he left the Owlery, Patrick browsed the hundreds of owls, looking up high trying to find his own owl, Icarus. Seeing no sign of him, he simply figured that he was out looking for food to eat, since Patrick had kept the bag of owl treats unopened in his trunk.

By now, it was dinnertime and Patrick was in no rush to get to the Dining Hall. He couldn’t imagine what William would say after he found out that Patrick would be responsible for bring Professor Snerkin back. William, Elizabeth, and Henri were sitting in the middle of the Allard Hall table, already chomping down on a fillet of beef and corn, when Patrick plopped down and began to fill his own silver plate with food.

“How was practice, Patrick,” asked Elizabeth, from across the table.

“Fine,” he said, shooting a quick look at Elizabeth. “Fine, we’ve still got a good chance at winning the cup.”

“I ‘ope so. Jason MacDuffie ‘as been bozzering me in Herbology about how the Rylans will win ze championship,” muttered Henri, obviously annoyed.

William took a second from devouring the mashed potatoes on his plate resting the fork idly between his fingers.

“What took you so long? Gerald and the rest of the team got here almost thirty minutes ago.
Patrick didn’t want to break the news to William so soon, at least not here in the Dining Hall. After all, the rest of the Allards would find out soon enough once Professor Snerkin returned, and it wasn’t as though they needed to know immediately. The one person who really needed to know about Professor Snerkin’s return was the same one who had been asked to send off a letter to bring him back.

“I ran into Professor Obelus,” Patrick said aloud. “I’ll tell you about it later,” he continued to William, under his breath.

“I know what you mean,” ranted Elizabeth. “Once he starts talking, you can’t get him to stop.”

At this point, Patrick wished that the owl would somehow get lost on the way to the Republic of Magic, otherwise, Professor Sumpton’s job of protecting Patrick would be far from over.

“What do you mean you sent the letter?” asked William, in utter disbelief. They were sitting in the Allard Common room, back in one of the far corners at a wooden table. “You just let him walk back in here so he can try and get the compass again?”

“I didn’t have a choice,” reasoned Patrick. “If the letter never got sent it couldn’t have been anyone else’s fault except for mine.”

“Tell him you couldn’t do it. Tell him you didn’t know where the Owlery was, tell him anything so you didn’t have to take the letter,” shot William.

“It wouldn’t have mattered.” Patrick said, helplessly. “If I told him I couldn’t do it, he would have just found someone else to take it or would have done it himself. No matter what, the letter would have been sent.”

“Well, looks like you’re in trouble again. Professor Snerkin is coming back and we can’t do anything about it.”

Patrick released a weak smile.

“Maybe, we don’t have to.”

“What do you mean?” asked William, uncertainly, raising an eyebrow. “He’s not going to just leave you alone.”

“When I was talking to Professor Montgomery, he told me that he hired Professor Sumpton to look after me.”

William was suddenly intrigued, opening his mouth to question, “Look after you? Like babysitting?”

“Like monitoring,” explained Patrick. “Check on things to make sure nothing happens to me, I guess.”

“Well, finally you’re making sense.” William pronounced. “What did I tell you? Everyone was making a big deal out of him for nothing. That’s why he stayed here over the break, he was questioning Professor Pennipot. He wasn’t able to stop Professor Snerkin the first time, but now that he’s coming back, he knows who he should be looking out for.”

“You think Professor Sumpton’ll catch him doing something, this time?” queried Patrick.

“He’s got a much better chance now. He’s got it narrowed down for him.” William threw his hands behind his head and sat back, balancing himself on two of his chair’s four legs. “If he doesn’t catch him now, you might as well go into hiding.”

Patrick hoped that it would never have to come to the point where he’d have to conceal himself for the rest of his life. However, once the idea set in that Professor Sumpton was here to protect him, Patrick was able to ease his mind a bit, at least throughout the rest of the weekend.

By Sunday night, word of Professor Snerkin’s return spread throughout the Allard Hall while, ironically, there hadn’t been a word about Snerkin’s release in the Sunday edition of The Warlock Examiner that Merton had dropped off earlier that day. While flipping through Magical Properties of Plants, Patrick was approached by Elizabeth to see if he had yet heard the news.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” admitted Patrick. “So does William.”

Elizabeth had been so busy with repairing her relationship with Henri, Patrick and William hadn’t bothered to tell her about the letter they found. Since then, Patrick didn’t have any desire to go out of his way to update her and decided he’d keep the information that Professor Montgomery revealed to him a secret, as well.

“I know how William feels about Professor Snerkin being behind that whole Quidditch accident. Whatever you and William find out, I want to find out.” Elizabeth looked seriously at Patrick now, he could tell that she meant business. “If anything happens, anything at all…I want to know about it.”

“Uh…right, Elizabeth,” Patrick agreed, reluctantly. “F-from now on, if anything happens…I’ll be sure to tell you.”

“You better.”

Elizabeth looked at Patrick warily before retreating from the common room to the girls’ dormitories. Even as Patrick made his way to bed, the common room was brewing with the chattering of Allard students wide awake, anticipating their hall master’s return.

As Tuesday’s Charms class drew ever nearer, the Allards’ fought with extreme difficulty through their first lesson Monday morning. If at all possible, Patrick and William paid even less attention in Magic History class, and the only portion of Professor Mott’s lesson that the two of them had been sure they heard, pertained to the part where they had been dismissed for the afternoon.

“Does anyone know what we were doing in there?” Elizabeth asked, taking her copy of A Historical Look at Magic and putting it in her book bag.

“I don’t know, but I think Profezzor Mott was paying more attention to ze Mendels anyway,” figured Henri.

“You mean she actually looked at us?” questioned William. “Did she accidentally drop her book or something?”

The four of them left Professor Mott’s classroom from the Garrison side of the Allard Hall building and headed toward the Dining Hall to grab lunch before they had to depart for Professor Marigold’s class. As they turned the corner, leaving behind Magic History, they saw none other than Professor Sumpton advancing down the hall toward them, his neat hair bouncing in time with his uniformed step. Easily, Patrick’s new favorite teacher, Professor Sumpton tucked his hands behind his back and addressed the first-years.

“Good afternoon,” he greeted, “I trust you four are having a pleasant day, so far?”

“Yes, Professor,” the group said, simultaneously, nodding their heads.

“I was wondering if I could have a word with you, Mr. Thatcher…”

“Okay,” Patrick replied. Noticing Professor Sumpton’s intention of making their conversation private, the remaining three Allards sidled around the hall.

“We’ll see you in a bit, Patrick,” called Elizabeth, now several feet away. William, Elizabeth, and Henri were marching quickly ahead, leaving Patrick and Professor Sumpton alone in the hall.

“How exactly have you been since your…well, incident last year?” Professor Sumpton questioned, trying to speak delicately about it, while beginning to walk briskly down the hall. Patrick followed behind him, his hand brushing slightly against Professor Sumpton’s billowing scarlet robe.

“It’s…been okay,” Patrick responded. “I haven’t ran into much trouble since then. I just hope I can finish the year without any more problems.”

“Well, hopefully, you won’t have to worry about anything else. The last thing this school needs is another accident…whether you’re involved with it or not,” he smiled.

Patrick pondered for a second about what Professor Montgomery had told him in his office. He never really had the chance to speak to Professor Sumpton privately before, or at least never wanted to, and now his head was filled with potential questions.

“Sir,” he began, “Professor Montgomery told me that you were hired to protect me?”

He laughed.

“Really? He told you that?” Patrick could tell that he was fighting to hold back a grin. “Well, I don’t know how accurate ‘protect’ is…watch over you, more like. I can only be in so many places at one time that it would be most impractical to try and protect you and teach Transfiguration at the same time.”

“What about Professor Snerkin? He’s back now, isn’t he?” Patrick wanted to know how exactly Professor Sumpton planned to watch over him now that the man responsible for his Quidditch accident returned.

“That’s why I wanted to have this brief chat with you,” he said. The two of them were standing in the entrance hall of the Allard Hall building now. “I just want you to know, that if you ever feel that you’re in danger or need to talk to someone, I strongly encourage you to come to me with whatever problem you have. I’m here to help you and I can only do that if you let me. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Patrick, a feeling of tremendous relief flushing over him. It was a great to know that regardless of whatever happened in the final months of the school year, that Patrick had an ally if anymore predicaments were to arise.

“I’ve got to start my next class soon, but you remember, I’m always here if you need my help.”

Patrick nodded rapidly as Professor Sumpton smiled and headed out the building to the Wentwater grounds. There was no doubt in Patrick’s mind that were his services needed, they would more than likely be used.

A loud, disruptive roar from his stomach reminded Patrick that it was lunchtime. His mind flickered to his owl, Icarus, and how competitive it must be for him trying to find food alongside the other barn owls at Wentwater. It had only been two days, but Patrick still hadn’t seen Icarus turn up in the Owlery and he was suddenly beginning to worry about his whereabouts. Lying unused in his room were the treats that Mrs. Thatcher had so prudently purchased for her son and his owl. Patrick finally felt it might be a good idea to actually make use of them should Icarus ever decide to return to school.

After running quickly up to his dormitory and grabbing the package of snacks that were shoved snugly in the side of his trunk, Patrick made his way out of the Allard Hall Building and stopped by the Owlery before heading to the Dining Hall to join the other Allards for lunch.

There were owls flying in and out of the glassless windows and several more perched in various places inside the building. Patrick was nearly attacked by several swooping birds that, at once, spotted the bag of food he had carried into their home. A quick perusal of the room was enough to let Patrick know that his owl had not yet returned, prompting him to stuff the treats back into his bag and turn around to grab lunch before his Herbology lesson began.

“What did Profezzor Zumpton want?” asked Henri, after Patrick found a seat at the Allard Hall table.

Patrick, who knew that Henri had not been kept informed on any of the things going on with the compass, fished around for an excuse to give him.

“I-I made a mistake on last week’s quiz that he wanted to clear up with me,” Patrick lied. The look on William’s face was as though he could easily tell that the real reason had nothing to do with a quiz, especially considering Patrick had done exceptionally well on their last one. Patrick took a quick look over at Elizabeth and had garnered the same skeptical expression.

“I’ll tell you later,” mouthed Patrick, as Henri took a large bite of his sandwich, covering his face just long enough to prevent him from seeing the words Patrick formed soundlessly to William and Elizabeth.

When the four of them arrived in their Herbology greenhouse, Professor Marigold’s face was an elated shade of pink and her hair was dangling about her face instead of being tied back into a bun as it usually was.

“Hurry, hurry, we must get started,” she chimed, clasping her gloved hands together and waiting for her students to take their regular spaces in the room. The Allards and Rylans piled in, no longer phased by their teacher’s abnormal enthusiasm. Patrick sat between Elizabeth and William, Henri finding a place on Elizabeth’s left.
“We,” Professor Marigold continued, giddily, “will be pruning your very own, Gribbleworts. It’s been about six months since you’ve planted their seeds and now you can see just how much they’ve grown!”

Professor Marigold moved to her right, grabbing a single pot with one of the ugliest plants Patrick had ever seen, off a shelf with several more similar items. The branches looked to be a squishy, clear-white color, like some sort of worm. Visible through the clear outer covering of the branches, were thin limbs that extended from the base of the plant, twisting outward into a shape, not unlike a corkscrew. As she approached the class, Patrick was taken even more aback at noticing that the branches were slightly pulsing, swelling only slightly before returning back to their original size.

“Now, normally, these take ten months to grow, but I was able to speed things up a bit with a handful of Mooncalf dung,” Professor Marigold announced, paying no attention to Henri’s repulsed face as she set the pot down in front of him.

“What did he say?” nagged Elizabeth from Patrick’s left.

“Here? Now?” moaned Patrick, putting on gloves.

“Tell us!” insisted William from the right..

“You promised you’d tell me,” Elizabeth harped, turning a familiar wary eye on Patrick. He was about to respond to Elizabeth, but Professor Marigold had dropped another Gribblewort in front of her and situated one between him and William.

“I hope you don’t mind if you two share,” Professor Marigold said, looking at the two of them. “I don’t believe you got a chance to plant one, Mr. Quinn.”

She turned on her heel to grab more plants to deliver to the remaining students.

“That’s because you didn’t give me the chance,” added William, under his breath, staring at the unsightly white plant separating him from Patrick.

“You’re going to need to carefully slip the white outer layer off and drop it into the soil. It can be used as its own fertilizer,” Professor Marigold instructed, still handing out pots. “Don’t touch that,” Professor Marigold snapped, watching Simon Thornfield reach out to grab one of the branches. “You’re going to need your gloves. You don’t want to touch an unpruned Gribblewort directly. They leave an ugly rash on your hands, very strange colors and nasty to get off. Although, these are freshly grown Gribbleworts so you won’t have to worry too much.”

Upon hearing this, Henri quickly fished out his dragon-hide gloves from his book bag and slipped them over his hands. Elizabeth, who looked as though she was in the midst of bothering Patrick again, followed suit.

“Well,” prodded William once more, his gloves safely on his hands. “What did Professor Sumpton want you for?”

Patrick sighed.

“Because Professor Snerkin is back, he�””

“Hey, over here, too!” interrupted Elizabeth, forcing her voice to a whisper, obviously feeling ignored.

“I said,” strained Patrick, trying to position himself so that William and Elizabeth alone could hear him. “Because Professor Snerkin is back, he wanted me to come to him if I ever feel like I’m in danger.”

“You’re going to let him help you, aren’t you?” asked Elizabeth.

“What a stupid question,” added William, “of course he is. He’s not trying to get attacked again.”

“I probably won’t need to see Professor Sumpton,” explained Patrick, “but he’s really the only choice I have. There’s not much I can do.”

Patrick managed to slip one of the white layers off a branch of the Gribblewort, dropping it into the soil as Professor Marigold instructed. Amazingly, the remains of the outer covering burrowed quickly down into the dirt, making Patrick’s earlier observation of its worm-like appearance even more accurate.

Henri, who had been too busy poking the plant than trying to prune it, leaned over toward the three of them.

“’ave you guys figured out how to prune thees plants yet?”

Both William and Elizabeth looked at Patrick, as he was the only one out of the four of them who had even bothered to attempt the day’s lesson. Patrick slightly tilted his head back to address Henri directly, peering around Elizabeth.

“You’ve just got to squeeze it a bit when you pull,” helped Patrick, trying his best to ignore Elizabeth’s glare. “It should slide right off, then.”

Henri turned back to his plant, but Elizabeth moved her head in front of Patrick, obstructing his ability to see if Henri had managed to follow the instructions correctly.

“You’re not holding anything out from me, are you Patrick?” Elizabeth asked. Her gloved hands were wrapped around the base of her pot and she was peering out the corner of her eye at Patrick.

“No, no,” assured Patrick, “he didn’t say anything else.”

“What about Professor Snerk�”,” began Elizabeth, but her sentence was interrupted by her own shrieking scream. She quickly tore off her left glove and found a wormy Gribblewort exterior slouching along the back of her hand. She didn’t hesitate to snatch the pulsing membrane off of her skin and drop it furiously into the soil of her own plant.

“I’m so sorry,” apologized Henri from Elizabeth’s left. “Eet jumped out of my ‘ands. I theenk I squeezed eet too ‘ard.”

Professor Marigold, hearing the scream from across the room, rounded over to Henri and Elizabeth. Her concerned eyes fell onto Elizabeth’s left hand, which, as Patrick now noticed, had a small patch of red spread across it.

“Now, don’t panic. Like I said, these are freshly grown, so this will only get a little bit worse,” said Professor Marigold, holding Elizabeth’s hand, inspecting it closer.

“It’s going to get worse?” said Elizabeth, alarmed.

“Not much. Go on to the Hospital Ward. Mrs. Hortshorne shouldn’t have any trouble cleaning this up.”

Elizabeth rose quickly from her seat holding her infected hand as far out in front of her, leading the way out of the greenhouse.

“She’ll be fine,” Professor Marigold assured, “but this only goes to show that you need to pay full attention to what you’re doing.” She paced around her students and their plants. “Just like their seeds, the Gribblewort, when unattached to the branch, has a tendency to want to leap from the grasp of others.”

William leaned in toward Henri who had slumped on his stool, staring at his plant, and tossed a few words at him.

“Wow, I’m surprised, Henri” he said, directing his voice around Patrick. “I didn’t think you’d try and get Elizabeth back after that Charms class. That was pretty sneaky.”

“I didn’t mean to do zat!” defended Henri, not unlike the way Elizabeth defended herself after their disastrous Potions lesson. “Eet was an accident.”

Herbology ended without any more mishaps, all further accidents carefully avoided by the Allards and Rylans’ unwanted desire to be covered in colorful blemishes.

The three of them didn’t see Elizabeth again until the next morning before their Charms class, which marked their first lesson with Professor Snerkin since his return. Luckily, Elizabeth didn’t overreact to Henri’s mistake and any arguments Patrick thought would have risen, didn’t. Patrick did, however, find Elizabeth’s account of her stay in the Hospital Ward mildly relaxing, in that, it momentarily took his mind off their impending lesson.

“She rubbed this thick white paste on my hand,” explained Elizabeth, staring at the spot where the rash had once been. “It didn’t hurt, but I couldn’t move my fingers for a while. She said she had to keep me overnight just to make sure it didn’t come back.”

Unfortunately, Elizabeth’s story was horribly short, and the only thing Patrick could do when heading to Charms was to try and walk slower than normal in an attempt to prolong having to face Professor Snerkin. It might have worked if Henri had not began asking why they were moving so slow.

They had not arrived late to Professor Snerkin’s classroom, but all the seats had been filled with Allards and Mendels except for four chairs in the very front of the room. Being led by William, Patrick reluctantly took a seat in the chair at the farthest left and quickly grabbed his textbook from his bookbag and set it on the table.

Seconds later, Professor Snerkin entered the classroom from behind his students. He was wearing robes of a pale green and his gait seemed to have carried less of a sense of urgency than it once did.

“Good morning, class,” he addressed. Patrick fought at first to avoid making eye contact with his teacher, but couldn’t help giving in. Professor Snerkin looked even less presentable than he normally did, faint bags clearly visible underneath his eyes. Patrick was beginning to wonder just what exactly he had gone through while away at the Republic of Magic.

“Dean Montgomery has filled me in on the lessons that have been covered thus far,” said Professor Snerkin. Even his voice lacked the youthfulness the Allards were used to. “So…we should be able to pick up right where he left off.”

Their lesson was spent reviewing all the material that Professor Montgomery had taught them. Professor Snerkin went over several pages in the textbook, asking questions of the class only when wanting to insure that his students understood a specific concept.

Interestingly, the whole class period went by without Patrick being asked a single question. Everyone present had been called on once, twice in the case of Zoe Morrison, to answer Professor Snerkin, except for Patrick. Even more curious was the fact that Professor Snerkin had not even looked at Patrick during the whole of their lesson. The thought that perhaps he, Patrick, had just never caught his teacher’s eye, crossed his mind, but he figured it too rare to not make contact at least once.

“What are you complaining about?” asked William, later, after they returned to the common room. “This is a good thing. That means he’s leaving you alone. You don’t have anything to worry about anymore.”

“Just because he ignored me doesn’t mean that he’s just going to stop doing whatever he’s got going on. He’s doing it on purpose. To make it look like he’s not interested anymore. I’m not any safer than I used to be.”

Patrick definitely didn’t think his problems could have disappeared so easily, but it became increasingly harder to refute William’s opinion. Over the next few weeks, Patrick and Professor Snerkin’s interaction in-class not only continued to be nonexistent, but even their encounters at various places around the school usually had Professor Snerkin making a quick turn to avoid having to come within any distance of Patrick.

The thought that now he was back at school he would attempt another stunt during the next Quidditch match was quickly defeated, as well.

Four Saturdays into March, the Allards faced their fourth match of the season against Rylan, the results of this match setting the tone for the Inter-Hall Final. Patrick and the rest of the Allards tried not to be shaken by Professor Snerkin’s return, but the lopsided two goals to eight in favor of Rylan, proved that there was more on the Chasers’ minds than earning points.

Instead of trying to rally up the team and distract himself from adding points, himself, Harvey managed to edge out Rylan Seeker, Annie Blevins for the Snitch and secure a ninety point victory.

“It’s not that bad,” said William, after the match. “Now, we’re up a hundred points over Kinsey. All we’ve got to do is beat Garrison.”

“Yeah, but they’re up one-hundred and forty points,” replied Patrick, hopelessly. “They’ve never lost a game.”

“One of them,” rounded William, quickly. “Was a tie.”

Patrick and William both stopped by the Owlery so see if Icarus had yet returned before heading back to Allard Hall. The two of them slouched in chairs, Patrick’s owl treats still unopened, and listened to the various chatter that regularly filled the common room.

A bright flash of lights came from the other end of the room where Henri and Jonathan Hiller had, apparently, just finished a hand of Sizzling Flip. As usual, there were cards floating down to the floor and an outburst of arguments over which player actually won. Their debate, momentarily, gathered much of the attention in the common room.

“I won fair and square!” shouted Jonathan, his hands spread firmly out on the table.

“No, you didn’t. You put down two cards last time. You don’t win eef you don’t play fair.” Henri was picking up the stack of cards furiously from on the table. “And eef you don’t play fair, you don’t play.”

Jonathan didn’t stick around to argue further, but simply stalked off toward the dormitories leaving Henri to continue picking up cards off the table and floor.

“Stupid, Jonathan,” uttered Henri, sticking the deck of cards into its box. “’E theenks ‘e can cheat, ‘e is not going to play with me anymore. “Ere, Patrick, you ‘ave them.”

He extended the pack forward angrily, the deck pointing directly between Patrick’s eyes.

“Um…thanks,” replied Patrick, unsure of exactly what to say. He understood why he was giving them away, however. Jonathan was the only student willing to play with Henri and now, he had no use for them. Patrick took the cards, placed them in his robe pocket while, Henri found a spot on the couch to rest.

“Why don’t you play a different game? Like Gobstones?”suggested William. “Or Wizard’s Chess?”

‘I’ll theenk about it. I’m not very good at anytzing except ‘Zizzling Flip, though.”

There wasn’t much left to do with the rest of the day. Patrick spent much of the remaining hours finishing his work for the upcoming week of school, while William and Henri chatted more about different games that might be suitable now that Henri had, at least for now, abandoned Sizzling Flip. Paul and Douglas took a few minutes from studying for their C.A.T.s to badger Patrick about his Quidditch performance earlier that day.

Exhausted from working, Patrick collapsed on his bed, barely bothering to cover himself in a blanket and drifted to sleep.

Although not entirely awake, Patrick could still periodically hear the dormitory door open and close. A voice would speak occasionally, none too loud to prevent Patrick from falling back asleep again. Sounds floated among Patrick’s ear. All kinds of them: the drapes of a four-poster sliding along its overhead bar, the creaking of mattresses as the other Allard boys shuffled around in their beds, and even the snores that most likely belonged to Henri that wallowed through the room. None of these sounds, though, had been loud enough to give Patrick any reason to shift from his comfortable spot.

Suddenly, a crack rang within the room, and although much louder than any of the other sounds he had heard, Patrick pushed it aside and continued to rest. Or, he would have rested if the earlier voices hadn’t returned. There was only one at first, then joined by another…and another yet. Patrick would have ignored these sounds, too, if he did not feel the firm tug on his robe sleeve.

“Master must wake up,” squeaked a voice.. “Very big news, today. Master is needing to read today’s paper.”

Patrick rolled his head from his pillow and brought a finger to his eye, rubbing lazily at it, trying to remove the drowsiness that had set in. After his eye had regained its ability to see, Patrick realized his nose was inches away from the largest, bold-faced headline he had ever seen, that read: “Sumpton Questions Snerkin’s Release at Saturday’s Session.” There was a wide picture directly below it that depicted President Filibuster alongside an irritated Timothy Sumpton. They were sitting at a long table but appeared to be turned away from each other.

“What’s going on?” grumbled a drowsy Simon Thornfield.

“Is that your house-elf?” called Jonathan Hiller, from the bed on Patrick’s left.

“Yeah,” answered Patrick. “What are you doing here so early?” he asked, turning to Merton, who was peering over the large Sunday edition of The Warlock Examiner to reveal his floppy ears. “My dad hasn’t even read this yet, has he?”

“Master Charles hasn’t,” said Merton, lowering the paper further so he could speak. “But I isn’t keeping him from reading it. Miss Catherine told Merton to get rid of it before Master sees it. Merton is only doing what he is asked, sir.”

“Thanks, Merton,” said Patrick, taking the newspaper. “You haven’t seen Icarus, have you?” he questioned, suddenly wondering if perhaps Merton knew where his owl had been.

“No, Master Patrick, sir,” replied the elf, earnestly. “Merton doesn’t know where he could be.”

Patrick shook it from his mind and slid off his bed toward William’s. Merton Disapparated behind him with another crack, and the other four Allards started their chatter again.

“What’s a house-elf doing here this early, waking everyone up?” groaned Travis Sweeney. “Quidditch players….”

Paper in hand, Patrick shook awake a half-asleep William to show him the large article covering the front page. He sat up with a loud snort and wiped away a bit of drool that had found a home at the corner of his mouth. There was a tiny bit of crust in his drowsy eyes that he didn’t bother to remove before he addressed Patrick.

“What is it? Did the Warblers win another match?” he breathed.

Patrick read.

“Many were concerned about the unique relationship shared between President Franklin Filibuster and his Magic Defense Secretary, Timothy Sumpton, after the two, along with Vice-President Perlston, addressed a joint Magical Congress yesterday afternoon. While much of the session was spent outlining the president’s plan to help make affordable living for all Wizarding families, it was the feedback portion that sparked a large amount of controversy.

“Senator Curmudgeon Plumper of Rhode Island, questioned the method used that released Assistant Dean of Wentwater Conservatory and lead suspect in last November’s Quidditch case, Ernest Snerkin, back to his post of Charms teacher. When asked why news of Snerkin’s interrogation barely reached the public, Professor Filibuster cited Snerkin’s outstanding track record and felt it would have ‘been to no benefit to Mr. Snerkin or the general Wizarding public to cast a darker shadow than was currently being shed.’”

William released a loud, gaping yawn that forced his eyes closed for several seconds.

“Get to the good part. I’m falling back asleep.”

“Okay, okay….” Patrick skimmed the paper, hastily, searching for the heart of the article, finding what he was looking for just a few lines lower.

“Mr. Sumpton, after listening to the president’s response, had an explanation to give, himself. Sumpton insisted that, while Snerkin’s impeccable history of certainly made him an unlikely suspect, his involvement in the corresponding incident could only be pursued to a certain extent with the limited information given. Continuing to assert that it was under the president’s orders that Secretary Sumpton should release Mr. Snerkin and, thus, prevent any attempts to further their investigation.

“President Filibuster offered a quick rebuttal, explaining he felt it was well within his best judgment to let Professor Snerkin free, before continuing on to close the session, seemingly before Secretary Sumpton could attempt to interject another comment.”

“That’s nothing new,” William said, finally rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Didn’t Professor Pennipot already tell you that they don’t agree on everything?”

“Yes, but I don’t remember reading anything about them arguing in public. Or worse, in front of the whole Magic Congress. What happens if they start having trouble agreeing on anything?”

“Dunno…more angry people?” speculated William. “If enough people don’t like the president’s ideas, he might have a gang of Goblins hiding in his backyard.”

Patrick tried to take the article for what it was worth. It was no surprise that an article second-guessing President Filibuster was being printed and it certainly didn’t come as a shock that Secretary Sumpton had wished to keep Professor Snerkin longer than he had actually stayed. If Professor Sumpton was half as vigilant as his father, then Patrick would be in very good hands.

William turned back over in his bed, suddenly regaining his desire to gather more sleep. There was still a bit more of the article left that Patrick read silently to himself as he walked back over to his own bed. He pulled the covers over his legs and laid the paper on top of them, taking in the remaining words on the page.

“Both sharing very different views, it’s a wonder that their affiliation had not caused more controversy, and at an earlier time. This could very well be the first of several episodes between the two leaders, episodes that will surely be watched closely by supporters of both Filibuster and Sumpton.”

The Filibuster article failed to cause as much of a stir as Patrick had expected. Very few seemed to be concerned by, what they viewed as, a minor quibble that had been exaggerated by the newspapers. There was more talk around the common room of what their next password would be than of the dispute between the president and his secretary.

Any conversations about the article that might have been going on left no trace and evaporated along with the heavy rain that the month of April had lent the Wentwater grounds. The weeks passed faster than any had before, leaving only a month of school at Wentwater.

Now that May had rolled in, the first-years, along with the rest of the school, for that matter, were knee-deep in their studies for the end-of-the-year finals. It was becoming increasingly common for students to be seen walking through the halls while reading passages from their textbooks or to be attempting to transfigure objects outside on the grounds. There didn’t appear to be a single place at Wentwater that was without a diligent student hard at work.

This studious behavior prompted the Allards to follow suit, but not without their own share of difficulties. The common room had become so crowded with people that Patrick, William, Elizabeth, and Henri’s studying efforts had to be relocated to an area where their voices could actually be heard.

A quick peek inside the library was no more accommodating. The four of them could see Mr. Bowdle, irritatingly, addressing a group of Kinseys. The students seemed to have been having trouble convincing the librarian to direct them to the book they were looking for. A task that was probably more difficult than it normally was, owing to the hectic exam schedule.

Their previous attempts unfruitful, the four of them sought shade underneath a tree just outside the Templeton Hall Building, propping themselves comfortably against the trunk of a large elm. If anything, the breeze that floated through the air was far more pleasant than the stuffy atmosphere that would have been found anywhere indoors.

“How many constellations do you think Professor Dextra is going to want us to know?” asked Elizabeth, unraveling her star chart. There were several splotches of ink in various places that made it particularly difficult to differentiate between constellations and clusters of stars.

“Does it matter? It’s not like you know any of them,” quipped William.

Patrick didn’t bother to lift his head from his own chart, but was certain that Elizabeth had shot a nasty look at William, instead opting to rummage through his things.

“She went over all of the ones we needed to know last Tuesday. You were supposed to write them down.” Patrick grabbed a roll of parchment from his bag and handed it over to Elizabeth. “Here.”

“Er…right.,” she said, sounding as though writing down anything in Astronomy was a waste of time. “Thanks.”

“Don’t tell me you four are actually studying.”

Patrick tossed his head to the right, finding Gregory Huntington standing proudly in front two others. A seemingly bored Clarence Middling and Marcus Lickspittle, who was grasping a growling Fanged Frisbee in his right hand, flanked Gregory on both sides.

“I just hope you two are studying for Potions,” he said, directing his index finger at Elizabeth and Henri. “Merlin knows you need help with it.”

“Don’t worry about us,” snipped Henri. “Why don’t you start studying?”

Gregory laughed.

“I don’t need to study. Why study if you already know how to do everything? And we,” he stopped to point back to the two Templetons behind him�”one of which, Clarence, was staring off into the distance and the other, Marcus, was fighting to wrench his hand free of the Frisbee�”“already know how to do everything.”

“Except knowing how to be anything other than total dorks,” William snapped.

Patrick instantly noticed Gregory’s haughty expression change into an agitated sneer. Annoyance quickly filling his face, Gregory thrust his hand into his robe pocket.

“I should probably let you get back to preparing to fail. I just wanted to give you something that could help you study.”

He pulled out his hand and threw what appeared to be several tiny rocks in the direction of the studying Allards that scattered through the air, before landing on their laps. Patrick, curiously, picked up one of the items that had landed on him to discover they were not rocks, but shiny stones. The red one he had chosen rested only a second between his fingers before it shot out a thick, disgusting fluid over his clothes.

“Gobstones!” shouted Elizabeth, who, Patrick discovered upon a quick glance, had also been doused in the liquid.

“Zis is why I don’t play Gobstones!” uttered Henri, tossing the stone aside and wiping his hands on the grass.

The foul odor that accompanied was no more pleasant than the howls of laughter Gregory and Marcus were currently sharing. They scattered off, tailed by Clarence, toward the Dining Hall, leaving Patrick, William, Elizabeth, and Henri, trying to rid their robes and books of the putrid substance.

“Who does he think he is? Insulting us like that?” voiced Elizabeth, using her star chart to clean up her robes.

“I’d like to see heem pass his classes wizz’out studying,” added Henri. “’E’ll be stuck ‘ere until ‘e is fifty!”

Patrick was examining a pair of Gobstones that were resting on his palm. Unlike Elizabeth and Henri, he wasn’t so much concerned with the liquid that was splashed across his robes. Something had suddenly hit him. Something that he had not quite understood before, was beginning to become clearer.

The stone that he tripped on in the Historic Hall, the pinging sounds in the hidden library, the stone in Elizabeth and Henri’s potion. Those stones were identical to the ones he was holding in his hand, save their varying colors. It was no secret that Gregory was an avid player of Gobstones and it certainly explained a few of the instances that had occurred earlier in the year. It was a known fact that Gobstones, once a player lost a point, spurts a stinking fluid; a fluid that easily explains why Elizabeth and Henri’s potion went awry.

It was all starting to make perfect sense. If the Gobstone that William found did belong to Gregory, Patrick realized that he must have been present in the Historic Hall and overheard their conversation with Professor Allard. Which meant, he found out Patrick had the compass and probably wouldn’t have wasted any time reporting to Professor Snerkin all the information that he had gathered.

“Why didn’t we see this before?” asked Patrick, after he and William left Elizabeth and Henri to return to Allard Hall.

“I don’t know. We’ve always known Gregory was in on it,” guessed William. “Does it really help us all that much if we know that he was there?”

“Not so much, now,” began Patrick, “but since we know Professor Snerkin has been getting his information from Gregory, we’ve got to be more careful about what we say and when we say it.”

“Fine.”

Patrick paused to ponder more about his recent epiphany. As clear as the picture was becoming, there were still portions that didn’t add up.

“What I don’t get is, why is he helping Professor Snerkin? What’s the point? He doesn’t even know me.”

“Um….maybe…,” mumbled William, fishing around for an explanation. “Grades?”

“Huh?”

“You heard what he just told us. He doesn’t need to study. Maybe, Professor Snerkin told him that if he helped then he’d make sure he’d get good grades. Makes sense to me; he doesn’t ever seem to work too hard in Potions.”

“Could be.”

The two of them had walked a considerable way from the Templeton Hall and weren’t much farther from the Owlery. Patrick had still been carrying around the owl treats and had been checking every week, hoping Icarus would eventually turn up.

“I’m going to check and see if Icarus is back yet. If he’s there I think I’ll send a letter to my grandpa, he might want to know about this.”

“He’s got to be lost or something. I’ve never seen an owl gone for so long.”

As they approached, Patrick passed around the building and peered into one of the windows. The Owlery wasn’t empty.

“You should try talking to one of the�””

“Shh!” hushed Patrick. “Get down!”

The two of them crouched down, their knees barely hovering above the grass and their eyes peeking over the bottom of the window to view the scene inside.

Professor Snerkin was standing in the middle of the Owlery, his fingers holding open a letter, reading it extremely fast and with a distinct sense of urgency that Patrick had never seen before. His eyes were rapidly flicking left to right and he did not seem to be bothered by the loud hoots of the owls that were swooping and flapping around his ears.

“How many Galleons do you want to bet that he’s reading a letter from whoever it is that’s helping him?” whispered William.

Patrick rifled through his pockets, pulled out a single Galleon, the same one he had been given by his grandpa for Christmas, and held it up in front of William.

“If I had anymore than this, I’d bet them, too.”

“Same,” said William, pulling out the one he had received.

They both turned their heads back inside the Owlery, just in time to see Professor Snerkin swiftly tuck the letter in his robe pocket.

Not wanting to be seen, Patrick and William sidled along the opposite direction, away from the Owlery’s entrance, until they had completely circled the building, to see Professor Snerkin marching off back to the Allard Hall building.

“Looks like he just got the new plan,” said William. “You might not want to get too close to him from now on.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” replied Patrick, walking into the Owlery. “There’s no way I can know where he is at all times. What if he sneaks up on me?”

William shrugged. Patrick was looking around the room and saw no sign of Icarus.

“He’s still not here!”

“Maybe he’s hiding from those treats you’re trying to give him.”

Patrick shot William a reproachful look.

“Kidding. I’m just kidding,’’ defended William.

Patrick and William returned to the common room, the bag of owl treats still tightly sealed and appearing to stay that way. After the two of them walked through Admiral Polk’s portrait, they were approached by Elizabeth, who had her hand latched to a textbook and was looking genuinely worried.

“Patrick, Professor Snerkin came in here looking for you,” she said, her voice shaking slightly. Patrick took a look at William, who gave the impression that their Hall Master was definitely attempting to reach Patrick as soon as possible.

“What?” added Elizabeth, her worrisome tone growing in her voice. “What is it? What do you know? You promised me!’

It took little effort to tell that Elizabeth had been startled by Professor Snerkin’s visit to the common room and even less to see that she was truly concerned with Patrick’s safety. In keeping with Patrick’s promise, he told her what he had discovered. The letter he found in the book about Abraham Ortelius and the information he learned from Professor Montgomery, as well as the revelation he had just made about Gregory. After having so much revealed to her, Elizabeth was none too pleased with being kept out of the loop.

“Why didn’t you tell me all of this? You promised me.”

“Well, actually,” started Patrick, cautiously, “I promised, that, from then on I’d tell you everything. The letter in the book and what happened in Professor Montgomery’s office happened before I made that promise.”

“It’s not like you wanted to hear what we said, anyway,” added William. “You and Henri were still arguing over whatever stupid stuff you were mad about.”

“It wasn’t stupid!” she barked. “I would have listened.. If the Republic of Magic got involved, then I want in. This is important stuff.”

“Well, now, we just saw him reading a letter from someone�””

“Whoever is helping him,” interrupted William.

“Right,” finished Patrick, contemplatively. “From whoever is helping him. It’s just we don’t know who he’s working with and we don’t know what his plan is.”

“Why don’t you just follow him? See where he goes? It worked for me. I found you guys in the Templeton Common Room.”

“Yeah, then we got caught by Professor Snerkin. Even though he let us off, we can’t just assume that’s going to happen again,” reminded Patrick.

Elizabeth tilted her head onto her hand, digging between her strawberry-red locks of hair and shrugged.

“Then, I’m all out of ideas.”

“I didn’t think you’d have many. It’s hard to come up with a plan when we don’t know what we’re planning against,” said Patrick.

“All right, everyone. You’ve got finals tomorrow, you all should get to bed,” called Andrea Dorsett, another of Allard Hall’s senior officers.

Patrick, William, and Elizabeth picked themselves up from their seats and made their way across to the dormitories.

“Anything else, Patrick,” said Elizabeth, again. “I want to know.”

He nodded, convincingly, before bumping into Andrea, who was wrenching Simon and Travis from teaching Henri how to play some game involving a hovering top and silver rings. After a quick reprimanding, the three of them joined Patrick and William back to the room for the evening.

Even with finals beginning the next day, Patrick couldn’t keep his mind off of all of the things he had just told Elizabeth. Simon and Henri had taken their learning session inside and the whirring noises from the hovering top, coupled with their chattering voices, made it, easily, the worst night of sleep Patrick had ever had.

It was more evident the next morning during the first-year’s Magic History final. Professor Mott hadn’t bothered to change her monotonous tone as she distributed their test parchment, making Patrick’s eyes droop down with uncontested ease. William managed to jerk Patrick awake just before he was to be handed his Anti-Cheating Quill.

Luckily, Patrick was so familiar with the material that he was able to complete his test before he became too drowsy to answer the questions. No sooner had he finished scratching in the name of the first wizard colony in America did Patrick fall back asleep, only to have to be nudged awake again, once Professor Mott’s hourglass was empty.

He had fared much better during their Herbology exam, considering this final was more of a practical exam and required much more attention on his part. In the month since they had first attempted to prune the Gribbleworts, their spiral branches had grown to great lengths and, according to Professor Marigold, needed to be planted.

Professor Marigold watched each student bury their Gribblewort in a patch of dirt set outside the greenhouse and asked them basic Herbology questions as they did so. Since Patrick and William shared the same plant, they were given the option to decide who would plant and who would answer questions. Considering Patrick was much more adept at Herbology and needed to regain his alertness, William decided that Patrick should handle their Gribblewort.

It proved to be just the wake-up Patrick needed. The thin, spindly roots of the plant easily latched into the ground instead of onto the side of other plants or around his arm as Professor Marigold had warned them.

Patrick effortlessly avoided the chatter in the common room, deciding to gain the rest he was unable to get the previous night in return. The others seemed to be so busy studying that no one noticed Patrick slip off into his room and bury himself in his covers.

There was a clear difference from this morning and the last. Despite the fact that he had gone to bed so early that he was the first of the Allard boys to wake up, Patrick felt remarkably refreshed. The hefty drowsiness that had hung on his eyes was no longer there and he had regained a bit of his usual tenacity.

Patrick advanced his way to the common room, hoisting his book bag over his shoulder deciding to use his extra time to study for today’s Charms exam with Professor Snerkin. He had managed his way through to the Fire Charm before the common room began to fill with more students readying themselves for the day ahead.

William and Henri stumbled out of their slumber on the way to breakfast that morning. Strands of Elizabeth’s hair were peeking out from under her Alice band as she, the second least drowsy of the four, followed just behind Patrick during their walk towards the Dining Hall.

“Do you think you’re going to be fine in class, today?” asked Elizabeth.

“I did a bit of studying this morning and I think I know all there is to know,” replied Patrick, confidently.

“No,” she responded, dropping her voice, “I mean with Professor Snerkin.”

“I guess so. I mean, it’s not like he’ll try anything right in front of the class. There’s no way he’d get away with it,” Patrick said, rolling his wand between his fingers.

“I’m just making sure,” said Elizabeth. “If you think he’s up to something, it would just make sense for you to look out. Even if you don’t think it could happen.

“Sure,” agreed Patrick. “I’ll try.”

Patrick’s main concern once they got to Professor Snerkin’s classroom was to try and ace his final, so he could at least ease his mind about his school marks.

The first portion of the class was spent on a written exam over the various Charms and wand work necessary to cast them. All the students were given a roll of parchment and, another Anti-Cheating Quill to complete their exam of forty questions.

What is the incantation for the Wind Charm?

Patrick stared at the words printed is dark, black ink on the page before scribbling the answer beneath it. He finished quickly and sat quietly, listening to the scratchy scraping of less than twenty quills against the paper. Patrick turned his eyes upward to Professor Snerkin, who was standing at the far end of the classroom surveying his students, assuredly to check for any potential cheaters. His dark brown eyes were wandering around the room, following no particular pattern, simply swirling about then shifting side to side, until, for no more than a second, they landed on Patrick.

Professor Snerkin rapidly tore his gaze away, pushed himself from his position, and advanced toward the class.

“All right, time’s up. Roll up your parchment.”

Groans erupted from the students who had obviously not yet finished the test as they reluctantly spun their exams into scrolls to hand to their teacher.

“I only got to thirty-one,” confessed William, as he finished rolling up his test.

“We will finish with the practical portion of the exam so I hope you can prove to me that you can perform the spells that you were just tested on,” Professor Snerkin announced while waving his wand to collect the parchment.

“Ms. Akamatsu, you will be first. Follow me.”

Shinobu rose from her seat, her black hair swaying side to side as she trailed behind Professor Snerkin out of the classroom.

Both the Allards and Garrisons burst into conversations after the door closed. Some were comparing their answers to the test with one another, while others were scanning the pages of their book for a last-minute refresher.

Having been gone no more than five minutes, Shinobu returned, telling Jacob Bartlett to take her place outside of the classroom. Caroline Woods and Ellen-Anne Worley both leaned near her to ask what she had been required to perform, leaving the rest of the class sitting quietly anticipating their own turn.

Patrick didn’t have any idea how the other students were doing. There wasn’t very much to go on. There had been, however, a loud thump while Henri was out of the room and Patrick judged from the sound made during Adam Minsky’s time out of the room, that a few paintings had fallen down.

Myra’s face looked no different than usual when she returned, leading Patrick to believe that she had done well on her practical portion. William, who immediately followed her, appeared less-confident and relatively disappointed.

“I did fine with the Levitation Charm, but I couldn’t control my water one,” he admitted, taking his seat again.

Travis Sweeney seemed to have been gone for the shortest amount of time and finally ushered Patrick out to the final part of his Charms exam.

He strode, timorously, grabbing his book bag by the handle and fixing it along his shoulder, while moving toward the door. It suddenly felt heavier or himself weaker, as he attempted to wrench it open. Professor Snerkin stood there, decorated in his violet robes and holding a large scroll of parchment that Patrick immediately determined was being used to record the class’ grades. There was a moment’s hesitance until Professor Snerkin spoke.

“Mr. Thatcher, before we begin, I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”

Patrick shifted uneasily in his spot and merely nodded.

“You have something. Something that you probably don’t understand how to use.”

He slid away from Professor Snerkin, inching back slowly, as not to make it noticeable that he was becoming increasingly unsteady.

“And if I’m not mistaken, it’s a compass…”

There was no denying it now. Professor Snerkin did know about the compass. He was confronting Patrick so boldly that it seemed as though this conversation could hardly be happening.

At any rate, Patrick couldn’t think of what to say, he didn’t want to confirm or deny anything, he just continued to step backward, little by little.

“If, perhaps,” Professor Snerkin continued, pacing forward, apparently detecting Patrick retreating, “you could simply show it to me, then…”

Patrick didn’t wait to hear the rest of the sentence. He was sprinting at full speed through the Allard Hall, clinging to the banister to help keep his balance as he sped down the stairs and right out of the building. It wasn’t exactly clear how fast he was running, but Patrick knew that he had to get away from Professor Snerkin before he had the chance to do anything.

One thought continued to circle around in Patrick’s mind. Get help. Telling Professor Montgomery would do no good and Patrick didn’t feel close enough to many of the other teachers to try and ask for their help. There was no guessing who he had to see next. After all, it was his responsibility to watch over Patrick in the first place. Patrick continued to dash across the Wentwater grounds and hurried into the Kinsey Hall building.

A pair of fifth-years scoffed as Patrick pushed between them to enter the Hall. He turned left around one of the corners and saw a large group of fourth-years piling into the Transfiguration classroom. Having just slowed down long enough to survey the hall, Patrick took off full speed toward the students and classroom.

The fourth-years were trickling inside slowly, restricting Patrick to the back of them. At this point, it was impossible to stand still. He no longer had any room to run, but his feet were moving anxiously, jumping up and down, trying to give Patrick a better view over the other students of where their teacher was.

As if standing guard over the room, Professor Sumpton was waiting at the edge of the door for each of his students to enter and take their seats. His eyes were filled with interest and confusion once he saw the blonde, jumping first-year in the back.

“Mr. Thatcher, what brings you…”

“I need to talk to you,” Patrick said, cutting off Professor Sumpton’s sentence. He then dropped his voice to a whisper, “It’s about Professor Snerkin.

Professor Sumpton’s eyes widened a bit then took a glance over at his roomful of students.

“I’ve still got to finish up this class…we’ve only just come from a break.” Patrick didn’t want to hear that he was unavailable. He had been told that he was always there to help. Before Patrick could attempt to plead him for assistance, Professor Sumpton continued to speak.

“You can, however, sit in my office until my lesson is over. It’s right over there.” He pointed at a painting across the hall with his wand that immediately swung open. “Go on.”

Patrick nodded, stepped over to the portrait and walked inside. The picture returned to its proper spot, sealing Patrick inside the room.

Of all the offices he had seen throughout the year, this one had been the least decorated. Hundreds of rolls of parchment were placed all around the room and there sat a single quill atop Professor Sumpton’s desk. The only thing that stood out, or more accurately, seemed out of place, was a leather sandal with feathered wings attached to the rear. Seeing as it was the only interesting thing in the room, Patrick became fascinated with it, and would have inspected it closer if it hadn’t been encased in glass.

Close to an hour he sat, waiting, staring at the shoe, his earlier nervousness melting away, until finally Professor Sumpton pulled open the portrait and circled around the room taking a seat across from Patrick in his own chair. His hands were clasped together and resting in the center of the desk.

“What was it that you needed to tell me?” asked Professor Sumpton, cautiously.

Patrick didn’t know where to start. Should he tell Professor Sumpton everything that he had deduced? Maybe it was most prudent to simply inform him of what had just happened.

“I-I was taking my Charms exam and Professor Snerkin was walking toward me and…and,” Patrick looked away, turning to the winged sandal as if by habit. Unsure if he should mention exactly what Professor Snerkin was looking for.

“Yes?” said Professor Sumpton, urging Patrick to finish his sentence.

“And…he was asking me to give him something…my compass.”

To Patrick, the words lingered in the air for a lot longer than any words should ever linger. Professor Sumpton merely acknowledged Patrick by tilting his head down and staring at his joined hands. After exhaling, he stood up, suddenly and withdrew his wand pointing it at the portrait that served as the door.

“Follow me,” he said, calmly, heading straight out of the room.

Suffice it to say, Patrick was direly confused. Professor Sumpton was walking very fast; so much so, that Patrick had to leap to his feet and follow him out the door in order to even question him.

“What? Where are we going?” he asked.

“We cannot continue this conversation in my office,” Professor Sumpton answered, not bothering to look back at Patrick. “We will discuss this in a place much more private.”

There was only one place at Wentwater that Patrick assumed would be private enough, but was unsure if that was where they were headed.

The two of them left the Kinsey hall building and were now hurrying along the cobblestone path, Professor Sumpton’s strides rapid and as long as possible for the speed he was going. Patrick occasionally broke into a jog, noticing himself headed toward the Templeton Hall building. His guess had been right and was confirmed once Professor Sumpton stopped in front of the large world map that served as the secret entrance to the hidden library.

He tapped the four countries in the same sequence that Gregory had done during Patrick’s previous visit and the tiny whirlpool that had been created started to swirl in exactly the same way it had before.
Once it became big enough, Professor Sumpton climbed inside the hole that now covered the greater portion of the map and forced his way to the other side of the portrait. Patrick followed behind him, hoping that, once inside, he could finally put his fears to rest.

He managed his way down from the opening and walked toward Professor Sumpton. The interior was just as Patrick had remembered it, except the books that sparingly filled the shelves were not exactly the same ones as before and were located in different places, akin to their positions in the actual library, Patrick thought.

“Over here,” waved Professor Sumpton, setting off at a brisk pace to the heart of the library. “Explain to me now, what Professor Snerkin was saying about this compass of yours.”

“Well, he was…he was just asking me to show it to him,” said Patrick. “I didn’t tell anyone I had it, except for a couple of my friends, but someone must have let him know I had it. Another student, I think.”

Professor Sumpton merely continued deeper into the library, his hands positioned comfortably behind his back. It was getting darker the further they walked, but Patrick could still see the inquisitive look on Professor Sumpton’s face.

“And do you have this compass with you? In your bag perhaps?” Professor Sumpton gestured to the book bag Patrick had still been carrying on his shoulder.

“I-I don’t think so,” replied Patrick. He slid the bag off his shoulder and began to quickly sort through it with his wand gripped tightly in his hand. He poked at each of the objects with his wand checking them; a quill, a couple rolls of parchment, the deck of Sizzling Flip cards, his grandfather’s Galleon, which sparkled momentarily after it had been touched by Patrick’s wand. “No, it’s not in here.”

“Where can I find it?” asked Professor Sumpton, finally stopping. It was too dark now to see very much and if it wasn’t for a lantern hanging high above them, it would have been impossible to notice Professor Sumpton’s eyes peering down greedily at Patrick.

“Why do you want to know?” questioned Patrick, in return, suddenly feeling put off by Professor Sumpton’s question. “That’s not the important part.”

Professor Sumpton withdrew his wand and uttered the word, “Lumos.” A green light erupted from the tip of his wand and illuminated much of the area around them, more importantly highlighting the, now menacing, brown eyes of his Transfiguration teacher.

“That is the most important part of all.”

Patrick stood silently, completely shocked and dumbfounded. Nothing at this point was making any sense and now, his fears began to grow as he attempted to try and understand his current situation.

“Wha-what? I don’t understand,” sputtered Patrick, baffled.

Professor Sumpton chuckled to himself, shaking his head slowly.

“So naïve,” he said. “It’s really a wonder that you’ve found yourself so misguided. Of all the first-years in your class, you definitely seem to be the most curious. You’re always thinking and off in your own ideas, but you failed to see the truth right in front of your face.”

He was right. Even now, Patrick’s curiosity was part of the reason that he hadn’t already ran away just as he did with Professor Snerkin. That and the fact that he was so deep into the library that he wouldn’t have been able to navigate his way back to the desk.

“This doesn’t…that means you were behind....”

“Everything,” stressed Professor Sumpton, dipping his wand low enough to rest against his side. “I’m sure you’ve been wondering why you received Mr. Quinn’s letter before this year began,” �“Patrick tried to nod, but only managed to tilt his head down slightly�”“I needed to grab your family’s attention. Your oaf of a grandfather doesn’t deserve half the credit he is given and someone has to reveal him for the fraud he is.”

“That’s not true!” snapped Patrick. His throat began to tighten, forcing the words to struggle their way out.

“Oh, it is, and it’s only because of that compass he’s even done half the things he’s praised for.” Professor Sumpton’s mouth was screwed up in an ugly grimace that was unbefitting to his normally handsome face. “Regardless, that isn’t the point. I needed to motivate him to leave the house and come out in the open so I could retrieve that device. Unfortunately,” he said, advancing his wand forward at Patrick, “he never stepped foot outside that door, and instead, your family rushed to this school in order to try and salvage your Wizarding heritage. Although, I can, understand their worry. I wouldn’t want to be associated with a Squib, and without magical blood, you’re as good as useless in this world.”

Patrick winced his eyes at his remark. Although he, himself, was Pureblood, he hardly agreed that Muggle-borns or any non-magic persons, for that matter, were useless.

“That isn’t true, either,” protested Patrick, the words having less trouble forming this time.

“When I found out that your family had practically invaded Wentwater,” continued Professor Sumpton, ignoring Patrick, altogether, “I was able to convince my way into the post of Transfiguration teacher and President Filibuster arrived at Agnomon Square the next day to make the announcement. I figured that if you were attending school, I needed to be there, to keep tabs on you. After all,” he paused before continuing the rest of the sentence in very childish, condescending tone, “you’re the youngest Thatcher. Should anything happen to you I was sure that at some point your grandfather would intervene. And thanks to your good friend, Mr. Huntington, I discovered that it was you who had the compass, and quickly turned my focus from grandfather to grandson.”

“No,” said Patrick, still finding this hard to believe. “What about the letter in Professor Snerkin’s desk? He said he put me on the team and…”

“Me,” interrupted Professor Sumpton. “All me. It didn’t take much more than a flick of the wand to make the other Chasers miss a few goals to help unsure that you looked much better by comparison. However, I was impressed. I didn’t have to aid any of your shots into the goals. You did that on your own.

“In any case, Mr. Huntington had again helped me lure you into this very library, where I had already taken the book you were looking for. It was simply a matter of writing a letter myself and placing it in Professor Snerkin’s desk which was all too easy after his departure. I had urged Professor Pennipot to tell me all she knew about Professor Snerkin, trying to lure her into becoming curious about his actions, herself, trying to trick her into searching Snerkin’s classroom over Christmas break, but she insisted that she had too much work to investigate. Luckily, you found it and it apparently only increased your suspicions, making it much easier to gain your trust and lead you here.”

Patrick couldn’t believe what he was hearing. All this time he had been blaming Professor Snerkin and he was actually innocent all along. Professor Sumpton’s wand was still pointing squarely at Patrick’s chest, leaving Patrick no other option than to refrain from moving.

“I would have tried to take the compass back in this library the first time,” confessed Professor Sumpton, “but, alas, you had brought a friend with you and I couldn’t be bothered with having another student involved. I, instead, gave you detentions just as any normal teacher would have done. I specifically split the two of you up in your detentions hoping that I would have to wait no longer than twenty-four hours to obtain the tool that I so greatly desired, but I was again interrupted, and had to postpone this very meeting.

“By then, I had developed a plan that would not only allow me what I wanted, but would place the blame on another, leaving me free to do as I pleased, so long as I was patient.”

“And you made Professor Snerkin look like a criminal. You made him look like he wanted to get rid of me. To put me on the team so he could take the compass for himself, but it was really you. You were the one who did it all,” said Patrick piecing everything together in his head.

“Very perceptive, Mr. Thatcher,” replied Professor Sumpton, sarcastically. “After speaking with Professor Pennipot, I realized that it would be virtually impossible to gain access to the Quidditch shed before the game to frame Professor Snerkin. Fortunately, it is no coincidence that I am highly skilled in Transfiguration. It made the Switching Spell that I performed on the Quaffle that much easier to pull off.”

Everything was falling into place. The hardest part to swallow, though, was realizing just how wrong he had been about everything. Patrick was suddenly beginning to sympathize with Professor Snerkin after discovering all that he had gone through, especially for a blameless man.

“Why did you have to drag Professor Snerkin into this? I thought you didn’t want anyone else involved.”

“Wrong again, Mr. Thatcher,” he uttered, lifting his wand slightly shining it directly in Patrick’s face. Patrick winced his eyes and lifted his hands to his head to try and block the light that was blinding his vision. “I said that I didn’t want any other students involved. I was more than welcome to let another teacher take the fall, especially if it was the assistant dean. With him gone, I could try and finagle his position for myself and slowly change this school for my own benefit.

“So, naturally, I was thrilled when he was released at the beginning of this year, because it gave me another opportunity to exploit his presence in my favor. However, your grandfather was beginning to intrude. Sending letters to you that, thankfully, I intercepted before they could ever reach your hands. Surely, you must have been looking for your owl since you’ve returned to school. Figured he was out looking for food? Roaming around, perhaps?”

“Where is he?” demanded Patrick, feeling angered for the first time now.

“You already know where he is. You were staring at him when I entered my office. It’s such a nice sandal isn’t it?” he said with a malevolent grin. “Again, my talents in Transfiguration taking the forefront, in this case, for my own amusement.”

Framing a professor? Transfiguring an owl? Patrick couldn’t understand why he would go through all this trouble. Grandpa Thatcher barely understood what it all meant, but how did Professor Sumpton piece it together without even owning it?

“What’s so important about it? Why do you even want it?”

“Ah, why didn’t you ask sooner? I do not know what you think that compass does, but it certainly does a lot more than point you on your way North. It’s one of the most valuable tools I’ve ever come across and it is the only way I can ever hope to find what belongs to me and my family.”

“What do you mean? What is it that’s yours?”

Professor Sumpton scoffed, as if Patrick’s question was none of his concern.

“That’s a question for you to ask your grandfather. It’s only because of him that I’m unable to obtain it, but that will all change soon enough, and you won’t be harmed as long as you cooperate and tell me where that compass is.”

Professor Sumpton had advanced even more forcefully than he had before. His wand was mere centimeters from Patrick’s chest and the green light that was emanating from it was still glaringly bright. The last thing he wanted to do was help Professor Sumpton get his hands on the compass, but Patrick didn’t have much room to negotiate. He thought back to the contents he had in his book bag and made a decision.

“Please, Professor,” said Patrick, politely. “I’ll help you, if you could just move your wand a bit. I can’t see.”

The light remained on Patrick for a few seconds, until Professor Sumpton swept it to the side, Patrick was finally able to notice the skeptical expression on his teacher’s face.

“I just need to look in my bag, again. I wrote down where it was on one of the parchment.” Patrick shuffled through the contents pretending to look for the directions of the compass, while slipping the deck of Sizzling Flip cards into his robe pocket.

“Give me that!” snarled Professor Sumpton, grabbing the bag from Patrick’s hands and pulling out the pair of scrolls from within. He unraveled them, his face contorting itself angrily as though biting into a less than desirable fruit.

“There’s nothing here!” he shouted, stuffing the paper back into the bag and hurling it at Patrick. “Where is it?!”

Patrick didn’t respond, he didn’t even nudge his head up toward Professor Sumpton. He quickly slung the book bag over his shoulder, opened the deck of flashing cards and palmed them within his right hand. Then, with as much force as he could, he hurled the cards directly at Professor Sumpton.

They scattered everywhere. Fits of light shot from the all over the room, sending dazzling streaks of color into Professor Sumpton’s face, causing him to recoil at the initial flash, releasing a helpless moan while Patrick sat, crouched, shielding his eyes. As lost as he was in the library, he knew it wouldn’t have helped him to stick around, and used this diversion as an opportunity to break away. Somehow, now that the imminent threat had at least been postponed, there was a chance that Patrick could find a way to manage a path out of the library and he knew that there was very little time to do so; Professor Sumpton would only be distracted for a short time.

Not giving Professor Sumpton a second glance, Patrick dashed between the bookshelves, forcing his hands to guide him along the cases, feeling his way around. The library echoed each of Patrick’s footsteps, as though not one, but hundreds of students were running from bookshelf to bookshelf.

“Get back here! You won’t get away with this!” resounded Professor Sumpton’s voice, after the whizzes and whirrs of the cards subsided. The cacophonous tapping of Patrick’s feet were joined by Professor Sumpton’s, who was now obviously pursuing the escaping first-year, turning the once quiet hall into a dissonant collection of clatters.

The more he navigated, the brighter the room became. By now, Patrick could see the light of the librarian’s desk faintly shining from one end of the library. After discovering just how close he was to fleeing this nightmare, it served as motivation for Patrick to move faster and avoid capture. There was only darkness behind him and a fleeting look back to check for Professor Sumpton proved pointless. Nothing was remotely visible, making the thing that he had just plowed into during the few seconds he had taken to check behind him even more surprising. Patrick collided instantly and fell backward toward the ground, not noticing that Professor Snerkin had walked out from one of the rows of books.

“Mr. Thatcher, there you are!”

For the first time in months, Patrick had been immensely relieved to see Professor Snerkin. Now that he knew the truth, Patrick was filled with an overwhelming feeling of security. Professor Snerkin extended a hand to help bring the boy to his feet.

“You’re innocent…it’s not your fault…Sumpton…” panted Patrick, desperately trying to catch his breath.

“Relax, slow down,” calmed Professor Snerkin. “What’s going on? Why are you in here?”

Patrick grabbed a huge gulp of air and attempted to speak again. This time, fully formulated sentences came out, but now, overwhelmingly fast.

“I got scared when you asked me about the compass and I ran to Professor Sumpton, but he really wanted it and he brought me here to try and take it from me. It’s all his fault. He did everything.”

“And you’re sure of this?” asked Professor Snerkin, looking at Patrick with a kind of stare that was not to be questioned.

“Yes, positive.”

“You said he brought you here? Where is he?” Professor Snerkin suddenly withdrew his wand.

“He’s back there,” said Patrick pointing toward the shadowy center of the library. “He was following me, just a second ago.”

Professor Snerkin muttered “Lumos” just like Professor Sumpton had done, and raised his wand in the area Patrick had just directed.

“I want you to wait for me in my office. You’ll find your friend Mr. Quinn. You may join him there until I return. I trust you still remember the password.”

“Yes, sir,” confirmed Patrick. This was one instruction that Patrick had no trouble following. He no more wished to stay in the library any longer than he would wish to eat dinner with Professor Mott.

Patrick turned quickly back to the library’s entrance and wasted no time clambering his way out of the portrait and exiting the Templeton Hall.

By now, it had to have been quite a bit past noon, judging from where the sun was beating down across the grounds. The Commons still had groups of students sprinkled among its grassy surface studying, while Patrick had just been confronted and threatened by one of his own teachers, at least one of his former teachers. There was no way Professor Montgomery would allow Professor Sumpton to stay on staff after an ordeal like that.

Climbing up the stairs of the Allard Hall Building now felt incredibly laborious after the miniature marathon Patrick had just ran. The large tapestry of a colonial American flag rested along one wall of the building, as if on display at a museum for all to see.

“Warbler,” delivered Patrick, firmly.

The flag shot up, reeling itself high above the ground, while Patrick reached out to grab the handle on the now naked wall and entered the office.

William was sitting in a chair flipping a Galleon up and down in the air. Once he heard the door close behind him, he caught the coin in his hand and turned to see who had entered the room. Realizing it was Patrick, he spun his whole body around in the chair.

“What happened to you? Why did you go to that library?” asked William.

“Well, Professor Snerkin had asked about my com…Wait a minute,” paused Patrick. “How did you know I was in the library?”

“This.” William held up the Galleon that he had been carrying in his palm “I was halfway to the Dining Hall before it started to get really hot in my robe pocket. I took it out and the words “Wentwater Restricted Library” were written on the outside of it. That’s probably why your grandfather gave it to us. So we’d be able to find each other.”

Patrick reached in his bag and took out his own. The only thing he remembered doing was using his wand to search for the compass. Suddenly, it donned on him. He had used his wand to help look. Patrick tapped on the coin once with the tip of his wand and it sparkled again as it had done in the library. The coin in his hand had done nothing, but William was holding his and preparing to read aloud.

“‘Professor Ernest Snerkin’s Office’,” read William.

“I guess my grandpa didn’t get this at the last minute, after all,” said Patrick, impressed. “It could come in very handy in the future.”

“What did you do? Professor Snerkin didn’t tell the class what happened to you when he came to get Simon.”

“It’s because he asked me about the compass and I got scared. I ran to Professor Sumpton because he said he’d be there if I was ever afraid Professor Snerkin might do something. As soon as I told him about the compass, he took me to the library and he tried to take it from me. That’s when Professor Snerkin showed up.”

“That’s because I told him where you were,” admitted William.

“How’d you know you could trust Professor Snerkin?” asked Patrick in disbelief. William hadn’t come face to face with Professor Sumpton and heard his confession. To be honest, William had been the most adamant between the two of them, that Professor Snerkin was definitely the guilty party.

“After class, he stopped to ask me where you might be going. He showed me the�””

William was cut off by the sudden entrance of Professor Snerkin to his office. He circled around to the front of his desk, not even getting the opportunity to sit down before Patrick exploded into a question.

“What happened? Where is he?” inquired Patrick.

Professor Snerkin finally sat down in her chair and exhaled deeply.

“He wasn’t there.”

“What do you mean he wasn’t there?” erupted Patrick. “He was standing right in front of me with his wand pointed at my chest. You’ve got to believe me.”

“I have no reason not to believe what you have told me,” Professor Snerkin said, calmly. “However, if Professor Sumpton was in there with you, he found a way to escape. I searched up and down that building and he was nowhere to be found. But, now that I have a better understanding of this situation, I can see why my asking about your compass would have caused you to run away.”

“It’s just,” started Patrick, apologetically, “we found the book in your desk, and a couple days ago we saw you reading a letter and you looked like you were trying to hide it and…”

“Well, I was. And for good reason, too.” Professor Snerkin poked the back of one of his drawers with his wand and pulled out a letter, the same one Patrick and William had caught him reading in the Owlery on Sunday.

“I showed this letter to Mr. Quinn, here, and, luckily, he was able to point me to you. It’s from your grandfather. He told me that you hadn’t been responding to the letters that he was sending and wanted me to check up on you and your compass, to make sure you weren’t in any trouble. Before the Quidditch incident occurred, he had been summoned to the Republic of Magic for particularly strange reasons and had been corresponding with me ever since your letter mistake.”

Patrick browsed the letter and found just what Professor Snerkin had been saying to be true. The slanted writing definitely belonged to his grandfather and helped make the situation even more clear.

“You’ll probably remember that I let you two and Ms. Crane off from a detention before our first Quidditch match. I didn’t know why you were in the Templeton Common room, but I couldn’t help but blame myself for the letter mix-up and I would have felt even more guilty for giving you a detention had that been the reason you were trespassing in another Hall.”

“It was actually because of Gregory Huntington,” said Patrick, placing his grandfather’s letter back on the desk. He continued to tell him the story of everything that had happened during the year and how he had taken Professor Montgomery’s intentions of hiring Professor Sumpton as proof that their Transfiguration teacher meant no harm. He continued to explain just how Professor Sumpton managed to manipulate all of the situations during the year, turning Patrick and William on Professor Snerkin, while finding a way to gain the information he needed on the compass.

William was listening to every word Patrick said, looking both intrigued at the truth and embarrassed for being so resolute in blaming Professor Snerkin.

“I will be informing Professor Montgomery of all of these things that you have told me, it is very important that this information be known, save anything about your compass, that is. I’m sure you and your grandfather would very much like that to remain a secret.” Professor Sumpton smiled. “I do believe that you have a week of exams left and you cannot study if you are spending your time sitting in my office.”

Patrick and William stood up from their seats and made their way toward the door. They could put this whole debacle behind them, for now, and focus on finishing out the school year.

“Mr. Thatcher,” called Professor Snerkin, from his desk. “If I remember correctly, you ran out on your practical portion of my exam.”

“I’m so sorry, professor. I’ll be willing to write an essay or…”

“That won’t be necessary,” he said, waving his hand as though swatting a fly. “Although, I don’t think we’ll be wanting this to fall into unwanted hands,” he continued, lifting up the letter off the desk. “If you could dispose of it with, say, a Fire Charm, I’d be willing to overlook your sudden departure from my class.”

A meek smile broke across Patrick’s face as we withdrew his wand from his robe pocket and pointed it at the piece of paper Professor Snerkin was holding between his fingers. He focused his mind completely on burning the parchment to pieces.

“Incendio.”
The letter burst into bright red flames and floated up the paper until the whole of it was engulfed, leaving small embers that floated down into Professor Snerkin’s hand.

“Excellent,” Professor Snerkin decreed. “You are free to leave.”

The two of them left the office and made their way to the Dining Hall for lunch. William insisted on hearing the story of what happened over and over, hearing it once on the way there, twice during lunch and again during their trip back to the common room, apparently wanting to hear every detail.

Once the two of them made it back to the common room several of the Allards approached Patrick asking where he had gone. After telling the story so many times, Patrick had become extremely exhausted, hardly finding the energy to come up with a suitable excuse as to why he shouldn’t have to tell it again. William, instead, decided to speak for him and announcing it to all that had gathered around him.

“Well, all you need to know is, Professor Sumpton was the one that tried to knock Patrick off his broom, not Professor Snerkin. And, now, we don’t even know where Professor Sumpton is.”

The small crowd that surrounded broke into whispers. Elizabeth emerged from the back of them and pulled Patrick to the side.

“Professor Sumpton was behind it and now they can’t find him? Patrick,” she said, suddenly excited, “you’ve got to tell me what happened. Don’t leave anything out.”

Patrick moaned as the thought of retelling his adventured entered his head.

“Talk to William, he knows.”

Elizabeth grabbed William by the robes and forced him over to her.

“Tell me everything you know.”

William and Elizabeth chatted for hours discussing every detail of the ordeal, leaving no aspect of it untouched. The two of them had talked long up until their Astronomy final that night, which Patrick guessed Elizabeth would have cared to miss.

The rest of their exams went by smoothly. Professor Wiggins was more impressed by the results of his class at the end of the year than he was before Christmas break, as every student managed to master the Knock-Back Jinx and most of the class finished their written tests promptly.

With Professor Sumpton missing entirely, Professor Montgomery stood in to administer the exam for Transfiguration. A lot of the students were still confused by his sudden disappearance, but were still able to concentrate when they had been given their parchment for their test.

Now with the knowledge that Gregory Huntington had contributed to helping Professor Sumpton, their Potions exam with the Templetons was distinctly different. Gregory seemed to be trying much harder at his potion than Patrick had ever seen him try before. Perhaps, it was because Professor Sumpton was gone and he had not studied a bit for Professor Litmus’ class.

Each group of students began to depart from the classroom one by one, leaving their vial of Shrinking Solution on Professor Litmus’ desk before stepping out the door. Gregory and Marcus were sitting in the back, frantically flipping through pages and tossing in ingredients unsure of exactly what they were doing. Patrick heard a loud bubbling noise and saw Professor Litmus running to the back to try and tend to it, before he and William left the classroom, laughing, themselves.

Their last week was spent relaxing and playing games. Henri managed to mend his Sizzling Flip ties with Jonathan Hiller and invited Patrick, who was now much more comfortable with playing with exploding cards, to join them. Elizabeth had taken to writing anything she found happening in the common room and writing it down in a notebook, much to the displeasure of Senior Office Andrea Dorsett, who had been received complaints that Elizabeth had been rifling through other student’s graded assignments.

During that time, Patrick and the rest of the school had been informed that the last Quidditch match of the year would be cancelled due to the investigation of Professor Sumpton’s disappearance. Needless to say, much of the students were disappointed that they wouldn’t be able to crown a Inter-Hall Quidditch Champion this year, especially since each Hall was vying to be the first one to hold the title.

The End of the Year Feast had the students discussing their newly released exam results over dinner. Myra remained giddily quiet over her seven “A”s, while William seemed pleasantly surprised at his marks.

“I knew I wasn’t going to get an ‘A’ in Herbology, but a ‘B-’ is a lot better than I expected. Of course, I could have been you and got an ‘A’ in everything except Magic History,” taunted William.

“Well?” shrugged Patrick. “ You’ll just have to try harder.”

Elizabeth did not mention what grades she got, which had Henri begging her to tell him. Patrick could hear his nudging comments all throughout dinner until Professor Montgomery rose from his seat at the head of the staff table, his dark brown and grey hair folding back as he stood upright.

“What a year it has been,” he began. “Memorable to some, forgettable to others, but a year to all, nonetheless. As you leave here tonight and prepare to venture on your way back to wherever it may be that you have joined us, try to remember all of the good things that have happened this year, for those will be the things worth remembering. And, always, look forward to the future, because, well,” and a faint smile spread across his face, “one of your halls will have to take the Quidditch Cup, won’t it?”

The students applauded and he sat back down to finish his meal.

“Eet’ll be Allard, I ‘ope,” he said, leaning forward to peer around the table at Patrick.

“Me, too, Henri,” Patrick replied, but he was already back to badgering Elizabeth, to hear what Patrick had said.

The next morning, the hustle and bustle of leaving school to head back home was very nerve-wracking. Students were searching all over the common room for items that they had misplaced and every student was dragging a trunk out to the long path that lead to the Wentwater Express.

Students were piling into the train cars slowly, carefully heaving their belongings in behind them. With such a long line of students it was easy to become entranced by the monotonous cycle of wizard stepping on the train then pulling inside their things. Patrick gazed, mesmerized, as no fewer than ten people repeated this same pattern, until his concentration was broken by an unexpected arrival.

Icarus had flapped down on Patrick’s shoulder, nipping his owner’s ear with his beak.

“Icarus! You’re back!” shouted Patrick, turning a few heads ahead of him. “I’m so sorry! Here…” He dug through his trunk and took out the bag of owl treats that he had attempted to give him over the past few months. Icarus pecked at the food rapidly, gobbling up the handful of snacks Patrick had placed on his palm, before sticking out his leg to show a scroll of parchment tied to it. Confused, Patrick took it from his owl and read its contents, silently.

“‘Sorry, it took so long to return him, I’ve been feeding him for you so he should be able to make the journey home. Keep an eye on him. Professor Snerkin.”

William, who was standing behind Patrick, was trying to feed him more treats.

“I think you can stay with us on the train. Mom or dad’ll have to change you into something else, though. Just until we get back to Arbridge,” Patrick added, after a loud, disapproving hoot from Icarus.

Patrick and William reached the train and lugged their trunks inside, finding an empty compartment and it wasn’t long before they were joined by Elizabeth and Henri.

“Who do you think we’ll have for Transfiguration next year?” asked Elizabeth, settling into her seat.

“As long as he doesn’t try to kill me during a Quidditch match, I don’t care,” remarked Patrick.

The four of them laughed.

The door slid open and Sarah Forrester’s head poked in the compartment, silencing the laughter.

“’Ello, Sarah,” greeted Henri.

“Hi,” she said, cheerily. “I just wanted to let you all know that it’s too bad that the last match was cancelled. I really wanted Garrison to beat you for the win.”

Patrick simply smirked.

“I hate to break it to you, but Allard Hall is going to be around and winning for a long time.”

“You better hope so. Cause I’d hate to have to help Garrison win year after year.” She waved goodbye and closed the door to the compartment.

They four of them waited another fifteen minutes before the train jerked forward and they made their way back from their first and most promising year of magic.