"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.