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.