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:
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.”