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?”