Ch. 1
George Westinghouse stood on the south settling basins of Fort Worth's #1 water treatment plant. He felt good. It was a good seldom felt by teenagers and almost never by pre-teens. It was the good feeling of knowing you're doing something useful, something that makes a difference. Most eleven year olds have no place to show their skill but school where everything is practice and simulation. Nothing really mattered and the work neither helped nor hindered anybody.
But this was different. As a part of the Utility Cadets Program he was spending his summer helping bring safe drinking water to the people of the city. True, he could only do the grunt work as even an apprentice license required a high school diploma, but it was just as important, just as necessary.
Last summer he was at the waste water plant and the summer before the power station. He didn't know what he wanted to do with his life but he was sure it would be some sort of engineering, if he had to stand on the street corner and beg for tuition money.
He had just finished the last round of the plant for the day. All the machines were working fine and the slow easy flow of the water at his feet was settling out the cloudiness that hid disease and toxins. Everything was just as it should be, except for the large brown owl perched on the railing in front of him. OWL? What the nation was an owl doing out in broad daylight?
George remembered tales he'd read of the Native Americans about the spiritual meaning of animals and birds. There was a story of a chief who had spent his life trying to give his people a better life but still felt he had failed.
One night he was sitting on his bed and an owl had started hooting out side his window. "So Mr. Owl, you are calling me to come out and die." He went out and stood under the tree where the owl continued to hoot. He took the bull whip from his side and with one flick blasted the owl out of existence.
George liked to think of himself as a modern, scientific man (or boy). But some superstitions lie buried deep and are not easily dug out. He looked about for something to use as a weapon, but the owl did not seem inclined to make trouble. It wasn't even hooting. It stood their looking at him, occasionally blinking. There was a envelope in its beak. George steeled himself and reached for it. The owl released the bit of paper letting it drop into the boys hands, then flapped and flew away. George looked at the envelope. It was for him all right.
Fort Worth, Texas
Water Plant #1
Settling Basin #2
South End
On the back was a wax seal, an ornate letter H surrounded by a lion, a snake, a bird and some sort of bear like animal. Who under heaven used seals anymore? Who with the initial H would be writing him? And who in all the world would use such a complicated crest?
But he couldn't stand here wondering about it. His shift was over and he better haul it if he wanted to catch his bus home.
When George got home it was getting on to dinner time. He asked, "Dad, you ever hear of someone using an owl to deliver messages?"
George's dad snorted. "You can't use an owl for that; their too smart to let anybody order them about."
"That's what I always thought, but today there was an owl on the basins holding this." He handed over the envelope.
His dad took it. "Humph. Sealing wax? What kind of throw back would..." He had the letter out and was reading it. "WHAT?" he exploded slapping it to the table. "School of Witchcraft and Wizardry is it? What kind of sick mind plays a gag like this on a kid?"
"That's what I thought, Dad. But the owl..."
Mr. Westinghouse scowled in thought. Working a messenger owl into the scheme of things was indeed a toughy. Some how it never occurred to him and his wife to think that George might be lying. As he reread the acceptance letter she picked up the supply list.
"Umm, cauldron, wand, robes... and look at the book titles. Who ever dreamed this up went to a lot of trouble."
"I just can't believe it. I've heard of obsessive/compulsives but never anything this extreme. What could be behind it?"
"Dad, didn't you say, 'When you eliminate the impossible, what's left must be the answer no matter how unlikely?'"
"Yea, but... magic..." The three looked at each other, not knowing what to say. Mr. Westinghouse didn't like not knowing; he didn't like not understanding. He was getting angry again. Throwing the letter to the table he shouted, "If this, this Dumbledor exists, let him appear before me NOW!"
There was a loud FLOOOO from the fire place and there before them stood an old man in a classic wizard's robe and hat. His long white hair and beard covered all of his face except for the long nose and the merry eyes sparkling behind the half-moon glasses. "Does THIS answer your question?" he said jovially.
They all stared at the apparition. Then George went about looking into cabinets. "George, what are you doing?" his mother asked.
"I'm looking for the whisky, to throw out."
His dad found his voice. "There's no whisky in the house. None of us drink."
The boy came back to staring at Dumbledore. "In God's own name, I wish I did."