The Most Contrived Prank
Phedra was awoken early one Sunday morning by Maeve, who, while digging around under Phedra’s bed, was loudly announcing to what seemed like the entire world that she couldn’t find Mister Poogums. Not entirely unused to Maeve’s early-morning intrusions, Phedra frowned and rolled over so she could see the calendar on the wall to the left of her bed. It was the eighth of July, 1971. Her frown at Maeve’s antic behavior eased up a little. The next day, July ninth, was her eleventh birthday. Although eleven was not quite as exciting as ten or seventeen, it still meant chocolate cake and presents. One couldn’t go wrong.
“Poogums wouldn’t be under my bed, Maeve,” said Phedra, slightly distracted from the situation in her room by the promise of the next days festivities, “Look in the kitchen.”
Maeve, despite her seeming distress over the loss of Mister Poogums, did not seem ready to leave anytime soon. She sat down in Phedra’s desk chair and wiggled around, tucking one foot underneath herself.
“Tomorrow’s your birthday! You don’t know what I’m getting you!” Maeve declared gleefully.
“I know it is.” Phedra briefly struggled with the idea of coaxing the gift information out of her sister (she knew that Maeve was all too eager to tell her) but decided to be the “mature” almost-eleven-year-old; “…and don’t tell me what I’m getting. I want to be surprised.”
“Are you sure? It’s REALLY cool!” Maeve stretched out the word “really” for a good five seconds.
“I’m sure.”
Detecting defeat in this topic, Maeve decided to switch subjects…somewhat.
“Why aren’t you having a party?”
“Mom’s making cake, remember?”
“You aren’t inviting anyone!”
“Yeah…so what?” Phedra bristled.
“So it’s not a party!”
“It’ll be fun,” Phedra argued defensively.
“Can’t I bring some friends…since you aren’t?” Maeve tucked a strand of her dark, curly hair behind one ear and scratched her nose.
“NO! It’s MY birthday! Get out of my room!”
“You’re just crabby because you don’t have any friends to invite!”
Phedra had whizzed past angry on her way from annoyed to incensed. Maeve’s comment, said out of hurt at her apparent rejection, had hit far too close to home. She sat straight up in bed and smacked her hand (rather painfully) on the bedside table.
“GET OUT OF THE ROOM, MAEVE! NOW!”
“Okay, okay…I’m going…geez.” Maeve walked as slowly as possible out of the room, humming tunelessly so that her exit was as it could possibly be. Phedra got out of bed and slammed the door shut behind her sister. She spent the next five minutes getting dressed before heading downstairs in a horrid temper. It wasn’t the fight that bothered her (she and Maeve rowed all the time and then would forget that they were mad at each other within a few hours). No, Phedra was angry because of the truth in her seven-year-old sister’s words. Her family loved her, but at school Phedra was more-or-less entirely alone. Since the chair-smashing incident two years ago, nearly all the students avoided her like she had the plague. She had gotten used to it, but would still rather be outgoing and popular like little Maeve, who always was building forts and playing dress-up with friends from school and the neighbourhood.
Phedra entered the kitchen and poured herself a glass of orange juice. She could hear her mother fiddling around with face creams in the bathroom down the hall, and the newspaper was spread out over the table. Phedra glanced over the front page. There had been a freak hurricane on the coast a couple of weeks ago, and the paper was still carrying news about the survivors. Her father usually liked to keep up with the news, but today Mark was looking thoughtfully at the grain in the kitchen table, his brow furrowed. He gave a little start when Phedra accidentally dropped the apple she had pulled out of the fridge (further adding to her less-than-cheerful mood), and looked up at her.
“There’s a letter for you,” he said.
“Post doesn’t come on Sundays, Dad,” Phedra replied bluntly.
“Then what’s this?” he queried. Mark held up a large, square letter that, Phedra could see, had her name on it. She set down her bruised apple and headed over to his side of the kitchen. He handed the letter to her. Then envelope was made of an odd sort of material that was rather yellowish, and it had no stamp. There was just an address, clearly hers.
“Did some neighbourhood kid drop it off?” Mark asked, clearly referring to the letter’s lack of postage stamp. Phedra snorted sceptically. What neighbourhood kid would write her a letter and drop it off early on a Sunday morning? But there was the letter, looking rather enticing. She turned it over. There was a great purple seal with a crest…four animals encircling a capital “H”. An air of mystery was filling up the room, and Phedra’s bad mood was moving out of the way to make room for puzzlement.
“I suppose I’d better open it up,” she said.
“Yes, I suppose so,” said Mark, looking over her shoulder.
Phedra broke the lovely seal, pulled the letter (made of the same odd material) out of the envelope, unfolded it, and read it aloud to Mark.
“Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore
Dear Miss Bagley,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress”
Phedra looked up at her father.
“That has to be the most contrived prank I have ever seen,” he said. Phedra said nothing. The letter had given her an odd feeling in the pit of her stomach. She realised that her mother had entered the kitchen and was standing next to Mark. Susan seemed to be every bit as perplexed as Phedra and her father. All three of them took turns looking confusedly at each other, until Mark pulled the letter gently out of Phedra’s hand.
“Should we throw this out?” he asked Susan. Susan just stared at Phedra. Before anyone could act, doorbell rang. They all jumped, but no one moved towards the door.
“I’LL GET IT!” Maeve dashed down the stairs, running so quickly in her socks that she had trouble stopping on the linoleum once she reached her destination. Phedra and her parents heard her hit the door with a loud SMACK, stagger backwards, and then continue in opening up the door.
“Hello, young lady. Are Phedra Bagley and her parents home?” a male voice questioned politely.
“MOM! DAD! PHEDRA! SOMEONE’S HERE FOR YOU!” Maeve hollered. Phedra gave herself a little shake and headed for the door, followed by her parents. A man was standing in the entryway, wearing basketball shorts and a sweater vest over a puffy shirt. Phedra expected her father to immediately send the strange man away, but he didn’t.
“Hello, Phedra.” The man smiled kindly down at her. “My name is Martin Magoon. I was wondering if I might have a word with you about the letter you received. May I have a seat?”
Rather dumbstruck, Phedra turned to look at her father, who turned to look at her mother, and everyone went back to staring at each other in a manner similar to the way they had done in the kitchen a few minutes earlier. Martin Magoon cleared his throat politely, and Mark came to his senses, gesturing for their guest to have a seat in the living room. Susan rushed off to fetch some orange juice, and Phedra just followed Mr. Magoon into the living room, taking a seat in a chair opposite the couch upon which he was sitting. Once her parents had taken seats (and Maeve had secretly stationed herself to listen at the doorway, Phedra could see a bit of her hair) Martin Magoon cleared his throat again.
“Ah-hem. Yes. Thank you for the lovely orange juice, Mrs. Bagley. Now, Mr. Bagley, do you have the letter? Ah, thank you,” he said, accepting Phedra’s letter from Mark. “Now then, what did each of you think when you read this?”
Phedra looked at her parents. She expected her father to be immediately suspicious of the man, since he was the one who had been first to denounce the letter, but instead, Mark looked thoughtful.
“Its impossible, really, but it almost makes sense. Most of me knows that magic is rubbish and doesn’t exist, but then there is just this little nagging feeling that if it did exist, well, then I guess Phedra would have it.” Phedra’s father looked at her. “I guess that the letter just sounded more right than it should, if that makes any sense.”
Martin Magoon nodded wisely. “Phedra certainly does have it. She is a witch with magical abilities and-”
“She’s done odd stuff before, like-” Susan interjected.
“-The chair, in school. I broke a chair, but I didn’t actually touch it. Was that magic?” Phedra cut in over her mother’s interruption and then turned red, embarrassed that she had just spoken up over the adults. Her heart was racing.
“Probably. Hogwarts is a boarding school for children with your abilities. You will learn to use and control your magic. It really is a wonderful place, too,” Martin Magoon said before turning to Mark and Susan and continuing, “I can assure you that if your daughter attended, she would be in good hands. The new headmaster, Albus Dumbledore, is a great wizard.”
Excitement had been bubbling up in Phedra throughout the conversation. She had magic! She could learn to use it in a school that would be full of people like her! She could get away from all the unfriendly people in her town! She could make new friends! Thoughts were whirling around in Phedra’s head like the snow in the glass globe her mother put out during Christmas. It all made sense! Were her parents thinking the same way? Phedra looked at her father.
“Dad? It’s all perfect! Wonderful! I can go, right? Please? Yes?” Phedra honestly did not know if her father would let her or not. She bounced up and down in her chair, her eyes darting from Susan to Mark to Mr. Magoon (who was smiling serenely at her excitement). Her exhilaration surprised even herself; she normally wasn’t so outspoken in front of strangers like Mr. Magoon.
“Well, I suppose it would be the right thing to do, but I’ll need more information,” smiled Mark.
“EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!” Phedra let out a long squeal of joy. Susan winced at the noise, but it was not loud enough to cover the less-than-joyful scream that was coming from just outside the door.