Disclaimer: Anyone would think the fact that this is on a fan fic site would be enough to tell you all that I own nothing JK Rowling and the Warner Bros trolls own. That being said, I am also riffing off a story called The Power of the Press, whose author would know what is his.
Rating: I'm a little confused by this system. I suspect PG:13 would be best for anything I write, though
Notes: Don't expect regular postings, sadly. I write in fits and starts.
Chapter One: Discovery
A young boy with a dusty mop of brown hair sat on the low garden wall, aimlessly kicking his heel back and forth against the stones. A woman passed by, a little too quickly, pushing a pram. A crumpled leaf blew past on the dry breeze, which blew his fringe enough to reveal dull hazel eyes. He was gazing blankly down the street when a larger boy vaulted over the barrier, swinging his knee further to the side than necessary, and clipping him in the back.
"Oi, watch yourself, Carpenter," he shouted, and whacked the smaller boy on the back of the head, "tradesmen like you shouldn't get in the way, ya know."
His companion chuckled mirthlessly as they too clambered over the wall, almost all bumping into the unresisting boy. Their leader made as if to leave, then came back to tower over the seated boy. "Do ya think you can make things any easier for yourself, Carpenter, by being such a weakling, huh?"
The boy so addressed shrugged. "Whatever. I'll see you at dinner, Dewey," he said and glanced briefly in the general direction of the larger boy's slightly ruffled blond hair.
"You'd better not be late getting home tonight, freak," was the only response he got.
As the other boys trotted away, he remained very still, half leaning against the wall, half standing. Once they were safely out of sight, he slowly uncurled his left hand. The ghost of a smile slid across his face at the sight of a few blue flames flickering in his palm. They hadn't noticed a thing, and he'd managed to keep the fire going the whole time they were there. Things were looking up for the boy called Henry Carpenter, as it seemed as though he had not imagined his magic. An auspicious start to his tenth year of life, if he dared to use the word from his Uncle's power words daily calendar for such a forbidden thing as magic.
He stared into the softly flickering flames for a brief moment, then jerked up reflexively to judge the position of the sun, snapping the flame out at the same time. Pushing off from the wall, he walked slowly, almost jerkily down the street of identical little houses, most of which had one of the same two brands of SUV's parked in their driveways. Henry sighed and slipped around the back of the fourth one he came to, and let himself in the back door, only to be greeted immediately by a shriek.
"Dirty freak, what have I told you about my nice carpets, oh and you'd better get to work right now on dinner, and don't think you won't pay for my having to start it, you sullen creature, as if we have no right to expect a little common courtesy from you…"
The rant continued, but his attention was now fixed on the hot stove and his expert dismemberment of a chicken. Later, as he lay on his bed, cot rather—but it was the only bed he'd ever had, and stared blankly at the stairs above him, he thought about dinner. Mostly because he hadn't had more than a few bites, and it had been so good, but also because his uncle's voice was still echoing in his head.
"Well, boy, it does look as though you can be at least semi-competent when pushed to it," Virgil chuckled darkly, "though I can't see who would hire such a dirty freak to work in a kitchen. I do expect you to take plenty of technical classes at Rockford in a few years. We certainly won't be support your lazy body after you graduate!"
Honestly, it wasn't as though he wasn't also dreaming of the day he could finally be free of the Dixons, but it would be another ten years before he'd be of age. More than all of his life thus far, if it could even count as a life. The boy sighed, and fell into an uneasy sleep, punctuated by dreams of being chased, forever, by his fat cousin to the sound of high pitched laughter, cold and cruel.
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Miles and miles away, a nervous young man, ironically named after an ancient Roman governor, was packing and repacking in preparation for a trip to Albania, where he hoped to be of some help in dealing with rumors of a new vampire, one that only attacked in animal guises—not wolves or bats, but serpents. Anything was better than his dead-end ministry job. Perhaps then they'd stop calling him the queer squirrel from the magical creatures department. He would show them that he was good for more than handling security trolls.
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Henry Carpenter awoke with a gasp from a dream featuring Uncle Virgil pushing him off a cliff, which was slightly odd, as the man had never laid hand or foot on him in actual violence. That was reserved for his son, of course. The scene also looked like on of the cliffs of Dover or something British like that. Henry may have grown up being blamed for the move, but certainly had no memories of the country where he had been born. His heart was still hammering in his chest and getting louder—no, that was a knocking on his door.
"Boy, what did I tell you about waking us with unnatural shrieks?" his aunt's voice continued, "and don't even pretend to still be asleep. Since you're up, you may as well get to work on breakfast, and make it a good one."
He wriggled out of his threadbare sleeping bag as he said, "of course, Aunt Peony, would that chocolate porridge you bought last week be alright?" And so it went all day. At least he had school on Monday, instead of a summer break for his birthday, as he would have if they stayed north for the move. Henry was glad the drill company only had a branch here.
It was on the previous day, when he was walking home from school, to shun the bus that Dewey took, that the strangeness had begun. There was a Bird of Paradise, a species which he could have sworn never left Papua New Guinea, sitting on a fence post. As he approached, it took off awkwardly, its huge tail feathers trailing behind. When it landed on his shoulder, Henry was so surprised he almost fell over. He turned to glare at the bird, which spread its wings threateningly in response. On the inside of the wing nearest to his face was a neon pink marking, unnatural even for such a flashy bird. It was swirly and almost crawling across the feathers, and Henry could not keep his eyes off thing. It had pulsed brightly, and then a voice had spoken in his ears from nowhere.
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"This is merely a preliminary message. We wish to inform you of your qualification for the PNG magical preserve education program. More information will follow with educational details at your regular mailing address. Please make a statement indicating that you have received this message, Master Carpenter."
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By this point, the boy had sunk to the cold pavement in shock and was staring blankly at the bird. "Er, um loud and clear, but…" Before he could finish, the bird took off, leaving a very dazed boy in its wake.
He'd spent all afternoon playing with the flames he'd used for most of his life to light his cupboard when locked in, flames he'd thought existed only in his imagination. And now today, Henry still hadn't opened the heavy blank envelope bearing his name that had been in the mail that morning after he'd woken with a nightmare. It lay on top of his chest like a weight that had drawn him down all day from its place under his shirt. Calling up a line of blue fair around the edges of his so-called room, Henry slowly pulled the letter out and opened it.
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Master Henry Evan Carpenter
You are most cordially invited to Her Royal Majesty's Magical Perserve in Papua New Guinea as a student under Her Pacific Rim Educational decree for young wizards and other magically endowed creatures. Please present yourself, should you choose to attend, at the appropriate travel portal with all necessary supplies [see enclosed list] on the first day of the New Year. Congratulations on your Magical status.
Sincerely,
Horace Wallace
Assistant Secretariat
Education Dept.
Greater New Zealand
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He stared at the letter, positively boggled at the bureaucratic language. Swallowing hard, he flipped to the next page, which was not the promised list, but another letter.
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To all the dear kiddies:
Don't be too alarmed by that bit of required nonsense. Basically, sometime in your life in this fine region of the world, our magic sensors were tipped off, and your name popped out. Our school here in the jungle's not the only one hereabouts, but unless you want to spend seven years straight inside Ayer's Rock, or hire tutors, we might as well be. We aren't exactly cheap, but hey, that's what student loans are for, and the tutors only cost more. Our students have never had problems getting hired afterwards, and we have the best technomagus program at the undergrad level.
Subjects here include basic shaman lore and ritual, potions from around the world, European wand-style charms and transfiguration, as well as the usual astronomy and words of power based magics and runes. If you don't have a graduate as a rellie, there's an explanation of how to get to magical places and the portals mentioned in the first letter on another page. Acceptance letters should be posted to MPEducation, PNG no later than the next equinox, which means you have about a month to decide.
Walter Brownleigh
Headmaster
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Henry let the letters slip from his fingers, numb with a creeping horror at what his relatives would think or do about such a development. The idea that they would allow him to go was unthinkable, as was the thought of not going and learning about magic. Whatever it was, magic or some other mystery, all he had to sustain himself were the coincidences and other strange events and characteristics that made him different from his so-called family. His fingers reflexively traced the Z shaped scar on his face at the thought. It was the only visible damage left over from the attack that had robbed him of his parents and homeland. Henry didn't even know their names, and given that he'd heard his Uncle muttering things like, "at least I got to keep my own initials," he suspected that he didn't even know his name, either.
The days were dragging by, but summer break was coming soon, and with it his chance to find the magical world. If only he wasn't so afraid of responding to the letter, Henry thought as he drifted off into another uneasy sleep.
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Far away, an old man sat behind a cluttered desk, blinking bemusedly at something silver and swirly that was puffing out blue smoke. "I could have sworn that colour meant sleep," he muttered, "but if that's true, the dear boy is practically nocturnal. Oh well, at least he is still safely ensconced with his relatives." He briefly thought of popping over to Surrey to have a peek at the child, but thought better of it. Wouldn't want to take the chance of being spotted, after all.
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The first thing Dewey Dixon, called Big D by his friends and Double D by his enemies, did upon exiting the elementary school for Christmas break was kick his freaky cousin flat on his face into a mud puddle. At the sound of the supervising teacher's gasp, he laughed, "ha—you cant' do anything about it now, bee-otch!" He then dashed as fast as his fat legs could take him for the open door of the waiting school bus.
Henry waited for the sound of the vehicle pulling away before pushing himself up into a kneeling position. Gingerly, he wiped the mud off his face. At least it seemed like his nose was ok this time. A hand fell onto his shoulder, and he flinched.
"Oh, I didn't mean to startle you, Mr. Carpenter." It was the teacher Dewey had yelled at, dear timid Miss Taylor. "Are you alright?"
He smiled up at her as he stood, "yeah, but it's a good thing I've not got glasses, no matter what you think of my vision."
She sighed resignedly, "I suppose so, but now you've missed your bus. I do feel responsible—it is my job to stop things like that. Would you like me to give you a ride?"
He was about to shake his head when a calculating expression came to his face. Was this his chance to get to one of the shopping districts mentioned in the packet from the magic school? "Well," he said slowly, "a ride would be nice, but there's someplace I need to go before home, I could get back from there if you just dropped me off, and…" he trailed off, disgusted at his desperate sounding babble. It was probably pointless—he didn't even have any money.
But the teacher had already perked up considerably. Would the boy finally open up and tell her what was so wrong? "Of course," was what she actually said, "I would be delighted. You don't have to wait till things like this come up, though." He nodded halfheartedly and stood to follow her to the parking lot.
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On a darkened island, a man in a shabby tweed suit stumbled out of a prop plane, muttering curses in Latin upon whomever designed the infernal machines. Once he'd gotten across the tarmac, he was mildly surprised to find only a chain link fence, with no airport in sight. A shirtless man leaning against the gate held out his hand.
"Passport!" he barked, and the first man pulled one out of his vest pocket. "Hmm, Reynard Lowell, education visa—you look too old to be a student," he continued, peering suspiciously at the smaller man's graying hair. Lowell said nothing, but pulled another piece of paper out of the same pocket and handed it over. "Oh how cute, a teaching license. Come to civilize the little savages, have you," the man said with no humor. "Well, go on then, I'll be seeing you again soon enough. Be shocked if you make it a year," he said dismissively.
Retrieving his papers, Lowell walked onto the partially lit main path leading towards the dilapidated village ahead of him. Ignoring the shouts of "taxi, car ride one dollar," coming form the men leaning against a number of rusty jeeps next to the fence, he headed towards a white SUV with a large shield-shaped log that had MPEducation emblazoned in the center. He pulled at his tie anxiously while walking. As lucky as he was to get this position, Lowell just wished it didn't have to be so far away, and so very hot. At least the vehicle had some cooling, was it called air conditioning? He made a note to ask, then settled back into the cushions.
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"Your car is very comfortable," said Henry, "and thanks for giving me a ride. I'm probably going to get mud all over."
"A fact that is hardly your fault," she said, "now, where was it that you needed to go?"
Fortunately, he'd been keeping the letter on his person at all times, and was able to pull out the directions and guide her towards his destination, his future if he was very, very lucky.
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Miles and miles away, a young girl awoke with a gasp. "Mama, mama," she shouted, "oh, it was the same dream," she added in a whisper. "Mama!"
A frazzled woman with disheveled and graying brownish hair burst into the room. "What is it child—another nightmare?"
The little girl nodded, "please, tell me the story with the hero, the littlest hero, please?"
Her mother sighed wistfully and picked up a piece of paper from the dresser with a photo clipped from a magazine pasted to it and sat on the edge of the bed. The girl crawled closer and peered over her mother's shoulder. It was a baby boy with a shock of messy jet-black hair and astonishingly green eyes. A drop of blood sparkled at the end of a lightning bolt-shaped cut etched across his forehead. She was not surprised when his tiny photographic image crinkled into a silent wail of pain. "Once upon a time, not long before you were born, there were two very brave people. They had a little boy, and his name was…" Her eyes fluttered shut as she let the cadences of the familiar story lull her back to peace and sleep. Someday, she would see him somewhere other than in her dreams, and they would have adventures, and he wouldn't have to be alone and hurting all the time.
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Henry Carpenter certainly felt very alone as he stepped into the touristy shop mentioned in that fateful letter. Poor Miss Taylor had been so apprehensive about leaving him there, he'd almost felt bad about lying to her about somebody meeting him, for all that her wished it were true. Swallowing and glancing at the paper one last time, he approached the counter and spoke uncertainly.
"I've been invited to a school in PNG, and heard you might know something about it. Supplies, maybe?" he added hopefully.
The girl behind the counter blinked at him. "God, not another one. Bob's in back, he'll fix you up with whatever the frick it is you creeps are smuggling." She jerked her thumb in the direction of an open doorway with a beaded curtain in the back.
Henry took a deep breath and headed back. This was it. He walked slowly through the nearly empty shop, and had just barely touched the curtain when a large man burst through, nearly knocking him over. "Sorry, so sorry, I'll just, um, go," he burst out, scrambling backwards.
The big man stopped in mid stride and looked at the anxious child. "Ah, you're one of the new students, eh?" He chuckled at the boy's nod, "no need to be so jumpy. Well, grab your parents and we'll get going."
Henry let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding in a sigh and hung his head, "I'm an orphan, sir, there must be some mistake, I'll leave."
Running a hand through his thinning hair, Bob, for that was indeed the big man's name, frowned down at the lad. "Is that so? Well then, do you have your letter, at least?"
Henry reflexively clutched at the stiff papers still under his shirt, and Bob nodded. At that, the man led him to the archway in the back of the store. What Henry saw was as far from what he had geared himself up to expect as possible. Rather than some quaint cobbled road right out of the Salem Witch Trials, with scaggy hags in pointed hats, he found himself being led through a curtain of floating colored lights, which danced and whirled around, till he almost felt they were traveling in some magical method. And perhaps they were, for upon clearing the eldritch lights, Henry found himself surrounded by a grove of trees, with a winding dirt path, down which Bob was leading him. Not wanting to be left behind, he quickly followed.
They soon found themselves in a large clearing, all decked out with colored pavilions and leafy booths. It was a regular marketplace, with foreign vendors on blankets in-between the booths, and Henry could have sworn that somewhere in all the chaos there was a gypsy wagon.
"Voila!" said Bob, "shop to your little heart's content, and don't ask for me to lead you here next time, squirt."
Henry gaped. "But what about money? The letter says something about my scholarship…" and he began to frantically rustle through the pages in his slightly worn packet from the school.
"You'd best ask the bank about that, lad," said the big man, not unkindly.
"Er, which one?" Henry asked nervously. Did wizards have their own preferred bank, or something?
Bob chuckled, "Gringotts is the big white building at the end of the line. Goblins are right sticklers about having all their branches look the same, even if they stick out like a sore thumb here."
After thanking the big man once more, Henry began to awkwardly pick his way through the merchants, with the line: "I haven't gotten to the bank yet, so I really have no money" becoming some kind of mantra or talisman to fend them off. Once he'd finally made it to the bank the silence and cool atmosphere were quite a relief. He took a long breath to steady himself before approaching one of the funny wooden desks that were much too tall for the Goblins. Personally, the boy thought they were much too fierce looking to be mild-mannered bankers.
"Name, sir," the goblin barked, startling him out of his dazed reverie.
"Erm, Henry Carpenter," he replied.
"Key, please," it replied in a dull tone.
"I haven't got one, as I'm here about a scholarship to, um, the school of magic in PNG, I…" he trailed off at the glower from the banker.
"The letter!" it barked at him. It was produced, and he was given a small sack of coins, which he was surprised to see were made out of mother-of-pearl. Upon seeing his look of confusion, the creature sighed and handed him a business card emblazoned with the bank logo before calling out: "Next!"
Henry awkwardly shuffled out of the way while reading what was apparently a self-updating list of conversion rates for the Pacific Rim magic consortium's "valid magic tokens" to the various local currencies. As far as he could tell, given the amount of tokens he had, if prices were at all similar to those in the outside world for school supplies, he would have to be thrifty in purchasing his supplies. Henry sighed, glad that he had at least some practice bargaining, courtesy of Aunt Paisley's grocery shopping errands. Finally pulling out his supply list, Henry sighed upon seeing its length. Bugger being able to afford everything—he'd probably have to figure out a way of making a second trip just to carry everything, on top of the upcoming difficulty of hiding everything from his horrible relations! Now he began to actually read the list, absently sitting down on the ostentatious steps up to the bank.
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Uniform: 5 sets of standard fatigues
2 pair workout shorts and shirt
1 pair dragon hide boots and gloves
1 beekeepers hat, enchanted
Books: Hughbert Darkling—Runes and Glyphs
Wayne Omagachi—History of Magics vol. 1
Lily Evans—Basic Potions Made Easy
Marion Bloomburg—Wild Plants
Xlotle Colombo—Wands and Daggers: Simple Defense, ed. 5
Sydney Borgia—The Stars and You, trans. Nancy Guelf
Henrietta Macey—Proper Grammar and Writing
Junius Enger—Standard Maths
Items: 1 Triple-Trunk
1 stone cauldron, standard size 3
5 Erlenmeyer flasks, 500mL
1 E-Z start potions kit
I brass telescope with stand
5 standard reams of parchment
1 calligraphy set
5 bottles of India ink, indelible
1 ritual knife, stainless steel only
1 wand
I focus ring
Optional: casual clothes for weekends, appropriate games
1 pet, either a snake, cat, rat, toad or post owl. Dogs are forbidden!
Broomstick or flying carpet, not both
Erik Zimmerman—Magikal Theory Quantified and Codified
Other magical reference books
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Henry decided to begin with the trunk, if he could figure out what the triple part meant, so as to have somewhere to put the rest of his purchases as he went along. Drifting with the now bustling crowd, he scanned for trunks, and was only a little surprised to find a booth constructed wholly out of stacked trunks, off to one side. Feigning disinterest, Henry listened to the proprietor harangue some other customers about all of his great options: double! Triple! Quadruple! Even five and six compartment trunks. The internationally approved auror standard with the seventh consisting of a temporary cell for prisoners! Shrinking and featherlight badges affixed gratis with the purchase of 30 vmt or more! Many fin choices of hardwoods, or even leather bound!
Henry sidled up to the man as he wiped sweat off his brow after completing the sale. "Have you got anything used? My mother (he lied) thinks I'll just beat my good trunk to death at school, and since I really only need the standard triple with shrink.." he said in a confiding tone, "let's get this done quick so I can look at interesting stuff!"
"Oak'll take the most wear," the man muttered, leading him to the back of the booth, "which is why I get the most of them back used…O course, if you only get shrink, it'll still weigh as much as it does right now."
Henry was opening each of the three latches in turn, each of which revealed nearly identical compartments, which still had a bit of debris left by the former owner. "What about with all of my stuff in here?"
The man swelled up with pride. "All my trunks are a standard weight of 4 kilos, unlike those shoddy European models! If you had to figure in all those compartments, nobody'd buy my moving out model!"
He'd had to pay an extra token for the option with little wheels at one end so it could be pulled like a suitcase, as well as the shrink badge—just tap it, but sincerely hoped that 11vmt was not too much. Henry had found all of the textbooks, even the optional one, after what seemed like hours rummaging through the used book bin at the Borders with Magic pavilion. The apothecary cave was very creepy-looking, but has an early bird sale on standard potion kits and refills right out front, so it didn't matter. The only thing besides that and his wand that he'd bought new was the cauldron, as a "well-seasoned brewer" cost more. Focus rings could be upgraded with crystals and such, but were basically all the same holy Tonga wood, and apparently students were constantly trading them in for a better fitting size, he discovered.
His wand actually cost him 9 vmt as the Quetzalcoatl feather core had been imported from Brazil. It had taken forever to find a match, and a long rant from the proprietor about how lucky he was that the wandmaker's apprentice was from the Amazon and had brought supplies with him, or he'd never had gotten such a wand. Henry had skipped right past the pet shop, sporting goods store, and magical game spot. In the end, he had only 3 out of his 50 allotted tokens, as well as 16 wooden nickels (30 to the token) a growling stomach, and no idea of how to get back to his relative's house. Wearily, he made his way back down the winding path and through the dancing motes, which were almost blinding now that night had fallen.