Chapter 1: A Cool Trick
"Dad? I've got a question for you." Mark Lilson scuffed his foot against the soft carpet of his father's room. His father, James Lilson, turned from his computer to see what the thirteen-year old wanted.
"What's up, Mark?" Dad's voice was light, but his eyes were openly curious. That's what Mark liked best about his dad. He was always interested in what Mark and his siblings had to say, no matter how stupid it was likely to be.
Mark bit his lip, unsure of exactly how to phrase this. "Y'know how all of your bedtime stories when I was little were all about magic? About magic schools, unicorns, and phoenixes?" Dad nodded. "Do you ever wonder if any of that's true? If there's really magic, and wizards, and witches?"Dad crossed his arms and looked pensive.
"Well, I'm not about to dismiss the possibility, but then again, I'm also not about to say that magic definitely exists. I think it's usually best kept to bedtime stories, though, unless someone can produce real proof of magic." Mark grinned a bit. This was going better than he had expected. He had been planning on arguing for the existence of magic for at least a little bit, but now he didn't need to.
After a deep breath, Mark plunged into probably the most difficult part of the conversation. "I've think I could do that, Dad." His father raised an eyebrow.
"Do what? Keep magic to bedtime stories or produce proof of magic?" Mark took another big breath and held up his right hand, fingers pointing towards his dad's bed.
"Produce proof." Mark furrowed his eyebrows in concentration. After a few seconds, the big pillow his dad favored shivered a bit and then shot into Mark's waiting hand. Mark smiled at his success and turned to his dad again, when his smile immediately faded. His father had gone entirely white, his green eyes and black eyebrows the only color left on his face.
"Dad?" Mark asked, tentative again. He knew this was a bad idea. He should have shown Maria and Roger first, and then they all could have prepared Dad for this. Dad usually dealt with surprises well, but magic had stopped being the topic of bedtime stories four years ago, when Mom died. Even little Roger had stopped asking for stories of magic plants, even though he loved them more than any other story. Grandma said that all the magic in the world died with Mom, in Dad's mind. Mark had though, though, that maybe enough time had passed for Dad to let magic in the world again. Dad was usually so willing to listen, so reasonable. But now … Dad was trembling. Suddenly he got up and started pacing. "Dad?" Mark asked again.
Then Dad started muttering with his pacing, trying to work out what, exactly, he thought about this, Mark thought. Even straining to hear, Mark could only hear a few words. "...too old … why couldn't he … why didn't … was afraid … should've known …" Dad turned again in his pacing, face dark. Mark blanched. It had been years since he had seen Dad so angry. Miserable now, Mark tried to fix it.
"I'm sorry, Dad. I just thought it was a cool little trick, and maybe you could – I'm sorry. I won't do it again, Dad, I promise. Really. I just – I'm sorry." His eyes downward, he didn't see his father jerk his head up, surprised to hear that. His dad stopped in front of him and placed his fingers under Mark's chin, bringing his head up. Mark looked up, surprised to see all traces of anger in his father's face gone. In its place was penitence and – and something Mark couldn't quite identify. Pride? Pleasure? Relief?
"I'm sorry, Mark. I didn't mean to scare you. Or upset you. I was just – surprised. I should have expected it, really. I did expect it, actually. I just thought this would happen when you were younger. After you were eleven, though," Dad shrugged. "I figured that you didn't have it. I stopped watching so carefully." Dad made a face. "I should have known it wouldn't be so simple." Mark was very confused now. Dad was expecting this? What? Did Dad actually believe in magic? Why did he think Mark would have been able to make pillows move when he was younger? His confusion must have shown on his face, because Dad smiled wryly right then. "I expect that's confused you beyond anything else." Dad glanced at the clock. "School won't be out for another two hours, so I guess I may as well show you now." Dad made his way out to the hall and then glanced back. "I suppose this is why you weren't feeling so well today and had to stay home. Wore yourself out working on that little trick last night?"
Mark smiled sheepishly. "It was an accident, the first time. I was doing homework, and my pencil fell off my bed. I leaned over to grab it, but I accidently rolled it under my bed, so I got off to get it, but it was just out of reach. I kept reaching for it, and then it just – kind of zoomed into my hand." Mark shrugged. "I didn't know what I had done, but I wanted to see if I could do it again. I tossed my eraser to the other side of the room and tried to do it again. It took me maybe ten minutes, but I made it zoom into my hand, too. I did it over and over until I could do it really quickly, and then I started doing it with other stuff. The pillows are easiest, though." Dad nodded, thoughtfully.
"They usually had us start with pillows, too. I think it had something to do with the stuffing in them. Most pillows have some sort of feathers in them, I think, and feathers are associated with flight and movement, so it's easier." Mark was totally baffled.
"Uh, Dad?" Dad looked at him, startled out of his musings. "What are you talking about?" He had reached the hall closet now, and had pulled a chair over to the open closet. He stepped onto the chair and reached his arms out to the back of the top shelf.
"My charms professor covered summoning charms in my fourth year at Hogwarts. Before you ask, Hogwarts is a school that teaches magic." Dad looked down at him, smiling a bit. "Most of my bedtime stories came from things I saw at Hogwarts, actually."
Mark pinched himself, and then winced at the pain. No, he was definitely awake. "That doesn't explain anything, Dad. I thought you went to the local school, not some magic school. And – what the? We have a trapdoor?" Dad had done something to the top shelf, and a small door swung out from the back. Dad grinned down at him again.
"Not quite. This is another attic, filled with most of my stuff from when I was your age and a little older. Now give me a minute. I need to grab something." Dad pulled himself to the top shelf and crawled through the little door. Wildly, Mark thought that it was a good thing Dad had always been so skinny, even though he mostly worked at a desk these days. Dad had been one of the best men in the local police force when Mark was younger, but he took a desk job at the police station when Mom died. He told Mark and the others that he wasn't about to risk making his children complete orphans and get in gun fights with gangs and criminals. Now Dad pieced evidence together and helped figure out who the bad guys were, instead of directly fighting crime like he used to. Dad still didn't let himself gain weight, though. Actually, Mark had overheard a doctor tell Dad last year that he could even stand to gain weight. Dad had just told the man that he had never been able to gain much weight and if it hadn't hurt him in all of his 34 years, it wouldn't ever hurt him.
Now Mark figured that Dad just hadn't wanted to chance being unable to get through the trapdoor into his secret attic. He wondered what Dad kept in there. Maybe a hidden stash of money? No, Dad was talking about a magic school. Maybe he had a book of magic tricks in there, and he was going to show Mark them. But no – this was real magic. Mark knew that; he had done the magic himself. Whatever Dad did at his magic school probably wasn't called a trick. What had Dad said? Summoning charms? Then maybe it was a book of magic charms. Maybe even – Mark pulled himself together just as Dad crawled out and dropped lightly onto the chair and then the ground. In his hand was a strange sort of stick. It was maybe a foot long and was made of some sort of light wood. Mark's jaw dropped.
"Is that seriously a magic wand, Dad? You've got a magic wand? No way! Does that mean you can do magic? Why didn't you ever tell me you could do magic, Dad?" Mark fired questions at his father, but Dad only smiled a little. Mark fell silent, realizing that Dad's face looked the way he did when people mentioned Mum: sad, regretful, and pained. Dad saw Mark's remorseful face and smiled a little more cheerfully.
"Yes, it's a real magic wand. I can do real magic, too. I never told you for the same reason I keep my wand up in the hidden attic. I left magic behind about seventeen or eighteen years ago, Mark. I wanted to leave it behind forever." Dad sighed. "I guess I should have known that was impossible. Come here, son." Mark followed Dad back into Dad's room. Dad sat back down at his desk and gestured for Mark to find a seat. Mark perched on the bed and prepared to listen. Dad looked like he was getting into lecture mode.
"When I was about eleven years old, I received a letter from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I had never believed in magic before, but strange things had been happening around me my whole life. Burnt food would somehow fix itself, clothes I didn't want to have to wear would shrink until I couldn't fit in them, and I even once managed to jump and land on the roof of my school when bullies were chasing me. It turns out that was all magic. In fact, it turned out that there was an entire hidden society of people that did magic.
"So I went to Hogwarts and started learning magic. I got this wand," he waved it a bit "and I used it to create fire, unlock doors, fix small tears, and summon things" he nodded at Mark, who smiled back, albeit a little shakily, "among other spells. I learned to ride a flying broomstick. I made some wonderful friends there. Until I met your mother, going to Hogwarts was the best thing I had ever done.
"But it wasn't all nice charms and flying. There was a dark wizard named Voldemort, and he restarted a war when I was fifteen. He wanted to become immortal and rule the world and he thought that the best way to do that was to kill everyone who opposed him. And everyone I cared about or respected opposed him." Dad fingered his wand and twirled it slowly. "Many people that I knew died, fighting him and his followers. Almost everybody in wizarding society was afraid of him or supported him." Dad swallowed. "Voldemort was finally killed a few months before I turned eighteen, but it had all been too much for me. I loved magic – I still do – but it was magic that let Voldemort hurt and kill all those people. And magic couldn't save people, in the end.
"So I left a few months after Voldemort died. I moved to America, spent a year catching up on all the non-magical schooling I had missed – Hogwarts doesn't teach much besides magic, you know – and got an American high school diploma. I started college, met your mum, and well." Dad shrugged. "You know what happened then." Mark grinned. He loved hearing about when his parents met.
"Mom thought you were a workaholic recluse, since you never went to any parties and spent all your time studying. She was incredibly social and outgoing, though, and she decided to drag you to at least one party before she graduated. While she worked on pulling you out of your shell, you two fell in love. Your first party ended up being your wedding reception, and your second one was when I was born," Mark recited, adding an extra smile when he got to his birth. Dad nodded, smiling as well.
"I was such a 'recluse', as your mum taught you to say, because I didn't really know how to interact among muggles – non-magical people. I studied as much as I did because I wanted to do well in school for once, and because I wanted to graduate early and get to the Police Academy as soon as possible. My point, Mark, is that it's been a very long time since I've really done much magic. All those stories I told you kids were mostly things I had seen and done, edited a little bit." Mark accepted this explanation easily enough. It made sense, really.
"So why did you change your name from James? You could have called the main character – who I guess was you – Jim or something, couldn't you?" Dad smiled wryly.
"The names were the parts that I didn't change, Mark. I changed my name when I moved to America, though I suppose you could argue that James Lilson is as much my name as Harry Potter."
Author's Note: This is the second time, I think, that I've uploaded this chapter to fix a few minor mistakes I noticed while writing chapter 5, and unfortunately, the author's note is not part of the chapter as I have it on my computer. So I don't remember what I had originally written here. It probably, however, contained a celebration of this my new fic, an admittance that yes, this is a 'Harry leaves the wizarding world, starts a new life, and must return to the wizarding world years later' fic, and a plea for reviews. The only part I care to repeat, though, is the last: please, pretty please, review this and tell me what you think!