He didn't know how it happened, really. If you had questioned him the next day, even with the new knowledge he would've learned, he would still have to answer, truthfully, that it suddenly just felt…right.

He didn't mean to, honest.

John had leaned closer, drawing in a breath in preparation. But then, a sharp stab of pain in his temple, and his eyes flew open with a rattle of shock—

And were immediately coated in layers of rainbow-chip frosting.

John let loose a startled yell and stood up, stumbling, sneezing out the sprinkles stuck in his sinuses.

He slipped and landed on the floor with a thud and a groan. Getting up and barely managing to stay afoot, John stares at the smeared icing on the slippery tires in quite a daze.

Irritated and wiping the icing off his stinging eyes, he then attempted to survey the situation.

… Okay, so the cake exploded. What the hell?

The original wax words Happy Late Fifteen-and-a-Half Birthday! were strewn across the table. John shook his head, once, dazed, and then uselessly wiped his sticky hands on his just-as-sticky shirt. He cringed, scraped the cake from his hands onto a relatively clean table edge, and allowed himself, once again, to catch up with the current circumstances.

Clumps of cake crumbs, broken candles, and flecks of icing now successfully speckling the ceiling—God, he better clean this up before—

"What," a man's voice erupted from the door. "Have you done?!"

Whoops. Too late. "Um. H-Hey, Dad."

"Oh, honey," sounded another voice, exasperation clear in her tone. "What did you do this time?"

His parents thundered in, gawking at the complete disaster of a kitchen. His mother let out a helpless cry as her foot slid and gave away against the oily floor.

John winced, made a guilty, cake covered face and paused, searching for words, words to explain what he too could not understand. He peered up at his parents from a lowered head and smiled weakly. His parents, back from a dinner that did little to diminish their current anger, did not.

"Er, there could be a small margin of error, but for the most part…" He dwindled off as he realised being cocky was definitely not the way to go, shrugged, and, offered meekly,

"I think the cake exploded?"

"And that," John murmured to himself once back in the safety of his room—"did not go as well I as wanted it to."

His parents were fair, sometimes much more than some others, but "this, John, is much too far."

John huffed and frowned at the ceiling. "Like I'd do that on purpose," he said aloud. Why would he waste a cake? And one he had made himself at that. He would never destroy it. He had even secretly scooped and sampled some smashed crumbs from the table.

John shut his eyes, felt the tugging in his gut, a fish on a hook, felt something snap, felt the frosting splatter his face. But how, how did it happen? Was it an intricate prank? A bomb?

No matter, there was one thing, he was certain: it was an accident.

But telling this to his parents was no easy feat. It wasn't a prank, really, I swear, but no, of course he was now grounded, young man. (Which really wasn't much as a punishment as it left John's parents to clean up the entire mess.)

Maybe they felt guilty, John mused. Yelling at me on my birthday. Well, half birthday anyways.

So John lay there on his bed, daydreaming, pondering, resting. The water from his freshly-washed hair soaked into his pillow. He flopped an arm to his bedside desk and checked his phone. 11:13 PM. Might as well go to bed.

And nah, he wasn't going to brush his teeth tonight. Probably wasn't even going to get up anymore. Too much had happened, too weird, and John felt strangely exhausted, even though he hadn't done anything that would lead to that.

Actually, he was really tired. Especially considering how late he usually slept.

Oh, what does it matter? John sighed, and yawned, and turned over in his bed, pulling the covers over him. He didn't even bother changing. He already did that after the shower, gladly exchanging his cake-studded shirt for a crisp clean one.

It's been a weird day.

With a confused smile, John shut his eyes.

He had almost drifted off to sleep before heard the footsteps going up the stairs. Stirring lazily, John listened for the familiar treads of one of his parents, before suddenly opening his eyes, wide and panicked.

My parents don't walk like that.

Really, they don't. John would know. He had heard their footsteps countless times, to the point when he thought he could probably distinguish it from a crowd of strangers.

His mother stomped, heavy steps thudding against the floor, echoing in John's mind. His father stalked, amazingly quiet, a soft, prowling gait.

These weren't any of those.

John hesitated, held his breath. He began to get off the bed, but stopped halfway. He swayed a little on the spot, listened some more.

Step. Creak. Thump. A pained, muffled curse, a rough, scratchy voice. Unfamiliar.

John made up his mind and bit his lip, creeping to the door, trying to mimic his father's incredibly silent steps. He swallowed, hardly believing what he was doing, and painstakingly twisted the doorknob.

And suppressed a scream when a face stared back, right through the crack.

John let out a quiet, strangled gasp as a man cocked his head curiously, scrutinising John. He stepped in and John was too petrified to shout, make any move to stop him.

He shut the door, mockingly tipped his large feathered hat, and mumbled something under his breath. John's spine tingled irrationally as something seemed to pass over his room, an invisible veil draped over, covering him and the stranger.

The man saw John's tense posture and raised his hands. "I mean no harm, sir," he croaked out. John opened his mouth and screamed. His lamp light flickered on without any warning. John looked at the bright light with an expression of pure, undiluted horror and screamed again.

The other thinned his lips impatiently, looking at the light with disdain, and crossed his arms. John screamed some more.

And… nothing.

"They can't hear you. Soundproofed."

John's next shriek died in his throat. (It was pointless to continue on anyways—if they didn't hear him by now, they never would.)

"I… um, what the hell?!" Wide-eyed, John waved his arms in the air. "What's happening? I don't have any money! Did you already take my parents?"

The stranger shot John an annoyed look. Taking on a loud, rehearsed voice, he laced his fingers in front of him and spoke.

"The Ministry of Magic have been notified of a Blasting Curse tonight…" he glanced at his wrist. "Yesterday, at 10:38 pm. And now another charm, and 12:18 today. Fortunately no muggles were, and are here to view it and we will not have you expelled from Hogwarts. However this will be a warning; if you decide to showcase any more magic we will have to see to doing so. School starts tomorrow—sorry, today, so I doubt you'd feel it necessary to."

Ministry of Magic, Blasting Curse, Muggles, Hogwarts… the words bounced, echoed, around in John's mind. Each seemed to cast a miniscule shock, a small ding, before fading away. Familiar, but somehow not. It was giving him a headache.

"I-I'm sorry," he finally said. "I haven't the slightest clue what you're talking about."

The other frowned. He squinted into John's eyes and mumbled something under his breath. John immediately stiffened and looked away with a shudder. A sort of prodding, a chilling, invasive thing was crossing through his mind, and for a moment John felt utterly raw, exposed. He was quite relieved when it stopped just as suddenly as it started.

"Oh, dear Merlin." The man shook his head in wonder. "You really don't." He wrung his hands, visibly bewildered. "Two charms, not a mistake… quite a late bloomer, I see. Sixth year start, that'll be embarrassing… how's it possible?"

"May I remind you that I don't know anything about anything?" John snaps with a slight glare. "Will you please tell me what's going on?" Becoming more agitated, he begins to pace around the room, back and forth, back and forth. "First I explode a sodding cake, and now there's a stranger in my house who's magically soundproofed my room and warns me of being expelled from, what, a warthog—"

"Hogwarts!" the man barks angrily. "It's Hogwarts, you insolent boy, and it's damn near the best school of magic we've got around here." He scowls, takes in John's visibly frightened look, and sighs. "My apologies," he then says in a much calmer tone. "I shouldn't expect you to know anything."

John looks at the man sharply, insulted, before looking away with a wry smile. "I suppose not." He shuffles on his feet and raises his eyebrows at the other. "Care to catch me up?" He grins a little at this absurdity and extends a hand. "I'm John."

"Greg. Greg Lestrade." They shake, and then Lestrade smiles a little and clasps his hands behind his back. "Now, John, I think you ought to follow me," he says apologetically and rather hurried. "Even a muggle-raised child should know the school year is beginning right this morning."

John offers a rueful smile. "I'm afraid not." He shrugs. "Homeschooler here."

"Oh, dear, isn't that bad?" Greg looks rather awkward at this point. "I'm very sorry, John, this will be quite a shock to you but we absolutely must get going. The Ministry of Magic will have to take a look at you." he angrily muttered something about paperwork, then looked back up to John. "I'll explain everything along the way, promise."

"Woah, woah, hold the phone." John raises his palms. "Now give the phone to me," he adds with a smile.

"I know your name, but I have no clue who you are, nor where we're apparently going, or anything for that matter."

Woah, hold on, why was he so calm? Someone he knew for less than an hour was telling John to go with him? He should be screaming, kicking, lashing out, calling the police.

But he wasn't. He didn't know why, but John felt… safe. It was like déjà vu. His stomach was settled, his heart was calm. Mind you, it wasn't enough for him to agree to go with Greg, obviously. But enough so he didn't feel the need to phone 911.

His parents always joked John went with his gut and heart, not his brain. They were absolutely right.

"I know, I know," Lestrade said quickly, softly. "I—Merlin, it does seem a bit suspicious, doesn't it?" He breathes out a laugh. "It's alright. I'm a muggleborn, too, I remember getting my letter, my first burst of magic—not as late as yours, of course—it was all very spontaneous." He looked at John sympathetically, and chewed his lip.

John looked back with a tilted head, wondering if the apparent sound-proof thingy was worn off by now.

"Here, tell you what," Lestrade suddenly said with a nod to himself. "I'll go back to Ministry hall and tell them what's happened, then we'll tell your parents, everything. You'll get your supplies after the Sorting. How's that?"

John pressed his palms against the sides of his head and closed his eyes. "Whatever you want," he said gloomily, sardonic, too confused to protest. At least he wasn't being whisked away to Hogwarts-Not-Warthog immediately.

"Atta boy," Greg said softly, with a crooked smile. "I'll just be off, shall we?"

Once again, he tipped his hat, and John choked out a shriek as he just… disappeared. Poof.

What is going on? The question that's been asked at least a hundred times since last night scrambled John's mind. He couldn't reason, there was no logic to this, but something in his gut insisted there was, and John's head throbbed painfully, ebbing away before surging up once more, a tidal wave in the ocean.

John shook his head slowly, massaging the pained temples. Maybe this was all a surreal, much-too-vivid dream.

He groaned, staggered to his bed, and collapsed in a deep, confused, slumber, hoping to get some rest, peacefully oblivious to the fact that, after not even an hour, he would once again be violently awoken by the mysterious disappearing man, not knowing the next wakeful hours of his life would be a whirlwind of explanation, of astonishment, of apologies and confusion. John slept, unbeknownst to the next morning, bringing him amazement, wonder, magic, how, very very soon, he would be whisked off to the Platform 9 ¾, and from there, be sent off to Hogwarts, a school of magic, where he would begin a new chapter of his life.