Jeremy Baker, Ravenclaw

First Year: The Thestral-Hair Wand

I've been told over and over again it's perfectly normal to find out as late as I did. I've heard that even Harry Potter himself wasn't told he was a wizard until he was eleven, and Hermione Granger discovered she was a witch through her Hogwarts letter.

But my story isn't like theirs. I didn't grow up with a horrible muggle aunt and uncle who wanted to stamp every last drop of magic out of me, like he did. I'm not muggle-born, like she is. My magical parents knew I was one of them from the moment I was born, but they only revealed the wizarding world to me at the last possible moment - just as I was about to be plunged into it.

I mean, there was a perfectly good reason for their secrecy, and it doesn't really matter any more. But it's significant to this story - my story - because this is where it begins.

Chapter 1: Muggles, Magic, and Moving House

I remember it clearly. It was my final day of primary school, and I slowly meandered my way home, tears splashing the cobbles of Lincoln's sloping streets. I slowly made my way round the back of the grocer's, and up the stairs to my home above the shop. I had lived here ever since I could remember, and now I was painfully aware that I would be leaving it forever.

My parents had informed me in March of that year that we would be moving house, and I had been dreading the day ever since. My neighbourhood was tight-knit; all of my friends from school went to church with me, cub scouts, round to each other's houses, and down to the field to play football in the summer. Now, they would all be going to the same secondary school, Canwick Park Academy, and for the first time, I wouldn't be with them. That - perhaps even more than my fear of leaving my house - was another big reason for my tears.

There was nothing to be done though. My parents were both anthropologists - people who study humans and their culture - and they had been all over the world together, observing everything from French Urban life to South American tribes and Inuit communities. When my mum found out she was pregnant, they returned to Lincoln, and the shop my dad inherited from his grandparents. They employed a few people to work the grocer's, and used the house above as a work base and a home.

"We couldn't travel like we used to any more," my mum had said when they broke the news about our departure. "We needed somewhere stable. So we set up above the Grocer's, and decided to do a project on how family life affects day-to-day routines."

"Why can't you carry on doing that?" I had asked, still incredulous to this sudden change.

"We need a new location. A new project." My dad had said cryptically. The subject had been dropped, but ever since then the three of us had been making our preparations to move. Now the day was upon us, and it was with a sad smile that I greeted my parents when they opened the door. We would be leaving for East Anglia after dinner, to a house mum and dad had acquired just outside the small town of Bury St. Edmund's. We'd been there to visit a couple of times, and despite myself, I had been impressed. It was large but comfortable, with an open fire and wooden panelling on the walls. There was no garden, just an expanse of grassland and forest for miles around. I loved the outdoors, but I didn't like the idea of having no friends to enjoy it with, and I wished with all my heart that all of mine could come and join me there.

Also, my parents had been very quiet about where I would be going to secondary school. They claimed to have sorted it all out, but even when I asked them at the dinner table that day, my mum said the same thing as before: "There's a very respected school in Bury, we'll go and visit in the summer." I left it at that. They had made my favourite - shepherd's pie with extra cheese in the mashed potato - in an effort to cheer me up, but I disappointed them by not sharing their apparent excitement at the prospect of moving.

All too soon, we were saying goodbye to the now-bare house. The shop would remain open, and the house may yet be rented out, as I had heard my parents saying a week or two earlier. I took one last look around, my eyes once again brimming with tears as I surveyed my bedroom of eleven years. The three of us piled into the car, and Dad pulled off, heading for the A1 that would take us down towards Suffolk. For the first hour of the journey, no one spoke. My parents had the radio on, but I wasn't listening, just gazing suddenly out of the window.

Then, when we had been stuck in a traffic jam for fifteen minutes near the A14, I saw Mum look pointedly at Dad, who nodded emphatically. Then she turned in her seat to face me, and said, out of the blue:

"Do you remember the time you first went cycling with your friends?"

"... Yes," was my bewildered, reluctant reply. We tended not to discuss this event, but I remembered it vividly. I had been about eight or nine at the time, and I had convinced my parents to let me cycle round the estate with my friends. I had wheeled my bike out to meet them, and been met with a hail of laughter, as I still had my stabilising wheels on. I had kept a brave face and cycled at the back of the group, saying nothing. I was not a confident cyclist yet, but they had all grown out of their stabilisers long ago. It went on like this for about twenty minutes, until I heard one of my more distant friends sniggering that I was "such a baby." Hearing the laugh this received, I was incensed, and then something very odd happened.

I began to pedal furiously, and almost impossibly fast. My legs were pushing the pedals with such speed that they had become a blur. I zoomed past the entire group of boys, and as I did so, the training wheels fell off, useless. The bike even began to emit a roar, and exhaust fumes, as if it had now become part-motorbike. To cap it all, I screeched round the corner, the others hot on my tail, and met a propped-up 'road works' sign on the pavement in front of me. This acted as a ramp for my bike and, soaring through the air, I performed two perfect back-flips before landing on two wheels, to the utmost shock of everyone around.

I had cycled eagerly home to my parents, pushing through amazed and confused friends. But when I returned home, my parents had looked worried. They had kept glancing furtively around, brought me inside and told me calmly that while they were very proud of my confident cycling, I was not to try anything like that again. I had told them I hadn't done it on purpose. They had seemed to understand, but the subject was then dropped indefinitely.

So why were they mentioning it now. "What about it?" I prompted when my Mum didn't reply. She hesitated, and then said, "well, what happened that day has something to do with... the real reason we're moving house."

"The real reason?" If possible, I was even more stunned than before. "You... you mean it isn't to do with your work?"

"It is partly to do with our work," Dad chimed in from the driver's seat. "Only, our job isn't the same as what we've told you."

Before I could say anything, my mum continued. "We are anthropologists," she insisted, "but we're quite specific ones. We study... Muggles."

"What are Muggles?" I asked immediately, wondering if this was all a joke.

"They're people who aren't... aren't... magic."

"Magic," I remember saying it under my breath, at a loss for any other words.

"Magic." My mum said again, more confidently. "Like us."

At this, loss for words disappeared, and I began to babble uncontrollably, my thoughts, feelings and questions all desperate to get to the front of my mind. "Us... me? I mean - magic? What..." I broke off eventually, as I heard my Dad chuckle, and saw my mum grinning from ear to ear.

"You have no idea how much of a relief it is to finally be able to tell you." Dad said apologetically. "Lots of wizards and witches - that's what magic people are called - study muggles. But our job is sort-of undercover. We work for the magical government, tracking the way muggles experience what they call magic, to see if they're catching on that it really exists. The Wizarding World has to be kept secret from them, otherwise terrible things could happen. Either muggles will start asking for magical solutions to everything, or... well, you've heard of witch hunts, haven't you?"

This was more than I could take in at once, everything was moving so fast. I plumped for the questions that were most pressing on my mind. "So, you're magic? And I'm magical too? I'm a wizard, because I'm your son?"

"Yes," said Mum, still beaming at me. "And before you ask, the reason we haven't told you before now is because we couldn't risk anyone finding out what we really are."

"I wouldn't have told anyone -" I protested, but Dad cut me off.

"We know you wouldn't know, but we couldn't be sure of that when you were younger. Our assignment in Lincoln was supposed to finish about five years ago, but it was around then that it was even more important to keep our eyes on the veil between muggles and magic."

"Why? What happened?" I asked.

"That's not something we should tell you right now," Mum said slowly, and seeing my face of protest, continued: "because you won't really understand until you know more about magic."

"You must have tons of questions," my dad said cheerfully, "and you can ask away now you know you're a wizard. With this traffic I'd say we've got at least another hour and a half before we get to the new house."

Excitedly, I plunged into my list of questions about this incredible revelation. My parents were happy to answer anything I had to ask, seeming very happy that the secret was finally out. They told me all about their work at the Ministry of Magic in the Muggle Liaison Office; how they'd learnt magic (and also met) at Hogwarts School, and how this was the mysterious secondary school I would be attending from this September.

"Is Hogwarts in East Anglia then?" I asked.

"No, said Dad, "It's somewhere in Scotland, but we couldn't tell you you'd be going to a regular secondary four hundred miles away, could we?"

There were times later in life (including at Hogwarts) when I was briefly annoyed at my parents for not telling me about being a wizard earlier. But that was not the case now. I kept asking questions, and they continued to answer, though they were careful not to give away too much - they wanted some of my magical journey to have an element of surprise.

And, for the first time since I had learnt of us moving house, I felt truly happy about where I was going next.