Chapter One

The Birthday Letters, Part 1

Seven months earlier, a ten-year-old boy stood beside a bare vegetable garden, staring intently up at the sky. He was small for his age, with untidy black hair mostly hidden underneath a woolen hat and eyes an uncommonly bright green, at odds with his nose and cheeks, which the chilly air had turned a nice shade of red. The weather had been surprisingly warm for the beginning of March, so when the boy had raced outside from his grandfather's house that afternoon he had worn only jeans and a burgundy sweater lovingly embroidered with a large, silver letter A on the front. Now it was evening, however, and the blustery wind had picked up again, blowing in darker clouds that threatened snow. Rubbing his hands together to keep warm, the boy peered at the clouds, trying to make out the black shape silhouetted against them. As he watched, the shape drew closer and closer until it resolved into something that, had the boy not been expecting it, would have been quite astonishing. It was a girl, nearly as young as the boy, with long, ruddy brown hair and riding what appeared to be a broomstick that was at least twice as long as she was tall.

The boy waved and whooped as the girl went sailing over him and landed with a thud on the frozen ground a little way away. The boy ran over to where she stood, a large grin plastering her face.

"Did you see how high I went, Al?" she asked excitedly, dismounting the broomstick. "I was almost in the clouds! Did you see?"

"Yeah, I saw," Albus replied, eyeing the broomstick with envy. "Could I have another go now? Please, Rosie?"

Rosie was Albus's cousin, her father being his mother's brother. She was exactly three weeks and one day older than Albus and today was her birthday.

Rosie was in many ways very unusual for a girl who had just turned eleven. Not only did she know how to fly a broomstick, but she also knew how to brew potions, talk to ghouls, and chase pesky pixies from dusty cupboards. She could even, although she wasn't strictly allowed, cast spells to light wood on fire and make water boil.

The unusual nature of his cousin was lost on Albus, however. He thought it was perfectly ordinary for an eleven year old girl to come swooping out of the sky or for her to tell him about the conversation she'd had with the ghoul in their grandfather's attic. But then, there were many more unusual things about Albus than just his name.

He just happened to be, as you may well have guessed, a wizard.

"You've already ridden it twice," Rosie said, hefting the broomstick and balancing it awkwardly on her shoulder. The perfectly smooth golden wood handle glinted in the fading sunlight. "It's too dark now anyway. You'll wreck my new broom if you run into something."

"I won't," Albus said immediately, but Rosie just clutched the handle tighter. "Fine. Could I just hold it then?"

"I guess. But be careful with it," Rosie said. She swung the broomstick from her shoulder and gently placed it in his outstretched hands.

"I hope I get a broomstick for my birthday," Albus said, lifting it to eye level so he could inspect the handle. "James got one for his eleventh birthday, but he never let me ride it. He just flew it all around the house until mum took it away."

"But he's at school now and first years aren't allowed broomsticks," Rosie said knowledgeably. "Mum told me I'd have to leave mine at home when I go to Hogwarts. I bet your mum wouldn't mind if you used James's broom while he's gone."

"No way. James would kill me if he thought I'd touched it," Albus said. He turned the handle in his hands and ran a finger over the single word carved in the wood. Nimbus. "He made dad lock it in the study closet and promise he wouldn't let anyone in there. Dad said okay because it's James's broom and 'he can do what he wants with it.'"

"Oh," said Rosie sympathetically. "Well, I'm sure you really will get a broomstick for your birthday. It's only a few weeks away and then we can play Quidditch together. Until we go to school, that is."

Albus nodded gloomily. A movement at the corner of the vegetable garden caught his eye. A minute, funny-looking creature had just emerged from a hole nearby and was beginning to dig earnestly in the hard earth. It had gray, leathery skin and a knobbly head, which was covered by a huge leaf obviously meant to be a hat. As he dug, more of the creatures emerged from the hole and stood watching their working companion from the growing shadows of the trees.

"Garden gnomes," supplied Rosie when she spotted what he was looking at.

"I know," said Albus, but Rosie hadn't heard him.

She had clapped her hands together and squealed. "We'll really be going to Hogwarts this year. I can't wait. I've been practicing all sorts of spells when mum isn't looking."

"But you haven't got a wand, yet," Albus said, looking a little awed. "You can't do spells without a wand."

"Dad lets me borrow his when mum's working late," Rosie replied, shrugging. "He says I have natural talent and ought to exercise it, never mind the rules. Still, I can't wait until I have my own wand." She sighed dreamily. "You know, it feels different being eleven."

"Oh yeah?" Albus said. "Different how?"

"I don't know. Just different. Like I'm older or something."

"Well, you are a year older," Albus said, grinning as she socked him in the arm.

"Don't be an idiot. You know what I mean." Rosie paused and gave him an appraising stare. "Or maybe you don't. You are still ten."

"Only for three more weeks!"

"But you are still ten. And ten in boy years is like being six for a girl, so really you're a whole four years younger than me."

Albus snorted. "That doesn't make any sense."

Rosie socked him in the arm again. They watched the gnomes gamboling around the vegetable garden. The digging gnome had unearthed the remains of a shriveled carrot and was darting through the weeds, carrot clutched between his razor-sharp teeth, pursued by half a dozen gnomes carrying pointy sticks.

"Poor thing," Rosie said as the gnomes cornered the one with the carrot and began jabbing their sticks at him.

"He'll be all right," Albus said. "Gnomes have thick skin."

But all the same he reached down, grabbed a clump of dirt, and hurled it at the advancing gnomes. The clod shattered as it hit the ground, sending the gnomes running as they were pelted with flying bits of dirt.

"My broom!" Rosie said suddenly as Albus made to grip the handle with his dirty hand. She snatched it quickly from him.

"Sorry."

"It's fine." Rosie said, wiping the broomstick handle with her sweater sleeve. "Let's go inside, though. I can't see if I got all the dirt off."

Together they traipsed across the yard toward the crooked stone house at the top of the hill. Yellow light spilled from its windows, pushing back the growing dusk and illuminating the figures of Albus's and Rosie's parents and grandparents moving about the rooms. It looked as though they were still cleaning Granddad Weasley's house from the party they had thrown for Rosie earlier that day. He saw the plump form of his grandmother busy taking down the paper chains decorating the ceiling.

"So what House do you think you'll be in?" asked Rosie as they walked.

She had asked him this question many times before, but couldn't seem to talk about Hogwarts without asking again. Albus understood why, of course. A House was like a person's family at Hogwarts. Members of the same House lived together and had classes together. But even more importantly, a House defined what kind of witch or wizard someone was or was likely to become—whether he was courageous or smart or hardworking or ambitious.

"Gryffindor," Albus said immediately. "James is in it and both my mum and dad were, too, so that's what I'll be in."

"My mum says that it doesn't always go in families. That just because everyone else in your family is in one House doesn't mean you'll go there too."

"But it usually does go in families," Albus said. "That's what Grandad Weasley said. It usually does."

Rosie nodded. "I know, but just say you don't go to Gryffindor, what other House would you want to be in?"

"Not Slytherin," Albus said at once. "No way I'll ever go there."

Rosie gave him an impatient look. "You always say that."

"Yeah, because it's true. There is absolutely no way I'll ever be in Slytherin!"

Rolling her eyes at the fierce look Albus gave her, Rosie changed tactic. "So what do you think about Ravenclaw? That House wouldn't be so bad."

Albus shrugged. "I guess so."

"It'd be better than Hufflepuff, don't you think?" she pressed. "We'd learn so much more and mum says the Head of House is really nice."

"I'd still rather be in Gryffindor," Albus said stubbornly.

"I know, but just say you can't go there, what do you think about Ravenclaw?"

They had reached the back door. Albus took hold of the door handle and opened his mouth to tell her the question was a stupid one because he was going to be in Gryffindor in the end, but hesitated at the eager smile on her face. "I…yeah, sure, Ravenclaw sounds…nice…I guess."

Rosie beamed. "I thought so too. Especially if we're together. That'd be perfect."

It was then, standing together on the stoop of Granddad Weasley's house, a triumphant gnome chewing greedily on a shriveled carrot behind them in the garden, that Rosie spoke the words that would haunt Albus for months to come: "I don't think you'll be in Gryffindor, anyway. I mean, you're not really the Gryffindor type."