Welcome. Enjoy and please review. See my profile for updating policy.

Rating: K, nothing worse than JK Rowling's Book 1.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

Vincent knew all about the locked drawer in his father's office.

It had something to do with his cousins. He knew this because his father had expressed forbidden him from opening the drawer, even though it was locked and Vincent would never rifle through his father's things anyway. It just didn't make any sense for his father to draw his attention to a drawer he would otherwise have never noticed. Vincent knew his father was a smart man. His mother said it all the time, and so did his father's work-friends and the news-people on the telly. So, Vincent concluded, whatever was in the drawer was so interesting that it made his father temporarily not-smart. And there was only one thing that Vincent knew of which could be relied on to make his father lose his senses:

His cousins.

Strange lot, they were. Very interesting. Every time Vincent had said as much, his father hurriedly hushed him and changed topic. So naturally Vincent was very interested in his cousins, and whatever was in that drawer.

The drawer had always been off limits, but lately Vincent could swear it had been calling to him. Every time he went near it he had to fight the inexplicable urge to wrench it open and devour all of its secrets. Once it had even rattled, he was sure of it. It was maddening, and Vincent could not stand it for one minute longer. So when his father announced one night at the dinner table that he was canceling his meeting with the Minister of Ecological Development to take a walk in Little Whinging—and the look his mother sent his father over the table was almost interesting enough to distract Vincent from the drawer, but not quite—Vincent decided that he would take a walk of his own, to his father's office.

Vincent knew exactly which of the polished wooden stairs creaked on the way up to his father's rooms; he avoided them all, and also the section of hallway that had been re-waxed this morning and would show footprints, and was pleasantly surprised to find the office door unlocked. He worried momentarily that he had mistakenly entered his parents' bedroom, but even in the dark of midnight he could recognize his father's office: the 48 inch flat screen, which connected wirelessly to the printer and his father's laptop, and half a dozen other wonderful gadgets, his framed police badge from before Vincent himself was born, and the all-important desk.

Vincent crept around the desk to face the drawer. It did not rattle this time, but Vincent knew that had to open it or he would just die from suspense. He put his fingers on the wood, brushing the lock gently. Where was the key? Vincent carefully opened all the other drawers in the desk, searching for the key. The lock was the old fashioned metal kind, not a card-swiper like on his locker at school, so he needed an actual metal key. None of the drawers held the key, however. His father must keep it somewhere else. The idea of searching the whole house before his father got home did not excite Vincent.

He wanted this so badly. It was crazy, even, how much he wanted to open this drawer. Right now, right here, in his pajamas, in the dark. He brushed his fingers against the lock. "I must be bonkers," he breathed aloud.

The drawer clicked.

Vincent froze. The strange tension he felt was gone, replaced by a sort of anxious thrill. It was the same feeling he'd had when that shooter had got in his old primary school last year. The man had come into all the classrooms, asking where the prime minister's son was. Vincent had been scared, frozen—but at the same time he felt a morbid curiosity. Would any of his school mates point him out? Would the man shoot them all anyway?

The man came into Vincent's classroom last. He asked where the prime minister's son was. None of the children moved, nobody spoke. Even the teacher was frozen in fear. The man became agitated; he looked ready to shoot someone. Vincent wondered if he should give himself up, maybe stop the shooter from killing anyone else, but he recoiled from that idea instantly. Pointing out someone else was no better, either. Where were the police? Where was his father? Wasn't anyone going to do something?

That was when Vincent had felt the thrill, when he realized that no one was going to do anything. Nobody but him.

"I know where he is," Vincent had said. The shooter had whirled on him instantly with the gun; several of the other children whimpered softly. Vincent felt like doing so himself, but he continued. "Dursley always skips second period. He's got a pack of cigarettes hidden in the janitor's closet."

It was the thrill that made him speak that day, and it was the same thrill that made him grasp the handle of the forbidden drawer and pull it open.

There were seven yellow envelopes inside, one of them wrapped in a slip of strangely thick paper. Underneath the envelopes were two manila envelopes and a flash drive. Vincent discarded these, drawn to the more exotic looking envelopes. He picked up the one attached to the slip of paper; the slip had a short note, written in messy ink, perhaps from a broken pen. It read:

To: PM Dursley

Minerva McGonagall asked me to deliver this. You should be able to take care of the explanation yourself. Congratulations.

Sincerely,

K. Shacklebolt

Vincent had expected it to be a secret note from one of his cousins, but he had never heard of a Shacklebolt or McGonagall among them. Perhaps it was explained inside the envelope.

To Vincent's great surprise, however, the addressee on the envelope was him. The address even included his bedroom. Why would his father hide a letter meant for him? Who might possibly be writing him? He couldn't take it in. The thrill urged him on; he turned the envelope over and found the seal already broken. Inside were 2 pieces of the same thick paper.

HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY

Est. 920 AD

Headmistress: Minerva McGonagall

Dear Mr. Dursley:

It is my pleasure to inform you that you have been accepted to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. Term begins September 1st. We await your owl by no later than July 31st.

Yours Sincerely,

Neville Longbottom

Deputy Headmaster

Vincent threw the letter away in disgust. A hoax. Some fruit loop sending the prime minister's son phony mail. Magic wasn't real.

As he sat on the floor of his father's darkened office, gazing at the contents of the forbidden locked drawer, however, Vincent realized that the facts didn't quite add up that way. If it was junk mail, why would his father lock it up tightly in his desk? And the note attached? It was addressed to his father familiarly, as if by an associate. And who could know what bedroom he slept in? He picked up the letter again. The next page said:

HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY

UNIFORM

First year students will require:

3 sets of plain work robes, black

1 plain pointed hat, black, for day wear

1 pair of protective gloves, dragon hide or similar

1 winter cloak, black with silver fastenings

*Please note that all pupils' clothes should carry name tags.*

COURSE BOOKS

All students should have a copy of each of the following:

Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1 by Miranda Goshawk

Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling

A History of Magic, 10th edition by Bathilda Bagshot

A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration by Emeric Switch

One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phylida Spore

Potions, Alchemy and Chemistry by Kelly Feisel

Seen and Unseen: A Guide to Magical Creatures By Rolf & Luna Scamander

Elementary Defense by Neville Longbottom

OTHER EQUIPMENT:

One wand

One cauldron (pewter) standard size 2

1 set glass or crystal vials

1 telescope

1 set brass scales

Students may also bring an owl OR a cat OR a toad.

*Parents are reminded that first years are NOT allowed their own broomsticks.*

It still didn't make any sense. Magic wasn't… real. Vincent couldn't seem to find a logical explanation, no matter how hard he thought. Everything always had a logical explanation—everything except this letter. Vincent looked at the other envelopes, hoping for more information, but each one was an exact copy of the last.

The sudden sound of the garage door opening wrenched Vincent's attention away from the letters. His father was home. Vincent was so dead. With frantic speed he pushed all the letters but one back into the drawer and closed it. He didn't know how to lock it again, but hopefully his father wouldn't—Vincent stopped. He turned slowly back towards the drawer, as if it might come to life and attack at a sudden movement. Then he looked at the lone letter in his hand. His mind was racing, but Vincent forced himself to slow down and follow the ideas logically.

The drawer had been locked the first time he'd tried it. Fact. The drawer was no longer locked, and Vincent hadn't used the key. Fact. Inside the drawer was a letter addressed very precisely him that claimed he was a wizard. Fact. He was the only person in the room when the drawer became suddenly unlocked. Fact.

Conclusion: Either he was crazy, or he was dreaming, or he was crazy and dreaming—or he had opened the drawer with magic.

His father's voice sounded from the landing. The floorboard by the linen closet creaked—his father was coming towards the office. Vincent was trapped. He looked around; he was too big to hide under the desk anymore, too big hide anywhere. There were no closets, no doors, no place to go. His father would be livid to find Vincent not only out of bed, but in his office and rifling through the forbidden drawer. The significance of that prohibition suddenly struck Vincent. What if his father suspected he was a wizard? Would he send Vincent away? Was he just waiting for proof? Was that why the drawer was locked?

His father was at the door, still murmuring aloud—and there was another voice, very familiar. Vincent closed his eyes as the knob began to turn…

It clicked. The door had locked itself. Or something. He heard his father speak, the surprise in his voice evident even though it was muffled. "Look what it did to the key!"

"Stand back," said the other voice, and Vincent could not place it in his anxiety. The knob made a hissing sound and the door burst open. Vincent saw something long and thin flash in his face and he shut his eyes tightly, positive that he was about to be shot. Visions of that terrifying moment in the janitor's closet in school last year filled his head.

"Good God, Vince!"

Vincent opened his eyes to see his father pushing past a man in a strange bathrobe, rushing to Vincent's side. The thing pointed at his face was not a gun but a stick, and the man pointing it—the man in the bathrobe—was none other than his father's cousin, Harry. Already he had pocketed the stick, concern splashed all over his face. Vincent's father was kneeling next to him, talking—but Vincent didn't hear him, didn't move. He was still remembering how it felt to have someone point a gun in his face, still trying to stop the pounding of his own heart.

"Vince, Vince! Are you okay?"

Vincent nodded.

"What are you doing in here? Why aren't you in bed?"

Vincent held out the letter, crumpled severely now from his clenched fist.

Silence reigned in his father's office. His cousin Harry returned to the door and flipped the lights on. "Well, so much for letting him down gently, eh Dudley?"

His father sighed. "Vince, why did you go in that drawer?"

Vincent scrunched his shoulders and hung his head. He couldn't stop his voice from whining a little as he replied. "I tried not to. I tried, but it was like I had to. I could stop myself."

"He's probably right. So many people are late with their replies that I wouldn't be surprised if the letters didn't have a mild compulsion charm," said his cousin from his perch on the edge of the desk.

"I'm sorry, Dad. I'm really really really sorry."

His father squeezed his shoulder. "It's okay. I shouldn't have hidden them this long. Did you read it?"

Vincent hesitated, wondering if he would be in less trouble if he said no. The envelope was already open, though. "Is it a joke?"

Harry snorted. "Like father, like son. A joke, honestly. And I suppose the door locked itself."

Vincent spared his cousin a glance, but his cousins were all crazy; he looked at his father. He didn't know what answer to hope for.

His father squeezed his shoulders, with both hands this time, and shook his head. "No, it's all real. Magic, wizards, Hogwash."

"Hogwarts," corrected Harry. Vincent's father gave him a sharp look, and Harry put up his hands. "Sorry. It's your son, you get to tell him. I'm just kind of strung out right now, and I really thought there was ambush in here. Nerves, you know. I'll go check on Miranda."

He left. Vincent looked apprehensively at his father. "What do you get to tell me?"

"Well, just that… Magic—you know. Um," his father sighed and didn't speak, blank-faced like when he was speaking about important things in Parliament. "Magic is real and there are wizards and witches living everywhere without any of us noticing them and they have a ministry with police and everything and that's where your cousin Harry works and I work with him and the magic minister occasionally and they have schools for magic and your cousins are all wizards and now you're one."

It didn't come out sounding fancy like his father's speeches usually did; his father looked very flustered. Vincent figured that he knew now why his cousins always made his father not-smart. They were wizards, and his father didn't like wizards. And now Vincent was a wizard.

"Are you going to send me away?" he asked.

"Send you—no! My God, no. What gave you that idea?"

"You didn't want me to look at the letter. You locked it up."

"And you walked right through that lock, didn't you?" said his father thoughtfully, as if to himself. "Vincent, I shouldn't have locked it up, but I was thinking about things first. You know I have to do that sometimes. I've told you before it's better to think things out before you go rushing into something. You're a good boy about doing so, too, very sharp. I didn't learn to think until I was much older than you are. And the letter—I just wanted to make sure this was a good thing for you to do. Do you understand?"

Vincent was torn. His father was going to send him away—to that school. He hadn't had time when reading the letter to wonder what it might be like there. In between not believing it and trying to hide, he hadn't thought about whether he wanted to be a wizard. He still didn't know if he did, but he did know that he didn't want to do anything his father didn't like.

"I don't want to go."

His father sighed again. "Vince, you have to go. This magic business, it's dangerous if you don't know how to use it. At that school they'll teach you how."

"I don't want to go."

"Why?"

Vincent shrugged.

"Vince, you have to go. You'll enjoy it, I promise you. You're cousins are going, too. You'll have friends, and you'll learn important things." His father gave him an encouraging smile. "You want to grow to be a successful man like me when you grow up, right?"

Vincent nodded. He wanted to be just like his father.

"Well, to be successful you have to take the opportunities life gives you. It has given you the opportunity to be a wizard. So I want you to go out there and be a great one. Do you hear?"

Vincent couldn't make sense of his swirling emotions. It had been a long night, and his whole world had been turned on its ear. He gave in, nodding.

"Good boy, Vince. You'll do fine."

Vincent felt his brain rapidly numbing now that he had made a decision. He tried vainly to shake off the weariness. He was eleven years old, for goodness sake; he could stay up as late as anybody else. He wasn't tired. There was something he wanted to ask, but the he couldn't hold the question in his mind.

"Dad?"

"Yes?"

"Do I really have to wear a pointy hat?"

He's doing it again, Godric.

Doing what, exactly?

Scheming.

Isn't he always?

Just talk to him before he takes over the whole Sorting.

Yes, yes, fine.

Could you two refrain from talking about me as if I weren't here?

Well, if you and Rowena would get over this ridiculous grudge…

I'm not holding any grudge. I'm being perfectly reasonable. She's the one—

Yes, I've heard it a thousand times. What is it this time, Salazar?

Nothing at all. I was simply considering a talk with the Hat. Completely innocent. Trying to even up the odds a little.

Very little you do is innocent, my friend. When you even the odds, you end up stacking the deck. You know you can't manipulate the Sorting. It must be impartial.

Impartial! Have you eyes in your head? Slytherin House is dying. I will not stay here and watch my house wither away into infamy, whatever you say about impartiality! This is an emergency.

I'm sorry. The students must take the House they belong in, not the House that wants them.

The House that needs them, Godric! Slytherin House needs great wizards, wizards who can pull it out of its own shadow.

A shadow that you welcomed, Salazar, if you remember.

You need not remind me of that lapse in judgment. I have more than repaid it. Don't change the subject.

The Sorting cannot be interfered with.

It can, and it has. I let you have the Potter boy. He belonged to me. He was mine. You owe me. Or don't you remember that?

What is it you want?

I gave you the Potter boy. I want his son.

Absolutely not.

You owe me, Godric.

It was different with Potter. He could have gone either way, you admitted it yourself. He wanted Gryffindor, and you didn't mind letting him go.

Only because it was strategically prudent to do so.

It's still different. You don't even know if his son has a drop of Slytherin in him. It'll set a bad precedent. Can't you see what will happen if the four of us start staking claims on children? We created the Hat for a reason.

Everyone has Slytherin in them. Even you, Godric. You're ten times better at debate than when I first met you.

But still ten times worse than you.

Yes.

You can't have Potter's son.

I will have him. Listen to you: Potter's son. That's all he'll ever be in Gryffindor. I could make him something else entirely.

You're planning to interfere with more than the sorting, aren't you?

Perhaps… What is it? You've got that look, the one that means trouble.

You can have Potter's son. On two conditions.

Yes?

He has to pick Slytherin himself. You can talk to him, but you may only appeal to his Slytherin nature, if he has one. No seducing any Hufflepuff pity out of him with talk of the dying House of Slytherin, and so forth. He has to want it for Slytherin reasons.

That's acceptable. Yes, that's very acceptable. And the second condition?

You have to lift the pureblood restriction from your House qualifications.

You've been waiting nine hundred years to make me do that, haven't you?

How much do you want this boy?

It's sacrilege!

Your choice, Salazar. I trust you to make the right one. But you'll understand if I have Rowena watch the Hat until the Sorting.