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Chapter One: Letters
The August sun beat down on a small cottage near Cerne Abbas, Dorset, Britain. The front yard was withered and brown from the long, dry summer; a few wilted flowers sprouted from sparse patches around the cottage. In the back, a vegetable garden sprung like a lush oasis in the desert of parched grass, and a nearby garden hose, dripping idly, explained why. William Parson, sixty-six years old, knelt on arthritic knees and battled a stubborn weed with hands that grew more twisted in each passing summer.
As the sweat poured over his brow and his palsied joints shook, he wished for one of the few times in his adulthood that he had been born differently. His wife or any of his three children could have easily weeded the garden with a quick hex or spell. All four of them were magically talented witches or wizards, and he, William Parson, was not.
The long hoot of an owl sounded through the sky. To many, an owl in the daytime might have been unusual at best and troubling at worst; Mr. Parson only stood up, slowly unbending his stiff legs, and scanned the sky for the calling bird.
A moment later, a black-and-white owl -- Great Horned, by Mr. Parson's estimation -- soared out of the forest and circled around the man's head before landing on one shoulder and dropping an envelope into his other hand.
The letter was made of thick, mottled parchment and addressed in green ink. The address read:
Mr. Parson stroked the owl on the beak idly, and read the return address for a few moments before going into the cottage to deliver the mail to his daughter.
He got out some raw bacon and a bowl of water for the owl, who devoured it passionately. "Bethy, you got a letter." He limped slowly into the living room.
Beth knelt on the hardwood floorboards, scrubbing mightily at a coffee stain that neither of them admitted to causing. She looked up, bushy blonde hair plastered to her face in the front, puffing out to below her shoulders in the back.
"Who from?"
"Says it's from Richard Shaw."
Beth stood up eagerly and wiped her hands on her jeans before taking the letter. She was tall for her age, just as her father had been. "Rich is a guy in my house," she said, at her father's curious expression. "Fourth -- no, he's a fifth year now. One up from me."
"I don't know, Beth, you and those Slytherin boys," Mr. Parson teased. "You're only fourteen, mind."
"Only fourteen?" Beth demanded.
"Only fourteen," Mr. Parson reiterated stoutly. "Barely old enough to look at boys, let alone date, so don't even bother to ask."
"But I'm old enough for you to worry about it," Beth grinned.
Mr. Parson held up his hands in mock surrender. A few years ago he would have done so much more quickly, but these days his joints were sore and his motions slow. "Don't you make me worry," he warned. "I'll leave you alone to read that. Wouldn't want an old fool meddling in affairs of the heart."
"Dad, he's just a friend!" Beth protested, but her father, grinning, turned and shuffled away, dismissing her cry with one hand.
As soon as he was gone, Beth tore open the letter. Whatever Rich had to say, it was bound to be important.
What Beth hadn't told her father was that Richard Shaw was the president of a secret organization -- an organization to which she had been inducted just a year ago. Its name was the Society for Slytherin Advancement, and its purpose was to make Slytherin the best house at Hogwarts by learning the secrets of the castle and helping the members in their quests for personal greatness. The year before, when a trio of first-year Gryffindors broke into a forbidden corridor which protected a magical Sorcerer's Stone, it was the S.S.A who had warned Headmaster Dumbledore in time to save their lives.
The letter read:
The fourth-years in question were Mervin Fletcher, Melissa Ollivander, Bruce Bletchley, and Beth herself. She hadn't seen any of them since last June, even Melissa and Bruce, her best friends at the school.
Self-destruct? Beth wondered, when the letter burst into flames.
Beth let out a yelp and jumped a foot in the air. She hurled the burning letter into her bucket of soapy water, where it ignited the sponge and lay gently smoldering until there was nothing but a sticky, charred mess floating on top of the water. It bobbed around for a bit, then slowly sank to the bottom. A disgusting, burnt smell floated up out of the bucket.
Mr. Parson hobbled back in. "What were you yelling about, Bethy?" His nose wrinkled and he got a funny look on his face. "D'you smell something?"
"Uh ... no," she stammered, feigning confusion. "Maybe it's something in the oven?"
"Maybe," Mr. Parson, said, but he sounded unconvinced.
That was the first owl Beth got in August. She received three more after that. One was from her friend Melissa, vacationing in Italy. Her family's eagle owl, Goldie, was well-groomed and strong -- "She has a good pedigree," Melissa had bragged the year before -- and seemed to have easily handled the transcontinental journey. The moving postcard, which showed a gondola sailing along a canal, was good-intentioned but perfunctory.
Melissa's parents were aristocrats in the wizarding world. Their family had been premier wand manufacturers for centuries; consequently, the Ollivanders were quite rich. Her uncle, who also ran a shop in Diagon Alley, did most of the actual manufacturing, while Melissa's parents traveled the globe gathering raw materials. Melissa had been to lots of foreign places, and got a positive thrill out of hobnobbing with great and famous people.
A very different sort of boy was Bruce Bletchley, Beth's other best friend. He had no patience for society. His one great love was Quidditch, that furiously-paced wizarding game that was often described as "basketball plus soccer on broomsticks." He had played Keeper, or goalie, on the Slytherin team the year before, and judging by his letter, could think of little else but the coming season.
Duck was the Bletchley's squat, flat-faced owl, and definitely deserved the name. Beth wrote back saying she'd love to meet his family there. Usually she did her school shopping by herself, since her nonmagical father would have to drive about six hours to come along, but she could get there by Floo powder in a few minutes.
The last letter she got arrived on August 12. It was the annual letter from Hogwarts Academy of Witchcraft and Wizardry, preparing her for the coming school year.
That one arrived as Beth and her father ate dinner in their little kitchen. The overheated-looking owl hurled through the open kitchen window and practically threw the letter onto the table before dashing back outside and diving into the birdbath in the front lawn.
Beth picked the letter out of a bowl of pickles and gingerly peeled off the dripping envelope. She read it over quickly; it contained all the standard greetings and announcements, and a list of her required books. "Who's Gilderoy Lockhart?" she asked her father, carrying the dilled envelope to the trash can between thumb and forefinger.
Her father thought for a minute. Having married a witch and raised three more, he wasn't entirely ignorant of the magical community. "Don't know that I've heard of him. Why?"
"He wrote all of my textbooks."
Mr. Parson smiled in mild amusement. "Then I'd say he's either quite the scholar, or has a true fan at Hogwarts."
Beth came and sat back down thoughtfully. "Hey, I was wondering ... would it be all right if I borrowed Mercator? To send a letter?" She looked up at him hopefully.
He gave her a look, a little disapproving and a little sad. "You just sent one last week."
"Yeah -- I know, but --"
"And the week before ... and the one before that ..."
"Well, don't you think that they should be getting as many as possible?"
Her father sighed. "Bethy, I would write a letter a day. I don't think you realize how serious it would be if we were caught -- and the more letters, the more danger of it."
Beth lowered her head. "I know."
Mr. Parson looked at his daughter across the table. She had grown up an only child, and although he wouldn't admit it, she had him wrapped around her little finger. She deserved to feel close to her family. That was why he said, "Well ... how about just one more before school starts?"
She looked back up at him in delight. "Great!" She jumped up from the table, taking her Hogwarts letter with her.
"Just don't sign it!" he called after her, but it was too late. Beth Parson was already back in his bedroom, digging through the closet.
Beth groped around in the back of her father's closet, pushing past the rows of slacks and shirts to get to the very far wall. Something landed on her hand and she withdrew it gently. A round brown bat hung from one extended finger. It twittered excitedly as it came into the light.
"Hi, Mercator."
Carefully, Beth carried the bat back to her bedroom and let it go on her desk, where it flapped around until finally perching itself upside-down from the cord of her alarm clock.
She took out a piece of paper. Very carefully, she folded and tore a piece from the corner: a rectangle no longer or wider than her finger. She got out a quill pen and hunched over the paper, writing in her smallest print.
She squinted down at what she had written. With a shrug, she went back and signed her name. Anyone who intercepted the message would know exactly who had sent it anyway, she reasoned. The dementors were inhuman, but not stupid.
Picking up Mercator (who twittered in annoyance), she held him down gingerly as she Scotch-taped the scrap of paper to one thin leg. Then she carried him to the window and held him outside in the twilight. The bat rose out of her hand and fluttered around for a while before taking off toward the ocean.
Beth closed the window and started putting away her supplies. It took about a day for Mercator to make the trip to Azkaban; he'd be back in two, without a reply from her mother and brothers, but bringing assurance that they were still in prison to receive it.