Barry Potter - Chapter 2

"About 17 years ago, I was out in the parlor, closing up shop. The last customer had asked for a big red rose, and I was just putting the design away when I heard a big crash. I ran back in, thinking some boys were tossing rocks about. But do you know what I found? A bloomin' baby in swaddling!" Coren paused to let that sink in. Barry seemed unfazed, so he finished lamely, "And that was you."
There was a beat while Barry waited for the old man to continue. Coren, however, seemed to have no intention of doing so. He reached out his hand, though a moment, then took a rather large crumpet and dunked it in his tea.
Barry started. "But you mean, that's it?"
"Yup," said Coren through a mouthful of crumbs.
"What do you mean?" Barry asked in disbelief, "You didn't look for my parents? You just said, 'Oh look, a baby boy, I'll name him Barry and tell him he's my son.' ?"
"Now see here, young man!" Coren barked sharply. Barry stopped out of respect for the old man, even though he wasn't his father. "Barry, I'll tell you what I did. I sent you next door to my sister's while I searched for your parents. But poor dear, she got ill, so I took you in again. Boy, I searched all of England looking for your folks. Even called in Scotland Yard, but not a trace. So in the end I was brought up to the adoption agency, and they told me I was to adopt you temporarily. They kept lookin for your parents, but to this day haven't found them. I'm sorry, Barry," Coren lowered his voice, and Barry remembered in this new tone the voice that had sung him to sleep when he woke, that had soothed his fear and scared away his 'monsters'. Barry lowered his eyes as Coren continued, "I tried to raise you right. All I wanted was to do for you what I would have done for my own. Forgive me any harm I've done. I just wanted to raise you the way you should be raised, straight and true as an arrow. I love you as a son, Barry, but I don't ask you to keep loving me as a father. You'll be going to university soon, you don't need me any longer. Just remember that if you need a shoulder, it's right here."
Coren patted his shoulder and took a sip of tea. Barry looked up at him, watching his every move. This was the man who tucked him in at night, who kissed him good bye in the morning. This was the man who put bandages on his scrapes and picked him up if he fell. Coren had taught him what it meant to work hard and never give up. He had raised Barry, as he put it, right. Thinking back, Barry realized that Coren had been the only adult in his life who really cared about him. His teachers were indifferent, those who passed him on the street walked right by. Even his so-called friends seemed to shun him when they could. But Coren had never faltered in his devotion, not when Barry had broken his arm, not when he had caught the smallpox, not when he had ridden his bicycle off a cliff in an attempt at suicide. Coren had always been there, dressing his wounds, making him tea, laughing and telling jokes, in a word looking out for him. Barry saw now, for the first time, how old Coren was. He thought about his rash words and couldn't stop the tears of shame from springing to his eyes. He tried to sniff them back, but Coren glanced up at him. It was more than his teenage heart could handle.
"Dad!" he cried, rushing into Coren's open arms. He barely fit in Coren's lap, but Barry didn't care. He leaned sobbing on his old friend's shoulder, while the man gently rocked the boy back and forth in his arms.
"It's okay, son. It's okay, Barry ma boy." Barry raised his head, wiping the subsiding tears from his red eyes.
"No, no, I'm sorry.."
"What in the world are you sorry for, lad? It's okay, Barry."
Barry's eyes met Coren's, and he smiled weakly. "Well," he said, trying to conjure up a happier mood, "At least now nothing you can tell me will ever come as a shock."
Coren grinned. "How much are you willing to bet?"
"100 pounds!" Barry exclaimed, laughing a little. He wiped away a stray tear, asking, "I mean, what else is there to tell me? That my name really is Barry P. Nesbit? That my scar didn't come from a car accident?" Barry grinned, sweeping back his hair to revel the lightening-shaped scar that stood out against his pale skin on his forehead.
Coren cleared his throat. Barry stared blankly at him. Then he tilted his head a little, asking, "Those things are true, right?"
"Well..." Coren shifted his weight, which is difficult to do with a 17-year-old on your lap. He coughed, then said, "Well, Barry, here's the truth of it all. The police needed some kind of lead to find you parents, right? So I was packing you up in your blanket to bring you to the station when I noticed your name on the blankets. Your mum had done sewn a little name tag on it. So your name really is Barry, Barry Potter in fact. But," he continued before Barry could interrupt, "there were no records of Potters anywhere in England. Well, there was a birth certificate from the 1730s, but other than that, no legal records or documents at all. Seeing as I had to adopt you, my name was added to yours, so your name really is Barry Potter Nesbit. As to your scar," he gestured at the boy's head, "that was a combination of things. When you fell through the window, your head was somewhat cut by the glass. Then you landed among my pens. I hadn't unplugged the red one I had just used, and your poor forehead hit it. So that mark on your forehead isn't from a car crash. It's a combination scar-tattoo. And I must say," Coren concluded, "It looks rather dashing and alluring on you. Someday, some girl is going to se-"
"See it and love it, and I'll be all set, I know, I know," Barry laughed as he stood and stretched. He leaned down to pet Spyke, who had leaped to her feet when he had burst into tears and was still trotting nervously around him. She licked his hand and nose as he said, "You've only told me a million times before." Then he started to walk off toward the stairs.
"Where you going?" Coren called, turning in his chair.
Barry called over his shoulder, "To get that 100 pounds I owe you!" They both laughed, and Barry walked out of the kitchen, Spyke and Fluffy at his heels.
Barry had just taken the first step up the stairs when he heard a rustle and the mail flap lift. He turned and saw it swing shut as a letter fell to the ground. Fluffy sniffed it gingerly. Barry frowned, "That's odd. It's two in the morning, and mail is supposed to arrive at the shop..." He shoved the door open and looked down the deserted alley. There was no one there, just a stray barn owl sitting on the lamppost. For one crazy second, Barry thought the owl had delivered the letter. 'No,' he thought, 'It must've been something else. Owls don't deliver letters...'
And yet the thought had come so quickly, and had seemed so natural.... 'No,' Barry told himself, 'No. The owl is just a coincidence.' Still, he shut the door quickly, not wanting to look at that owl again.
He bent down and picked up the mysterious letter. It was on strange paper, like the parchment people used to use before modern paper had been developed. The handwriting too was odd and gothic, while the ink was uneven and green, like it had been written with an old fashioned quill. Barry looked at the letter, then jumped a little when he saw the address:

Barry Potter
Behind the Store
Rush Delivery

Barry reentered the kitchen, looking curiously at the letter. He couldn't make heads or tales of the return address. Coren looked up. "Is that my 100 pounds?"
"No," Barry shook his head, "No, it's a letter. It's addressed to me, but I don't know who the sender is."
"Isn't there a return address?"
"All it says is 'Hogwarts School, Please reply with school owl.' What's that supposed to mean?"