*****
Chapter One: The Owl
*****
The letter arrived in my hotel room that morning while I was biting into a rather scrumptious piece of toast.
At first I didn't really know what it was. I was leaning on the counter in my rather cramped kitchen area when there was a fluttering sound in the living room. For a second or two I ignored it, thinking that maybe the air conditioner had turned on - this London suite was outdated anyway, and for the past week I had been battling the machine to turn on when I wanted it to and turn off when I hit the switch. No such luck, however, and so for a few blissful moments I continued to munch on my toast.
When the fluttering sound didn't go away, I couldn't help but frown. The air system did make a similar noise when it turned on, but it didn't stay like that all the time; if it did, then I would have gotten a new room. For a moment I refrained from investigating, trying to come up with a plausible reason as to why there was a fluttering sound coming from my living room, but when I couldn't I set down my coffee and strode out of the kitchen. Maybe it was a bat. Hadn't there been an article in the morning paper about bats found in one of the older hotel attics?
God I hoped not, as far as I was concerned, the three worst animals were bats, spiders, and snakes. Ugh, I hated them. Concern knotting in my stomach, I looked around my small living room.
And gasped.
There, sitting on the coffee table, was a rather large spotted owl! I could have sworn they were endangered, but apparently this one was in good shape and seemed quite content to sit there on the wood furnishing and blink at me. I blinked back.
"What in hell?" I muttered, then my eyes drifted to the open window. A chill breeze blew in, characteristic to England at the close of summer, and I couldn't remember opening it. However, if it was open, then I must have undone it sometime, and this confused owl had apparently flown into my room on accident.
I narrowed my eyes at the owl. "If you don't mind," I said, talking to the owl as I would have addressed my own dog. "You are sitting on my coffee table, and I have a lot of sight seeing to do today. I'm afraid you can't stay."
The owl blinked at me once again with its luminous yellow eyes, then gave a soft hoot. Then, much to my surprise, it awkwardly hopped off the table and soared back out the window, its wings barely clearing the frame.
Weird.
But hey, it was London, home of Jack the Ripper and several thousand ghost stories and haunted houses. Maybe owls flying into peoples' hotel rooms was so common it wasn't even remarked upon. I glanced at the newspaper spread out on the coffee table and smirked. Yeah, right.
On the front page of the paper there was a large picture of a smoking building, and the headlines "Unknown Terrorists Strike Again!" Sure, maybe it wasn't the best time of the year to be taking a lone tour of Europe, but there really was nothing else to do. My parents had recently died in a car accident, leaving me with a fortune I hadn't even known existed, so now I was spending it and making my dreams come true. I hadn't been too close to my parents in the first place - they had sent me to boarding school just to get my out from under foot and I hadn't seen much of them while growing up. But some part of me grieved because I didn't have the heart to return home and live with what few memories I had.
No, I had to get out, and what better way than to cross the Atlantic?
My eyes wandered across the table and immediately I noticed something different. There was an off-white envelope sitting in a skewed position across the table - well now, that's a new development. Curiously I sat down on the stiff couch and picked the envelope up carefully, not recognizing it at all. It was heavy, made of some thick paper, almost like parchment. Well, this is England, I suppose some companies must still use the stuff.
I turned the envelope and found it written in swirly, stylish green ink. The address, however, was what caught my attention - for one thing, there was no return address, for another, it read: Ms. Evelyn Jones, Briar Inn, Suite 05, Kitchen.
Immediately I began to tug on a few of my red curls, wondering just what the hell was going on and why I was so amused by it. These advertising agencies, they were just getting more and more inventive! With a small smile playing across my lips, I wrapped my plaid flannel closer around me and slid my thumb beneath the ceil. Took out the letter.
It was made out of the same heavy parchment and written in the same green ink, and I read it over with interest, still grinning in childish amusement.
*
Dear Ms. Jones,
Your presence has been requested by Albus Dumbledore, headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. In order to respond to this invitation, please come to the King's Cross Station and report at gate 9 3/4 no later than 11am; there will be a contact waiting to greet you. We hope to see you shortly.
Enjoy your vacation, Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress
*
Enjoy my vacation? What was this, some sort of joke? I reread the letter, trying to make a head and tail out of it, but there really was no sense in what it said. Hogwarts? Witchcraft and Wizardry? Platform 9 3/4? For a long moment I just stared at the strange envelope, trying to force it to explain itself by glaring at it, then my mind perked up. Quite suddenly a wide smile split across my face.
Of course, how could I have been so stupid? This was obviously one of the notices that my new tour group sent out, and one of the maids had delivered it early this morning while I was still asleep. The group was probably planning on taking us to some ancient castle called "Hogwarts" where they would show us around, and the parchment and peculiar writing style was all part of the attraction. Maybe platform 9 3/4 was some kind of private train? That made perfect, logical sense, certainly more than some magic school asking me to stop by for a cup of tea.
I had other plans for today, one of them a rather interesting art museum that had caught my eye, but this invitation was just too good to pass up. And anyway, I was on an extended vacation - God knew I had plenty of time to do what I wanted, and the means. Still wearing my smile, I slipped the parchment into my light jacket and made to get up from the couch.
At that moment the phone on the side table rang, and I reached over and picked it up. For a moment I looked for the call button, not used to the old fashioned phone, then remembered that I just had to put it to my ear and speak. "Hello?"
"Good morning, Ms. Jones. This is the front office calling to say that your cab has arrived to pick you up."
"Oh, brilliant," I said, using the English term and loving it. "Tell the driver that I've changed my destination to the King's Cross Station, and. . . um. . . I'll be down in a sec."
"Of course, Ms. Jones. Have a nice day."
The polite, sexless voice disappeared as the line went dead. I hung up too, once again momentarily baffled by the lack of the call button. Then I glanced down at my watch and nearly had a heart attack. It was already a quarter 'til eleven! Where had all the time gone?
In a sudden panic, I grabbed my small purse and rushed out the door, not bothering to lock it behind me. Hell, I could buy new clothes if someone broke in, I had far too much money than was natural anyway. The elevator (or "lift" as they called it) took too long getting open and I ended up skidding down the stairs instead - it was only one floor, anyway.
I dashed through the rustic lobby, ignoring the hails of "Good morning, Ms. Jones!" From the staff, and to my relief the cab was ready and waiting right outside. There was even a nice, elderly gentleman holding the door for me.
"Quick," I said as the door shut behind me. I still wasn't used to seeing white cab drivers - where I was from, all cabbies were Arabic. "I need to get to the station by eleven!"
"You're in luck, miss," he said, pulling out into the traffic. "We're only a few minutes away."
"Then we'll make it?" I asked, needing to hear the reassurance. I didn't think they would hold the train for me, despite my newly acquired money.
"Yes, we'll make it," the cabbie laughed, and swung around the traffic like a drunk. I almost screeched, thinking that American driving stereotypes were unjustified. Five heartstopping minutes later, we were pulling up outside a bustling, red brick train station where the crowds were so thick I could only see the tops of the electric-powered machines. I paid the cabby, admittedly tipping him a bit much, but I didn't have time to get change. Almost tripping over the seat belt, I shot from the car and into the buzzing crowd.
It was the end of summer, so the station was packed with people returning or leaving from vacations, but this didn't bother me. I had grown up in a big city, the nearest mall my usual hang out, so the masses of people didn't even cause me to bat an eye. Without hesitation, I dove into the group and waded through to where I assumed platform 9 and 10 would be. Between them should be the private platform, or at least something indicating to it.
That's what common sense told me, at least, but when I found myself between the two platforms there was nothing else there. For a panicked moment I looked around, seeing nothing but strange faces in a strange place, without an idea in the world as to where I was supposed to be. The platform wasn't here, how could the platform not be here?
An officer walked past me casually, obviously on the look out for pick pockets and the like, and I stepped up to him. "Excuse me," I caught his attention, and his pug faced turned to stare down at me.
"Ah, an American," he said, as though that somehow made the situation amusing. "How may I help you?"
"Um, I'm looking for a platform nine and three-quarters, but I don't see one. . . could you tell me where I could find it? It might be a private platform, and I've never been here before. . . ." I realized I was babbling, giving too much information, but when I was nervous words just tended to come out.
The man raised his eyebrows and let out a laugh. "Nine and three-quarters? There's no such platform here, miss."
I couldn't believe it. "Not even a private one?" I demanded.
"The King's Cross doesn't support private platforms, sorry," he smiled apologetically. "Now, if you don't mind, I need to get back to work." And with that he strolled off, idly checking his pocket watch.
Automatically I checked my own watch, and really felt my heart thump when I saw I only had five minutes before the train left. No platform 9 3/4? How could that be? Maybe I had mistaken.
I waded to a safe place near one of the large brick pillars that separated platform nine and ten, then whipped out the invitation and opened it again. Read it through. No, it definitely said 9 3/4, and I was definitely at the right station. The sign above me said "King's Cross" on it just as it read on the paper.
I sighed. Had it been a joke? I wouldn't be surprised, I'd heard that many people liked playing tricks on the rich - and since I was new in the business, I'd be easy prey. Still, I couldn't help but feel slightly disheartened, I had actually enjoyed the thought of there being a magic castle and a mystery train waiting to take me there.
'Ah well, Eevee,' I said to myself. 'I suppose we might as well catch another cab and go check out that museum.' Truth to tell, it didn't sound even half as interesting now.
I was just about to turn around when there was a sudden, unmistakable tingling at the base of my spine. I turned around in alarm, for whatever reason my eyes combing the crowd, and I felt the hair raise on my arms. The people around me still roiled and moved, but the sound seemed dimmed, muffled, what. . . ?
Then I saw him. It was a man by the build, even though his figure was covered by a cloak. A cloak? Well, this was England, I suppose some people still wore them around here. . . then the man stopped apparently randomly and reached into his robes, then drew out-
I opened my mouth to scream, just in case it was a gun, but no - it was just some silly stick. The man raised the stick into the air, waved it around a few times, then pointed it at the ground. By now I was watching more out of curiosity than caution, even though I seemed to be the only person who could see him. No one else was even glancing in his direction - someone even bumped into him and didn't give pause!
I was just about to walk over there and ask him what the problem was when the tingling went through me once again, and a sudden tension flowed through the air. Then a deep voice yelled out words I had never heard before - perhaps they were Latin? - and there was a flash of light. . . .
The blast was deafening, and to my stunned mind I didn't know what was happening. There was a whoosh of heat and wind, then I was sailing backwards, rammed into the brick pillar-
No, through the brick pillar. . . . }
The letter arrived in my hotel room that morning while I was biting into a rather scrumptious piece of toast.
At first I didn't really know what it was. I was leaning on the counter in my rather cramped kitchen area when there was a fluttering sound in the living room. For a second or two I ignored it, thinking that maybe the air conditioner had turned on - this London suite was outdated anyway, and for the past week I had been battling the machine to turn on when I wanted it to and turn off when I hit the switch. No such luck, however, and so for a few blissful moments I continued to munch on my toast.
When the fluttering sound didn't go away, I couldn't help but frown. The air system did make a similar noise when it turned on, but it didn't stay like that all the time; if it did, then I would have gotten a new room. For a moment I refrained from investigating, trying to come up with a plausible reason as to why there was a fluttering sound coming from my living room, but when I couldn't I set down my coffee and strode out of the kitchen. Maybe it was a bat. Hadn't there been an article in the morning paper about bats found in one of the older hotel attics?
God I hoped not, as far as I was concerned, the three worst animals were bats, spiders, and snakes. Ugh, I hated them. Concern knotting in my stomach, I looked around my small living room.
And gasped.
There, sitting on the coffee table, was a rather large spotted owl! I could have sworn they were endangered, but apparently this one was in good shape and seemed quite content to sit there on the wood furnishing and blink at me. I blinked back.
"What in hell?" I muttered, then my eyes drifted to the open window. A chill breeze blew in, characteristic to England at the close of summer, and I couldn't remember opening it. However, if it was open, then I must have undone it sometime, and this confused owl had apparently flown into my room on accident.
I narrowed my eyes at the owl. "If you don't mind," I said, talking to the owl as I would have addressed my own dog. "You are sitting on my coffee table, and I have a lot of sight seeing to do today. I'm afraid you can't stay."
The owl blinked at me once again with its luminous yellow eyes, then gave a soft hoot. Then, much to my surprise, it awkwardly hopped off the table and soared back out the window, its wings barely clearing the frame.
Weird.
But hey, it was London, home of Jack the Ripper and several thousand ghost stories and haunted houses. Maybe owls flying into peoples' hotel rooms was so common it wasn't even remarked upon. I glanced at the newspaper spread out on the coffee table and smirked. Yeah, right.
On the front page of the paper there was a large picture of a smoking building, and the headlines "Unknown Terrorists Strike Again!" Sure, maybe it wasn't the best time of the year to be taking a lone tour of Europe, but there really was nothing else to do. My parents had recently died in a car accident, leaving me with a fortune I hadn't even known existed, so now I was spending it and making my dreams come true. I hadn't been too close to my parents in the first place - they had sent me to boarding school just to get my out from under foot and I hadn't seen much of them while growing up. But some part of me grieved because I didn't have the heart to return home and live with what few memories I had.
No, I had to get out, and what better way than to cross the Atlantic?
My eyes wandered across the table and immediately I noticed something different. There was an off-white envelope sitting in a skewed position across the table - well now, that's a new development. Curiously I sat down on the stiff couch and picked the envelope up carefully, not recognizing it at all. It was heavy, made of some thick paper, almost like parchment. Well, this is England, I suppose some companies must still use the stuff.
I turned the envelope and found it written in swirly, stylish green ink. The address, however, was what caught my attention - for one thing, there was no return address, for another, it read: Ms. Evelyn Jones, Briar Inn, Suite 05, Kitchen.
Immediately I began to tug on a few of my red curls, wondering just what the hell was going on and why I was so amused by it. These advertising agencies, they were just getting more and more inventive! With a small smile playing across my lips, I wrapped my plaid flannel closer around me and slid my thumb beneath the ceil. Took out the letter.
It was made out of the same heavy parchment and written in the same green ink, and I read it over with interest, still grinning in childish amusement.
*
Dear Ms. Jones,
Your presence has been requested by Albus Dumbledore, headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. In order to respond to this invitation, please come to the King's Cross Station and report at gate 9 3/4 no later than 11am; there will be a contact waiting to greet you. We hope to see you shortly.
Enjoy your vacation, Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress
*
Enjoy my vacation? What was this, some sort of joke? I reread the letter, trying to make a head and tail out of it, but there really was no sense in what it said. Hogwarts? Witchcraft and Wizardry? Platform 9 3/4? For a long moment I just stared at the strange envelope, trying to force it to explain itself by glaring at it, then my mind perked up. Quite suddenly a wide smile split across my face.
Of course, how could I have been so stupid? This was obviously one of the notices that my new tour group sent out, and one of the maids had delivered it early this morning while I was still asleep. The group was probably planning on taking us to some ancient castle called "Hogwarts" where they would show us around, and the parchment and peculiar writing style was all part of the attraction. Maybe platform 9 3/4 was some kind of private train? That made perfect, logical sense, certainly more than some magic school asking me to stop by for a cup of tea.
I had other plans for today, one of them a rather interesting art museum that had caught my eye, but this invitation was just too good to pass up. And anyway, I was on an extended vacation - God knew I had plenty of time to do what I wanted, and the means. Still wearing my smile, I slipped the parchment into my light jacket and made to get up from the couch.
At that moment the phone on the side table rang, and I reached over and picked it up. For a moment I looked for the call button, not used to the old fashioned phone, then remembered that I just had to put it to my ear and speak. "Hello?"
"Good morning, Ms. Jones. This is the front office calling to say that your cab has arrived to pick you up."
"Oh, brilliant," I said, using the English term and loving it. "Tell the driver that I've changed my destination to the King's Cross Station, and. . . um. . . I'll be down in a sec."
"Of course, Ms. Jones. Have a nice day."
The polite, sexless voice disappeared as the line went dead. I hung up too, once again momentarily baffled by the lack of the call button. Then I glanced down at my watch and nearly had a heart attack. It was already a quarter 'til eleven! Where had all the time gone?
In a sudden panic, I grabbed my small purse and rushed out the door, not bothering to lock it behind me. Hell, I could buy new clothes if someone broke in, I had far too much money than was natural anyway. The elevator (or "lift" as they called it) took too long getting open and I ended up skidding down the stairs instead - it was only one floor, anyway.
I dashed through the rustic lobby, ignoring the hails of "Good morning, Ms. Jones!" From the staff, and to my relief the cab was ready and waiting right outside. There was even a nice, elderly gentleman holding the door for me.
"Quick," I said as the door shut behind me. I still wasn't used to seeing white cab drivers - where I was from, all cabbies were Arabic. "I need to get to the station by eleven!"
"You're in luck, miss," he said, pulling out into the traffic. "We're only a few minutes away."
"Then we'll make it?" I asked, needing to hear the reassurance. I didn't think they would hold the train for me, despite my newly acquired money.
"Yes, we'll make it," the cabbie laughed, and swung around the traffic like a drunk. I almost screeched, thinking that American driving stereotypes were unjustified. Five heartstopping minutes later, we were pulling up outside a bustling, red brick train station where the crowds were so thick I could only see the tops of the electric-powered machines. I paid the cabby, admittedly tipping him a bit much, but I didn't have time to get change. Almost tripping over the seat belt, I shot from the car and into the buzzing crowd.
It was the end of summer, so the station was packed with people returning or leaving from vacations, but this didn't bother me. I had grown up in a big city, the nearest mall my usual hang out, so the masses of people didn't even cause me to bat an eye. Without hesitation, I dove into the group and waded through to where I assumed platform 9 and 10 would be. Between them should be the private platform, or at least something indicating to it.
That's what common sense told me, at least, but when I found myself between the two platforms there was nothing else there. For a panicked moment I looked around, seeing nothing but strange faces in a strange place, without an idea in the world as to where I was supposed to be. The platform wasn't here, how could the platform not be here?
An officer walked past me casually, obviously on the look out for pick pockets and the like, and I stepped up to him. "Excuse me," I caught his attention, and his pug faced turned to stare down at me.
"Ah, an American," he said, as though that somehow made the situation amusing. "How may I help you?"
"Um, I'm looking for a platform nine and three-quarters, but I don't see one. . . could you tell me where I could find it? It might be a private platform, and I've never been here before. . . ." I realized I was babbling, giving too much information, but when I was nervous words just tended to come out.
The man raised his eyebrows and let out a laugh. "Nine and three-quarters? There's no such platform here, miss."
I couldn't believe it. "Not even a private one?" I demanded.
"The King's Cross doesn't support private platforms, sorry," he smiled apologetically. "Now, if you don't mind, I need to get back to work." And with that he strolled off, idly checking his pocket watch.
Automatically I checked my own watch, and really felt my heart thump when I saw I only had five minutes before the train left. No platform 9 3/4? How could that be? Maybe I had mistaken.
I waded to a safe place near one of the large brick pillars that separated platform nine and ten, then whipped out the invitation and opened it again. Read it through. No, it definitely said 9 3/4, and I was definitely at the right station. The sign above me said "King's Cross" on it just as it read on the paper.
I sighed. Had it been a joke? I wouldn't be surprised, I'd heard that many people liked playing tricks on the rich - and since I was new in the business, I'd be easy prey. Still, I couldn't help but feel slightly disheartened, I had actually enjoyed the thought of there being a magic castle and a mystery train waiting to take me there.
'Ah well, Eevee,' I said to myself. 'I suppose we might as well catch another cab and go check out that museum.' Truth to tell, it didn't sound even half as interesting now.
I was just about to turn around when there was a sudden, unmistakable tingling at the base of my spine. I turned around in alarm, for whatever reason my eyes combing the crowd, and I felt the hair raise on my arms. The people around me still roiled and moved, but the sound seemed dimmed, muffled, what. . . ?
Then I saw him. It was a man by the build, even though his figure was covered by a cloak. A cloak? Well, this was England, I suppose some people still wore them around here. . . then the man stopped apparently randomly and reached into his robes, then drew out-
I opened my mouth to scream, just in case it was a gun, but no - it was just some silly stick. The man raised the stick into the air, waved it around a few times, then pointed it at the ground. By now I was watching more out of curiosity than caution, even though I seemed to be the only person who could see him. No one else was even glancing in his direction - someone even bumped into him and didn't give pause!
I was just about to walk over there and ask him what the problem was when the tingling went through me once again, and a sudden tension flowed through the air. Then a deep voice yelled out words I had never heard before - perhaps they were Latin? - and there was a flash of light. . . .
The blast was deafening, and to my stunned mind I didn't know what was happening. There was a whoosh of heat and wind, then I was sailing backwards, rammed into the brick pillar-
No, through the brick pillar. . . . }