Michael Corner and The Education of Wizards

Michael Corner and The Entente Cordiale

Dad would tease Mum about her magic, which was a risky strategy, seeing as he knew what she could do.

'I mean, what is it about these magic people?' he said, peering at a road sign. 'Every single one I have met, with the possible exception of you and Mike, is stuck in some 1950s time warp. It's the way they dress, and the way they talk, the radio and the fact that none of them watch TV. Even Mike's school sounds like a throwback to Biggles and Dan Dare.'

'What's Biggles?' asked Dave, who was slumped beside me on the back seat.

'It's because we can do things that you can't,' she replied loftily, ignoring Dave, but she probably didn't know who Biggles was either.

'And that's another point,' he said. 'Most of the things you can do with magic, we can do now, with technology. My is that guess that the 1950s was the last time that magic had a serious advantage, so that's the time that magicians cling on to. There's not much that magic can do that technology can't.'

This was not the first time they had had this argument. At home, to make the point, she sometimes magicked him his own personal thunderstorm and smiled serenely as he went to get his umbrella. He had a special umbrella, with no metal parts, so that it wouldn't be struck by tiny bolts of lightning.

That's one thing about Dad. He's a professor of Economics at the University of Thirsk and when he makes a point he makes it hard and sticks with it.

It wasn't raining in the car, though the sky outside looked threatening. 'I'm sure this is wrong,' he said, peering at a signpost. 'The sign says this way but surely that takes us back to Buxton.'

'It's fine,' said Mum. 'It means we're nearly there. It's the Repulsion Charms working. Drop us when you can and we'll go on by foot.'

'That the other thing I hate about magic,' he said. 'The way it messes with your head.'

As soon as we were out of sight of the road, Mum did a Point Me charm and we set off down a footpath through some woods. The packs were heavy (I was carrying the tent) but we very soon started to meet with other walkers with heavy packs and some rather strange choices of clothing. Ballet shoes are not great for walking, and tiaras seemed a trifle out of place.

After an hour or so we came to a barbed wire fence that bristled with Charms, but there was just an open field with a few sheep on the other side. When we climbed a style over it the sheep had vanished and we were in a crowded reception area with snaking queues of people waiting to get through the security barriers in a long red, white and blue striped pavilion with World Cup logos flashing randomly all over it.

Getting processed took virtually the whole morning and we were hot and irritable by the time we got through. We had probably hit the busiest period. Mum spotted a couple of friends and I waved to Elaine Carberry. She was a Griff second-year and I probably wouldn't have deigned to notice her if we had been at school. It wasn't badly run, there were just hundreds and thousands of people. About a hundred thousand, in fact, but we were at our pitch site just before it was time for lunch. We got the tent up eventually and watched enviously as some people erected their tents with magic. They bloomed all around us like giant multi-coloured mushrooms, whereas ours was a Millett's bog standard. Almost. Mum had made it bigger on the inside than on the outside.

We ate our sandwiches at the table in the kitchen and Mum went to make up the beds. I went to investigate the camp and things started to look up a bit when a girl emerged from a tent nearby.

I said 'Hi!'

She said 'Bonjour.'

'You're French!' I said stupidly. 'Er .. Vous etes Francais.'