I can’t sleep. Charlie thought forcefully, as he sat on the side of the narrow bed with his legs dangling. But, you have to! His angel shouted persistently. Oh, but you can’t, remember no school tomorrow? More, and more bullying from Dex and the Gang. The DOGs will be looking out for you now… His devil grinned evilly. Charlie shook his head, “I’m going senile in this house.” He muttered. “I hate being alone.” As if answering his plea, a mysterious knock sounded on the door. Oh crap, the SS. (Now, no worries, reader, SS stood for Social Service. Charlie was in no need of the Secret Service, well, not yet anyway) Charlie silently made his way to the door, every floorboard creaking and making him jump. At last, he had made his way to the end of the Persian area rug. Charlie peered curiously from the gap between the two hinges. From there he saw two men in black suits, and sunglasses, looking around in a dignified manner. Who wears shades in the night, except the po-po, SS (Secret Service) FBI, CIA, Mussod, Mi5, KGB, CBI… Charlie shook his head, and looked carefully. Two men, possibly armed, one middle-aged, one in mid twenties, three odd shaped figures poking from there jackets. Sighing, he pushed close to the door, making the hinges creak, alerting the men. Slowly, creeping onto the dark curtains against the windows, Charlie let them in, gripping tightly on the long rusty nail.
The men stepped in and immediately transforming their formal black suits to long ankle sweeping dark colored robes. Charlie was distinctly reminded of someone. The older one in a purply-maroon shade, flicked his head wearily at Charlie, and the younger one, in a stylish, some would say attractive, greenish-black tone, with a five o’clock beard, smiled at Charlie. The younger one extended his hand, and lifted his chin confidently, “I’m Zak Sanders, your to-be Potions teacher.”
Charlie sniggered under his breath, and rolled his eyes. “You must be some sort of extreme Harry Potter fan.”
“Excuse me?” The older one, with a thinner defined mustache arched his eyebrow. “Are you Mr Charlie Thatcher? Sir, I am Seamus Finnegan. The Irish and American representative of Hogwarts.”
Charlie choked, coughing loudly. Zak flicked a thin, slightly bent stick to summon a goblet, then muttered ‘Aguamenti’ He handed the water filled goblet to Charlie, concernedly. Charlie gulped it down, unaware about its origins. “So, Hogwarts is real? Sir, are you a resident of the Picklesens Mental Asylum?”
“Mr Thatcher,” Finnegan said sharply, waving his own wand, without looking. “I suppose this is real.” With one last lavish sweep, he primly handed Charlie an envelope.
Tearing it open, Charlie wondered if he was in an extremely vivid dream or not. The letter read something like this:
HOGWARTS SCHOOL
of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY
Dear Mr Thatcher,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.
Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31.
Yours sincerely,
Avalon Crescent
Headmistress
Post Script:
Charlie, you have been invited to Hogwarts under very special circumstances. Please note, that you are the only child in the School that knows about the Muggle world better than Mr Potter himself. (and about the books.)
Charlie turned over the page in skepticism.
HOGWARTS SCHOOL
of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY
