Hogwarts School: A Harry Potter RPG

It’s his birthday and there’s someone at the door. Dad’s forgotten to put the chain on so he’s holding them back with a foot against the door, even if they’re not putting up that much of a fight. They’re holding a letter through the door gap addressed Mr. F. Dufort and saying something he can’t make out over his dad’s shouts. It’s his birthday and he doesn’t have a clue of what the hell is going on because the stranger isn’t leaving and Dad’s starting to lose his patience if he hasn’t already.

He’s still torn between picking up the ashtray on the table and running out the back door when there’s a sudden lack of resistance and the door slams shut. The stranger stands in their living room and Frankie’s too busy marvelling at how pale his dad’s gone to even try and understand what just happened.

Dad wants to call bullshit when they say wizard. He can see it in twitch of his brow, the way his mouth opens to say something before deciding better of it. Dad doesn’t back down, but it’s hard sticking to habit when everything he knows has been turned upside down.

He’s not reading the letter open on his lap, only half-listens to the conversation going on in front of him, because Frankie’s too busy wondering when his dad’s going to get the cake out.

---

They take him to Diagon Alley. He buys his things. He gets a cat, because when he last asked his dad for one he’d said no. So take that, Dad. His fingers are trying to wrestle open a box that says Chocolate Frog but with a bag of textbooks hooked onto one arm and a cage on the other it’s proving to be a difficult task.

He catches the eye of a boy sitting outside a cafe. The boy waves and he figures he’s got some time to spare. The boy buys him his own cake and drink, because he’s got the money, and Frankie would have hated him for that if he wasn’t so hungry. He asks him what house he’s hoping for, and Frankie asks him what the hell he’s going on about.

There’s a quiet oh when the realisation hits. He’s new to this. The boy’s kind enough to explain it all, though Frankie suspects it’s because he likes the sound of his own voice. He wants Slytherin, because both of his parents were Slytherin and that’s where the pures—whoever they were—belonged. Then he gives him this look like his cat just died and Frankie’s almost tempted to look under the table and check on it before the boy wishes him luck.

“What for?”

“I mean, you’re a mud— er, muggleborn.”

He carries on before Frankie can even get a word in. It’ll be difficult for him, he explains, because the muggleborns always struggle. They’re worse at magic. There’s politics to it, a hierarchy, and Frankie’s right down at the bottom.

“Oh.”

He’s not so hungry anymore.

---

It’s September first and he’s not in his robes—heck, he isn’t even on the train. He’s lying on his bed and his cat’s sprawled across his stomach (Dad was pissed, but didn’t have the heart to throw it out). It starts pawing at the letter, and Frankie doesn’t stop it when the paper starts to tear.

He watches the clock turn eleven.

Then it’s like none of it ever happened. Frankie pretends he didn’t watch a wall open up for him, that he didn’t buy a chocolate-sculpted frog that jumped right out the box, and that he didn’t meet a boy that shattered his dreams with the simple facts of life. That was it. Done. The end. Frankie was going to carry on with life and the books and robes at the back of his closet would grow grey with dust. He’d keep the letter and all the ones that came after in a drawer beside his bed, unopened.

Dad doesn’t mention it either, because he can tell he doesn’t want to talk about it.

It’s three years later (not exactly, but Frankie’s never been one for details) and he’s storming home and slamming the door shut because he knows his dad isn’t home to complain about it. He goes to the bathroom and makes a clumsy effort of cleaning his bloodied cheekbone, ignoring the water’s sting against his knuckles. He’s asking himself if hey Dad, I got kicked out of school today is too blunt a statement for the dinner table as the cat follows him to his room.

He kicks his bedside table over the the letters spill out. He doesn’t stop there. By the time his whirlwind staggers to a halt his room’s a state, putting things lightly. Frankie falls back on his duvet that’s sprawled across the floor and his hand brushes against an envelope.

The red seal matches the bloodied fingernail that pries it open.