That afternoon, Professor McGonagall dropped Alan at the children's home gate and hurried off. Rumor had it she still had mountains of work.
Alan had already bought everything except a pet. Hogwarts allowed students to bring an owl, a cat, or a toad. But Alan already had Canned Food—no need to spend extra. Looked like Canned Food was good for something after all. At the very least, it saved him some money.
When Alan came through the door hauling the free trunk from the grocer, he found Harold pacing the parlor. A picture of restless anxiety.
"Mr. Green?" Alan greeted politely.
Harold looked up, glanced past him, and asked nervously, "Where's Professor McGonagall?"
"She's gone," Alan answered.
Harold finally exhaled.
Alan rolled the trunk to the sofa and prepared to rest. He'd dragged the thing all through Diagon Alley. Though the trunk was feather-light thanks to whatever charm it carried, he was only eleven, hated exercise, and possessed no stamina to speak of.
Harold eyed the trunk curiously. "What's inside?"
"School things," Alan said, flopping onto the sofa. "Bought in Diagon Alley. Books, robes, odds and ends."
"May I look?"
Harold leaned closer; Alan caught the scent of tobacco.
"Sure," Alan said after a beat. In a sense, the man was his guardian. He pressed the brass clasp; the lid popped open.
Harold bent over. Inside lay neatly folded black robes, a stack of books, and various oddities. Most striking was the wand on top—dark wood etched with mysterious lines. He remembered Professor McGonagall performing magic with a similar little stick.
"These are magical items?" Harold's voice was dry.
"Probably," Alan replied calmly. "Hogwarts required them. I don't know what half of them do."
Harold reached for the wand, then froze mid-air. Wait—wasn't it safer not to touch a wizard's things?
Alan found the man's mix of curiosity and dread amusing.
"You can pick it up, Mr. Green. It's my wand," he said. "Just be careful."
Only then did Harold gingerly lift the wand. It felt lighter than he'd expected. He raised it to his eyes. "It can really cast magic?"
"Only in the hands of the right wizard," Alan reminded him. "To a Muggle, it's just a stick."
Harold clearly knew which category he fell into. He handed the wand back, rubbed his palms, and whispered, "Well then, Mr. Black, could you show me a spell? Just a tiny one?"
"I'm not sure I can," Alan admitted. "I haven't started school yet. But I'll try. Please hold still, Mr. Green."
At once, Harold went rigid, even holding his breath. He stared at the wand in Alan's hand.
Yet Alan only shifted the wand to his left and stretched out his right palm toward him. Truthfully, Alan had no idea how to use a wand; the only spell he knew was the Weakening Curse, and that needed no tool. Mr. Green had the honor of being his first test subject. He'd practiced on thin air hundreds of times, succeeding only once. This time, however, his mind felt unusually clear. The spell model formed with perfect ease. Success was within reach.
"Er, you're going to cast on me?" Harold croaked.
"Weakening Curse!"
Before the words finished, the harsh incantation spilled from Alan's lips. A faint grey haze glimmered across his right palm. Harold had no time to react; an icy chill shot up his spine. His legs buckled, and he dropped onto the sofa behind him.
"What?" He tried to stand but found even lifting an arm a trial. He stared at Alan in alarm. "What did you do to me?"
"How do you feel?" Alan studied him. "The spell leaves you tired and weak."
Only then did Harold realize he'd been hexed. After taking stock of his body, he relaxed a fraction. As Alan had said, he merely felt drained, like the morning after an all-night bender.
So this was magic? A force science could never explain.
"But I noticed you didn't use the wand." Harold exhaled. "Oh, never mind. Just cancel it—I can't stand."
Silence.
"Well? Undo it!" Harold urged, a bad feeling rising.
Alan scratched the back of his neck, embarrassment crossing his face for the first time. "I haven't learned how to cancel it yet."
"%￥#&%!"
Thirty minutes later, Harold's strength finally began to return.
"Sorry," Alan said sincerely.
"You're sure there won't be side effects?" Harold flexed his stiff limbs uneasily.
"Positive."
Actually, he had no idea. But a reassuring answer felt wiser.
Reassured, Harold sighed. "Alan, can magic do other things?"
"Of course."
"For instance?"
Alan considered. "You saw Professor McGonagall turn one thing into another or pop a hundred miles away. Magic can manage that and more."
A spark of longing flashed in Harold's eyes. "Then could I learn magic?"
"Afraid not," Alan replied. "Professor McGonagall says it's usually inborn."
The answer clearly deflated him.
"Let's change the subject," he waved it off. "Where did you go with Professor McGonagall?"
"A place called Diagon Alley. Full of wizards."
"Could I go?" Curiosity cracked through Harold's voice.
Alan almost said no, but if he guided him, maybe it was possible. Harold seemed fascinated by wizards. Perfect leverage, Alan thought.
"I can take you," he smiled, "but I have a condition."
"Which is?" Harold asked, surprised.
"I want pocket money."
Sharp little devil, Harold thought, chuckling. But not a bad thing.
"We'll leave tomorrow morning," he nodded in satisfaction. "I'll bring the car."
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