Come the Revolution - Chapter 2
Tracey Davis - Slytherin, Muggleborn and Essex girl. This is her story, and the story of a revolution in the making.
Link to Chapter 1
Tracey carries out her plan and gets a few surprises along the way ...
2. A Fisherman’s Tale
“Whoever wishes to keep a secret must hide the fact that he possesses one.”
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Pete Davis was a carp fisherman.
Carp fishermen are funny creatures. Other anglers regard them as barking mad, for they spend a lot of time fishing but rarely catch any fish. That is because for carp fisherman size really does matter. They are in search of the Holy Grail; the Holy Grail in this case being a fish at least ten pounds heavier than the one they’ve actually caught. They will spend days camped out by an enormous lake in the faint hope of catching one of a handful of sizeable fish lurking in its depths. They will pursue their quarry by searching diligently for that perfect spot on the bank (taking into account wind direction, time of year, presence of weed, absence of weed, underwater features, etcetera, etcetera) then employing ever more bizarre baits and an array of complex electronic gadgets to aid the chase. All this effort is allied with a persistence that makes Slipper of the Yard look like a wimp. Carp fishing is not for the faint hearted.
Pete was not as obsessive as some, which was a good thing, for these days he had little time for proper fishing. That was limited to an annual fortnight in France with Colm Riordan and a couple of other mates. At other times it was a snatched affair, fitted in around family life and business commitments. Nonetheless, he wasn’t going to spend his time at some overgrown pond stuffed full of desperate fish willing to throw themselves at his bait just for the sake of catching something. A man had standards. Smallmead, near Wraysbury, was big enough to make him feel he wasn’t cheating but full enough of fairly big carp that he had a fighting chance of catching one.
Tracey woke with a start as the van jerked to a stop. There was a moment of sleepy disorientation before her head cleared. They had just come off the motorway and had halted at the junction at the end of the slip road. Above them the lights of the M25 almost obscured the pallor of the pre-dawn sky. She looked at the clock on the dashboard. It was just gone four a.m. The traffic lights changed to green and the van pulled away. They left the streetlights behind just as the shadowy expanse of the reservoir opened out to their left and it was obvious that dawn was not very far away. The pale sky showed not a hint of cloud. It was going to be a beautiful day. Automatically Tracey reached out to turn on the radio then checked herself. Pete liked peace and quiet during these trips. Radio One would not be a good move if she wanted him in a receptive mood when she broke her news.
She must have drifted off again, for she awoke once more to the slam of the driver’s door and her Dad settling back behind the wheel. They drove down the narrow track from the gates of the lake complex to the car park. Tracey yawned and stretched.
“Awake?” her father enquired, with sideways glance in her direction. He must have had no more than three hours’ sleep himself but he seemed as fresh as a daisy. How the hell does he do it? I’m knackered.
“Barely.”
Pete grinned. “Young people these days. No stamina.” Tracey stuck her tongue out at him.
According to Pete he travelled light. Despite this it took them half an hour and several trips to haul all his gear from the car to his favourite swim.
“If this is travelling light I hate to think what travelling heavy is like,” Tracey grumbled, dumping a cool box, a knapsack and a couple of carrier bags on the ground. “What’ve you got here, the kitchen sink?”
“Breakfast. Didn’t think I was going to starve you, did you? Go on, love, make us a bacon sarnie while I get set up.” By the time Pete had finished the bacon was sizzling in a pan on his little camping stove and the kettle was boiling on the trangia. They ate in silence, enjoying the complex baroque twittering of a blackbird greeting the sun.
Finally Tracey spoke. “It’s so quiet.”
“Not that quiet.” Pete tilted his chin upwards to where the sound of an early morning plane leaving nearby Heathrow followed a trail of smoke across the summer sky. “Must be a lot quieter at Hogwarts.”
“Different sort of quiet.” Born and bought up in a town, Tracey often pined for the noise, the hurrying press of humanity and the endless variety of urban living when cloistered at Hogwarts. Oh, the school itself had noise and bustle enough - how could it not with nearly a thousand teenagers cooped up in one place - but the lowering grandeur of the landscape beyond its gates was un-nerving to someone from the softer South. In this little pocket of tranquillity it was possible to enjoy the early morning hush with a comforting sense that civilisation as she knew it was not all that far away.
The sun was now well clear of the trees, dispelling any lingering traces of nighttime coolness. Tracey had just bundled her jacket into a pillow and was stretched out on the grass, preparing to take a nap, when her Dad, who had been scanning the lake with his binoculars, turned to her.
“Tracey, there’s an owl heading this way.” She scrambled to her feet immediately and joined him. For the past five years owls in daylight had meant only one thing. Pete handed her the binoculars and she hurriedly focussed in the direction of his pointing finger. Yes, it was an owl all right, an owl carrying a letter in its beak.
“Oh, fuck.”
“Language, Tracey.” She hadn’t realised that she had spoken out loud until her father’s mild rebuke bought her back to herself. It wasn’t meant to happen this way. Sodding birds! She still couldn’t get used to the fact that, unlike the Royal Mail, the wretched feathered stalkers could find you literally anywhere. In the ideal scenario she’d constructed last night this letter would be waiting for her at home, and by then it wouldn’t matter, as she’d have told her father everything and it would all be settled. Except that now it wouldn’t, and for some reason she couldn’t explain that mattered a lot.
“Sorry, Dad. It’s my OWL results.”
Her father put his arm round her, and gave her a hug. “Don’t worry, love. I’m sure you’ve done fine.”
The owl landed in front of them. Tracey stood rooted to the spot a list of worries unreeling silently. I’m sure I ballsed up that last Arithmancy question, even Granger said it was hard; I’m pretty sure I’ve passed Transfiguration but what if I didn’t and what about the … Oh, crap, what does it matter if I’ve failed the lot anyway? The owl rustled its wings impatiently and her Dad gave her a gentle nudge.
“Go on, love, it’s waiting.” Trembling from head to foot, Tracey took the letter from the owl’s beak. The bird promptly flew off. No doubt the Hogwarts owls were rushed off their feet today. She fought a sudden impulse to giggle hysterically and, with fingers made clumsy with fear, broke the seal and opened the letter. For a moment she couldn’t focus but as she finally managed to absorb the contents, the realisation hit her. It was then the tears came.
She was vaguely aware of Pete picking up the letter, which had fluttered from her hand to land by his feet. He was no doubt scrutinising all those O’s and wondering why she wasn’t jumping up and down with joy. That thought only made her cry harder. She fished in her jeans pocket for a tissue and saw, through a watery haze that her father was already holding one out to her. As she wiped her eyes he pulled her to him and hugged her hard.
“Don’t cry love; you did brilliantly. Ten O’s - bet there’s very few others who can say the same.”
There could be no more prevarication. “Dad, I’ve got something to tell you.”
In her ideal imagined scenario she had been clear and calm and rational but this was no longer her imagination. Pete listened patiently as her rambling explanation unwound itself, stopping her only to ask the occasional question. She finished and waited in tense silence for him to say something. When he finally did it was the last thing she expected.
“I already knew you’d been holding out on us, Muppet.” Muppet. He hadn’t called her that since she’d turned twelve.
Choking back the tears that threatened to flow again, Tracey demanded, “How?” Her father did not reply. Instead he rummaged in his rucksack, drew out a crumpled magazine, and passed it to her. She unfolded it and found herself staring at the familiar cover of The Quibbler bearing Potter’s picture and the headline, Harry Potter Speaks Out At Last: The Truth About He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named And The Night I Saw Him Return.
“Last Christmas,” Tracey muttered. Pete nodded. Out of the blue he’d insisted on taking her shopping in Diagon Alley to chose her present. She’d thought he was trying to make up for Mum, who still refused to go near the place. A sharp spike of anger flared, only to be doused almost instantly by the cold little voice that reminded her that she, of all people, had no right to take someone else to task for not telling the whole truth.
“I popped into Flourish & Blotts while you were being fitted at Madam Malkin’s,” her Dad was saying, “bought a copy of the Daily Prophet and asked the girl at the cash desk to help me arrange a subscription. While she was dealing with it this strange little bloke in the queue behind me tapped me on the shoulder and started going on about how the Prophet was complete rubbish and if I wanted to know the truth I should read this.” He nodded towards the magazine in Tracey’s hand. “I tried to brush him off but he’s a persistent little bugger. Gave me his card and told me to get in touch if I ever got tired of reading the crud they print in the Prophet.”
Despite herself, Tracey grinned. “Bet that didn’t take long.”
“Longer than you think,” Pete said, gruffly. “I wanted to believe they were right and it wasn’t that serious. You’ll understand when you have kids of your own.” He stared across the lake. “Few months later I was looking for something in my wallet. I came across his card, and I thought to myself, what harm would it do? So I tapped it three times, like he said, and a second later this appeared. Most of it was bilge, but this article,” he took the magazine from her and tapped the cover, “explained a lot. I decided you and I needed to have a little talk. I’m glad you came to me first.”
Tracey had to choke back tears once more. “I’m sorry, Dad.”
Pete shook his head. “You’ve no need to apologise, love. You see, you’re not the only one who hasn’t been straight about things. I’ve got something here I need to show you.” He rummaged in his rucksack again, and took out the waterproof bag containing his rod licence and fishing permit. He unzipped it and took out an elderly and much folded piece of parchment, which he handed to her. Puzzled, Tracey unfolded it and began to read.
Acadamh Éireannach Draíodóir agus Cailleach
Headmaster: Dermot ó Ceallaigh, Star of Cliodna, Chosen Chief of the Irish Druid Convention, Deputy Supreme Mugwump, International Confederation of Wizards
Mr Peter Davis
The Bank of Grand Union Canal
Not Far from Bull’s Bridge
Horsenden Lane
London
England
Dear Mr Davis,
We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Acadamh Éireannach Draíodóir agus Cailleach. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.
Term begins on 1st September. We await your owl by no later than 31st July.
Yours sincerely
Donnacha Foley
For the Headmaster
She finished reading and looked up at her father with wide questioning eyes.
“I was pretty gobsmacked,” Pete said, quietly. “I took it home and showed it to my Ma, and that’s when she told me. Your grandma was a Squib, Tracey. Her family were none too happy about that and they treated her very badly. At sixteen she ran away from home with a Muggle because he was the first person who’d ever said he loved her. Her family disowned her completely. Her father even refused to let her attend her mother’s funeral when she died of the dragon pox the following year. My Dad wasn’t much consolation. He was a drinker who never kept a job for long, and they didn’t have much money. When a cousin of his who worked as a chippie in England said he could get him a job labouring they jumped at the chance. Six months after they got to London he went out one evening and never came back. She met your Granddad Davis, who I’d always thought was my father, a few months later, and they were married when I was two and George was only a baby. Ma tried to make out she was pleased for me but I could see how much it hurt her, so I said I didn’t want to go. Your grandma was terrified that they’d turn up and take me anyway. I was adamant if they did I’d run away. Well, first of September came and went and nothing happened.” He held out his hand, and Tracey automatically gave him the letter. Pete looked at it thoughtfully before refolding it and returning it to its hiding place. “I was lucky I was born in Ireland. The Ministry here’s a lot stricter, and I reckon they’d probably have forced me to go whether I wanted to or not. Your grandma said over there many families don’t bother sending their kids to school at all.”
“But what about your magic? McGonagall said it’s dangerous if you’re not taught to use it properly.”
Pete let out a bitter laugh. “They would say that, wouldn’t they? No, love that’s all lies. As soon I knew what was causing them the strange things stopped happening - unless I wanted them to.” He grinned mischievously. “Like when that complete wa - prat tried to start a fight with your Uncle George at the Football Club Christmas dance.”
“Mum said he was so drunk he tripped over his own feet and knocked himself out.”
“Oh he did,” Pete said, smugly. “I just gave him a bit of help.” Mistaking her stunned expression for something else he added, “Don’t worry, love, I’ve never done it when you’ve been around. I wouldn’t want to get you into trouble.”
Tracey, struggling to make sense of a world turned suddenly upside down, fastened on the one means of making certain. “Show me.” Pete looked for a moment as if he might protest but something in her look must have told him that would not be a good idea.
“This isn’t going to cause you any problems is it?”
Tracey shook her head. Her first summer holiday with Daphne had taught her the Ministry weren’t as omniscient as they pretended, and a few discreet questions to Daphne’s Dad had confirmed they could only detect that magic had been done at a particular place not who’d performed it. After that if she wanted to practice magic during the holidays she’d made sure she was well away from home. In five years she hadn’t been caught once: so much for the Decree for the Restriction of Underage Sorcery.
Pete shaded his eyes with his hand and looked out across the lake. There was no change in his expression but Tracey could feel the difference. Something was stirring. A tiny whisper of magic was leaving him and stretching itself out over the lake, searching. It wasn’t strong - indeed it seemed barely present - but it was definitely there. Tracey held her breath, waiting. As the magic found what it sought, the mood shifted. Now it was calling, drawing something to it -
The bite alarm on one of Pete’s rods shrieked into life, and the reel screamed as the line unwound rapidly. A large fish had taken the bait and was charging off as fast as it could. With a triumphant smile Pete grabbed the rod and struck, while Tracey lunged for the landing net.
It was an hour before the fish - a disgruntled 32lb common carp - had been bought to the bank, weighed, photographed, and sent on its way, still sulking. By this time Tracey’s incredulity had given way to acceptance. Her Dad was a wizard - correction - could have been a wizard. She tried to imagine what it must be like to have magic and not be able to use it. With a chill she realised she was looking into her future.
Once the clearing up was finished and his rod re-baited and cast out again, Pete fished in the cool box and bought out two cans of Heineken and a couple of Tupperware sandwich boxes. Tracey let him settle down and get stuck in to a cheese and pickle sandwich before she asked the question that was uppermost in her mind.
“Ever wonder what it would’ve been like if you’d gone?”
“From time to time,” Pete replied with a rueful smile. “Then I remind myself that if I had I’d never have met your Mum or had you and Darren or started the business. It hasn’t been a bad life.”
Mum. With everything that had happened, Tracey had completely forgotten that she still had to tell her mother the truth, and yet another set of revelations would seriously complicate things. “Does Mum know?”
“I told her just after your letter arrived,” Pete said. “Should’ve told her long before that, I suppose. Your grandma warned me to several times but I kept putting it off. Ma took it on herself to try and tell your Mum just before she died. Of course, your Mum didn’t believe a word of it, so when I showed her the letter she was pretty angry with me.”
Tracey clasped her arms round her bent knees and rested her forehead on them. “She’s going to go ballistic, isn’t she?”
“She’ll forgive you eventually,” her Dad replied, ruffling her hair. “Your Mum loves you, Tracey, don’t ever forget that.”
There were no more fish that afternoon and no further conversation about Tracey’s future or Pete’s past. Both of them felt they had said all that needed to be said. Tracey’s Dad returned to the subject only once. As he bought the van to a halt in their driveway, he nodded towards the house.
“Best to get it over quickly, love.” As she opened the passenger door, he fished in his pocket and held out her results letter. “You forgot this.”
“Thanks.” She took the letter, and headed for the house, stuffing it in the pocket of her jeans. She had no intention of showing it to her mother until after she’d got her confession over with. Fate, however, had entirely different ideas on the matter.
She found Janet in the kitchen, preparing a salad. “Oh good, you’re back. I thought we’d have a barbecue since the weather’s so nice. Can you ask your father to get the barbecue set up, please, Tracey?”
“Mum, I need to talk to you -“
“Yes, in a minute dear, just go and tell your Dad - Leave that alone!” This last was addressed to Tracey’s brother, who had come into the kitchen and was leaning against the counter picking bits out of the salad and eating them. Darren grinned.
“Thought you wanted me to eat more veg.”
“There’s a proper time and place for everything.” Janet responded tartly, slapping his wrist as he reached out for the bowl again. “Dinner won’t be long.”
Darren held his hands up in mock surrender and shook his head. “Don’t bother making anything for me, Mum. I’m going out. See you later.” He left the kitchen before his mother had a chance to say anything, and a second later they heard the front door slam.
“He could have told me that before I took the steaks out of the freezer,” Janet grumbled. “Never mind. I’m sure your father won’t let it go to waste.”
“Mum -“
“Won’t let what go to waste?” Pete enquired, entering the kitchen.
“Darren’s steak. He’s gone out. Light the barbecue will you, Pete? Everything’s nearly done. We can eat as soon as it’s ready.”
As her Dad left to carry out his task, Tracey tried again. “Mum, I’ve got something to tell you.”
“Yes dear,” Janet replied absently. “And I had something to tell you but I’ve totally forgotten what - Of course, that was it! You had a phone call from one of your school friends. Nice boy; said his name was Moon. It was a bit of a surprise, I can tell you. I thought they didn’t use the phone.”
“His Mum was bought up as a Mug - an ordinary person.”
“Well, fancy that. He wanted you to ring back. He said he’d just had his OWL results and wanted to know how you’d done.” Tracey swore silently. She knew what was coming next. “Did you get yours?”
“Yeah. The owl delivered them to Smallmead.”
“And?” When Tracey failed to respond, Janet added, “Well? How did you do?” There was no help for it. Tracey pulled the letter from her pocket and handed it to her mother. She watched in silence as Janet read the letter through twice and broke into a wide smile. “Ten Outstandings!” She hugged Tracey. “Tracey, that’s wonderful, you must be over the moon! You know I had my doubts but this - ” She took in Tracey’s woeful expression. “Darling, what’s wrong?”
Having been through the whole story once before, Tracey was more coherent this time. This was a good thing, for Janet, never a good listener at the best of times, kept interrupting and going off on a tangent. Several times, Pete, who’d come into the kitchen in the middle of Tracey’s explanation, had to shush her so that Tracey could continue. When she finished Tracey got her second big surprise of the day. She’d expected tears, tantrums, at the very least a lengthy rant. What she got was much worse. Seated at the kitchen table, dry-eyed and eerily calm, Janet looked up at her daughter.
“I suppose I can understand how you felt but I have to say I’m disappointed in you, Tracey.” Tracey cringed. Tears she could handle but this frozen disapproval made her feel about six inches tall. “Yes, if I’d known what was going on at the time, I certainly would have wanted to you to leave Hogwarts but that’s no reason for you to lie to me.”
“I’m sorry, Mum,” Tracey muttered.
Janet pulled herself together with visible effort. “Well, what’s done is done and we have to think about the future now.”
“Let’s go and eat,” Pete interposed swiftly. “We can talk about it over dinner.”
An hour later, Janet laid her knife and fork on her plate and fixed her gaze on her daughter, seated opposite her. “I suppose I should be happy about this. I never wanted you to go to that school in the first place.” She paused for a moment then carried on, with a look of determination. “Tracey, have you really thought about this?”
“Mum, I’ve thought about nothing else since term ended!”
“I’m not sure you fully understand the implications,” Janet continued. “Doing magic is second nature to you. I’ve seen how impatient you get when you have to do things the normal way, and how eager you are to get back to that school of yours by the end of the holidays. I don’t think you fit in our world any more. Frankly, Tracey, I think it’s too late for you to turn back.”
Stunned, Tracey stared from her mother to her father. Her astonishment was mirrored on Pete’s face. He didn’t see that one coming, either. Doesn’t know her quite as well as he thinks he does. For the first time in her life she found herself looking at her own parents through the same eyes with which she observed her teachers, the parents of her friends and her schoolmates. It was disorientating. Pete put his hand over Janet’s where it lay on the table next to her empty wineglass and grasped it tightly.
“I’ve seen what it’s done to your father,” Janet continued with a slight tremor in her voice. Pete started to speak but she silenced him with a gesture. “Oh, I know you’re going to say it doesn’t matter to you but I’ve seen the look you get sometimes when Tracey talks about what she’s done at school. Before you told me I always thought there was something missing. Now I know there is.”
“Jan, love -“ Pete said, hoarsely.
“Let me finish!” his wife snapped. “This is hard enough as it is without you making it harder.” She returned her attention to her daughter. “You’re my baby, and I’m terrified for you. You’re not yet seventeen, and you shouldn’t have to deal with anything more dangerous than a broken heart. I wish I could turn the clock back but I can’t. All I can do is tell you that before you go through with it you should consider very carefully whether you could bear to spend the rest of your life without magic. Once you leave there’ll be no changing your mind.”
Tracey rose and went to kneel by her mother’s chair. The enormous lump in her throat made speech difficult. All she could manage was a strangled, “Mum,” before she burst into tears and threw her arms round her mother. Janet hugged her back, crying, too. Pete came and put his arms around both of them.
“Your father and I will support you whatever you decide,” Janet said through her tears. “I just want to be sure you know what you’re doing. Promise me you’ll think about it?”
“I will,” Tracey affirmed, drying her eyes.
She was still thinking about it at three am in the morning when her brother returned from clubbing and found her stretched out on the sofa listlessly switching channels on the TV every couple of seconds and staring into space.
“You told them?” Darren enquired through a mouthful of peanut butter and tomato sandwich as he dropped into an armchair.
“Yeah.” Desperate to talk to someone, Tracey had confided in her brother the day after she got back from Hogwarts. Darren had advised her to tell all as quickly as possible, and had nagged her to do so on an almost daily basis ever since.
“How’d it go?”
“Okay.”
“Just okay?”
“Well, Dad already knew - sort of.” Tracey filled her brother in on her conversation with Pete. She wasn’t too sure if Pete would be happy she was telling Darren but she was tired of secrets.
Darren’s reaction was typical. “So Dad’s a wizard? Cool.”
“It’s not cool!” Tracey snapped. “If anyone found out it would be very dangerous for him.” Her brother, she often thought with irritation, seemed to regard her life as the plot of one of the fantasy novels he was so devoted to. How could she get him to see that this was real life not some cosy ersatz universe where with a single wave of his wand the hero was free.
“Calm down, Trace, or you’ll bugger the remote,” was Darren’s only response. That retort pulled Tracey up sharply, and she took a deep breath, willing herself to calmness. Her parents’ house insurance premiums were already through the roof as it was, due to her tendency to blow up sensitive electrical equipment when she got really upset. Her brother stretched out a leg and poked her in the side. “Don’t worry, I’m hardly going to tell anyone, am I?”
“Darren, I’m serious.”
“So am I.” Darren took another bite of his sandwich. “What about Mum?”
“That’s the really weird thing. I expected her to hit the roof but it wasn’t like that at all.”
“That’s Mum for you,” her elder brother said, wisely. “Goes mental over the tiniest little things but if its something really important she’s all calm and sort of distant.”
“Yeah, that’s it exactly. I’ve just never seen her that way before.”
Darren grinned. “That’s ‘cos you’ve always been a good little girl.” He finished the sandwich and put the plate on the floor by his feet. “Last year I thought I’d got this girl pregnant. I didn’t know what the fuck to do, and she was just all over the place, crying and stuff, so I told Mum. She was brilliant. First thing she asked was, did you have a test done? When we said no she was on the phone to one of those clinics like a shot and arranged it. Turned out it was a false alarm. I’ve never been so relieved in my life. When it was all over you know the only thing Mum said to me was, I hope you’ll be more careful in future, Darren, all cool and calm, like you said. Made me feel a complete dickhead.”
Refraining from the obvious rejoinder, Tracey continued. “That wasn’t the only thing. Later she as good as told me I was making a mistake. I thought she’d jump at the chance to get me away from Hogwarts and here she was saying the exact opposite.”
“What do you think?”
“That’s the problem. I’ve been going round and round in circles ever since, and it’s doing my head in.”
“You should sleep on it. You’ve got plenty of time.”
Tracey spoke slowly, the decision crystallising with the words. “That’s just it. I think I’ve already made the decision, I just don’t want to face up to it.”
Darren looked confused. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve changed my mind. I’m going back to Hogwarts after all.”
Tracey carries out her plan and gets a few surprises along the way ...
2. A Fisherman’s Tale
“Whoever wishes to keep a secret must hide the fact that he possesses one.”
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Pete Davis was a carp fisherman.
Carp fishermen are funny creatures. Other anglers regard them as barking mad, for they spend a lot of time fishing but rarely catch any fish. That is because for carp fisherman size really does matter. They are in search of the Holy Grail; the Holy Grail in this case being a fish at least ten pounds heavier than the one they’ve actually caught. They will spend days camped out by an enormous lake in the faint hope of catching one of a handful of sizeable fish lurking in its depths. They will pursue their quarry by searching diligently for that perfect spot on the bank (taking into account wind direction, time of year, presence of weed, absence of weed, underwater features, etcetera, etcetera) then employing ever more bizarre baits and an array of complex electronic gadgets to aid the chase. All this effort is allied with a persistence that makes Slipper of the Yard look like a wimp. Carp fishing is not for the faint hearted.
Pete was not as obsessive as some, which was a good thing, for these days he had little time for proper fishing. That was limited to an annual fortnight in France with Colm Riordan and a couple of other mates. At other times it was a snatched affair, fitted in around family life and business commitments. Nonetheless, he wasn’t going to spend his time at some overgrown pond stuffed full of desperate fish willing to throw themselves at his bait just for the sake of catching something. A man had standards. Smallmead, near Wraysbury, was big enough to make him feel he wasn’t cheating but full enough of fairly big carp that he had a fighting chance of catching one.
Tracey woke with a start as the van jerked to a stop. There was a moment of sleepy disorientation before her head cleared. They had just come off the motorway and had halted at the junction at the end of the slip road. Above them the lights of the M25 almost obscured the pallor of the pre-dawn sky. She looked at the clock on the dashboard. It was just gone four a.m. The traffic lights changed to green and the van pulled away. They left the streetlights behind just as the shadowy expanse of the reservoir opened out to their left and it was obvious that dawn was not very far away. The pale sky showed not a hint of cloud. It was going to be a beautiful day. Automatically Tracey reached out to turn on the radio then checked herself. Pete liked peace and quiet during these trips. Radio One would not be a good move if she wanted him in a receptive mood when she broke her news.
She must have drifted off again, for she awoke once more to the slam of the driver’s door and her Dad settling back behind the wheel. They drove down the narrow track from the gates of the lake complex to the car park. Tracey yawned and stretched.
“Awake?” her father enquired, with sideways glance in her direction. He must have had no more than three hours’ sleep himself but he seemed as fresh as a daisy. How the hell does he do it? I’m knackered.
“Barely.”
Pete grinned. “Young people these days. No stamina.” Tracey stuck her tongue out at him.
According to Pete he travelled light. Despite this it took them half an hour and several trips to haul all his gear from the car to his favourite swim.
“If this is travelling light I hate to think what travelling heavy is like,” Tracey grumbled, dumping a cool box, a knapsack and a couple of carrier bags on the ground. “What’ve you got here, the kitchen sink?”
“Breakfast. Didn’t think I was going to starve you, did you? Go on, love, make us a bacon sarnie while I get set up.” By the time Pete had finished the bacon was sizzling in a pan on his little camping stove and the kettle was boiling on the trangia. They ate in silence, enjoying the complex baroque twittering of a blackbird greeting the sun.
Finally Tracey spoke. “It’s so quiet.”
“Not that quiet.” Pete tilted his chin upwards to where the sound of an early morning plane leaving nearby Heathrow followed a trail of smoke across the summer sky. “Must be a lot quieter at Hogwarts.”
“Different sort of quiet.” Born and bought up in a town, Tracey often pined for the noise, the hurrying press of humanity and the endless variety of urban living when cloistered at Hogwarts. Oh, the school itself had noise and bustle enough - how could it not with nearly a thousand teenagers cooped up in one place - but the lowering grandeur of the landscape beyond its gates was un-nerving to someone from the softer South. In this little pocket of tranquillity it was possible to enjoy the early morning hush with a comforting sense that civilisation as she knew it was not all that far away.
The sun was now well clear of the trees, dispelling any lingering traces of nighttime coolness. Tracey had just bundled her jacket into a pillow and was stretched out on the grass, preparing to take a nap, when her Dad, who had been scanning the lake with his binoculars, turned to her.
“Tracey, there’s an owl heading this way.” She scrambled to her feet immediately and joined him. For the past five years owls in daylight had meant only one thing. Pete handed her the binoculars and she hurriedly focussed in the direction of his pointing finger. Yes, it was an owl all right, an owl carrying a letter in its beak.
“Oh, fuck.”
“Language, Tracey.” She hadn’t realised that she had spoken out loud until her father’s mild rebuke bought her back to herself. It wasn’t meant to happen this way. Sodding birds! She still couldn’t get used to the fact that, unlike the Royal Mail, the wretched feathered stalkers could find you literally anywhere. In the ideal scenario she’d constructed last night this letter would be waiting for her at home, and by then it wouldn’t matter, as she’d have told her father everything and it would all be settled. Except that now it wouldn’t, and for some reason she couldn’t explain that mattered a lot.
“Sorry, Dad. It’s my OWL results.”
Her father put his arm round her, and gave her a hug. “Don’t worry, love. I’m sure you’ve done fine.”
The owl landed in front of them. Tracey stood rooted to the spot a list of worries unreeling silently. I’m sure I ballsed up that last Arithmancy question, even Granger said it was hard; I’m pretty sure I’ve passed Transfiguration but what if I didn’t and what about the … Oh, crap, what does it matter if I’ve failed the lot anyway? The owl rustled its wings impatiently and her Dad gave her a gentle nudge.
“Go on, love, it’s waiting.” Trembling from head to foot, Tracey took the letter from the owl’s beak. The bird promptly flew off. No doubt the Hogwarts owls were rushed off their feet today. She fought a sudden impulse to giggle hysterically and, with fingers made clumsy with fear, broke the seal and opened the letter. For a moment she couldn’t focus but as she finally managed to absorb the contents, the realisation hit her. It was then the tears came.
She was vaguely aware of Pete picking up the letter, which had fluttered from her hand to land by his feet. He was no doubt scrutinising all those O’s and wondering why she wasn’t jumping up and down with joy. That thought only made her cry harder. She fished in her jeans pocket for a tissue and saw, through a watery haze that her father was already holding one out to her. As she wiped her eyes he pulled her to him and hugged her hard.
“Don’t cry love; you did brilliantly. Ten O’s - bet there’s very few others who can say the same.”
There could be no more prevarication. “Dad, I’ve got something to tell you.”
In her ideal imagined scenario she had been clear and calm and rational but this was no longer her imagination. Pete listened patiently as her rambling explanation unwound itself, stopping her only to ask the occasional question. She finished and waited in tense silence for him to say something. When he finally did it was the last thing she expected.
“I already knew you’d been holding out on us, Muppet.” Muppet. He hadn’t called her that since she’d turned twelve.
Choking back the tears that threatened to flow again, Tracey demanded, “How?” Her father did not reply. Instead he rummaged in his rucksack, drew out a crumpled magazine, and passed it to her. She unfolded it and found herself staring at the familiar cover of The Quibbler bearing Potter’s picture and the headline, Harry Potter Speaks Out At Last: The Truth About He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named And The Night I Saw Him Return.
“Last Christmas,” Tracey muttered. Pete nodded. Out of the blue he’d insisted on taking her shopping in Diagon Alley to chose her present. She’d thought he was trying to make up for Mum, who still refused to go near the place. A sharp spike of anger flared, only to be doused almost instantly by the cold little voice that reminded her that she, of all people, had no right to take someone else to task for not telling the whole truth.
“I popped into Flourish & Blotts while you were being fitted at Madam Malkin’s,” her Dad was saying, “bought a copy of the Daily Prophet and asked the girl at the cash desk to help me arrange a subscription. While she was dealing with it this strange little bloke in the queue behind me tapped me on the shoulder and started going on about how the Prophet was complete rubbish and if I wanted to know the truth I should read this.” He nodded towards the magazine in Tracey’s hand. “I tried to brush him off but he’s a persistent little bugger. Gave me his card and told me to get in touch if I ever got tired of reading the crud they print in the Prophet.”
Despite herself, Tracey grinned. “Bet that didn’t take long.”
“Longer than you think,” Pete said, gruffly. “I wanted to believe they were right and it wasn’t that serious. You’ll understand when you have kids of your own.” He stared across the lake. “Few months later I was looking for something in my wallet. I came across his card, and I thought to myself, what harm would it do? So I tapped it three times, like he said, and a second later this appeared. Most of it was bilge, but this article,” he took the magazine from her and tapped the cover, “explained a lot. I decided you and I needed to have a little talk. I’m glad you came to me first.”
Tracey had to choke back tears once more. “I’m sorry, Dad.”
Pete shook his head. “You’ve no need to apologise, love. You see, you’re not the only one who hasn’t been straight about things. I’ve got something here I need to show you.” He rummaged in his rucksack again, and took out the waterproof bag containing his rod licence and fishing permit. He unzipped it and took out an elderly and much folded piece of parchment, which he handed to her. Puzzled, Tracey unfolded it and began to read.
Acadamh Éireannach Draíodóir agus Cailleach
Headmaster: Dermot ó Ceallaigh, Star of Cliodna, Chosen Chief of the Irish Druid Convention, Deputy Supreme Mugwump, International Confederation of Wizards
Mr Peter Davis
The Bank of Grand Union Canal
Not Far from Bull’s Bridge
Horsenden Lane
London
England
Dear Mr Davis,
We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Acadamh Éireannach Draíodóir agus Cailleach. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.
Term begins on 1st September. We await your owl by no later than 31st July.
Yours sincerely
Donnacha Foley
For the Headmaster
She finished reading and looked up at her father with wide questioning eyes.
“I was pretty gobsmacked,” Pete said, quietly. “I took it home and showed it to my Ma, and that’s when she told me. Your grandma was a Squib, Tracey. Her family were none too happy about that and they treated her very badly. At sixteen she ran away from home with a Muggle because he was the first person who’d ever said he loved her. Her family disowned her completely. Her father even refused to let her attend her mother’s funeral when she died of the dragon pox the following year. My Dad wasn’t much consolation. He was a drinker who never kept a job for long, and they didn’t have much money. When a cousin of his who worked as a chippie in England said he could get him a job labouring they jumped at the chance. Six months after they got to London he went out one evening and never came back. She met your Granddad Davis, who I’d always thought was my father, a few months later, and they were married when I was two and George was only a baby. Ma tried to make out she was pleased for me but I could see how much it hurt her, so I said I didn’t want to go. Your grandma was terrified that they’d turn up and take me anyway. I was adamant if they did I’d run away. Well, first of September came and went and nothing happened.” He held out his hand, and Tracey automatically gave him the letter. Pete looked at it thoughtfully before refolding it and returning it to its hiding place. “I was lucky I was born in Ireland. The Ministry here’s a lot stricter, and I reckon they’d probably have forced me to go whether I wanted to or not. Your grandma said over there many families don’t bother sending their kids to school at all.”
“But what about your magic? McGonagall said it’s dangerous if you’re not taught to use it properly.”
Pete let out a bitter laugh. “They would say that, wouldn’t they? No, love that’s all lies. As soon I knew what was causing them the strange things stopped happening - unless I wanted them to.” He grinned mischievously. “Like when that complete wa - prat tried to start a fight with your Uncle George at the Football Club Christmas dance.”
“Mum said he was so drunk he tripped over his own feet and knocked himself out.”
“Oh he did,” Pete said, smugly. “I just gave him a bit of help.” Mistaking her stunned expression for something else he added, “Don’t worry, love, I’ve never done it when you’ve been around. I wouldn’t want to get you into trouble.”
Tracey, struggling to make sense of a world turned suddenly upside down, fastened on the one means of making certain. “Show me.” Pete looked for a moment as if he might protest but something in her look must have told him that would not be a good idea.
“This isn’t going to cause you any problems is it?”
Tracey shook her head. Her first summer holiday with Daphne had taught her the Ministry weren’t as omniscient as they pretended, and a few discreet questions to Daphne’s Dad had confirmed they could only detect that magic had been done at a particular place not who’d performed it. After that if she wanted to practice magic during the holidays she’d made sure she was well away from home. In five years she hadn’t been caught once: so much for the Decree for the Restriction of Underage Sorcery.
Pete shaded his eyes with his hand and looked out across the lake. There was no change in his expression but Tracey could feel the difference. Something was stirring. A tiny whisper of magic was leaving him and stretching itself out over the lake, searching. It wasn’t strong - indeed it seemed barely present - but it was definitely there. Tracey held her breath, waiting. As the magic found what it sought, the mood shifted. Now it was calling, drawing something to it -
The bite alarm on one of Pete’s rods shrieked into life, and the reel screamed as the line unwound rapidly. A large fish had taken the bait and was charging off as fast as it could. With a triumphant smile Pete grabbed the rod and struck, while Tracey lunged for the landing net.
It was an hour before the fish - a disgruntled 32lb common carp - had been bought to the bank, weighed, photographed, and sent on its way, still sulking. By this time Tracey’s incredulity had given way to acceptance. Her Dad was a wizard - correction - could have been a wizard. She tried to imagine what it must be like to have magic and not be able to use it. With a chill she realised she was looking into her future.
Once the clearing up was finished and his rod re-baited and cast out again, Pete fished in the cool box and bought out two cans of Heineken and a couple of Tupperware sandwich boxes. Tracey let him settle down and get stuck in to a cheese and pickle sandwich before she asked the question that was uppermost in her mind.
“Ever wonder what it would’ve been like if you’d gone?”
“From time to time,” Pete replied with a rueful smile. “Then I remind myself that if I had I’d never have met your Mum or had you and Darren or started the business. It hasn’t been a bad life.”
Mum. With everything that had happened, Tracey had completely forgotten that she still had to tell her mother the truth, and yet another set of revelations would seriously complicate things. “Does Mum know?”
“I told her just after your letter arrived,” Pete said. “Should’ve told her long before that, I suppose. Your grandma warned me to several times but I kept putting it off. Ma took it on herself to try and tell your Mum just before she died. Of course, your Mum didn’t believe a word of it, so when I showed her the letter she was pretty angry with me.”
Tracey clasped her arms round her bent knees and rested her forehead on them. “She’s going to go ballistic, isn’t she?”
“She’ll forgive you eventually,” her Dad replied, ruffling her hair. “Your Mum loves you, Tracey, don’t ever forget that.”
There were no more fish that afternoon and no further conversation about Tracey’s future or Pete’s past. Both of them felt they had said all that needed to be said. Tracey’s Dad returned to the subject only once. As he bought the van to a halt in their driveway, he nodded towards the house.
“Best to get it over quickly, love.” As she opened the passenger door, he fished in his pocket and held out her results letter. “You forgot this.”
“Thanks.” She took the letter, and headed for the house, stuffing it in the pocket of her jeans. She had no intention of showing it to her mother until after she’d got her confession over with. Fate, however, had entirely different ideas on the matter.
She found Janet in the kitchen, preparing a salad. “Oh good, you’re back. I thought we’d have a barbecue since the weather’s so nice. Can you ask your father to get the barbecue set up, please, Tracey?”
“Mum, I need to talk to you -“
“Yes, in a minute dear, just go and tell your Dad - Leave that alone!” This last was addressed to Tracey’s brother, who had come into the kitchen and was leaning against the counter picking bits out of the salad and eating them. Darren grinned.
“Thought you wanted me to eat more veg.”
“There’s a proper time and place for everything.” Janet responded tartly, slapping his wrist as he reached out for the bowl again. “Dinner won’t be long.”
Darren held his hands up in mock surrender and shook his head. “Don’t bother making anything for me, Mum. I’m going out. See you later.” He left the kitchen before his mother had a chance to say anything, and a second later they heard the front door slam.
“He could have told me that before I took the steaks out of the freezer,” Janet grumbled. “Never mind. I’m sure your father won’t let it go to waste.”
“Mum -“
“Won’t let what go to waste?” Pete enquired, entering the kitchen.
“Darren’s steak. He’s gone out. Light the barbecue will you, Pete? Everything’s nearly done. We can eat as soon as it’s ready.”
As her Dad left to carry out his task, Tracey tried again. “Mum, I’ve got something to tell you.”
“Yes dear,” Janet replied absently. “And I had something to tell you but I’ve totally forgotten what - Of course, that was it! You had a phone call from one of your school friends. Nice boy; said his name was Moon. It was a bit of a surprise, I can tell you. I thought they didn’t use the phone.”
“His Mum was bought up as a Mug - an ordinary person.”
“Well, fancy that. He wanted you to ring back. He said he’d just had his OWL results and wanted to know how you’d done.” Tracey swore silently. She knew what was coming next. “Did you get yours?”
“Yeah. The owl delivered them to Smallmead.”
“And?” When Tracey failed to respond, Janet added, “Well? How did you do?” There was no help for it. Tracey pulled the letter from her pocket and handed it to her mother. She watched in silence as Janet read the letter through twice and broke into a wide smile. “Ten Outstandings!” She hugged Tracey. “Tracey, that’s wonderful, you must be over the moon! You know I had my doubts but this - ” She took in Tracey’s woeful expression. “Darling, what’s wrong?”
Having been through the whole story once before, Tracey was more coherent this time. This was a good thing, for Janet, never a good listener at the best of times, kept interrupting and going off on a tangent. Several times, Pete, who’d come into the kitchen in the middle of Tracey’s explanation, had to shush her so that Tracey could continue. When she finished Tracey got her second big surprise of the day. She’d expected tears, tantrums, at the very least a lengthy rant. What she got was much worse. Seated at the kitchen table, dry-eyed and eerily calm, Janet looked up at her daughter.
“I suppose I can understand how you felt but I have to say I’m disappointed in you, Tracey.” Tracey cringed. Tears she could handle but this frozen disapproval made her feel about six inches tall. “Yes, if I’d known what was going on at the time, I certainly would have wanted to you to leave Hogwarts but that’s no reason for you to lie to me.”
“I’m sorry, Mum,” Tracey muttered.
Janet pulled herself together with visible effort. “Well, what’s done is done and we have to think about the future now.”
“Let’s go and eat,” Pete interposed swiftly. “We can talk about it over dinner.”
An hour later, Janet laid her knife and fork on her plate and fixed her gaze on her daughter, seated opposite her. “I suppose I should be happy about this. I never wanted you to go to that school in the first place.” She paused for a moment then carried on, with a look of determination. “Tracey, have you really thought about this?”
“Mum, I’ve thought about nothing else since term ended!”
“I’m not sure you fully understand the implications,” Janet continued. “Doing magic is second nature to you. I’ve seen how impatient you get when you have to do things the normal way, and how eager you are to get back to that school of yours by the end of the holidays. I don’t think you fit in our world any more. Frankly, Tracey, I think it’s too late for you to turn back.”
Stunned, Tracey stared from her mother to her father. Her astonishment was mirrored on Pete’s face. He didn’t see that one coming, either. Doesn’t know her quite as well as he thinks he does. For the first time in her life she found herself looking at her own parents through the same eyes with which she observed her teachers, the parents of her friends and her schoolmates. It was disorientating. Pete put his hand over Janet’s where it lay on the table next to her empty wineglass and grasped it tightly.
“I’ve seen what it’s done to your father,” Janet continued with a slight tremor in her voice. Pete started to speak but she silenced him with a gesture. “Oh, I know you’re going to say it doesn’t matter to you but I’ve seen the look you get sometimes when Tracey talks about what she’s done at school. Before you told me I always thought there was something missing. Now I know there is.”
“Jan, love -“ Pete said, hoarsely.
“Let me finish!” his wife snapped. “This is hard enough as it is without you making it harder.” She returned her attention to her daughter. “You’re my baby, and I’m terrified for you. You’re not yet seventeen, and you shouldn’t have to deal with anything more dangerous than a broken heart. I wish I could turn the clock back but I can’t. All I can do is tell you that before you go through with it you should consider very carefully whether you could bear to spend the rest of your life without magic. Once you leave there’ll be no changing your mind.”
Tracey rose and went to kneel by her mother’s chair. The enormous lump in her throat made speech difficult. All she could manage was a strangled, “Mum,” before she burst into tears and threw her arms round her mother. Janet hugged her back, crying, too. Pete came and put his arms around both of them.
“Your father and I will support you whatever you decide,” Janet said through her tears. “I just want to be sure you know what you’re doing. Promise me you’ll think about it?”
“I will,” Tracey affirmed, drying her eyes.
She was still thinking about it at three am in the morning when her brother returned from clubbing and found her stretched out on the sofa listlessly switching channels on the TV every couple of seconds and staring into space.
“You told them?” Darren enquired through a mouthful of peanut butter and tomato sandwich as he dropped into an armchair.
“Yeah.” Desperate to talk to someone, Tracey had confided in her brother the day after she got back from Hogwarts. Darren had advised her to tell all as quickly as possible, and had nagged her to do so on an almost daily basis ever since.
“How’d it go?”
“Okay.”
“Just okay?”
“Well, Dad already knew - sort of.” Tracey filled her brother in on her conversation with Pete. She wasn’t too sure if Pete would be happy she was telling Darren but she was tired of secrets.
Darren’s reaction was typical. “So Dad’s a wizard? Cool.”
“It’s not cool!” Tracey snapped. “If anyone found out it would be very dangerous for him.” Her brother, she often thought with irritation, seemed to regard her life as the plot of one of the fantasy novels he was so devoted to. How could she get him to see that this was real life not some cosy ersatz universe where with a single wave of his wand the hero was free.
“Calm down, Trace, or you’ll bugger the remote,” was Darren’s only response. That retort pulled Tracey up sharply, and she took a deep breath, willing herself to calmness. Her parents’ house insurance premiums were already through the roof as it was, due to her tendency to blow up sensitive electrical equipment when she got really upset. Her brother stretched out a leg and poked her in the side. “Don’t worry, I’m hardly going to tell anyone, am I?”
“Darren, I’m serious.”
“So am I.” Darren took another bite of his sandwich. “What about Mum?”
“That’s the really weird thing. I expected her to hit the roof but it wasn’t like that at all.”
“That’s Mum for you,” her elder brother said, wisely. “Goes mental over the tiniest little things but if its something really important she’s all calm and sort of distant.”
“Yeah, that’s it exactly. I’ve just never seen her that way before.”
Darren grinned. “That’s ‘cos you’ve always been a good little girl.” He finished the sandwich and put the plate on the floor by his feet. “Last year I thought I’d got this girl pregnant. I didn’t know what the fuck to do, and she was just all over the place, crying and stuff, so I told Mum. She was brilliant. First thing she asked was, did you have a test done? When we said no she was on the phone to one of those clinics like a shot and arranged it. Turned out it was a false alarm. I’ve never been so relieved in my life. When it was all over you know the only thing Mum said to me was, I hope you’ll be more careful in future, Darren, all cool and calm, like you said. Made me feel a complete dickhead.”
Refraining from the obvious rejoinder, Tracey continued. “That wasn’t the only thing. Later she as good as told me I was making a mistake. I thought she’d jump at the chance to get me away from Hogwarts and here she was saying the exact opposite.”
“What do you think?”
“That’s the problem. I’ve been going round and round in circles ever since, and it’s doing my head in.”
“You should sleep on it. You’ve got plenty of time.”
Tracey spoke slowly, the decision crystallising with the words. “That’s just it. I think I’ve already made the decision, I just don’t want to face up to it.”
Darren looked confused. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve changed my mind. I’m going back to Hogwarts after all.”