Rationalism

Well, their main job is to keep it from the Muggles that there's still witches an' wizards up an' down the country... Blimey, Harry, everyone'd be wantin' magic solutions to their problems. Nah, we're best left alone.

Rubeus Hagrid, PS, p. 51.

CHAPTER FIVE

Rationalism

by Callum Entwhistle

"I DON'T BELIEVE IT!"

Dad dumped a large brown box on the floor then loomed over the telly, completely blocking my view of Uri Geller thought-bending a spoon.

"Dad, it's only trick photography!" I pleaded. "Me and Kevin want to learn how they make films like that, when it looks as if psychic stuff is happening. We know it isn't real." Actually Kevin was too busy with a library book to glance at the telly, but Dad didn't notice this detail.

"It's bobbins, Cal," said Dad, looking as if he was about to punch the screen-Uri in the nose. "Why are they letting him rattle out all that stuff about being kidnapped by aliens unless they're trying to fool us? Bah. Aliens don't exist."

He didn't punch the screen but he did flick the remote control. Ping! Uri Geller and his spoons vanished into a spot of white light. Before I had time to protest, Dad pointed to the brown box and said, "I've bought us something better than telly. Clear a space on the table, Cal – let's set up our brand-new home computer!"

"But, Len, why do we want a computer?" asked Mum. "We're not going to fly a space-ship. Besides, it must have cost – "

"It's keeping up with technology, Fiona!" Dad replied proudly as he took a carving knife to the packaging. "Put your book down, Kevin! Computers have changed. This one comes with software, so we don't have to program it ourselves. And we won't have to waste its memory space with piles of information because it can dial up the internet."

"What will we use it for?" asked Mum, still bewildered. She didn't say out loud that we couldn't afford a home computer. We couldn't, not really, but snowballing credit card bills never deter Dad as long as he has the latest and the greatest. Mum makes sure that in the end – in the very end – our bills get paid. She knits kids' jumpers on commission; and she's an ace cook, so she can sometimes cater a posh party. We had to sell our good sofa to pay off the giant telly and our rugs and curtains pay for the new stereo; but to be honest, I don't miss the sofa or the drapes. I've realised that losing the minor stuff is the price of owning the techno-gadgets.

"I've bought a few games for the boys – Minesweeper, Tetris, Pacman," Dad continued. "And we'll be able to use it as a kind of typewriter. But the top thing is the internet. We'll be able to send e-mails and look up the news on the worldwide web. We'll be the first in the street to have a home computer but we won't be the last. Computers aren't just for big business and posh people any more: in about five years, every home will have one. Give us a hand, Kevin. Help us unravel this wire."

Kevin obediently closed his gardening book and held the end of the flex, but he was staring out of the window. "There's an owl trying to get into our house," he said.

"I don't believe it," said Dad, gathering the cardboard boxes into a pile for the dustbin. "Birds don't like to be near people."

I opened the window and let the owl in. Animals always flock around our kid. Kevin knows every stray dog in the neighbourhood and most of the cats too; and birds don't always fly away from Kevin.

This owl flew straight for Kevin, dropped a wad of paper on his shoulder and flew off. Kevin caught the paper with his free hand but couldn't unfurl it one-handed, so I helped him.

"'Hogwar – '" I began, then decided I'd better not read it out loud. It was definitely some kind of letter, apparently from a headmaster named Albus Dumbledore, and it invited Kevin to be a pupil at a school for witchcraft and wizardry.

"Is this some kind of party invitation, Kev?" I asked. "Were you expecting this?"

He shook his head. "I don't know what it is. But that was a well-trained owl. Owls aren't like pigeons; they don't normally deliver messages."

"What's the fuss, lads?" asked Dad.

"Nowt, Dad!" we both replied.

Soon I was sitting in front of our new home computer, happily shooting down Space Invaders. It was a right buzz. I played for half an hour before I remembered I ought to share with my brother. When my game ended, I decked over my shoulder and saw that Kevin was busy reading, his mysterious letter neatly folded on the arm of his chair.

"Kev, come and give it a try!" I cajoled. "If Space Invaders is too violent for you, you could try Pacman."

"It's okay. Why don't you give Dad a turn? It's his computer."

The computer kept Dad and me happy all through the week. We played games, read on the web about the hole in the ozone layer (which Dad didn't believe until he saw how many scientists supported the theory) and used the word processor to write letters. Mum learned to use the drawing software so that she could illustrate the letters (we could send the same letter to an infinite number of people, just by changing the name before we hit the PRINT button). We even found out that one of Dad's workmates also had a computer, so we were able to send e-mails to his family. It was one of Dad's more brilliant buys.

Kevin played a couple of games of Tetris to please me, but the new computer really, truly didn't interest him. Kevin is like that. He doesn't watch motor-racing; he doesn't take radios apart; he doesn't even use the camera, which was once a joint Christmas present to both of us. He'd be perfectly happy in the Middle Ages because he doesn't care for anything electric or mechanical or radio. He's only interested in living things.

So while I was eagerly destroying Martians, Kevin spent the next couple of days outside. Kevin is mad for his garden. Mum and Dad have never had any time for the tiny patch of earth between our front door and front gate. It was Kevin who, four years ago, pulled up the dying lawn and replaced the grass with cuttings of pansies, nasturtiums, geraniums, delphiniums and sweet peas that he had begged from the neighbours or bought at jumble sales.

"He's doing it wrong," Mum confided to Dad. "He's damaged the roots and hasn't given a thought to planting seasons or soil type."

But Mum was wrong. Kevin's flowers all flourished, come drought, frost or flood, and our front garden became a riot of green leaves and rainbow petals. Sometimes, when a snowfall had melted or we returned from a week away from home, the flowers had begun to wilt, but Kevin could always make them grow again. He dug away the weeds, deposited a few worms and potato peelings and occasionally sprinkled on water; and within twenty-four hours, we had healthy flowers again, stalks taller and straighter, leaves darker green, petals larger and brighter than in any other garden in town.

"Kevin certainly has the green thumb," said Mum. "But isn't it rather odd how his flowers live all through the winter?"

"Flowers are much hardier than most people think," said Dad, who knows zilch about plants. "Most people just don't take enough care, and that's why their gardens die. Callum, you should take a photo of Kevin's flowers. Let's send it into a gardening magazine to show people how it should be done."

On Thursday evening I overheard Kevin talking to someone. A person in fancy dress was standing over our gate: a lady in an old-fashioned red gown and a witch's hat. Curious to know what she was promoting (the fancy dress was a sorted sales gimmick despite my better judgment), I paused my computer game and ran outside.

Kevin was beaming. "Professor Burbage, this is my brother Callum. Cal, this lady is from Hogwarts School. She knows all about that strange letter. You'll never guess what! Hogwarts is a real place, and they want to train me as a wizard!"

I laughed. "So what's it really about? Is this a role-playing game – something like Dungeons and Dragons?"

"I know it sounds bonkers. But I'm a real wizard, and there's a real wizard's school for people like me!"

"Mr Kevin," said the visitor, taking no notice of me, "could you take me to meet your parents?"

"Dad's at work," said Kevin, recklessly letting the saleswoman through the gate. "He's a foreman at the steelworks factory. But Mum's at home. She sometimes works at Woolworth's, but not today. Wait – here is Dad!"

Dad wasn't usually home this early, but there he was, strolling down the end of our street! He waved cheerily, and we waved back.

"All right, everyone!" Dad said. "Who's our guest?"

"This is Professor Burbage from Hogwarts School," said Kevin. "She wants a quick word with you and Mum. It's really exciting, Dad!"

There was nothing for it but to usher the visitor in to our proper untidy lounge and to call Mum out of the kitchen. Professor Burbage had some difficulty explaining herself.

"Letter?" asked Dad. "We didn't get any letter!"

"Oh," said Kevin. "I left it inside my book because I didn't think it was serious. Here you are, Mum."

Mum scanned and frowned. "Is this a school holiday activity from the council? I expect Kevin would like to learn conjuring tricks, but we can't really afford it."

"Mr Kevin would be eligible for a part-scholarship," said Professor Burbage, "but, no, it isn't conjuring tricks. It's real magic."

She waved her wand, and suddenly all the flowers in the garden shot up at about a hundred times their natural size. Gigantic nasturtiums were waving at us through the window, and the scent was overpowering.

Mum gaped in disbelief, and Dad frowned, trying to work out how she was doing it.

"We can also conjure flowers out of nothing," said the visitor, "but that never lasts long." She waved her wand again, and lilies and roses floated across the room. I grabbed for a red lily. It was very solid in my hand and proper sweet, yet somehow fragile. In a matter of seconds, all the floating flowers had faded to nothing.

"I don't believe it," Dad announced.

"Mr and Mrs Entwhistle," said Professor Burbage, "has Mr Kevin ever done anything really extraordinary... something that left you wondering just how it could possibly have happened?"

At that moment, I remembered Kevin's extraordinary talent with animals. He had so often rescued a sparrow from a cat, and somehow, after a couple of minutes in his hands, the broken legs and wings were mended, and the birds were able to fly away. Stray dogs loved Kevin: at his touch, thorns melted out of their paws and sores healed over. No cat had ever scratched him; in fact, he seemed to command obedience out of alley cats faster than most people can command domestic dogs. I suddenly realised that it was obvious that Kevin was a wizard.

Yet Dad said quite confidently, "Oh, no. Kevin is as ordinary as a boy can be."

"Let me explain a little more clearly," said Professor Burbage. She waved her wand at the new computer and, would you believe it, in an eye-blink, it had turned into a typewriter and a slide-rule!

"Hey!" I couldn't help interrupting. "Stealing our computer is not fair game!"

"It's still a computer underneath," said Professor Burbage serenely. "But shall I transfigure it into something a little less modern?" She waved her wand again, and before I could say "Pacman," the typewriter and slide-rule had been replaced by a quill, ink-pot and abacus.

Dad stood up. "I DON'T BELIEVE IT," he repeated firmly. "Miss Burbage, or whatever title you call yourself, I'm sure you're a proper competent conjurer, but we don't want our kids performing tricks like that around our house. We'd be obliged if you tidied up the mess and left our family alone."

What? Mum and Dad had preached the value of education all our lives. They said passing exams was the only way to get high-paying jobs that would let us buy more stuff. Were they now throwing Kevin's education right into the dustbin? Did they still disbelieve in magic, despite seeing the evidence in front of their eyes?

Kevin, who can be right mardy, looked as if he was trying not to cry. Professor Burbage waved her wand, and our computer reappeared (my game was still saved at the same level), and the garden flowers shrank back to their normal size.

"Powers like Mr Kevin's are quite dangerous if he isn't trained to use them properly," said Professor Burbage. "He could benefit from attending Hogwarts."

"Kevin has no powers," said Mum firmly. "We don't believe in such superstitions. However you're doing those tricks, Miss Burbage, Kevin has never done any at all. We'll show you out."

I glanced wildly at Kevin and saw that tears were rolling down his cheeks.

"I'll show her out!" I interrupted. "Come along, Professor Burbage. Our parents really are proper busy today." I almost dragged her through our narrow hall to the front gate. Fortunately, Kevin was the only one who followed, so I was able to corner the witch.

"Listen, Professor," I urged. "Kevin has to go to your wizarding school. You can't withdraw that invitation just because Mum and Dad don't believe in magic."

"I'm afraid we can, young man. We can't admit Mr Kevin to Hogwarts without your parents' permission. If they really don't want him to go, that's the end of it."

Kevin's face fell to his knees. This time he didn't cry; he simply looked as if his world had come to an end.

"You need to have another try at convincing them," I said. "But a magic display is the wrong way. Get this: our Mum and Dad don't believe in owt paranormal – not ghosts, not horoscopes, not psychics – nowt! So no amount of evidence is going to convince them. No matter how amazing your magic, they will never believe that you have powers – only that you're a mint conjurer."

She nodded. "Most Muggles need to see magic in order to accept it. But are your parents the types who would respond better to a logical argument?"

"No!" I nearly shrieked. "That would be worse. Mum and Dad say they believe in science, but they left school with only a handful of C.S.E.s, so they don't really understand how stuff like physics and chemistry works. Using scientific words won't help them believe in magic. I mean, I can understand that something like electricity would have looked like magic back in the Middle Ages; but now we have the science to explain it. So I suppose your magic is just an area of science that scientists can't yet explain. But to Mum and Dad, if science can't explain it right now, then it can't be real."

"Mr Kevin," she said – it was freaky how she almost ignored me when Kevin was in front of her, "do you have a suggestion?"

"Professor, you can't just take their word for it!" he begged. "Perhaps you could try a really big magic – something that couldn't possibly be a conjuring trick? No, that's no good. A big magic would frighten them. There's no point in making them believe in magic if they're going to be frightened by it. It would still end up that they wouldn't let me go to your school."

I tried to pull my great idea to the front of my brain. "Professor Burbage," I said, "do you have a magic that will make my parents forget about this visit?"

"Of course we do. We always use it on Muggle parents who refuse a place at Hogwarts. By this time tomorrow, you and your parents won't know anything about the letter or my visit or anything."

"I won't know?" I yelled. "But I've believed you! I agree with you that Kevin needs to go to this school! Why should I – ?"

"That's Ministry of Magic policy, Mr Entwhistle," she said. "It will be out of my hands."

"Well, I really don't want to lose my memory over this," I said. "Listen, Professor. Can't you give it one more try? Do your Forgettery Spell on Mum and Dad, and then come to visit us again? Dress like an ordinary teacher and don't say owt about magic, but tell them – uh – I know! You need to do it this way..."

I burbled on for quite some time, not sure of what I was saying. Kevin began to chip in and become enthusiastic about my idea. Finally, when we wound down, Professor Burbage asked a question.

"Are you asking me to lie to your parents?"

"Not lie, exactly," said Kevin, "but to miss out parts of the truth. Only tell them the parts that won't worry them and won't upset their ideas."

"I'm not sure," said Professor Burbage. "It isn't good for people never to be told information that might upset them."

"It isn't good for Kevin to have his education taken away," I countered.

"I'll look into it..."

"And by the way," Kevin added, "it isn't good for Callum to have his memory taken away."

The Forgettery people arrived only one hour later. They waved their wands over Mum and Dad and they took away the letter from Hogwarts. But they took no notice of Kevin or me, so perhaps Professor Burbage was going to give our idea a try.

Nothing happened for several days, except that I switched from Space Invaders to Minesweeper, and Kevin managed to tame and cure a broken-legged fox. It wasn't until Tuesday afternoon that Professor Burbage came back. This time she was normally dressed in a grey business suit and she was carrying a black brief-case.

"Today is the absolute deadline," she whispered to Kevin. "If I can't persuade your parents this evening, I'm afraid it will be too late to do anything."

Dad wasn't usually home this early, but suddenly I spotted him strolling down the end of our street! He waved cheerily, and we waved back.

"All right, everyone!" Dad said. "Who's our guest?"

"I am Dr Burbage from Northside School," said Professor Burbage. "I wonder if I could have a quick word with Mr and Mrs Entwhistle? I have some exciting news for young Kevin."

"Is Northside a school in Manchester?" asked Dad as he led the way in.

Professor Burbage opened the black briefcase on our threadbare carpet. "I expect you know about the Northside scholarships – " she began, blushing a little at her own blagging.

"No, never heard of them," said Dad. "Where is Northside?"

"It's a boarding school in the Grampians, and entry is highly selective. But we do offer scholarships to children all over Britain. Recently we had this drawn to our attention." She brought out the gardening magazine that had once published the photographs of Kevin's garden.

"We recognised at once that Kevin has quite an extraordinary talent for horticulture. I expect you know that he could make a very lucrative career out of it."

Dad's ears pricked up. Anything that might make money interested Dad, and it hadn't occurred to him that there was any money in gardens.

"So Kevin took our entry test..."

"Kev, you didn't tell us!" exclaimed Mum.

Kevin shrugged. "It was just school. I didn't expect to pass the exam."

"Kevin passed with flying colours," said Professor Burbage. There was no need to tell Mum and Dad that the "test" had simply been the ability to produce magic! "Kevin did so well that Northside School did not hesitate to offer him a scholarship."

She brought out a letter. This one was on plain white paper with ordinary black writing. The letterhead included a crest, but it was a very simple one, with a graduate's mortar-board atop a pile of books and the motto LEARNING BUILDS WEALTH.

NORTHSIDE SECONDARY SCHOOL

Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore, M.A., M.Sc., Ph.D., Dip.Ed.

Dear Mr Entwhistle,

We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Northside Secondary School. Your scholarship will cover full board, lodging and tuition and a partial grant for books, equipment and uniform.

Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term begins on 1 September. We await your letter of acceptance by no later than 31 July.

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall,

Deputy Headmistress.

"Wait," said Mum. "Is Northside an expensive school?"

"Oh, yes," said Professor Burbage. "Many of our pupils come from the purest blood in the land."

Dad's eyes began to shine. Kevin had a free place at an expensive school, the type attended by the toffs! "What about future prospects?" he asked.

Professor Burbage brought out a glossy brochure with a picture of thoroughly modern redbrick college. It looked proper hot off the press, as if someone had written it solely for Mum and Dad. "You can read about Northside's exam results," she said. "Our students can take up to twelve G.C.S.E. levels and up to seven A levels. You can read here about alumni who went on to Oxford and Cambridge, as well as the ones who became notable businesspersons."

Mum's eyes glazed over the exam lists. The names were probably all bogus, but of course she wouldn't know where to begin checking details like that. If it came to that, I wouldn't know how to check that kind of information. I realised that I was already telling myself, "They wouldn't dare print it if it wasn't true." Except that it wasn't true, and they had.

"Do your students ever become plumbers and electricians and suchlike?" asked Dad. "Tradesmen often make more money than the university types."

"Oh, yes," blagged Professor Burbage, nodding significantly at the brochure. The next page Dad turned listed all the Northside students who had become plumbers, electricians, carpenters, builders, glaziers, carpet-layers and gasmen. Some of them had photographs and some even had e-mail addresses. Dad respected people who were modern enough to have an e-mail address. It was becoming difficult to believe that Northside School did not actually exist.

"To think of our Kevin mixing with all those posh people!" sighed Mum. "He'd never again be mithered about being poor. Let's have a deck at these businesses, then. Have we heard of any?"

Oddly enough, there were all kinds of familiar businesses listed. Who would have thought that Kipling's Cakes and Debenham's had been founded by ex-Northside students? According to this glossy brochure, Northside had even produced the BBC! I didn't dare think about what would happen when the scam was rumbled.

"We'll have to check your references, of course," said Dad, "but this does sound like the right kind of school for our Kevin. Can you give Callum a scholarship too?"

"Unfortunately," she told us, "we have no vacancies in third year. But Kevin tells me that Callum wants to work in television. I'm sure there are students at Northside who can connect Callum to the television people. He might even be able to become a – what do you people call it? – a film producer." That was the only time all evening that Professor Burbage stumbled. She was in our house for two hours, and for the whole of that time, she was able to talk normally about non-magical things.

By the end of the evening, Mum and Dad had signed their acceptance of the "scholarship", and Kevin was enrolled at Northside Secondary College.

"Of course, we should check that it isn't just a fraud," said Dad. "The world is full of conmen. Fiona, let's e-mail all those posh people."

Oh, no! Had Professor Burbage thought of that?

Dad e-mailed Mr Kipling, Mr Debenham and the BBC with messages like this.

Dear Sir,

I understand you were once a student at Northside Secondary College. My son Kevin has accepted a scholarship there, and we want to know your honest opinion of the establishment before we agree to send him.

Yours sincerely,

Leonard & Fiona Entwhistle.

But apparently Professor Burbage had sorted out all those fake e-mail addresses, because they all returned answers.

Dear Mr & Mrs Entwhistle,

Northside is an exceedingly good place! It has the finest caterers in the land, and pupils can eat (and cook) to their hearts' content.

Trades training is second to none, and my mentors at Northside selflessly sacrificed to help me build my business. Since your Kevin is to be one of us, let me send you some free cakes.

Yours sincerely,

Rudyard Kipling

Dear Sir,

We, the undersigned, are all equally alumni of Northside Secondary College. We can testify that Northside offers excellent facilities in soccer, rugby, cricket, rowing, swimming, choir, orchestra and private music tuition.

After passing five A levels apiece, we all proceeded to higher education (the Universities of London, Glasgow and Aston respectively) before applying our skills acquired at Northside to the business of the sumptuary industry.

We are now a hugely successful chain store and shall be glad to provide young Entwhistle with linen shirts and a hat.

Yours faithfully,

William Debenham, Clement Freebody & Clark Flint

Dear Len,

What a hoot! Imagine young Kev turning up at my old school! The old school network is strong: friends from Northside are always friends for life. Your son will meet all the right kinds to help him on his way.

Best wishes,

Sir Michael Lyons,

The BBC

It was lucky that Mum and Dad were both at work the next day, because a flurry of owls arrived at our house. They were carrying boxes of stuff addressed to Dad, and none of it looked the way real post office deliveries are meant to look. No dangerous goods labels, no stamps, nothing to sign – just boxes!

Dad was too excited to notice how odd it was that strangers were sending him presents, but Professor Burbage must have called in all her connections with tradeswizards. There was a huge crate of Kipling's Cakes. We actually had to invite all the neighbours to an impromptu party to get rid of them. There was a flat box of three linen shirts, all in Kevin's size and far finer than anything on sale at the real Debenham's. There was also a top hat, which made Kevin groan in horror, but convinced Dad like nothing else that Northside was a really posh school. And there was the latest and the greatest in photography, a real, true digital camera, which Dad gave to me "because we can't leave Cal out of the action completely."

"Don't feel bad, Callum," Mum chimed in. "Work hard at Halliwell Comprehensive, and I'm sure it will be almost as good." But her smug smile indicated that she didn't seriously believe it would be. Kevin had landed on the golden highway to fame and fortune, and after that digital camera, there was no more talk about whether sending him to "Northside" would be the right decision.

Late at night, Kevin confided to me, "We'll have to plan this carefully. How am I going to buy my clobber without Mum and Dad asking questions about the magic items?"

"And how are you going to be at that school for five – no, seven – years without them ever guessing that it's a magic school?"

It turned out that Professor Burbage would help Kevin with his school shopping. I took him on the train to Manchester, and while I hung around the city museums and cinemas (I saw Terminator 2 – the special effects were wicked!), Kevin learned how to take some kind of magical transport to London. I was supposed to meet him again at three o'clock at Piccadilly Station. I knew magic would be involved, but it was still a shock to see the way he burst through a window, which he later told me wasn't a real window at all, but a sheet of enchanted glass that led to something called a "public Floo".

He was loaded with stuff: two bags of new clothes; another bag containing glass phials, brass scales and a telescope; a pewter cauldron full of old-fashioned, hardback books; a starter-box of potions supplies; and, yes, a wand. Professor Burbage was nowhere in sight: she had gone back to Scotland!

"I'll take this cauldron," I said, and then regretted it, because it was a slow, heavy lug to the nearest trolley; and Kevin was still in some trouble balancing his potions box with his three bags. Several people stared at our luggage curiously.

"School play!" I explained cheerily. Then I realised that nobody would believe that story in the middle of the school holidays!

The journey to Bolton wasn't too bad, but once we had dragged our clobber out of Bolton Station, we realised we couldn't haul it all the way home to Halliwell on foot. So there was nothing for it: we had to hire a taxi.

"That's your money," said Kevin, worried.

I knew it was, but it would be mean to rub it in, so I consoled him with, "It's still cheaper than taking a train all the way to London, so we've made a saving really."

The taxi-driver did ask us about the cauldron and telescope, but accepted our brief excuse that we were giving a fancy dress party. I didn't have quite enough to pay him (I shouldn't have gone to see Terminator 2!) so I had to race in and take change out of Mum's purse. Then Kevin had to distract Mum with talk of his day out while I heaved the baggage upstairs to our gaff. To fit the cauldron in our wardrobe, I had to pull out our accumulation of football gear and camera equipment, so our room was soon a complete mess.

Bother. I'd have to tidy and vacuum it myself if I was to keep Mum at bay. But what else was I to do with the summer? I'd now spent the whole of my allowance!

When I came downstairs, Kevin was quietly describing the ice-cream he'd eaten for lunch, the "modern" equipment in the astronomer's shop, the furry animals in a pet-shop he'd passed and the "foreign" flowers in a nursery centre. Mum was worrying about money, since she knew that the equipment allowance was only supposed to pay for half (and then only for second-hand items). Kevin was saying not to worry because Professor Burbage had lent the money for now, and the expense of reimbursing her would be offset by the fact that Mum and Dad wouldn't need to feed him for nine months of the year.

Our kid was cleverer than I'd thought. All by himself, without help from me, he was managing to describe his day excluding the magic parts.

That was how we managed to keep it. Kevin went off to Hogwarts on the first of September. That evening, more wizards came round to our house to cast more forgetting spells on Mum and Dad, just gentle ones, they claimed, so that my parents would never quite remember Professor Burbage or how it was they had agreed to send Kevin to Hogwarts. They also took away the bogus Northside prospectus and wiped our computer memory of the bogus e-mails.

Yet as time went by, Mum and Dad never seemed to worry about the vagueness of their understanding of "Northside". They boasted to the neighbours that Kevin had won a scholarship to a really posh boarding school up north, and that, as far as they were concerned, was the whole story.

Kevin's first letter sounded happy.

Dear Cal,

Arrived safely, and I'm having a buzz! That brochure photo was wrong: the Hogwarts building is actually a CASTLE. My common room is at the top of a tower. I've been sorted into Ravenclaw house, where everyone wants to debate and study. There are ghosts floating through the corridors, and staircases that move around, and portraits that leave their picture frames to go and talk to one another.

My transfiguration teacher is fantastically clever: she can turn her desk into a pig! But I've only had to practise turning a match into a needle, which is hard enough. The charms teacher has started us on colour-changing spells by showing us how to make different-coloured lights out of our wands. Best of all is herbology, where we are growing our own fungi and learning to recognise toadstools.

There are wonderful animals here: giant toads, fluffy Puffskeins, cats that know when people are lying and rumours of unicorns in the forest. But I don't study them until third year. I can borrow a trained school owl any time I want to write a letter home. I tell the owl to drop the letter at the Muggle post office in Ballater, and it always knows not to let the Royal Mail people see it but just to add my letter to the piles. I'd love a trained owl of my own, but perhaps that would be too weird for Mum and Dad.

Love to all,

K

He wrote something completely different to Mum and Dad.

Dear Mum and Dad,

Arrived safely, and I'm having a buzz! The school building has all mod cons, with blue plush sofas in the common room. All the students are keen to study for top marks in the exams. My best friend is Robert Rivers, who is the funniest person in the world. The other boys in my dorm are Anthony Goldstein (nose always in a book), Terry Boot (religious type) and Michael Corner (forever taking gadgets to pieces).

My physics teacher is fantastically clever: she knows all about string theory and states of matter. But her lab pracs are proper hard work: I'm learning things I never dreamed existed. The maths teacher has started us on algebra by showing us how to substitute for different values of x. Best of all is botany, where we are growing our own fungi and learning to recognise poisoned mushrooms. We'll progress to zoology in our third year.

To sum up: Northside is so much better than primary school! I miss you all, but there's never a dull moment around here.

Love to all,

K

The letters always arrived with a real BALLATER frank, and Mum and Dad never thought to ask exactly where "Northside" was. Kevin has been at Hogwarts for six years now, and Mum and Dad still don't know that he is a wizard.

A/N. Many thanks to TDU for giving the Entwhistles an authentic Mancunian voice.