Setting: A small house sits near the edges of a vast lake, a great Oak stands tall in the yard, and a cool breeze is blowing through the Scottish summer. (Puck's home in Scotland.)
Word Count: 1137

Puck was trying to memorise how his house looked upside down when it came. He’d been hanging out of the big oak tree —tracing every crack of brick and speck of dirt— for the better part of a quarter-hour, and at that point was getting, regrettably, rather dizzy. Then he saw the owl, snowy white, perched quite happily on top of their mailbox and gazing intently at him. Moving slowly, trying not to scare it away, Puck slowly got down, and it was probably the first time he’d ever been so careful as to not fall on his face. It was certainly unexpected to see what appeared to be a Snowy Owl here in the middle of summer, and even rarer for it not to have taken flight already as he slowly approached. Instead it just sat there, staring, and never before had he considered the unnerving aptitude of an unblinking bird but it was certainly getting to him now.

“Hi gorgeous, bit odd to see one of yous down here this time of year, any particular reason for that or did you just feel a bit like a summer vacation?”

Logically Puck knew that it couldn’t understand him, but the way it’s eyes appeared to narrow at his tone said otherwise, regardless the talking made him feel better, so he kept at it.

“I’ve always wanted to meet an owl, but you always fly away before I can get close, ya’ never even stay for the mice I catch.”

It perked up at mice, leaning towards him and ruffling its feathers — but there was no way it could…

“Can you understand me?”

It seemed an absurd thing to ask, but then again, dogs get all excited when they hear the word walk don’t they, so maybe it was less of an understanding and more just that Alice (he’d decided she looked like an Alice) had spent a larger portion of her time around humans. But then… she’d looked almost indignant at the question, ruffled and half-annoyed, then she promptly dropped something from her foot, letting it fall to the ground at his feet and took off.

“Hey wait– oh nevermind you’re a bird, hardly gonna get you to stay for a chat am I?”

Puck turned his attention towards what Alice had dropped, crouching down to see it was a piece of paper, no, a letter. Alice, the owl had brought a letter for– ‘Mx Puck Maudley, The Shack, at the end of Mifflin Street, Lochgoilhead, Scotland’.

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“An actual owl brought it?”

Puck’s mother was sitting on their kitchen bench, staring at the letter in her hands. They’d known he was special since he was young, but it was only last year that she’d sat him down and told him what his father had said before he left, that there was a school which would offer him a place if he was magical. But they’d never had proof , not until now.

“Yeah, a proper Snowy, I thought it was odd seein’ her down here this time of year, though I ‘spose that’s one stereotype about wizards we can tick off as being right.”

It had become a running joke, to write down things they saw in movies, read in books, owls and wands and broomsticks, stereotypes about magic and the magical (‘hey I wonder if I can actually turn you into a toad?’ ‘Don’t you even try you scoundrel’), it had been something they could do, a way of learning, of keeping light of it even when Puck had to start being homeschooled after a bit of accidental magic involving blue hair and a flag post went too far at school. But now– now it was here, proof.

The letter detailed a school called Hogwarts, the great magical school of Britain, and offered a place there, a space to, just maybe, belong. The two sat in silence for a bit, after reading it, Puck thought of a place to go, to belong, to learn, a place of magic. His mother thought of a boarding school filled with kids who already knew what they were doing, of long halls and lonely nights, but of the possibility to fit in, for puck to find out who he was.

“Well, do you want to go?”

It was a question of formality, really. They’d had this discussion before, when Puck was old enough to realise, truly realise, what the accidental magic was, and went running to her. The dulled down version he’d been given, and then later the detailed one– what his father had been, why he could do what he could, that there was a whole world filled with people like him, and a school that would take him. They’d had the proper conversation about it then, about learning control, and opportunities, and how it was likely that even if phrased like an offer, whoever was in charge probably wouldn’t let a magical child with no control and no idea about the world just live in ignorance, separate, and dangerous (if only to their reputation — or better put — lack thereof).

Puck signed his name on the bottom of the letter, providing confirmation of attendance and then they sat.


Puck’s mind was turning over and over and over, going back to school, having to make new friends, learn an entirely new world, try to fit in (he wasn’t naïve enough to think most people would be like him, no knowledge of what they were or what to do). His hand hit the side of the bench and he shook it out, wincing. His fingers clicked and his head flicked to the side and he got up and walked out, fingers twitching at his sides. They got worse when he was stressed, sometimes, and he got outside and started running.

He didn’t know how to feel, what to think, but there was no backing out now. He wanted to feel excited, he really did. Magic exists, and there’s a magic school he’s going to go to and that should be dam exciting. But he’s never been away from home, especially alone, they don’t tend to travel. What are people going to think of him? He’ll be too much for them again, or not enough, what if they send him home? It’s all new and it’s hard and he’s scared.

So he runs. He runs until he’s calmed down, the beat of his heart pumping through his blood, he runs until he’s reached the cliff overhang he can jump from, he runs until he’s in the air, falling, until the wind whips his hair up, until he’s plunging into the water of the loch, freezing, rejuvenating. He runs until everything stills, quiets into the muffled tones of the water.

He’ll be excited about it later, now– now he just needs to breathe.