Justin Finch-Fletchley

Tea with the Jones'

2007-12-29T05:41:44Z

December 1999

It's raining and I'm in a rather reflective mood this morning. Even though I'm feeling a little depressed and uncertain about some of my decisions, I also have a feeling of accomplishment: I've finally decided what to do with the rest of my life and with that momentous decision made and all the paperwork complete, all I have to do is wait.

I take a sip of tea and watch a raindrop cascade down the windowpane. The last two weeks have been like that raindrop with all the pieces of the multi-layered puzzle that is Justin Finch-Fletchley finally falling into place. Two weeks ago, when I'd given up hope of ever getting into Imperial College in London a letter came which stated that I'd been accepted to the School of Engineering. In addition, I've been accepted into the specialized program for Historical Architectural Engineering students. In other words, I'm going to be allowed to study the principles and construction methods used in creating some of Britain's greatest historical buildings and learn how to restore and preserve structures older than one hundred years of age. Mum and Dad are ecstatic, my mum especially. She's the one who has been pushing me towards being more Muggle than magical because she just can't visualize me as being part of the magical world. I, on the other hand, want to stay in the magical world where all my friends from Hogwarts are.

Unfortunately, her attitude and my stubbornness have led to some rather heated arguments which all end with me being terribly confused and depressed over what I'm going to do for the rest of my life.

Then, the solution to one of my many problems presented itself in the form of Megan Jones. I ran into her one morning in July in Diagon Alley as she was coming back from an assignment. We had lunch together and I told her about the rift that had been developing between my mum and me (my father has stayed out of our arguments). Megan was very sympathetic and suggested that she and her mum get together with me and mine. What transpired the day the four of us got together has changed my life. Not only do I have something to study in the Muggle world, I've also been apprenticed to a wizard who restores old magical buildings. I have Megan and her mother to thank for helping Mum and me come to an understanding and a mutual acceptance of what I want to do in life.

Acting on a Gut Feeling

2007-10-31T05:28:02Z

It’s been a while since I went to Diagon Alley. I haven’t really needed to go there since I’m still trying to set up my Muggle/Magical education. I’m still waiting on Imperial College of London’s Civil Engineering school to accept me; I sent in my application as soon as I could and am hoping to start their Historical Civil Engineering program after the new year. However, what has me wanting to go to Diagon Alley is not a Muggle university nor even the wizard who has promised to take me on as his apprentice in Magical Building Restoration: it’s my friend Hannah Abbott-Longbottom whom I haven’t seen since her wedding.

Something tells me that re-establishing contact with her would be a really good idea right now, and since I don’t know where she and Neville are living the only place I can see her is her office. I just hope that I can sweet-talk my way past the receptionist.

I’ve been living in my parents' house since I got back to England last February, and I've gotten used to wearing Muggle clothes. (My mum thinks wizards' robes are so old-fashioned and out of place in the modern world. She just doesn't understand.) I'll have to buy business robes for my apprenticeship since my Hogwarts robes are no longer appropriate, and besides, I've filled out so much in the last two years that I can't get them fastened across my chest! I stand in front of my closet and peer inside. Finally, I choose something I was really comfortable in at UC Davis, jeans, a grey silk t-shirt (something I appropriated from my cousin Bruce one night when he decided he wanted to drag me down to the campus watering hole), and my black blazer. I briefly consider a thin, cotton shirt, but decided I'll be warmer in the t-shirt.

Fifteen minutes later, I stick my head out the kitchen door and call out to my Dad who is working on his Mini "I'm going over to Diagon Alley. Mr Mardling sent me a book list this morning and I need to go to Flourish and Blotts'."

"When will you be back?" he asks, sticking his head around the bonnet of the car.

"Late afternoon, I think," I tell him.

"I'll tell your mum not to expect you for lunch. Have a good time," he says, going back to his tinkering.

"Thanks," I say and close the door. I check my pockets for my wand and book list and Disapparate to The Leaky Cauldron. I wave to Tom as I cross the bar and slip into the back alley. Several minutes later I am standing in front of Knightly and Poppington wondering whether or not my gut feeling is going to get me in trouble.

"May I help you?" the middle-age witch behind the check-in desk enquires.

"Yes, I believe you can," I begin. I grin at her, turning on the charm. She smiles at me expectantly. "I'm here to see Hannah Abbott-Longbottom. Is she available?"

The receptionist consults her book, laying it face up on its spine. "She's not seeing clients or visitors," she says. "You could leave her a message. I'll see that she gets it."

I lean on her desk and peer upsidedown at her book while taking out my wand and silently casting my most impressive Floridea charm under the table. Hannah's got nothing today on her calendar as far as I can see until three o'clock. Lucky me... I produce the bouquet of flowers with a flourish and hand them to the receptionist. "For you for your hard work keeping this office running smoothly," I say. I catch her hand as she reaches for the flowers and quickly kiss her knuckles, causing her to blush.

"You...you may go right in," she says vaguely, focusing on the flowers more than paying attention to what I'm doing or where I'm going.

"Thank you." I walk quickly down the corridor until I come to a door marked, "Hannah Abbott, Attorney at Law." I knock and let myself in.

Convincing Susan

2007-10-18T12:20:43Z

The more I think about it the more more uneasy I become. Yeah, I helped Susan transport her antique glass armonica, but I kept getting a creepy feeling as I helped her put it together... and that was before we found the letter from Gringotts! I know she was telling me all about the history of the instrument as we worked, and maybe my imagination was having a go at me, but once I heard how squeaky the thing was, I could easily see how people would think they were going mad.

Anyway, I think I've convinced myself that I need to persuade Susan to contact the goblins about her instrument. Maybe she can get Bill Weasley to pay her a visit on his lunch hour. I grab a piece of parchment and scribble:

Susan,

The more I think about it the more you need to be absolutely sure your antique armonica isn't cursed. You've got lots of children coming and going from your studio and I'd hate for you to have to talk to Hannah Longbottom about something other than chocolate covered strawberries! May I suggest contacting Bill Weasley? I've heard he's the best.

Just a thought...

Justin

Calling Bettelheim I attach the note to his leg and send him on his way.

Moving an Antique Heirloom

2007-10-13T08:14:59Z

My mobile rings, catching me off guard. I so seldom get calls that I hardly ever wear it. Today, though, since I’m waiting for a call from one of the administrators at Imperial College to call me back, I’ve got it on my belt.

“Hello?” I say somewhat warily.

“Justin? Justin Finch-Fletchley?” The voice on the other end of the line sounds very familiar.

“Yeah, this is Justin. Who is this?”

“Oh, Justin! I’m so glad I’ve finally tracked you down! This is Susan, Susan Bones from Hogwarts!”

Relief floods through me as I remember giving Susan my number six months ago when we had lunch together at the Leaky. “Hey, Susan. How’s your studio? I’ve heard you have a lot of students,” I say conversationally.

“My schedule is nearly full!” she exclaims happily. “But I lost quite a few students when they boarded the Hogwarts Express on September 1. I’m doing some advertising—adverts in the Daily Prophet, brochures on counters and around the Alley—but word of mouth seems to still be the best way to get students. Oh dear! I’m babbling. I’m sorry, Justin. I’ll get to the point. What I called about is do you still have access to a Muggle automobile? If you do, could I borrow it and you to do a bit of moving for me?”

Chuckling, I say, “I’d have to ask my dad, but sure I’ll help you move. Only, wouldn’t it be better if you rented a lorry or something like that?”

“Actually, Justin, I only want to move a rather large instrument from my parents’ attic to my studio. I think the boxes would fit in the boot or the back seat if more room is needed,” she says quickly. “Otherwise I would have figured out how to hire a lorry.”

“Can I ask what this instrument is?” I ask.

“An antique glass armonica,” she says. “I found it the other day when I was up there getting something for Mum. I don’t think anyone’s had it out for years. It’s all in pieces and I want to put it back together.”

“Why can’t you put it back together in your room?” I ask, remembering that she’s always had a piano in her room.”

There’s silence on Susan’s end of the line and I pull the phone away from my ear to check whether or not we’re still connected. We are. “Susan…?”

A loud sniff comes across the airwaves. “I’m sorry,” Susan says, her voice wobbling. “My father forbade me to have it in my room. The armonica is supposedly cursed and my father doesn’t want anything to do with the instrument.”

“Cursed?” I choke.

“I really don’t think it is,” Susan says quickly. “At least not darkly. But the only way to find out is to put it together and then check it for traces of dark magic. If you’ll help me get it to Diagon Alley I’ll tell you the whole story.”

“I’m intrigued, Susan,” I say with a smile. I know she can’t see me but I hope she can hear the curiosity in my voice. “Sure I’ll help you move it. What are friends for, anyway? When do you want me to come by?”

Susan’s voice catches as she says, “Justin, you’re the best! Will Saturday be good for you?”

I rummage through a pile of discarded parchment until I find my calendar. “Saturday is fine. Can I have your address?” I ask. Susan gives it to me and we agree on a time for me to appear at the gates to her parents’ manor in Berkshire.

My Belated Birthday

2007-05-21T19:11:49Z

My mother recruited me to help her prepare dinner, something she is wont to do periodically. It was to be a much different dinner than the one we’d had the night before at a fashionable London American-style restaurant that served steaks and potatoes as its main fare. My nineteenth birthday was something to celebrate it seemed with a return to a basic meal that I had grown to love in California. At dinner I had enjoyed the food and the company and had been suitably impressed with the expensive watch my father had presented me with, but deep down, I was rather hurt that I hadn’t heard from any of my Hogwarts friends—I missed the personal touch of a Hufflepuff birthday party more than I realized and chalked it up to having to grow up! I must admit that I perked up quite a bit when Megan, Susan and Hannah showed up later in the evening with a box of their special chocolate-covered fruits and cake.

Anyhow, my mom is of the opinion that her son needs to know how to cook, clean and do his own laundry in order to survive once I have left her care. Whether or not I do it with magic doesn’t matter; she thinks knowing the basics will make me a better man.

It was about four in the afternoon, nearly two steamy hours before the meal was due to be on the table, and we had already been chopping vegetables and chicken for home-made soup for a quarter of an hour when a post owl soared down the living room chimney, showering the room with copious amounts of soot, much to my mum’s chagrin. The poor thing landed on the hearth and shook itself vigorously. When it was done, the bird was still a uniform shade of black, with nary a trace of its original feather color to help us tell whose owl it might be. It coughed and squawked a few times as it flew towards me and landed on the pot I was throwing my peelings into and stuck out its leg.

I’ll give my mother credit: she stood at the stove watching in silence as I detached the grubby letter that was tied to our feathery messenger and then handed the bird a piece of the raw chicken we’d been dicing to flavor the soup. When the owl was done eating, I carried it to the front door and watched it fly to the big pine trees that lined our front walk where it used the thick branches to rid itself of most of the remaining soot.

Satisfied the owl would be all right I went back into the living room where Mum was surveying the mess with tears rolling down her cheeks.

“Justin, I just cleaned in here and your father’s business associates just rang up and want to drop something off. They’ll be here any moment! I can’t get this soot out of the carpets and drapes in time even if I shook them!” she wailed. “That owl has ruined our home!”

“Can I help, Mom?” I asked, going to her. I took out my wand. “Maybe this will help.” With a flick of my wrist, I Vanished the mess, leaving the room sparkling clean.

“Oh, Justin, I wish you wouldn’t do that,” she chided. “You could get in trouble.”

“No, Mom,” I told her, trying to be as reassuring as possible. “I don’t think I will. The Ministry knows I’m living with you and Dad and I am of age by two whole years. I won’t get in trouble.”

“I hope you’re right,” she said dubiously.

I gave her a quick hug. “Let’s see what my letter says.”

Back in the kitchen, I unsealed the letter. It was from
Megan and as I passed the letter to Mum I got an idea.

“Mom,” I began, knowing she prefers mum over mom, but I let the Americanized Justin me slip out every once in a while. She scowled at the name, then went back to reading. “Would you like to talk to someone about living with magical people?”

Startled, she handed me back my letter. She cocked an eyebrow at me, but didn’t say anything. I knew she was waiting to hear what I had to say next.

Embarrassed all of a sudden, I stammered, “I’ve noticed… noticed you’ve been on edge ever since I got home. It’s as if you don’t know what to expect of me any more.

“Anyway, Megan’s mum is a Muggle who married a wizard and they have two magical daughters. Maybe Mrs. Jones would be willing to answer some of your questions…” I trailed off not knowing how to finish.

Mum didn’t answer right away. She busied herself with skimming the foam off the top of the boiling broth and I could tell by her expression that she was considering what I said.

Finally, she put down her spoon and looked at me directly. “Do you think she would? I don’t want to inconvenience Mrs. Jones…”

“Let me write to Megan and see what she says. Maybe the four of us can get together next week. ” I looked at her hopefully.

Mum looked relieved. “Would Friday be too soon? Or maybe Saturday or Sunday. They could come here for tea.”

“I’ll be right back,” I told her. I went upstairs to my room and quickly composed a letter to Megan. Bettelheim awoke when he heard my pen scratching. “I’ll give this to you as soon as Mum approves,” I told him without looking up.

As I stood to go back down, my owl left his perch and lit on my shoulder. Mum only startled at the sight of the two of us. I read her the pertinent parts of my letter, stroking Bettelheim all the while.

When I finished Mum said, “Thank you for doing this, Justin. Maybe if I can share my thoughts with someone I won’t feel so uncomfortable around you. I really hate that your magic makes me jumpy and wishing you were not magical just seems to complicate things.” She started to cry as she said, “I don’t want to push you away like I did a year ago and I’m afraid that if you’re around me too much longer my fears are going to drive you into the magical community so much so that you’ll not want to live here any longer.”

Her confession went straight to my heart. I hadn’t realized that maybe some of my own confusion stemmed from her uncertainties about what to expect from life with me living under her roof all the time. I pulled her into a hug and let her cry it out the way my dad usually did.

“I’m being so silly to cry like this, Justin,” she wailed.

And just like my dad, I told her, “You needed to cry, Mum. You’ve kept it in too long. I promise we’ll find a way to help you.”

And to myself I added, “To help us…”

For Want of an Owl...

2007-05-08T20:26:08Z

Half-way to Diagon Alley I hit myself in the forehead. What was I thinking just taking off like this? I’m dressed completely in Muggle clothes: a pair of cut-off jeans, a faded old Grateful Dead t-shirt that used to belong to Bruce and a pair of flip-flops that could fall apart any minute. I truly look worse than something the cat dragged in and just as bad as Harry Potter used to when he boarded the Hogwarts Express after his summers with his guardians! Besides that, I’m DRIVING my dad’s car!

To make my situation even worse, if I ever find a place to park I’m first going to have to locate an ATM machine to get some money to pay for the owl. Then I’ll have to stop at Gringotts to exchange my pounds sterling for galleons. Looking like I do the goblins will throw me out of their bank for sure!

I continue driving—and cursing my stupidity—toward London only because I’m in the fast lane and can’t find a place on my side of the freeway to get off yet. How dumb can I possibly be? Eventually, I dive between two cars and take the nearest off-ramp, just barely glancing at the signage so that I can look up where I am on my map. Finally, I park the Mini on the side of the road and let the despair I’ve been fighting for the last few minutes overtake me. As I do so, I remember what it was like the night I first felt this way.

…Uncle Kenneth’s house the night before my first day at UC Davis…

“Hey, Justin,” Bruce calls, sticking his head into the room I’ve been given, “you ready for tomorrow?”

I look up from the letter I’m writing to Mum and Dad. “I reckon so,” I say listlessly. I’m not in the mood for one of Bruce’s brotherly pep-talks. I’m still feeling very isolated and sad about leaving England and my friends at Hogwarts. I know Bruce means well, but I just can’t stomach an interruption at the moment.

Bruce comes in uninvited and perches on the end of my bed. He idly picks up my wand which I’ve carelessly taken out of my bureau drawer to remind me of what it feels like to be a wizard. “What’s this?” he asks, twirling it between his fingers.

I shrug, trying not to let on that I’m really bothered by his playing with something that’s so much a part of who I am and the object I’m having such a hard time letting go of in order to survive in the Muggle world for an unknown amount of time. “A souvenir,” I tell him as evenly as I can. I hold out my hand for the wand and Bruce hands it over.

“Where’s if from?” he asks.

“There’s a theme park near my old school that my friends and I used to go to,” I say. “I won the wand at one of the concessions.”

Bruce looks interested. “You mean like the Renaissance Faire they have down at the Black Point Cut-off? You know, that festival I was telling you about last week; the one that always runs in the early fall where most people dress up in Elizabethan costumes and walk around listening to music and going to Shakespeare-like skits.”

I nod, wishing he would leave. “Something like that,” I agree, gently tossing my wand into my underwear drawer.

Bruce gets up and comes over to my desk and fiddles with the laptop computer I’ve borrowed from him while I’m living here. He pokes a few buttons and something he calls the “internet” springs to life on the screen. “Let’s look it up,” he suggests. “What’s it called?”

I panic and finally sputter, “Hogsmeade, but it closed two years ago.”

He gives me an odd look when I say this, but when he’s got a bee in his bonnet, Bruce is as unstoppable as a hound dog on the scent of a fox. “Let’s give it a try anyway,” he says. “You never know what you’ll find that hasn’t been taken off the web.” He types in a word that looks similar to the real spelling, but not quite, and a few seconds later shakes his head as the page tells him there’s no such thing as “hogs meed” and is he certain he spelled the term correctly. He tries several other variations with little success and finally gives up.

“Bummer,” he mutters, disconnecting from the internet. “It would have been fun to compare the two fairs if yours had come up. I wonder which one is the most authentic?” He gets up to leave, pausing at the door. “Oh, Justin, are you OK with riding to class alone tomorrow? Do you need me to go over where to park your bike again?”

I shake my head and turn back to my letter. “I’ll be all right,” I say dismissively. “Thanks for the offer, though.”

Bruce shrugs. “Suit yourself,” he says as he closes the door behind him, finally leaving me alone.

Restless, I retrieve my wand from my underwear drawer and then open my closet to get out my suitcase which I put on the bed. I stand still, gripping my wand tightly in both hands until golden sparks shoot from its tip, and gazing from it to the suitcase and back again. It’s time…I must let go…tomorrow I’ll truly be a Muggle…

You can do this, Justin, I tell myself.

Slowly, I open the suitcase and place my wand in one of the pockets. With a heavy heart I replace the suitcase in the closet and shut the door. I’ve finally done it. I’m no longer a wizard…I’m a Muggle…

I sit in the Mini on the side of the road as the memory fades. That was the hardest night of my life—even more difficult than the night my parents told me they weren’t letting me go back to Hogwarts—and I’ve really never shaken off the depression that followed. I thought I’d learned to cope with it, but even now, two months after I’ve come back to England, I have no control over the suddenly crippling bouts of sadness.

I lay my head back on the headrest and close my eyes. The shrink-in-training had told me to breathe deeply and try to find a recent happy memory to concentrate on when I felt sad. I do this now, searching my recent past for something to focus on. But there is nothing. Sighing, I reach for my map to find my location and my hand brushes the smooth wood of my wand which I’ve carelessly tossed onto the passenger seat so that it wouldn’t crack when I sat down in the driver’s seat. The hawthorn wood feels smooth under my fingers and even with this slight contact I feel its magic surge up my arm.

The thought comes to me almost like a bolt of lightening: I’m a WIZARD! I can change things! I don’t have to look like something the cat dragged in!

I grin hugely as I quickly transfigure my clothes into something much more respectable for where I’m going and what I need to do today. Then, just for good measure, I try conjuring a simple black robe that I can carry with me into the Muggle bank and then into the Leaky Cauldron for my trip into Gringotts. I’m not as successful as I would like to be with what I’ve conjured, but it will do. Now that I’ve remembered I’m a wizard and not stupid or helpless at all, I’m feeling decidedly better about my impulsive trip to Diagon Alley.

Quickly, I put the car in gear and finish my drive into London where I find a place to park in an expensive, but convenient parking garage. The ATM machine spits out the required number of pound notes I tell it to and before I know it, I’ve exchanged those for a pocketful of very heavy gold galleons at Gringotts.

I stride purposefully passed Susan’s studio toward Eyelops Owl Emporium and step into the semi-darkness of the owl shop. The birds are restless, moving about on their perches as if they each want me to choose them. The number of species here in one place is astounding and it takes me a moment to discover how the proprietor has organized all the owls. It seems that, like the post office, they are arranged by the distance they can fly. I choose the medium-distance section and focus my attention on these birds which are mostly barn owls.

A loudly rasping screech gets my attention as on of the owls suddenly hops off its perch and dives directly at me. Instinctively, I hold up my arms to shield my face and the bird lands neatly on my forearm. The owl is beautiful and quite differently colored than a normal barn owl: the upper feathers are grayish-brown with black and white spots, the under parts a lighter shade of brownish-buff. It’s the bird’s facial disk that fascinates me; instead of the white-encircled eyes of a normal barn owl, the rim of the face is brown with darker speckles and stands out in contrast to the light brown feathers surrounding the almond-shaped black eyes. The bird’s beak is small and cream-colored. All in all, the owl is quite striking and I’m drawn to it by its melancholy demeanor.

“Well, I’ll be!” exclaims the proprietor as I lower my arm. “Don’t that beat all!”

Puzzled, I ask, “What do you mean?”

“Well, young man, the last few months have been right strange. Since January I’ve had a spate of owls that insist on choosing their own owners! You’re the fifth person to come in here who has been chosen by the owl instead of the other way round,” he explains. He points to the owl sitting on my arm. “That one there has been particularly hard to place. It’s chosen four different families and has been brought back every time due to lack of compatibility. There’s something about that owl that’s just really sad. It’s almost as if it’s pining for something.”

My curiosity is peaked now. I stroke the bird’s chest and it leans into my hand, nipping gently at my fingers. “Does this owl have a history?” I ask. Something tells me, perhaps it’s the bird’s own magic, that there’s more to this bird than meets the eye.

“Yes, sir,” the man says. “That owl came to us from a family that moved here from Australia. This here’s a Tasmanian Masked Owl, a very rare bird here in the UK, indeed. Apparently, the family had two of the same species and one died. This one, the male, became very sad and refused to take the mail, so the family brought the bird here thinking I would trade. Of course I did; no post owl should ever lack for good treatment or attention and that’s just what this one needed.”

“But why did the other four families bring him back?” I wonder.

“They all had other owls and this one seems to want to belong to someone exclusively,” the man explains. He looks at me shrewdly. “You don’t have any other owls, do you?”

“No, sir,” I say. “I’m Muggleborn and I’m here to purchase my first owl.”

The owner grins. “Young man, I think you and Bettelheim will get along splendidly. Bring him here and I’ll see that you get everything you two need.”

I stare at the beautiful owl with the really weird name. “Bettelheim?”

“Yeah, he’s named after some famous Muggle of all things!”

Fifteen minutes later, I step out of the shop carrying Bettelheim’s large cage and a box of owl supplies. I’m extremely curious about who my owl is named after, but since I need to bail out the Mini and get us home I won’t have time to search Flourish and Blotts for clues.

I get us home without incident and park the Mini in its place in the car park next to the garage. Mum comes out to greet me and gives a shriek of surprise when I hand her Bettelheim’s cage.

“Is this what you went to Diagon Alley for?” she enquires skeptically, eying the bird within suspiciously. I hope she will eventually warm up to my owl.

“Yes, this is Bettelheim, my post owl,” I tell her. “I’ll be keeping him in my room so he won’t bother you after he gets used to our house.”

Mum hands the cage back and we go into the house where, ignoring my mother’s protests, I let Bettelheim loose and he circles through each room before coming back to perch on my shoulder.

“Mum, have you heard of someone named Bettelheim? The owner of Eyelops said the original owner named Bettelheim after someone famous,” I say trying to get her interested in my new bird.

She busies herself with her dinner preparations, staying as far away from me and my owl as she can. “Yes, I’ve heard of a Bettelheim. Bruno Bettelheim, in fact, was a famous American psychologist who died about ten years ago,” she says. She looks up and continues, “I never understood why he championed the things he did and don’t understand why so many people loved his theories so. Is there another name we could use for your post owl?”

I’m taken aback by her request, but am willing to entertain any suggestions she might have. After all, if Bettelheim is to be part of my family, we all need to agree on and like the name, especial the bird.

“I’m going upstairs to settle Bettelheim in,” I tell Mum. “Will you call me when dinner is ready, please?”

“Sure thing, dear. Will Bettelheim want something to eat?”

“No, I think not. I’ll let him out to hunt as soon as it gets dark.”

“All right, Justin. But if that bird brings any vermin into this house it’ll be your responsibility to get rid of it. Understood?”

“Yes, Mum.” I gather up the supplies I purchased at Eyelops and together Bettelheim and I go upstairs to my room.

Too Much to Think About

2007-05-07T15:12:24Z

I’m all sixes and sevens. I’ve been home for over two months now and all I do is sit around all day watching TV…and you know what…I’m bored! I need to get on with my life but I just don’t know how to go about it. I mean, I absolutely don’t know what I want to do with myself for the rest of my life. I seem to be caught in a no-man’s-land between my two worlds: do I give up all that I learned at Hogwarts and become a Muggle, do I completely give up the Muggle way of life and seek work in the Wizarding world or can I find a happy medium between the two worlds?

My parents are leaning toward my turning Muggle. After all, they did ship me off to America to live with my Muggle relatives for a year. And now they’ve started hinting to me that I either get off my butt and seek employment and/or apply to a Muggle university or I’m out on my own. They’ve even gone so far as to put the telephone directory (open to the restaurant section with a sticky note in my mom's writing that says, "apply here" and a stack of applications to the various universities on my desk with a sticky note with a similar sentiment. I think I’m beginning to get the hint.

Tossing the TV remote down on the coffee table, I wander into the kitchen to grab a soda. I pop the top and stand looking out the window over the sink toward my mum’s clothes line and my attention is caught by the quick movements of two adult wrens.

They’re calling to each other from the opposite ends of our clothes line. All of a sudden, one of them dives directly for my dad’s barbecue and disappears under the cover. It reappears a minute or so later with a white sack in its beak which it promptly drops over the neighbor’s fence. It takes off again, flying deep into the wooded area that surrounds our other neighbor’s house. In the meantime, the other adult has hopped up on one of the garden chairs and is singing up a storm. I open the window to listen and hear the tiny chirpings of some baby birds. I wonder what they look like?

I take one last sip of my soda and quietly open the back door. The patio is silent; the adult bird has heard me and has taken off. It’s sitting in the elm tree closest to the patio and is eying me suspiciously as I gently unfasten the cover of the barbecue and lift it up. A smile breaks out on my face when I see the pile of sticks, plant fibers and green moss. Peering around, I locate the nest opening and crouch down to have a better look. Inside the nest are three tiny birds crammed into the tiny space so tightly that they can hardly move.

I slowly replace the cover and walk back into the house. I’m awed at the sight of such simple beauty; the adults’ song, the new feathers on the babies, the intricacy of the nest itself. The parents have chosen a warm, dry and safe place to raise their family and soon the little ones will be big enough to go out into the world.

This thought makes me think about my parents and what they have done for me. I know they want the best for me, that they thought they were doing what they thought was best when they sent me away. They’re really trying to help me now; they’ve shown me where they think I must apply, now it’s up to me to make the second move.

I go back upstairs to my room and leaf through the stack of university applications. I loved expanding my brain at UC Davis, loved how each class I attended seemed to make me think about how the world had changed, how it was continually changing and what my role might be in the bigger scheme of things. I miss that feeling.

On the other hand, I remember having that same feeling when I was attending NEWT-level Transfiguration and Charms lessons at Hogwarts. I loved changing things, building them magically. Maybe that’s why I chose engineering; maybe that’s why I should choose it again.

I look out my window, still holding the applications. The adult wrens are back and the little ones are chirping loudly in response to their calls. The birds are communicating which leads me to my next thought. Who can I talk to about my next move? Susan? (No way am I going to approach her now that we're 'just friends.') Who else do I know? Oh, yeah...Ernie? (He’s seems so settled and happy with what he’s doing.) Wayne? (Maybe. He's got a job he seems to like.) Then it his me...Hermione Granger! (She’s a Muggleborn like me. Maybe I should write to her to see if she has any ideas—one thing I learned from that shrink-in-training in the Davis Psych Department was that talking things out might not solve a problem immediately, but it did help to organize my thoughts—and even if she doesn’t know exactly what I should do, she just might have some kernel of knowledge stashed away in that know-it-all brain of hers.)

Yeah. I’ll try to talk to them soon. I have to do something with my life and I know I don’t want to spend all my days working at McDonald’s like my parents are suggesting.

Now…all I need is an owl. I pick up the keys to my dad’s ancient Mini-Cooper that’s parked in the driveway and unfold my map of London on my bed. A few minutes later I lock the front door magically and climb into the car. It’s time I started learning my way around London.

What I’ve been doing with myself for the last month…

2007-04-09T13:47:28Z

I’ve been home nearly a month and as I sit in front of the TV idly flipping channels I realize one important thing: I’m a very confused and lonely wizard.

One month ago…

I’m very tired as I step off the Concorde at the Paris airport. I know there’s a proper name for where I am but this was my third flight in thirty-six hours and even though it only took a few hours to cross the Atlantic, I’m suffering dreadfully from jet lag and am more than a bit muddled in the head. Thank goodness…just one more short flight and I’ll be back in London. Momentarily, I consider Apparating (I think I remember how after not doing it for a year), but knowing that my mum and dad are waiting for me at Heathrow keeps me from lapsing back into my wizarding ways.

I’ve missed my parents. They came out to California a couple of times while I was away, but it was very strange to know I was not going with them when they left. Their departure always left me feeling depressed for a few days and Bruce and Uncle Kenneth learned quickly to avoid me when I was like that. Now, in my exhaustion, I’m feeling torn between wanting to be back in America and wanting this last flight over with so I can greet my parents and fall into my own bed.

My flight to London is called and I board the plane with the rest of my fellow passengers. Once my carry-on is stowed, I flop into my seat and immediately close my eyes. I don’t wake up until the passenger next to me elbows me in the ribs to tell me we’ve landed. Shaking myself awake, I gather my bag and trudge through the airport to customs. That over with, I make my way toward baggage claim and my rendezvous with my parents.

“Justin! Over here!” my mum calls as I approach the correct baggage carousel. She gives me a big hug.

My father waits his turn, then offers his hand, pulling me into another, more masculine hug. “Welcome back, son,” he says. “How many bags do you have?”

“Two,” I say sheepishly. “I seem to have accumulated quite a lot of Bruce’s hand-me-overs.”

My mum laughs as my dad grabs my luggage and we head for the car. London looks much the same as it did a year ago, except that the construction on the big Ferris wheel for next year’s millennium celebration is much further along than when I left.

The first thing my mum says to me when we get home is, “You must be exhausted, darling. Dinner won’t be for another few hours, so why don’t you get settled and have a lie-down until I call you?”

I smile at her. “Thanks, Mum. It’s good to be home.”

She smiles back and shoos me up the stairs.

Ernie Macmillan’s latest letter sits on my desk as I walk into my room. I’d talked Ernie through what to do to send a letter via Muggle air mail before I left England and after a few false starts on his end, we managed to keep in touch while I was in America. It was nice to get more than just the letters Mum and Dad sent. His letters kept me apprised of the happenings in the magical world and what had led him to his decision to become a healer. I plop down on my bed wishing something as dramatic as killing a Death Eater would help me decide what to do with the rest of my life. Sighing tiredly, I open the letter. It’s short and to the point—just like all Ernie’s other letters—and contains another envelope.

Hey mate,

Welcome back. Hope you’re not too tired from all the flights.

Did you know Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley got married in January? If not, they did and we’ve been invited to the reception her parents are having next week. Send me an owl if you want to go.

Ernie

I flop back on my bed and close my eyes. I’ll deal with this reception invitation later. I’m asleep in seconds.

Three Weeks Ago…

“I’m leaving for work, Justin,” my mum calls up the stairs. I flip off the TV (I know, here it’s ‘telly,’ but Bruce teased me about that word until I finally stopped using it) and get off my bed.

“See ya, Mum,” I call back. There’s the sound of her car starting and I go to the front window to watch her leave.

I’m bored again and begin wandering around the house. The TV has no interest to me at the moment; I’m feeling restless and need something to do. Wandering into the bathroom, I notice the laundry hamper is full and chuckle as I remember Uncle Kenneth’s rule: when the hamper is full don’t ignore it, wash the clothes! It was a good rule, especially with three men living in the house, and I decide to follow it. Three hours later, there are five stacks of neatly folded laundry sitting on the dining table ready to go upstairs, the lounge is picked up and I’ve started a stew for dinner (the only thing besides spaghetti and meatballs I know how to cook without a recipe). When Mum comes home from work she has very little to do and the three of us have a pleasant evening playing the Canadian version of “Trivial Pursuit.”

Two Weeks Ago…

“How was the reception?” my mum asks as I walk in the door.

I take off my coat and tie and lay them over the back of a chair. The top button of my shirt is the next to go. My father chuckles at me when I mutter, “Bloody neck tourniquet.”

I grab a soda from the ‘fridge and flop down on the couch. “Not bad. The food was good,” I say non-committally. My mother rolls her eyes: I’m sure that if I were a girl I’d have launched into a blow by blow description of what everyone wore, who attended with whom and all that nonsense. I’m sure that would have made her more than happy.

I tell them a little about seeing everyone and then wander up to my room where I flop down on my bed and turn on the TV. I pay little or no attention to it though; it’s just background noise for my thoughts.

The truth is I’m more than a little unsettled. The day has made me realize just how much magic I’ve forgotten in the last twelve months. I felt so dumb relying on Ernie to Side-Along-Apparate me to the reception because I’d forgotten how. I’d even left my wand at home and when I accidentally knocked my champagne over Megan was the one to Vanish the mess and dry my pants. How embarrassing!

However, seeing Susan was what left me almost completely speechless and very low for most of the reception. When she went into hiding after sixth year I thought she didn’t like me any more and let my hurt feelings rule my thinking. I know I promised to write to her faithfully, but my wounded pride kept me from doing so and before I knew it, I’d left Hogwarts and the UK for I didn’t know how long and it was too late to say, “I’m sorry.”

She’s changed a great deal since I last saw her. She’s confident, happy and clearly likes what she’s doing with her life. I watched her a lot this afternoon from my place at our table in the corner. I need to talk to her, to explain what happened. I just don’t know how at the moment.