American at Hogwarts

[Hagrid442]

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Chapter 1- The Letter

Stephen Boyd Hathoway III finally finished unpacking his luggage, upon returning from Etherton's Primary School for Young Men. It was good to be home again, even if this hadn't been home for very long. Indeed, the amount of time he had spent in England was mostly at Etherton's during school season. This villa on the rural outskirts of Kent was still unfamiliar to him. Steve's pa, Stephen Boyd Hathoway II, had moved the family here to be closer to his business. The elder Hathoway owned oil platforms in the North Sea off the Orkney Islands, as well as derricks back home in Texas.

Steve took a tour of the mansion, re-learning his way around. It wasn't a huge place, but a wrong turn could get oneself somewhat lost. However, he just followed his nose. The smells of T-bones and potatoes cooking wafted down this particular hallway most pleasingly. The cook was a native, but a quick study of Texas barbecue. A pleasant voice sounded to his right.

"Good afternoon, Master Hathoway," Molly, the vivacious, lively housekeeper smiled. "Supper will be in an hour."

"Thanks ya'll, Miss McKinney. I just wanted ta smell some cookin' I really missed. No offense ta Etherton's, but their big dishes and fixin's waren't nuthin' like they do in Texas!"

"Don't you worry, Master Stephen. Your father had this meal prepared especially for you," she shook her head in amusement. Steve liked Molly. She was quite nice, and knew her place. She turned away, but immediately turned about. "Oh, I forgot, luv. You got a letter. Funny, it came today, separate from the rest of the mail." She took an envelope out of her apron pocket and handed it to him.

"Wha' the?" he looked at it in bewilderment. The paper was rough-hewn and yellowed, and instead of it being closed by glue, it was sealed shut with wax. The wax imprint was fairly ornate, an outline of a castle dominating the foreground. Underneath was the clear text that read "Hogwarts". He turned it over, saw it was addressed to him, but had no return address or stamp. "Where did this come from?"

"I have no idea. Not from the post, I know that for sure. If you'll excuse me, dear, I must go," and she strode away to do whatever work she had to do. Steve mulled over the strange letter. Molly was right, it could never have come from any mailman. Before opening it, he wanted to show it to his pa. He'd know what to make of it. He had to ask one of the cook's assistants where his father's study was, and shown the way, he walked somewhat tentatively towards the open door. His father was almost always busy, and didn't suffer needless interruptions easily.

Steve knocked on the door. "Ummm... pa?" he stammered.

"Steve-o! Come raht in, boy! Ah've missed ya! Glad to be home?" his father's jovial side was out in full force, much to Steve's pleasure.

"Yeah. Etherton's is nice an' all, but it's good to be back. Ummm, pa? I got somethin' strange. Molly gave me this lettah, and...."

"Could Ah see it?" Steve handed him the letter. "Wha' in the...?! How was this delivered with no stamp or return address? What is this... Hogwarts? Are they dealin' in Hogs? Heh heh heh!" He broke the seal, took out the letter, and smoothed it out over the table. It was handwritten on stationery that bore the same insignia as the wax seal. His eyes scanned the page, and his smile degenerated into a look of confusion, and finally anger. "Is this some sort of sick joke?"

"What is it, pa?" Stephen the younger was surprised at his father's quick change.

"Read it for yerself," his father thrust it at Steve.

HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY
Headmaster: ALBUS DUMBLEDORE
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump,

International Confed. of Wizards)


Dear Mr. Hathoway,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.
Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31.

Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress

Steve checked the envelope and there was another, smaller slip of paper. On it, it had a list of books that he never heard of, and items that had to be, like his pa said, a joke.

"They want me to get an owl? A wand? Wha' in the world is this?" Steve exclaimed increduously.

"Someone's ahdee-ah of a very unfunny and elaborate joke," his pa fumed. "Ah gets mah share of wackos sending me this kinda bull, but Ah draw the lahn when mah boy is involved!" He took the letter, supplies list, and envelope, put them in the paper shredder.

A knock on the door brought their attention to Molly at the door. "Sirs, dinner is served."

"Ahh, good. Let's git ourselfs some of that grub. Take our mahnds off this lame-brained lettah," his father said laying a hand on his shoulder.

Steve agreed whole-heartedly. Steak and other fixin's were on his mind now. The letter would be forgotten by tomorrow. It would have been, too, if the first letter wasn't just the beginning.

[Hagrid442]

Chapter 2- A Beginning

Steve's hand slammed down on the source of incessant buzzing. The poor alarm clock shut up as its button was pushed, 9:02 staring forlornly at its abuser. Steve yawned, rubbed his eyes, scratched his sides, and looked at the sunlight outside.

His pa wanted to take him out shootin' today. "Ev'ry good Texan needs to know how to shoot," as he would say. A quick shower, he got dressed in his best outdoor clothes by himself. Even surrounded by servants, his father never wanted things that could be done by himself, done by others such as dressing. One couldn't learn to be independent if everyone else did everything for them.

"Good morning, Master Hathoway," Molly McKinney piped cheerfully in her musical Irish accent. "My, you do look like quite the hunter! Quite dashing!"

Steve grinned. "Why, thank ya'll very much. But we're not huntin'. Just gonna shoot some target discs, or whatevah ya'll call 'em."

"Steve, honey. Please be careful? Shootin' a rahfle ain't no laughin' matter," his mother Anne fussed.

"Don'tcha worry none, mama. I know how to shoot this thing real good," he kissed his mama on the cheek.

Steve hitched his rifle to his shoulder and strode outside. James Peeves, the groundskeeper was out with Steven Boyd Hathoway II, firing wooden discs into the air. The elder Hathoway calmly aimed and fired, and a split second later the disc disintegated into splinters.

"Stevie! Ready for some shootin'?" his father beamed across his round, ruddy face. Surprisingly, he wasn't wearing his hat, exposing his thin, lank sandy-colored hair to the air. Steve tended toward his mother's hair, dark, but had the same round face as his pa. There were hints that he would also grow up to be as barrel-chested as the elder Hathoway.

"Yeah, s'pose so. Ah maht be a bit rusty, though."

"Dat's what practice is fo'! Peeves. Fire!" Peeves pulled the lever and the disc was sent flying in the air. Steve braced the rifle against his shoulder and looked down the barrel, following the trajectory of the disc. Just as he had the measure of the disc's movement, he squeezed the trigger. Much to his dismay, the disc's momentum was not changed, and it sailed into the nearby woods.

"Dang it all!" Steve cursed.

"It's only one shot, son. Don'cha worry none. Just keep the rahfle steady after ya squeeze the triggah. Ya'll had that son of a gun knockin' ya for a loop!"

Steve nodded knowingly. Having not shot a rifle in a while, the kickback surprised him. All he had to do was adjust.

Another disc was shot into the air, and again Steve followed it, anticipating. When he had his moment, he shot. Time hang still for a moment as the shot reverberated through the air. His head was an echo chamber when the disc dissipated from a direct hit.

"Yeah!" Steve whooped.

"Good job, son," smiled the elder Hathoway.

They alternated from there, his pa always hitting the target, Steve hitting it about three out of four times. They talked about his time at Etherton's.

"Etherton's a good school, pa. Their lessons are important and clear. I studied real hard."

"Ah know! Shoot, Ah was real proud of your report cards! High marks 'cross the board. But, son..." BANG! "How was ya'll git'n 'long with your fellow students?"

Steve hesistated. It was difficult for him as an outsider to get along with the other boys. Not all of them were snobs, or something, but it was hard relating to them. "I got 'long as good as I could. But more often than not, I just stayed to
myself and my studies." He shot a disc from the sky.

"Stevie, dat ain't no good! Bein' smart an' ambitious are important to success in mah business. But ya'll also have to know how to make friends."

"I know, pa." It was easy for his dad. He had a very dynamic personality, outgoing, friendly, with a famous Texas temper.

Steve wasn't so sure of himself as his dad.

"Well, will you imagine dat?" his father pointed. "That there bird is gettin' close to the house." Steve couldn't tell what sort of bird it was, but it looked like it was carrying something. It swooped out of sight for a few seconds, until reappearing at the other end of the villa. Its talons were now empty. Quickly, the large, grey bird winged itself high into the air and disappeared over the horizon.

Upon finishing shooting practice, both Hathoway males and Peeves returned to the house. Molly went to meet them, a letter in her hand. "Master Hathoway. You have another letter from that 'Hogwarts' School."

His father snatched it out of her hand. "Whah, don't dey have some gall?" he was practically steaming. Steve had to agree. Once was enough, but twice? Who were these sick people? "Here's what Ah think of their god dang lettah!" He tossed it a few feet, aimed his rifle, and let loose a shot. It flew into the air, fluttering, and all Steve could think of was how he was being harrassed by psychos that wrote from a school of "wizardry and witchcraft". Anger flushed through his face, and burned deep inside his head. He thought he saw a flash, but couldn't be sure, but this anger took a life of its own or so it seemed.

"What in the...?" his father exclaimed. "That spade just flew outta nowhere to spear that lettah!" Indeed it must have, since the point of a spade dug deep in the earth through the letter. Its handle was still quivering.

"Oh my," stammered a stunned Molly.

Peeves looked at the spade, now absent from his belt, pinning the letter with eyes wide open in astonishment. Under his breath, Steve thought he heard "It can't be. A wizard?"

It was then that Steve realized that maybe the letter senders weren't whinos after all.

[Hagrid442]

Chapter 3- Realizations

The letters did not stop coming. They were persistent. It wasn't quite daily, but still enough for Steve's father to be in a foul temper. Even his mother, as sedate as she was, was hoppin' mad. It was a couple weeks after the first letter by now.

"Call the poh-lice already, Stephen! What if they mean to kidnap our boy?" Anne Hathoway charged.

"Not under my watch!" he had hired a couple of bodyguards, former FBI agents that he knew from back home. Roberts and Stoyanovich were big enough to be defensive linemen on some football teams. "Ah'm trah-in' mah best to hunt down these crazy sonsuvaguns, but nobody knows nuthin'!"

"Pa... I don't think..." Steve started to say.

"They're dangerous!" his father interrupted, "Ah don't mahnd a good joke, but this has gone on fo' too long! Yessiree!"

Steve had been talking to Peeves, and apparently Hogwarts did exist. Wizards and witches also existed. Steve had to protect Peeves from his father, because he suspected that "the help's puttin' some lame-brained ah-dears in dat boy's head!" The servants were much disspirited, and complained bitterly that they were working under a tyrant. A pompous, arrogant American at that! Even the cheerful Molly McKinney was short of temper. Still, he resisted telling his father what Peeves told him.

"Shoot. Yes, dat's raht. Shootin's a good way... so much pressure..." his father babbled uncharacteristically. The strain of running his business and protecting him from a non-existent threat was apparent. Thing was, Steve had no idea what to think of this school. It seemed too weird for him. Magic! Were there unicorns too? Dragons? None of that stuff was for real. Maybe Peeves really was leading him false. However, something about Peeves just screamed truth. Peeves was too earnest a feller to make stuff up. Plus there was that time where the spade speared the letter.

"Well? Ya comin' with me, Steve-o?" his father already had his rifle over his shoulder.

"Shore."

Few minutes later, he met his father outside. Peeves and Stoyanovich were with him, the bodyguard standing stiff as a board. His eyes missed nothing, even if they were blocked from view with dark sunglasses.

Stephen B. Hathoway Jr. was shooting discs out of the sky almost as soon as they were ejected. Bang! Three seconds. Bang! Another three seconds. For another half minute, his dad shot without abandon until the entire magazine was empty. Steve wasn't too anxious to do target practice, but he did so anyway, hoping against hope that maybe he'd be able to make a clearer decision on what to do with these witches and wizards. His accuracy got some praise from his father, and for the first time in a while, Steve felt relaxed in the presence of his father.

"What in the ding-dong-danged?! Oh, no ya'll don't!" Steve was startled to see his dad aim his rifle and shoot it. A split second later, he saw the target fall from the sky. It was a brown owl. "If ah have to shoot all the owls in dis here country, Ah will, so help me God!"

Needless to say, all desire to continue shooting practice vanished. Plus the owls didn't stop coming. Two showed up the next day. The first from Hogwart's perched on his bedroom windowsill. Steve hid it from molestation. The other was from Aeneas Killian's Owl Delivery Service.

Mister S.B. Hathoway II,

This is in regards to your ruthless slaughter of one of my most prized delivery owls, Pinkerton. I request immediate compensation of 30 galleons. We have converted it into Muggle money for your convenience and have found it to be £80.

Regards,
Aeneas Killian
Postmaster, Aeneas Killian's Owl Delivery

The effect of this letter was, for lack of a better term, explosive. It wasn't until the day after that his father had a change of heart.