The Hunter household was thick with the scent of vanilla frosting and the nervous energy of a five-year-old's milestone. It was Timothy's fifth birthday, and the dining room was a sanctuary of domestic bliss. Tim sat perched on a booster seat, his eyes reflecting the dancing flames of five candles atop a triple-layered chocolate cake. His parents, William and Mary, stood on either side, their smiles wide and genuine.
"Go on, Timmy. Make it a good one," William urged, resting a hand on his son's shoulder.
Tim took a deep breath, his cheeks puffing out. As he exhaled, the candles flickered out, but the air didn't stop moving. A sudden, violent gust erupted from the center of the table—not a draft, but a focused, swirling vortex of air. Napkins spiraled like frantic birds, the heavy curtains snapped against the window frames, and the cake itself seemed to shudder under the invisible pressure.
The room plunged into a stunned silence. William blinked, his hand still gripping Tim's shoulder as he stared at the now-disheveled table.
"Well," William cleared his throat, the sound tight and uncomfortable. "That... that was quite a draft. Must be the weather front the news mentioned. Old houses and pressure seals, you know?" He let out a dry, nervous chuckle, looking to Mary for confirmation.
Mary nodded quickly, though her eyes were wide. "Yes. Precisely. Just the wind."
The tension broke when Tim, oblivious to the impossibility of the event, sliced into the cake. He handed the first piece to his mother. Mary took a small, polite bite, but her expression shifted instantly from a smile to a mask of sudden distress. She gasped, clapped a hand over her mouth, and bolted toward the hallway bathroom.
"Mary?" William called out, his face pale as he and Tim scrambled after her.
A few moments of muffled sounds later, the door creaked open. Mary emerged, wiping her face with a damp towel. She looked tired, but there was a radiant, disbelieving light in her eyes. "I'm alright," she whispered, her voice trembling with a different kind of shock. She looked down at Tim and then at her husband. "I think we're going to need to start looking at larger cars. I'm pregnant".
The birthday surprise was overshadowed by the miracle of new life. As Mary placed a hand over her stomach, Tim felt a surge of protectiveness he couldn't quite explain. He was five years old, and he was going to be a big brother.
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July 24, 1991
Six years had transformed the Hunter home. The arrival of Molly Hunter had turned the house into a whirlwind of toddler toys and laughter. Tim, now eleven, was her shadow and her hero. He was a quiet, observant boy, far more serious than his peers. This seriousness was born of necessity.
Over the years, the "drafts" had returned, evolving into something more controlled. It started with a glass of water sliding across the table to meet his hand when he was thirsty. Then, a heavy textbook from the top shelf had floated down to him as if carried by an invisible bird.
Tim wasn't a fool; he knew this wasn't normal. While his parents tried to ignore the oddities with practiced denial, Tim began a regime of self-discipline. He took up meditation to quiet the hum in his blood and begged for martial arts and self-defense classes. If he was a freak, he would be a prepared one. He practiced his forms in the garden, wondering if there were others who could move things with their minds—and if they were friendly.
The morning of his eleventh birthday was mundane. William was buried behind the Daily Mail, Mary was navigating the sizzling chaos of bacon and eggs, and Tim was on the floor, patiently helping Molly stack colorful blocks.
The knock at the door was sharp, rhythmic, and carried an undeniable authority.
William frowned, glancing at the wall clock. "A bit early for deliveries, isn't it?" He stood up, smoothing his shirt, and walked to the foyer.
When he opened the door, he didn't find a postman. Standing on the porch was a woman who looked like a portrait from an era that didn't exist. She was tall and severely elegant, wearing robes of a deep, emerald green that seemed to absorb the morning sunlight. Her graying hair was pulled into a bun so tight it looked painful, and a pointed hat sat atop her head with unwavering dignity. Square spectacles sat on the bridge of a sharp nose.
"Good morning," she said, her voice a crisp Scottish lilt. "Am I speaking with Mr. William Hunter?"
William stared. He looked at the emerald robes, then at the hat, then back to her face. "I... yes. Can I help you? Are you lost? The theater troupe is usually downtown."
The woman's expression didn't flicker. "I am not lost, Mr. Hunter. My name is Professor Minerva McGonagall. I am the Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry".
Mary appeared in the doorway, a spatula still in hand, while Tim peered from behind his father's legs.
"I'm sorry, what was that?" William asked, a skeptical edge creeping into his voice. "Witchcraft? Is this a joke? Because if this is some sort of elaborate marketing stunt for a theme park—"
"I assure you, Mr. Hunter, it is no joke," McGonagall interrupted. Her eyes softened as they landed on Tim. "May I come in? This is a conversation best kept away from the eyes of your neighbors."
William looked at Mary, who shrugged helplessly, then back at the woman. Her presence was so commanding, so utterly grounded despite her ridiculous attire, that he found himself stepping aside.
They gathered in the living room. McGonagall sat on the edge of the armchair, her back perfectly straight. She produced a thick, parchment envelope from her sleeve and held it out to Tim. It was addressed in emerald green ink: Mr. T. Hunter, The Living Room Floor, 12 Surrey Lane.
"You've been watching us?" Mary asked, her voice rising in alarm. "How do you know where he sits?"
"The school has its ways of tracking magical signatures, Mrs. Hunter," McGonagall explained calmly.
"Magic," William repeated the word like it was a foul taste. "Look, Professor... whatever your name is. My son is a normal boy. He goes to school, he does karate, he helps his sister. We don't believe in... magic."
McGonagall looked at Tim, a small, knowing smile touching her lips. "Is that so, Mr. Hunter? Have you never noticed things? Things that don't quite fit the 'normal' world? A glass that moves on its own? A door that unlocks itself?"
The silence that followed was heavy. William looked at Mary, who looked at the floor. Tim gripped the envelope, his heart hammering.
"Even if... and that's a big 'if'..." William started, his skepticism still shielding him. "Why would he go to a school for it? It sounds like a cult."
"It is a school of education, Mr. Hunter," McGonagall replied firmly. "Where Timothy will learn to control the power he already possesses. Without training, that power can become... volatile. Especially as he enters his teenage years."
"I don't believe it," William said, crossing his arms. "I think you're a very convincing actress, but I'd like you to leave now."
McGonagall didn't move. Instead, she drew a thin wooden wand from her robes. With a casual flick, she pointed it at the half-finished block tower on the floor. In an instant, the plastic blocks didn't just fall; they transformed into a flock of small, chirping sparrows that circled the room before settling back down as a perfectly reconstructed tower.
William's jaw dropped. Mary let out a small shriek. Molly clapped her hands in delight.
Tim looked from the blocks to McGonagall. For the first time, the world made sense. "It's real," he breathed.
"Very real, Mr. Hunter," McGonagall said, her gaze turning to William, whose skepticism had finally been shattered by the impossible. "And your son is a part of it".