A sweet summer morning: the smell of wildflowers, the sound of birds singing, bright sunlight shining through the window and onto the edge of the bed, the smell of fresh baked bread drifting from the bakery down the road, the sound of young children running around and laughing, the feeling of safety from the warm blankets. Mornings like this could almost make Peter forget about the reality of waking up. Almost.

He opened his eyes and just sat for a moment, wanting to take in the last bit of peace before he headed downstairs. His room was rather small--well to be fair, his entire house was smaller than most in the neighborhood. When looking in from the door, you could see everything in his room, hardly needing to move your head. His bed was in the middle of the left wall, with a nightstand beside it, and his toy trunk on the other side. He had hardly played with any toys since the age of 6, but besides his dresser on the wall opposite his bed, it was his only form of storage in his room. There was a little round rug just past the end of his bed and a small window in the middle of the back wall, with a window seat that he would always use as his escape to the world of his imagination.

Peter finally got up and changed his clothes, before heading down to find something to eat. He assumed that his father was still asleep because he couldn't hear any arguing, but as he walked down the steps, he instantly saw that he was wrong. There was his father, siting at the table, reading the paper, as if nothing was ever wrong. And his mother was behind him, cooking what smelled like bacon at the stove. Maybe today would be a good day.

"Morning Father. Morning Mum," Peter said as he reached the last step. 

"Good morning dear, would you like some food?" his mother asked.

"Oh, yes please, thanks mum!" he replied.

"Got any plans today, boy?" his father asked, not looking up from the paper.

"No, sir. Are there any errands you'd like me to run for you?" Peter asked in return.

"As a matter of fact, there is, boy. I need you do run down to the corner and get me another pack o' Watneys." his father replied as he shoved another piece of bacon in his mouth.

"Again? Alrigh' Pops, I'll head off after I eat." Peter said, sitting down across from his father.

" 'Ay. Don't get smart with me, boy. You'll do what you're told." 

"Yes sir. Sorry sir." Peter quickly replied, looking down nervously. 

"Good. Best be off then." His father said. Peter nodded, shoved as much food in his mouth as he could, grabbed two dollars from beside his father's arm on the table, and ran out the door. 

His shiny blond hair blew into his face as he stepped outside into the chilly February breeze. 'Well... that could have gone worse.' Peter thought to himself as he strolled down the street. The corner shop was only a few blocks away, but any time out of the house was well appreciated, so Peter took his time. 

When he reached the steps of the store, he opened the door, and a little bell rang out. A man who appeared to be in his mid 30's stepped into view and waved at the boy. 

"Hello Peter, what brings you around this morning?" The man asked. He had light brown, curly hair, and a kind smile.

"Pops needs another pack." Peter said, pulling the two dollars out of his pocket. 

"Already? I could have sworn he sent you down just the other day for a pack." The shop owner replied, grabbing a pack of Watneys Red Barrel beer from behind the counter.

"He sure did, sir. Been going through them real fast, he has. But I know better than to tell 'im so." he answered.

"Ah that you do, Peter boy. You're a smart kid. Well here ya go, say hi to the old man for me." The shopkeeper said, just as his wife walked into the store from the backroom.

"Oh Peter! When did you get here?" She said to the boy.

"Just a few minutes ago ma'am. How has the baby been?" Peter asked, now directing his attention to the brunette woman in front of him.

"Oh, she's just lovely. Been sleeping all morning. Say, isn't it your birthday today, Peter?" The woman smiled the same kind smile as the man beside her.

"Yes ma'am, it is." Peter responded with a look of surprise. Even his own parents didn't say anything about his birthday that morning.

"Now why didn't you say so boy? Darling, could you get Peter here a Mars?" The man asked his wife.

"Of course, dear. Here you go Peter." She said as she got a Mars Bar off of one of the shelves next to her and handed it to him.

"Thank you, ma'am, but I don't got enough to pay." Peter replied regretfully. The candy bar did look really good.

"Oh no need to pay boy. It's your birthday, might as well have somethin' good happen to ya." The owner said with a bright smile.

"Wow, thank you so much! Bye Mr. and Mrs. O'Dell!" Peter exclaimed as he left the shop to head back home.

"Bye Peter." The couple said together, waving to the energetic young boy.

***

When he arrived back home, Peter quickly put the beer on the table, yelled to his father that he did so, and then scurried off to his room. He had only had enough time to finally sit back down on his bed before-

"Peter, dear, could you come down for a minute?" his mother yelled.

"Coming Mum!" he yelled back.

When he got down to the base of the stairs his mother stepped out of the kitchen and came over to him. He could see some sort of paper in her hands, and she was still wearing her light pink apron, with her dirty blonde hair in a messy ponytail. She was still fairly young, especially as a mother, but he could see all of the prominent wrinkles on her face and the gray hairs on her head.

"Happy Birthday, dear." she said in a sad, yet sweet and motherly, tone. "I made you a cake last night. I figured we could dig into it later, after your father leaves for the bar. You know how he gets in times like these. No sense in letting him ruin another birthday. Especially not one that is so special." she finished with a mysterious twinkle in her eye and a genuine smile on her face.

"What d'ya mean, Mum? I'm only turning 11. How's that special?" Peter responded, now very curious as to what his mother meant.

"Honey, do you remember those stories I used to tell you before bed? The ones about magic and witches and wizards. And about the magic school?" she asked.

"Yes, those stories were the best ones, but what do those have to do with my birthday?" Peter answered.

His mother looked down at the paper in her hands, and then with a sigh she handed it to him. Upon taking it, he realized that it wasn't just a paper, but an envelope. A letter. To him. He had never gotten a letter before.

"This is why, Pete. Go on, open it." She told him with a kind smile.

He looked back down at the letter. On the front of the envelope it said:

Mr. P. Pettigrew,

The Upstairs Bedroom,

21 Ivory Lane,

Inbury,

Tyne

Upstairs Bedroom...? Who sent this letter? Those, among others, were the thoughts running through Peter's head. He slowly flipped the envelope over in his hands and rubbed his thumb over the red seal on the back. It was real wax, with a fancy imprint. Whoever sent the letter must be very important. But if they are, why send it to him?

With an encouraging look from his mother, Peter finally tore open the envelope and pulled out two pieces of paper.

The first of the papers was written in a very loopy font, colored a shimmery emerald green. The paper itself even seemed expensive with its cream coloring, and a thickness and weight Peter never knew paper could have. It seemed as though time had stopped as Peter stared at the two letters in his hand. He only started to read what they had written on them once his mother nudges his arm. The first read:

"Dear Mr. Pettigrew, 

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. "

It was then signed by a lady with the name of Minerva McGonagall who had the title of Deputy Headmistress. 

A school. Witchcraft. Wizardry. Hogwarts. What did this all mean? 

Before he could even begin to process what he had just read, Peter reached for the closest chair and sat himself down. This couldn't be true, could it? His mother had never played a joke on him, especially not one like this, but still magic couldn't be real. This was the real world, not some fairytale with a happy ending. 

"Mum, what does this mean?"

"Honey, you're a wizard. I know this may sound like a lot to take in, but it's all true. When you were a baby, any time you cried, your little blanket would float through the air from wherever it was over to you. That was magic. Children often show signs of it at an early age. I've been waiting for this day since the first time your magic showed, because it means that you can leave this home. You can go to the school that I once did, you can get a proper education, you can make friends. You can live a better life than I did, hun. That's all I've ever wanted for you, and now it's here right in front of us." His mother said with tears starting to form in her eyes as she hugged her son. This was the happiest she had been in 11 years.

Peter still didn't quite know what to make of the whole situation, but he decided that if what his mother said was true, then this must be real and it must be good, because he had never seen her smile quite so wide.

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