Work Text:
There were three matryoshka dolls in eleven year old Justin Finch-Flechley's room. Two parent dolls, which looked oddly similar in gender, and one child doll. Sometimes, when he was bored, Justin would open the many layers of the mother doll, and put the child doll inside. Then he would mix up the parts of the mother and father dolls and keep them like that until his mother scolded him. Then he would carefully line the painted pictures up, in a fashion his mother would be proud of if she noticed, and set them back up. The mother doll to the right, the father doll to the left, and the child doll in the center.
The dolls' place was in the top shelf of Justin's bookshelf, in front of a photograph of Justin and his parents. Their positions reflected the Finch-Flechley's family's ones. Justin was very young in the photo, young enough that he didn't remember it being taken, but old enough to remember the way his father's vest tickled his skin.
None of that currently mattered at the moment, of course, because Justin's attention wasn't on the photo or the dolls. Instead it was on the ventilation shaft in the corner of his room. His desk was right next to it, and if he sat in the adult-sized chair upside down and with his feet over the back of the chair, he was in the perfect position to listen to the voices coming through the vent.
He always heard everything in the house, though he couldn't say how or why. The air just brought the voices to him, even when the air conditioning wasn't turned on. Mother didn't know, and Justin wasn't about to tell her. His friends told him that men needed to have some secrets from their mothers, even though Justin was pretty sure his mother was all-knowing. But she would be mad and punish him if she knew, so he never let her know.
It was his and the dolls' little secret.
The voices downstairs were very loud, and if Justin concentrated, he could hear them through the door as well. He couldn't open it, as he was locked inside, but he could press his ear against the crack at the bottom and hear them. The wind would bring the voices to him. He was used to using the vents, though, not that he ever heard anything important until today.
Today was when the bad woman came.
She wore a big black cloak, and smiled at him when he answered the door so that she would fool him into thinking she was nice. Then she began to talk to his mother, and his mother's voice reached the tone she never used except when she was very, very angry. She brought Justin up to his room and told him to stay there and be quiet.
Justin didn't mind being quiet. He didn't even mind staying in his room. He just didn't like the locked door, so he went to the vent and began to listen to spite his mother.
He wished he hadn't. The bad woman told Mother she was a witch, and proved it to her. Mother screamed. Not the surprise birthday party sort of scream, but a real one, one that made Justin try to run downstairs despite the locked door. He didn't get very far.
Mrs. McGonagall, the bad lady in black, told Mother about a school called Hogwarts that Justin would be going to. "It's a good school, the best in Britain," she told Mother.
Mother told her that Justin's school was much better, and that he had a future that she wouldn't let Hogwarts take away. He was going to study Economics and be normal. He wasn't going to go to wand-waving classes at some heathen academy. She was angrier than Justin had ever heard her.
Then Mrs. McGonagall said that Justin didn't have a choice, and his mother became even angrier. She yelled things that Justin had only heard his Uncle say, but Mrs. McGonagall was stern.
Justin made the voices go away and sat on his bed, his arms around his legs and his head resting on his knees. Mrs. McGonagall said he was magical. Justin could believe that. Justin could also believe that he would be much happier going to a normal school instead of Hogwarts, if only because that would make his mother happier.
He took a book from the bookshelf and put in on his lap when he heard footsteps on the stairs and pretended to be diligently reading. The door opened to reveal Mrs. Finch-Flechley, a tall, brunette woman of about forty years of age. She still looked beautiful, but she and the younger woman in the portrait could not compare.
"Come on, Justin," she said, taking his hand and pulling him along. "Tell the witch that you have no interest in that school of hers."
When they got downstairs, Justin repeated his mother's phrase almost word for word, but Mrs. McGonagall would have nothing of it.
"He needs to learn how to properly use his magic. I apologize, but he has to go to Hogwarts." She turned to Justin. "I know you've done magic. Little things that could be explained away. You need to learn to use it properly, otherwise you could expose our world as your magical core grows with age."
"So you'll draft him at age eleven, send him off to your world?" his mother asked angrily.
"Only for seven years," the woman replied. "Just until he learns to control his magic."
"How many students like him come back to this life? To go to college, or get proper careers?"
It looked like Mrs. McGonagall didn't want to answer that question. "Some do," she said at last.
"Some," Mother said. "You take children from their homes, their lives, their futures, and for what? To teach them to make wardrobes into miniature elephants?"
"We teach them life skills as well," Mrs. McGonagall argued.
"For your life. For the life you're stealing him into." Justin's mother was on the verge of tears. He squeezed her hand to tell her he was still there, but it didn't seem to give her any assurance. "The life you're drafting him for, is it even safe? Can you tell me he will be safe?"
"Yes," Mrs. McGonagall said. "The last war ended—"
"There has been a war? When were you going to tell me that?"
"He will be safe. The war ended and Hogwarts is one of the safest places in Britain. I'm sorry, Mrs. Finch-Flechley, but your son will be going to Hogwarts. We have to keep our community secret. It will only be for seven years. He can do whatever he wishes after his schooling."
She left soon after, handing his mother a letter and instructions to reach a place called Diagon Alley. His mother sat down at the dining room table, the letter in her shaking hands, and called Uncle John. Justin went up to his room and started packing.