Chapter Text
Joyce Byers inhabited a quaint home on Baines Drive with two of her dear children—her two sons as a matter of fact (a young Jonathan Byers entering his sixth year of a very strange secondary school, and an even younger Will Byers entering his very first year of the same very strange, very magical secondary school. But try not let that dreaded information slip to the perfectly normal neighbours, hm?)
Joyce Byers was and is a financially struggling single mother, but had recently come into the fairly opportune job of working from home and selling products on the phone. She was a petite woman with the snag of wrinkles caught by the corners of her warm brown eyes—that, bearing in mind, a mother would certainly have when one’s kids was Jonathan and Will Byers, and when she also happened to be a worry-wart of the highest calibre. Often, you would see her walking about in a snug cardigan and with a kind smile, perhaps to the corner shop for the newspaper, to the supermarket with company for a routine big shop, or to the grocer’s for fresh vegetables and fruit (likely strawberries, her very favourite—as well as her youngest son’s, who happened also to have whipped cream at the very ready when the fruit was fortunately in season.)
But back to that strange secondary school she’d been talking about—well, Joyce was getting emotional. See, the inevitability of her young Will—with his eyes so like her own, wide and innocent yet with a flair of nefarious mischief and an almost artistic curiosity about the big, bad world—also up and leaving her alone in their quaint little house was making her blot her eyes so she wouldn’t start tearing up.
Eleven years old, you see, and off they went.
Because Will Byers had been sent a letter, made of yellowish parchment and an unmistakable address written in green, cursive font.
And if Joyce must be so specific, it was an open invitation to a Mr. Will Byers attending HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY, of course.
“Ah, Aiden! How’s it been single-handedly running this place, then?” Joyce makes pleasant conversation whilst a loitering, nervous Will stands behind her and turns to stare around at the magical pub. It was lit up from the inside (yet on the out, appeared nothing fanciful to the muggle eye—repellent wards, it was something or other), yet also, the place maintained a mysterious air, perhaps as a result of its eccentric clientele.
There was an old woman in the back corner of the pub Will managed to glance over, and then immediately darted his eyes back to when he saw the magnified glasses sitting on the tip of her straight and narrow nose. One eye in fact, much in likeness to a bloody googly eye, seemed to twirl around and then snap right back up to the middle, and he jumped where he stood.
“Mum?” He whispered urgently, and she switches attention from the apparently new barman, to him, and raises an eyebrow with a puff of laughter at his wide-eyed expression.
“Hm, think we best be off, Aiden.” She says to an amused smile. Aiden was a willowy fellow, quite young, and had been the great-nephew to his well-known predecessor: Tom.
“Aye, don’t let me keep you.”
When they arrive at a snowy-white building which towered lopsidedly over all the other shops in Diagon Alley, Will immediately recognises it for what it was: the Wizarding Bank!
“It’s Gringotts!”
“Quite. You’ve done some reading, haven’t you?” Joyce ascertains with a shake of her head, and gathers Will’s arm in her own and hustles them both through the enormous bronze doors.
“Oh, just have to exchange some cash, is all,” she says to the rising question on the tip of Will’s tongue, and then his throat goes dry at a quick look to the goblin at the side of them. He bows as they trek in, and Will notices he’s half his own height. He quickly looks away, not wanting to appear rude.
Then they enter through the next silver doors, and wham bam—
More bowing.
And more goblins.
They were sitting on high stools behind a counter with scrolls rolling across in a wave of golden-like magic, with long quills swooping from the air for them to then scribble in grand old books, and there were scales with gold coins—Galleons, Will remembers—and there were a few goblins circled around one side and looking through their eyeglasses at a particularly bright and sparkling stone.
When they get to a free goblin after a sullen wait—for Will at least, who was itching to get his wand already—the goblin stares at them with glinting eyes and a clever, dusky face.
“Hullo,” Joyce begins, and haphazardly lays down a wad of cash and a randomly strewn in two-pound coin—that rolls until the goblin raises a long finger to stop it on its warpath—and the goblin slowly reaches out a hand to pick up and flick through it all with a frown, “I’m here to exchange for—”
“Thirty Galleons, two Sickles and one Knut, ma’am.” The goblin states in a very to-do, low voice. He leans up on his perched seat to look a long nose down at Will, perhaps in keen curiosity. Will stares right back. The goblin’s beard brushes against the marble of the counter.
“Right,” Joyce says quickly, and they exchange money—Joyce in a bumbling and awkward fashion, and the goblin in a much more refined and confident, no-nonsense manner. He didn’t seem mighty impressed. Maybe because he was dealing with a squib, which apparently wasn’t the done or usual thing, if Will’s brother was to be right. So, Will makes sure to scrunch his eyebrows and squint his eyes at him on the way out, turning when he sees the wispy white eyebrows of the goblin’s own rise in silent bemusement.
With a rattling bag full of money, mother and son head off to: “Madam Malkin’s, now!”
Will lets out a drawn-out groan of despair, and his mum whacks him softly on the shoulder with a laugh.
“We’ll get to your wand later, Will.”
He isn’t honestly too heartbroken by the news, because he’d actually expected to get Jonathan’s hand-me-downs from previous years. Perhaps the new job was working out, after all.
Tom wasn’t the only missing figure of Diagon Alley, as Madam Malkin had been replaced by a witch around his mum’s age, and they got on like a house on fire. As the two are chattering, the witch—by the name of Fennel Pinescrew, with bobbed strawberry-blonde hair and a scatter of freckles along her cheeks and nose—waves her wand as Will’s ordered to stand on a footstool. Soon, he’s being pinned by a dozen needles as he’s being fitted for his robes (that were much too loose, yet Will can soon feel how it drags less and less the more needles threaten to cross the smooth material’s barrier to his very skin.)
Not long before Will’s finished—having an additional outer wardrobe fitted at the freckled lady’s significantly cajoling request—the bell to the shop rings, and a boy his age walks on through with what most definitely is his mother right behind him. She was a portly woman, and her son seemed to carry a similar weight—although of the baby-fat variety—and he smiles a winning grin at Madam Pinescrew from behind her swathed counter of pinks, periwinkle blues, and (if Will was being totally honest) ugly, ugly greens.
“Another one off to Hogwarts, is it?” Madam Pinestrew states shrewdly, looking over Dustin as if already cataloguing the right robes for him, her wand hand readying and pointed needles shifting in the air.
The boy’s grin dampens slightly.
“Oh yes! Wittle first year, aren’t you Dusty-Bun? Your Dad would be so proud!” The mother squeezes her son’s—Dustin’s—cheeks in her grabby hands, and he replies agonisingly through muffled speech.
“What have I said about calling me that?”
Will tries to hold back an amused snigger.
When Dustin hops onto his own footstool and he’s swamped by three robes in quick succession to the Madam’s disconcerting, judging tuts, it’s but a moment after his head is free that he turns to face Will.
“Firstie too, are you?” A few of his teeth are missing, Will realises. “Oh, you looking at my teeth?” Dustin grins big again to show off the gaps, “They’re just this condition I have—but never mind that." Will blinks as he processes the outstretched hand. “The name’s Dustin. Dustin Henderson.”
Thankfully, Dustin didn’t seem to be insecure about his condition, and Will happily shakes his hand, feeling some relief squeeze his chest that he hadn’t made the other boy feel uncomfortable. Maybe… maybe here he could find his very first friend?
“I’m Will,” he responds shyly, “Will Byers.”
Dustin’s eyes squint in a very happy expression at this, and then they find that they have to snap back their hands when a needle threatens to shoot in-between their palms in a bout of irritation as they refuse to stand still.
“Pleasure to meet you, Will. What house do you reckon you’ll go to? Maybe we’ll get the same one! Be neat if we did, since I’ve not really met another wizard my age, yet.” Dustin’s clearly quite disgruntled by this.
“Erm, well—Hufflepuff doesn’t seem too bad, right?”
Dustin scrunches his face, and Will’s face drops slightly, but he hurries to fix it before Dustin notices. “Too boring, isn’t it though? I’m excited for Gryffindor, myself.” Dustin’s voice goes conspiratorial as he shifts closer, “They live in a tower, did you know that?” He winces when a needle seems to dig in too sharply, and rights himself on his stool with a huff.
“I do.” Will nods in confirmation. “My brother goes to Hogwarts, actually—” and he was in Hufflepuff house, but Will could anticipate the awkwardness of revealing that, so kept his mouth screwed shut.
“No way! That’s so cool!” Will flushes slightly at the attention, “I wish I had family at Hogwarts, then I could get all the insider intel… Kinda worried about the Sorting, if I’m honest. I’ve heard rumours,” he whispers anxiously.
“What sort of rumours?” Will’s interest flares.
“Eh, like we’ll have to fight a troll, or something.” Will’s eyes widen in alarm. “I’m sure it’ll be fine, I’ve been reading up, so—”
Will hasn’t read up. A lump musters up in his throat—and he quite feels like he’s woefully underprepared for Hogwarts.
“—I’ve taken a glance at this one spell, and it makes someone cough out slugs! Slugs, mate!” Dustin shudders in disgust. “But surely if we just blast the troll with that, we’re in plain luck, right?”
“I suppose,” Will says hesitantly. “But what if we don’t end up in the same house, though? Will you still be my friend?”
Surprise lights Dustin’s face at the impromptu question, and at Will’s unsure face, levels off into quick reassurance. “Won’t matter. Best mates for life now, no doubt about it. I’ll sit with you at breakfast, lunch, and through to dinner at Hufflepuff if I have to! At least Hufflepuffs are basically the antitheist of Slytherin, right?”
At Will’s confusion, Dustin rectifies himself with, “Meaning the right opposite. No one wants to be a Slytherin, these days. As long as we’re good on that front, school’ll be a breeze. I’d place a bet on it.”
Will nods slightly, not totally agreeing (remembers Jonathan saying the bias against Slytherin was so-called stupid, in fact), and suddenly he feels his robe pulling off of him and he belatedly raises his arms.
Madam Pinescrew then starts fussing over all the measurements and is offering to ring up his mum for the costs of everything, and it’s in a flurry of goodbyes, and a shouted promise from Dustin to sit with him on the train, that Will whisks out of the store with his mum in tow.