"If it's too high for you to reach, then you're not allowed to have it without a grownup's permission."

"The sitting room, kitchen, and main bathroom need to stay the same colour all the time, in case we have guests over."

"Please don't touch the ceiling unless someone is holding you up to it."

Were Cal inclined to wake up and leave her house early enough, she probably would have made fun of Anthony's pre-morning routine, as he liked to call it. It consisted entirely of sitting on the sofa, staring at the blank television screen, and nursing a mug of scalding tea. If she ever did find out, he was sure he'd blandly remind her that she'd never had children.

It was nice, being able to relax, not having to be at work yet and being briefly free of Matthew's energy and nonstop questions. The child really had flourished—in most ways, at least.

Anthony glanced over to the cream wall by the door, where framed pictures hung, surprisingly straight. His eyes were drawn to one particular one: a two and a half year old with messy black hair and a pair of goggle-like glasses strapped over bright green eyes. He was grinning toothily, pale cheeks flushed red in the autumn chill, red and brown leaves scattering the pavement behind him. Anthony sighed.

They weren't sure what exactly was wrong with Matthew's eyes, but they were deteriorating rather quickly according to the ophthalmologist. Those first few years had been a slow, but steady decline, but now… It was almost like some sort of infection, or rot, but scans showed nothing, and nobody knew what to think.

Anthony had very nearly decided to hold off on kindergarten for a year, but Matthew was so smart and so ready for school that he opted not to; so, armed with a report from the doctor, he had driven to the local "elementary school" (though he was rather certain he'd accidentally gotten Matthew stuck on the word "primary") a few weeks previous to arrange accommodations for his son. He'd met the man who would act as Matthew's aide during class, one Mr. Cracknell ("He can call me Joseph, though, or Joe. It's likely I'll follow him as he moves up anyway."), who had apparently also hailed from England.

Now it was the first day of school, and Anthony had begged and borrowed to be able to go in late to work so he could take Matthew himself. Manny would pick up both Matthew and Ro—who was ever so excited that her best friend would be joining her, even if she was in first grade and he wasn't—that afternoon, freeing up Kirsten to do some child-free grocery shopping.

God, he was nervous. Far more than he had any business being, but he couldn't shake it. He had to, of course, for Matthew's sake; the boy was ecstatic, had been for weeks, hanging off of Ro's every story of her year in kindergarten and asking after Cal and Anthony's own memories of reception.

Matthew had gotten all the stories he wanted, but he also got a very stern talking to about using his—what they were terming magic—at school. Accidents were okay, Anthony stressed, but willfully causing something out of the norm to happen wasn't. The other children in his class weren't likely to be able to do the same things as him, and it was something that he was only to talk about at home. Matthew had been slightly confused, as his main playmate for most of his life was also able to perform magic, but Ro had stepped in and helped explain—she had received a similar warning the year before, along with a reminder for first grade.

Suffice it to say, the pair had taken to their caretakers' "experimentation" well; it had taken a few outbursts of frustration before they were able to do it on purpose, but before too long Anthony was somewhat used to his furniture changing colour every day or so. Geoff, who he occasionally went to bars with, had informed him that all of the sweets in the Talbot house were now stored in locked cupboards, lest little Rowan make them float down to her. Kirsten was still dreading the day Ro inevitably learned how to manipulate locks, though both children had responded well to rules regarding their abilities.

"If it's too high for you to reach, then you're not allowed to have it without a grownup's permission."

"The sitting room, kitchen, and main bathroom need to stay the same colour all the time, in case we have guests over."

"Please don't touch the ceiling unless someone is holding you up to it."

They were coming up on an exhausting four years together. Anthony wouldn't have it any other way.

Anthony was jerked out of his musings by small black-haired boy bowling into his arms, flailing feet thankfully missing the empty china cup on the coffee table, yelling "Daddy! Dad, I get to go to school today, right?"

"Do you see them?" Matthew asked, head swinging around wildly as he clutched his father's hand. A crowd milled around them, older children greeting each other after the summer, parents bidding their children farewell—Matthew squinted at them all through his thick lenses.

"Not yet," Anthony said patiently, reigning in his amusement. They were waiting with their backs to a high cement wall—taller than Matthew, but not nearly as tall as Anthony—that bordered a raised garden in front of the brick school. Anthony was fairly sure the school itself was named after one of the US Presidents, but he'd already forgotten which one.

Matthew was not patient. "Well when are they going to be here? What if they're late?" he huffed. "They'd better not be late."

"We're early," Anthony reminded his son. Said son turned to him, a small hand brushing the hair out of his face as he squinted up at his father. Anthony winced internally; odd as it was (and no professional could find anything wrong), the odd lightning bolt cut in Matthew's forehead hadn't faded since that stormy November morning on Privet Drive. Oh, it had stopped bleeding when it was supposed to, but it still looked as irritated and inflamed as the day he'd received it. Matthew claimed it never hurt, but Anthony had walked in on his son, pale and clammy, moaning in his sleep and grasping at his forehead. "Listen," Anthony redirected quickly, "I think I hear Ms. Kirsten."

And so he had. She was running down a checklist of school supplies with Ro, slightly louder than she might have otherwise. The adults had decided that, since Matthew's eyesight didn't seem like it would be improving any time soon, they should start helping him adjust to using his other senses just as much. Matthew's head tilted slightly, and his face brightened as he caught the voices of his best friend and her mother.

"Ro!" Matthew called excitedly.

"Matthew! Mom, there they are!" Ro yelled in the same tone, grasping Kirsten's hand and pulling them over. "Hi Matthew! Hi Mr. Anthony!"

Anthony managed to get in a quick "Hello, Ro," before the children were absorbed in their own chatter. "Kirsten," he nodded, smirking.

"Hi, Anthony," Kirsten said with a laugh. "Ro's been talking my ear off all morning about how she gets lunch recess with Matthew."

"I've been getting a lot of the same," Anthony said, glancing at the children. "Shall we head inside, or give them a few more moments? I know Ro's been excited to show Matthew to his classroom."

"We can go in. But first," Kirsten pulled out a Polaroid camera, "pictures! You two, stand together, alright? Smile, it's the first day of school!" The children immediately turned, throwing their arms around each other and grinning. Ro was missing a couple teeth, and had a couple others growing in—Matthew was eagerly awaiting his first loose tooth. Kirsten grabbed the newly-snapped photo and handed it to Anthony. "Alright, now a silly one!"

Several pictures later found them inside, Ro pulling Matthew by the hand and chattering about their surroundings while Anthony and Kirsten followed at a more sedate pace.

"Ms. Frasier!" Ro exclaimed, dragging her friend through the propped-open door.

"Ro!" a woman, presumably the teacher, said, offering a parting smile to the couple she had been talking to. They appeared to be consoling their dark-skinned son, who had sunk into his chair behind his tiny desk. "What are you doing in my classroom, young lady? I thought you were a big first grader now!"

Ro giggled, and shoved Matthew forward. "My friend's gonna be in your class!" she told the teacher.

Ms. Frasier looked to be in her forties, had long, permed hair, and wore a bright red blazer over a frilly blouse. She smiled indulgently down at the children. "This wouldn't be the famous Matthew, now would it?"

Anthony felt his lips twitching as Matthew gave an uncharacteristically shy smile. It had to be the school setting, he decided; both children were wont to talk cheerfully with strangers on the bus, or at the park, but Kirsten had recounted a similar reaction to Matthew's on Ro's first day of kindergarten. Not that such a reaction from the girl was apparent now—Ro was practically beaming between her best friend and her former teacher.

Ms. Frasier skillfully sent Ro to help Matthew find the desk with his name on it—large nametags, bordered with pencils and apples and other school-related things, taped cleanly to the tops of the desks. Kirsten trailed after the pair, leaving Anthony to talk to his son's new teacher.

"She talked about him so much last year," Ms. Frasier said fondly after introductions, watching the two. "It got to the point where I was really excited to find his name on my class list."

"They've known each other for—oh, I don't know—three years? Matthew was nearly two when they met."

"She mentioned that he has eye trouble?" Ms. Frasier turned her attention more fully to Anthony. "She came to class incredibly upset one day last year. She was afraid he'd never learn how to read… Of course, I calmed her fears immediately, but she was distraught."

"I remember that. It was the day after an appointment with a specialist, no one had realized that she'd taken it so hard—but she came to our house after school talking about magnifiers and Braille—thank you, by the way." Ms. Frasier waved off his thanks, and both waved goodbye to Ro and Kirsten as they went to find Ro's new classroom. Anthony glanced over at Matthew, but he seemed focused on stowing his supplies in his new desk.

"It's part of my job, really. Now, I've been told that he's going to have an aide, which will be new for both of us, but I'm sure it will work out fine. Is there anything in particular I need to know? Anything you need to tell me to calm your mind—oh, it's alright, I've been doing this for a while. The first kid's always the hardest to send off, I think, even knowing you'll get them back at the end of the day."

"I nearly held him back a year," Anthony confessed quietly. "His eyes—but he's definitely ready for school. I know that his nanny plays educational games with him, and has been teaching him bits of Spanish for years. He's also—well, I adopted him before he was two years old. He knows, and Ro, but I'm not sure if it'll become a problem with the other kids." Ms. Frasier nodded, and smiled reassuringly.

"I'll take care of any problems that arise." She paused, and seemed to hesitate for a moment, glancing over to his wild-haired boy. "That cut on his forehead…"

"It's been like that since he got it," Anthony quickly explained. "No one can figure out why it's still so…vivid, but his doctors have decided that we'll just leave it be for now."

The teacher's lips pursed, but she nodded in acceptance. "So long as it isn't hurting him. Now," she clapped, turning to Matthew and the boy they'd seen when they came in, "Matthew, this young man sitting behind you is Aiden. Aiden, this is Matthew; why don't you start out by telling each other three things about yourselves, hm?"

Anthony exchanged small smiles with Aiden's parents as the two boys started tentatively talking about ages and hobbies and favourite colours. More children were arriving with their parents, but soon a heavyset man with light, stringy brown hair, appearing to be in his late thirties, walked in alone. Anthony recognized him immediately.

"Joe," he called. The man walked over, grinning.

"Anthony, good to see you," he said with a British accent that Anthony found oddly comforting. This seemed to be stressing him out more than it was his son. "And this must be Matthew!" Said boy squinted up at the adults.

"Matthew, this is Joseph Cracknell, he's going to help you with classwork when your eyes make it hard to do it," Anthony explained, crouching down. Joe did the same, with slightly more difficulty.

"You can call me Joe," the man said kindly. "I'm sure we'll have a great old time, yeah?"

Apparently "great old time" meant Joe requesting a private meeting with Anthony the first weekend off. Anthony, even more nervous than he'd been leaving his son at school that first morning, arranged for Manny to take Matthew out to an early dinner that night—and Manny had apparently roped Kirsten and Ro into the plan—so that Anthony could entertain Joe at home.

As it turned out, the meeting was a product of sheer luck, and one that the entire group who had gone out to Burger King (of all places) plus Cal should have been attending.

After Anthony had set the tea and biscuits on the table, Joe had taken a moment to fidget with his cup before starting to speak.

"So, I'd just like to start out by saying that Matthew isn't in trouble," he began.

"You did mention that on the phone; you might start making me believe that he is," Anthony jabbed good-naturedly. Joe chuckled.

"Yes, well, forgive me. It's just…this is going to sound a little bizarre, but I'm going to need you to bear with me."

"Believe me, I've learned to keep an open mind." Joe gave him a piercing stare.

"I'd imagine you have," he said finally. "Perhaps…yes, let's start with that. Have you noticed anything…odd happen around Matthew? Maybe when he's angry, or scared?"

Anthony didn't reply. Instead, he stood up, strode out of the room, and returned with Matthew's "magic log," which he slid across the table to his guest as he sat back down. Joe's gaze flicked between Anthony and the notebook as he grabbed it.

"That's three or four years of us "noticing" "odd" occurrences around Matthew," Anthony explained quietly as Joe flipped through the pages. "We also have one for Matthew's friend. She's a year above him. Are you a wizard?"

It had taken a lot of nerve for Anthony to ask that question, but he was rewarded by a startled look on Joe's face—not one that questioned his sanity, but one that wondered where the hell he'd learned that word.

"I'm a squib," Joe finally responded, after appearing to weigh his options. He didn't know how much Anthony knew, but it was apparent that he knew something.

"I'm afraid I'm unfamiliar with that term."

"My father was a wizard. I'm not." Joe sounded slightly bitter, but also resigned. "He and mum divorced over it; she's a muggle—someone without magic, like yourself."

This time it was Anthony's turn to weigh his options, and he decided to take a risk. This time he murmured "I'll be right back," before going to his bedroom, unlocking the lock box, and pulling out the parchment letter.

"I found Matthew on my doorstep when he was little over a year old," Anthony explained when he sat back down, keeping the letter clasped firmly in his hands. Joe's eyes were glued to it, as though he somehow knew its significance. "He was soaked through from a storm and he had a great bleeding cut on his forehead, and this letter that was somehow dry."

He tentatively passed said letter over to his companion, whose eyebrows raised in astonishment the further he'd read. "This—" He wet his lips, then started again. "I don't know much about what's written here, but…Albus Dumbledore is a very important man. Headmaster of the UK's premier magic school, heavily involved in politics, known for defeating one of the greatest dark wizards of the age."

"Not this Lord Voldemort fellow," Anthony clarified.

"Oh, no, that seems to be your boy. That is—Matthew is Harry Potter?" Anthony gave a curt nod, and Joe hurriedly continued. "It was Grindy—Grindle—somethingorother. Something foreign, anyway. I've never heard of this 'Lord Voldemort' character, but that's not saying much, I left the wizarding world after my parents divorced. The Killing Curse…that rings a bell. Highly illegal…though, I don't think people usually survive it…"

"That does seem to be the point of the curse," Anthony agreed sardonically, causing Joe to smile in embarrassment.

"Anyway, I'm not surprised they want him to come to Hogwarts when he's old enough. It sounds like Harry Potter's a bit of a big shot, surviving an unsurvivable spell and apparently killing a dark lord at, what did you say, one? And this implies that his parents went there as well—the British wizarding world at least is very big on tradition." Joe's eyes slid off of the letter and onto some point beyond Anthony. "I could… My mum keeps an owl, I think. It's how wizards communicate. I could see if she could send something off to someone—make some inquiries, maybe get you some help." Anthony bit his tongue.

These were more answers than he'd ever hoped for. Assuming everything Joe said was true—and really, he had no reason not to believe him—things surrounding his son were too big for him to deal with himself. Help…both to teach Matthew and Ro, and to help him keep his son safe. And maybe, just maybe, the wizards could help Matthew's eyes…

"Alright," he agreed slowly. "But it has to be discreet. I don't want some—some wizard news paper getting a hold of this, assuming Matthew's as big a figure in that world as you say he might be."

"Definitely discreet," said Joe. "Assuming Matthew's as big a figure as I say he might be, the Prophet would have a field day if they got a hold of this, if they're anything like they used to be."