Ethan pulled open his desk drawer, searching for paper, then stopped.
Wrong.
They'd sent parchment. Responding on lined notebook paper would be like showing up to a formal dinner in a t-shirt—immediately marking himself as an outsider.
Think. His father had died two years ago. What would he have left behind?
He moved to his closet, pushing past expensive clothes his stepfather's money bought, until he found the single cardboard box in the back corner.
His mother had packed away his father's few remaining possessions after the funeral. Ethan hadn't opened it since moving to Thornton Manor.
Inside: a framed photo of his parents' wedding, his father's watch (broken), a few books on Egyptian history, and—yes—a leather portfolio.
He flipped it open. Blank parchment sheets, mostly yellowed with age. A few quills, their tips dried and brittle. And at the bottom, sealed glass vials of ink in various colors.
Perfect.
Ethan took the portfolio back to his desk. The quills were unusable, but he had fountain pens—close enough.
He selected a black ink vial and carefully opened it. Still liquid, surprisingly. He dipped one of his nicer pens into it.
The ink shimmered slightly, more vibrant than it should be. Magical ink, probably.
Now. What to write?
He needed to sound like an eleven-year-old. Polite, slightly formal, but not too sophisticated. He needed to ask for help without seeming helpless. Information without seeming suspicious.
He drafted it in his mind first:
Too formal: "I write to confirm my acceptance..."
Too casual: "Hey, I'm totally coming to school..."
Too knowledgeable: "As a half-blood with deceased magical parent..."
After a moment's consideration, he began writing:
---
Dear Deputy Headmistress McGonagall,
Thank you for my acceptance to Hogwarts. I am very excited to attend and would like to confirm my place for the September term.
He paused. How much to reveal? Keep it simple. Factual.
My father, Marcus Drake, was a wizard. He died two years ago when I was nine. My mother is a Muggle and doesn't know much about the magical world anymore. She married a Muggle man last year and we live in Surrey now.
Good. Established his situation without sounding like he was complaining.
I have some questions I hope you can help with:
The letter mentions I may need help getting to Diagon Alley. I know it's in London but I've never been to the magical parts. Could someone show me the way? My mother remembers my father talking about it but she doesn't know how to find it.
Perfect. Sounded innocent, got him a guide, made him seem appropriately helpless.
My father had a vault at Gringotts Bank. I think there might be some of my school supplies already there, like his old wand and some books. How do I access it? Do I need special permission since I'm only eleven?
Excellent question. Sounded practical and concerned about money, which was normal. Also subtly told them he had resources—he wasn't a charity case.
Do I need to buy a new wand or can I use my father's wand from his vault?
This made him sound inexperienced—good—while gathering crucial information.
I can come to London whenever is convenient. Please let me know when and where to meet someone.
Thank you very much for your help.
Sincerely,Ethan Drake
---
He read it over twice.
It sounded right. Polite, slightly naive, asking reasonable questions for a half-blood orphan in his situation.
Nothing that screamed "adult consciousness in child's body planning to exploit magical world for personal gain."
Ethan carefully folded the parchment, then hesitated.
How did he address this? There was no envelope.
The owl seemed to sense his confusion. It hopped onto his desk, startling him with how bold it was, and tapped its beak against the folded letter.
"You're... going to carry this?" Ethan asked aloud, feeling slightly ridiculous talking to a bird.
The owl gave him a look that somehow conveyed obviously and extended one leg, which had a small leather cylinder attached to it.
Right. Of course.
He rolled the parchment tighter and slid it into the cylinder.
The owl immediately launched from his desk with a powerful beat of wings, nearly knocking over his lamp. It swooped toward the open window.
"Wait—" Ethan started, but it was already gone, a tawny streak disappearing over the manicured gardens of Thornton Manor.
He watched it go, then glanced at the clock. 9:47 AM.
How long did magical mail take? Hours? Days?
The letter said they "await your owl by no later than 31 July." That was a week away. But surely they sent responses faster than—
A knock on his door made him jump.
"Ethan?" His mother's voice, muffled through the wood. "Sweetheart, I thought I heard... was there a bird in your room?"