The second they got home, Richie started dry-heaving all over again.
Thankfully, the first trip had given him some practice. He shook it off fast this time.
"Looks like you've got great adaptability to magic, little Richie," Annabelle said. "Give it a couple more jumps and you'll be completely immune to Apparition side effects."
She flopped onto the sofa like she owned it, snatched an apple off the table, and waved her wand lazily with her other arm draped over the backrest.
Richie's suitcase floated right out of his hand, hovered in mid-air, popped open with a soft click, and every single thing inside shot upstairs one by one while he watched in fascination.
"I put everything in your room," she said around a big bite of apple. "Little Richie, if you want to practice magic, do it here at home. Don't use it outside unless you're itching for the Ministry to show up at the door."
"Also, when you practice, never aim at people or animals. Not even yourself."
"Show up? Why?" Richie blinked, totally lost.
"International law forbids underage witches and wizards from using magic in the Muggle world. To make sure it sticks, the Ministry plants a Trace on every kid the moment they're born."
Richie froze.
Every young wizard gets a Trace planted at birth?
That meant there was some foreign magical thing inside his body?
The idea suddenly made his skin crawl.
At the same time, he was dying to know more about this Ministry. How powerful did a government have to be to detect every single magical birth?
Did parents have to register, or was there some insane wide-area scanner?
And if they'd known he was a wizard from day one, why hadn't anyone told him? Was it to protect Muggle-born kids from discrimination so they could grow up normal?
Or maybe—just like how Mom had hidden the fact that his five-year-old magic outburst had wrecked the house—she simply never wanted him to know the magical world existed.
Richie's brain spun with theories while Annabelle kept talking.
The apple core sailed straight into the trash can with perfect aim.
"It works like an alarm," she explained. "The second magic goes off in the Muggle world, the Office of Misuse of Muggle Artifacts can pinpoint exactly where it came from."
"So using magic at home won't get me busted?" Richie asked, catching the loophole right away.
"Nope. Because I'm here." Annabelle tapped the sofa with her wand. "One of the tiny perks of the job."
"Oh wait—I don't think I ever told you what I actually do, did I?"
"I'm a Senior Coordinator in the International Confederation of Wizards' Department of International Magical Accidents and Disasters."
The long title made Richie's eyes glaze over.
Seeing his brain short-circuit, Annabelle smirked.
"Of course, that's not the main reason you're safe here. The Trace has two fatal flaws—"
She held up two fingers.
"First, it can't tell who actually cast the spell. As long as there's an adult wizard or witch in the area, any magic gets blamed on the grown-up."
"Second, it doesn't work in wizarding communities at all. Places like the Leaky Cauldron or Hogwarts never trigger it."
"And since I filed the paperwork ahead of time, this house is officially registered as my residence. So if the Trace picks up anything here, it'll just assume it's me doing it."
Richie nodded, thinking it through, then frowned.
"But earlier, when I was flicking sparrows around the neighborhood… why didn't the Ministry come after me?"
Annabelle paused, suddenly remembering what he'd mentioned that morning. She'd been confused at the time but got distracted by Denton and completely forgot.
"Huh… I actually don't know either."
"Little Richie, show me this brain-flick thing again."
Richie obediently raised his finger and pointed it straight at her.
"Um?!"
The second he saw her "try it and die" glare, he grinned sheepishly and switched targets to the lightbulb overhead.
Bang!
One finger flick and the bulb exploded, glass raining down everywhere.
"I've never seen magic like that before… pretty strong, too…"
"But it really didn't get detected?"
Annabelle rubbed her chin, puzzled.
"Reparo!"
She gave a casual wave and the shattered glass flew back together like a video playing in reverse.
After a long moment she shook her head.
"I have no idea. I'll ask around later. For now, just study at home and remember everything I told you."
"I need to head back to the Confederation and get my transfer sorted so I can work at the British Ministry. That way I can keep an eye on you properly once you're in the wizarding world."
"It'll probably take a few days. If you have any magic questions, wait till I'm back—don't go experimenting on your own!"
With that, she stood up and pulled him into another rib-crushing hug.
"Little Richie, you're a wizard now! The Godwin line finally has an heir!"
"I've gotta tell Dad the good news so he'll stop nagging me!"
Richie, still gasping for air, froze at the word "Dad."
"Nagging… you?"
"Auntie, can magic… let dead people send dreams or something?"
Hadn't Grandpa been dead for over ten years? Every year Mom still dragged them all to the cemetery to visit his grave.
"Hahaha! He's alive and kicking! Right now he's probably on some beach in Paris, rubbing sunscreen on some pretty young witch!"
Annabelle winked at him.
"Your mom and Grandpa have some old grudges. They haven't spoken in fifteen years."
"From day one of those fifteen years, in your mother's version of events, Grandpa's been up in heaven chatting with Merlin about whether thick black socks or thin white ones are more comfortable."
"Oh, and Merlin's the most legendary wizard in history—he's been dead for centuries. You get the idea."
The corner of Richie's mouth twitched. Thinking about how heartbroken Mom always looked at "Grandpa's" grave every single year, he could only sigh in his head:
"Damn… that's some next-level filial piety."
A moment later Annabelle Apparated away with a soft pop.
Richie practically ran upstairs to his bedroom, slammed the door, and tore open the first textbook.
"Magic… magic… I'm ready."
"Show me what you really are."
---
July 1st, 1991 – Sunny
Today is officially a day for the history books. I no longer have to worry about running out of things to study.
Magic is such an incredible existence!
It's hereditary, needs knowledge plus strong willpower and incantations to work, yet it somehow resonates with the laws of nature too!
You can see traces of linguistics, psychology, and materials science all over it. So… is magic actually a branch of science?
Why do specific wand movements and words decide whether a spell works? Who decided these exact gestures?
Did the rules always exist, or are they just a distorted way of making something happen—a kind of compromise?
This question is definitely worth thinking about. Maybe the books have the answer?
Oh right—gotta send that reply to Hogwarts before the 31st. Don't forget.
Can't wait for tomorrow.