JKR owns HP

Note: What part of "Do not speculate about the potential romantic lives of children" do you people not understand?!

Disclaimers: Opinions and prejudices are those of the characters, and not the author. In Hebrew, the name Ariel is frequently used for boys. Sugar totally is breakfast. Michael's father is a wizard now, because I hadn't plotted that far out the first time I mentioned him. Chapter contains a reference to puberty.

He watches and knows what we hide; he sees the end of the story at its beginning ("Exalted be the living God," morning blessings)

Yehuda rarely got to hold the Havdalah candle, at least not at home. Sholom and Esti were older and therefore more responsible, so if someone was going to hold a fire it would be them before him. But this week Sholom had gone to learn with a friend, and Esti had painted her nails (a modest pale pink, not that Tatty was any happier about it) and was afraid of dripping wax on them, so the task fell to him. He felt quite grown up.

"…borei meorei ha'eish!" his father sang out. Adina hit the light switch, and the family lifted their hands toward the flame in the dark, the light glowing on their fingernails. He switched the candle to his left hand so that he could do the same.

"…Hamavdil bein kodesh l'chol, bein ohr l'choshech, bein Yisrael l'amim, bein yom hashvi'i l'sheishes yemei hamaaseh…Baruch atah Hashem, hamavdil bein kodesh l'chol!" Through a mouthful of wine, his father gestured; with a flourish, he dunked the candle into the puddle on the silver saucer, and Adina turned the lights back on. It felt, in a way, like breaking a spell.

"Gut voch!" Esti called, heading for the door. "I'm going to empty the mailbox!"

"Gut voch," Mummy said, lifting the phone from its base. "Adina, Brochie, pyjamas."

"Who're you calling already, Mummy?" Adina asked, not moving a centimeter in the direction of her pyjamas.

"Savta, to see how she's doing. They had Saba Reuven's grandchildren for Shabbos, and you know how they are..." Mummy was already dialing. "Hello, Ima…oh, shavua tov, Orit, ma shlomeich? Is my mother there?"

He went to the study to fetch his father's tikkun for their biweekly review. When he returned, Mummy was still talking to her stepsister. He could tell, because her English was still laced with accented Hebrew. "Lo meivina," she was saying. "Can you talk a little slower?"

His father beckoned, pushing aside the extinguished candle and the wine to make room for him. "From the beginning, then?"

He put his finger under the first word and took a deep breath, launching once more into his bar mitzvah parsha. "Vayikra-a el Moshe vayedaber Hashem eila-av mei'ohel moed, leimor…"

He sang his way through four aliyahs, his father murmuring an occasional correction. Esti walked in, flicking through a pile of envelopes. "Tzedakah—a bill for you, Mummy—Adina, you have a letter from Kayla—more bills—tzedakah—Yehuda, you have a letter from Michoel Corner—" Yehuda stifled a laugh; she had pronounced the name in Hebrew, with a guttural ch and the accent on the second syllable—"and Tatty, you have a letter from the kollel."

Yehuda took his letter as casually as he could, hoping she hadn't noticed the conspicuous lack of airmail stamps for a letter supposedly from his friend in America, and slid it under the front cover of the tikkun. His father followed its movement with his eyes. Yehuda swallowed, and put his finger back on the place. This pasuk was hard, forcing him to growl the first few words before whiplashing back up to a soprano. "Vehotzi es kol hapa-a-ar el michutz lamachaneh, el makom tahor, el she-efech hadeshen, v'saraf oso-o-o al eitzim ba'eish, al shefech hadeshen yisareif…" He trailed away, wincing. They had been stuck on it for days already.

"Vehotzi es kol hapa-o-o-or…el michutz lamachane-eh," Tatty coached. "Listen—el michutz lamachane-eh!"

"Lamachaneh," he tried, singing the whole word at the high key. He shook his head. "Lamachane-e-eh."

"No, it's more like two parts, lamachane-eh—" Tatty stopped. "What is it, Chaya?"

Mummy put down the phone, looking troubled. "That was Orit," she said to Tatty. "Saba Reuven had a bad fall over Shabbos. Ima and Ariel are with him now in Ein Kerem."

Tatty half-rose from his seat. "Oy vey. Did he break anything? What are the doctors saying?"

"I don't know; Orit didn't know. She sounded very upset. I'll have to go over there; Ima can't do this alone."

"Again, you mean," Tatty murmured.

Mummy jerked her head up sharply. "Yes. That too."

"Can I come?" Esti said eagerly. "You took Sholom last time!"

Mummy and Tatty startled, seeming to remember at the same moment that he and Esti were in the room. "This isn't that kind of trip, Esti," Mummy said wearily. She slumped into a chair. "Hashem yerachem, hasn't she been through enough already?"

Tatty cleared his throat. He looked at Yehuda. "Maybe we'd better continue tomorrow."

Obediently, he closed the tikkun and went to put it away. At the last second, he remembered the envelope.

There was nowhere private to read, he had found that out in July, with Michael's first letter. Sholom or Eliyohu was always in their room. He had sat down on the living room couch with it when Eliyohu flung himself onto his lap and demanded a story; he had stationed himself opposite a shuckeling Sholom only to have him look up. Only the bathroom locked, and it wasn't right to bring something you cared about in there. The only foolproof method was to wait until everyone was sleeping. So he kept the letter under his pillow while the house settled into nighttime, changed into pajamas and said Shema, and when Sholom's breathing had slowed to a gentle rise-and-fall across the room, he tucked his fingernail under the envelope flap and slit it open.

There was a charm to light up your wand—Lumos, it was called. He'd done it a few times. But his wand was stashed safely under the bed, along with all last year's textbooks and his robes and blue-and-bronze tie, out of sight where they belonged. He got out of bed and opened the curtains, letting in the light of the streetlamps outside. Back under his blankets, he read:

Dear Yehuda,

Sorry it took me so long to write back. We were on holiday the last two weeks, and I only got your letter right before we left. Have fun in Camp Goldstein. I hope your little sister is feeling better, but if I ate that much cookie dough, I would probably do a lot worse than just throwing up.

Anyway, we just got back from Scotland—we went camping in the Hebrides, at the edge of the dragon sanctuary. They let you go hiking in the daytime, as long as you're with a dragon handler and stay a hundred yards from any known lairs. If a shadow flies over you, they push you down under a fireproof blanket. It's brilliant. My dad took a picture of me with these two dragons fighting in the mountains behind me; the handlers wouldn't let us get any closer. My mum says next year we're going to go somewhere with a beach and nothing that breathes fire. We'll see.

We're coming in to Diagon Alley Tuesday morning for some shopping. If the supplies list comes by then, do you want to meet me? We can get our books together.

Michael

He put his fingers inside the envelope and drew out the picture. Like the portraits in Hogwarts, it moved—Michael waved at him furiously, his hair mussed by wind, and he could see the dragons, real dragons, in the background, their batlike wings unfurled and beating, and jets of fire gushing from their wide-open mouths. He was inclined to agree with Michael's mother: the beach would be a better holiday.

It was strange, like a letter from a faraway world. He didn't know anyone in Golders Green who went camping with their entire family, but of course he didn't know anyone in Golders Green who had only one child, besides Rabbi Zeller, and that was different, even Danziger was one of four, so it was no use comparing…no use wondering what other people did if they didn't make Camp Goldstein…

He fell asleep dreaming of Diagon Alley, the letter tucked safely under his bed.

They debated all the way home from Shacharis, he and his big brother, Sholom gently carrying his tefillin bag in both arms, as Mummy had carried baby Yosef, and Yehuda scampering to keep up. Tatty was offering to buy one new tape—just one. There were so many new ones, an Avraham Fried and a JEP and Miami Boys Choir, and it was awfully hard to make a decision for the whole family.

"Esti has a thousand tapes," Sholom complained. "Why do we have to get one at a time?"

"Because Esti has her own money," Tatty said. "You can babysit the neighbors and make your own. What'll it be, then? JEP?"

"Danziger got Shabbos Yerushalayim," Yehuda offered, dredging up a year-old tidbit of knowledge. "He says it's much better than Besiyata Dishmaya. And I don't want any JEP; I don't like English songs. Can't we just get Miami?"

"Shabbos Yerushalayim is old," Sholom protested.

"Still, we don't have it," Yehuda reminded him. "We don't have to not get it just because it came out a year and a half ago instead of last week."

"I've got it," Sholom said conspiratorially. "Let's have Tatty get the Dveykus one, and Esti will buy Miami for us."

"I said one!" Tatty said.

They were still arguing when they came inside. In the kitchen, Sholom grabbed the box of Frosties, poured himself a bowl, and propped a Gemara in front of him. Yehuda shook out what remained—a handful of flakes and a cascade of sugar—and reached for the milk.

"Sugar is not breakfast, Yehuda," Mummy called without looking.

"Chaya, you're still here?" Tatty asked. During bein hazmanim, Mummy had usually gone by the time they came home from shul.

Tap-tap. Tap-tap.

"Travel agent," Mummy said by way of explanation. "I just got off the phone—what is that noise?"

Tap-tap. Tap-tap.

"It sounds like the dining room," Tatty said.

"Good morning," Esti said as she breezed into the kitchen carrying Yosef on her hip. "Don't tell me the boys finished all the Frosties."

"There's more," Sholom said vaguely from behind the Gemara. He gestured in the general direction of the closet.

"I got!" Brochie waved a new box triumphantly. "Esti, can you pour me some?"

Adina frowned. "Those were high up. You're not allowed to climb on the shelves, Brochie."

Tap-tap! Tap-tap! The noise was insistent now. He followed Tatty into the dining room, carrying his cereal bowl. Tap-tap!

Esti came after him, pushing aside the curtains. "Oh, my. Is that an owl?"

He froze, his spoon halfway to his mouth.

"Yehuda, go and get a camera, I didn't know they come out in the daytime!"

His father glanced out the window and stiffened. "Esti, please go out of the dining room," he said, in a low, strained voice. "Mummy and I need to speak to Yehuda privately."

His mother had been riffling through her briefcase. She looked up and made eye contact with his father. "Now, Esti."

"Fine," Esti huffed. "I know, I'm a baby, it's not like I'm old enough to make a camp for your children all summer!"

She stomped out of the room. The girls' bedroom door slammed. He looked over his shoulder one last time before opening the window and gingerly pulling the bird inside. It hopped onto the kitchen table and extended its leg, holding out an envelope.

Mr Anthony Goldstein

The Boys' Room

10 Finchley Road

Golders Green

London

It was the same rich parchment that Professor McGonagall had delivered to him more than a year ago, the same swirling calligraphic strokes, although it wasn't nearly as impressive now that he had his own quill and ink and could see how it was done. It was jarring to see himself referred to as Anthony again.

Dear Mr. Goldstein,

Please note that the new school year will begin on September the first. The Hogwarts Express will leave from King's Cross Station, platform nine and three-quarters, at eleven o'clock. A list of books for next year is enclosed.

Yours sincerely,

Professor M. McGonagall

Deputy Headmistress

September the first again? That was barely even Elul. Why was it so soon?

"Have a look at this," his father said, handing him the supplies list.

COURSE BOOKS

The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2 by Miranda Goshawk

Break with a Banshee by Gilderoy Lockhart

Gadding with Ghouls by Gilderoy Lockhart

Holidays with Hags by Gilderoy Lockhart

Travels with Trolls by Gilderoy Lockhart

Voyages with Vampires by Gilderoy Lockhart

Wanderings with Werewolves by Gilderoy Lockhart

Year with the Yeti by Gilderoy Lockhart

He looked up.

"Who is this Gilderoy Lockhart fellow?" his father asked. "Is this some sort of encyclopedia he's compiled?"

"I don't know," he said worriedly. He'd read all the books under his bed and he couldn't remember seeing the words Gilderoy Lockhart in them anywhere, but maybe it was someone all wizard children just knew, without reading about. "I expect they'll know in the bookstore, won't they?"

"I suppose," Mummy said briskly. She was dressed for work. "I'm flying out to help Savta tomorrow night, but I'd like to take you for your new books."

Tatty looked alarmed. "Chaya—"

"I'll be all right, Meir. And besides—" To Yehuda's frustration, she switched briefly to rapid-fire Yiddish, which he did not understand. "Ich vill zen zayn velt. You can take him to Torah Treasures later, for his Mishnayos and whatnot, and I'll take him to—what did she call it? Dragon Alley?—tonight or perhaps tomorrow, before I go to Israel. Is that all right, Yehuda?"

"We could go tomorrow morning. My—" he choked over the word, not daring to look at his parents' faces—"my friend, Michael, is going to be there. He said if I want we could get our books together."

He shouldn't have said my friend; the silence stretched on just a second too long before his parents hastened to assure him that Tuesday morning would be all right. And so early the next day, with Sholom in the bathroom and Eliyohu emptying potatoes onto the floor of the kitchen, Yehuda crawled under the bed to retrieve his money pouch, flat with the one Sickle and a few Knuts left after the long list of things he had needed for first year, and his wand, which he had not touched all summer.

They took the Underground to Charing Cross Road, just him and Mummy, the wand stuck up his sleeve to protect it from prying eyes. This time, he knew where it was, he saw it in his mind's eye between the record shop and the bookstore; he only hoped he could remember which brick to tap in the walled-in concrete yard. They all looked so alike.

"Well, here we are," Mummy said. "Now, where is that secret entrance?"

"Shh!" he said fearfully, checking to make sure no heads had turned in their direction. "It's called the Leaky Cauldron."

"That pub there?" She sounded startled. "You went to a pub last year? Tatty didn't mention anything."

"It's not really a pub," he said as they crossed the street. "I don't think, anyway. There wasn't anyone there. And the secret entrance—" he lowered his voice "—was in the back anyway."

It didn't seem to matter; he could still feel the nervousness radiating off her as they entered. A bell tinkled overhead, but today the pub was not empty. There were two people sitting on stools at the high counter, and in the shadows a few old women sat at a table. The bald barman was at another table, wiping it down with a rag. "Morning," he said, nodding at them.

"'Ey, Tom!" came a yell from the bar. The yeller was the dirtiest man Yehuda had ever seen, his hair long and unwashed, and he smelled like stale ashes even from the doorway. "What's it take to get a firewhisky round here?"

"Shut up, Dung," said the barman. "No refills until you pay for what you already drank." He lowered his voice and said knowingly to Yehuda's mother, "Firewhisky at ten in the morning, I ask you..."

His mother flinched. Yehuda screwed up his courage and edged closer.

"I came here last year," he said to the man, holding up his wand just in case, "but I don't remember how to get the door open."

"Three up and two across," the barman said, returning his attention to the table. "Count from that trash can; it never moves. Nothing to it."

He waved them through the pub to the tiny cement courtyard out back. Mummy looked around, her nose wrinkling. Yehuda's stomach fluttered as he surveyed the dirty wall—he had not done magic since attempting the Packing Charm in the deserted Ravenclaw Tower, a lifetime ago.

"Right," he said, trying to sound confident, "three up, two across." He tapped his wand to the brick.

It worked—the wall began to shift, the bricks weaving in and around each other as space blossomed between them, until they framed the winding cobblestone street lined with colorful windows and shops. He looked over to see Mummy's astonished face and couldn't help but feel a bit proud: this was his Diagon Alley; people like him had built this—no, no they hadn't. People like him were in Golders Green. He mustn't start thinking like that, he had almost got his head on straight over the summer.

"Well," Mummy said finally. "How do we buy your books? Tatty mentioned a bank."

"Well, yes, regular money doesn't work here," he said. "They change it for you…"

"Really," Mummy said with interest. "What sort of money do they use?"

They found Gringotts easily; its polished white columns towered brazenly over the humble storefronts. His mother gawked up at the marble façade. He waited anxiously for her, afraid of the short twisted-faced men—he knew now that they were called goblins—who stood guard in red and gold uniforms on either side of the bronze doors. Finally she came up the stairs, but stopped again to study the poem engraved on the second set of doors.

"For those who take but do not earn, must pay most dearly in their turn," she read. "Well, they aren't very charitable, are they?"

"Mummy," he pleaded. The goblins seemed dangerous. He half-expected them to lunge for his throat at any moment. He had never seen Mummy at her office, but he could not think of a way to tell her, respectfully phrased as is it possible, that this was not like an ordinary bank.

They entered the vast hall, their shoes clicking on the marble floors. He fidgeted uneasily while Mummy murmured to herself, counting out ten-pound notes from her purse. "Eight books, say ten pounds each…what is the exchange rate to magic money?"

"Currently three pounds twenty-two pence to the Galleon," the goblin said in a clipped voice. Mummy handed over the money, and the goblin returned them a pile of Galleons and Sickles and Knuts. She counted the coins as she dropped them into his pouch. The goblins' eyes followed them as they left, and he was very glad when the doors shut behind them. He jumped down all the stairs at once to get away.

"Yehuda! Yehuda!"

Michael was standing outside Madam Malkin's with his parents, tanned and two inches taller. He wore his robes open, over jeans and a sweater, the sleeves sliding down as he waved his arms frantically.

"He's very enthusiastic, isn't he," his mother murmured.

"Yes, he is," he agreed. A smile stole across his face. It was the same beaming excitement from the dragon picture, but it was welcome nonetheless. He waved back, and they crossed the street to join them. "All right, Yehuda?"

"Good morning," Mummy said.

"Angulus Corner," Michael's father said, extending his hand.

Mummy's arm didn't so much as twitch. "How do you do, Michael? Yehuda's told us so much about you." To Michael's father, she said, "Chaya Goldstein. For religious reasons, I can't shake your hand, but it's lovely to meet you, too." Mummy was always good at talking to goyim. Once she had joked that it was her job.

"That's all right," Michael's father said awkwardly. He put his hand in his pocket.

"How's your summer been?" Michael asked, as they set off down Diagon Alley. "I got your letters, but it's not quite the same as talking, is it? Do you have a telephone?"

He blinked. "Of course we have a telephone. Don't you?"

"I thought you would, Muggles use it for everything. I think my mum and dad have one in the house somewhere, but my grandparents can Floo call whenever they want, so I don't know why they bother."

"What's a Floo call?"

"Oh, look at that sign!" Michael bounded ahead, and Yehuda ran after him. There was a large purple sign propped on an easel in front of the bookstore, twinkling with golden letters.

THIS WEDNESDAY!

GILDEROY LOCKHART

will be signing copies of his autobiography

MAGICAL ME

12:30 PM to 4:30 PM

"Magical Me," Mummy said dryly, as their parents caught up. "Is he somehow more magical than the rest of you?"

The rest of you—his heart gave a painful jolt. He glanced up at her, and her face softened. She looked uncertain, like she did not know what to say, and he felt the urge to prove that he had not been offended—better yet, that he hadn't even noticed the slip of her tongue—

"That's Lockhart!" Michael said. He pulled open the door and pointed at a display case, crowned with a portrait of a blond man and stacked with hardbound books, all flashing the same toothy-white smile from the covers. The store was quiet—an older boy reading at a bookshelf, a pregnant woman and a pale little girl at the Lockhart table, both of them draped in rich-looking green cloaks—and they all looked up to stare at Michael. "They have a whole table for his books, see."

"Is he famous?" Yehuda asked in a low voice, hoping Michael would take the cue. "There was nothing in any of the books about him."

"He's done some awfully great things," Michael said. "Captured Dark creatures with all these brilliant spells. But some people think he's contriff—contraverce—well, some people think he's exaggerated a bit. Right, Mum?"

"Right," Michael's mother said.

"I think you mean controversial," Mummy offered. "Well then, a good-looking man who clearly enjoys his fame, rumors of exaggeration that even your son's heard—are his books serious at all?

Michael's father gave Mummy an appraising glance. "Are you sure you weren't a Ravenclaw?"

"Ravenclaw?" Mummy repeated blankly.

"Dad!" Michael said, taking a break from repeating the word "controversial" under his breath. "She's a Muggle!"

While Michael and his parents browsed, Mummy went right up to the book display, with a murmured "excuse me" to the pregnant woman. She opened a Lockhart book and read from the jacket. "About the Author: Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin Third Class, Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defense League and five-time winner of Witch Weekly's Most-Charming-Smile Award—Most-Charming-Smile Award?" She slapped the cover down. "I am not buying you this rubbish. I may not be magic but I know a racket when I see one."

"But it's in the supplies list, look." He showed her the letter.

"And they're each five times the price of this one!" Mummy held up A Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2. "No, you can borrow them from someone else if you need them, but I don't think you will."

Had anyone else's parents had reached the same conclusion? The pale little girl was adding the whole set of Lockhart books to her basket, one at a time. He looked around for Michael and saw Michael's father a few bookshelves away, absorbed in a purple and gold book called The Oracle of Palomo. Michael and his mother were a little further down the aisle, and Michael's mother was pulling something else off the shelf. "When we get home," she told him, "we're going to read this one together."

"Mum," Michael groaned, hastily shoving the book into the stack. Yehuda caught a glimpse of the cover—How a Young Wizard Grows Up—before Mummy steered him away, toward the front of the store. She placed A Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2 on the counter.

"One Galleon," said the man.

"That's the gold ones," he said. He stood on tiptoe, watching Mummy fumble with the unfamiliar coins. "Are you sure we shouldn't buy the Lockhart books?" It was rather selfish of him to have made Mummy come out to Diagon Alley for just one book. All the other things he would need were still under his bed from last year. The cauldron, the gloves—much to his embarrassment, he didn't even need new robes.

Mummy didn't seem to mind the inconvenience. She paid, and they went outside to wait for Michael and his parents. He looked back inside the shop at the Lockhart display, still unsure. What was his mother judging on? Why did the teacher need so many books when last year's had only asked for one? Wouldn't he fall behind, if he didn't have them?

"Are those owls?" his mother said suddenly.

Further down the cobblestoned path, brass cages dangled from the eaves of a small shop, its whole front set with glass panes. He could hear the fluttering and cooing, Owlery noises, from where he was standing.

"That's how I sent letters the whole last year," he said. Almost unconsciously, his feet took him closer. "I borrowed owls from the school, or from the people in my class, and I sent them to Rabbi Zeller. They all use them, you saw how the supplies list came. They're very smart. You tell them the address and they just know where to go. Maybe they can read. I don't think they're the same as normal owls."

"Really," his mother said faintly. She gave the shop window an appraising once-over.

He hesitated, then decided to try. "Tatty said I should get one, if I was going back. After I almost got stand—stranded, at the train station."

"Tatty said that?" Mummy bit her lip. "I would love for you to have a way to send letters, but Yehuda…what will we do with it in the summer?"

"I could…hide it?" he said weakly, as a chorus of deafening squawks came from inside the shop.

"Yehuda…"

"I know." He scuffed the toe of his shoe against the cobblestones, wishing his middos weren't quite as good as Zeidy kept saying.

"Are you buying an owl?" Michael asked brightly. He and his parents had emerged from Flourish & Blott's, his father carrying the stack of the Lockhart books. "Mum, can I get one too?"

"Well…" Michael's mother looked hesitant. "You are old enough, your friend is getting one, but we've got the family owl, you don't really need your own…"

"Please?" Michael begged. "I'm responsible. I'll let it out every night and everything…"

He didn't want to ruin Michael's chances—he knew the look on a parent's face when they were about to give in to your pleading—but it wasn't right for him to be used as a point in Michael's favor when it wasn't even true. "I'm not getting an owl, Michael."

Michael broke off mid-plea. "What? Why not? Even after what happened at Easter?"

"I can't," he said. "My brothers and sisters don't know about Hogwarts, or…any of all this."

Concern flitted across Michael's mother's face.

"Oh!" Michael clapped his hands excitedly. "Why don't we share? We'll each pay half, and I'll keep it during the summers? We can each write home every other week! Please, Mum?" He stood on tiptoe to whisper into his mother's ear, but Yehuda was one of seven children and his ears were fine-tuned to overhear things other people didn't want him to know: "He won't be able to get one otherwise!"

Michael's mother looked at his father, smiling. "Well. All right. If your friend's mother is all right with it."

"Mummy?" Yehuda looked at his mother.

She was wavering. "Well, Tatty said it was a good idea…"

"He did!"

"You'll take care of it at school? You won't bring it home over the summer?"

"I'll be very responsible."

His mother nodded slowly. "Then…all right."

Michael seized him by the hand and dragged him into the shop. He squinted in the sudden dimness. Owls, he remembered, were nocturnal. "I'm so glad you were here, my mum never would have let otherwise. What kind d'you want?"

"One that can carry mail?" he offered. He found it hard to think. The shop smelled like wood chips and dead mice, and the hooting made a cloud of noise around them. Michael craned his head up at a glowing sign that read SNOWY OWLS – 15 GALLEONS. "These are beautiful!"

What was the exchange, again? Three…three pounds something. That made the radiant pure-white owls at least forty-five pounds, and then after that they would have to buy a cage, and food…he looked around and his eye fell on another sign: TAWNY OWLS – 10 GALLEONS.

"Let's look at these," he said desperately. He already had asked his parents for too much, not in money, but in having to go to a school full of goyim in Scotland, and even to go shopping with them. Besides, the snowy owls stood out, and it was always better to be plain. Less people stared at you that way. The tawny owls were pretty, too—black and brown, mostly, like sparrows. Yehuda stood on his toes to peer into the cages and one of them pecked his finger. He withdrew quickly.

"That one's nice," Michael said, pointing upward. He turned around, squinting. "Miss? Can we see that one all the way up there?"

From the gloom behind the counter, a girl emerged. She grabbed a tall hook leaning against the wall and carefully extracted the cage, lowering it to show a brown-red auburn owl, its belly flecked with white.

"He's a bit small," Yehuda said doubtfully, looking at the others. He pinched his bleeding finger.

"He's young, that's all," the shopgirl said. "We've only trained him to carry up to one kilo. You can increase the load a bit at a time."

Michael glanced at Yehuda. "We can do that, can't we?"

"Why this one?" Yehuda couldn't help asking.

Michael shrugged. "The others are boring. I've never seen a ginger owl."

He couldn't help but laugh; they'd had exactly the opposite ways of thinking. They went outside to Diagon Alley, where their parents stood in uncomfortable silence, retrieved their purses, and paid for the owl, a cage, food and water bowls, a bag of owl treats shaped like mice, and a large container of what looked like pencil shavings, which the shopgirl said were for the bottom of the cage. In the daylight, the owl was rather nice; he could understand now why people liked to have birds for pets. It hopped up to perch on the bars, and cocked its head to look at him through dark and curious eyes.

"I suppose you'll have to take him home," he said wistfully. He wondered if the owl would even remember him the next time he saw it. The owls of Hogwarts were smart, but when he'd come home in June Eliyohu wouldn't go anywhere near him. "Don't give him a name without me."

"I'll bring him with me to the train," Michael promised. "We can think of a name there; we have what, five hours?"

They traced their way back up Diagon Alley, back through the pub. They must have made an odd sight, appearing from nowhere on Charing Cross Road outside the invisible pub: Mummy in her sheitel and long sleeves in August, him in his white shirt and peyos tucked behind his ears, and the Corners, now pulling off their robes, leaving them in T-shirts and jeans, even the mother, and Michael holding the cage with their owl inside.

"Are you ready, Yehuda?" Mummy asked.

He nodded, ready to step off the curb. But before they could, Michael's father reached out to tap Mummy's arm. She sidestepped, looking at him curiously. "What is it?"

"I heard what your son said about your other children not knowing," he said. "Frankly, I think you're making a mistake. It's one thing for us to hide from the rest of the world, but do you really think that's necessary within a single family?"

Mummy drew herself up with dignity. "Thank you for your opinion," she said, "but my children aren't a part of your community, and they never will be. I don't think you quite understand the world we come from."

Michael's father looked put out. "My father was a Muggle, too, you know. We aren't—we wizards, I mean—we aren't all ignorant..."

Yehuda stood tall, proud that he had understood what Mummy meant, even if Michael's father hadn't. Hogwarts was a school for goyim, with boys and girls together, and to get to this strange twisting alley you had to walk through a pub where people got drunk—how could Michael's father understand? It wasn't magic they were hiding from the rest of the family.

Glossary

Havdalah. The ceremony that marks the end of the Sabbath.

Borei meorei ha'eish. Creator of firelight.

Hamavdil bein kodesh l'chol, bein ohr l'choshech, bein Yisrael l'amim, bein yom hashvi'i l'sheishes yemei hamaaseh. Baruch atah Hashem, hamavdil bein kodesh l'chol. Who distinguishes between the holy and the secular, between light and dark, between the Jewish people and the nations, between the seventh day and the six days of creation. Blessed are you, God, who distinguishes between holy and secular.

Gut voch/shavua tov. [Have a] good week, in Yiddish and Hebrew respectively.

Shabbos. The Sabbath.

Ma shlomeich. How are you?

Tikkun, short for tikkun korim, literally "guide for readers." A study guide for preparing to chant the Torah, with one column's text featuring vowel and cantillation marks, and the other the same words as they appear in the Torah scroll.

Lo meivina. [I] don't understand.

Parsha. Torah portion.

Vayikra el Moshe vayedaber Hashem eilav mei'ohel moed, leimor (Leviticus 1:1). He called to Moshe—God, speaking to him from the Tent of Meeting, saying.

Aliyahs. Subdivisions of the Torah portion.

Tzedakah. Charity. Here, a letter containing an appeal for charity.

Kollel. Institute for full-time Torah study.

Pasuk. Verse.

Vehotzi es kol hapar el michutz lamachaneh, el makom tahor, el shefech hadeshen, v'saraf oso al eitzim ba'eish, al shefech hadeshen yisareif (Leviticus 4:21). He shall remove the whole bull to outside the camp, to a ritually pure place, to the ashpile, and burn it in fire on wood; on the ashpile it shall be burnt.

Oy vey. Oh no.

Hashem yerachem. God have mercy.

Shuckeling. Swaying, especially in a ritual context.

Shema. A reference to Deuteronomy 6:4. Colloquially, bedtime prayers.

Shacharis. Morning prayers.

Avraham Fried, JEP, Miami Boys Choir, Dveykus. Various Orthodox musical acts of the 1990s and beyond.

Shabbos Yerushalayim. "Sabbath in Jerusalem."

Besiyata Dishmaya. "With the Help of Heaven."

Gemara. The Talmud.

Bein hazmanim, literally "between-times." Intersession.

Shul. Synagogue.

Elul. The twelfth (or sixth!) month of the Jewish calendar.

Ich vill zen zayn velt. If Yehuda doesn't know what this means, why should you?

Mishnayos. The Mishna.

Goyim. Non-Jews.

Peyos. Sidelocks.

Note: I tried to call this "Chapter 1," but apparently the website doesn't allow duplicate chapter titles. Who knew? So consider this Book 2.