Marcus Williams was an old-fashioned man. He didn’t believe in concrete high-rises or big corporations, which was why he lived as far from the city as he could manage. He was up at the crack of dawn every day, and he worked in his fields until sundown, but it was a good, honest life and he enjoyed it.
This particular morning, when he headed out into one of his wheat fields on his old, rusty tractor, he noticed a dark shape - like a large animal - lying in the middle of the stalks of wheat. Curious, Williams jumped down from his tractor and hurried across the field, all the while keeping a wary eye on the spot where the dark shape lay. As he drew closer, he realized that it was making noise. It sounded almost like a baby crying, but not quite. Finally reaching his destination, Williams stopped cold. There, in the middle of his wheat field, lay a bruised and bloodied young man who was curled up in the fetal position and bawling like a newborn baby. The man wore a black robe, as though he had just come from a costume party, and he was clinging to a polished stick as if his life depended on it.
“Come on now, son,” Williams prompted gently. This only made the young man cry harder. “We’ve got to get you inside,” he tried again. Still, the stranger made no response other than his continued cries. Finally, seeing no other option, he picked the stranger up in his arms, noting with alarm that he seemed to flop about with no more muscle control than an infant. Unable to drive his tractor with the flailing young man, he began the long walk back to his home.
“Janet!” he called as he approached the house. His wife, Janet, hearing the urgency in his voice, rushed outside to see what was the matter. “Janet, I found this bloke out in the wheat field,” he called over the stranger’s cries. “Help me get him in the truck; he’ll need the hospital for sure.”
Janet Williams wasted no time in throwing open the door to their old pickup truck and helping her husband hoist the strange man inside. She cradled his head in her lap as Marcus started the engine and headed for town.
“Marcus, have you ever seen anything like this?” she asked suddenly.
“Of course not,” he scoffed. “A grown man appeared in the middle of my wheat field, bawling like a baby, and there was no trace of any wheat being trampled anywhere around him. It’s like he just dropped out of the sky.”
“Not that,” Janet said distractedly. “I’m talking about this.” She pointed to a strange, lightning bolt-shaped scar on the young man’s forehead. “It almost looks like it was put there deliberately.”
Marcus snorted. “Who knows what young people do to themselves these days?”
While Mr. and Mrs. Williams explained to the hospital staff how they had found the stranger, he was placed on a stretcher and wheeled away, still crying loudly.
“All of his vitals are normal,” reported one of the Emergency Room nurses.
“Not his brain activity,” pointed out one of the doctors. “Look at it; it’s all over the place. If he’s stable, I want him sent in for an EEG immediately.”
The nurse nodded and set about carrying out his orders.
After several hours of tests, “John Doe Wheatfield,” as the nurses had dubbed the stranger, was placed in Intensive Care and given a feeding tube through his nose, as it was apparent that he was unable to feed himself. As the test results began coming in, the Resident in charge of him frowned and stepped out into the hallway.
“Dr. Summers?” he called, seeing one of the more experienced doctors in the hallway.
“What is it, Matt?” asked Dr. Summers.
Matt Walters scowled. He hated it when the older doctors insisted on calling him by his first name, as though he were just some kid with a summer job. However, this wasn’t the time to dwell on that resentment. He gestured for Summers to enter ‘Wheatfield’s’ room. “Take a look at these test results on John Doe.”
Summers casually looked over the stack of papers before laying them on a side table. “He’s a vegetable?” he asked.
“No,” Walters corrected him, pointing to the EEG analysis. “Look here. His brain activity’s normal, but it’s normal for a newborn baby. He’s not in a vegetative state; he’s in an infantile state. But the amazing thing is that, like an infant, he’s learning at an accelerated rate.”
They both glanced over to see the young man sucking his thumb as he slept peacefully.
“Then he’s got a chance of recovering,” said Summers. “Good for him.”
“Have you ever seen anything like this?” asked Walters.
Dr. Summers shook his head. “That’s why I like this job: you find something new every day.”
“Dr. Walters?”
Matt Walters looked up to see a young uniformed police officer approaching him in the hospital corridor. “That’s me,” he said.
“Are you still in charge of the patient called-” the officer checked the clipboard he was carrying, “-John Doe Wheatfield?”
“Yeah, he came in about a week ago,” answered Walters. “Do you have some information for me?”
“I’ve got a name,” said the officer. “Potter, Harry J., formerly of Little Whinging, Surrey. His only living relative is a cousin, but we haven’t had much luck locating him.”
“How’d you find his name?” asked Walters.
“Fingerprints. He doesn’t have a criminal record, but his prints were put on file years ago by his primary school. I guess we were lucky there - not many schools were doing that back when he would have been there.”
“Thanks, officer,” said Walters. “If you turn up anything else, let us know.” Walking over to the nurse’s station, he said, “Nurse, I’ve got a name change for you. Wheatfield, John Doe’s real name is Potter, Harry J. Get the documentation updated for me, will you?”
“Of course, Doctor,” replied the nurse. “Harry J. Potter you said, right?”
“That’s correct.”
“I’ll get right on it.”
Harry Potter was so excited that he could hardly sit still. Of course, that was normal for him, as he was only five years old - either that, or he was twenty-four; the nurses could never seem to make up their minds. He sat in the hospital room that had been his home for as long as he could remember, and tapped loudly on the tile floor with his shoes. Finally, after an eternity of waiting, the door opened.
“Harry?” asked a kind-looking woman. She was older than the nurses who usually took care of Harry, and he immediately decided that she looked like an excellent grandmother.
“Yeah?” Harry said hopefully.
“My name is Agatha Miltweed, but you may call me Auntie Aggie. You’re going to come and live with me; isn’t that exciting?” She spoke to Harry just as she would have spoken to any other child, and that made him glad. He liked having a grownup’s body, of course - what five-year-old wouldn’t? - but things were always easier when people didn’t try to treat him like he was as old as he looked.
Harry nodded his head enthusiastically in answer to her question, causing her to laugh.
“Well, hop to then,” she instructed, and she led him out of the room and to her waiting car.
Harry’s eyes widened in awe. “I really get to ride in a car?” he asked, hardly daring to believe his luck. “I’ve never seen a real one up close before - just on the telly.”
“Of course you get to ride in the car, dear,” Auntie Aggie said kindly. She helped him situate himself in the passenger seat and fastened his safety belt for him. Satisfied, she walked around the car and climbed into the driver’s seat.
Harry couldn’t stop staring during the drive to Auntie Aggie’s house. Everything was so new and exciting and... dirty. His five-year-old mind filled with the possibilities as he imagined life outside of a sterile hospital.
When they arrived at their destination, Auntie Aggie helped Harry unbuckle his seatbelt and said, “There are lots of people who live in this house, Harry, but I don’t want you to worry; I’m sure you’ll make friends with everyone.”
Harry ran to the front door, laughing and jumping in the air as Auntie Aggie followed behind him, smiling serenely. She led him to his bedroom and showed him that he already had a closet full of slightly-used clothing. As he admired the faded t-shirts and jeans, she asked him casually, “Do you know what you had on when that old farmer found you, Harry?”
“I think they said I was wearing a Halloween costume,” Harry answered. He wasn’t fully paying attention, as he was busy feeling the fabric of all his new clothes.
“Anything else?” asked Auntie Aggie.
“Er- my glasses, I guess.”
“Did anyone ever tell you that you were holding something?” she pressed.
Harry finally looked up. “No. Why? Was I?”
Auntie Aggie held out a polished wooden stick that was about a foot long. “You were holding onto this like it was something very important, Harry. I think you’re old enough to have it now. But be careful with it; it’s your only link to your past, and you wouldn’t want it broken.”
Harry reverently took the stick from Auntie Aggie, and was surprised to feel warmth suddenly flowing into his fingers. Whatever this stick was, it was cool! He grinned at her, and she smiled fondly back at him before excusing herself and closing the door on her way out. Harry absentmindedly sliced through the air with his stick, and stumbled backward in surprise when red and gold sparks shot from the end. He examined the stick carefully, his eyes still wide with surprise, but found nothing at all out of the ordinary. He tried it again, and another shower of red and gold sparks shot across the room.
Grinning madly, Harry ran from his bedroom. He had to find Auntie Aggie and tell her about this. He had to show her this! It was just like magic! As he bounded down the stairs, he heard scuffling in the living room, and stopped to listen.
“No!” a man’s voice was shouting. “No, you can’t take me there! It’s true I tell you! True!”
“Robert, you stop that nonsense this instant!” snapped a woman. It took Harry a moment to realize that it was Auntie Aggie, although her voice didn’t sound nearly as kind as it had earlier. Two large men in white lab coats began dragging the man named Robert toward the front door.
“You have to believe me!” Robert shouted. “It’s magic, I tell you! Real magic! I can show you; you’ve just got to let me go so I can do it.” Nobody but Harry seemed to be listening to Robert’s words. Why weren’t they listening to him? Why weren’t they giving him a chance to show them?
After the two other men had successfully pulled Robert from the house, Harry cautiously walked into the living room. “What happened to that man, Auntie Aggie?” he asked in a frightened voice.
She looked up at him and smiled weakly. “Robert’s fine, Harry. He just has trouble telling the difference between what’s real and what’s make-believe sometimes.”
“But he said he could do magic,” Harry pressed. “He was going to show you, but nobody would let him.”
Auntie Aggie sighed heavily and sank down onto the sofa, patting the seat next to her. Harry sat down beside her and waited expectantly for her to answer. “He couldn’t have shown us, Harry,” she said quietly.
“Why not?”
“Because there’s no such thing as magic.”
Harry stared at her for a moment. “But there is!” he insisted. “Watch, I can show you.” He raised his wooden stick, but Auntie Aggie’s hand shot out and stopped him from sweeping it downward.
“Listen to me, Harry,” she said in a pleading voice. “I don’t want anybody taking you where they took Robert. I don’t mind you pretending that your stick is a magic wand, but please don’t let anybody know. There are people who would look at that as a reason to send you away and lock you up, and I don’t want that for you. I know you’re a good boy, Harry. I’m only trying to protect you.”
Harry slowly lowered his stick, stunned at Auntie Aggie’s words. Would people really send him away for thinking he could do magic? He had only just gotten here, and he didn’t want to leave. But surely they wouldn’t send him away if he showed them that he didn’t just think he could do magic, he really could do it. Then he remembered Robert, and realized that no one would give him a chance to show them.
He would keep it a secret. No one could know - not even Auntie Aggie. He nodded his head, and then stood and bounded up the stairs to his bedroom, where he closed the door and proceeded to spend the next few hours shooting red and gold sparks across the room.
A/N: I want to apologize now for what is probably an abundance of Americanisms in this chapter and the next. I’m afraid that when it comes to a hospital setting, etc., my knowledge of the British way of doing things is practically nonexistent.