Archive of Our Own

Mr. D. Washington
The Last Bunk on the Left
The Barracks Hallway
Mother of Invention
The Milky Way Galaxy
Space

Dear Mr. Washington,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.
Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31.

Yours sincerely,

Albus Dumbledore

“This is ridiculous,” said Wash, and threw the letter away.

The next day the letter came again.

Mr. D. Washington
The Locker Next to York’s
Men’s Changing Room
Mother of Invention
The Milky Way Galaxy
Space

“What the hell?” he said, staring, and turned to glare at York next to him. “Is this supposed to be funny? Because it’s not. It’s just dumb.”

York stared at him, honestly mystified.

“What are you talking about, man?”

Wash snorted, shaking his head, and walked away.

Mr. D. Washington
Flat on his Back
One-on-One Sparring with Agent Texas
The Training Room
Mother of Invention
The Milky Way Galaxy
Space

“That’s it,” said Wash, and stormed into the common room. “Whoever’s sending these letters, stop now.”

Maine barely glanced at him, giving him a noncommittal grunt before turning his attention back to sharpening his knife. North looked vaguely confused, Carolina looked annoyed at the interruption, and South just rolled her eyes.

It was Connie who actually looked at him and asked, “What letters, Wash?”

“Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about,” Wash huffed, frustrated. “These letters.” And he brandished the stack of envelopes in his hand.

Connie just looked at him like he was nuts, and reached out to grab them.

Her eyes widened.

“You got accepted to Hogwarts?”

He snatched the letters back, glaring. “It’s not real. Magic isn’t real.”

Connie’s mouth dropped open. She looked as if he had kicked her puppy. “What do you mean, magic isn’t real?”

Wash stared. He opened his mouth to shoot back an answer, then just shook his head, turning and walking out of the room.

“That’s what I’m trying to tell ye,” the large man said earnestly, looking pleadingly at Wash. “Hogwarts! Great bleeding castle, giant squid in the lake, witches and wizards? Most of them are, ah, a fair bit younger than you are, o’course...” He eyed Wash, a bit doubtfully. “But there’s nothing for it. Y’weren’t there on Earth when the letter should have been sent, and it was only now that we managed to track ye down.”

“Wizards.” Wash’s voice was flat, and his head was pounding.

“Wizards!” He thumped his fist on the table, making the room shake, and Wash pretended he hadn’t jumped. “Exactly! Yer a wizard, Agent Washington!”

“Wizards,” Wash said coldly, “are against protocol.”

It was right there in the rulebook, after all. The manual was very clear. There was a certain way you did things, a certain way things happened, and the rules had to be followed. Ignore the rules, ignore protocol, and people got hurt.

There was nothing in the rulebook about magic.

There was nothing in there about buying a wand, either, and yet here Wash was, staring mournfully at the pile of shiny coins in his hand. Seventeen Sickles to one Galleon, twenty-nine Knuts to a Sickle...

“This is the worst monetary system ever,” he muttered to himself. “Of all time.”

“I don’t want an owl,” he said bluntly. “They carry diseases.”

The cats weren’t bad, though.

The robes were too short, falling just past his knees and making him feel even more ridiculous than he already had. Wash stood on the train platform, his trunk beside him and his cat held tightly underneath one arm.

“That,” he said clearly, “is a wall.” He nodded at the wall (the wall) in front of them. “I’m not running at it.”

The redhaired woman looked flustered. “There’s nothing to worry about, dear,” she said, and tried to smile at him. He didn’t smile back, and her face fell. She turned around, looking for someone else. “You can go through with Ron. Ron?”

Wash didn’t wait to meet Ron. “I’m not running at the wall,” he repeated, and walked away.

The Pelican dropped him off on the castle’s doorstep, instead.

He’d refused the whole thing at first, naturally. He’d refused, because it was ridiculous, it was beyond ridiculous, and he had a job and a life and neither of them involved magic and he was perfectly happy with that, thank you very much.

Except then he’d gone to the Director, and instead of agreeing with him the Director had made a big speech about duty and self-sacrifice and the good of the Project and this sort of training would be of great benefit to our cause, wouldn’t you agree, Agent Washington? and the upshot of it all was that he was here, sitting on a stool in a giant hall filled with candles floating over the tables and teenagers staring at him, wearing a patched, smelly hat and listening to it talk to itself.

The call rang out over the hall, echoing off the rafters.

“GRYFFINDOR!”

At least he was old enough that he got his own room.

And the classes - well. It had been a long time since Wash had taken any classes, and some of these, in his opinion, hardly qualified, but overall it wasn't bad.

At least there was homework. He remembered homework. He was good at homework. It was comforting. He was in the common room, working on his homework, when the kids tried to sneak out.

It was late - he wasn't sure what time exactly, but it was past bedtime, and definitely past when anyone was allowed out of Gryffindor Tower. They had some kind of invisibility shielding, but they weren't exactly quiet, and besides, Wash had fought alongside Texas enough to know what to look for.

He set down his book, stood up, and stretched with a luxurious sigh.

The quiet whispers and the sound of shuffling across the floor stopped.

Wash wandered across the room, reached down, and casually plucked the invisibility cloak up and away.

The kids stared up at him.

Wash stared back down.

"Being out of bed after lights out is against regulations," he said.

"But -"

"It's against regulations," he repeated, and gave them his best glare.

The kids looked up at him for a moment, and then bowed their heads, meekly, and shuffled away again.

“I told you,” the girl whispered triumphantly, as they reached the stairs.

“Shut up, Hermione,” the red-haired boy responded sullenly.

Wash snorted, and went back to his homework.

“But I’m thirty years old.”

Professor McGonagall stared forbiddingly back at him, her arms folded across her chest.

“The rules are very clear,” she said. “Only third years and above may visit Hogsmeade on weekends, and those only with permission from their parents.”

Wash made a noise of frustration, waving his hand in the direction of the door.

“I’m older than half these kids’ parents!” he said. It was only a slight exaggeration. McGonagall was unmoved.

Wash sighed, and half-turned away, shaking his head. He’d just about given up on the whole thing when McGonagall spoke.

“We may be able to make an exception...” she began, the word sounding strange, as if it wasn’t one she had used in a very long time. Wash turned, waiting. “If you are able to obtain permission from your parents--”

He snorted, feeling almost bad about it, but he shook his head.

“Forget it,” he said tiredly. “I haven’t seen my parents in almost ten years. They’re never gonna understand -” He waved an arm, taking in the floating candles, the potted plant half turned into a jewelry box on the desk, the portraits moving in their frames. “This.”

She nodded, looking grave. “In that case, Mr. Washington, I am sorry.”

“Right,” he said, and turned to walk out of the room, head bowed.

As it turned out, a signed permission slip wasn’t the only way to get to Hogsmeade.

Wash stood in front of the statue, staring down into the darkness. A faint sound of wind whistled up through the darkness, and his brow furrowed as he leaned closer.

There was some sort of a slide, and then (apparently) a tunnel, and it ended up right in the candy store, or so he’d been told, and...

And it was against regulations.

Wash huffed out a breath, and turned away, letting the statue creak back into place behind him, the tunnel disappearing.

He probably would have just gotten stuck, anyway.

The next morning, an owl dive-bombed his head.

Or at least that’s what it felt like to him. Wash ducked reflexively, not even caring that everyone was staring as he did so, and scowled.

The owl dropped a letter in his eggs.

He picked it up gingerly, and opened it up, eyes flicking across the words, growing wide.

My dear Agent Washington,

Having received the reports your instructors were so kind as to send along, I must congratulate you on your success at Hogwarts. It is clear that you have found a place there, one that will provide both you and Project Freelancer with skills that will no doubt aid in the war effort. Apply yourself to your studies, Agent Washington, and they will yield results beyond your wildest imagination.

Enclosed is a completed permission slip for extracurricular activities. I trust you will continue to make Project Freelancer proud.

Director Church

Wash was still staring at the permission slip in his hand when the next owl arrived. The letter dropped onto his toast, smearing the envelope with butter.

Hey Wash,

I dunno how you managed to keep sucking up to the Director when you’re not even on the ship anymore, but I guess you did it. Are you everyone’s teacher’s pet yet? I bet you are.

The Director has something new planned. I guess you’re gonna miss out on it.

Have fun on your field trip.

Connie

The letter was short, and there was nothing there saying I miss you, but Wash could read between the lines.

He folded the letter up and tucked it into his robes, and went to turn his permission slip in to McGonagall.

Classes were always a little awkward. Wash tended to sit near the back, squeezed behind desks that were far too small for him, trying to write with quill and parchment and somehow making a mess of the ink every time. Notetaking, reading textbooks and writing reports, he could do that, even if it was a little strange to be studying for tests and turning in homework after so much time.

The practical stuff was more difficult. He spent hours practicing after Charms class, flicking his wand and feeling faintly ridiculous, scowling as if he could ward off the imaginary teasing directed his way.

His first day of Potions class, Wash stared with the rest of the class as the Potions master swooped into the room, his robes billowing behind him. He stopped at the front of the classroom, turning to stare at them all, his eyes drawn inexorably to Wash.

“This must be the infamous Mr. Washington,” he drawled slowly, and the entire class turned to look at him. Wash said nothing, a little at a loss.

Snape stepped closer, looking up at him, and Wash shifted in his chair. The professor reminded him of the Director, a little bit, just in the way he scrutinized people, and Wash had to fight not to lean away as Snape came close.

“A little late for class, aren’t you?” Snape commented, and peered at him as Wash tried to formulate a response - he wasn’t late, of course he wasn’t, he’d been ten minutes early, even, leaving early because he’d been worried about not being able to find the dungeons.

“By about twenty years, I’d say,” the professor continued, and the class tittered nervously as Snape swept away, head held high. “Do try to keep up, Mr. Washington, we cannot afford such delays.”

Once things got started, though, Snape’s attitude improved. Wash was a Gryffindor, but he could follow directions, at least, and his potions always turned out pitch-perfect, if, Snape commented grudgingly, a bit wanting on the creative side.

Overall, Wash found himself settling in pretty well, despite himself. He wasn’t sure quite how it happened, but it was as much a surprise to him as to anyone else when he realized he actually almost liked it here, going to classes, learning spells, keeping his nose clean (as if he would do anything else). He even attended the last Quidditch match of the season, eyeing the towering bleachers with uncertainty and ducking instinctively every time one of the players whizzed close overhead, but he was smiling by the end of it, cheeks red with the cold.

He went home at Christmas - he supposed the Mother of Invention was home now, anyway, and even if he had to endure lots of dirty jokes about his magic wand and demands that he show everyone what he’d learned, it was good to see everyone, all the same.

(And maybe it was worth it, anyway, when he turned one of the paintball guns they used in training into a bouquet of giant purple flowers, and Connie accepted it, wide-eyed and speechless, for once.)

The rest of the school year passed in a blur.

The classes - well. He still wasn’t so sure about all of this, the spells and potions and magic, and he found it was best if he just tried to avoid thinking about any of it too hard, of just how exactly it all worked.

(Flying on a broomstick was downright impossible once you started thinking about gravity and physics and how really this can’t be happening at all. He’d learned that one the hard way, and had the bruises to prove it for days.)

The best classes were the ones like History of Magic, where he just had to sit and take notes and learn things, even if they were ridiculous and impossible things. It was a far cry better than learning to do the impossible things himself, anyway.

But even that wasn’t so bad, not anymore. He was starting to get the hang of things, actually trusting his wand to work instead of looking at it like it was about to explode all the time, thinking about how the spells he was learning could help on the missions back home, rather than scoffing in disbelief at the very idea of them all.

By the time the Pelican touched down next to the lake to take him back for the summer, he was almost - almost - disappointed that he wouldn’t be able to take the Hogwarts Express back with everyone else.

(Not that he’d ever admit it, of course.)

479 glanced back over her shoulder as he climbed aboard, and hid her smile at the sight of him in black robes and a hat, his cat clutched tightly under one arm, his wand in his other hand, levitating his heavy trunk onto the ship after him.

“Did you have fun at school?” she quipped, and when he just looked at her without a word, she turned back to her controls, shrugging easily and still smiling to herself. “Welcome back, Wash.”

“Thanks,” he said, sighing, as he secured the trunk and sat down.

The pilot busied herself with liftoff procedures, and Wash looked out the window at the castle and the lake beside it, shrinking as they began to rise into the air.

“You missed a lot,” she commented as the ship ascended. “Connie’s been looking forward to you coming back for weeks.” She glanced over at him. “Don’t tell her I told you.”

“I won’t,” he said, and smiled, glancing down at the wand in his hand. “Maybe I’ll teach her a few spells. I think she’d like that.”

“That’s against regulations, you know,” 479 teased. “You don’t want the magic police coming after you.” Wash just laughed, and leaned back in his seat.

“I think we can take them.”