Work Text:
Islington, London - June 1936
-
Treville is the first person he meets.
They're running, pelting down the street as fast as they can, feet pounding cobbled streets urgently. He can just see Charon up ahead slipping effortlessly through the crowd whilst he and Flea are further back, ducking and weaving against the stream of workers heading home.
There's angry shouting from behind them and they put on a burst of speed, rounding the corner. He's starting to grin with the knowledge that they've outpaced their pursuers when suddenly something trips him and with a yelp, he tumbles forward.
Flea stumbles to a stop and looks at him anxiously but he waves her on.
"Go!" He hisses.
She turns reluctantly, her brilliant blonde hair flying behind her as she resumes her escape.
Porthos tries to stand only to find his legs are strangely locked together. He can't even twitch a toe. He can feel his breathing pick up as he fights down the panic clawing up his throat. He pulls himself over to one side of the street to rest his back against the worn brick wall, frantically feeling down his legs to try to find what's wrong.
There's the sound of a precise step to his right, and Porthos looks up in sudden fear, heart hammering loudly in his chest.
A man stands tall above him, dressed in a strange leather overcoat, and an old timey hat, complete with feather, tipped across his head. Beneath the wide brim, the stranger raises an eyebrow in inquiry, his voice low and serious as he asks, "Mister Duvallon I presume?"
Porthos blinks at him blankly for a few moments before remembering the name, like a distant whisper in the recesses of his mind. "...d’pends who’s askin’."
The man's expression doesn't change, but he taps a long thin stick of wood idly against his thigh, and suddenly Porthos can move his legs again. He gasps and hurriedly stands up, legs shaking with relief.
"I'm Professor Treville," the man continues in the same dry tone. "I'm hear to tell you about Hogwarts."
---
They head to the closest cafe, two doors down from where he'd fallen. The inside is worn and dingy, checkered tablecloths cover the tables and light inside covers everything in a thick glaring yellow.
Porthos eyes the sandwich that's been placed in front of him warily. "I won't go to no home. You can't make me."
Treville watches him calmly from across the table. "Lucky for you then that Hogwarts is not an orphanage. It's a boarding school."
His stomach rumbles, so Porthos reaches forward and begins carefully investigating the sandwich contents. "A school?" He snorts in disbelief. He’s heard orphanages called many things, but a boarding school is a new one. It’s not a great strategy, school holds no interest for him.
"Yes. A school for witches and wizards."
Porthos almost chokes on the bite he's just taken. "You're having a laugh."
"I assure you," the man says with a voice as dry as a barren patch of dirt in summer, "I am not."
" 'S'no such thing."
The man produces a thick envelope from within a coat pocket, and places it on the table. He hesitates for a moment before releasing it. "Can you read?"
Porthos glares at him defensively. "Yeah."
The man nods unapologetically. "Good. That will make things easier. How are you at numbers?"
Porthos takes a bite of his sandwich in sullen silence, refusing to answer. He can count of course. No good not knowing the value of a quid on the streets after all.
Treville points at the untouched envelope on the table. "You'll find more information in there." He gets up, placing his hat on the table before heading over to the cashier.
Porthos watches him go, his curiosity warring with his suspicion before eventually grabbing the envelope. It's fancy paper, nice and heavy but smooth. On the front in flowing green script is written:
Porthos Duvallon
Court of Miracles
London N1
United Kingdom
He traces the letters curiously. Whoever they are, they know about the Court, which is more than most caretakers do. Add to that they might not know exactly what street the court is located in, but they're close. Closer than most've guessed.
He flips the envelope over to the back to reveal a thick piece of wax sealing it together. A shield is pushed into the soft surface with animals holding up each corner. He rips open the envelope and looks inside.
By the time Treville has returned from his extended talk to the cashier, Porthos has read through the letter three times and the enclosed documents scanned quickly once.
He swallows past the sudden lump in his throat and puts the letter back on the table. "I'sa joke. It's not a funny one."
Treville sits back down in the booth and taps a finger on the paper. "Your mother put your name down on the list before you were born. She even set aside some money at Gringotts for you, just in case."
"My mother..."
"It's not much, but if you're clever with it you'll be able to cover your first year at least. After that the school has a stipend for students like yourself -"
"I'm not a charity case." He snaps, offended.
Treville peers at him with an intense stare. "I didn't say you were."
He hunches into himself, stuffing his hands in his worn jacket. There's a small hole in one pocket that he picks at distractedly.
"As I was saying," Treville continues, "there's a spot for you, if you want it. I can't make you take it, it's your choice."
His head is reeling with questions. "Say for a moment I believe you, say that it’s real an’ all. I don't know anything about magic..."
"You'll learn. And you know more than you think you do."
Porthos scoffs.
Treville shakes his head with a sigh. "That was a neat trick you performed this morning. Slowing those men behind you whilst you and your friends ran. Clever defensive work. I imagine you've quite the skill at going unnoticed through crowds. I'm sure you've had many close calls and unexplainable escapes, yes?"
He blinks, startled. "I didn't -" but the words have conjured up memories of times he, Charon, and Flea have gotten away when they shouldn't have: of situations that at the time he'd shrugged off as good luck.
Treville nods and gathers up his hat, placing it carefully back on his head. "Think on it. I'll be here in a week's time should you like to accept."
Porthos looks at the strange man who’s appeared out of nowhere and offered him a different life, one he didn’t know he wanted. He’s not in the habit of trusting people straight off - after all, it pays to be cautious at the Court, - but even though he shouldn't there's something about this stranger that Porthos instinctively trusts.
"What do you think I should do?" He blurts suddenly.
Treville halts on his way to the door and turns back to study him. He tilts his head to one side. "I think you should accept. Your life is about to change Mr Duvallon, regardless of what you choose. I can however promise you that this choice," he points at the letter still laid out on the table, "is one that will bring you opportunities you could never even dream of."
The man tips his hat to him in farewell, before turning and leaving the cafe.
Porthos watches him disappear down the road, lost amongst the busy London street. Even after the man has long since left, he sits quietly for some time, and dares himself to dream.