The following week while sitting around our dinner table eating breakfast and playing with Athena my mother declared, "It's time for you to begin your basic schooling so you'll be spending your mornings at your grandmothers."

I protested, "But, I can already read and write, what more do I need to learn?"

Mother rolled her eyes, "There is always more you can learn, and it will be good for you to spend some time with her and out of this house."

That's a low blow, mom, I thought to myself. Deciding that I needed a new strategy, I countered, "But you said that I could start helping you with your potion making."

She shook her head and responded, "I am about to begin brewing one of the most complicated potions there is, it takes over six months to brew, one mistake or slip up and the whole thing would be worthless. So I can't afford any distractions whatsoever."

Unable to help myself, I curiously replied, "What potion?"

She smiled, sensing that she had successfully distracted me, "Felix Felicis, otherwise known as liquid luck. If I can pull this off, it will bring in so many galleons that I will be able to relax over the next few years."

Hearing that there was a potion for luck, my jaw dropped in surprise. "Why don't more wizards make the Felix potion? Having a bottle of luck in your pocket seems like a useful thing to have." I questioned.

She replied with a proud look on her face, "Of course, everyone would like to have some, but I bet there are less than fifty potions masters in The United Kingdom who could brew the potion. Another consideration is the cost of ingredients, only wizards and witches who are very sure of their skill would try to make it, failure is too expensive. Not to mention, if you want to be able to sell your potion, you have to have your master potions license from the Ministry of Magic."

Confused about why someone would need a license, I asked, "Why would you need a license to make the potion?"

"Not to make, to sell," my mother corrected. Sensing the question I was about to ask, she continued, "Every potion that is sold is required to have a magical stamp on it that is registered to the potion maker by the Ministry. When a potion maker registers with the Ministry, they receive the mark. Officially, it guarantees that the potion maker is a qualified potions master, and the potion is safe for consumption."

"I am sensing a but coming," I replied

She smiled and tossed my hair, "Yes, registered potion makers have to re-register every five years to continue selling their potions, the fee is 100 galleons."

A confused expression appeared on my face; I demanded, "Why is it the Ministry's concern if someone is selling potions? I thought that their sole purpose is to make sure that wizards obey the Statute of Secrecy. The license sounds like the government invented it to make money."

She smirked at my outrage and replied, "You are a Fawley through and through. Your father and uncle sometimes go on and on about how the Ministry is constantly expanding its authority. Officially, It falls under their purview because an incorrectly brewed potion could theoretically break the Statute of Secrecy. All I will say on the subject is, would you want to drink a potion from someone you don't know? At least with the license you are somewhat secure in the knowledge that whoever made the potion knows what they are doing."

After mulling over her words for a few minutes, I pointed out the flaw in that logic, "Couldn't a potion master create his brand, and over time build trust with their customer base."

Her eyes dancing with mirth, she smirked and responded, "Wouldn't that be a good idea? But, then the ministry would miss out on all of those hard-earned galleons."

Deciding to shift the subject, I casually said, "Speaking of master potioneers, I met Anna Lancaster the other day, I think you are friends with her mom."

"Yes, she runs a very successful apothecary." Mom replied.

I continued, "She had a strange reaction when I talked about her mom. I think she assumed people didn't like her mother for some reason."

Mom sighed and said, "That's because she is a squib. Most witches and wizards don't like talking about squibs. One of the biggest fears in a wizard family is your child being a squib. Magic is such an everyday part of our lives; it can be difficult for squibs to remain in wizard society. Well, Barb wasn't going to let the fact she had almost no magic stop her. She was able to convince her grandmother to help her start an apothecary. She ran into some trouble from the Ministry, some of the people took issue with a squib having such a lucrative business and they argued that she had no place in our society."

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

"That couldn't have been easy," I replied, not knowing what else to say, and glad that I didn't mention that I thought that Anna was ashamed of her mom.

"Now stop trying to delay your schooling and head over to your grandmother." Mother shooed me out of the dining room towards the fireplace.

Grabbing Athena off the table, I made my way to the fireplace in the family room, while grumbling, "Fine, I'm going." After I made my way to the fireplace, my mother held out the glass bowl full of floo powder. Grabbing a handful and throwing towards the ground, I shouted, "Fawley cottage."

A green fire containing no heat erupted from the ground surrounding me, which yanked me from my house's fireplace and belched me out at my grandmother's fireplace. Coughing from inhaling all the surrounding ash and smoke, I stumbled out of the brick fireplace thinking, Whoever invented the floo network is seven parts crazy and three parts genius. I mean what kind of wizard looks around and says, “Oh well, since no one uses the fireplace for its intended purpose, I know! Let's use it for transportation, so it doesn't go to waste.” As cool as it is, I swear, when I come of age, I will learn to apparate, so I don't have to deal with all this ash and smoke.

A few minutes later, I heard my grandmother's voice, "head on back, dearie."

As I made my way through the wooden cottage, I noticed all the pictures that covered the grey colored walls waving at me as I passed. Some were of my grandparents when they were young; others had my dad and uncle running around in them. I even saw one of myself; let me tell you there is nothing weirder than finding a picture of yourself as a baby waving to you.

Finding my grandma in the back room, I noticed she had set up an old desk next to her that had a pile of parchment and several books.

She looked up and greeted me with a smile that all grandmothers develop. "Have a seat, and we'll get started."

Not wanting to sit through lessons about stuff I already know. So I bragged, "I have a near-perfect memory, it has helped me learn how to read and write, and even my numbers."

Without missing a beat, she smiled, pointed towards the quill, and said, "Show me."

I grabbed the feathered quill, dipped into the ink, and quickly wrote, Alexander Fawley, son of Henry and Camille Fawley, then I signed it and slid it over to her with a smug grin.

"Tsk. Tsk" came from my grandmother as she looked over my parchment. Grabbing a quill, she quickly wrote something and slid the paper back towards me with a smile, "Now try again."

Confused, grabbing the parchment, I looked at what she had written and saw in flawless calligraphy, Danielle Fawley, wife of George Fawley, and mother to Henry and John Fawley. Comparing the two styles was like comparing night to day, hers looked like it belonged on an invitation from royalty, whereas mine looked like chicken scratch.

After trying again, I slid the parchment across the table quickly trying to showcase my annoyance. Without so much as looking at it, she said, "When your words resemble mine perfectly, we can move forward." She looked me in my eyes and smiled sweetly "I'm sure a bright young man such as yourself will pick it up in no time."

Oh Grandma, what big eyes you have. Somehow grandmother's smile had morphed into something much more sinister. After wincing at the hand cramps to come, I began writing.

A few hours later, my grandmother peeked her head back into the room and decided to take pity on me, "That's enough for today."

Standing up quickly, not wanting to give her a chance to change her mind, I bolted from the back room. She followed and made a peace offering as we made our way to the living room, "Come on, it's time for lunch. Afterward, we can talk about anything you want."

Later, as we sat around the living room with the grandmother sitting in her favorite yellow chair and drinking her tea, I blurted out, "So why do my dad and uncle hate the Nimbus Racing Broom Company?"

A large sigh escaped her, setting her tea down, she responded, "That is a long and complicated story. Your grandfather was a brilliant wizard. Against his father's wishes, he started Fawley's Wonderous Enchantments. One of his biggest dreams was to design the fastest racing broom in the world. He dedicated his life to the project; then he met a fellow wizard by the name of Delvin Whithorn.

I gulped after feeling the room chill after she spoke his name, her eyes flashing dangerously. She continued, "Delvin wasn't a very talented wizard, but he had a good head for business and was able to get Fawley to bring him on as a partner. George would handle all the enchanting and designing, and Delvin would manage the business. For several years the business flourished, not only in Diagon Alley, but Delvin was able to take the business to greater heights. At one point, orders were coming in from all over Europe for their products."

Taking a deep breath, grandmother closed her eyes, and with a bitter look on her face, she continued. "Then one night, everything changed. When the death-eaters killed George in 1967, the whole business slid to a grinding halt. The warehouse where George did most of the work burned down a few nights later. Then six months later, Delvin Whithorn opened a new company and released the Nimbus 1000 and advertised that he created the fastest racing broom in the world."

Hearing the story aroused my suspicion, "Did Delvin have anything to do with the death eaters killing grandfather?" I questioned.

"Not that I could ever prove, his father had thrown a dinner party for some of the most influential members of the ministry, and Delvin was in attendance." She responded bitterly.

"How convenient for him," I sneered and continued. "But why was he able to get away with passing grandfather's work off as his own, shouldn't you have been able to go to the Ministry of Magic?"

She replied, "I don't know how, but he had somehow gotten George to sign over everything in a magical contract. Everything concerning the racing broom was compensation for making the business more successful. It was an overnight success, every professional quidditch team wanted the Nimbus series, and it quickly became the most in-demand broom in the world. Nobody was interested in George’s story, and that is why we do not fly any Nimbus products in our family." She finished.

Seeing tears form in my grandmother's eyes, I decided right then and there, that the Whithorns hadn't heard the last from my family, they would pay dearly for every one of my grandma's tears. I went over and gave her the biggest hug to comfort her, and so she couldn't see the anger in my eyes.