Chapter 27

"In a small locked tower, never visited by any student at Hogwarts, sits an ancient book that has not been touched by human hands since the four founders placed it there on completion of the castle. Beside the book, which is bound in peeling black dragon-hide, stands a small silver inkpot and from this protrudes a long, faded quill. These are the Quill of Acceptance and the Book of Admittance and they constitute the only process by which students are selected for Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

If anybody understands what powerful and long-lasting magic causes this book and quill to behave as they do, they have never confessed to it, doubtless because it saves the staff tedious explanations to parents who are furious that their children have not been selected for Hogwarts. The Book and Quill's decision is taken as final and no child has ever been admitted whose name has not first been inscribed on the book's yellowing pages.

At the precise moment that a child first exhibits signs of magic, the Quill, which is believed to have been taken from an Augurey, floats up out of its inkpot and attempts to inscribe the name of that child upon the pages of the Book. Augurey feathers are known to repel ink and the inkpot is empty; nobody has ever managed to analyze precisely what the silvery fluid flowing from the enchanted Quill is.

Those few who have observed the process agree that the Quill might be judged more lenient than the Book. A mere whiff of magic suffices for the Quill. The Book, however, will often snap shut, refusing to be written upon until it receives sufficiently dramatic evidence of magical ability.

In fact, the Book's sternness has a purpose: its track record in keeping Squibs out of Hogwarts is perfect. Non-magic children born to witches and wizards occasionally have some small, residual aura of magic about them due to their parents, but once their parents' magic has worn off them it becomes clear that they will never have the ability to perform spells. The Quill's sensitivity, coupled with the Book's implacability, have never yet made a mistake. - R. Joanne"

Minerva McGonagall was having a perfectly fine day. The article she was reading about the process of admissions was a well detailed and well researched one, and although not entirely accurate, got a lot of the important parts right.

She sipped absently at her scotch as she turned to look at one of her personal enchanted quills go to work on a stack of parchment as it wrote down the last of the letters to the accepted students for the year. It was magically connected to the Book of Admittance, using its magic to jot down their names and their addresses down to the last detail onto the envelope. The quill had been responsible for a lot of muggleborn rejections every year for quite a while, since most of them found it strange and creepy how accurately the letters knew their location. But the quill resisted any attempts at modification. It was a stickler for its own rules.

So McGonagall routinely went through and erased most of the personal details that the quill may have written down. It wasn't part of her job, but she did it out of a sense of duty to those muggleborn magicals that deserved a chance at harnessing their abilities and having a future in a place where they belonged.

With a sigh she placed down her scotch on the table in front of her. She had been drinking too much as of late. Memories of the war at its worst came more naturally at this time of the year, when the conflict would have been at its prime all those years back, and with those memories came the thoughts of her husband and her DMLE friends who had given their lives in the war, sending her into a drinking spiral that Albus Dumbledore often had to come and put a stop to.

And then there was Harry Potter.

She told herself that to treat him different from any other student would be a disservice to both him and herself. But how could she treat the son of James and Lily like any other student? But she would try, she promised herself. She had her regrets letting Dumbledore place him with those muggles. Every year she would go and check up on him every year, always finding him a bit too small for his age, wearing clothes thrice his size and working in the garden most of the time.

But hindsight was twenty-twenty. Besides, she had felt the blood wards around Surrey-felt them assess her worth and intent before letting her pass through. Harry Potter was untouchable in those wards. There was no doubt about that. And if anything was worth her suffering and guilt, it was Harry's safety.

McGonagall went to pick up her scotch for one last swig.

Perhaps in an alternate reality, where she was more inebriated than she was now, she would have pushed her tumbler off the table and into the ground, shattering it. Then, more irritated than before, she wouldn't have looked over that last batch of letters and would have waved her wand at them, spelling them away to the Post room directly which delegated Professors to handle the muggleborn and owled the rest of the letters to be posted.

However, in this reality, she took a swig and placed the tumbler back down without an incident and went over to the letter stack to look over the letters. After erasing the bedroom numbers off of the addresses of two muggleborn children, she finally came down to the youngest student of the year.

Confusion, guilt, and anger tore at her in a violent maelstrom of emotion as she looked down at the letter in her hand.

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