Finn Featherstone: Mischief & Magic

The Paperclip Prophecy (Book 1)

Okay, here we go. Deep breath. (I do that a lot. Breathing is free, at least.)

The chipped Formica tabletop felt sticky under my elbows. Probably orange juice. Or maybe just general lunchroom grossness. Honestly, I try not to think about it. Thinking is exhausting. Especially when you're trying not to think about the fact that you're currently failing History of Ancient Runes. Again.

Mrs. Periwinkle kept saying I needed to "engage with the text." Which, as far as I can tell, means actually read the text. Problem is, the words won't sit still. They drift. They swap places when I'm not looking. I can get through a page, eventually, but it takes approximately seventeen years. And a lot of squinting.

My best friend, Esme, sat across from me, happily demolishing a sandwich that smelled suspiciously of pickles and potion ingredients. She's a whiz at potions. Terrifyingly good. Explosions are frequent. But she's also the only person who doesn't make me feel like a total screw-up.

"You look like you're wrestling with existential dread," she said, mouth full. "Bad runes again?"

"Worse," I mumbled, poking at a stray french fry. "I think Mrs. Periwinkle is starting to suspect I'm faking being able to read."

Esme snorted. "You're a terrible liar, Finn. It's a gift, really. And honestly, who likes Ancient Runes? It's just a bunch of squiggly lines pretending to be words."

"Squiggly lines that are on the test," I reminded her gloomily. "And if I fail this test, my parents will send me to summer school. And summer school at Aethelred Academy is basically extra runes. It's a vicious cycle, Esme. A vicious cycle."

The lunchroom doors burst open, and Barnaby Croft swaggered in, followed by a small crowd of admirers. Barnaby is everything I am not. Confident. Brilliant. Able to conjure fireballs before breakfast. He also happens to be the most irritatingly perfect student in the entire school.

He spotted me and gave a smirk that could curdle milk. "Featherstone. Still battling the alphabet, I see?"

I clenched my jaw. "Very funny, Croft. Some of us aren't naturally gifted at everything."

"Some of us actually try," he countered, then turned to Esme. "Bellweather. Still perfecting your unique aromas?"

Esme rolled her eyes but managed a cheerful grin. "Always! I'm working on a self-stirring soup potion. It's a work in progress."

Barnaby laughed, loud enough to rattle the windows. "I can imagine. I'd suggest a fireproof apron."

He and his crew swept past, leaving a trail of smugness behind them. I slumped lower in my chair. Being magically average in a school full of magic is challenging. My only real talent is kind of embarrassing. I can slightly levitate small, lightweight objects. Paperclips, mostly. I'm pretty good at paperclips. It's not exactly the stuff of legends.

The bell shrieked, mercifully ending lunch. As we walked toward Charms, a tiny, flustered owl landed on my shoulder. It carried a letter. A very official-looking letter, sealed with a crest I didn't recognize.

"What's that?" Esme asked, peering at the owl. "You don't usually get fan mail, Finn."

"I don't even get mail," I said, carefully taking the letter. The owl blinked at me with surprisingly intelligent eyes, then took off with a frustrated hoot.

The envelope was thick, made of strange parchment. The crest was silver: a coiled serpent wrapped around a single glowing feather. It looked important. And slightly ominous.

I ripped it open with trembling fingers. The handwriting was elegant and swirling, the ink a deep, shimmering purple.

To Mr. Finn Featherstone,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been selected to receive a special summons to the Office of the Headmaster, Silas Thorne. Your presence is requested at your earliest convenience. Please be advised that this matter is of the utmost importance and concerns a long-forgotten prophecy.

Yours sincerely,

*Professor ...