Seven Pieces

When Dani Roldán’s letter from the High Tower School arrived, his mother, who was a baker, read it three times looking for the catch. His father, a plumber, just said: “If they fix things with magic, they can teach me.” There had never been a wizard in the whole family. Not one witch. Not even a strange uncle.

That was why Dani didn’t understand his classmates. They moaned about everything: the broomsticks, which were heavy; the books, which were enormous; and, above all, Spell Theory, which Gonzalo said was “the most boring thing in the history of magic”. Dani, on the other hand, thought it was the coolest thing in the world. He had read the Theory book twice; the second time out loud, to his father, who took notes.

That Thursday was the mending exam. Mistress Ubalda reminded them of the book’s three rules: the mending spell doesn’t invent anything, so all the pieces must be there; you have to name the object for what it is, not for what it looks like; and nothing can be mended by magic if it was broken on purpose.

Then she took out a white cup, raised it above her head and, staring at it, opened her hand. The cup smashed into pieces on the floor. The teacher picked them up one by one, counted them out loud and placed them on her desk. “Seven. None missing. You have ten minutes.”

Iris tried first: “Cup, be a cup again!” Nothing. Gonzalo tried twice, louder each time. Nothing. The pieces didn’t even tremble. “It’s faulty,” Gonzalo complained. “Or magic just doesn’t work on Thursdays.”

Dani didn’t take out his wand. He stared at the seven pieces, and then at the teacher, who was smiling slightly. He picked up his pen and wrote a single sentence on the exam paper.