Summary:
It wasn't enough that she was reborn an orphan with adult memories. No, Sylvia also had to be reborn into the bloody Wizarding World. Now a witch on her way to Hogwarts she'll have to decide whether or not to put her knowledge to the use. But really, what did she owe these people, anyway?
Chapter 1Chapter Text
It took me seven years to find myself.
There were flashes at first, half remembered figments of another life, in another country. Memories from another girl. An older girl: an adult. They would hit me when I was learning to read, when I saw something on the telly or as I was taught the names of animals and objects. The meaning of a word, the ending of a story my foster parents were telling me... it would simply form up in my mind. As if I had known it all along and was merely remembering it again, not learning it for the first time.
I graduated quickly from picture books and learning to count to additions and subtractions, from baby talk and scribbles to speaking in full sentences and using crayons to write down my own name –Sylvia Sarramond— in large, round letters.
And even in those early years, when the only thing I had were those blurry flashes of insight, I understood I was different. I just didn't know how different. How large the gulf that separated me from the other boy my age and living under the same roof was. I didn't know how far ahead I was. Not until my foster parents caught me reading 'Bridge to Terabithia' at the tender age of four years old.
I knew then, when I heard the adults talking about me, using words like 'gifted' and 'precocious'. Words that held the keys to new memories, new impossible moments that I couldn't have lived, shouldn't remember. I didn't know if this was really what being 'precocious' meant, but somehow I suspected it wasn't. That there was something more to my oddness, some hidden mystery than even my foster parents weren't privy to.
Things started to change, then. I was moved to a different foster family, for reasons that none of the adults in my life felt necessary to tell me. Perhaps the couple that had taken me at first realized I was too strange, too different from what they'd envisioned a foster child to be. But whatever the reason was, it was a change for the better: my new school gave me some more advanced lessons, and my new foster parents allowed me access to a set of pre-approved young adult books —without pictures!— and overall did their best to encourage my independence and discover my potential.
I enjoyed that. Except for the piano lessons, which sucked. But I enjoyed the rest. It felt good, being the smartest kid in this new home, this new school. Even if I held that dark shadow of suspicion that there was more to the story, that I was somehow cheating my way through life and someday I'd need to pay the price for that.
But neither the teachers at school nor the adults seemed to find anything amiss. Just a promising, gifted orphan girl. My excellent grades seemed to please my foster parents, and I —precocious as I was— milked it for all it was worth. Toys and TV shows and a new backpack, and whatever I wished for as long as I could come up with a way to tie it —even tangentially— to my so-called potential. That was how I got my favourite plushie, Miss Bumbles, because I saw it on a shop's shelf one day in passing, pointed at it, spouted a couple of factoids about bees and looked back at my foster mother with puppy eyes.
And I guess that's where things started taking a turn for the worse, too, even though it took some time for me to realize —talk about being gifted! Because I was sharing that home with two other boys that had already been there a year or so before I arrived —foster kids too, both of them— and that didn't seem to enjoy my special treatment all that much. If at all.
It all started with name-calling: 'nutter' and 'arse-face', and soon escalated to light bullying. Pushing and shoving, mostly, because we were five and they weren't all that bright, truth be told.
It quickly got worse, though.
I was six when it happened. The Americans were launching a rocket, and Elliot wanted to watch it live on the telly. I didn't, and I could tell that my foster parents weren't too enthused about it either. But when I tried to argue for the merits of The Goonies my foster mother told me that we had already watched Doctor Who the evening before, and today it was Elliot's turn. Which, fair point, woman, fair point.
So we were all there in the living room: my foster parents, Elliot, Miles, Miss Bumbles and grumbling me, watching the countdown as the space shuttle waited on the launchpad, a white silhouette against clear blue sky. And then, one of those fore-memories, one of those strange flashes hit me. And I said, not even processing why: "It's going to blow up."
"Now Sylvia," said my foster mother, brow furrowed. "That's not a very nice thing to say, is it?"
I shrugged.
"You wouldn't like someone saying those things about something you enjoy, now would you? So why don't you apologize to Elliot, then?"
I sighed, turned to the kid next to me and mumbled: "Sorry I said bad things about the stupid rocket."
"Sylvia..."
"It's not a rocket!" he replied. "It's a shuttle!"
"Whatever."
"Sylvia-" started my foster father. But then the countdown hit ten and we all shut up, and it went all the way down to zero, and we watched as the shuttle rose into the air atop a column of smoke, all fire and unthinkable power.
And then it blew up.
It took a moment to register, even for me, who by this point was getting used to those moments of insight being always accurate. But I hadn't expected this one to be true, not really. And there were a few seconds of confusion, as we all looked at the screen wondering if this was somehow the normal procedure. Except we all knew it wasn't. And then they all turned to look at me.
That was when I got to collect a new word for my growing list of adjectives, courtesy of Elliot: 'freak'.
My foster parents rationalized it, of course. Thought it was nothing more that a bad taste joke made with exceptionally poor timing. But Elliot and Miles, you would think I had single-handedly destroyed the rocket myself the way they treated me afterwards.
I would soon find my notes from school torn apart, or my grown-up books defaced. And, because something —not one of those fore-memories this time, just a sense of foreboding— told me that if I allowed those attacks to go on unopposed they would only get worse and worse, I of course retaliated.
My life became a constant struggle, then, the foster home a battleground. My lunch would get lost, and Miles would find his backpack covered in chalk dust. My favourite shirt would suddenly sport a chocolate stain, and Elliot's racing car would go missing its front wheels.
Sometimes we would get more physical: subtle kicks and harder shoves when the adults weren't looking. I learned how you could get a bruise from being pushed into a chair; Miles learned exactly how sharp I liked to keep my pencils.
So it was during the worst phase of this conflict —ongoing for almost a year by that point— that I hit the seven year marker, and all hell got loose.
What had been a trickle before then, a steady flow of memories that came whenever I was doing something new —which, to be fair, was pretty much everyday, being a kid and all that— suddenly turned into a deluge the day of my birthday. A stream of images, sounds and smells. Names and experiences and books I had read and places I had visited and skills I had mastered. As if someone had plugged a firefighter's hose straight into my skull, my brain a weary sponge trying to catch every single drop.
It hurt, and it was confusing, and my vision swam. That day I gathered enough strength to stand up and walk out of my bedroom, and put together some rubbish story about having stomach cramps to get out of going to school. But it turned out to be unnecessary: my foster parents took a look at my feverish self and declared I would stay in bed.
So I crawled back under the blankets and collapsed into a heap of limbs, my strength completely drained after the brief conversation. My eyes hurt, so I closed them, but I couldn't escape the cascade of images. My ears sent weird signals to my brain —half remembered words and hallucinated names. I tossed and turned, wishing it would stop, asking for mercy. But it never did, and I just couldn't escape, couldn't close my mind to all that... all that meaning.
Eventually I fell asleep, and by the next morning the river had finally stilled, turned into more of a lake. No more images rushing into my head, just a massive pile of memories to sort through and put together, like the pieces of a jumbo puzzle. And without any input on my part, my brain set to the task of its own volition.
For the next week I barely maintained my basic functions. I breathed and walked and ate food and replied in monosyllabic words, all while my mind went into overdrive. But my foster parents judged it good enough to send me back to school —hey, at least I was alive enough that I could handle going to the toilet— and so it was at Mrs. Grace's class when things finally clicked. When all those fragments came together, stringing themselves almost effortlessly into a coherent narrative.
That of a girl who had been born some years into the future, in a different country. Who had grown up into a teenager, then an adult woman. And then, once she hit her late twenties, nothing. A fade to black. To me.
Reincarnation, maybe. With time travel somehow thrown into the mix for good measure.
It was, to be clear, absolutely bonkers. I must have lost it, during that fever, my brain somehow going nuts from the stress of it. But no matter how I looked at it, the fidelity of my fore-memories, the amount of details from my past life, was too solid to discount as a dream. It felt like I knew things, and I knew that I knew them. And I knew that this was what the adults had mistaken as me being a genius. But I wasn't one, not really. I was just... remembering stuff, rather than learning it.
I did test the new memories, though. In the best way possible: one night I got out of bed at about 1 a.m., when everyone in my foster home was already asleep and walked downstairs to the living room. I turned on the telly and put 'The Shining' into the VHS player, and watched the movie at the lowest volume possible.
It was the perfect test, because it was a movie I knew I had never watched in this new life —hey, we were eleven, so no way our foster parents would've allowed us to watch it!— but that I remembered well enough from the before memories. So I had written down some of the scenes and plot points I could recall into a piece of paper ahead of time, and that way if the movie ended up following that script, I would know the memories were real.
It was also the perfect test because no matter what, I got to watch a forbidden movie. So there was that too.
I ended up skipping ahead, in the end, too wired up to wait for the movie to get on with the exposition, instead looking for those moments described in my by then crumpled paper —my heart beating like crazy in my chest. And sure as hell, all work and no play still made Jack a dull boy, and REDRUM was written on the wall, and the lift still released a full wave of blood all over the lobby when its doors opened.
So it was real, then.
I remember being in shock, after that. The sudden weight of the realization of all I had lost hitting me at once: my family, my brother, my crush, my whole future. My life.
I had lost my life. I had died.
I must have emitted some sound, then. Some sort of keening, wailing cry. Because the next thing I remember is my foster father standing in the living room, towering over me as he scolded me for getting out of bed to watch scary movies on my own, and that it served me well if I had nightmares now and couldn't sleep.
I crushed the paper note further, pretended he was right about the reason for my distress, and went back to bed. And sure, I didn't sleep much that night, or the nights after, but not because I was scared.
No, I was grieving.
My own passing, that is. The loss of my old life. The loss of my independence.
And that's when things really took a nosedive. Because now that I could remember being an adult, living on my own and driving a car by myself, many of the daily things I had never paid too much mind to suddenly became unbearably grating. And I started arguing back: about the age restrictions in shows, movies and books, about what I was allowed to wear, about my bedtime and how often I should wash my hair, even about how the food pyramid thing was a complete scam.
And so in the eyes of my foster parents I might have still been precocious and gifted, sure, but now I also displayed challenging behaviour, whatever that meant.
It all came to a head when I was eight and Miles decided to tear off Miss Bumbles' wings. That time things got proper physical, with punches and hair pulling and all the rest; and by the end of it Miles went rolling down the stairs, breaking a tooth in the process. He claimed I had somehow 'glued his legs together', which of course I hadn't, because that was absurd.
I pointed out there was no glue at all on his trousers, but for whatever reason —maybe because they were tired of my so-called stubbornness and the daily fights, or maybe because a layer of unease had always remained wrapped around me after the rocket incident, like a cloud of pestilence hanging over my head— my foster parents took the side of the little devil spawn. And now my behaviour was not only challenging, but also 'violent'.
I was moved out of that foster home soon after that, the powers that be deciding that maybe placing me in a new environment where I was the only kid around would help pacify me. It might have worked, if they hadn't also decided I needed more discipline.
They placed me under the severe watch of Mrs. Coverdale and her husband, and we bounced against each other as hard as humanly possible. No, I don't need to do my homework, I already know how to do fractions thank-you-very-much. No, I don't want to play the bloody piano. No, there's nothing wrong with watching the telly while I brush my teeth, I have been doing it for twenty-five years. No, I don't understand what's 'improper' about an asymmetrical haircut, you fossilized prude.
That lasted for a total of five hellish, abominable months; until one day I was grounded to my room —I wanted to go watch Beetlejuice with a girl at school I found tolerable; Mrs. Coverdale thought the movie was 'completely inappropriate'; I told her she was also completely inappropriate as a foster mother and yet here we were.
I was pacing up and down my room like a caged animal, reliving the discussion in my head time and time again and thinking of all the witty retorts I could have spat back to her, and all the little things I could do to get up her nose, so to speak, when I noticed a burning smell coming out of my bed.
Surprised, I approached it and removed the bedspread only to discover that the bedsheet underneath was on fire. I panicked, tried to remove the bedsheet, and the flames jumped to the curtain and from there up to the off-green wallpaper —which I had told Mrs. Coverdale was a fire hazard waiting to happen. That was when I legged it downstairs, screaming at the top of my lungs.
One visit of the fire brigade later, and I was considered guilty without even a trial: the fire that had devoured much of the second story of the Coverdales' home had started in my bed, after all, right when I was in the room, grounded and angry. And it sure didn't help that I had a history of 'challenging and violent behaviour'.
So no more foster families for me; they sent me to the Residence.
When they first told me they'd be sending me to the Residence, I could almost hear the capitalization in the word. And I knew enough from my fore-memories to intuit that the system was giving up on me, that I had inadvertently crossed some sort of red line and was apparently now considered too much of a hassle.
But in the end, it was the best thing to happen to me. If I had known it, I'd have burnt Mrs. Coverdale's house much sooner —not that I did, but I would have.
The Residence was a large, two-storied house in London —actually, Brentwood, but who's keeping count— that housed somewhere between seven to ten problematic children, along with a staff of three adults led by an older woman the kids there had nicknamed 'the Giraffe', on account of her being all legs and neck.
The staff was... okay-ish? They were better than the Coverdales at least —though that wasn't saying much. But since there were more kids than staff, they didn't have time to watch our every move and I did enjoy a higher degree of independence, funnily enough.
I was placed in a room with another girl two years younger than me named Astrid, who never ventured more than two feet into the corridor outside without dragging her comfort blanket with her. And it only took me a couple of nights there to discover that in at least half the cases, 'problematic' actually meant 'abused'.
Which wasn't to say they didn't act out, or that I never clashed with them. They did, and I did. But this was not another Elliot-and-Miles' situation. Because while they quickly realized I was a freak, somehow that was tempered by the knowledge that we were all freaks, in the end. That all of us under that roof were either too different, or too broken for the normal system. That most of us would never be adopted or go back to foster families. And that gave us a sort of camaraderie.
So I settled, and started to consider my future. The more I thought about it, the more I realized being reborn was sort of a blessing, truth be told. I had filled a page of my personal notebook with words like 'Facebook', 'Apple' and 'coin', and if my plans came to fruition I knew I'd be able to enjoy a life I had only been able to dream about, back in my fore-memories.
But I still missed it, my old life, my old family. So a few weeks ahead of my eleventh birthday I skittered at night into the Giraffe's office —a room downstairs wrapped in filing cabinets and that contained a desk perennially covered in sheets of paper and small booklets, with one of those old beige computers on its corner— and walked up to the phone receiver there.
Then, I dialled in a number, one I still remembered from my adult memories. I had wanted to do this ever since that seventh birthday, but I'd had to wait. They would've only moved into the house I remembered after my birth.
The tone ringed once, twice, three times; and I was already losing hope when I heard noise at the other end of the line.
"Allo?" asked a raspy woman voice, as if she'd just woken up from her sleep. Which was probably the case.
I had planned words, things I wanted to say. But the moment I heard her voice, they all flew out of my mind. I just stood there, almost gasping for air.
"Allo? Qu'est-ce?" she asked, her patience thinning.
"C'est... c'est Sophie." My own words came almost as a whisper. I just wanted to keep her talking, to keep hearing her voice.
"Sophie? Quelle Sophie?" Her voice was younger than I remembered.
'Your daughter', I wanted to say. But I didn't, because I could hear the growing suspicion in her tone. And I could hear the cry of a baby, somewhere in the background. A baby that could be no other than me. Old me.
Oh, fuck this.
"Désolée!" I blurted out. "Mauvais numéro!" and I promptly crashed the receiver back in place with more force than strictly necessary, ending the call.
So I had been replaced.
Not really, I guessed. It was simply... my former self was still there, living her life, unaware of what had happened. It wasn't her fault I had been... what? Sent back in time? Reborn into a different body, one that looked completely different to my old one? Whatever.
And yet it still felt as if I'd been replaced and forgotten about; couldn't help it. As if I was a copy. The discard. Now I was on my own.
"Sylvia?"
I almost jumped in the air at the sudden voice, turning to see the silhouette of Astrid watching me from the office's open door. She had her blanket draped over her head and shoulders like one of those old-fashioned grandmas.
"Shit!" I whispered, pressing my hand against my chest to still my heart. "What are you doing outside the room, you bloody chipmunk?"
She narrowed her eyes. "What are you doing here? The Giraffe is going to ground you for months!"
"Shh! Keep it down! And how is she going to know, uh? Are you going to tell?"
She shrugged. "Maybe?"
I crossed my arms, unimpressed. "If you do, I'll tell everyone who it was that dropped the Gameboy and broke it. Mutually assured destruction, ever heard of that?"
"But you know that was an accident!"
"Shh! Do you think Charles is going to care? No, he'll be all 'you broke it, you pay for it'."
"That's stupid," she mumbled, entering fully into the room. "I can't pay anything if we don't have any money, can I? What were you doing here?"
"Nothing... just making a phone call."
"A phone call? To who?" Then she paused for a moment, as if she was putting two and two together, and added with a trembling voice: "To your parents?"
I sighed. Astrid's parents had died a few years ago in an unspecified accident —she hadn't told any of us, and I didn't dare ask her— the blanket the only reminder she kept from her previous life. The topic of parents with her was like taking a stroll across a landmine field, you never knew when an off-hand remark would trigger a full-on panic attack. The first time it happened with me in the room, for a moment I thought I had inadvertently broke the girl or something.
"Yes, but it didn't amount to anything," I said, waving my hand. "Just wanted to give it a try, I suppose. Come on, let's go back to-"
But it was too late. The light from the corridor outside came on and we heard ominous steps approaching. Astrid moved quickly, taking refuge in the gap behind the office's door. I, however, wasn't so lucky. I was standing right in the middle of the room, and would need to walk around the desk itself to hide behind it. So instead, I just flattened myself against the row of filing cabinets and hoped whoever it was would just walk by the door and not see my silhouette if they didn't look too closely.
But of course, the Giraffe then entered the office and switched on the lights. And there I was, standing like an idiot, my back to the cabinets, staring straight at her.
I froze, waiting for the inevitable scolding, but then something odd happened: her eyes just roved across the whole room, not once stopping on me —despite my totally conspicuous presence. It was as if she had developed a blind spot that just happened to completely cover me. Or maybe she'd been a T-Rex all along and could only see movement. Or perhaps I had turned into a human chameleon or something. But I didn't dare even moving my head to look at my own skin, just in case the T-Rex hypothesis turned out to be the correct one.
Leaning out behind the door, Astrid's expression seemed one of surprise, her eyes wide open as she looked at me.
Then, the Giraffe turned, switched off the lights, and walked out of the office, closing the door in her wake.
I waited two, five seconds, then released the breath I'd been holding and stepped away from the wall of furniture. Immediately, I heard Astrid's sharp intake.
"Sylvia?! What... was that?!"
"Shh!"
"You were there! And then I looked away for a moment and when I looked back you just... weren't?"
I turned to look back at my hiding spot. A trick of the light, perhaps? Maybe a shadow or something I'd failed to notice.
"Just lucky, I guess," I said, shrugging. "Come on, let's go back now."
I cracked the door open, took a glance at the dark and calm corridor outside, and turned to signal Astrid to follow me. She did, but not before giving me a suspicious look from under her blanket. She didn't say a word again as we returned to our shared room and went back to sleep.
The next few days she was still acting a bit cold towards me, not saying much and giving me significant glances now and then, quickly averting her eyes when I looked back at her and rose my eyebrows. But soon enough things seemed to go back to normal, the near miss at the office seemingly forgotten. And a few weeks later it was already summer, school was over, and life at the Residence became much more sedate.
Not to say we spent all day just lazing about. The staff liked to keep us active and focused, so there was housework aplenty: cooking —which was okay, but I never enjoyed it— and moping floors, and even weeding the tiny garden behind the house —which I definitely hated. And perhaps if it'd been Mrs. Coverdale ordering me to get dirt under my fingernails I'd have rebelled against it, but at least the Residence's staff framed it in terms of shared responsibility rather than pure discipline, and allowed us to switch chores among each other if we so wished.
Aside to that, they also kept us busy with activities: trips to nearby parks and museums, to the zoo and what not. It was after one of those outings —to the movies; the two oldest kids were allowed to watch 'Terminator 2', but the rest of us were unjustly forced into 'The Rocketeer' instead which... ugh!— that I was called to the Giraffe's office.
I approached with certain trepidation. During my stay at the Residence I'd learnt that nothing good ever came out of being summoned to the office, so I wondered which of my recent relatively minor transgression was behind this call. I had nicked a bag of gummy bears at the cinema, after all, but I was confident nobody saw me, and security cameras weren't a commonplace thing yet in 1991. So I doubted that was the reason.
I heard voices talking inside as I approached the door, so I stopped to listen before knocking.
"-and very precocious, yes-," that was the Giraffe. "-could even say gifted. Although her behaviour-"
For a moment, I feared I knew what this was about: a new foster family. After all, the staff was always going on about stays at the Residence being temporary, and that once whatever issue a kid had had been fixed, they'd be placed back into the foster system. In practice, few issues were so simple that they could be fixed at all. But I knew I was calmer as of lately than I'd been in my foster years, and there had been no more fires or violent incidents, so perhaps they'd judged me well behaved enough.
And that would be terrible, because I preferred it here, staff and all. Being among a larger group paradoxically granted me more freedom at the Residence that I had enjoyed at foster homes. That was the main reason I felt better, and the stupid Giraffe was about to ruin it all again for me.
So I gritted my teeth and barged straight into the office, not even bothering to knock on the door; determined to put a stop to whatever plot they were weaving in there for my future. If she was selling that I had mellowed out... well, they were in for a surprise.
The Giraffe paused the moment I entered, reacting with a thunderous look at the interruption; but she recovered quickly, smiled and signalled with her hand at the old man sitting on the chair in front of the desk.
"Sylvia; we were just talking about you," she said. "This gentleman is the Headmaster of a very prestigious boarding school, in which you have been accepted for the upcoming year."
A boarding school? That gave me pause. The gentleman in question was old, so much so that I would have figured him to already be a pensioner. He sported a dense and long white beard, half moon glasses, and wore a brown corduroy suit that would have looked old-fashioned even in the fifties.
"Ah, yes," he said, his voice gentle and deceptively deep. He gave me a friendly smile. "Miss Sarramond, it's good to meet you at last. My name is Albus Dumbledore."
Chapter 2Chapter Text
Dumbfounded.
Yes, if I'd had to put my reaction in a word, that would've been it: dumbfounded.
I just stood there and stared at the old man. The first thought was that surely I must have misheard, so I asked: "Uh... I didn't catch your name?"
"Dumbledore. Albus Dumbledore."
Oh.
The next thought was that this had to be a joke. Except that the Harry Potter books hadn't been released yet, and wouldn't be for a few more years, so it was too early for this joke. And the thought that maybe my fore-memories were wrong, or that I'd been fooled into believing I'd been reincarnated didn't even cross my mind: I had verified their authenticity —and that of the world around me— quite often enough to be sure by then of the true nature of both my own pasts, and that it indeed was 1991.
So not a joke, then.
The third thought —and I arrived there after a full five seconds of awkward silence– was that perhaps the character in Harry Potter had been based off a real person. That perhaps there had existed some real school in Britain whose headmaster's name was 'Dumbledore', back in the early 90s.
Sure, let's go with that.
"That's a- um... an unusual name, no?" I asked.
"Sylvia!" muttered the Giraffe, appalled.
But the old man simply let out a soft laugh. "Indeed, indeed it is! Please, sit down," he replied, motioning me towards the only empty chair in the office. Then, he turned back to the Giraffe: "My sincerest apologies, Mrs. Sherwin, but perhaps it would be best if I were to speak with Miss Sarramond privately. I assure you, we shall of course remain in the realm of utmost decorum."
That was a dismissal if I ever heard one, and I was sure the Giraffe would refuse being asked out of her own office. But she surprised me by nodding enthusiastically and vacating the room, closing the door after her and leaving me alone with the strange old man.
"Ah, I almost forgot," he said, producing a large envelope out of the depths of his antique jacket and handing it out to me. "I believe this is for you, Miss Sarramond."
I picked it up, with red alarms blaring inside my head. It was addressed to: Sylvia Sarramond. Room #3, The Hauxwell Youth Residence. 211th Willcox Street, Brentwood.
"Please, do not hesitate to open it," said Dumbledore, giving me an encouraging nod after I remained frozen with the envelope in my hands for a few too many beats. "I have a feeling you might find its contents rather interesting."
Oh, shit.
I took a deep breath and opened the envelope, extracting the letter inside. And sure enough...
"Hogwarts," I mumbled, reading. "Wizardry."
"The finest school of magic, if I may humbly say so. Now, might you be interested in a modest demonstration?" he asked, producing a thin stick of wood —a wand, a magic wand! Dumbledore's magic wand!— out of another of his pockets. "I have found that young students raised by Muggles, as it is your case, often enjoy such displays."
"Uh... a demonstration would be nice, sure," I replied. Because having memories from a previous adult life was one thing, so familiar by this point that it felt perfectly natural; but discovering the world of a fantasy book series was real... that was another matter entirely. One that demanded more proof than a parchment letter and an old man's word. And I was still half hoping this all was some sort of joke.
He aimed his wand at the sheets of papers spread around the desk, and they all flew into their proper folders, stacking themselves neatly on top of each other. Another piece of paper folded itself into the shape of a little origami bird and took a wide circle around the room, flapping its paper wings as it flew over our heads. It landed on my knee, then jumped onto my hand when I reached to touch it.
"Right," I said, moving the little bird closer to my face, examining it as it pretended to preen its non-existing feathers. "So... it's real."
By which I really meant to say... the story, the book, the whole thing.
"Indeed, magic is real. And you are a witch yourself, Sylvia, possessing magic within you. Do you perhaps recall any peculiar events in your past? Things that you couldn't quite explain, happening around you?"
I snorted. Peculiar? Like knowing the future, or being dropped straight into a fictional story? Oh, boy, if only he knew.
Which reminded me of a little something called legilimency: that the apparently kind man in front of me was supposed to be able to read your thoughts merely by looking into your eyes.
I averted my gaze, trying to make it look as if I was trying to remember. "I guess that means I did burn down the Coverdales' house, after all," I said.
He gave me an understanding nod, perhaps taking my sudden avoidance of his eyes as a sign of guilt. "An unfortunate example of the dangers of accidental magic, yes. It's crucial that you learn to harness and control your magic," he explained. "Which you will, at Hogwarts. Equally as important is keeping this knowledge secret, sharing it only with fellow wizards and witches. The safety of the Wizarding society relies heavily on the preservation of our secrecy."
"You mean I can't tell the Gir- I mean, I can't tell the truth to Mrs. Sherwin and the rest of the staff?"
He nodded. "Indeed. Nor to the other residents of this institution. To them, it will appear as if you are attending a school for gifted children. In a sense, that is not far from the truth, as Hogwarts is in fact a school meant for those of unique talents."
"Uh huh. So what about this, then?" I asked, raising the letter. "How can I get robes, or a cauldron, and do it all without any of them noticing? And do I need to pay for all this? Because I'm not really flush with cash, you know."
Or at least that's what I thought. Maybe there was a vault of gold with my name on it hidden somewhere under London. Maybe I should ask my fairy godmother, which the way this day was going was probably just around the corner and waiting to introduce herself.
"Ah, of course. A professor will soon visit you to gather the necessary school supplies. And regarding their payment: rest assured, the Ministry of Magic maintains a special fund to cover the expenses of those students who require assistance," he explained, his attention slightly wandering across the room, as if he'd said this line many times before. But then he fixed his eyes on me again, and his tone became suddenly more intense and serious. "And always remember this, Sylvia: if you need help while at Hogwarts, you only need to ask for it."
I nodded, focusing my own gaze on the magic paper bird —which was now perched on Dumbledore's shoulder— rather than risking looking straight at his face. But it seemed to satisfy him, because his voice then recovered his gentle, smooth inflection as he stood up and clapped his hands.
"Well. I believe it's time for us to part ways for the time being," he said, gingerly placing the bird back on the desk, where it unfolded itself back again into a sheet of paper. He then escorted me back to the office's door, a hand resting on my shoulder. "I look forward to seeing you again at Hogwarts, Miss Sarramond. Have a most pleasant remainder of your summer."
And after we'd said our goodbyes, and he thanked the Giraffe for her hospitality, he simply departed and left me in an odd, confused state that lasted for days.
It was a sort of introspective, existential mood that grabbed me. Because the revelations Dumbledore's visit brought, the implications put forward by his own very existence, cast a doubt over everything I thought I knew about the world, about myself.
At times I was sent back to wondering if this entire new life was some sort of hallucination. If perhaps I was still the old me, maybe unconscious, hooked up to some IV and in a coma or something. But it never grew into a serious concern: I never truly doubted the reality of the world around me, of my own existence as Sylvia. Because the world was tactile: the Residence's walls solid, the food either tasty or soggy —depending on the day. And time flowed consistently, one minute after another —fast when I was having fun and slogging unbearably when at school— but always without any unexplained gaps.
Compared to that, to the immediate reality of the world that surrounded me, my fore-memories were simply... memories. At times feeling almost dreamlike, like something that had happened to someone else, some other version of me who wasn't actually me. If I had to put something in doubt, it would always be the memories, and not the present, the reality around me. That I was alive, that I was Sylvia, felt as certain as I could imagine.
And perversely, the existence of magic offered a sort of explanation to the mystery that was my own existence, to how I could remember the future. Granted, 'it's magic' wasn't that great an explanation, but all things considered it was more than science was offering me, so I was tempted to grab it and run with it.
Other moments I would forget about the visit altogether, while I was doing my summer homework —which I had argued I didn't need to do anymore since I wouldn't be returning to my old school, but to no avail— or when I was busy with some chore or another. Funny enough, it was Astrid who always sent my mind back to the unreality of my situation. Ever since she heard that I'd be changing schools she started watching me like a hawk, her eyes following my every movement. In our room at night, on those few minutes before we turned the lights off, I'd catch her stealing glances at me from behind the refuge of her ever-present blanket and comic books.
Two weeks had passed when the professor finally arrived to take me to London, with no warning at all. She arrived on the afternoon: an older woman who knocked on the front door and introduced herself as Minerva McGonagall. And like Dumbledore, she too had tried to fit in with her choice of attire, wearing a muggle coat over a button down shirt and matching skirt, a small hat on her head.
I had been wondering which member of staff would come visit, and McGonagall was certainly among the lead options. But it took me a few moments to recognize her, partially because of her unassuming appearance, but also because she didn't really look all that much like the actress in the movies, being younger herself —something I had noticed with Dumbledore too, but only to a lesser extent.
She didn't last long in muggle wear, though, just long enough to convince the Residence's staff to send me off with her. And the moment the front door closed behind us she produced her wand and waved it all over her clothes, transforming them into full wizarding regalia: dark robes of an almost purple tint and an elegant witch hat to top it off.
She then offered me her left hand. But when she noticed I hadn't taken it —still shell-shocked at the second display of magic I'd ever witnessed— she quirked an eyebrow. "Transfiguration is one of the deepest, most complex magic disciplines you'll learn at Hogwarts. And while transfiguring your own clothes is quite effective for short interactions with Muggles, and more ethical than subjecting them to the Confundus Charm, I do suggest you don't attempt it until you have a firm grasp of the subject, as mishaps can be... quite embarrassing."
She then produced a small object wrapped in a cloth of linen, which turned out to be a thimble. "Now, grasp my arm with one hand and touch this portkey with your other hand, so that it can transport us both to our destination. We have a full schedule this afternoon."
Oh, portkeys, right.
I sighed and reached for her hand, mumbling under my breath: "...and here I thought we were going to take the bus." Then, I touched the thimble with the tip of my index finger.
I felt the jerk almost immediately, followed by a sensation of vertigo, as if I was both falling and being dragged forward. I took a glance at our surroundings to see only a nauseating whirlwind of colours, my mind trying in vain to make sense of the chaos and vague shapes flying around us. I could sense that if I kept doing that it would certainly make me sick, so instead I focused my eyes on the thimble itself, the only thing that seemed solid in this tornado of chaos. And soon enough I felt my feet hitting the ground again, and the noise and motion ended as abruptly as they had started, leaving me stumbling around like a newborn fawn, my stomach all upset.
McGonagall was kind enough to allow me a minute of recovery, in which I managed a quick glance around —we were in some random London street, apparently— before having to close my eyes and take a few depth breaths. Then, a whirlwind of a different nature started: she all but dragged me into a mangy, dark pub —I knew it from the fore-memories, sure, but I couldn't remember its name— where we marched towards the back. I had glimpses of strangely dressed people, some of whom greeted the witch. A "Hello, professor!" here, from the man behind the bar counter; A "Oh, new student? Muggleborn?" there, from a woman seated on a stool.
But soon enough we were at the back of the pub, and she was opening the wall of bricks with her wand. I'd seen it in the movies, but there was something... well, magical about it happening in real life, right in front of me. I couldn't stop thinking that this had to be an incredibly elaborate joke. But at the same time, I understood that the idea of a joke of this magnitude was somehow even more unlikely than magic simply existing.
Then Diagon Alley appeared in front of me, and all thoughts of it being a joke vanished.
"Fuck me. It's real," I muttered.
Next to me, McGonagall tutted: "I understand that this might be a startling experience, Miss Sarramond. But please mind your language."
And then we were through, and into Diagon Alley, and already I had inadvertently crossed that threshold into the fantasy world. The one I knew I could never uncross. Not really.
In fact, that was what sobered me up. And as much as the sights in front of my eyes were incredibly whimsical —the crooked walls, the impossible floating books, moving pictures and curious objects behind the shops' windows, the very busy cobblestoned street itself, full of people of eccentric appearances— I frowned at McGonagall for taking that choice away from me. For simply barging ahead across the archway, me in tow, and robbing me of that moment of standing right at the edge of the precipice, of taking that first step by myself; making that critical decision on my own. Petty, perhaps, but I couldn't help but resenting her a little for it.
We advanced, cutting through the crowd, McGonagall explaining the nature of the alley and the sights around us —most of which I already knew: 'that is a house-elf, those are owls, used for sending letters...' But it was interesting to learn that there were a handful of other minor streets that connected to Diagon Alley. Other than the only one I could remember, that is: Knockturn Alley. I risked a glance as we passed by that particular corner, some stairs descending into the shadows of a narrow passageway, and noticed a creepy-looking man staring right at me. I frowned at him, doing my best to hide how vulnerable he made me feel all of a sudden. I became immediately self-conscious of the jeans and loud green T-shirt I was wearing —it featured a Ninja Turtle, with the text 'Born to be Rad' written on the front.
To put it bluntly: I was dressed in obvious Muggle clothing, in the middle of magical London. I guessed, in the eyes of some of the more colourful characters down there, I was pretty much dressed as prey. And once more, it was McGonagall's fault, because had I known which day she'd be arriving to take me to London, I'd have made sure to dress more appropriately.
"-that is Gringotts, the goblin bank," she was saying as we walked past the entrance of the largest building in the street. "It's likely you'll open a vault there eventually, but there's no need to visit it today: the Ministry's fund will suffice to cover the costs of the essential purchases you require. And past that corner is-"
"What does essential mean, exactly?" I interrupted. "I know school robes are included, but can I also get some more personal clothing? Just so that I don't stick out like a sore thumb when I'm not wearing those?"
She looked me up and down, as if seeing my attire for the first time. Then, she produced a piece of parchment that she unfolded and started reading from. I tried to edge sideways around her and take a look, but she wrapped it closed again before I could.
"Very well. The fund does allocate some provisions for additional items of clothing. Meant mainly for undergarments, but in your case we could extend that purpose to... enhance your wardrobe. Naturally, this presumes that you shall arrive at Hogwarts equipped with your own Muggle undergarments, and..."
I rolled my eyes. "Sure, I'll bring my knickers."
She let out a soft sigh and motioned me forward again, resuming her teaching role. "We shall start with your clothing, then. This establishment before us is none other than Madam Malkin's..."
The place was crowded with items in display: robes, yes, some soft and velvety, others thick and patterned, but also boots and pointy hats and all manners of vests and shawls. My eyes roved greedily over the exotic fabrics and attention-grabbing colours, but I wasn't allowed a chance to examine them any closer because the moment we entered the shop, McGonagall and the shop assistant conspired to manoeuvrer me onto a stand, where a dark robe was promptly draped over me and slowly turned into one that fit my short body. I remained motionless while sharp pins danced in the air, passing dangerously close to my skin, all while the two older women discussed among themselves: apparently Percival Moonridge was retiring at last, oh my!
In the end I managed to cajole McGonagall into getting me an extra robe —an elegant dark turquoise thing, with a subtle wavy pattern along the rims— a set of pyjamas with stamped dancing fairies, along with a dressing gown, two shirts, some trousers and a single grey vest. She declared it good enough when she noticed me ambling my way towards the shawls and hats.
We visited Flourish and Blotts after that, the book shop. And while McGonagall quickly gathered the required coursebooks —Hogwarts' books were displayed in nice and easy to grab stacks near the entrance— I took a quick look around. Because now that I was here, in the Wizarding World, the gears in my mind were finally getting unstuck and starting to turn again.
And so I was now realizing the full scope of it, the enormity of the situation I now found myself stuck in: because I was going to Hogwarts, apparently in the same year that Potter and all the others. And so I would have to live through the future war.
I wasn't yet sure what my approach to the whole kerfuffle should be. Whether I should intervene and try to avert the worst of it from happening, or simply keep to the sidelines —which seemed the most reasonable option, given that I knew the side of light would end up winning. But then again I was a Muggleborn myself —to the best of my knowledge— so my own survival was by no means guaranteed.
I could attempt to run away, escape to a different country; but it was surprising how impaired your choices in mobility became when you were an eleven years old orphan. And there was no escaping the fact that wizards and witches existed, that all of this was apparently real, and that I was now one of them. If I tried to leg it, it wouldn't be just the Muggle authorities on my tail.
Plus, I kinda didn't want to live like that: as a fugitive always on the run, with no true control over my own future.
I could do that later, if it came to that, as I still had some years before I needed to make any final decisions; so for the time being the better plan was simply to keep my head down and ensure that I had as good a grasp of magic as I could. My best chances of surviving would be to learn what I needed to know in order to protect myself, and to hone my skills as much as possible so that I could keep as many doors and options open as I could.
So that was why I ended up walking back to McGonagall with another stack of books to add to the school ones, containing titles such as: '101 Jinxes', 'Curses and Counter-Curses', 'The Definitive Self-Defence', 'A Primer on Duelling: Tips & Techniques' and 'The Tale of The Talking Teapot' —and sure, that last one was fiction, but it still looked like fun and I was curious about what a wizarding detective story read like.
McGonagall, however, seemed determined to put a rain to my parade: "Miss Sarramond, I'm afraid that the fund will only cover the cost of your coursebooks."
I sighed. "How much do these cost, then? It's not like I'm swimming in gold, but I should be able to afford one or two."
She gave me a sympathetic smile, for once: "Perhaps it would be better to be patient. Hogwarts contains one of the largest magical libraries in Europe. You'll likely find many of these books there as well, without having to buy them yourself."
That... that sounded smart, actually. It sort of irked me to put them back, because I wanted those books and I wanted them with me whenever I felt like reading them. I didn't want the tyranny of being subjected to the library's rules and regulations. But at least I managed to keep the Teapot one —apparently the Hogwarts library didn't do much fiction— and also convince her to get me the second volume of 'The Standard Book of Spells' series, since I'd be buying it for second year anyway, so it was covered by the stupid fund.
A similar situation happened when I reminded the Professor that the letter from Hogwarts made mention of owls and cats —it had also mentioned toads, but I didn't. Again, she encouraged me to make use of Hogwarts' owls if I needed to send any messages. I sighed, but agreed in the end. After all this time living as Sylvia, I had a good grasp on what I was now: a poor orphan kid, with no vaults bursting with gold. An orphan who hadn't saved magic Britain as a baby. So no Hedwigs for me.
I wasn't nearly so cavalier in respect to the sunglasses, though.
I saw them while we were buying the telescope, quills and other stationery. Silver-framed, with stylish round dark lenses. A bit large for my head size, sure, but I knew I'd eventually grow into them. It was the placard next to them that convinced me; it said: 'On sale! Protective spectacles, rated against Gorgons and Basilisks.'
I didn't know what a gorgon was, but I knew of basilisks. And if they worked for those, I was willing to hazard they would also prevent my mind from being read by any legilimens I happened to cross paths with —an alarmingly high risk at Hogwarts, it seemed like. It was the perfect solution to that particular problem: with these there was no need to spend endless hours learning to shield my thoughts; I could simply wear them, protect myself and look totally fabulous at the same time!
McGonagall, however, wasn't as enthused:
"Do I need to remind you once again that the Ministry's fund covers only the essentials for your time at Hogwarts?" she explained after my second attempt at convincing her, her voice weary now. "Items of fashion are not part of the provisions."
"I know that! But I'm telling you: it's not fashion!" Well, not only. "It's protective equipment, see here?"
"Rest assured, Miss Sarramond, you will encounter no basilisks at Hogwarts. Now, put those spectacles back and let's continue."
"I will pay for them myself!"
She towered over me now, all stern and looking like she was barely containing herself not to throttle me to death.
"And might I enquire if you possess, by any chance, forty Galleons at your disposal?"
"How much is that, in real- I mean, Muggle money?"
"Around two hundred pounds."
What in the-? And that was on sale?!
"Well, I can... I can pay for them later, get a loan at Gringotts."
"Enough, Miss Sarramond! I won't be so irresponsible as to allow you to incur in debt for the sake of appearance. There will be no more discussing this matter! Return them at once, while I complete the payment for the items that you will genuinely require."
And with that, she simply turned back to the shop's counter and let me rooted there, not even giving me the opportunity to reply. I clenched my jaw, fuming, and walked back to the shelf where I'd found the glasses.
I hated this. I hated being treated as a child. I hated having to ask for permission for everything I ever wanted to do, everything I wanted to wear. I hated the adults for keeping the money out of my hands, for putting me in a position where I was forced to beg for anything I wanted, and then not listening to a word I said.
I hated that I couldn't simply buy some stupid sunglasses, even if they were a little on the pricey side. Especially when I had legitimate reasons for wanting them. Hell, if Voldemort was stuck to the back of the head of that one teacher at Hogwarts —as I remembered— it would be irresponsible of me to attend his class without even this lacklustre protection! My fore-memories were the key to the future. In the wrong hands they could just as easily become a tool for evil. And these sunglasses... well, they might quite literally be all that stood between us and the triumph of tyranny.
So of course, I nicked them.
Perhaps I wouldn't have, had I had more time to think about it. Perhaps I would have wondered about magical alarm systems and whatnot. But I only had the one chance when McGonagall was talking to the shop's owner, and I was feeling pretty peeved by then. So I simply placed them into my jeans, secured by one of their arms to my belt, and with my T-shirt covering the evidence. Then walked back nonchalantly to join up with her.
Odd, that in my fore-memories I'd been a bit of a goody two shoes. Too much of it, perhaps. When I was young I'd been fearful of authority, and it was only later... after I'd grown up and saw those authorities fail time and time again that I realized the truth: that authority was merely a facade, just a projected image of control. One that served only those at the top.
But I had never given into thieving —and, at a price of two hundred pounds, I was under no illusions: this was proper thieving. No, that was a new thing, in this new life. It had started during the second offensive of the Great Elliot-and-Miles War —when I got into the habit of borrowing some of their stuff now and then, which I then returned pretty much worse for wear— and gotten worse ever since. The Residence hadn't helped, with the older kids teaching us young ones their more sophisticated criminal ways: how to acquire cans of coke and gummies and toys, all free of charge.
And I showed promise, at that. At school, they had involved me in a plot to obtain the questions to an exam from the teachers' room —although that one didn't fully count, because I was just the lookout. But even if by then I was already aware of being a reborn adult, I still found it hard to rid myself of all the childish impulses that assaulted me everyday.
And maybe my sense of morality itself had shifted too, because while the old me would've been appalled, the new me... Sylvia... wasn't. And of course I wasn't. Old me wouldn't have understood how it felt, how much of a release it was to be able to... what, exactly? Do what you wanted, at last? Rebel? When every other second of your entire life was controlled and regulated by some adult, adults that at the end of the day weren't any smarter or wiser than you yourself had been?
So yeah. Challenging behaviour indeed, but it kept me sane.
In any case, the sunglasses were expensive enough that I started to have second thoughts. Guilt, you could say. But by then we were already out in the street, and I refused to lose face to McGonagall, so I resolved I'd somehow pay them back next time I returned to Diagon Alley, as soon as I managed to save forty Galleons. And with those thoughts in mind, we finally arrived at Ollivanders.
All this time I'd kept my eyes peeled for characters I would recognize —although perhaps it was better to start thinking of them as people, truth be told— but while we had came across a few other children my age and older, which I guessed probably made them students of Hogwarts themselves, none of them had felt familiar at all. No boys with lightning bolt scars or packs of redheads so far.
The old man that greeted us as we entered the narrow, dusty shop I did recognize. Mr. Ollivander was small and wiry, but moved with ease among the stacked boxes.
"Here for a wand, aren't you, Miss...?"
I waited for a beat, expecting McGonagall to lead here as well, just as she'd been doing in all the previous shops we'd visited. But she surprised me by remaining silent, just a step behind me, next to the wall by the entrance.
"Sarramond," I replied. "And yes, a wand would be nice."
He approached, looking at me with curiosity, as one would a strange artefact. For a moment, I wondered again about legilimency. Could this man...?
"But of course, it's the wand that chooses the witch," he muttered. "Isn't that right, Professor? Fir, nine and a half inches, and with the core of a dragon heartstring, if my memory doesn't fail me. How is it handling these days?"
"As good as always, Mr. Ollivander."
"Yes, dragon... Yes, I can see that," he mumbled to himself, retrieving a thin box out of one of the packed shelves while a measuring tape fluttered around me. "Right handed?"
It took me a moment to realize he was addressing me again. "Sure, yes."
He opened the box, and placed the wand inside —a crooked wooden stick— in my hand. "Cedar, ten inches, with a dragon heartstring," he declared.
It didn't feel like anything, just a stick. A stick of wood in my hand, making me look slightly ridiculous. Still, I recalled from my fore-memories that I was supposed to wave it around, so I did. I noticed McGonagall taking a half step away off my line of sight.
But nothing happened. Absolutely nothing. I was just... waving a stick around. Like a lunatic.
I looked at it, confused and slightly betrayed. Wasn't there supposed to be some sort of reaction? To have nothing happen at all would mean... was this when the cameras rolled out, when they announced how much of a fool I-?
"Hmm... wrong wood, most likely," Ollivander said, rummaging once more. "Not willow, either, no. Try this one then: alder; inflexible yes, but also with a dragon heartstring."
Another wand, this one elegant, straight and smooth and of a light brown. And still it was just a dead stick of wood in my hand.
I started to worry then. I had seen enough magic by this point to know all of... this world... wasn't a joke. Hell, I'd been dragged across London in the span of a few seconds. That kind of thing certainly helped dispel any remaining doubts that might linger. But that didn't mean... could it be that I wasn't magical myself after all? That whatever process Hogwarts used to send those letters had tripped up on my unusual circumstances —my rebirth or whatever it was— and erroneously flagged me as a witch?
A third wand yielded similar results, but Ollivander didn't seem dissuaded at all. He glanced at me from a step away, his creepy eyes focusing on my facial features. "Not dragon after all? How curious... I could've sworn..." But then his eyes widened and he stepped away to retrieve one more box in a hurry. "Oh! I see, I see! Detached from this world, of course, of course!"
I felt a deep shiver as those words registered, but I didn't have time to ask him what he meant before a new piece of wood was placed in my hand. This one was so dark it looked almost black, with a neat corkscrew groove that spiralled down its length.
And this one, I did feel.
I was like a strange coiled tension in my arm, almost like a tingling, but not quite. And also the knowledge that I could push it, down my hand and into the wand with just a thought. I was about to do just that when I remembered that I had leafed through a few pages of 'The Standard Book of Spells' back while McGonagall was paying for the books at Flourish and Blotts. So instead I waved the wand in a tight loop that resembled the diagram I'd seen, and released the inner tension at the same time I spoke aloud: "Lumos!"
It was like a flashbang. A flare going off in the little shop, the tip of my wand lighting up so much that it hurt to look at, bathing the stacks of boxes and dusty corners in bright white. Then, barely a second later, the light faded away and the three of us were left blinking. I guessed I still needed some more practice with the spell.
But also: my first spell!
"Yes! Great, yes! Ebony, eleven and a quarter inches," said Ollivander, taking the wand off my hand and placing it back in its box. "Solid, but not unyielding. And with a core of a Phoenix feather... the bird that dies only to rise again from its own ashes, of course," he remarked, eyeing me with a curious look that made my throat go dry; but he simply resumed talking about the wand: "Difficult to tame. Does not trust easily, no; and can display greater independence than most wands, can be stubborn at times—"
"Quite," I heard McGonagall mutter under her breath.
"-but earn its trust and you'll have a lifelong companion, Miss Sarramond," he concluded, handing the box to me.
I wanted to inquire about the holsters displayed on the front window when he asked if that would be all, but McGonagall pre-empted me by getting straight into payment, and I was in too much of a daze to argue. It wasn't like I really expected her to buy me any of those, in any case; it was just the principle of the thing. We did argue shortly after we left Ollivanders because I wanted to carry the wand in my pocket and she said it'd be best to keep it in its box until I was on my way to Hogwarts, lest I misplace it. I let the matter lie, as I was already feeling exhausted from the afternoon full of novelty, and I could tell that the older witch's patience was wearing thin. Besides, I could always take it out the box when I were on my own, back at the Residence.
And so, another portkey trip afterwards, and I was returned tired and nauseated to the Residence's front door, with a large trunk next to me that I had to recruit Colin —one of the older kids— to help me drag upstairs and to my room.
For the next few days I managed my best to spend as much time alone in my room as I could, plotting my future steps and practising with my wand —McGonagall had warned me about the trace, but I sort of half-remembered that it would only activate once I put foot on the Hogwarts train. Or maybe that was just a theory I'd read somewhere online. In any case, boundaries were there just to be tested, so when I didn't receive any visits from the Ministry after my second try, I did start practising in earnest.
I managed to regulate my light charm into lasting for longer than half a second and stopped it from being so searingly bright —apparently focus and intentionality was the key to it, who would have thought? I also made some inroads into the levitation charm —I made my pillow hover for a few seconds— and the 'Finite Incantatem' counter-spell that I found in the second year book. But most of the time I spent simply reading the books and learning the fundamentals, especially those for charms, transfiguration and defence. As much as potions could be an effective tool, if a fight to the death suddenly broke out you couldn't exactly whip out your cauldron and start brewing; it was your skill with a wand that would either save or condemn you. So I was determined to perfect my wandwork.
To Astrid I simply said I was studying ahead —which was true— and left it at that, hiding anything pertaining magic. Since I was supposedly going to a school for genius children, I figured she would think I didn't want to flounder in my studies. But she kept stealing subreptitious glances at me, and the night before I had to leave, she finally gathered enough courage to confront me, right before I went to turn the lights off for the night.
"So, you leave tomorrow," she said, as if we didn't know already.
"Yes. And you get a full room all to yourself until I get back. Lucky chipmunk."
"Is that school- is it like Xavier's school?"
"Like what? What Xavier?"
She pointed at one of the comic books on her bed, an issue of the X-Men. "You know, Xavier's School for 'Gifted' Youngsters." She even did air quotes for the word gifted.
"I- Um- No, not at all like-"
"I know you've got superpowers," she blurted out, looking at me all serious.
"Super-? Astrid, whatever you-"
"No! Don't deny it!" she exclaimed. "I was there too, remember? I saw you turn invisible! That's why the Giraffe didn't catch you!"
I let out a deep sigh, sinking deeper into my mattress. Now, this was a complication I really didn't need. If I didn't say anything, or if I tried to defuse it, I knew she wouldn't believe me and would keep digging and digging until she found something, something that could hurt her. Or maybe she'd tell someone, and word would get out. She could even end up being obliviated!
And if I admitted the truth, and she let it out somehow, then I'd be in violation of the Statute of Secrecy —which McGonagall had warned me about. Twice. I could end up being expelled even before I started my first term!
Except that... maybe not? Because I hadn't really told her about magic, had I? And I didn't need to. This was all her. And if she thought it was superpowers, then I could simply say...
"Fine. Fine. But you can't tell anyone about this, do you get me?"
She looked both enthused and affronted. "I can keep a secret!"
I lowered my tone: "No Astrid, I really mean it. There are people who can take your memories away, make you forget about this, about me. So you cannot tell anyone."
She nodded briskly, pressing her blanket against her chest, her face livid. I felt like shit for scaring her, but scared was better than obliviated in my book.
"So... are you going to be saving people?" she asked after a beat.
I snorted. "As if... I just want to learn more about ma- my powers. Get better at it, to the point nobody dares cross me. Then I can just make some money —I have plans for easy and profitable schemes, you know— and retire as young as possible. Then it's all about living the trust fund life: do fuck-all all day, spend my time wandering the world... enjoying life for once, no one to tell me what I can or can't do. That's the dream."
She nodded, and at last I turned off the lights for the night.
Then, a couple minutes later, she whispered from her bed: "But Sylvia... that's how villains talk."