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I didn't know I had magical capabilities until I was fifteen. How is that possible? Well, when I started being able to do magical things at the glowing age of three, my parents told me they were accidents. When the accidents became more frequent, my parents told me to suppress any thoughts of them, and they would go away.
It started to get bad when I was twelve. Marcy Lynn was the meanest girl in my class, and when I was speaking, she told me to shut up. Before I knew it, the windows shattered and the shards of glass cut her face. There was blood everywhere and she was screaming bloody murder.
"She's lucky she didn't lose an eye," I heard the teachers say. "Or die."
No one seemed to wonder why the glass had only hurt her, no one else.
I knew it was my fault.
I had a temper, and when I let loose, someone always ended up hurt. My parents kept trying to warn me that my temper would only make the accidents worse, but I told them that they were, in fact, just accidents. But I didn't believe myself either.
My temper was getting out of control by the time I was fourteen. My parents homeschooled me, so I didn't have any friends. We lived in a questionable part of London, so I couldn't even go to the park. I was losing my temper every day out of rebellion.
That was until I was fifteen and I killed my parents.
After the accident, I reached my bloody hand for the phone to call 911. I was going to say that I killed my parents and I needed to go to prison. I was going to confess and I was going to be put away for a long time. Most would look at me and doubt that I was capable of murder. I was malnourished, pale, with platinum blonde hair. I wasn't very pretty, I was all skin and bones.
I looked dead.
So maybe people wouldn't doubt that I had done it, after all.
I knew how the media would spin it. They would say how my parents were abusive, and had pushed their child to insanity. Maybe I was insane. But I was just a poor, frail fifteen year old, they would say. This was all their fault, the media would suggest.
But before I could reach the phone, there was a figure standing in my kitchen. The bottom of his robes were turning red from the pools of blood. He had a long white beard, and held an intense expression upon his face.
"Oh god," I said, "you're going to kill me." I didn't waver or cry, I didn't step away from him. A part of me wanted him to kill me.
"No, I'm afraid today is not the day for you to die," he said, "I'm here to save you."
He held out his wrinkled hand. I looked down at mine and without thinking, I took his.
When I opened my eyes, I was in a large stone office. My stomach lurched and I fell to the floor. What had just happened? One second I had been in a pathetic excuse of a kitchen, and now it looked as though I was in a castle.
The old man quickly scooped me off the floor and took me to the chair.
"My name is Dumbledore," he gently soothed my hair off my sweaty forehead, "I will explain more when you are well."
I shook my head, "Why are you being kind? You saw what I did."
"What you did was an accident because no one has told you what you really are," he responded, pouring a cup of tea and mixing sugar into it. He handed it to me, and I took a sip and cringed. God, I hated tea. "Does that flavor not agree with you? It's ginger, my favorite."
"I'm more of a coffee person," I flatly said, not in the mood for small talk. I couldn't get the image of my dead parents out of my head. Everything that was red made me think of the blood dripping off of the walls.
"You are Alexandria Pointe, yes?" Dumbledore sat at his desk, and started to idly play with a scroll.
"My pare-" I stopped myself. "I go by Lexie Rae."
"We have been looking for you for a very long time," Dumbledore said, "Your parents have been keeping you in hiding. They have paid the price of it, a tragic ending to their story. But Alexandria, you are a witch."
"A what?" I spewed.
"When you get angry, do bad things happen to people? When you're happy, does good things happen?" He pushed.
"My par-" I stopped myself again. My parents were dead. I would never hear their voices again. I would never fight with them again. Was I happy or sad? A part of me wanted to feel relief, but that only made me guilty, "I was told those were accidents."
"That's because no one has taught you how to control your magic," he said, "we are sitting in the office at a school of magic called Hogwarts, you were supposed to come here when you were 11, but you couldn't be located. It's not too late."
"It's too late for me," I spat, "I don't want magic, I've only hurt people." Anger surged through my veins. A dark cloud began to hover over our heads and then the whole office was soaked with rain.
"You are quite powerful," Dumbledore observed. I had expected him to be angry, but instead, he just analyzed me. "I hope you choose to at least look around. Rinse off and I can have a student show you. Maybe then you can make an informed decision. You belong here."
"I belong nowhere," I said.
"That's what your parents taught you. But there are hundreds of students like you. You are not alone," Dumbledore said.
And so a prefect of Hufflepuff gave me a grande tour.
He pointed out the different dormitories and classrooms.
"We've been in session for only a few weeks," he said, "you won't be behind at all." He searched the students faces, "I want to introduce you to a few students. Oh, Harry!"
He waved a few students over.
Harry was of no remarkable appearance, except his green eyes were shockingly vibrant. Hermione introduced herself, pretty and thin. Ron was next to say hi, and he was handsome with red hair, but after they introduced themselves, the conversation fell short.
After we walked away, I felt overwhelmed.
But I chose to stay.
I had nowhere else to go, anyway.