This is an epilogue to 'Secret Life of a Black Dog' & 'Dark Birthright', and a prologue to 'Finding the Way Home'.
Edited August 2018.
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Talking to Dad
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Hidden between the purple mountains and glacial lochs of the Scottish Highlands is Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The thick walls encompass the framework within which its students are protected and nurtured as they make their transition from childhood to adulthood. Those hardy Muggles who venture forth into the rocky wilderness of the Cairngorms, bedecked with boots and skis and crampons, never see it, for the castle appears to them to be another mountain sheltering another loch.
Sometimes the snow paints tower-shaped shadows or the setting sun reflects from a hundred nonexistent windows. Then visitors marvel at the illusion and take photographs that never quite capture the vision they see.
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On a quiet Saturday afternoon in the middle of October, a first-year slipped away from the drizzling hurly-burly of a Quidditch match. Her name was Megan and she was dark-haired and a little taller than average with calm grey eyes and a smile that could light a room when she chose to use it. A smart girl, self-contained and quick witted, she had a talent for making others laugh and for making others think. She had learnt to be content in her own company for she had no brothers or sisters, no aunts, uncles or grandparents, and had never known a father.
On the evening of her very first day at Hogwarts, the Sorting Hat had paused briefly in its deliberations. Ah, a complicated one, it had whispered happily into her ear. What shall we do with you? Will you take the House of the Always Pure, or of the Rebel Seed perhaps? Or . . . no. You shall be what you are.
Ravenclaw!
And Megan had not understood quite what it meant but had been satisfied with its choice.
She missed her mother and the safety of their little cottage nestled comfortably in the neat patchwork of fields and hedges. She missed her Muggle friends and her dog, and her pony, and the Staffordshire oatcakes she sometimes had for breakfast on a Sunday. But more than she missed those things, she loved learning magic and she loved her new school. So do not think that Megan was a lonely girl or an unhappy one, for she was neither.
This Saturday afternoon her talent for finding things was being sorely tested. What she sought was close by; of that she was certain. She retraced her steps along a corridor on the seventh floor and paused beside a huge, ugly tapestry. The plain door in the wall opposite had not, she was quite sure, been there a few minutes before.
She tried the door knob and it turned without resistance..
The room contained precisely what she was looking for. A simple chair, a table with a mirror on it in a wooden frame, of the kind that can be angled to suit, and beside the mirror, a couple of candlesticks. Nothing else of consequence was in there, and nothing else was required. For Megan wanted to experiment with the stub of eyeliner pencil she had never really had an opportunity to try.
Her mother, being rather—Megan thought—old fashioned and set in her ways, took a dim view of what she described as Turning Little Girls into Jailbait. Although Megan didn't know what 'jailbait' was exactly, she gathered it was a Bad Thing, and decided against asking her mother's advice on the matter. She kept the eyeliner in her Muggle pencil case along with a sheet of glittery stickers of varying shapes and many shades of pink.
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Still delighting in the novelty of using her new wand, she lit the candles then polished the mirror with her sleeve. She squinted into it, somewhat startled when the clear, grey eyes looking back at her did not squint at the same time. Curiously, she did it again. The eyes definitely belonged to someone else.
They blinked.
She gave a little jump of alarm. "Hello?" she said cautiously, for she was a cautious child.
There was the sound of an indrawn breath. "Is someone else in this dark place?" The voice was adult and male. It sounded hoarse and dry, as if from lack of use.
"Yes," she said. "I'm here."
"Who is I?" said the voice.
"Who is I? You mean me?"
"Who is me?"
"Let's try again," said Megan patiently. "I'm Megan. Who are you?"
"Who am I?" There was a prolonged silence. " Who am I?"
"Don't you know?"
"It seems not."
"I know who you are," said Megan confidently. " I've heard your voice in my dreams quite a lot. Dreams are very important."
"Are they?"
"Oh yes. Didn't you know that?"
"I don't think I did. Who am I then?"
"You're my dad," said Megan. "You always say, Your daddy loves you, little one. And you're talking to me, you see, so that's how I know you're my dad."
The voice inside the mirror seemed to be struggling for a reply, but Megan was quite used to this happening during her conversations with adults.
"Do you really think so?" said the voice at last.
"Yes, I've got a Feeling about it. My Feelings are never wrong."
"Never?"
"Never," she said firmly. "But you're dead."
"Dead? Is that what I am? I had wondered. But then . . . how are you talking to me?"
"I expect it's because I want to talk to you ever so much."
"I'm not sure I am dead, you know," said the voice, sounding thoughtful. "I don't think it would be quite like this if I was."
"Oh!" she said, surprised. "Aren't you a ghost then?"
"Would I have a body if I was a ghost?"
"I don't think so. Have you got a body? Not just a skeleton?"
There were faint sounds of movement, the painful cracking of stiff joints; a thudding noise as if in the distance someone had stamped their feet.
"I've definitely got a body," he said. "Not just bones. I've got feet and hands and everything. And I'm standing on something hard."
"Well, if you're not dead, then where are you?" asked Megan. "And what's more important, where have you been all this time? Why did you leave us? Before I was even born!"
The voice was hesitant. "I don't remember. I don't think I wanted to leave. There must have been circumstances beyond my control."
"But you didn't come back."
"Apparently not. When is it?"
"What do you mean, when is it? Do you mean what's the date?"
"I expect that's what I mean."
"It's the eighteenth of October, two thousand and eight."
"Two thousand and eight." He said each word slowly as if testing it for familiarity .
"Does that help?"asked Megan.
"I'm afraid not."
"If you're not really dead, you could come back. If you wanted to," Megan said wistfully. "If you really really wanted to, you would find your way back to us."
"Do you think so?" he said. "Where are you?"
"I'm at Hogwarts. Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," she said with pride. "Have you heard of it?"
"Yes, I think so. I think I went there once."
"That's excellent. That means you were a wizard. Are, I mean," she corrected herself. "What House were you in?"
"House?"
"Don't you remember? There are four Houses. Gryffindor, Slytherin, Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff. Which one were you in?"
"I seem to recall—red and gold."
"Gryffindor," she said. "Everybody is sorted into a house according to their character and talents. Gryffindor is for Competitors; soldiers and fighters and athletes. People who like to must be a Competitor."
"Oh." There was a very long pause. "Are you absolutely sure I'm your dad?"
"Oh yes," she said. "I can see your eyes in this mirror, you know. I've got the same eyes, my Mum said so. I've got a picture of you at home. I have to hide it under my mattress because it makes Mum really sad to see it. She says she can't remember you, but it still makes her sad. I don't like it when my Mum is sad."
"No," he said softly. "Mums shouldn't be sad."
"I've got to go now," said Megan, "or someone will come looking for me. Can we talk again soon?"
"I don't know. I don't see why not. I'll . . . look forward to it."
Megan smiled and leaned over to place a happy kiss in the middle of the cold glass. She selected a heart-shaped sticker from her pencil case and stuck it with care on the edge of the mirror next to the frame. Then after blowing out the candles, she left the room and went to find her friends.
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"Dad? Are you there?" She knew he was. She could feel his presence on the other side of the mirror.
"Megan? Is that you?"
"Of course it's me. Who else would it be?"
"How long is it since we talked last?"
"It's been a week. I'm sorry I couldn't get back sooner."
"That's all right. It could have been a minute ago or a decade or a century," he said. "You didn't tell me what house you're in."
"I'm in Ravenclaw. The Sorting Hat wasn't sure at first, but it made the right decision in the end."
"Ravenclaw. What do Ravenclaws do?"
"Ravenclaw is for Thinkers; scientists and doctors and teachers."
"So you're clever then?"
"I am quite clever. I can't wait to be in third year, then I can take Divination and Astrology."
"Divination. And Astrology." The voice in the mirror was baffled.
"Yes. I'm going to take them at NEWT level, and then when I've left Hogwarts I'm going to go to a Muggle university and study physics and astronomy. And then I'm going to combine the two things and become a Scientific Astrologer. Are you still there. Dad?
Megan's dad cleared his throat. "Yes. Tell me about the other Houses."
"Hufflepuff is for Dreamers; artists and writers and musicians. And Slytherin is for Opportunists; politicians and lawyers and people who own newspapers."
"What do you think about it?"
"I think it doesn't matter what House you're in. You can be a soldier and a musician. Or an artist and a lawyer. Or a politician and a scientist. You can be whatever you want but you don't have to be only one thing. Mum doesn't like the Houses though."
"Doesn't she?"
"She says it's a system that pigeonholes children and clips their wings before they've learnt to fly. That's a metaphor. We did metaphors at Layhill Primary, but we don't do things like that here. Mum thinks we should."
"Does she? Tell me about your mum."
"She makes good cakes."
"Cakes. . . oh!"
"The cakes here are all right, but my mum's are better. When I go home for Christmas, she's going to make a chocolate cake. That's my favourite. When you come home she'll make you cakes too!"
"When I come home . . . ?"
"Well you will, won't you? Now you've talked to me? Or don't you want to meet me?" Suddenly she sounded vulnerable.
"Oh, sweetheart, of course I do."
"That's all right then," said Megan. What else do you want to know about Mum?"
"What does she look like?"
"Oh. She's quite old—but she's still really pretty," Megan reassured him, "I wish she would wear nicer clothes. She just wears jeans all the time. Can't you remember what she looks like?"
"I wish I could, but no, I can't. I'm sorry. Is she nice?"
"Oh yes, she's mostly nice. She does get cross sometimes. And she got really angry when the washing machine broke down and flooded the kitchen. She smashed a plate on purpose! But then she had to clear the bits away, so it didn't help."
"Does she get cross with you?"
"Well . . . sometimes. If she catches me using her sewing scissors to cut paper. And she didn't like it at all when I put tadpoles in the bath without asking first. But I was quite little then. I'm more mature now. Mum says I'm eleven going on sixty. What do you think she means?"
Megan's dad gave a soft chuckle. "I think she means that you understand a lot of things."
"Even though I'm quite mature she won't let me wear make-up."
"Won't she? Why not?"
"She said she didn't want me to experience the negative consequences arising from the early objectification and commodification of girls in a chauvinist world."
"Merlin's beard! Did she really say that?"
"Yes, but I think she was in a bad mood."
"Your mum seems to have a lot of opinions."
"She does. She says everyone should have their own opinions about everything, only—"
"Yes?"
"Sometimes having an opinion can be quite hard work."
"I suppose it can. Does your mum wear make-up?"
Megan thought for a moment. "Hardly ever," she said at last. "Just sometimes."
"And does she look better when she wears it?"
Megan thought again. "She looks nice with it on," she said, "but—well, she doesn't really look like Mum."
"Then there's your answer."
"I need to think this through," she said. "It's Hallowe'en soon. I'll come and talk to you again then."
"You do that." His voice was gentle. "Look after yourself Megan."
"I always do," she said cheerfully. "See ya!" After some thought, she selected another sticker for the mirror. This one was in the shape of a flower.
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"Are you there, Dad?"
"I am."
"It's Hallowe'en today. We're having a big party tonight. Some people say this is the time when the barriers between the worlds grow thin."
"Is it now? I thought I could sense something."
"They're right, you know. I've got a Feeling. If you're going to come home, it'll have to be soon. You'll have to hurry up or wait for another year!"
"I feel a cold wind. It's blowing the fabric of the curtain. Sh! Can you hear?
Megan listened hard. "I can't hear anything, Dad."
"It's tearing. The darkness is tearing apart. I can see a path of shadows leading away from here."
"Then you must follow the path, Dad, and if you hear someone calling, you must go to them. You must! Promise me you will!"
"I promise, Megan. I promise."
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Carefully she arranged the remaining stickers into what she considered to be a pretty pattern on the glass. They were a bit childish really, she thought, and not appropriate now that she was growing up.
She blew out the candles and pulled the door closed behind her.
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The wall opposite the ugly tapestry was resolutely empty. Megan didn't mind. Her dad was on his way back. She would write to her mum and tell her to be ready.
Also, she had recently discovered the whereabouts of the prefects' bathroom where the mirrors were bigger and the light was better.
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