IMPORTANT NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: Please don't read this story, unless you are planning to give helpful reviews or something. This isn't because I'm stingy and greedy and want all the reviews I can get, it's because I'm REWRITING THE STORY COMPLETELY and don't want you to read this version, then see the new version and get confused. Do you see what I mean? So read it if you really want to, but keep in mind that this version WILL NOT BE FINISHED because it's as good as trash right now. I'm only leaving it up because I hate taking things down (obviously it's not because of the reviews, of which I have two).

Notes from the author: As you will soon notice, this story DOES NOT take place at Hogwarts. None of the characters mentioned in this chapter are part of JK Rowling's world—they're all original characters. All of them. It's her main idea I'm using in my story, not her specific characters and stories. I'm sure people from Hogwarts will show up now and again, and of course Harry Potter and all still exists, but he's not part of my story. My reason for this? I flipping feel like it.

This also takes place in America, but I don't want people freaking out on me because of that. Everyone gets pissed when Americans (like me) try to write stories that take place in Britain, because we always get stuff wrong. It's especially important in this story that I'm confident in the way American schools are run, etc. Research only goes so far.

The fact that this takes place in America means that some things are going to be different. I'm not sending my characters to Hogwarts—how does that make any sense?—so I have to create my own school in America. Creating a carbon-copy of Hogwarts would be lame, boring, and illegal. So if you notice little details that aren't the same as in the books, don't flip out. It's meant to be that way.

I don't have much else to say, so here's the first chapter! Hope you enjoy it!

On June 26th, 1999, I had been eleven for roughly two months and my life was, as far as I was concerned, perfect. I let my parents and older sister, who was then already seventeen, worry about politics and world issues, while I walked around in a world of Lisa Frank stickers, cute furry animals, and homework consisting of one spelling worksheet and a few math problems each night. I spent entire summers playing softball in the back yard with my best friend Jane, and school was merely a social event I attended for six hours a day. My alarm clock was my mom's voice, and the big yellow school bus was a welcome and familiar sight in the mornings.

I lived in a smallish city in Washington, right near Portland, Oregon, and was entirely happy with my suburban home. My family was pretty well off money-wise, but the farthest we went on vacations was to see relatives in southern California, so my world consisted mainly of identical houses lined up along peaceful streets, and occasional glimpses of crop fields on our drives to Grandma and Grandpa's house near San Francisco. Before I was nine years old, I'd never even ridden on an airplane. That trip was to my other grandfather's funeral in Arizona. I never knew him, so I was mostly bored throughout the affair. All I really remember is how hot I was in my black skirt and black wool cardigan—the only black top I owned. Mom was crying, because it was her dad who'd died, but I was mostly annoyed that I had to be there at all. It wasn't even open casket, so I didn't get to see a dead body, and besides that—I had to wear a skirt. With tights.

The 26th of June started out quite normally, just a regular summer morning in southern Washington. I had, by this time, lost the excitement of getting out of school, and was already getting bored with my summer. One can only play hide-and-go-seek so many times before one gets tired of sitting behind a bush, waiting for someone to come along. My apathy towards summer had resulted in my getting up later than usual, preferring to sleep rather than think of something to do with my day.

Now that I think about it, the day was unusually hot and muggy, but that had mostly to do with the coming storm. The electricity in the air probably added to the strange out-of-place feeling that came over me as I ate breakfast, but at the time I thought it was kind of foreboding, and was unusually jumpy. My mom commented on this with a laugh when I spilled the milk upon hearing the screen door slam shut.

"You're a little antsy today, Marietta," she said quietly. My mother said and did everything quietly and softly; she was a kind of delicate person, and moved with a slow grace that I could never seem to match. She was particularly beautiful, in an airy sort of way—her pale blonde hair was very light and seemed to float when caught in a breeze, and her light blue eyes looked almost white in bright light. Even her skin was pale, and smooth as porcelain over her soft features. I used to think she would blow away in a strong wind, but she always remained firmly on the ground.

I look nothing like my mom; I inherited everything from my dad, except my hands and feet—those are delicate and small like hers. But my light brown hair, dark blue eyes, and warm complexion are all my dad's. In summer, we both tan darkly, and by August are "brown as berries," as mom puts it. My hair, in contrast, gets a little bit lighter—at least according to my parents, but I'm pretty sure they just say that to make me happy. Even my features are more masculine and less delicate than my mom's, from my broad shoulders to my strong chin. I rather like my face—it fits my personality, I like to think—but I think my mom would rather I look like my sister, Phoebe. She is the carbon copy of mom, but for her ears. They stick out like mine and my dad's, and Phoebe is constantly complaining about them, asking for surgery and such. I think they look fine, and they're far more useful for tucking hair behind.

On the aforementioned day, as on nearly every day that summer, Jane came over in the morning for breakfast. She lived with her dad, and he left for work very early in the morning, long before she woke up. He'd leave the cereal out for her, sometimes with a cheerful note if he had time, but she usually came over to my house for a less lonely breakfast. On the rare occasion that her dad got to go in late, she'd invite me over there—we both loved her dad to pieces, and I rarely saw him since I didn't live with him.

The screen door had slammed when Jane came in, and it made me jump even though I should have expected it. Moments later she walked in, even more excited than usual. Her dark brown eyes were oddly bright as she sat down next to me.

"What's got you so happy?" I asked quietly as my mom turned to get a bowl out for her.

"I just got—" she began, then stopped herself. She seemed to consider her response a moment, then shrugged. "I got a letter," she finished lamely.

"C'mon!" I said, laughing. "Tell the truth!"

"Well, that is the truth!" Jane insisted. Then, in a lower voice, "I'll show it to you later." That was good enough for me, so I went back to my cereal without another word, though my head was filled with incredible possibilities for what the letter might be.

I was so absorbed in my daydream that a sharp tap on the window failed to attract my attention. But a happy squeal from Jane did just fine. I jumped again, knocking a spoonful of cereal back into the bowl, and looked up. Jane was running toward the window over the sink, where a large bird stood waiting outside on the sill.

"Ooh, Jane, honey, quiet," my mom breathed softly. "You'll scare it." She reached out and gently grabbed hold of Jane's arm, restraining her. But the bird at the window didn't seem scared of her at all. In fact, it was ignoring her, staring past her…

Right at me.

It tapped a claw on the window again, glaring at me with its amber eyes. I saw then that there was a letter attached to its leg.

"Mom, it's got a letter!" I said in surprise, standing up from the table and walking toward the bird. Somewhere in my mind I decided it must be an owl, though I'd only ever seen pictures of them and didn't really know what they looked like. This one had large, surprised-looking eyes with high eyebrows—at least, they looked kind of like eyebrows. It was very beautiful, its feathers all shades of brown and white. When I was standing at the window and it still hadn't stirred, I turned to look at my mom.

"Can I get it?"

"The—the letter?" she said quietly. I nodded.

"It's probably got an address on it, we could deliver it later…" I just wanted to touch the owl; it looked so soft and plush.

"Well, I—I suppose so…" She didn't look too happy about this, as if the owl might attack me any moment, but Jane was nodding excitedly at me, so I carefully unlatched the window and slid it open. The owl didn't even flinch when the window clunked into place, as if it was used to this sort of thing. I'd heard of delivery pigeons on television—was this a kind of variation on that idea?

Murmuring soft, hopefully soothing words under my breath, I reached out and touched the bird's breast with my fingertips. It stared at me unblinkingly, but didn't seem to mind my touch. I stroked it a few times, reveling in the springy feel to its feathers, then reached down to untie the letter.

It was rather heavy for a letter—perhaps that's why it was sent by bird, rather than post. Maybe the sender didn't want to pay extra postage or something. The minute I had the letter off the owl's leg, it took off from the window and disappeared over the roof. Feeling glad I'd petted the owl before it could fly away, I closed the window again and walked back to the table, glancing at the address as I did.

"Hey, mom—it's for me!" My mother had released Jane by now, and my friend was hovering over my shoulder as I surveyed the envelope. It was made from a heavy, yellowish parchment, and the address was written in bright yellow ink, so that I had to tilt it to see what it said. "Ms. Marietta Ryann Patterson."

I suppose I should explain something about my name. When my mother got pregnant, she and dad were so sure they'd have a boy that they came up with only boy's names. They grew very attached to the name Ryan, and were all ready to have a Ryan Patterson in the family. When I was born a girl, they were quite shocked—I'm the first girl in a number of generations of Pattersons, and they're not too common on my mom's side either. My mom felt terribly guilty for wanting to name me Ryan and all, but neither she nor my dad wanted to part with their favorite name. In the end, they gave it to me as a middle name—adding an extra n to make it more feminine or something—and came up with the girliest name they could think of for my first name. My mom decided on Marietta, and Marietta I became. But she's the only one who calls me that—I can't stand the name, so everyone else has to call me Ryann.

"Mom, they even got my middle name right and everything," I told her excitedly. There was no return address—was this a really late birthday card or something? The rest of the address was extremely peculiar: The Third Chair, The Kitchen, 1219 Willow Way, and then all the usual stuff.

"Open it already!" Jane burst out. I realized I'd been staring pointlessly at the envelope, wondering who it was from, when I could just open it up and find out. Mom sat down at the table across from me, looking even paler than usual. Her hands were shaking slightly, and she spread them out on the placemat to steady them.

I turned the envelope over. There was a large wax seal on the back with what looked like a coat of arms on it. Whoever had pressed the wax had slipped slightly, and the design was unrecognizable. I ignored the seal and ripped open the side of the envelope, then dumped its contents onto my lap.

The letter was written on the same yellow parchment as the envelope, in the same bright yellow ink. I held it up to the light so I could read it more easily:

Dear Ms.Patterson:

I am delighted to inform you that you have been accepted at Burnside Academy of Magical Instruction. Your first semester will begin on 6 September this fall. You will be picked up at 8:30 A. M. on 6 September, and will arrive at the school that evening. If you have any questions or concerns, please feel free to contact ProfessorBelindaAppleby by owl. We greatly anticipate your arrival at Burnside, and welcome you with open arms!

Sincerely,

ProfessorAngelaRilozo

I read the letter twice through, sure I was seeing something wrong. A trick of the light, perhaps—surely there was no such thing as an academy of magical instruction? I looked at Jane, expecting her to be as mystified as I was.

"Isn't it wonderful?" she breathed, far from perplexed. Her eyes were open wide, and she was positively bouncing with excitement. "I'm so glad you got one too, dad said you might, cause of your dad of course, but he was the only one I think, not like my family, we go way back, dad was just expecting mine any day now…" She babbled on happily, but I wasn't really listening. What did she mean about my dad? And what was this letter all about? From the way she was talking, Jane had gotten one too. I realized this was probably the one she'd mentioned earlier.

"Mom?" Ignoring Jane, I turned to look at my mother. Her face had gone white, her pretty mouth turned down at the corners. Her hands still shook on the table, though she'd clenched them into fists now. "Mom, what's this all about?" She shifted her blank gaze to me, and looked me up and down very quickly.

"I think we'd better let your father explain this," she said firmly, the airy tone in her voice gone. She stood suddenly and left the room, her pale golden hair floating along behind her.

I turned back to Jane, utterly bewildered by now. There was obviously something going on that my parents knew about, but I didn't. Why did Jane know about it too? If her dad had told her, why had I been kept in the dark?

"Jane?" She was still talking, now just to herself. She stopped and looked at me, as if surprised I was there.

"Yeah?"

"Um…what is this?" I held up the letter, then realized there was another one behind it. I set the first one down on the table and looked at the second. Jane hadn't answered my question, but for the moment I didn't care. It looked to be a list of school supplies. I held it up to the light again, annoyed that this Rilozo person had written in such a bad color:

Freshmen will need to acquire the following supplies for their first year at Burnside Academy:

Followed a list of things I'd never heard of as school supplies, such as "cauldron, size 2, iron" and "Magical Creatures of the Northwest by Jillian Corna." I was sure I was reading it wrong when I saw that I was expected to buy a wand and a "standard beginning potions kit," whatever that was supposed to be. I skimmed the list of supplies and spotted an asterisk toward the bottom of the page:

Suggested reading for freshmen of non-magical heritage:

The list was short, naming only four books. After reading the title of the first book (Magic and You: A guide to dealing with magical changes among adolescents) I decided this all must be a joke and set the letter on the table.

"Jane."

"Yes?"

"What in heck is going on here?!" I yelled. I've never been as quiet as my mother, and I don't have her cool temperament either. I have a very short fuse, especially when I feel like I'm being made fun of.

"What—what do you mean?" Jane was clearly taken aback by my sudden mood swing.

"You guys are playing a joke on me!" I whined, feeling thoroughly embarrassed and angry.

"You—you really don't know at all? I mean, your dad hasn't mentioned… anything?"

"Mentioned anything about what?" Tears were brimming in my eyes, but I was too old to throw a tantrum—especially in front of my friend. I blinked and tried to calm down.

"About—about magic!" In her surprise, Jane didn't seem to notice my almost-tears. "About him being a wizard! My dad told me a long time ago, but he asked me not to mention it to you in case… You know, in case you weren't one. Muggles aren't supposed to know about it, see?"

"Mug—what are you talking about?" I was thoroughly flustered. Jane was excitable, hyper, and had her silly moments, but something—possibly her mother's early death a few years back, possibly just her own personality—had made her grow up a lot faster than most of the kids on our street. She still liked playing games in the street and watching cartoons on Saturday mornings, but she was pretty serious most of the time. When Jane said something was so, it was so.

"Hey, your dad can tell you better than I can. Or my dad will tell you, but you'd have to wait till tonight for that, he's working late again. Or why don't you ask your mom? I mean, she's not a witch or anything, but she's bound to know something, being married to your dad all this time and everything."

"Hey! My dad is not a witch!" I yelled defensively.

"Of course not," she replied calmly with a giggle. "Only girls are witches, your dad's a wizard."

"Oh, that's much better," I muttered sarcastically. These words—witch and wizard and moogle or whatever—they didn't mean anything to me. In storybooks, those were people who could do magic—at least, witches and wizards were. Witches were evil, green old ladies with huge warts that flew around on broomsticks, and wizards wore blue robes with stars and moons on them and did magic spells by saying "Abracadabra!" and waving their hands. They had long white beards and were very old. My dad was always clean-shaven, and wasn't old at all, and the image of him in a blue, starry robe and a matching pointed hat was laughable. Besides, if he could do magic, why didn't he?

But Jane wasn't being much help. She kept explaining things in words I couldn't understand, and was going way too fast for me to catch most of it anyway. I decided to leave the letter on the table and talk to my dad when he got home from work. I stopped Jane, told her I would ask my dad about it later, and suggested we go play Frisbee with the girls down the street. She shrugged her indifference, though she looked rather disappointed that we were getting off this fascinating subject of conversation, and we went outside to get the Morrison girls, who had the best collection of Frisbees on the block.

When my dad got home from work at five-thirty that evening, I was still outside playing ball with the neighbors. We had long since moved on from Frisbee and were playing a game the teenagers had made up last summer. The rules kept changing and the teams switched around a lot, so it was difficult to keep up with the game, but that made it much more fun and exciting. Besides, the punishments for doing something wrong were half the fun, and it was easier to mess up when you didn't know what you were supposed to be doing in the first place. The game was so involved that I quickly forgot all about the letter, and would have played all night if Jane's dad hadn't driven up at seven o'clock to bring her home. He gave me a lift too, though our houses were only at the end of the block, and seeing him reminded me of the letter. I realized my dad had probably already seen it, as I'd just left it there on the table, and hoped he'd come up with an easy explanation for everything.

Mr. Nelson dropped me off at the foot of my driveway and waved out the window as he drove past and pulled into his own driveway next door. When he stepped out of the car, he gave a start as if he'd just seen me, and called across the small lawn between our properties.

"Ryann! My goodness, I haven't seen you in ages! How you've grown…you must be nearly as tall as my knees by now!" Jane's dad loved to make fun of my height; I was very tall for my age even then, and he got a kick out of pretending I was short. He'd make a point to look down his nose at me whenever I was close enough, just to prove he could. I didn't mind; Mr. Nelson was an eternally cheerful man, and I felt very lucky to be friends with him.

I waved as he and Jane disappeared into their house, then walked up the driveway and through my own front door. My dad was sitting at the dining room table, staring at my letter, which he held in his hand. There was an empty coffee mug in front of him, and he had the chair tilted back slightly. If not for the slight frown on his face, he'd be the picture of domestic comfort.

"Hi, dad," I greeted him cheerfully as I walked into the kitchen. I went straight to the cupboard for a glass, filled it with water, and took a long drink before sitting down. "I see you've got my letter." He didn't look up, but continued reading the letter, that little frown still in place.

"Um…you gonna tell me what's going on?" I ventured. I still thought this must be some sort of stupid joke, and I wasn't sure how to go about getting him to tell the truth. He could still be acting, whatever he said.

"Ryann…" He paused, rubbing his forehead. "I should have told you earlier, but after Phoebe didn't…well… We all thought you wouldn't be, you see…"

"No, I don't see, you didn't say anything! And I'm sick of this joke, so just give it up. It's not funny anymore!" Dad glared at me for my outburst, then decided to ignore it.

"This is no joke, Ryann. You're a witch. I'm a wizard. We can do magic, and the school that sent you this letter," he waved it around, "will teach you how to use your magic to your advantage. How to control it, really. I went to Burnside when I was eleven, and graduated when I was eighteen. Seven years—that's how long students study at Burnside. You can think of it as your middle school and high school years, all spent at one school. Except you won't be learning algebra and English and geography, you'll be learning magical theory and history of magic and transfiguration. With me so far?"

I stared at him. Surely he wasn't serious?

"Prove it," I finally said. He looked slightly surprised, as if he'd expected me to swallow his explanation without question.

"I don't—"

"Do magic. Prove you can, or I won't believe you."

"I'm really not supposed—"

"I knew it," I interrupted angrily. "You're all just playing some stupid joke on me, you can't do magic or anything." I stood quickly and ran up to my room, tears in my eyes again, and collapsed onto my bed. They knew I hated being made fun of, why were they doing this?

Unless it's true, I thought in spite of myself. It was a pretty elaborate joke, and why bother when they all knew it would make me mad? And my mom's pale face and shaking hands…that was no acting. I turned over to stare out the window at the dusky sky. Was it possible that all this could be real? That my dad was a wizard, and I was a…witch?

There was a soft knock at the door, and my dad came in looking slightly chagrined. I watched in silence as he closed the door and sat on the end of my bed.

"Ryann…"

"Dad, just prove it!" I said again. He shook his head sadly.

"I'm not allowed—" He stopped suddenly, eyebrows raised. "Although… Think back, Ryann… Remember the time your bike got a flat tire when you were a mile from home?" I nodded. I'd been seven then, and not very wise about the world. I'd deliberately run over some glass to see if I could break it, and had popped a tire instead. But just as I was getting desperate, wondering how on earth I'd get home without a bike, the tire seemed to fill up again. I'd looked all over for the hole the glass had made, but it was gone. I rode all the way home without problems, and my dad couldn't find anything to fix when I told him what had happened.

"And what about that time at Grandma and Grandpa's house when you and I made that huge mess in the kitchen?" he went on. "Didn't you find it amazing that we got it all cleaned up in just a few minutes, before Grandma got home from church?" I nodded again, my mind already flitting to the other times strange things had happened, always in times of high emotion—fear, or desperation, or anger. I'd once gotten in a fist-fight with Ian Hopkins, the mean boy around the corner, and had managed to dodge all the worst of his punches and kicks. I'd gotten away with only a black eye and a small cut on my lip, though better fighters than me had been pummeled by Ian in the past. Then there was the time I climbed a tree in my neighbor's yard when running from an angry dog. I've never been able to climb that tree since, and I'd previously owed the feat to adrenaline, or even dumb luck. Could there actually have been magic involved?

"Do you see what I mean?" he asked after giving me a minute to think. "You can't attribute everything to luck. As strange as—" He stopped again, and again raised his eyebrows. "Now what about—wait right here, I'll be right back!" He stood quickly and fairly ran from the room, a large smile on his face. I couldn't help but be amused; my dad always got so excited about things.

He returned a few minutes later with a few photographs in his hand. I sat up in bed as he placed them in my lap.

"There!" he said triumphantly. "Photos from Burnside. If that doesn't convince you—" But he needn't continue. I was staring in shock at the picture on top: a young man of about seventeen, with his arm around a girl next to him and a huge smile on his face. To my disbelief, the young man in the picture was waving, his arm moving energetically back and forth. As I watched, the girl next to him leaned over and gave him a quick peck on the cheek, and the young man blushed. I turned to look at my dad, still gaping stupidly.

"My best friend at Burnside. They actually broke up a week after I took that picture, but they were only seventeen."

"You took this?" I said in amazement.

"Yep," he replied proudly. It was obvious his idea had worked; I had all the proof I needed right in my hand. I moved the first picture to the back and stared at the next photo. Three teenage guys grinned out at me, holding up identical certificates and wearing graduation clothes. They had badges pinned to their chests, but they were too small to make out. Behind them I could see a bright green lawn and the trunks of what might be pine trees.

"That one on the left is me," dad said, pointing at his younger self. "The one in the middle is the same friend from the first picture, and next to him is his cousin, who was in our year." I stared at them for a moment, then turned to the last picture. It featured an oldish woman with graying hair and a cheerful smile. She was trying to wave, but her arms were full of books that she was trying not to drop. Behind her was the same green lawn, with the corner of a brick building just visible in the distance.

"My favorite teacher, Professor Liveley. She taught Magical Zoology when I was at school, but she may have retired by now. She always wanted to be a zookeeper for magical creatures, so who knows? I can't wait to hear all about Burnside from you, it's been so long since I was last there!" I smiled vaguely, feeling as if I'd been whacked on the head. My whole world seemed to have been reversed, all the old rules I'd felt I could depend on were suddenly no longer true. Magic couldn't exist…it just couldn't…

But it did, and there was no denying it. I was eleven years old—the possibility that the pictures could have been faked somehow did not even cross my mind, though I don't know how that would be accomplished even now. I was old enough to have doubts about this, but young enough that I really wanted it to be true. I still lived half in a fantasy world of dragon books and fairy tales. Magic was something I used to yearn for, and I hadn't completely lost that wish that someday, I might fly, or turn invisible, or become an animal for even a short time…

I decided quite suddenly that I believed my dad. Without the pictures, without any proof at all. Because why shouldn't magic exist? All my favorite authors said it did, and the idea must have come from somewhere. I grinned up at my dad, completely elated. All my childhood dreams were going to come true! I could turn myself into an eagle or a panther or a horse; I could fly in the clouds on wings of my own making; I could become completely invisible and stride around unseen; all I needed now was for someone to teach me how, and at Burnside I would get such an education.

When my mom called us down for dinner, I was completely lost in fantasies about what I would do once I had learned how to do magic. I could finally get back Phoebe for all the times she'd teased me, which were actually relatively few, but that didn't matter. No one would ever dare come near me again if I threatened to turn them into a toad—even Ian Hopkins couldn't beat people up anymore once I was through with him!

I didn't call Jane right after dinner, knowing she was probably still eating. Besides, she'd gotten her letter today, too, and was probably talking excitedly with her dad about it. After clearing my place, I grabbed the letter off the table and slipped up to my room to read it once more.

In my room, I collapsed onto my bed and turned on my reading lamp. The ink seemed easier to see now, maybe because it was getting dark outside and the contrast had changed. I read again the first letter, then tossed it aside. Boring—the only important bit was the date and time I'd be picked up. I realized I didn't know where I would be picked up, or how, but figured my dad would be able to tell me. I amused myself for a while, imagining the different ways I could be picked up for school. My favorite by far was the scenario where a witch in green robes with a large wart on her nose flew through the front door on a broomstick, grabbed me by the wrist, and dragged me away. It seemed very traditional and fitting with the stories I'd read, and would be extremely exciting besides.

I grinned and shifted my focus to the supply list. It was exciting at first, but I soon realized it was no better than a supply list for a regular school. There were textbooks galore, and it was rather amusing trying to figure out which subject they might be for, but otherwise I grew bored studying the titles and authors. I also needed a wand, cauldron, beginner's potions supply kit, quills, ink, rolls of parchment in varying lengths, and a blank canvas for beginning art class. I imagined writing with a huge feather dipped in ink and decided to bring some pens to school for back-up.

Under the suggested reading list was a double asterisk:

Students are allowed ONE small-sized pet, excluding toads and frogs as of 1997. EVERY pet is to have a proper carrying case or cage for transportation purposes. Only non-poisonous snakes are allowed.

I stared at this final notice and my stomach did a flip. That made it sound as if…

"Dad?" I asked, panting slightly. I'd just run downstairs, feeling suddenly very sick.

"Yes, Ryann?" He looked up from the newspaper, peering over the tops of his reading glasses.

"Dad—this school—this Burnside—it's here in town, right?" He stared at me for a minute.

"What makes you think that?" he asked finally.

"But if it's not," I continued desperately, "how am I going to get there every day?" Dad stared at me again, then carefully folded his paper and set it down. Mom was watching from across the table, her pencil poised over a crossword puzzle.

"Ryann, you'll be living there," he said finally. My heart plummeted and I stared at him, momentarily speechless. Then the words started rushing out.

"I can't! No, I can't live—I won't—why should I—they can just have it here or I won't go at all!" Tears were brimming in my eyes. I'd never been away from my family for more than a few days at a time. How could I live without them for a whole semester?!

"Ryann, it's not so terrible," dad promised, his voice it's most soothing. "I did it, too. And your friend Jane will be with you, and you'll make plenty of other friends there—"

"What if I don't!" I wailed, cutting him off. I had a sudden image of myself, alone and friendless, wandering the campus of some huge college where everyone was doing cool magic and I couldn't even turn a toad into a toadstool. "What if I can't learn magic—what if I'm terrible and I fail?" I'd never failed at anything in my life! I couldn't take it if I was terrible at magic.

"Ryann, you'll be fine," dad assured me again. "You're not the only one coming from a non-magical family, and there are some who have no magic at all in their family before them. Think what they're going through, wondering what on earth it all is! You are not alone, Ryann, and you'll be just fine at Burnside." I stared at him in fear, then turned and bolted upstairs, where I collapsed facedown on my bed and began to cry uncontrollably.