Ingrid was six when Ariella received her first owl from Hogwarts.

She remembers this day as the last of its kind. One of the very last she and her family enjoys completely and fully together before it all falls apart.

Her father goes out for ice cream, because magic or no, her mother can't cook. And an occasion as special as this one means sundaes for dinner.

Ariella was beside herself.

They made a mess of the kitchen table, laughed, told stories, and of course made Ariella re-enact opening the letter, again and again and again.

Ingrid's sides hurt from laughing so hard, for every time Ariella recreated the scene, it became more dramatic.

"This is . . . this is . . . no, I cannot believe it!!! Surely not! But it is!!! Dearest Mother! Beloved Father! This is not the letter from Aunt Nora, but instead a correspondence from Hogwarts! I am to come right away! Oh darling Ingrid, how I shall miss you!"

Ingrid laughed at her emphatic gestures and exaggerated tones, but at this point, it became hard to tell if all her tears were of joy and mirth. I'll miss you too.

Part of what drove the impromptu celebration was the sheer surprise of it all. Ariella had yet to demonstrate any magical aptitude. One of the hallmarks of a young witch or wizard was inadvertent displays of magic, generally manifesting as part of the pubescent process. Yet her entire childhood had seemingly progressed without incident. And although it was pretty well known that wizards begot wizards, and squibs were quite rare, Ariella was more than prepared to lead the muggle life of her Father, and eventually pursue medicine. Magic does not make me a better or lesser person. Her parents lived this truth, and she had prepared herself for either outcome.

"Still," she thought, "not even once. Marilla says that all the first years have stories about turning their frogs yellow or somesuch thing."

"Well honey, maybe it was stress." her father mused, "Whether you were conscious of it or not, I'm sure this weighed heavily somewhere in the back of your mind. After all, most of your friends have heard back from their schools of choice, magical or not."

"I'm afraid I have to disagree Graham." Mrs. Third paused momentarily, feeding the honeypepper bush one last spoonful of gooey caramel, "Stress normally exacerbates the situation, rather than depressing it. It's not unheard of, but it is unusual that Ariella hasn't executed any magic at all."

"Yes she has."

"I know! And every book I've ever read says that . . ." Ariella suddenly spun on her sister, "Wait, what was that?"

All three turned to Ingrid, who was studiously making a jenga-style pile of cherries on her banana split, and not paying particular attention to the conversation.

"Sweetheart, what do you mean? That Ariella's been stressed, or that Ariella has performed magic?"

"Well both I guess," said Ingrid, stopping and turning to face her mother, "It has been happening a whole bunch more lately."

Ariella stared incredulously, "What on Earth are you talking about? When?"

"When you're asleep. You make the room change colors." She shrugged to convey that this was no big deal. Their home was full of magic, with things much more impressive than multicolor bedsheets and wallpaper. "Like every night."

Mr. and Mrs. Third stared at each other. Then at Ariella. Then Ingrid.

"SNEAK!" shrieked Ariella, launching out of her chair, "I'm so going to get you!"

The girls flew (no not literally) giggling round the table, ending the chase only when Mr. Third snatched up the stickiest of the two, while Mrs. Third grabbed Ariella around the waist.

They left the kitchen a disaster, retiring to the only part of the house completely free of magical objects: the den.

It was kept this way so that Mr. Third could successfully use his electronics: camcorder, cell phone, computer, and television. For wizards, it was extremely convenient that magical interference usually prevented them from being 'outed' via videotape. For their muggle spouses, this was often a point of great frustration.

"Woody Allen Movie Marathon," Mr. Third announced, trudging up the stairs with Ingrid on his shoulders, "and our school prefect shall choose the first number."

"Daaaad, only fifth years can be prefects!"

Mrs. Third's laugh rang like a crystal bell through the corridor.

Their parents fall asleep midway through the second film (The Purple Rose of Cairo) but the girls are wide awake, physically exhausted but too excited to drift off into slumber.

"What if you have class with Harry Potter?"

"Not possible. Marilla said Harry was a third year, which means he'll be in his fourth when I start. But there's a good chance I'll see him."

Ingrid shivered. Most of their mother's family rested in a graveyard just South of Cardiff.

"I can't wait till we go to Diagon Alley. Fortescue's has way better ice cream than the Tesco," she murmured, "and we can look at brooms. The Quidditch World Cup is this summer, so I bet they'll mark down the Firebolts to capitalize on that."

"Won't they have those at school?" asked Ingrid, "I thought first years got flying lessons."

"No way. Firebolts cost more galleons than a month's worth of ice cream. But we do get lessons." Here, she mimed a flying motion, "And I'll teach you everything I know as soon as I come back for Christmas break."

Ingrid smiled. Flying actually came quite naturally to her, as she had convieniently found out one afternoon in the garage. On mom's old Cleansweep. Now she made an effort to practice in secret maybe once a week. She confessed all this to Ariella.

"You really are a sneak!" she stage whispered, poking her sibling, "I'll bet you end up in Slytherin!"

Ariella had received her very own copy of Hogwarts, A History from her mother on her 11th birthday. 'Just in case.'

"No!" Ingrid countered defiantly, "Hufflepuff, like Mom."

Ariella smiled, "You know, I'm kinda hoping for Ravenclaw. But I'll bet two sickles you end up a proud Gryffindor."

"Are they any good?"

"Brave. Godric was a champion of justice."