This is fanfiction, yes, however it does not utilise, for the most part, characters created by Jo Rowling. School employees, business owners, etc, yeah, they're hers [except for the DADA teachers, for the obvious reasons, though I might use Quirrell later on and some older students are involved. The story is set in the 80s, you see, and the main character is a year ahead of Charlie Weasley, and Tonks. I'm not sure yet how clearly they'll feature.

I don't intend to write anything epic. I just want to write about Hogwarts, about the life of an ordinary student there, between the two battles with Voldemort, in a time that, for the wizarding world, has an almost 1920s dandy vibe to it; we've won, we're going to celebrate, etc. That's what I'm doing, then, writing about a girl called Svetlana Wainwright, who attends Hogwarts from 1983 to 1990. I'm not familiar with this website, but I've yet to come up with a title. Hopefully I can change it later on.

Now, as per usual, any characters created by Jo, I do not own, nor any concepts. That is to say, in this chapter, I do not own McGonagall, nor any structure held within the wizarding world.

But now, on with the show!


Svetlana Wainwright was a little bit off-centre.

She was just a little bit different.

Just a little, mind.

Brought up by mostly absent parents in the suburbs of Cardiff, she'd lived the first eleven years of her life wrapped up in herself. Not by choice, of course – who ever makes such a choice for herself? No, Lana (as she preferred to be known) had been driven to introversion by a myriad of seemingly mundane facts.

Her father, for instance, has been, for as long as she can remember, wrapped up in his world of figures and names, his world of business. Her mother, likewise, had little time to spare for her only daughter, as it seemed she, too, would not be happy unless she was at the top of her game – but at least this gave Lana something to do. You see, her mother's "game" as I put it was education – Catrin Wainwright was a professor of English Literature at the local university, and as such spent a good deal of her time wrapped up in books, the discarded of which Lana hastily jumped upon, and made her own. By the time she reached her eleventh non-birthday (given that her birthday is technically non-existent three out of four years), Lana had explored Brontë, she had explored Hardy and Dickens. Shakespeare was her closest friend, and Wordsworth and Coleridge were among her favourite past-times. She sat there for hours, glasses sliding down her nose, lost in her books. Of course, a girl of eleven could not even begin to hope to understand the intricacies of this literature, but insofar as any could, Lana did.

Her social seclusion turned her precocious, you see. Her parents being inattentive as they were – her father David taking business trips to London and, on the odd occasion, all the way to New York – Lana had the freedom to do as she pleased, but the inability to develop socially. Her school life seemed mostly a nightmare. Though she consistently ranked among the top of her year, she made few friends, and those she did, well, they didn't always exist. She would often take to talking to herself at her desk near the back of the classroom – schoolwork done, she had nothing better to do. She was certainly happy enough, though, don't get me wrong. She didn't seem to realise that she was something less than normal. The sight of a new book filled those big, dark eyes with such joy as most children her age could not understand.

I said there that her school life seemed mostly a nightmare; I hope you paid attention to the modifier.

Of course, though she enjoyed her school life and her home life insofar as she knew nothing different and learning thrilled her in much the same way as a mirror thrills an infant, there were many more peculiarities which had been rearing their heads for as long as Lana could remember: she could make things happen. No one ever asked her about them, of course – no one ever noticed – but if they had, that would be the only way she knew to explain: she could make things happen. She could make things float, and not just in the bath – float in midair. Pens, stones, books – mostly small things, and mostly involuntarily. One, a candle had even lit itself. She had no idea how these things happened, but she knew she was behind it.

Indeed, this would be explained in time.


The heat of the summer of 1983 pounded down on the Wainwright's south Wales home and Lana, though spending most of her time indoors, was still suffering the consequences of the heat. As she sat in her bedroom, books strewn about, her long dark hair matted itself against her forehead and the back of her neck. The heat, of course, didn't seem to distract her from the novel laying open on her lap – and why should it?

These six weeks, you might think, would give Lana and her mother some time together, but the truth is, they saw less of each other over the summer than through the school year – at least then there was the every-so-often book donation on Catrin's part. Through the summer, however, it was proved that the two were in fact relatives, Catrin spending her time in the living room, poring over her own tomes of literature and of literary criticism. She seemed to be completely ignorant of the fact that she even had a daughter, most of the time, and Lana's father was just the same.

It was a rare family gathering in early August that saw each and every life in the room change for ever.

David's mother, for whom he named his daughter, had her 72nd birthday on the 8th of August, 1983, and as a result, the four family members – David, Catrin, and the two Svetlanas – piled themselves into the dining room. The four of them went through the niceties of family, but most of the dialogue was, in fact, a monologue on the part of the eldest among them. In her accent, still heavy though she left Russia aged seven, Svetlana harped about the losses which had plagued her life – a theme at birthdays, it seems.

'Oh, David, if your father could be here! He would have liked to have seen little Svetlana, so much like her grandmother! And like your sister—'

There was a topic not discussed, even by this death-obsessed old woman. The death of her daughter Alys had changed her. Not that young Lana could remember this, of course—her aunt died when she was two. David, of course, recognised this:

'Catrin,' said he, diverting attention completely from the tears welling in his mother's eyes, 'perhaps mother might like to hear about what you've been reading?'

Catrin gushed about Eliot while Lana pushed at her mashed potatoes with her fork and knife, distracted. The peas came next, hopping about her plate and into the potatoes. No one noticed, it seemed. It was when the gravy boat rattled that the elder Svetlana shot a look like a steel-tipped arrow in her granddaughter's direction.

'Mum, what's the matter?' demanded David, but Svetlana just stared at the child.

'She probably just bumped the table,' muttered Catrin, disappointed at the diversion of attention.

Svetlana just continued to stare, and her granddaughter was not fazed in the least—she began shoveling the potatoes into her mouth, as though this were an everyday occurrence. Perhaps this would have been forgotten by all at hand had the doorbell not rang at just that moment.

Eager to leave the table and his slight crackpot of a mother, David jumped up to get the door, but when he opened it, he wished he hadn't. There stood the most strangely dressed woman he had ever seen. She was a tall, severe, imposing figure, and getting along in her years, but this is not the shocking bit. She was garbed in long, flowing emerald robes and what appeared to be a witch's hat.

'Ah, Wainwright, I thought I recognised the name. David, isn't it?'

The man simply gaped. He never thought he would have to see this woman again, this woman he'd not seen in decades; this woman who took away his sister.

'Come now, Wainwright, don't just stand there like a petrified squirrel, let me in! I'm here to see your daughter.'

He was taken aback. This couldn't be, Lana wasn't—but then, what actually did he know about his daughter? He never was around, he didn't watch her enough to be entirely certain…

'Yes, marm,' he said finally, leading her into the living room, still wearing that expression of a dear caught in the headlights, 'Er, take a seat, if you would. We'll be along shortly.'

'I should hope so; you're not my only stop tonight, you know!'

David stumbled his way back to the dining room, and when he reached the doorway, his family – with the obvious exception – stared up at him, looking shocked. His eyes had aged a decade. 'Er,' he started, 'Mum, Catrin, Lana, we have a visitor in the living room.'

The grandmother moved as someone a quarter of her age to the living room, the only fitting verb being "zoomed". Upon reaching the room, and setting eyes upon who it contained, she turned stark white.

'Oh dear,' said the strangely-dressed woman, 'I seem to have intruded on a family reunion.'

'YOU!' bellowed Svetlana, 'why are YOU here? You will leave this family be! There will be no more death! No more!'

The woman seemed unperturbed, and as the rest of the family filed in and took their seats, she defended herself: 'Mrs. Wainwright, what happened to Alys was regrettable. Very regrettable. But you must understand, she died as a hero, protecting our very way of life.' Turning her head to the youngest, as though she considered this to suffice to quell the hatred boiling in the old woman's eyes, 'I suppose, then, you must be Svetlana,'—the girl nodded—'I'm Professor Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.'

Catrin gasped. David sighed. Svetlana continued her tirade. Lana responded simply: 'Really?'

McGonagall allowed a slight smile to cross her lips, 'Yes, really—Mrs. Wainwright, would you please calm down?—Svetlana, have you ever noticed—really, Mrs. Wainwright!'

'David, take your mother back into the dining room,' said Catrin, 'we can manage this ourselves.'

'But honey, we've dealt with it before—'

'Exactly. I haven't. I'm curious. Now, go.' And with that, grudgingly, David and Svetlana left the room. 'Now, continue, miss—what did you say your name was?'

'McGonagall. Professor.' She turned to Lana, 'Now, as I was saying—'

'You know, I'm a professor, myself,' interrupted Catrin, 'what do you teach, exactly?'

'Mrs. Wainwright, if you would stop thinking about yourself for one instant and let me continue on with what I have to say to your daughter, your questions would be answered. If you won't, I fear you may just end up a frog.' Catrin was taken aback, and therefore let the strange woman continue: 'Svetlana, have you ever found yourself to have abilities somewhat different from your friends? Being able to will things to do something for you, to pick up a pen without using your hand, for instance?'

Lana simply nodded, apprehensively. She watched McGonagall with the same gravitas usually reserved for works of Shakespeare.

'Ms. Wainwright, according to our authorities, you,' she let that half-smile cross her face once more, 'are a witch.'

Her mother looked stunned, and Lana was glad her father and grandmother had vacated the room. They obviously knew about this, or at least knew who this woman was.

'Marm, I might only be eleven years old, but I know there are no such things as witches,' the young girl said matter-of-factly.

'How do you explain what you were doing with your peas earlier, then?'

Lana gasped, 'How do you…?' and McGonagall once more smiled.

'Lana, dear,' began her mother, 'there are such things as witches. Your aunt, Alys, she died when you were very young, I doubt you remember her,' she began to trail off, her eyes went slightly foggy, and then she was back, 'your aunt, she was a witch. Your dad's grandparents, too, on his mother's side, or so he's told me. I never believed him until I met Alys, but there was no denying it, then.' Her eyes once more unfocused and she was staring off into space.

'So,' said Lana, again matter-of-factly, looking down at her hands, 'I'm a witch. How can I do magic?'

'Well, that's why I'm here,' responded McGonagall, 'you are tentatively enrolled in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, where, as I mentioned previously, I am Deputy Headmistress. Assuming you wish to attend—'

Here she was cut off, the mere mention of school had Lana's eyes big as saucers, and here she burst out with: 'Oh yes! Yes, of course!' the grin across her face broadening in such a manner that her mother had never seen.

'Oh, good, very good. Now,' McGonagall was rummaging about in her handbag, 'there is the small matter, now that you are considered a witch, of your inheritance.' The pair of them looked stunned, 'you see, your aunt left some items to the family which could not exactly be inherited by Muggles – that is, non-wizarding folk – and so as soon as a wizard or witch came along on the family, they would be handed over. This includes:' she read from a list, scribed on parchment, she had just pulled from her bag, 'a Swiftstick broom—slightly outdated, but it should do the job—a standard cauldron, and one hundred five galleons and seventeen sickles—wizarding money, you see,' the last being in response to Lana's altogether confused appearance at the mention of sailing ships and farm equipment, and McGonagall continued: 'which are available to you in storage at Gringotts Bank,' she produced from her handbag this time a small gold key, and handing it to Lana, 'you will of course, need this key to enter the vault.'

Acknowledging the stunned look on Lana's face, the Deputy Headmistress continued: 'Gringotts is located in Diagon Alley, in London, along with nearly every shop you'll need to—' again, she rummaged around in her handbag, producing another list, handing it to Lana, 'acquire the items listed here, including schoolbooks, and, most importantly, your wand.'

Mrs. Wainwright had begun to protest from the instant McGonagall had suggested Lana travel to London, assuming it would be both immediate, and unaccompanied. Her worries were soon quashed, however.

'You will be accompanied to London by a Hogwarts staff member, who will assist you with getting your bearings in the wizarding world. He will arrive three weeks from today, on Monday, the 29th of August,' the smile crossed her lips once more, as she handed Lana the reading list, 'congratulations, Ms. Wainwright. You are now a student at Hogwarts.'

The professor then did something most unexpected by those two present. She made as though to leap straight into the sofa, but midway through the leap, she seemed to transform, and perched atop the cushions was a small tabby cat. It mewled, and proceeded to make its way out of the house.

Lana stared down at the list in front of her, scrawled on parchment. Books. Books she'd never heard of, books about magic! And a whole school for it! It was all happening so fast, so fast in fact that it prompted an uncharacteristic outburst of family love. She wrapped her arms around her mother in a hug and shouted: "I'm a witch!"