Two brown eyes stared intently at the unburnt logs in the marble fireplace. Incendio. The logs remained as cool as the marble that surrounded them. Incendio. The setting sun shone red through the window and, for a moment, the logs looked aflame; but then the moment passed and once again they were dark and unmoving. Incendio. A knock came at the door.

- Lady Karnstein?

Incendio. Another knock.

- Lady Karnstein? May I come in?

Incendio. The knock came again, this time a more insistent rapping

- Lady Karnstein? Are you in there?

Dammit.

- Come in Alicia.

Carmilla looked away from the dead fireplace, gracefully lifting herself of the floor in one swift movement; the sliver-lined hem of her long, black robe sweeping the ground and curling beside her as she stood. She looked towards the door, and greeted her handmaiden with a polite nod of her head.

- My apologies for the disturbance Milady, - said the young woman with a small bow - your Lady mother requests you join her for supper.

Carmilla sat to the right of her mother. A place of honour, her mother always said, an honour to sit to the right of the head of the table. Carmilla thought it would be more honourable if her mother would look at her every once in a while. Or maybe it would be better if she sat all the way across the long mahogany table, facing her mother from across the room. Perhaps not as honourable a seat, but at least it would a more dramatic mise en scène. Carmilla had always had a flair for the dramatic; or so her mother said.

Why is it that whenever one is most thirsty, there never seems to be a server around to pour water into one's goblet? Carmilla mused. The silver jug of water was sitting right there on the table at her mother's left side, much too far for Carmilla's arms to reach. Besides, a lady never reaches, Carmilla, her mother had said. She could ask her mother to pass the jug, but when she turned her head to look at her, she saw she was engrossed reading the letter that the butler had brought in after the soup had been served. You mustn't interrupt when her ladyship is busy, Carmilla, her governess had instructed. Her ladyship looked pretty busy now, so asking her to pass the water did not seem like a good option. Deciding it was the only course of action, Carmilla reached into the inside left pocket of her robe, looking for her wand, but her hand closed around air in the empty pocket. Never be without your wand, Carmilla, her Lord father had said as they had left Ollivander's, it must always be with you, an extension of your arm. It had been a Thursday, Carmilla remembered. She remembered because she could count the times she had been out with her father on the fingers of one hand.

On that Thursday morning, four years ago, she had woken up and sprung out of bed. Running to her closet, she had pulled on her best winter robe, not even bothering to wait for her handmaiden to dress her. She had been halfway through lacing up her boots when Alicia had walked in.

- Happy birthday, little Carmilla, - the young woman had said, kneeling down and helping the girl with the bootlaces.

That was the last time she ever called me that, Carmilla realised with a small pang of longing, I became Lady Karnstein to her the moment I returned home with a wand. But her handmaiden's wishes for a happy birthday had been of little concern to Carmilla that day, and as soon as her boots were laced up she had raced trough the long halls of the manor, bounded down the stairs, dashed across the length of another hallway, and almost collided into her father at the entrance to his library.

- I'm ready! - she had all but yelled - I'm ready!

- My lady, - her father had said, taking her small hand in his, - Diagon Alley awaits.

They had stepped into the chimney, and the last thing Carmilla had seen, before her vision had filled with green flames, had been her mother giving her a small wave. Ollivander's had been far more exciting, and far more terrifying, that Carmilla had ever imagined. She remembered every little detail about the things that had called her attention that day; the dust fairies dancing in the light that came from the window, the slight movement of the little bronze bell on the counter, the apparently haphazard disorder of the thousands of long boxes stacked on the towering shelves, the big book laying open atop the counter, the messiness of Mr. Ollivander's hair… She had been vaguely aware of the conversation between Mr. Ollivander and her father. Only seven…too young… she's my heir… everyone in our family… She had known what her father was talking about. She knew every heir to the Karnstein title got their first wand on their seventh birthday; that it was a rite of passage - the first of many they would go through on their way to becoming the Lord Karnstein - or lady, in her case, - and that Mr. Ollivander could protest all he wanted, but it would be in vain. In the end Mr Ollivander had conceded, as she knew he would, and had brought out a few wands for her to try. She had tried three wands, all of which had backfired quite spectacularly, until at last the wand-maker had brought out the perfect wand for her. Ash, 123/4 inches, rigid, with a double core of phoenix feather and dragon heartstring. Carmilla had never seen her father look so proud. Never be without your wand, Carmilla, he had said. So where was her wand?

Carmilla shook her head slightly as she remembered where her wand was; she had left it on her nightstand. Idiot. She had wanted to keep the wand out of reach while she tried to ignite the logs without it. She knew if she had it with her, she would be tempted to use it. And for what? I am never going to be able to do wandless magic, not again. She had done it once before: on the morning of her ninth birthday, when Alicia had come in and had told her her father had gone away on an urgent matter, and hoped to return in a fortnight, and that he was sorry he would miss her birthday. One second her handmaiden had been standing besides her bed, pulling back the drapes of the canopy, and the next she had jumped back screaming, the thick, velvet curtains now ablaze. It was a fluke. That's what she always told herself, it was the only way she could explain never being able to repeat the feat. So, no wand, no water. Unless… Bringing her goblet close to her face, Carmilla looked into it keenly, her brown eyes as focused now as they had been upstairs next to her fireplace. Aguamenti. Nothing. Aguamenti. The goblet remained empty. Aguamen…

- Carmilla? Did you hear what I said?

Carmilla snapped her head up and looked at her mother.

- Pardon?

- I said, your Hogwarts letter arrived today in the mail.

Carmilla's goblet clanged heavily as it hit the hardwood floor.

— — — — —

Laura loved school. Well, no, not really. Laura loved her classes. Actually, not really either. Laura loved her English class. Yes, that was it, Laura loved English class. She loved reading. She would read anything that fell into her lap; children's books, novels, short stories, newspaper articles, magazines, poems, comic books. Everything and anything Laura could get her hands on, she read. And she loved writing. She had already won the school's 'budding journalist' award three years in a row, and whenever anyone asked her what she wanted to be when she grew, the answer always was 'journalist.' But now, now it was summer and Laura was bored. She missed school, well, she missed English class. Bored, bored, bored, bored, bored. All of her friends were gone. Gabby and Sophie had left for theatre camp last week, and Jake had gone to France with his parents. Boooooored. She had begged her dad to send her to camp with Gabby and Sophie. She had cried, and pleaded, and bargained; but it had all been to no avail. Her dad thought it was too dangerous and had refused to send her. So here she was, trapped in her small town, where the most exciting thing to ever happen had been a troubadour coming into town for a couple of days. Well, the most exciting thing I can actually tell people about.

She had just turned eight when it had happened. She had been playing with her kite in the backyard when it had gotten stuck on the branch of a tree. She had quickly started to climb up to untangle it, completely disregarding all of the times her father had told her not to climb trees, when she suddenly lost her footing. She had closed her eyes as she fell, hoping against hope that she would not hit her head. Time seemed to have slowed down, what a terribly cliche thing to happen right before you die, but after a while her fall seemed to be taking too long, even for a cliche, so she had opened her eyes. She was hovering a few inches above the ground, completely safe, completely not dead, and completely so not a cliche. And then she had dropped those last few inches. Confused - and a little bit terrified, she had to admit - Laura had done the only thing she could think to do: she had hit the books. After days, and days, and days of research, Laura had come to the realisation that the only logical conclusion was that she was a witch. A witch.

- Laura? - her dad called up to her room - you've got a letter sweetie

- Coming!

Laura took the letter from her dad's hand with a mumbled thanks. The envelope was heavy. Laura turned it in her hands and inhaled sharply. Above the red wax seal was an emblem. A crest adorned by four animals: a lion, a snake, a badger, and an eagle. Hogwarts. HOGWARTS. Hogwarts. Hog… Shit. How am I going to explain this to my dad?