My complete lack of ability regarding British culture and accents will become apparent soon if it hasn't already. I'm so sorry. The Great British Bakeoff taught me a lot but not enough.
August 12th dawned overcast and slightly rainy, which was, while disappointing, absolutely typical of London. I jiggled my leg as I stuffed my face with cereal and fruit. It was a Monday, so dad had already left for work. Mum had taken the day off and was reading the paper, idly sipping her Earl Grey.
Life as a child was as restrictive as it was boring. I wouldn't be surprised if mum was on some level glad to be rid of me; lies of omission were my preferred fare, so I wasn't troublesome so much as unsettling. Humans continued to amaze me with their adaptability, wherein I was deemed mature for my age rather than an outright anomaly.
I think I'd have had more troubles if I weren't so good at keeping my mouth shut. That and the truth was so ridiculous that it was nigh impossible to suspect.
McGonagall rang our doorbell promptly at five to noon. Mum let out a slow breath. I sneezed, my fingers going cold at the tips. I felt sensitized with excitement but fundamentally dreaded going outside. It had taken me years to acclimate myself to life as a non-hermit. Stuck in a child's body, home was heaven. The anxiety of shopping mixed poorly with being thrust into a different culture.
Mum exchanged pleasantries with McGonangal and herded me out the door. I gazed up at her shyly and mumbled a perfunctory "morning ma'am."
Side along apparition turned out to be much less unpleasant than anticipated. Even McGonagall seemed a bit unsettled with the smug pleasure I was emitting. Compared to being plagued with carsickness, this was nothing. I could do this all day. Mum had a few questions about the entrance to Diagon Alley, and I left thoe details up to her. As a minor, I was unlikely to have the power to travel freely any time soon.
Our first stop was the bank. For the record, I was not and had never been an expert at banks. But identity theft was a real problem in the Muggle world; I really, really wanted to ask Nagnok how Gringotts prevented fraud (Harry & co got away with it) but I mostly didn't want to cause trouble. Mum gripped my hand tightly, correctly interpreting my silence as discomfort. I wanted money but not responsibility. On the bright side, I was eleven. Literally no one expected me to be responsible for my own finances.
I think somewhere in there I got a biannual muggleborn stipend from the Ministry. Thanks Fudge.
The shops were both more and less rustic than Diagon Alley at Disneyworld. More in that it was glaringly obvious that these shops were old as balls. Less in that there were fewer grubby tourists and cleaning charms worked very well. There were plenty of grubby children and rude parents, but it was like shopping at the mall compared to being shoved around at an amusement park. At a store, everyone was suffering equally and my pain was nothing compared to the hell the shop assistant was going through. In a line for a rollercoaster, the people in front were enemies.
A stranger might mistake my wide eyed gaze as curiosity but really I was letting my inner asshole run wild. Wizarding fashion was a sin, all saturated colors and weird fluffy appendages. I was so, so grateful to be Muggleborn in that moment. I couldn't imagine having to live with people who dressed like that regularly, much less be forced to partake in having criminally bad taste. Every time a nasty, nasty child came close to touching me, I only had to see the thinly veiled suffering in their accompanying parental units eyes to feel immense gratification. And then I could think unkind thoughts about how said parents were dressed. It was an endless cycle.
McGonagall looked disapprovingly amused every time I made eye contact with her. She was either psychic or used to this shit; I chose to believe the latter.
"Is this all?" Mum sounded dubious but according to the movies, wizards wore robes all day erry day. I don't think mum was comfortable with sending me off with seven sets of the exact same clothes. The supply list only required three sets of robes, but I think mum was uncertain about my ability to do laundry.
But. "Mum, it's boarding school," I said, as though that explained everything. "It's uniforms."
Blinking a few times, McGonagall explained, "Indeed, Hogwarts abides by a dress code. You may purchase dress robes for special occasions, but I recommend some awareness of growth spurts."
We shopped for a few hours further. The bookstore was incredibly disappointing; I was expecting more magic book shenanigans. Mum and I shopped the same way, which is to say, sparsely. We went in, got what we wanted, and left as soon as possible. My complete lack of interest in textbooks aside, I didn't browse much. I was rather gratified to see what looked like a terrible harlequin novel in the front and slipped in with the rest of our things. Mum gave me a look at my choice, The Werewolf's Contract Bride.
"It's a bestseller," I said.
Wand finding turned out to be another disappointment. Here I was, all pumped to 'accidentally' destroy Ollivander's shop a bit, and he had me pegged within three tries.
It went a bit like:
"Hornbean and unicorn hair, 13 inches, slightly unyielding. Go on then, give it a swish."
I aimed the wand at a mostly unoccupied corner, so I was incredibly surprised when a small table to my left burst into flames. I stared at the fire with wide-eyed fascination as Ollivander tutted and pried the wand from my limp hands. McGonagall put out the fire because she was a spoilsport.
Mum reached for my hand and squeezed it, probably more for her comfort than mine.
"Try this one: walnut and dragon heartstring, 8 and a half inches, quite supple."
The wand made a farting noise, a few drops of bright orange snot-like goo dripping off the end. We soon realized that the goo was not, in fact, goo, but a very hot, lava-like substance in the process of burning a new hole in Ollivander's floo.
I wanted to touch it. Mum grabbed both my shoulders because she knew I was a bad child.
Ollivander shook his head, banishing the wand to the ether where it belonged. I kind of wanted it. Inability to perform magic aside, I had a slight fascination with lava.
"Is there magic that can produce lava?" I asked McGonagall while Ollivander vanished into the back of his shop to perform satanic summoning rituals to discern the Perfect Wand.
I wasn't expecting a straightforward answer, but McGonagall was frighteningly good at dealing with odd questions and hiding her true sentiments. "There are a few offensive spells rooted in fire, which are years above your current level. At Hogwarts, you will be educated such that you might pursue what magic you wish, within reason."
Oh. She hadn't forgotten my reluctance to attend magic school. Even I'd forgotten that, so I was beset with a fresh wave of tragic longing for a smartphone. #MagicSchoolProblems.
I wasn't prone to drama but not above passive aggressive wars of attrition. Mum rushed in for damage control and was greatly relieved when Ollivander emerged, holding aloft the Wand of my Dreams.
For real, though. "Ebony and unicorn hair, 11 and a half inches, rigid." He nodded to himself.
I waved it and almost before I was finished with the motion, a rush of dark blue swirled out of the end, saturating the air and slowly drifting towards the ground where it dispersed like mist.
Really, really pretty.
"I want this one," I said, clutching the wand to my chest.
Ollivander had already moved on, no longer concerned with my great anxiety regarding my one true wand. He still hadn't stopped nodding to himself. "Like your father. I should have guessed. An excellent wand, should be no trouble. Just like her father."
I decided I didn't very much like Ollivander as mum predictably tensed. I wasn't sure if my biological father actually made her that nervous, or if grandmother had conditioned that response in her. The only one allowed to stress my mum out was me, so I grabbed her hand in solidarity and gave Ollivander the stinkeye.
McGonagall used that cue to step in. "A hip holster as well, Mr Ollivander. Ten galleons and twelve sickles, if I recall correctly?" Mum snapped out of it and got her head in the game, as she always did when money was mentioned. My new wand was safely tucked in its holster, which was basically a belt. I didn't normally name things, but this wand really felt like a Francis to me. Or maybe Monsieur le maire? I wouldn't be able to take class seriously if le maire was administering justice all the time though so Francis it was.
"Shall we take a short break? Miss Whitter must be growing hungry." My stomach growled on cue and I hunched over to shut it up.
My time had come. I'd spotted Florean Fortescue's an hour ago between Flourish and Blotts and mum's odd fascination with cauldrons.
"I want ice cream!"
"Perhaps if you still have room after lunch?" Haha mum, you fool, lunch was for my belly but dessert was for my _soul_.
I'd fully expected to eat at the Leaky Cauldron but McGonagall brought us to what appeared to be the Wizarding equivalent of the Cheesecake Factory. I ordered chou farci, which almost certainly wasn't age appropriate but whatever. Mum went for a curry pastry and McGonagall chose to use this time to stare at us and learn our secrets.
She steepled her fingers as we waited for our food to arrive. "As I'm sure you are aware, our first order of business is the matter of Miss Whitter's father."
Mum nodded. I almost choked on my water. Was this information for women past age thirty only? With the combined power of my two lifetimes, I was older than mum, even. That was a bad thought; I drank more water to wash it away.
"Miss Whitter's father was Regulus Arcturus Black of the House of Black," said McGonagall, pulling a folder out of nowhere and laying it on the table. "He is, unfortunately, now deceased. Because Miss Whitter was born illegitimate, she currently has no claim or inheritance. However, as a descendent of the paternal line, you may be able to file for a title. There are no remaining family members able to contest such a claim."
I was already shaking my head no. Racism, racism, racism. Actually, racism was inaccurate; if anything I was in for a world of prejudice and discrimination. Race had nothing to do with it.
A gleam had entered mum's eyes. "Inheritance? I'm not sure I understand how your financial systems work. Please do explain it to me."
Mum, no. Don't do it for the money. My silent pleas went unheard.
"You'll find most of the information you may need within the documents. Please read them with care. The Ministry tends to move quite slowly with such things, so it may be best to allow Miss Whitter to deliver any further questions you may have after the term begins. Her magical citizenship was realized upon her acceptance to Hogwarts but is unlikely to be bureaucratically finalized in the near future." McGonagall sure was sly, dropping those bombs against the ministry. It made sense in a way, because the ministry could more or less drag its feet until students became legal magical adults, or something like that.
Mum was already buried nose deep in parchment. Which, actually, brought up another question.
"Professor McGonagall," I said, distracting her from her own newly appearing paperwork. Were paperwork lunch functions normal in the Wizarding world? "Am I allowed to use pens? On homework?"
I wanted to lug in a 90s computer but I didn't think that would fly with the school management.
"I don't see why not," said McGonagall. I think she got this question a lot. "While many Muggle technologies are inoperable within Hogwarts grounds, there are no rules prohibiting the usage and practicalities of others."
And wasn't that a really vague blanket statement. I tried to understand what she meant; was she saying that guns were okay, or that there simply weren't any specific rules against them? I also tried to think of muggle things that I'd like to bring that were unlikely to break, and drew up a blank. Mostly because half of the things I wanted hadn't been invented yet.
Mum threw down her papers with a faint gasp of scandalized horror. I leaned against her to see what was up and let out a faint gasp of scandalized horror of my own.
"A criminal! Is this legal? I expect you have precautions in place. I won't allow Candy to attend this school of yours if she's to be at risk," Mum slapped her hand down, her face growing red. I guess 'by the way, your brother in law is in prison for murder' wasn't a conversation mum wanted to have. I, on the other hand, was drowning in the terrible latent possibilities implicit in this revelation. I should have known, but seriously, who remembered R.A.B.? I hadn't touched the Harry Potter series in years but that didn't forgive my inability to connect the House of Black to, well, the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.
Didn't this mean, in a twisted way, that I was related to Harry Potter? Non non non. That was a can of worms that I was beyond uninterested in. Maybe it was time for me to move to America, the land of my people.
"Mrs Whitter!" McGonagall's sharp tone cut through whatever further protests mum wished to voice. I'm sure there were a lot and that I'd be hearing them once we got home; mum loved going off the rails in private and I think dad found it hot.
"Please, Mrs Whitter. There's no need for you to associate with the House of Black if you do not wish to. Illegitimate children must file claims to be publicly registered. Without such a claim, the only people aware of this connection will be us and the Ministry."
"Of course we don't wish to associate with criminals! We'll have nothing to do with this House of Black of yours."
And that was that. The mood was bad for a while but a stop at Florean Fortescue's and my disturbing ability to consume ice cream later, things were alright.
Our final stop was the pet store. McGonagall claimed that, while it was permissible for me to use the Hogwarts Owlery for my communication needs, it would be prudent for my parents to be able to contact me, and for me to remain in contact with potential friends come the following summer. This all made plenty of sense to me but I more or less walked right past Eeylops Owl Emporium and beelined into the Magical Menagerie. I wasn't allergic to cats this time around which meant, obviously, that I was going to hug every cat.
Both mum and McGonagall humored me as I searched the shop for the fluffy cat of my dreams. Which was basically a Maine Coon, but I wasn't expecting to find one of those in Britain. Eventually mum grew tired of me opening every cage to hug every cat and turned to the nearest salesman.
"Candy, can you tell this nice young man what you're looking for?" Was it that obvious that I was on a hunt?
I shrugged. "A Maine Coon. Or a Bengal. Or a leopard cat mix?"
The salesman looked a bit baffled. My mum quickly came to my defense. "She's been in a cat phase for a while. She likes leopards."
Mum wasn't wrong. I loved leopards. I was a bit wary; mum normally shut me down immediately once I ventured too far from reality. What was her game here?
"We don't have anything like that in the store," the salesman stroked his chin. "But a friend of mine does collect exotic pets. I can contact her for you? May I have your floo address?"
Our saviour McGonagall swept in, saving us from having to explain the intricacies of being Muggles. We could expect a letter within two weeks, and the cat, while pricey, could be delivered to our doorstep.
Mum caught my sceptical look. She patted my head and I leaned in. "A gift, so you won't be lonely at boarding school."
I'd been trying not to think about that, but thanks for bringing it up.
It wasn't that mum was too down to earth to find magic upsetting, though she was certainly very down to earth. It was more like, she'd save the freakout for later when I wasn't watching. And so she calmly purchased a very nice looking barn owl for her and dad's home use. An outsider would surely have thought them to be very adaptable Muggles. Even I found her practicality admirable.
The rest of the month was uneventful. Mum and dad grew increasingly stressed, I received my suspiciously large 'domesticated' leopard cat, and together we prepared for my imminent departure.
I didn't particularly appreciate the aesthetics of a trunk; vintage wasn't my style. I wanted one of those endlessly deep, time-space defying handbags like Hermione. Dad looked very confused when I tried to explain this to him over supper one evening but he clearly sympathized and told me not to worry about money and to enjoy myself at school. I had no idea where he'd gotten that from, but he wasn't wrong. My latent worry over my family's finances continued to run strong.
The cat and I got along better and worse than I would have liked. I named him Valentine. He was more gray than the standard leopard cat and not at all obedient. He was, however, astoundingly affectionate when in the mood and prone to exacting revenge on the clothing that I hated. Farewell, ugly orange trousers, you will not be missed.
I wasn't sure how mum and dad intended to deal with the owl, but out of sight, out of mind. This was no longer my problem.
Dad accompanied us to King's Cross. He was clearly more fascinated by all the magic stuff than mum, probably because mum had yet to drop the bomb regarding my thoroughly nutty biological father's side of the family. Dad still had it in him to think magic was amazing; mum had grown slowly more wary and cynical as she devoured the documents McGonagall had left her.
I used to be good at goodbyes, always able to focus on the future rather than what I was letting go. This was no longer the case. Mum's face crumpled a bit once the train pulled in, which was my cue to start the waterworks. I latched onto dad's waist and let his coat collect the salt of my tears.
I ended up being one of the last children to board the train. It could have been worse; the sight of the Hogwarts Express brought with it strangely vivid memories of another old train, The Flying Pussyfoot. I vaguely hoped that things didn't turn out like that, but given that this was a British train, such events were unlikely.
Interacting with children had never been my strong suit, but I was able to avoid bullying through sheer recklessness. In other words, I was a loose lipped tattletale who feared neither consequences nor other children. I had a tendency for hasty retribution when irked, which was only amplified by my emotional 11 year old brain. For all my conflict avoidance, I still couldn't hold myself back when I thought someone deserved to suffer.
So I was more or less prepared to run into a snooty pureblood and kick the shitty kid in the shins. I searched the compartments in the middle of the train, unable to hope for an empty one. Because even if I did find ideal solitude, I'd eventually be interrupted by other children searching for a place to sit.
My saviour appeared in the form of Neville Longbottom. I didn't recognize him at first, but a compartment containing only a single chubby kid staring at a glass ball looked like a great bet to me. If I didn't talk to him, he'd probably leave me alone.
"Is anyone sitting here?" I asked as I made motions to sit regardless of how the boy responded. He nodded shyly, red tinting the bridge of his nose.
Silence reigned as I searched my pockets for something to eat.
"I-I'm Neville Longbottom. What's your name?" It probably took a lot for Neville to muster up even such a perfunctory greeting, since I was all but exuding 'don't talk to me' vibes. I felt bad for him.
"Candace Whitter, but please do call me Candy," I smiled. "I'm a first year. You?"
Despite whatever purported notion I had of Neville Longbottom, I could see gears turning in his head as he categorized me as probably not a pureblood of any notable line. Wizards were weirdly particular about families; I didn't get it.
"I'm also a first year!" He looked so happy to have discovered a confederate. I was emotionally unequipped to deal with this. Someone graciously took this opportunity to slide our compartment door open.
"Excuse me, is there an open seat here?" And lo and behold, there was Hermione Granger. Her hair looked even wilder than my wildest dreams. She was out of breath, which took me by surprise. I would have imagined her to be one of the earliest to board the express.
She and Neville made their introductions, and with the exception of my own obligatory greeting, delved into a conversation that consisted mostly of Hermione being excited and Neville nodding along. The topic soon turned to pets. I let Valentine's silent displeasure at being caged speak for itself and Neville had a minor crisis trying to locate his toad.
Neville's minor crisis soon morphed into a major event as Hermione laid out plans to storm the rest of the train in search for his missing companion.
"Hmm, yes, that's a great plan. I'm going to guard our compartment while you search." Hermione looked a bit disappointed at my lackluster contribution to the cause, but she could hardly argue against it. What if strange, awful children tried to steal our things?
I slouched, enjoying the solitude, but soon grew bored. I opened my trunk in search of a diversion and was confronted by my textbooks.
I was more eager to do magic than to read textbooks so I'd done only the minimum preparation for school. I was also overconfident in my ability to rapidly absorb and understand information, and so didn't see the need to read my textbooks end to end. A bit of skimming for what I was interested in was sufficient, since I wasn't allowed to do magic in my Muggle home anyway.
Faced with few alternatives, I pulled out my backup: The Werewolf's Contract Bride by Justine Garrett.
The silence didn't last long. Within a few minutes, Hermione stomped back in, Neville in tow.
"Some people are just so rude!" She fumed. I tried to raise an eyebrow; although I'd been blessed with forehead muscles capable of such a feat, I was still a novice. According to Neville's reaction, I looked to be in pain.
"Did you find your toad at least?" Neville nodded, proudly holding his froggy prize for me to see.
"What are you reading?" Asked Hermione, leaning a bit too close for comfort. She sure got over her offense at the rudeness of wizards quickly.
Suddenly ashamed, I whipped the book closed and sat on it. It wasn't too late to throw it out the window, was it? "Oh, uh, garbage, really."
Hermione would not be deterred. "Please tell me, I'm so curious. I've read most of our textbooks already, and none of them looked like that."
"You brought this on yourself," I said, handing her the novel and flinging myself sideways on the seat, covering my eyes with my forearm. Maybe I would disappear if I stayed like this for long enough.
I thought that rapid acquiescence would calm Hermione down but if anything she grew even more excited, and thus I grew even more mortified.
"I've never read anything like this before! Why does Sheila have no choice but to be a contract bride?" That was literally the first sentence. Sheila knew she had no choice but to become a contract bride, and had no one to blame but herself for her misfortune.
I didn't think I could handle a multi-hour train ride of this. Neither could Neville, by how red he was turning. What sort of saucy books did his parents leave lying around? He was obviously familiar with the genre.
"Wait, no, stop, give me that back," I briefly grappled with Hermione to regain possession of my book. I probably only won because unlike her, I wasn't afraid to tear the damn thing in half. "It's not age appropriate."
"Aren't you also eleven?" Thanks Neville, you little shit.
"I'm older on the inside." Neville looked baffled.
Silence. Uncomfortable, I tried. "So, I'm terrible at using quills. I brought enough pens to survive the apocalypse."
Neville looked down but Hermione joyfully took the bait. "I've been practicing all month, but I'm still not satisfied. I'm sure we'll get used to it."
"Muggles don't use quills," I said as I took a few ball pens out of my trunk. Neville still seemed confused, and Hermione graciously went off on the history of pens or whatever. I ignored her and handed Neville the pens. "Use them wisely. With great power comes great responsibility."
"The pen is mightier than the sword," said Hermione. At first I had my doubts but those were all blown out of the water. Hermione got it. I was so proud. I grabbed her hand. She looked a bit uncomfortable but pleased. I let go like I was shocked and pretended that nothing had happened.
"I still think that we should learn to use quills," she said, now looking a bit nervous. At first I was concerned with her apparent need to fit in (which was arguably a large motivator for her) but then I realized that the Muggleborn stigma was no doubt attached to Muggle tools.
"I guess so," I shrugged. "I've always wanted to do calligraphy."
Neville snorted. I didn't think it was fair for him to doubt me, but he was probably right. I was too lazy by nature for something like calligraphy, or even good handwriting.
I found myself enjoying Hermione's company a lot. Her main flaw was her youth, but she'd outgrow that. She was smart but what I really appreciated was her tenacity, both with discovering information and with her stalwart beliefs. I wanted to be her friend.
I'm not entirely sure she liked me. I'd been reigning my internal monologue in and probably seemed socially stilted. But Hermione must have been feeling alienated, alone in a newfound culture, so we were certainly Muggleborn allies in a way. We really got lucky with Neville, who was inoffensive as they came. I was worried for his future but not invested enough to want to protect him. If I could passively toughen him up, though, that'd be great.
"Let's study together no matter what houses we get sorted into," I said, already knowing how things would go. I was more or less a Slytherin, and Hermione and Neville were fated for Gryffindor. Neville wouldn't say no to help and Hermione would love study buddies. I had this in the bag: friends.
