I've written an apology for my words in the previous chapter below. I apologise for the wait, not that anyone is waiting on me. Five hits isn't exactly prime. Maybe someone will read this one? Maybe? Please? I'd really be quite happy if you were to enjoy my writing. Writing it for myself is fun, but it isn't all that rewarding.

I mentioned in the previous little blurb that I might work Quirrell into the story. As you will read, I have.

I do not own any of Jo Rowling's characters or concepts. You know, for disclaimer purposes.

For the following few days, Lana's temperament was completely changed. This, however, would not last. Her grandmother, having her most sincere fears realized, shut out the family after that night, and David blamed Lana. On his part, their relationship went from casual indifference to resentment, and what daughter likes being resented?

There was more to this resentment, though, both on David's and his mother's behalf. But we'll go into that another time.

To Catrin's credit, her behaviour didn't exactly change toward Lana. She just remained the same overly bookish woman with no real desire to spend time with her daughter. Therefore Lana's joy at her discovery was worn down over only a few days, and her newfound bubbly and excitable personality was taken out into the back garden and shot. Figuratively, of course.

For those few days in August, though, Lana felt more wonderful than ever she had before. There was such a realm of possibility and of knowledge that she had never even imagined in this wizarding world she'd recently become a part of. I'm going to stop writing right here because I feel as though I'm sounding horribly redundant and yucky. I'll come back to it later. Promise.

Right, so, I must now get back on track. My computer, you see, went kaput and has been in the shop, so Lana's journey has been somewhat frozen in some kind of jell-o like so many staplers. Here let me apologise for my slightly elitist ideas about fanfiction mentioned in the foreword to the previous chapter. I am sorry if you feel insulted by my words, and I must admit, I have been rather too hard on fanfiction. Some 'writers' ruin it for the rest of them, I suppose. I once saw a story that added sexual tension between Ron and Ginny. Honestly, some people! Those are the sorts that I dislike. The rest of you are fine and dandy, in my eyes. Some could use a lesson in grammar, but that's to be expected. The school system doesn't exactly do its job these days.

Carrying on, though, with the story:

Those days after the witch's visit were the most joyous Lana could heretofore recall. The knowledge that such a world exists, ripe for the academic plucking, sent her absolutely reeling. And for once, it wasn't just the academics that had her excited. 'Magic!' she thought, 'real magic. And that professor, she turned herself into a cat! I wonder if I'll do that, I wonder if I could turn myself into a hedgehog.'

The internal monologue Lana held with herself, for the next few days, at least, was concerned completely with this wizarding world she had so recently discovered. This, however, passed abruptly, as I mentioned before that short little break up there. Excitement is worthless with no one to play it off of, and without interested parents, without friends, the excitement began to dwindle. She still counted down the days until the 29th, but her mind was elsewhere. For once, it wasn't in her books, nor was it in this wizarding world. It had been sent wildly off-course, and Lana herself didn't even quite know what she was thinking about. She sat there, in her bedroom, for hours on end, thinking half-thoughts about wands and about Virginia Woolf and about leg warmers, of which she decided she would someday soon buy a pair.

With her father ignoring her almost entirely, and her mother following his lead, the days passed slowly for Lana. She remained there, in her room, day after day, night after night, every once in awhile surfacing to use the toilet, to take a bath, to grab a bite to eat. Generally, though, the three weeks following McGonagall's visit were spent entirely within her bedroom.

The Sunday before her trip to London came, and Lana decided it would be best to pack her suitcase, as she was sure that she would be leaving for the school soon after. It was a tattered brown thing, the suitcase, which must have been thirty years old. It wouldn't stand on its end; flopped over, it did. She thought it would have been better to have a trunk, but you take what you're given, she supposed. Several sets of clothing were packed, along with her favourite books and the necessary toiletries, and, being sure that there was enough room for the items she would have to buy, she zipped up the suitcase and it plopped down onto the floor.

The excitement of weeks previous beginning once more to creep up her leg, Lana went about preparing everything for departure the following day: her materials list, with all those foreign and mystical-sounding requirements, her vault key, and, of course, her clothes: a cardigan, a long brown skirt, a nondescript pair of pants and a pair of grey woolly socks—not exactly summer attire, but it should be understood that Lana dressed every day as though it was November.

Then the day came. The number 29 jumped out at her from the calendar on her wall that morning, the photo depicting a summery pastoral landscape. Quite mundane and boring, the calendar was, really, but it had been a birthday gift from one of her teachers, whom she quite admired, and so she kept it up. Best to know what day it is, anyway.

In any case, the fateful Monday came about and upon descending to the kitchen to fix herself some breakfast, Lana realised that her parents, too, had been counting down the days. The pair of them were there, waiting for her as she went about her usual morning routine, her long dark hair still dripping from the bath—'It'll dry when it dries' she says in regard to the absence of a towel—and her skirt flowing absent-mindedly about her feet.

'So,' said her father, and though she had expected something further to come from his mouth, nothing did.

She looked up at him: 'so?'

'So,' he began again, 'you're leaving, then?'

'Well, I might as well, I suppose.'

'I suppose.'

'You haven't much to say to me, have you?'

'Not particularly, no,' and an expression crossed his face that probably would have horrified any other child. Only for a split second, mind, but David's face had flared with such jealousy that it is rather likely that a magpie somewhere went for the good silverware in a nearby chalet.

'Oh, all right,' Lana responded, behaving again as few children would—her relationship with her father wasn't exactly sunshine and daffodils, and so this interchange was to be expected, in her case—and she eyed the cupboard, 'I wouldn't mind getting myself some breakfast, though.'

Her parents muttered to each other as she was preparing her toast and this word or that reached her ear, but what did it matter? These parents are no real blessing; she could certainly do without them—she has, in fact, done without them for the past three weeks! So what good do they serve? She thus allowed herself to disconnect once and for all from her parents, and from that moment on they had no further stock in her life.

This, you see, is one of the oddities of young Svetlana's personality—that is, the nearly machine-like way she is able to cut people from her life. It stems, I suppose, from her lack of any real friends or truly proper family for as long as she can remember; she doesn't quite know how people are meant to feel about one another. Thus, she has this quite inhuman ability to sever emotional ties as easily as turning out a light. I feel rather sorry for her.

Her toast toasted and with jam spread atop, she sat down at the kitchen counter and ate, paying meticulous detail to where each crumb fell, but doing nothing to clean it up. She got pleasure simply from watching them fall, altering the universe in their own small way.

Catrin put a hand on her daughter's damp, cardigan-covered shoulder, and asked in the most motherly tone she could come up with: 'Are you sure this is what you want, honey?'

'Oh, yes,' came the girl's response, between bites. How do they make jam, she wondered to herself. Surely they don't just squash the raspberries. There are no doubt a number of things added! As she reached for the jar to take a gander at the list of ingredients, there was a knock at the door, and Lana bolted upstairs to find her suitcase. Upon her return to the entry hall, she came across her mother standing with a tall, gaunt man in long, purple robes, with neatly maintained brown hair thinning a bit at the front.

'You're Svetlana?' he said, looking up the stairs at the young girl with the large suitcase. He seemed somewhat distracted, absent-minded. She nodded, approaching him, and he continued, 'My name is Quirrell; I'm professor of Muggle Studies at Hogwarts. That is to say, the study of non-wizarding folk, their artefacts, et cetera. Have you any packing left to do? I'd like to—' he stepped into the living room, still talking, wandering aimlessly about the room, '—take a look around. I haven't been to a Muggle home in awhile.'

'No, professor, I think I'm done,' Lana said, but the professor didn't seem to hear her. He had just discovered the television, and proceeded to turn its knobs rather clumsily. 'Professor?' Lana said again, louder this time.

'Oh, er, what? Yes? Finished packing already?' he was fumbling his words and seemed to be fumbling his thoughts just as well, 'Well, I'll let you say your goodbyes—'

As he began to turn back to the television, bending down to examine its back end, David interrupted him: 'We've already said our goodbyes.'

He stood up, slightly flustered, obviously wishing more time with the cornucopia of Muggle artefacts present in the Wainwright home, but conceded. 'Of course, of course you have, yes,' he said, coming back into the entrance hall. 'Well, Miss Wainwright, are you ready to go?'

'Quite ready, I think.'

'Well then, let us be off!' he said, with a tone of finality, and without a backward glance, Lana followed him out of the house, leaving her parents standing there in the entryway.

Quirrell was leading her toward an aging Skoda, not a very pretty automobile in which to ride to London. The professor explained to her that it wouldn't be quite wise to fly aboard broomsticks to London in the broad daylight, and he mentioned something about apparition that Lana didn't catch. He seemed to almost babble in a different language half the time, words pouring out of his mouth that had no associated definition in her brain. She loaded her suitcase into the back seat of the small car, and sat herself in the passenger seat. Quirrell took the wheel.

'I'm not exactly, er, the best welcoming committee, I'm afraid,' he said with a rather bizarre smirk, 'I'm just the only professor who knows how to drive an automobile.'

With that, he keyed the ignition, and the two of them were on their way to London.