A few hours later, thanks to legendary auror and one-time boy-hero, Harry Potter, and his apparating ability, I'm sitting in a little white-walled room in the Ministry of Magic. It's a setting wholly unfamiliar to me, having been raised between seedy muggle motels and 'rustic' abandoned shelters far off the grid, and I'm more than a little uneasy.
Momentarily, the door opens to admit a man much older than Mr. Potter, but whose bespectacled eyes are not unkind. He takes a seat across from me at the little table, the only furnishing in the room. Slowly, he reaches into his robe and produces a large red apple, which he offers to me, like a token of peace. When I don't accept it, he stretches his hand out further, encouragingly.
"Haven't you ever heard of Snow White?" I ask, and though his hand drops then at my obvious refusal, I'm not surprised at the confusion noted by his furrowed brow.
"I'll have the kitchens prepare something more appetizing at the earliest convenience," he says, still diplomatic, as he tucks the apple back out of sight.
Though I am scared almost-senseless, refusing the apple was more a show of defiance than anything. if they wanted me dead, there were far simpler methods at their disposal than poison. Other than using magic to confine me to this chair, my captors have been surprisingly gentle.
"Why don't you tell me a bit about yourself?" he tries next, silently imploring me to cooperate.
A long silence sits between us. The old man shifts his weight and switches tactics.
"My name is Olivier Florence," he tries. "I'm a sort of manager, here. Too old now for field work, you see. We've brought you to the Ministry of Magic. Do you know where that is?"
Unwilling to sit and listen to him explain such basic knowledge as if I'm a child, I reply after only a slight pause.
"We're in London," I answer, trying then to estimate what time it is here. Roughly between eight and midnight, which I realize accounts for some of this Florence's weariness.
"So you do know at least the basics," he says, and I mentally kick myself for giving up that information. "You may know a bit about us," he continues, "but we know very little indeed, about you, Miss March. Could you tell me your first name?"
March? "You must be mistaken," I say, confused by the certainty on the wizened face. "That's not my name."
Florence clucks sympathetically. "Of course, she'd used an alias. Your father, Alexander March, has been searching for you for a long time. How much do you know about your father?"
"I have no father," I reply, though I can hear the confusion in my own voice. I clear my throat and Florence clucks again.
"While it's wonderful that we've found you at last, the timing is a tad off," he starts again. "You see, your father is away on an important business trip and is currently unreachable. As such, it leaves us at a bit of an impasse-"
He's interrupted by the quiet snick of the door, which opens to reveal the man responsible for my being here.
"Wasn't expecting you back in, Potter," Florence says, attention diverted from me. "Aren't you missing your niece's birthday?"
"I made the dinner. They understand. I can take over here, Florence. Been a long day for you."
"If you're sure," the older man replies, slowly drawing himself to his feet. "Don't keep her there too long; she'll be hungry and, I'd imagine, at least as tired as we are."
"No need to worry, Florence," he says, settling into the empty chair. "I'll see you tomorrow."
He waits until the door closes behind him before turning his attention to me.
"My name is Harry Potter," Harry Potter says, pushing his glasses up. "Though like most, you seem to know that already. Would you tell me your name?"
I study him in silence, comparing the man before me to the legend from Mom's stories. Unquestionably the same man, with his unruly dark hair, though no match for mine, sticking every which way as stubbornly as it had two decades before, paired with the same green eyes hidden behind amusingly outdated spectacles. Yet there was a wisdom to his face now, traced in the starting wrinkles lining his mouth and gathering in the corners of his eyes. In the bright light, I can pick out the dusting of grey hair starting at his temples. His overall pleasant appearance and relaxed manner sets me at ease, though as before, I still don't give up my name.
"Do you know why you're here?" he asks instead.
"Olivier Florence said it's because of my father," I repeat, and he nods in affirmation. "But Mr. Potter, my father died before I was born. There's been a mistake."
"Please, you can call me Harry," he says. "As for your father, he is very much alive. You look very much like him, as you'll no doubt see for yourself when you meet him. However, he's away on business and not expected to return until next summer, at the earliest. I didn't expect it to be a problem, since your mother had slipped off our radar until last week, when one of our informants spotted her at a tavern in Mongolia. He was able to tell us where she was headed next."
Mongolia? That was nowhere near where we'd been a week ago. When did Mom have time to sneak off? And why sneak there?
"He has no other living relatives, which leaves the question of what is the best we can do for you in the meantime," he continues. "Have you any formal education? You've already demonstrated some level of magical ability, but a life on the run would make learning difficult."
"My mother is an excellent teacher," I defend, raising my chin to him.
"She may well be, but the magic one can do undetected is limited. Have you a wand?"
I give my head the slightest shake.
"Very interesting," he says, pushing his glasses up on his nose. "I'd thought maybe you'd gotten a hold of it in a pocket when you tried that spell in the forest. I'm impressed. Still, we'd best get you your own wand as soon as possible; there's not much time until the school year starts, and we'll need to get an idea of where you're at compared to the rest of your year."
"You're going to send me to school?" The thought is so foreign I can't decide if it's exciting or terrifying.
"We'll have to run it by the Ministry, as well as the school board, but yes," he answers. "I think it would be the best place for you, at least until your father returns and can decide what he thinks is best. But, it's getting late, and you've a long day ahead if you're to get properly outfitted for school. If you'd like, I'll show you to your rooms and have a nice meal brought to you there, Miss March."
He pulls out a wand even as he's speaking, and gives a little wave, lips forming a spell his voice doesn't reveal, and my invisible constraints are gone. For only a second, I consider trying to get past him to the door beyond.
Instead, I stand slowly, a movement he mirrors. "You can call me Mel."
