-2- Dear Miss Haines
The sun had just come up on this particularly beautiful July morning. I rubbed my eyes as I got out of bed. Covering my mouth as I yawned, I started looking around at the silhouettes of the nineteen other girls. Some were awake, and looking at the ceiling; others were still cushioned in peaceful slumber. It wouldn't be long before Mrs. Sullivan would barge in and start shaking the others until they were up. Best to be prepared, I always thought. And sure enough, here came the Wicked Witch of the West, as I called her. True to character, and habit, she went over to the others and began shaking them like there was no tomorrow.
"Wake up, you useless heaps of human waste! Now!"
Let's just say subtlety isn't one of her strong points.
I scurried from under the starch sheets and set about hastily making my bed. Mrs. S. would be furious if I forgot one more time. There's no telling what that wretched woman would do"Go wash up," Sullivan ordered.
"Yes, Mrs. Sullivan," the sleepy girls murmured in unison.
Bitterly, I noticed my sense of smell hadn't deterred. Remarkable feat, if you take into account that I've been living in this ruddy hell-hole for 11 years now. The Wicked Witch makes us 'wash ourselves' with the same washcloth every morning. Of course, her definitions are just a tad askew. The crucial areas to be washed are the armpits, behind the ears and the face preferably not in that order. Hot baths are only allowed once a week.
After we washed up, we trudged down to the dining hall: a large, bare, grey-ish room with absolutely no fringes or pleasantries. Actually, that describes the whole building. All the necessities were there, but for me, none of those things could make St. Jude's feel like home. It missed a certain human touch. When I'm in bed, I often try to picture what my home would look like, if I had parents. To outsiders it might come across strange that, in fact, not all the girls at St. Jude's are orphans. Like my friend Alexandra's mum, she's still alive, but she lost her husband when Alex was three. Her mum doesn't have the money to take care of a child, hence the placement here. If I had children, I would do anything to give them a good home, anything to keep them from ending up here. This is no place for children. How contradictory does that sound? It's a bloody orphanage! The humour of the situation does not escape me. Good ole sense of humour!
Before we could enter the dining hall, we had to show our hands to the orphanage nurse. Woe to those who had dirty hands or fingernails! One of the smaller girls, Mary, had received a particularly nasty slap across the knuckles for having dirty nails the previous week.My turn came, and nurse Connelly carefully inspected my delicate; pale hands and my long fingers. Not a speck of dirt was found and I was deemed fit to enter the dining hall, where my breakfast of porridge and some thick slices of bread with margarine awaited.
I took a place at one of the long tables arranged symmetrically in the hall, next to Alexandra. She was a passionate girl, with dark-brown hair and chocolate brown eyes. I always pictured her in her late twenties, pregnant of her third child. She would make a great mother someday, I imagined.
She smiled as I sat down with my bowl of porridge, and we began to eat.
"Oi, Sophe, did you hear about Ann? She got beaten again for calling the Matron 'a stupid old cow'," Alexandra, or Alex as I called her, whispered to me.
"Again? Seriously," I answered wide-eyed, "I'm going to have to give that girl a prize for persistence or something! Everyones thinking it," I started,
"but Anns saying it!" Alex and I finished, grinning. Our spirits fell, however, as we thought of poor Ann, bruised and locked in the scullery.
I suppose you could say Alex was my best friend at St. Jude's. Making friends didn't come easily for me. Not for anyone here, actually, seeing as at the end of the day, you have to be rather selfish when youre this low on the social ladder.
I finished my slice of bread, drank my tea and stood up with the rest of the girls. We silently made our way back to the dormitories, where we got dressed. I grimaced as I put on the prickly, crisp, grey shirt. I hated those! They were made out of rough material, so you could say they were pretty uncomfortable. I hurried along with the next items of clothing: the tatty, knitted blue sweater and the matching black woollen skirt. And, for the finishing touch, the indispensable black woollen socks that I pulled up to just below my knees. I looked around and in my mind, I confirmed that this was most definitely not a very flattering ensemble.I was halfway through the dormitory when little Mary called out to me:
"Sophia, Sophia! You haven't got any shoes on! You'll get your socks dirty..."
"Oh, right," I replied, somewhat bemused. I really was quite the headless chicken.
I chuckled at my own forgetfulness, and tiptoed over to my bed to put on my shoes.
As I left the room, I went over to Mary and gave her an affectionate pat on the head.
"Thanks, Matron would've had my head if I'd walked in like that!"
She giggled and I was positively elated for a second there. That is, until I bumped into the Wicked Witch, who was undoubtedly just flying in to randomly punish us for offences like 'breathing too loud'.
"Ugh, watch it, you insolent little witch," she growled, followed by a cough-attack.
"Honestly, go see a doctor," I thought to myself.
But, what ho, she came bearing news! The woman was full of surprises.
"Haines, you stay put. There's a professor here to see you," she told me, in a tone that reeked of boredom and just a tinge of disgust.
"All others, get your good-for-nothing arses to the laundry rooms! And start washing or you'll wish your harlot mothers had chucked you in the bin!
The girls rushed out of the dormitory, followed by a very nasty-looking Mrs. Sullivan.
A bit wary - as is in my nature ever since I can remember - I watched as everyone departed, leaving me in the deserted dormitory. I wondered what this was all about, as I walked over to my bed, and sat on it. Mrs. Sullivan wasn't playing a mean trick on me, was she? Would she? Like a caged rat, I suddenly began to realise what was going on. Undoubtedly, that miserable hag had called someone, was he going to examine me? No, no... Then he would've been a doctor. Right? I mean, Jesus, even to her standards, that would be cruel. If it's not that, then what is it? "Maybe this professor persons going to adopt me?" I pondered out loud, unaware of another presence in the room. I looked up to find an old man standing beside the third bed next to mine.
"Good morning, Sophia."
"Uh, good...morning." I replied, hoping he hadn't heard me thinking aloud, and unsure of where to direct my gaze at. The man was multi-coloured, to say the least. And I don't mean his skin, I mean his clothes. What a sight to behold: the Professor was wearing a multicoloured, paisley print, two-piece suit and a purple bowtie. And to top it all off, he had the longest beard I'd EVER seen. Immediately the image of Santa Clause came into my mind, causing me to chuckle. Apparently Mr. Professor had noticed this, because he asked:
"Like the suit?"
"Actually, I do, Sir." I replied honestly. Beats my sodding orphanage uniform, I added in my head.
"Glad you like it, Sophia. Now, forgive me my lapse of good manners. My name is Albus Dumbledore. I won't tell you my full name, because we could be here a while still if I did," he said, with a pleasant smile on his lips. He seemed nice enough. Actually, I found him to be like a groovy old granddad.
"I'm Sophia Haines. Nice to meet you, Sir." I said. I approached him with an outstretched hand, and to my delight, he grinned and shook it.
"You must be wondering 'what is this old geezer doing here?'," he started, and I immediately opened my mouth to say that I didn't think of him as an old geezer, but yes, I was wondering what he was doing here. He lifted his hand, and continued,
"And I will answer your question.
I am here because you're special."
Uh-oh. Alarm bells went off in my head. "Special". That can't be good! Come on, I may be a little loopy, but I'm not completely round the bend, bonkers, or a lunatic - I swear!
"What do you mean by special, Sir? I can assure you I have no history of mental illness or anything of the sort. Can't certify that for my parents, though. Seeing as I never knew them, that would be kind of difficult to do. Unless they'd had it written down before they died, but I doubt that. I mean, who would do that, anyway? And aren't we all a little mad in our own way, Sir?"
"Sorry," I added, as soon as I realised I went a little overboard. It happens when I'm excited.
To my surprise, Mr. Dumbledore nice name, by the way, don't you think? only smiled and said
"Oh, don't apologise, dear girl. I should have specified."
He sat himself down on the bed beside me and began his 'specification':
"Well, the thing is, Sophia, I know this may come as a shock to you, but do try to accept it: you're a witch." He stated, without the slightest hint of hesitation in his voice. What in heaven's name was going on here? Was he taking the piss?
"Uh, Sir, with all do respect, if you came all the way from wherever you're from, just to call me names, well...then you can leave that up to Mrs. Sullivan. She's got that covered." I raised an eyebrow for good measure.
"Sophia, I'm afraid we might have a miscommunication on our hands. You're a witch, and it's not an insult. You're a real witch, with magical powers. You were enrolled in my school of Witchcraft and Wizardry, even before you were born. Seeing as the situation was a bit...peculiar, I've come to personally inform you. So, now I shall hand you your Hogwarts letter," to which he handed me a an ancient-looking envelope, " - Hogwarts is the school I mentioned and of course, I will help you, should you desire my assistance."
After a couple of minutes, when I didn't answer and just sat there looking completely confused, he suggested I open the letter.
"Go on," he nudged me.
I had to admit, it was pretty tempting.
I carefully opened the envelope, and read the letter it contained.
"Owl?" I asked aloud as soon as I'd read the letter.
"Is it like the magical equivalent of 'sending your cat', or something?"
Frowning, I let all the facts run around in my mind. Dumbledore chuckled for a moment, and then reassured me that owls were used by the magical community to send letters and parcels and such, and that I needn't send one because he's the Headmaster so he already knows I'm coming.
"You are coming, aren't you, Sophia?" he asked me.
"Yes, of course! But how am I gonna get all this stuff?" I asked, looking over the list of necessary books and equipment.
"I have no money and I have no clue what store to go to."
Dumbledore smiled. Man, that guy sure smiles a lot!
"Yes, well, there's a solution for every problem. If you don't mind, I could have Hagrid, our keeper of keys and grounds at Hogwarts help you to purchase your equipment and such. Oh, and no need to worry about money, dear. We have scholarships at Hogwarts."
"I'd like that, thank you very much, Sir," I replied, poorly concealing my anticipation. All the while, I was hoping there would be a future for me at Hogwarts.
