Albus Dumbledore,

Let me introduce myself: my name is Rose Montgomery, Professor of Magical Literacy and History at Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. You do not know me, nor do I know you. However, we have one thing in common: we both know that Lord Voldemort was never truly defeated. I am sure you are curious as to how I came into this knowledge, and as to why I am addressing a letter to you discussing it. All shall be answered in due time, I assure you. I have arranged transport to England and shall be boarding at the Leaky Cauldron where it is my hope that you shall meet me in order to discuss the aforementioned curiosities. This is a matter of upmost importance; meet me at 3:00 PM on the 11th of September.

Respectfully,

Rose Montgomery

I sighed, folding the piece of parchment. Life was becoming increasingly stressful these days.

I never would have arranged for transportation to England if it had not been for the circumstances I now found myself in.

To preface everything, my mother was a no-maj. My father, who died before I was born, was a squib. It was a blessing when Andrew Thompson came into my life: he made me feel normal. I was nine-years old when he married my mother; from then on, I was part of the magical world.

Andrew was my father, no amount of blood was going to change that. He told me all about Ilvermorny in Massachusetts and scrounged up enough money to pay for books and all the necessary materials to send me off to Boston in the fall. He was proud that I was a Thunderbird, and prouder still that I was top of my classes and had quite the aptitude for transfiguration. My mother, Maggie Doyle Montgomery, was pleased at my academic success. She didn't particularly care about the magic-part, but she was happy nonetheless to have a bright child.

She died when I was sixteen. I never got to say goodbye — I was in Boston, she was all the way in Calvert County, Maryland.

She was giving birth to my brother, Michael, when it happened. She had had me when she was twenty three, so she was ready for another child by the time Andrew and her married. Michael was a squib too, but unlike my mother he cared deeply about the magical world, and that part of me.

Michael was nine years old when Andrew told me of his predicament. I was visiting, on break from teaching at Ilvermorny. Perhaps he was worried about his own health, or maybe he was just overwhelmed, but his story came from out of the blue: I was worried he'd lost his mind when he told me.

Andrew told me that he descended from multiple generations of cowpokes on the dusty plains of Texas. He said that his family was all magical— not pureblood entirely, but he wasn't a halfblood either. He told us how a little over a hundred years ago his ancestor and some other cattle drivers made a deal with a man named Alastar Steward.

Alastar had promised the cattle drivers magical, powerful horses in exchange for the elimination of the "mudbloods" on the range. The Riders agreed, and were gifted beautiful black stallions that could ride in the sky.

With no intention of murdering a couple dozen of homesteaders on the range, the Riders took to the skies and continued to drive their cattle successfully across the plains. Alastar, enraged by their betrayal, bewitched the horses: from their nostrils came tendrils of smoke and fire and their eyes glowed an unnatural red. The horses had control over their Riders and drove them back onto the plains and herded them, and their cattle, over the cliffs.

Before they were driven to their doom, Alastar cursed the cattle drivers: for their treachery the riders and their horses were forced to forever ride the ranges in the sky, bound to their spectral, flaming horses, harrowing souls on the plains of Texas.

Andrew told me that he was bound to that curse, as were all the descendants of the Ghost Riders. The only way to absolve the curse was to destroy any semblance of it: that meant killing whoever was related to Alastar Steward.

I was worried my father had lost his mind. I had never heard of such an awful curse, and if it was real then it definitely wasn't lawful. The look on Andrew's face held no laughter or mirth, no semblance of madness or mania, only an expression of upmost sincerity and seriousness.

I knew then that I had to do something. I was twenty five when he shared that with me; four years passed since then and over those years I have searched and gathered enough information through my connections with Ilvermorny to start to piece it together.

When he first explained his circumstances I had asked him how he knew the curse had never been absolved. As he rolled up his sleeve I saw he bared a searing brand of a horseshoe on his right wrist. I never thought anything of it; it was small enough to be a tattoo.

The thoughts swirling through my mind at that time came to a screeching halt: if Andrew was bound to the curse, then so was Michael. Little Michael, just nine years old himself, who had never so much as held a wand, was bound to ride forever on a range in the sky, never finding respite.

Over the past four years I'd traced the relations of Alastar Steward to one recent relative: Tom Marvolo Riddle. A man who the world knew by another name: Lord Voldemort. At that point I was confused, and honestly, a little bit terrified. Voldemort was said to be dead. And if he wasn't dead...

I knew then what I had to do. There was only one wizard in the world who had probably came to the same conclusion, if his reputation preceded him. Albus Dumbledore would have to help me. He was the only man alive who could.

When I had told Andrew my findings and all of my travel arrangements, he told me something he should have told me four years ago.

"Whoever takes up the salvation of the Riders must take up the curse themselves. If, in life, you fail to guarantee the Riders their salvation, you must join them in death."

I had asked him why. Why had no one ever thought to rid themselves of the curse? Why did the curse work that way? Hell, why hadn't he told me that in the first place? I was angry and so, so scared.

"If you think you're the only person to try to rid the Riders of their curse, you're stupid. No one has ever been successful. No has had the gumption, the wits, or the money to do a damn thing about this curse. We're resigned. A hundred years has done a lot to us folks. We're done fightin', and by the time we really think on it we're already dead. Hell, some of us might even be lookin' forward to it, Rosie! I didn't tell you at first because I knew, no matter what you'd do what you could. No matter what. You're my own little Thunderbird, and you've got the soul of a mountain lion. You may be frightened now Rosie, but soon enough you won't be."

Andrew had looked at me fondly that night and I knew he was right. There was no way I'd let him down. Curses be damned, I'd find Voldemort myself if it meant saving Andrew and little Michael from their fate.

"Alright, you win old man. I'd never let something that awful happen to you. I'll go through Hell to save you— to save you both."

"I suppose this trip to England will make it official. You best brace yourself, Rosie. That brand can be mighty painful at times."

No sooner had he spoke than the night turned black and stormy. Thunder rolled loudly outside the house and lightning struck not far in the distance. The lights flickered, and I felt a searing pain in my wrist. I collapsed on the floor, that night, fainting from the pain. When I came to, I wore the same brand as my step-father. An angry, red, blistering horseshoe.

That happened two nights ago.

I informed Ilvermorny I would be taking along leave of absence and did not know when I would return.

The letter for Dumbledore I sealed with burgundy wax, while I whistled for my owl.

Barnaby, my fidgety, old, overweight barn owl would get the note where it needed to be on-time. He'd never let me down. Even with snack breaks in between his travel, he'd never let me down.