Anthea was flying. She just had time to think that she hated it before her back crashed against a tree and she slumped to the ground with a groan. Alastor, supremely unimpressed, watched her stand back up. When Minerva had stopped supervising their training sessions, he had consequently stepped up his game. Now, he was teaching her how to fall and spring back up on her feet, how to dodge and run and take hit without letting the shock of the blow rob her of her skills.

Alastor had somehow heard about the Diagon Alley incident. Saying that he wasn't happy with it was the understatement of the year. He had raged against Gavin, who he had identified as Gavin Goyle, and then against Anthea for letting him hurt her, even with something as mundane as a push. When Anthea had told him about Charlie, though, his scarred lips had been softened by a knowing smile. What he knew, though, Anthea couldn't guess.

"Did this one hurt too much?" he asked, in a rare show of gentleness.

It always threw Anthea for a loop when he did that. He didn't show her tenderness on a daily basis but, when he did, it softened his features and felt so real, so intensely real, that she had trouble merging it with the idea of the Alastor Moody depicted in the books she had read a lifetime ago. Before she could answer, he knelt next to her. Standing, he was a titan of a man, but like this, he was more human, almost approachable.

"You're bleeding, lass. This one was definitely too strong." His calloused palm covered the scratch on her left shoulder, which was indeed bleeding a bit, and she felt magic tingle against her skin. When he removed his hand, the cut and the blood were gone. Wordless, wandless magic.

"Can you teach me that, sir?" she blurted out before she could stop herself.

What she could do with that kind of magic… When he nodded, one of his rare smiles softening the scarred twist of his lips, she almost jumped and hugged him. Now, that would have been kind of suicidal.

"Not sure you'll be able to learn, though. It takes a peculiar kind of wizard and instinctive harmony with magic. And even with that, it's hard work. If you are not predisposed for it, you might be able to do little things, but not… this."

"I don't care, I want to try. If I can't do it… Well, if I can't, it'll be okay because at least I'll know."

He nodded and, after that, shifted gears in his lessons to her. He came around every day during the months of July and August, two hours in the morning and five more split between afternoon and evening. The mornings were for fighting, the afternoons and evenings for magic. Minerva had pinched her lips when she had heard about this change but, if she had anything to say against it, she kept it to herself. Perhaps she saw the constant glow of happiness on her adopted daughter's face. Perhaps she was content, knowing what she did about He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, that Anthea was given more weapons to defend herself than she had asked for in the beginning.

Because it turned out she was good at wandless and wordless magic. In fact, she could feel the magic in herself, this warm rush of power, and from that directing it was almost easy. It required hard work, sure, but she was willing to put in the effort. She couldn't do much yet, only light up her hands and attract small objects to herself, but Alastor assured her that most adult wizards couldn't even do that.

"Most wizards sneer at that kind of magic," Minerva said during one of her lessons, between two sessions with Alastor. "They associate it with elf magic, with goblin magic. They take so much pride in their wand, it's almost ridiculous."

"That's not ridiculous, that's stupid."

Minerva nodded reluctantly. "Our society is extremely set in its ways. We hoped that, after the war, things would change… but it's already been years and nothing has happened."

Anthea left her seat on a chair in front of the fire in their apartments and climbed on her mother's lap. She hugged her, resting her head on her shoulders, and closed her eyes in delight when Minerva hugged her back. She felt safe like this, and loved. So loved.

"Oh, listen to me, rambling like an old lady. Don't worry, it's not that bad. And, by the time you officially go to Hogwarts, the situation might even get better."

This was something Anthea loved about her mum: she was aware of her intelligence and never talked to her like she was a normal child. Of course, Anthea often had sessions with Poppy Pomfrey, to try to understand if she was just gifted or if something else hid in the depths of her mind. The word 'autism' had been said around her a few times, but it didn't bear any of the stigma she had known in her first life. Neither of the women suspected she had been alive before she was born, and Albus Dumbledore was none the wiser either. The fact that he barely knew about her helped in this manner.

"Mum?" she asked after a moment. When Minerva nodded, looking at her with obvious affection, she found it in her to continue with the question she had been obsessing over since their trip to Diagon Alley, a few days prior. "If I, hum, I think I might have made a friend. Charlie Weasley. He's starting Hogwarts this year. Do you think I could… I could see him sometimes, here, after classes or on the weekend?"

Minerva's arms tightened around her. Anthea was living a secluded life, despite living in a school full of students ten months a year. She had no one her age to play with and, even if she had, she probably wouldn't like it: Poppy had told her that autistic children often sought older friends, and people who were at least a bit like them, more so than other children. It didn't surprise the Transfiguration Mistress to hear that her daughter, her lovely gem of a child, had made a friend who was twice her age. And, since Charlie Weasley was the son of a friend and had helped Anthea…

"Yes, you could see him here, or anywhere else on the grounds, really. If what Molly tells me is true, the boy loves being outdoors." And there was the thing that worried Minerva about this potential friendship. Anthea didn't love being outside. She didn't mind it, but she also spent a lot of time curled up in a chair, reading or painting. She wasn't sure young Charlie would enjoy that.

Anthea, though, didn't seem too bothered by that information. She beamed at her mother, so obviously happy that she almost glowed, then twisted to grab her book and read, still in her mother's lap.

And all was well. So perfectly well.