"𝓦𝖍𝖆𝖙 π–™π–π–Š π–œπ–”π–—π–’ π–œπ–†π–˜ 𝖙𝖔 π–™π–π–Š π–ˆπ–”π–—π–•π–˜π–Š, π–π–Žπ–˜ π–˜π–Žπ–“π–˜ π–œπ–”π–šπ–‘π–‰ π–‡π–Š 𝖙𝖔 π–™π–π–Š π–•π–†π–Žπ–“π–™π–Šπ–‰ π–Žπ–’π–†π–Œπ–Š 𝖔𝖓 π–™π–π–Š π–ˆπ–†π–“π–›π–†π–˜. π“£π–π–Šπ›„ π–œπ–”π–šπ–‘π–‰ 𝖒𝖆𝖗 π–Žπ–™π–˜ π–‡π–Šπ–†π–šπ–™π›„ 𝖆𝖓𝖉 π–Šπ–†π–™ π–†π–œπ–†π›„ π–Žπ–™π–˜ π–Œπ–—π–†π–ˆπ–Š. π“£π–π–Šπ›„ π–œπ–”π–šπ–‘π–‰ π–‰π–Šπ–‹π–Žπ–‘π–Š π–Žπ–™ 𝖆𝖓𝖉 π–’π–†π›‹π–Š π–Žπ–™ π–˜π–π–†π–’π–Šπ–‹π–šπ–‘. 𝓐𝖓𝖉 π›„π–Šπ–™ π–™π–π–Š π–™π–π–Žπ–“π–Œ π–œπ–”π–šπ–‘π–‰ π–˜π–™π–Žπ–‘π–‘ π–‘π–Žπ–›π–Š 𝖔𝖓. π“˜π–™ π–œπ–”π–šπ–‘π–‰ π–‡π–Š π–†π–‘π–œπ–†π›„π–˜ π–†π–‘π–Žπ–›π–Š."

-π“£π–π–Š π“Ÿπ–Žπ–ˆπ–™π–šπ–—π–Š 𝖔𝖋 π““π–”π–—π–Žπ–†π–“ 𝓖𝖗𝖆𝛄

β•”β•β•β•β•β•βˆ˜β—¦β‰β—¦βˆ˜β•β•β•β•β•β•—
ℂ𝕙𝕒𝕑π•₯𝕖𝕣 πŸ™
π”»π•¦π•€π•œπ•ͺ β„‚π• π•£π•Ÿπ•–π•£π•€
β•šβ•β•β•β•β•βˆ˜β—¦β‰β—¦βˆ˜β•β•β•β•β•β•

Four times someone knocks on the front door downstairs, and Aunt Penny's heels knock six times in response down the wooden hallway. I like that about her heels. She puts them on in the secret space of her bathroom early in the morning before I've even opened my curtains, and she doesn't take them off again until its so late that she thinks I'm asleep. She announces herself all around the apartment, knock, knock, knock, Aunt Penny is coming, snuff out your will'o'wisp light, stop making your book float, knock, knock, act normal. It's good for keeping secrets, Aunt Penny's glamour. I think she does it just to spite the rubble and grime of London. I think she's rebelling every time she puts on her lipstick, carving out something beautiful in this stupid, ugly city.

"June!"

I look up from my book very reluctantly. If there's a visitor here for me on a Sunday of all days it can only mean one of two things; I'm in trouble at this ridiculous Muggle school again, or I'm going to have to sign more papers about my dad. Both are bad. One is worse.

My book falls from the air onto the covers with a little thump and I push myself off the bed with absolutely no enthusiasm, steeling myself against the forthcoming conversation as I drop down each narrow stair outside my door. I come to an abrupt stop halfway down. The front door is closed, the hall is empty.

"June, in here please," Aunt Penny calls from the sitting room. Her voice is all poised and artificial, she's playing the part of 'responsible adult' with all the uncomfortableness the role normally brings her.

I take the last few stairs slowly. The sitting room comes into view and with it, its inhabitants.

Aunt Penny is standing with her hands clasped in front of her like a teacher, looking at me the same way Robin used to look at me when she was trapped in a conversation she wanted me to save her from. Her wonderful heels are blue today. Aunt Penny can put shiny, perfect waves in her chestnut hair without a Pin Charm which is just unfathomable to me, and I've never once seen a ladder in her stockings.

Beside Aunt Penny is the source of her forced poise and uncomfortable expression. The man is dressed in a tailored pinstripe suit of lime green and fuchsia, a homburg hat of cheerful yellow felt in his hands, his tie a hideous and aggressively toned floral fixed with a shiny gold pin. His crinkly hair (and his beard in kind) is a boisterous ginger and reaches past his shoulders, his expression is curious and polite, and fixed on me. He is either ignorant of his effect on Aunt Penny, or (and I suspect this might be the case) he's simply used to having this effect on people.

"You have a visitor," Aunt Penny says in the same artificially composed tone.

I look at the man again, lingering at the foot of the stairs. He can't be from the school. No one this interesting works at the school. And he's not the man from the solicitor's office either. It's difficult to tell what he wants, he's too ridiculous to pin down to any profession other than, perhaps, clown. My dad took me to the circus once, it had been absolutely dreadful. The clowns had been clumsy without comedy, bumbling without charm. I remember Dad had leant down to me, his voice all warm and rumbly, 'perhaps they've all recently fallen in love with Dorian Gray,' he'd said cheekily. 'Well they certainly look like they hate the stage,' I'd said back. He'd laughed, big and booming and honest, the only laugh in the whole crowd and I was swelling with pride and grinning back at him as the scant onlookers cast him curious looks and the clowns beamed in relief, thinking it was for them, which had only made us laugh harder.

"Please come in, June," says the man with a smile that seems genuine, "we have much to discuss."

"Is this about my dad?" I ask him, not moving.

"In part, yes," the man says calmly.

Aunt Penny's eyes flicker as she glances at him, her dark, perfectly shaped brows pulling together. His words have struck her by surprise, there's unexpected pain on her face.

I assess the man more coolly. This act of duplicity, intentional or not, has not recommended him to me. "Are you a lawyer?"

"No."

"Are you from my school?"

"Now that," he says softly. "is the question, indeed."

I watch him for another second, but Aunt Penny breaks the silence before I do. "I'll fetch you some drinks," she says, wiping her hands on her dress that is too silken and too fine to have hands wiped on it. "Come in, June, Mr Dumbledore will think you rude."

I raise a brow at her as she turns from the man and she gives me a wide-eyed look back, not physically shrugging but very much looking like she would if she could get away with it. Neither of us like this matronly thing she's doing.

As she disappears through to the kichen, Mr Dumbledore sits down on Aunt Penny's turquoise couch with the walnut trim and sets his yellow hat on the cushion beside him, crossing one leg over the other and lacing his fingers together on his lap. It makes me notice his shiny green alligator-skin shoes. The man is perfectly lurid. I step forward and take a seat directly opposite him in the matching armchair and deliberately mimic his posture exactly, setting my eyes on his and waiting for him to speak.

Mr Dumbledore watches me for a second, expression calm. He really mustn't be from the school, or he would have told me off for my not-so-subtle cheek. "Albus Dumbledore," he says politely, leaning forward and offering me his hand across the gleaming maple-wood coffee table where Aunt Penny's last cigarette is still respiring its last in the green glass ashtray.

"June Chance," I say, taking his proffered hand and shaking it once before resuming my former position.

"A pleasure," Mr Dumbledore says with a smile, sitting back, too.

There's a brief silence in which I neglect to say, 'likewise.' I'll decide if it's a pleasure to meet him after he's said why he's here.

"Does your Aunt know about your previous schooling, June?" he asks once the moment passes.

My stomach twists in surprise.

"Does she know about magic?" he elaborates, a little unnecessarily.

His surreal dress suddenly makes sense. I've heard that wizards in Europe barely interact with Muggles. "No," I say carefully. I'm worried Aunt Penny will hear us – her apartment is finely decorated but it's not exactly large.

"But you have been practicing magic in the last few months, have you not?" he asks, tone a little firm.

I bristle. "Only in private. And the age is seventeen here. I'm seventeen."

"The age is seventeen with the understanding that you've completed seven years of magical training," Dumbledore replies placidly, "which you have not, Miss Chance."

I fold my arms despite myself and lean back in the chair, waiting for him to speak again. There's a hard pit in my stomach now. So far it's really not been a pleasure to meet him.

"You were a student at Uagadou until last November, is that correct?"

"Yes."

"But you failed your sixth-year exams."

I don't reply. He obviously knows the answer already.

"And then you came here to live with your charming Aunt," Dumbledore narrates with another polite smile.

"Am I in trouble?" I ask him sourly.

"Not in the slightest," he says, "in fact, I'd like to offer you a place at my school."

I've heard of the British magical school before. I've heard they all still use wands like little kids, all the way up to seventh-year, that they even keep using them as adults. Trustis once told me in absolute sincerity that if they catch you doing wandless magic, they charm your wand to stick to your hand for the rest of the month, but I don't believe half of what Trustis says in absolute sincerity.

"I'm aware that you're currently attending a Muggle school," Dumbledore says to my silence, "and with all due respect to that establishment, I'm quite certain that Hogwarts can offer you opportunities more befitting your abilities."

"But I failed my exams," I echo blankly. "I'm not allowed into seventh-year."

Dumbledore smiles again. "Uagadou is a very prestigious school indeed, though I must admit, I find their policies regarding student admission a little… draconian. Your parents were both English, and you yourself were born here in London, were you not? There is a place at Hogwarts for you if you would like it."

Hope stirs small and stifled in my stomach and I stare at him. Suddenly I'm horribly aware of the dirt beneath my nails and the grazes on my knees and the fact that I didn't brush my hair before braiding it today, wondering if he'll decide I'm not suitable for his school and repeal the offer.

"Though you would be expected to repeat your sixth-year," Dumbledore adds in a cogent, good-natured sort of tone.

I don't care about having to repeat sixth-year. I barely remember most of the last half, anyway.

"Would you like that, June?" Dumbledore asks softly.

Would I like that, he asks. It's almost laughable. The Muggle Grammar school I'm in is over-crowded and the teachers don't have enough time for any of us, I don't know how to do trigonometry, I'm terrible at Latin, I can never remember what an auxiliary verb is, and the only sports they offer are gymnastics and netball and lacrosse – none of which you're allowed to fly in and none of which give half the adrenaline rush of Quidditch. And that's not even addressing how miserable of a grey place London is, there are barely any trees, the sky is always clogged up with stuffy, dull clouds, it's a zillion times colder than Johannesburg, and the constant air raids and sirens and rationing and radio broadcasts reporting death and death and death that drone ceaselessly from open windows and shopfronts are unbearable.

The idea of sitting down in a regular Potions class is indescribably appealing.

I nod at him.

"Excellent," Dumbledore says pleasantly. "Now, some business that needs addressing… Whilst I believe you'll be more than capable of keeping up with the curriculum at Hogwarts, so long as you apply yourself, I do have one cause for concern…"

The door behind me swings open and Aunt Penny walks in, setting down a tray on the coffee table. It's the extra fancy tea-set with the gold detail and enamel flowers, the one I've only ever seen during those evenings in February when that fancy man with the fancy blond hair had been coming to see her. He hadn't lasted long. Aunt Penny had told me after that he was the sort of man who was 'perfectly pleasant in all the worst ways.'

"Thank you, Mrs Chance," Dumbledore says cordially.

I have to dip my head to hide my smirk. Aunt Penny shoots me a brief but hilariously unamused look and I attempt to wrestle my expression back to neutral. "I'm not married, Mr Dumbledore," she says, her voice going a little breathy like it always did when she's annoyed. Aunt Penny never raises her voice. Even her bad moods are glamorous.

Dumbledore dips his head graciously. "My apologies."

Aunt Penny ignores him, catching my eye and only after receiving no visible cue from me that I'm in need of a rescue does she turn on her heel and disappear back through into the kitchen.

"I seem to have offended your Aunt," Dumbledore says ruefully, pulling out a wand and flicking it at the tea-set. The pot springs from the tray and fills the two cups a little frantically.

"Is this your cause for concern?" I ask, nodding at his wand as he stores it away. It's slightly surreal seeing an adult use one in utter seriousness.

"Yes," he replies as a cup whizzes into his hand and he takes a demure sip. "As I understand it, you haven't used a wand in some time."

I shake my head, ignoring the cup of tea hovering hopefully beside my ear. "Not since first year."

"And do you still own that wand?"

"They belonged to the school. We gave them back after class."

Dumbledore takes another sip and seems to ruminate on this. "I admit it's a curious arrangement to me," he says after a moment, "perhaps you'll indulge me some questions at a later date, but for now I will only say that almost all your classes at Hogwarts will demand wandwork of some variety."

I frown at my hands. "I don't know how to use a wand."

"Some strategic class selection might help alleviate some of the pressure," he says cordially, "but I'm afraid I must insist you purchase a wand before term begins. May I recommend Ollivander's in Diagon Alley, he really is the most excellent of wandsmiths."

Dumbledore withdraws a thick, yellowed envelope and hands it to me. I take it. On the front in gorgeous print is my name and Aunt Penny's address in emerald ink, and on the back is a very fancy seal in purple wax. "That contains all the information you'll need for the term," Dumbledore is saying as I examine the seal. "Now, would you like me to explain the situation to your Aunt, or would you prefer to do that yourself?"

I look up at him sharply, heart skipping a hollow beat. "Do I have to tell her?"

Dumbledore's expression is attentive. "About magic?"

I nod.

"It is certainly recommended that your legal guardian knows the truth of the matter, June," he says delicately. "You told your father when you were accepted into Uagadou, did you not?"

I frown at the letter, playing with the seal. My cup of tea finally gives up trying to get my attention and flings itself back down onto the tray with an offended clink. "That's different," I mutter.

Dumbledore's silence feels very analytical. "What makes you reluctant to tell your Aunt?" he asks in a quiet, measured voice.

I don't answer, my eyes on the wax seal, but no matter how long I let the silence drag on, Dumbledore offers no further queries nor makes any motion to relent from his question. I glance at him, realising with some resentment that he's not going to let me escape answering. "I don't want her to know that I…"

But the words die out. My jaw feels too tight.

"That you can do magic?" Dumbledore prompts gently.

I shake my head, not looking at him. "That I knew." The wax seal loses its battle against my prying fingers and springs from the envelope with a sticky tearing sound that leaves it still half-clinging to the open flap. "About my dad."

"You knew?" comes Dumbledore's curious question.

I look up at him. His expression isn't critical, nor his posture punitive. He looks patient and pensive and composed, like the psychologist Aunt Penny had sent me to when I'd first arrived. "I saw it. In a dream," I say dully. "Before it happened."

"Do you often have dreams like that?"

I scoff a little bitterly and go back to playing with the seal. "Dreams of the future? Or dreams where people die?"

"Both," he replies simply.

I carefully pry the wax off the parchment and place it on the side of the armchair. "I see the future sometimes," I tell him, pushing the seal in a little circle. "Divination was my best subject."

Dumbledore nods in my peripheral vision. "We have an excellent Divination course at Hogwarts, I'm sure Professor Trelawney will be delighted to have another Seer in her class."

I grit my teeth and remain silent.

"I understand why you're hesitant to tell your Aunt what you can do, June," he continues gently, "but she must know where you are during the term."

"Hogwarts has a lot of musts," I say dully.

"It is a school," he smiles, "there are rules."

"You tell her," I say impulsively, still pushing the seal around. "She can ask me questions about it afterwards, but…"

I glance up at him, suddenly nervous. What if his offer has already elapsed? What if my surliness has inspired him to revoke it?

"I'll tell her," Dumbledore affirms calmly. "I can do so now, if you like."

I nod in silent relief and stand, slipping the wax seal into the pocket of my shorts. "I'll get her," I mutter, turning for the kitchen.

"June," Dumbledore says before I can push the door open.

I look over my shoulder at him.

"My condolences," he says quietly. "About your father."

I nod again, eyes dropping. I don't like the look on his face. The sadness there doesn't belong to him.