Prologue

There is nothing quite so innocent as a boy and a girl in love, building sandcastles in the air.

Fate is funny.

Or maybe it's sadistic.

Or both at the same time.

I am about to tell you a story.

A story I shouldn't be telling you. Really. It might make you lose all faith in humanity. It would be safer for you to just yeet your device out the window right now.

For the rest of you stubborn walnuts, read ahead at your own risk.

Back to fate.

Don't you ever feel that, sometimes, you just narrowly miss disaster by a complete accident? For example, you miss a flight that ends up going down in flames. Like, wow, if Mr Cuddles weren't so goddamn fussy about who housed him when I was away, I'd be a burnt corpse right now.

Incidentally, the opposite is true too. It's like leaving your bagel unattended for a split second only to have it robbed by some pigeon. Even though you did put a strong fight, all you got out of it was scratched arms and stray feathers in your hair. And no bagel.

Sometimes, fate meant that things were just the way they were, and nothing could be done about it. Like when your arch-enemy got that last Barbie lunchbox, and you had to be stuck with a lame unicorn one in primary 2. Like when you missed out on genes that a sibling got instead. I was a bit upset at first, but I still love Timothy to death. And beyond that.

Timothy rarely got angry. I mean, once we went on a family trip to the beach and this giant seagull just swooped down and stole his favourite red hat right off his head. He was super bummed and even teared up a little (which he keeps trying to deny. Seriously, what is it with boys not crying?), but he didn't get angry. He didn't get mad when Katie Wilson told him his drawing looked like shit (or words to that effect) in first grade. He didn't even get angry when I spilled hot pink nail polish in his cauldron (yikes). Just faintly traumatised; I though his eyes were going to burst out from his head.

But of course, all of this was before he packed up his trunk, waved his wand and disappeared to a boarding school in god-knows-where. I'd like to say I never saw him again, but I did. He came home for the summer, armed with new knowledge of all sorts of magic. Having him home made the house a little more cramped, but it was worth it. Driving Mom up the wall by turning her white carnations purple, making Dad's armchair squeal every time he tried to sit in it (Dad's heart hasn't been the same since 2015, laughing at my fearsome oaths to emasculate him in the night if he touched any of my stuff again. In short, the usual.

(About the oaths: You'd take them too if you walked into your bedroom to find everything except for the bed stuck to the ceiling and not being able to reverse it until it all fell at once at 3 am.)

So, in case you didn't pick up the general idea of Timothy: relatively mild-tempered, honest, kind, blah blah blah, would be boring if he didn't always make me laugh (I'm the rebellious one), but an excellent big brother. Seriously, he showed Krissy Wilson who was boss on that playground that one time.

That was the last month we spent together. The next day I screamed and started crying (and no, I was not overdramatic)when I saw an owl tapping at my bedroom window patiently. Timothy burst into my room and promptly fell flat on his face because he was still entangled in his sheets. He broke his nose, and it's still slightly crooked to this day. If anyone asks, Tim makes up this over-the-top story that involves him escaping dangerous "Hufflepuffs" (something he always says in hushed tones with a haunted look on his face). After being relieved that I was fine (seriously, does the guy even have a temper), he opened the window and coaxed the owl inside. I had never seen him smile so wide as he stood there reading the letter, decorating it with specks of blood.

'Course, when Mom came down, there was hell to pay. She thought we had been fighting and that I, a little 8-year-old who was crying just the day before when Krissy Wilson made fun of my unicorn lunchbox, had given my significantly taller but gawky 11-year-old brother a bloody nose. She was pleased as punch to see that he had gotten his Hogwarts letter and fixed up Tim's nose in a jiffy. Started crying halfway because her little boy was "all grown up" and messed up the spell, hence the crooked nose. Not that it was a surprise, we were all expecting that letter since the day Tim shrunk a horrendous red-and-gold sweater Mom was trying to force him into when he was 5, until it was too tiny even to fit a Barbie doll.

(For anyone who wants to know, I slaughtered Krissy Wilson the next year. That's right. I'm talking Frozen lunchbox, water bottle AND matching cutlery set. Eat dirt, Prissy Krissy.)

"You know, Mom," I said, "you really should appreciate the time you've got left with me too, then. I'm only three years away from my letter." Mom gave a shaky laugh and squeezed my hand. But the laughter was forced, and her grip was a bit too tight. I was already eight and hadn't even shown the slightest trace of magic. I kept hoping until my 11th birthday. After that, I realised that it was just my brother who had lucked out on the magic part. I was kind of upset about it for a while, but I got over it. I know he would be happy for me if I were the one with magic, and he always shared whatever magic he learnt that year in the Summer holidays, so I never felt left out.

(I did not cry every time we had to wave him off at the train station. There are always so many other kids with cats and what-not crowding around that wall; it's just an allergic reaction. So I'll say this once and never again, fuck off Carrie.)

And so, Timothy disappeared for three-quarters of a year, only appearing during Christmas and Summer holidays. I grew up in a mugger, mugs, muggly- a non-magic neighbourhood with non-magic people including best friend Carrie Roselie and arch-enemy Katie Wilson. It was tough, growing up without Tim, but more on that later. Sometimes it was like I forgot I had a brother. Those times scared me because I didn't want to forget Tim. I can picture him now, rolling his eyes and ruffling my hair, insisting that he wasn't going anywhere for a long time.

The house is too cold and silent without him.

He graduated from Hogwarts last month, and he is home, but he's been reticent lately. Usually holed up in his bedroom. Not as talkative or receptive to humour as he usually is. I thought he was just homesick for Hogwarts until Carrie accidentally shed some light on the situation:

Carrie: Tim looks so down lately. I wish we could cheer him up.

Me: Nah, he's probably missing his fancy boarding school.

Carrie: What?! Heavens, no! He's lovesick, Janet.

Me: That's it, I'm confiscating your Jane Austen novels.

Carrie: I'm serious, Janet. He's pining. Come on; he's got to have mentioned some girl! Or boy. Boy might be more plausible, that's likely why he can't meet him because you guys don't kn-

Me: No, Car, we had this conversation already. Timothy is straight. I remember that just last year-

-At which point, I dramatically gasped and leapt from my chair to run up here, the attic. It probably wasn't very nice to leave Carrie hanging, but she gets that I don't heed reason when I get an epiphany. So, now that I have all the facts in order, I can begin my investigation because Carrie was right. There was a girl. I had forgotten because Tim only mentioned her once, a year or two ago. I don't know much about her, but Buzzfeed's Sorting Hat quiz placed me in Ravenclaw for a reason - I'm goddamn resourceful. And before you know it, mystery girl is not-so-mysterious anymore.