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Chapter 2:
Once Upon A Midnight Dreary
Woke up early. Woke up damn early. It should be biologically impossible to wake up at three in the morning. While I'm waiting for the others to emerge I'm going to write the account of how I got to Hogwarts in the first place. I mean, where I come from it's rather unusual to end up in a boarding school in the middle of no where studying magic. Especially when one is talking about Marianne Cathcart, the 'living ghost'. Anyway…
The first I ever heard of Hogwarts was the night between the 18th and the 19th of July this year. That's a month and a half ago now. It was near midnight and I'd locked myself up in my room, as usual, turned off all the lights except the stand lamp between my sitting chair and the window. It had the soft glow that is sufficient for reading but does not reach the crack beneath the door so I knew that when dad came to check I was asleep he would not see it. I was sitting quietly, lost in my own universe, as usual (can't remember what I was thinking about though), listening to Simon and Garfunkel, very, very softly, barely audible if not for the silence of the night.
Then, I heard a scratching at my window. It was rather irritating, and, in the deep silence, it sounded to my ears like claws dragged on a blackboard. It seemed so loud, so pervasive, I dreaded it would wake my parents and bring them to my room. So, without thinking I just opened the window so that whatever was making the noise could come in. I didn't really think or consider what was coming. It was rather like in dreams when something irritates you so much you just do whatever first comes to you're mind to stop it, knowing that, ultimately, nothing will harm you. I do that from time to time; make rash decisions on instinct.
In swoops this enormous bird. A tawny owl. I know a little about owls because they're the birds I most admire. And I know that a large tawny owl does not scratch at a human's bedroom window and fly inside. So fearing the worst of this unusual behaviour I just stare at it as it settles and sits on my bedstead. There follows a very deep and intense silence only disturbed by the faint sound of 'Bleeker Street' in the background, as the owl and I stare at each other. Suddenly, and rather ominously, Poe's poem The Raven pops into my mind and I'm almost awaiting the owl to open his beak and sqwawk 'Neveremore'. Rather ominous indeed.
Then, the owl hoots and to my horror I understand the words and I immediately conclude that I am, indeed, facing my own raven. Before the words actually register in my brain. Something along the lines of:
Don't look at me like that, mate, it's your letter.
What letter? I wondered, puzzled.
The one in your lap. I'm supposed to make sure you read it and answer.
I look down at my lap and, sure enough, there's a letter, quite a heavy one too. I was so shocked by the owl's appearance, I didn't even notice it fall. I picked it up. It was made of heavy parchment and was sealed shut with a purple wax seal bearing a coat of arms: a lion, a serpent, a badger and an eagle surrounding a letter H. The envelope was addressed to:
Miss M. Cathcart
Attic Room
13 Methren Street
Dundee
Angus, Scotland
Well, it was quite definitely for me, no mistakes. I broke the seal and shook the letter out. It read:
HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY
Headmaster; Albus Dumbledore
(Order of Merlin, First class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)
Dear Miss Cathcart,
We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.
Being aware of your non-magical origins a set of instructions to reach platform 9 ¾ and Diagon Alley has been enclosed as well.
Term begins on 1 September. We await your answer by owl by no later than 31 July.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress
To any rational minded person this would be absolute codswallop. Fortunately, I am not rational. This could certainly explain certain…incidents in my past. Such as mysterious exploding vases or my next door neighbour's talking cat. I looked up towards the owl.
'Your answer by owl'. Does that mean I send you back with my reply?
That's it, replied the owl. I considered a moment, then sighed.
I have to talk to my parents first, I suppose. Can you stay here for the night?
Where?
On the rafters, I replied, pointing upwards. If you're quiet my parents won't go completely mad and shoot you.
How very reassuring.
I turned the stand lamp off and climbed into bed, pondering these unbelievable events. I had talked to an owl. I had a letter stating I had a place in a school of magic. Therefore I was a witch. But as the comforting atmosphere of my room faded to the deep of night, as the shadows crept into my room, so did my doubts, invading my soul. A witch? Witches did not exist. I had believed they did, longer then any normal child would, but even so it was madness to let myself indulge in some childish fantasy now. Madness. There's the key word. Perhaps Dr. Marlow was right and I was finally swamped by the chaos of my subconscious. Maybe the sickness that had been gnawing at me for three years had finally taken its toll and tonight I'd teetered over the edge. Well, if I had, it didn't feel too bad. Madness really isn't what it's cracked up to be. So, I'll be a witch if I want to be. Even if I know I'm not and I know they don't exist. When you're mad you can claim anything you want and people will accept it with a smile and a nod. Yes, I thought, as I fell asleep, that's an excellent arrangement. I'll say I'm a witch and everybody will think I'm mad. Perfect.
And yet… it felt so real. So… expected. I shot out of bed again and picked up the letter from my bedside table. The parchment was real. The wax, the insignia. The address was perfect. The Attic Room… The words were there, beautifully hand written: We are pleased to inform you…
I knew my answer. My mind was set and I am an incredibly stubborn girl. But my parents will not approve my decision and, unfortunately, they have authority.
Next morning, I came down early and made breakfast. When my parents finally came down, the letter was waiting for them with an added note saying: 'I received this yesterday night. Tell me what you think.' My father picked up the parchment and my mother leant over his shoulder to read with him. She immediately averted her eyes as if the letter was insulting, looking pale. But my eyes were focused on my father, because, ultimately, the decision rested on him. When he finished, dad scoffed and threw the letter back on the table with an irritated toss.
"Is that your idea of a joke? Not very good, or very original.". I scowled at him
"Actually, I did not write that letter as is quite obvious because the handwriting isn't mine!". He snorted.
"Well, if it isn't you, it's some completely stupid random prankster. Just ignore it."
Unfortunately, I couldn't ignore the owl who was still sleeping in my rafters.
"Maybe we should write an answer anyway. Just in case. You never know…", I ventured.
"And send it to where? There's no address, except for that school crap. Actually, there aren't any stamps…" he continued suspiciously.
My mother, who had been very silent up till then, spoke up:
"We should answer them in any case. Tell them to leave us alone. We'll get it to them somehow." Her expression was unnaturally casual. She was hiding something. I suddenly remembered her reaction upon seeing the letter. Did she know? My father snorted derisively.
"It's just a bloody time waster. Just ignore the damn thing." Always true to his disagreeable self is my father, but we did leave it at that. As I got up from the table, I wondered what I was going to do with the owl. Send him back without an answer? I climbed up to my room.
My parents don't believe your letter and quite frankly, I understand them.
Then why do you believe it?
Because it's the simplest answer to how I turned Dr. Marlow's hair bright orange last February.
So what are you going to do?
I don't know but I am sorely tempted to reply myself and tell them I'm coming, parents approval or not. Won't be the first time I run away from this place.
I stood morosely, pondering the sanity of this course of action when a knock came at my door. I motioned the owl to stay quiet, then opened the door. There stood mum. She handed me a sealed envelope marked Albus Dumbledore.
"Send this reply back", she said simply and went back downstairs. I stared at her, confused. She knew. But how? I sighed and turned away.
The owl was already waiting on my bedstead. I handed him the letter which he clamped into his beak. Then I opened the window to let him fly off. And that was the end of a very brief stitch of strangeness. I leaned on the window sill, watching as he disappeared, letting the warm breeze play on my skin and thinking what a great escape I had let slip through my hands.
I locked myself in my room all day, ignoring my mother's calls to lunch and tea. My parents were used to such absences by now, so they didn't investigate. I spent the day listening to music, reading, doing my maths and my English… Keeping my mind on things that calmed me down.
In the late evening, I heard the doorbell ring. I didn't really register the sound, too lost in my regret. I was elaborating a complicated plan to make my way to Hogwarts. I had two clues: Diagon Alley and platform 9 ¾ at King's Cross, neither being very helpful. King's Cross is in London. I'm in Dundee. Already one obstacle. Train from Dundee to Edinburgh, then another from Edinburgh to London. Then I had to find a platform which obviously could not exist. And there were all the school supplies I needed and had no idea how to get.
Before I could let myself wallow in my despair, I heard raised voices coming from downstairs. What could cause such an uproar? I unlocked my door and peered down the dark, narrow staircase that led to my attic. I winced as it creaked loud enough to wake the dead. Yes, there were shouts coming from the ground floor but it was only my father making the noise (typically). I could also hear my mother's faint pleas and… somebody else? I tiptoed carefully down the stairs, avoiding the steps that creaked, to the first floor. I padded swiftly down the carpeted corridor to the main stairs that led down to the hall.
"WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE, PRANCING IN HERE, DRESSED LIKE YOU'RE THE FUCKING QUEEN OF ENGLAND? LIKE HELL YOU CAN TAKE MY DAUGHTER AWAY TO SOME CRACK POT MAGIC SCHOOL!" I heard my delightful father proclaim.
"Bruce, please, try to understand…" my mother pleaded.
"THERE'S NOTHING TO BLOODY UNDERSTAND! IT'S A PILE OF CRAP! I DON'T WANT SOME SCHIZOFRENIC MADMAN IN MY HOUSE!"
"Ah, madman I might agree with but schizophrenic might be going a bit too far" another man's voice replied. It was composed and sounded slightly amused, the kind of amusement that drives you mad because you don't know the joke. His voice reminded me of an autumn sunrise where the rays of light try to reach you through the cold. It reminded me of old bookstores where the rickety stacks of books radiate knowledge. It reminded me of walking at night in crowded streets lit with street lamps. It reminded me of safety and calm and love and things that I had forgotten existed. I started slowly down the stairs, drawn by the voice, but stopped as the scene in the front hall appeared. The most extraordinary man was standing in the entrance.
He was tall, thin and very old, with long white hair and beard. His eyes were a piercing blue that peered inquisitively over half-moon spectacles, which were perched on a very crooked nose. He was wearing long purple and gold robes and high-heeled, buckled boots. I was inclined to disagree with my father; the queen of England dressed fancy but she wasn't that eccentric.
My father and mother were facing the man, their backs to the stairs so they did not see me. The old man, however, did. His eyes caught mine and I couldn't tear my eyes away from his gaze. He smiled at me.
"DON'T TRY TO BE CLEVER WITH ME, OLD MAN! YOU'RE COMPLETELY SENILE AND I WANT YOU OUT! YOU HEARD ME! OUT!"
But whoever the man was, he completely ignored my father's unconvincing outburst and continued to smile up at me.
"Hello, Miss Cathcart", he said. "Delighted to meet you."
Both my parents whirled around and stared at me. Dad looked quite psychotic and I thought the strange man must be very brave not to quail at his furious glare. Mother looked petrified and she had what looked like a red mark across her face. Had someone hit her? Before I could ask dad screamed at me.
"Go back upstairs! This has nothing to do with you!"
I regarded him coldly. As far as I could tell this certainly did have something to do with me. It was my life in question here.
"You are mistaken, Mr. Cathcart. This concerns Marianne very much and she should have voice in the decision making" said the man, stepping closer.
Dad whirled back and pointed threateningly at the man.
"You! I said get out! Do you understand? Out! She doesn't have any voice in any decision making because there's no fucking decision to make!"
"But there is" insisted the man, fixing my father with a steely look. "And I believe your daughter should have her say. I have not heard her speak her mind yet."
"She can't speak" spat my father resentfully. I glared at him, then stomped down the stairs and down the hall till I was standing just in front of the man. I fished for my notelace (that's notepad and necklace in one word) and scribbled:
'I'm sorry but I don't know who you are.'
He took the note looking puzzled then read it and smiled.
"I do apologize. I have not introduced myself properly. My name is Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, better known as Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry." Then he considered me curiously. "Are you mute?"
I nodded. I heard my mother try to interrupt but Albus Dumbledore lifted a hand to silence her.
"But you are not deaf?" he continued, more as a statement than a question. I shook my head anyway.
"Mr. Dumbledore. Perhaps we should discuss this in the living room now that we've all cooled down" said my mother, shooting anxious looks at both at me and my father, who had retreated into a furious sulk.
"Before we discuss anything Mrs. Cathcart I would like to ask Miss Cathcart a question." He looked down at me gravely. "Would you like to come to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Miss Cathcart?"
I didn't hesitate. I smiled and nodded. He smiled back and faced my parents again.
"Very well. We can discuss anything you wish."
"We'll talk in the living room. Privately" she added, giving me another anxious glance.
"I'm sure that whatever you want to say, you can say it in front of your daughter" said Dumbledore, his smile disappearing again, his tone stony.
"Will you stop telling us what and what not to do with our own daughter, for Christ's sake!" Oh no. My father had decided to break his silence. Pity. It was almost restful.
"As you wish. I am certain you know what is best for your daughter" said Dumbledore, inclining his head.
Personally, I gladly escaped that discussion. I knew what they would say. I knew the words they would use.
Clinically depressed.
Clinically depressed? The words make me laugh (figuratively - I can't actually laugh). What do they mean? I don't know and yet that's what I am. They're me. We are inseparable now that bloody wanker Dr. Marlow decided we should be. along with borderline personality, schizophrenia and many more delightful symptoms. Oh yes. I sneaked into his office after hours to read it. A load of crap if you ask me but I'm sure he knows what he's saying. After all, it's his job. But I would be very grateful if people would not whisper, every time I pass, the damnable words 'clinically depressed'.
No wonder I'm reclusive.
So I barricaded myself in the kitchen, far from their voices and their words. An hour passed. I heard the living room door open. I rushed out into the hall expecting… God knows. Suspicion. Horror. Disgust? But certainly not what came next.
Albus Dumbledore merely smiled at me chummily, as he had done before, and beamed.
"I have persuaded your parents to let you come to Hogwarts. We have agreed for someone to accompany you to Diagon Alley tomorrow to buy your school supplies."
He walked to the door and opened to the warm night outside. He turned back towards my parents who both seemed to be a little stunned.
"I'm glad we could come to an arrangement. Your daughter will be well taken care of." Then he looked back at me with a twinkle in his eyes. "I'll be looking forward to seeing you at Hogwarts, Miss Cathcart."
And, with that, he was gone.
A/N: Yes, Marianne is meant to be Scottish but she doesn't sound like it. That is mainly because I am not Scottish.
Detail: My character is mute so communicating is going to be an issue.
Her thoughts are in italics
Sign language is in italics with speech marks eg: "Actually, I did not write that letter as is quite obvious because the handwriting isn't mine!"
When she writes a note it's also in italics with simple speech marks eg: 'Do you mind if I go in alone?'
When she communicates with thoughts it'll be written in italics like her thoughts – hopefully this won't confuse you too much
Normal speech is written in regular with speech marks
Furthermore… I have managed to update a second chapter! Huzza!!! But since there are very few of you who actually read my stories it will remain a private victory.
PLEASE REVIEW!