Kate suddenly shook out of her stupor and looked at the clock. Five. It was five in the freakin' morning. Again.
She sighed and rubbed her eyes. It was the fourth night this week that Kate had stayed up ridiculously late, and her common sense showed no signs of kicking in and preventing her from doing it again. She wondered if she ought to bother brushing her teeth before putting herself to bed. She had class in just three hours … No, enough with the self-destructive habits. If she was going to get less than three hours of sleep for a week straight and attend all her classes in a sleep-deprived haze, she could at least have proper dental hygiene. She would brush and floss. And get to bed before five AM next time round. Or even before three. If she was really responsible, two. That should be possible, right? She could get to bed before two o'clock in the morning. First she had to actually get out of this chair, though. Uffda. Her toothbrush was so far away …
The really ridiculous thing, Kate reflected while shuffling over to her dresser, was that she wasn't even staying up for a reason. It was perfectly normal for a college student to stay up until the wee hours of the morning studying. Or partying – it was stupid, but it wasn't unusual or socially unacceptable to stay up that late drinking. It would even be fine to just stay up that late reading a novel, but heading to bed when you could hear your neighbors getting up in the next room simply because you were worried and lonely and sad was idiotic– and difficult to explain to your concerned professors. I need a roommate next year, she thought. At least I'd notice the time passing by if someone else was going to bed.
A slight cough behind her interrupted her musing. And about time, too, she told herself firmly. Less brooding, more sleeping. Less being exhausted all day, more improving of grades ….
Wait a minute. A cough? A cough behind her in her empty - and locked - dorm room?
She turned slowly and regarded a tall, elderly man in flowing velvet robes somewhat similar to the clothing her friends in the Society for Creative Anachronism wore during Renaissance fairs. (I'd be overheated in less than five minutes, wearing that outfit, thought Kate irrelevantly). He wore half-moon spectacles like the reading glasses of her frightening elementary school librarian, and had a long, long, long cloud-like white beard.
He coughed again, gently. "Miss Nelson, I presume?"
Kate continued to stare at him. Goodness. It's finally happened. She had heard that lack of sleep could cause insanity. She hadn't stayed up the seventy-two hours straight necessary to be declared legally insane, but she was still hallucinating. She had always wondered what it would be like to do that.
"Miss Nelson?" Funny, he wasn't shimmering or anything. She never really thought a hallucination would look so … stable. She stopped, shook her head, and collected herself. If she was going to experience a very realistic hallucination, she could at least treat it with common courtesy.
"Um, yeah. That's me." Brilliant response, Kate. Very courteous. They'll be giving you prizes.
He smiled, a twinkle in his eye, and held out a hand. "Albus Dumbledore."
"Aha," she said, wondering how her subconscious had come up with a name like that. She shook his hand. It was a very solid hand. "Nice to meet you."
"The pleasure is all mine," he told her. "In fact, I've been looking for you for quite some time."
"Have you," she said. This was why she should not be permitted to converse with people without a full night of sleep. Even imaginary people deserved better conversation than this. "Would you like to sit down?"
"Actually, the purpose of my visit could be better discussed elsewhere, I believe. Would you care to go for a cup of coffee?"
Kate had barely moved on from her initial reaction of My mother told me never to go anywhere with strangers to Coffee? At this time of night? when she realized he was offering something orange and fluffy. "You'll need to take this feather," he told her.
She grasped it without thinking, and abruptly found herself in a small and colorful outdoor café. Her surroundings were a bit too colorful, really; no sky had ever been that blue, no tree could be quite that bright a green, no teacup achieve such a vivid yellow. It was rather like being inside a Van Gogh painting, even to the vague swirls that made up the faces of the people at the other tables. The man who called himself Albus Dumbledore sat across from, serenely sipping tea from a brilliant turquoise mug.
This isn't a hallucination, Kate realized. This is a dream. I must have fallen asleep at my desk. It was reassuring, knowing it was a dream. Dreams were perfectly natural, and happened to everyone. Dreams had no consequences. She smiled, and tasted what was in the yellow teacup in front of her. Chai. Her favorite coffee alternative.
This was a good dream.
"Let us begin again," said the man in the velvet robes. "I am Albus Dumbledore, headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry." He paused.
"Your school is called Hogwarts?" inquired Kate, intrigued.
"Well, yes," said Dumbledore.
"As in the word 'Warthogs' rearranged?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
He chuckled, and took another sip of his tea. "Come to think of it, I haven't the
faintest idea. It was nearly a millennia ago that it was named, and a lot of things never made it into the history books."
"Wow," said Kate. "My university's been around barely a century, and I thought it was old." She tried some more of the chai, which tasted surprisingly normal considering the venue.
"To draw nearer to the point at hand, Hogwarts has spent that millennia training young wizards and witches in the fundamentals of magic."
"Tarot cards, Ouija boards, care of black cats, and so forth?"
"Transfiguration, Charms, Potions, History, Arithmancy, Divination, Care of Magical Creatures, and so forth," corrected the old man. "And perhaps most importantly, Defense Against the Dark Arts."
Kate was slightly distracted by the golden flecks of cloves floating in her cup, and not really paying attention to the man's ramblings, but she realized by the long and drawn out silence that she really ought to say something. "That's … uh … quite a courseload. Rather a lot to learn, I'd imagine. You must catch them early."
"We identify students at birth, and invite them to enroll at the age of eleven." He was tapping his spoon against the handle of his mug, and she began to suspect that his mind wasn't entirely on what they were talking about, either.
"Kate." Blue eyes were staring at her intently. She squirmed slightly. For such an old man, he had a remarkably piercing gaze.
"Yes?"
"I have some things to tell you, and they may come as a bit of a surprise."
"Ah." That sounded a bit ominous.
"You're a witch."
Kate considered this statement. It didn't seem entirely unlikely, taking into account the direction her dream was going. "What precisely does that mean?"
"It doesn't go along with the black cats and voodoo doll image that so many Muggles have of witches. It simply means that you have the inherent ability to perform magic."
And what precisely is magic, really? Kate wondered. But what she asked was "Didn't you say that you identify witches or wizards at birth? Why wasn't I identified, and invited to learn magic at the proper age?"
"Hmm. Well," said Dumbledore, looking a trifle pained, "As you're an American, it was the American Department of Magic who should have recorded your birth – and did, actually. But they were trying to find ways to make record-keeping more environmentally friendly, and I'm afraid you were born when they were experimenting with using a blackboard and chalk-preservation spells to keep records."
Kate's eyes crossed slightly as she tried to comprehend how anyone could possibly consider a blackboard an appropriate record-keeping medium.
"They now use Muggle computers to store data, I believe," Dumbledore continued, "but unfortunately the difficulties caused by the unsuccesful blackboard experiment means that no one has any real idea how many American witches and wizards were born during the early months of 1979. We've tracked down a few of them, but we'll probably never find them all."
Kate stirred her chai, digesting the information. "How do you know that I'm one of the missing witches?"
He smiled slightly, and his eyes twinkled. "Have you ever made something happen? Something you couldn't explain, when you were angry or frightened?"
That was easy. "No."
"Are you sure? Nothing's ever happened that seemed unnatural or uncanny?"
"I've said things I've regretted afterwards, hurt the people I cared about. Hurt the people I didn't care about, too. I've slammed a few doors and I punched a guy back in the seventh grade." Sammy Zimmerman, in Ms. Toffman's algebra class. He'd had a black eye for a week. "That's about all that happens when I'm angry, though."
"Hmmm." Dumbledore set his mug down and reached into his robes. He handed her a polished stick of wood. She took it, and with a puff of smoke it transformed into a large rubber mouse. She squeezed it, and it squeaked loudly.
"Oh, sorry about that, trick wand. Some former students of mine have been tinkering with them." He scrambled about in the sleeve of his robe and pulled out another wooden stick. "Try this one."
She handled it gingerly this time, but it showed no signs of exploding or transforming into anything. It was beautiful, she realized, a lightly varnished wood with a swirling grain. And as she watched, a single green spark erupted from the end of the wand, hovered in the air for a moment, and disappeared with a flash of light.
Dumbledore beamed at her. "You see? To most people, it's just a stick of wood. In the hands of a witch or wizard, it's magic."
Kate stared at the end of the stick – the wand – and watched a red spark fall out. It really wasn't all that impressive. She could have come up with a way to do that in her high school chem lab, given the right tools. But she was in a dream world, so who cared?
"Right," she said. "You've convinced me. I'm a witch. What now?"
"Now? Now you make a decision," Dumbledore said, refilling his cup from an elegant silver teapot that had appeared at the table. "Would you care for any more tea? Or perhaps a biscuit? They're rather good here."
She stared at him. "Would I like more tea? That's my decision?"
"Er, no," he said apologetically. "I'm afraid my thoughts were straying. No, your choice is between the Muggle world – the non-magical world – and the wizarding world. You can stay here, and continue your studies at the university and forget this ever happened; or you could return to Hogwarts with me and discover what you can do with magic – or what magic can do with you."
"Oh." Kate studied the flecks in her chai further. She hated life-altering decisions, even in dreams where she wouldn't have to face the consequences. "Didn't you say that students generally started at Hogwarts at the age of eleven? Wouldn't I stand out a bit, a twenty-year-old among pre-teens?"
"Your age can be changed. You would be physically, if not chronologically, eleven."
"You can do that?" she asked, somehow unsurprised even as she asked the question. It was magic, after all – and he appeared very capable.
"Well, some of us can," he said, smiling. "You should be warned that it's not without risks, however. In fact, the process can be so dangerous that it's been made illegal. But I think you can trust me to carry out the spell safely and successfully."
He looked almost uncannily trustworthy, sitting in swirling ripples of impossibly bright sunshine and drinking tea. It made her realize that she probably shouldn't trust him at all. But it was a dream, after all. No consequences.
"So I agree to this and become eleven years old again, and then what? I'm ten years younger than my friends for the rest of my life? And how exactly will I explain this to my family?"
"It would most likely be for the best if I sent you back in time to the year that you were chronologically eleven in order to begin your studies. You wouldn't be able to contact your family, but you also wouldn't have to make any awkward explanations – and on the completion of your schooling you'll be able to choose whether to remain in the wizarding world or to resume your life at the university just as you left it."
"Something tells me that time travel is probably not entirely legal, either," Kate observed wryly.
"Not without the proper authorization. Which we will not be applying for."
"And you're willing to go to violate several laws just so that I can receive the proper schooling?"
"I am an educator, after all," Dumbledore commented wryly, blue eyes twinkling. Then he sobered slightly. "Miss Nelson, while I would go to a great deal of trouble to allow you to have a magical education, there are further circumstances that make such extreme methods advisable. I don't suppose the name Voldemort signifies anything to you?"
She shook her head.
"No, of course not. How could it?" He sighed, stirring his tea. "You are a well-educated young woman, Miss Nelson. I know you have studied many people in history who have been use any means to gain power for themselves. There are wizards who do the same, of cause – magic cannot protect us from human nature. It can, however, cause terrible destruction when it is used in unimaginably cruel and vicious ways."
"Ruthless men have never needed magic to cause destruction beyond the imagination of peace-loving human beings," Kate said softly.
"No. But magic provides them with further tools, tools which the majority of the world's population are unaware of and unable to fight." He stirred his tea, and the spoon made a hollow clinking against the glass. "We have been fighting against Voldemort for many years now. At the time I will be sending you to, the war was about to start again, after a decade's tenuous peace; today the war is drawing to a close, thanks to the bravery and effort of thousands of courageous wizards and witches. I am confident that Voldemort will soon be defeated; but I have reason to believe that his defeat will be far more difficult, perhaps even impossible, if you are not a part of it.
"It is not an easy decision, to join a war, and it is not one you will have to make before the completion of your Hogwarts education. But if you do not decide to attend Hogwarts, it is a decision you will never be able to make at all."
Kate's mind was reeling. This dream was clearly the result of having read too many fantasy novels in the past few weeks, but she had to admire the complexity, the detail, the internal consistency that her subconscious had put together. Perhaps it's not such a bad thing to stay up late after all, if it makes me imagine things like this.
"If I were to travel back in time to attend Hogwarts, then you should already have met me – shouldn't you?" she asked, trying to remember how time paradoxes were supposed to work. Her knowledge of time travel came mainly from watching far too much Star Trek as a child, which was not the most detailed of sources.
"Yes. I met you in the form of an eleven-year-old-child nine years ago, watched you grow older and progress in your studies, and worked with you further after your graduation, when you joined the fight against Voldemort. I know you rather well, in fact."
"Then you already know what decision I'll make, don't you? This isn't really a choice, it's predestined."
"No. The young woman I have known made that choice, yes. But you don't have to become that woman. We are what we choose to become; choose again, and change."
She shivered. It seemed easier to rely on destiny, somehow. "But if I choose differently this time, this Voldemort will take over the world?"
"Perhaps. Who can say? The future – or the future past, in this case – is always difficult to predict. We may succeed without you. Or we may not." He sipped his tea complacently, appearing amazingly unperturbed by this thought.
Kate put her own teacup down, and exhaled slowly. The caffeine had done little to wake her up; it would be appallingly irresponsible to make a decision with this little sleep. But it was, after all, a dream. "I'll come. Or go back, or whatever it is. I'll go to this Warthogs school."
Blue eyes stared intently into her own. "You are certain?"
She nodded, and he sighed, relaxing his shoulders in a way that made realize that she had just released him from a great burden. He stood, casting a shadow over the table, and she looked up at him to realize how very tall he was. He didn't look like a little old man at all anymore.
"Come," Dumbledore said, leading her inside the café. It was dark and cool, and entirely empty except for a floor-length mirror. Dumbledore motioned for her to stand in front of the mirror, and she did so, staring nervously at her reflection. He stood behind her, gazing into the mirror as well.
"We'll want to change a few of your features, just so you can't be as easily identified," he told her, fingering his wand. "Are you ready?"
"Go ahead."
He pointed the wand at her and muttered something, and she watched in wonder as the reflection in the mirror began to shrink. Her skull began to ache, as though something were constricting it. He didn't tell me this was going to hurt, she thought as she crumpled into a heap on the floor and waited for the pain to wake her up, for the dream to end.
When it was over, she stood up shakily, clinging to the mirror, and looked at the little girl who looked at her from it. The girl was smaller than she had been at eleven, but then again, she had been absurdly tall back then. She had brown eyes, a little larger than Kate's hazel ones, and dark hair that fell in ringlets down her back. Her nose was a little crooked. Dumbledore hovered in the reflection's background, and she turned around to face him.
"This isn't a dream, is it," she asked him in a voice that quavered despite her best effort to keep it steady. She already knew the answer. The pain should have woken me up, if it were a dream.
Albus Dumbledore shook his head slowly.
"Oh," said Kate, in a high, eleven-year-old voice. The darkness overtook her, and she heard Dumbledore call her name in alarm as she fell to the floor again.
Author's Note:
Thanks for reading. If you'd like me to continue this fic, or if you have constructive advice (besides the fact that the premise is cliché – I'm well aware of that), please leave me a review. I'm feeling a little underconfident about this.