It starts with a candy bar.
Aunt Petunia doesn't let Cassandra have any sweets. Sweets are bad for little girls, Aunt Petunia explains as Dudley tears into his second chocolate bar. Later that evening when Cassandra takes the trash out, a glint of silver peeking out at the top catches her eye. It's the remains of Dudley's fourth or fifth chocolate bar, which he'd left half-eaten on the kitchen counter once he'd gotten bored of teasing her.
Cassandra reaches out and stuffs it in her pocket quick as a flash before anyone can see. And later that night, in the privacy of her cupboard, she takes one hesitant bite of the soft chocolate. She sees immediately how Dudley had finished them all in quick succession. It's sweet and creamy and unlike anything she's ever eaten. And unfortunately, it's gone all too quickly—even when she spreads open the silver foil wrapper to lick it clean.
It's all she can think about. Her mouth waters when she thinks about the velvety sweetness. She lies awake at night with saliva pooling in her mouth at the memory. One day, Aunt Petunia catches her lingering near the pantry, eyeing the box of chocolates, and marches over at once with pursed lips to stuff the box in one of the high cabinets where she keeps those bottles of foul smelling liquid.
It only makes things worse. Cassandra is careful never to look at the cabinets, nor does she ever mention anything about the chocolates. But something twists unpleasantly inside her nonetheless. A simple truth falls on her head that day like a soft, old blanket: Aunt Petunia is ugly and cruel. The truth doesn't make any difference in Cassandra's life, but somehow things start to make a little more sense.
Cassandra begins to daydream about her parents. In her fantasies, her mother is beautiful and warm, nothing at all like Aunt Petunia. Her father is the sort who always knows what to say to make everyone laugh—even complete strangers. She wonders if there are unknown aunts and uncles and cousins out there who are desperately wondering where she is, eager to swoop her out of this drab little life in Number 4 Privet Drive.
The turning point comes weeks later when Aunt Petunia forgets to pick Cassandra up from school one day. It's nothing unusual. Aunt Petunia is a very busy woman—as she often reminds Cassandra. And when her watch shows that Aunt Petunia is nearing an hour overdue, Cassandra picks herself off the school steps and walks down the street to the library. Along the way, she passes the corner store, and a glint of silver catches her wandering eyes. Her field of vision narrows to the rows of silver wrapped chocolate bars neatly packed inside an open box.
For a moment, she stays frozen in place in the middle of the sidewalk, face turned longingly towards the candy bars. Her mouth waters.
Cassandra swallows. Aunt Petunia is probably already waiting for her at the library and she will be very cross if Cassandra makes her wait. But as she begins to turn away, an unknown voice whispers in her ear.
Take it.
She almost trips over her own feet, looking over her shoulder expecting to find Dudley and his friends ganging up on her again. But no one is there. Something makes her shiver and she tugs Dudley's old jacket tightly around herself. She must have simply imagined it, just like the time she got in trouble for making up a bizarre story about flying up to the roof. That had earned her a strict lecture from Aunt Petunia about how little girls ought to behave themselves.
Take it, the voice repeats, soft but insistent.
"I don't have any money," she whispers, feeling a bit silly. Nonetheless, something compels her to listen to the invisible speaker.
Not to worry, the voice says. No harm will be done.
That's true, Cassandra thinks to herself. It's just one candy bar. Nothing bad had happened last time when she'd had that half-eaten chocolate. She shuffles inside the store on spastic legs, flinching when the bell rings and the boy at the counter looks up at her with a bored expression on his face. Dread and terror drop through her at once. This was a terrible, terrible, stupid idea.
Don't worry about the boy, the voice says soothingly. Take it and go.
I can't, Cassandra thinks very hard to herself. He'll see me.
Not if you don't want him to, the voice responds at once, sounding very smug and very self-assured like how Uncle Vernon sounds after a couple glasses of that sharp smelling brown stuff she's never allowed to touch. You simply need to want it enough. Go ahead. Try it.
Cassandra closes her eyes and clasps her trembling hands together the way Aunt Marge does when she says grace over dinner. Don't notice me don't notice me don't notice me don't notice me, she prays.
The boy drops his head back down to his magazine, completely disinterested in her frozen form standing in the doorway. She takes one hesitant step and then another, feeling emboldened when the boy doesn't look up. He stays in place, face turned downward and idly flipping the pages of his magazine even when she's standing right in front of him with her hand poised above the box of chocolates.
Precisely, the voice says, still sounding very smug. Now take it.
The silver glints at her temptingly, encouragingly. She reaches out and plucks one chocolate bar from the box. And then another. All of a sudden, an older, wiser version of herself slips into her shoes and simply picks up the whole box. There is no harm in it. The boy doesn't look up once—not when the box of chocolates disappears from under his nose, not when the bell rings again to announce her escape and the door slams shut behind her.
Reality crashes into her with dizzying intensity the moment she steps outside. Her heart is racing and her shirt clings to her back with sweat. Cassandra takes a deep breath, looking down at her treasure with wide eyes, stunned by her own daring. An incredulous laugh escapes her.
That's it, the voice says. See how easy it is.
Aunt Petunia pinches her cheek roughly when Cassandra finally makes it to the library and climbs into the car. But it doesn't matter. Deep inside her school bag, swaddled inside Dudley's old jacket, there is a treasure waiting for her. It is hers and hers alone. She hides a smile behind her hair, cheeks glowing with the warmth of the secret.
For once, Cassandra is eager to go back to her cupboard.
It's not a fluke.
At first, she's afraid to try again. It's the first good thing that's ever happened to her in a very long time and it feels her with dread to think that it won't ever happen again. But despite her fear that the mysterious power won't find her again, her curiosity becomes a persistent itch that she cannot ignore.
The voice lapses into infuriating silence, only resurfacing at inopportune moments as if to taunt her. But even without its guidance, she learns she can occasionally people into giving her things with nothing but a smile and a fervent wish. At school, her dry bologna sandwiches are traded away for Susan Collins' lovingly packed lunches. She's careful not to bring too many souvenirs into the house for Aunt Petunia is prone to subjecting her cupboard to random inspections. But nonetheless, she collects little trinkets here and there: a charm bracelet from Anne Davies, a tiny Lego man from Billy Robinson, a Rubik's cube from Ian Thompson. And once, she even manages to convince a teacher to raise her exam scores.
She takes to watching the Dursley's with careful eyes, but they are truly, dreadfully normal to a fault. That's the second truth: that Cassandra is special and the Dursley's are not.
Uncle Vernon likes to say it was meant to be when referring to his career as illustrious, when making claims about Dudley's brilliance, but also when he's making fun of her parents' car accident.
He seems exceptionally pleased tonight, droning on about his wise investments. She watches him discreetly with the knowledge that a pleased Uncle Vernon can be as dangerous as a rampaging hippo. After a third glass of that awful brown stuff, he fixes his pinched eyes upon her. She swallows her carrots with some difficulty, knowing what that expression means. Uncle Vernon has a tendency to squint when he's gathering his wits about him in preparation of saying something awful.
"Your useless parents, of course, didn't have a clue about managing finances," he barks. "Fobbed you off to us without a pence to their name, didn't they!"
Filthy Muggle, the voice says sneeringly.
Cassandra startles. Muggle. She's not sure what it means, but it makes sense to her nevertheless. It sounds like a silly, ignorant being and that is precisely what Uncle Vernon is.
"What are you smiling at, girl?" Uncle Vernon sneers, an ugly pinched expression that makes him look rather like a rat. "Bloody parasites living off the backs of honest, hard-working men. Thieves, the lot of you!"
Thieves. The word sends a hot, prickling jolt of discomfort through her that quickly morphs into outrage. The smile slides off her face. Cassandra raises her head to look at him sitting there red-faced, heaving despite the fact that he's done nothing but sit. For all his talk of achievement, of being so much better than everyone else, Uncle Vernon is only capable of this much. The thought fills her with such a strong wave of contempt that it almost surprises her. She pushes her half-eaten plate away.
"You're a Muggle," Cassandra says, relishing the shape and sound of the word and feeling very pleased with the way her voice doesn't betray her nerves.
Beside her, Aunt Petunia gasps audibly. She stands, slapping her hands on the table. "Cassandra Potter," she hisses, splotches of anger blooming on her cheeks. "How dare you."
Dudley stops eating, finally catching onto the rising tension, face resurfacing from his plate. His eyes flicker between Cassandra, Aunt Petunia trembling with rage, Uncle Vernon stunned into silence for once. "What's a Muggle?" he asks suspiciously.
Aunt Petunia makes a noise like a whistling teapot. "Vernon!" she says despairingly, throwing her hands in the air.
"That's it, girl," Uncle Vernon thunders, heaving his enormous weight upward. He begins unbuckling his belt. "We've been too soft on you for far too long. I'm going to beat that ridiculous mag—"
Aunt Petunia hisses again.
"—out of you once and for all!"
Are you going to let this Muggle whip you like a dog? the voice asks contemptuously as Uncle Vernon approaches.
Cassandra slams her hands on the table and stands, once again possessed by the spirit of that wise, confident girl. "No!" she cries out. Something crackles. The temperature of the room suddenly plummets, but she hardly notices.
Uncle Vernon freezes in place before her, ice crawling rapidly over his skin. He manages a surprised croak before a thin, glassy veneer of ice seals his mouth shut in the shape of a horrified o. The belt clatters to the ground.
Aunt Petunia screams.
Dudley falls out of his seat in his haste to escape as Aunt Petunia scurries to Uncle Vernon's side on shaky legs. She runs her hands over his frozen face. "Oh God! Vernon!" she shrieks.
But Uncle Vernon remains rooted in place. His face, flushed from a hearty supper, has gone blue.
"You…" Aunt Petunia begins hoarsely. She turns back to look at Cassandra in horror, her angry red splotches receding rapidly from her face, eyes glassy with tears. "You monster. What have you done?!"
Cassandra falters. Her mouth opens and closes uselessly. "I-I don't know," she stammers. She takes a step towards Uncle Vernon, but Aunt Petunia backpedals, throwing her scrawny figure protectively over his enormous body.
"Don't come any closer!" Aunt Petunia sobs, reaching out desperately for Dudley's hand. "Oh God, oh God! Please, somebody help!"
Distantly, Cassandra registers the throbbing pain in her forehead. She can't tear her eyes away from Aunt Petunia, who has fallen to her knees weeping even as she tries to expand the flimsy protection of her body over Dudley. "I—" she tries again, reaching her hand out as if she can make everything right again with a wave of her hand.
I don't want this! she pleads desperately. I don't want this!
She's never wanted anything so badly in her life. But for all her fervent wishing, the nightmarish tableau remains.
A high pitched laugh joins the mounting pain. Her head feels like it's splitting in two. She staggers, vision blurring, arms reaching out to steady herself. But her arms turn to jelly as she stumbles blindly into the table. The ground rushes up to meet her, accompanied by the cacophony of that high pitched laughter over Aunt Petunia's cries for help.
Cassandra awakens with a jolt, feeling as though someone had yanked her leg. Her eyelids stick unpleasantly to her eyes and she is just so tired that she decides that it's worth it to face Aunt Petunia's wrath if she can sleep in a few more minutes…
"Ah," a gentle voice says. "Good day, Miss Potter."
A warm light blazes into existence.
She scrambles upright. Her cupboard has somehow expanded to accommodate an old man sitting next to her on a cushy armchair, wearing some sort of elaborate bathrobe. He looks exactly like the sort of riffraff Aunt Petunia goes through great pains to avoid.
"Who are you?" she demands belatedly. "How did you get in here?" At second glance, she realises they are not in her cupboard, but rather in some sort of fancy hospital.
The man gives her a kind smile. "My name is Albus Dumbledore. I am the Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. You are currently in St Mungo's Hospital after an unfortunate bout of accidental magic," he explains with the air of a seasoned lecturer, following her distracted gaze to an animated portrait featuring a toga-clad man slapping a snake. "Good day, Asclepius," he adds, nodding his head over his shoulder.
"I'm sorry," she says, not quite able to parse his words. She must have misheard him. "Did you say you're from a school of witchcraft?"
"And wizardry," Mr. Dumbledore says agreeably. "I, like yourself, have the ability to wield magic."
She's gaping again. "Magic," she parrots dumbly, stupefied by the implication that her mysterious power is common enough to name and that they'd collectively decided to name it something so silly. "You mean you can do it too?" The questions spill out of her uncontrollably. "There are others like me? Enough to fill a school?"
Her sense of self-preservation fortunately awakens before her mouth can run off with her most ignorant and unimportant question: "Why was I never told?" It's a profoundly silly question—like asking, "why didn't Rachel Welch invite me to her birthday party?"
Mr. Dumbledore produces a long stick out of his sleeve. "Yes," he says, seeming to take great pleasure in her shock. His hand twirls whimsically and out of nowhere, a thick envelope flutters into existence. She wants it—the stick. A smile plays out on her lips, ready to charm Mr. Dumbledore into handing it over to her but he tucks it back into his voluminous sleeves.
She blinks, looking down at the envelope in her lap. The paper is smooth and creamy, immediately giving her an impression of luxury. This is clearly a different class of mail than the sort delivered to the Dursleys. She wipes her sweaty hands discreetly on her bedsheets and feels a jolt of pleasure at the novel sight of her handwritten name, addressing her.
Miss Cassandra Potter
Fourth Floor – Janus Thickey Ward
St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries
Stratford
Essex
She carefully edges her finger under the seam, but to her utter stupefaction and delight, the envelope simply opens without any further prompting.
HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore
(Order of Merlin, First Class; Chief Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)
Cassandra glances up at Mr. Dumble—Supreme Mugwump Dumbledore, she corrects mentally—who is watching her patiently with the sort of expression Aunt Petunia wears when she watches Dudley tear into her cooking. He seems like a very important man with an awful lot of decorations and she hasn't the faintest idea what any of it means. She looks back down at her letter, cheeks flushing.
Dear Miss Potter,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.
Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31st.
Should you accept, a school representative will be sent to escort you to Diagon Alley where you may procure your school supplies.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress
Cassandra frowns, unsure of how she's meant to go about hunting down an owl. She's never seen one before. This must be some sort of litmus test. She scans through the letter for some hints on how to complete this prodigious task and comes up empty. "I—thank you, sir," she says, glancing back up at Mr. Dumbledore, almost forgetting her manners. Aunt Petunia's lessons have taught her that important people are quite partial to good manners. "I don't suppose you could tell me where I can find an owl?"
With another wave of his stick, a small writing table materializes on her lap, complete with more of that luxurious paper, a quill, and a bottle of ink. A brilliant red bird appears a moment later, surveying her with intelligent eyes before perching itself on Mr. Dumbledore's shoulder.
She picks up the quill, turning it over this way and that, hoping that it will magically compose a letter for her. But it remains motionless in her hand. For all his helpfulness, Mr. Dumbledore seems content to sit and watch over her without offering further instruction. She learns very quickly that the quill is unforgiving of anything but the most deliberate writing and her first few attempts are ruinous blotches of ink on Mr. Dumbledore's beautiful paper. It's with a shaky, inelegant hand that she manages to scrawl out a simple response:
DEAR MRS. MCGONAGALL,
THANK YOU FOR YOUR KIND OFFER.
I ACCEPT.
YOURS SINCERELY,
CASSANDRA POTTER
"Most excellent," Mr. Dumbledore says. "Hogwarts will be delighted to have you."
She watches, enraptured, as Mr. Dumbledore's pet takes the proffered envelope and crackles out of existence like a firework. The writing desk, and all its accoutrements, vanishes—down to the ink stains on her hands. She adds magical desk to her list along with magical owl and magical stick.
"Miss Potter," he says solemnly, interrupting her mental cataloguing. Something grave passes like a shadow over his face. "I'm afraid there are some things we must discuss. You see, at 7:03 this evening, the Ministry of Magic was alerted of a serious case of accidental magic cast on a Muggle at Number 4 Privet Drive."
The day's events spring into mind with sudden clarity. Aunt Petunia's screaming, Uncle Vernon's face frozen in horror, Dudley's mad scramble to escape. Cassandra stares forcefully at Mr. Dumbledore's long, long beard, willing him to say that everything is quite alright—that they've successfully melted Uncle Vernon back into working order and that the Dursley's are soundly asleep.
But the wrong words fall from his lips. "Regrettably, our first responders were unable to reverse the spell in time to prevent major damage. Your Uncle Vernon is currently in a magically induced coma. Your Aunt Petunia and cousin Dudley are being treated a few doors down for severe trauma and will have their memories modified once the full story is extracted from them."
Cassandra sits very still. "But they'll be okay, right? Sir?" She wrings her hands helplessly. "You know, with magic?"
Mr. Dumbledore pauses, and his hesitancy is damning. "Your family is in the best possible care," he says gently. "But there are some things even magic can't fix."
She stares at him uncomprehendingly. Can't, he'd said. Surely the word doesn't apply to something as boundless as magic.
"They're not my family," she says dully. "I mean, they can't be. They don't have any magic."
The hospital, for all its mysterious artefacts, seems cruel and uninviting now. She can't bring herself to look at Mr. Dumbledore and the concern dripping from his eyes. What will happen to her now? Maybe she does have family out there—magical family members who are eager to rescue her from the Dursley's. But the thought fizzles out abruptly. No one had ever bothered to seek her out before. And now after what happened to Uncle Vernon... well, surely no one wants her now. To her utmost horror, tears start to leak out of her eyes.
"I have been made aware," Mr. Dumbledore says at length, "that your aunt and uncle mistreated you at home." His voice sounds distant like he's on the other side of a long hallway.
She hugs her knees to her chest, face turned away from him. So he knows. He knows about the cupboard. He knows about the pinching and the yelling and all the times the Dursley's had conveniently forgotten about her.
"I had hoped," he continues, "that they would show you the love and care you deserve. But despite their small-mindedness and cruelty, they are indeed your family. Magic is not the measure of one's blood. Family is family."
His words seem to accelerate the exhaustion crawling through her skin and into her bones. Too much has happened today. She nods listlessly—anything to get him to leave so she can curl up in bed and forget about all this madness. Her head is starting to hurt again. Tomorrow. She'll worry about all this tomorrow.
"Miss Potter," he calls in a prodding voice. "There is one last thing I'd like to address."
When she turns to look at him, he waves his magic stick for a third time. Her school bag materialises out of thin air. Slowly, the bag upends itself and spills the contents in her lap. The charm bracelet, the Rubik's cube, and the lego man rise into the air and twirl in circles over her head. She watches, vaguely aware that her jaw has dropped open, flattening her clammy hands on her bedsheets. Surely he can't know about that.
"It seems these objects do not belong to you, Miss Potter."
Cassandra turns her head to him sharply. "I—" she starts. Something tells her that it would be a bad idea to lie to him. "They're gifts," she says defensively. "I get them all the time. People give me what I want."
"I see." But his eyes are too bright and too knowing. Mr. Dumbledore doesn't say anything after that, but somehow the silence from a strange old man is worse than any of Aunt Petunia's pinching or Uncle Vernon's thunderous yelling.
Unused to the attention, and feeling very small, Cassandra fixes her gaze on her restless hands. There's a very uncomfortable feeling churning in her stomach.
"It's not like I ever hurt anyone," she bursts out when the silence stretches on and becomes unbearable.
Mr. Dumbledore clasps his hands together on his knee. "I understand, Miss Potter," he says. "It is a natural conclusion. If no one is hurt, then no harm has been done."
Cassandra nods immediately, glad that he understands.
But he continues. "I ask, Miss Potter, that you would consider this. Consider that Muggle cashier boy who suffered the consequences of his negligence. Consider the owner of the store who suffered a negative profit with the loss of his goods. Consider your schoolmate Anne Davies who suffered the grief of losing a much-treasured present."
He glances down at her over the rim of his glasses. "You see, Miss Potter, our actions always have consequences."
She breaks eye contact and lets her hair cover her face, painfully aware that her cheeks are flushed with embarrassment. There's a stubborn, hard lump in her throat. "It's not like I ever took anything big," she says in the sort of small, mumbling voice that Aunt Petunia hates. "They probably didn't even notice."
"Perhaps," Mr. Dumbledore says. "It is entirely possible that nothing ill whatsoever came about as a consequence of your actions. But remember this, Miss Potter. Magic is directed by intent. It is colored by our character. Regrettably, we are far too predictable in our desire to follow the path of least resistance, the most comfort, the most benefit. For witches and wizards such as ourselves, it is especially important to nurture qualities that do not cause undue harm to others."
Mr. Dumbledore's words wash over her like cold water. She imagines Dudley wielding magic to get his own way, lighting things on fire, making people obey him just because he can. It's a terrible, shivering thought. In comparison, is her occasional mischief really so awful? A voice, small and fragile but her own, responds with a definitive no. She's never taken anything from someone who didn't deserve it. The boy at the counter was inattentive even before she'd walked through the door. If he'd suffered any punishment at all, he deserved it—not because of her, but because of his own carelessness. The store, if it had indeed suffered any loss, was still standing at the end of the day. Anne Davies was a spoiled rich girl who probably had a dozen other bracelets to choose from. And Uncle Vernon—well, he shouldn't have tried to hit her.
"Miss Potter," Mr. Dumbledore calls.
She straightens and meets his gaze, feeling slightly more confident that she hasn't done anything wrong.
"Hogwarts is divided into four houses. Each one exemplifies a certain quality that serves magic well. I am certain that any of the four will be delighted to have you," he says. "But do be warned—Hogwarts does not tolerate thieves."
"I'm not a thief," she blurts out.
Mr. Dumbledore gives her a wry smile as he rises from his seat. The cushy armchair vanishes. "No," he says. "I would hope not."
Cassandra opens her mouth, but the words don't come to mind. She can see that he's not convinced, that he's made up his mind about her being a thief. The thought is unbearable to her. What can she possibly say to convince him otherwise?
"I hope," Mr. Dumbledore remarks softly, "that we have come to an understanding, Miss Potter."
She ducks her head. Mr. Dumbledore gives her a soft, pitying look—the sort Mrs. Figg always wears on her face when she stuffs Cassandra full of stale biscuits. From a distance, she hears bells ringing.
"Happy birthday, Miss Potter," he says in a solemn tone completely at odds with his message. "Given the circumstances, I think it wise to postpone your intended gift. But if I may offer a consolation prize of sorts…"
He opens his palm face up towards her. Lying in the middle of his hand is a small golden key. "This will unlock your vault. Your parents left you a sizable inheritance that will go a long way if managed wisely."
Cassandra reaches out for the key and cradles it in her palm like it's something delicate and fragile. The lump in her throat returns with a vengeance. It's the only thing she has of her parents—her true family.
"When you are ready," Mr. Dumbledore continues, "the cloak will be returned to you."
"The cloak?" she asks, tucking the key carefully in her pocket before Mr. Dumbledore changes his mind.
"Something of your father's," Mr. Dumbledore replies as a rueful expression passes over his face. "A cloak of invisibility. I believe it enabled him to accomplish quite a bit of mischief in his time at Hogwarts."
Cassandra opens her mouth, but Mr. Dumbledore continues on with an appraising look over the rim of his glasses. "When you are ready, Miss Potter," he says firmly. "The cloak is rightfully yours and will be returned to you in due course. I swear it."
As he speaks, something tingles in the air, prickling her skin like a thousand tiny needles. Something snaps into place. "How will you know?" she asks despite herself.
Mr. Dumbledore smiles—a wrinkled crease that settles into place on his ancient papery skin. "Magic," he says simply.
