There is something like magic in memories,
And something like pain in "can't you sees?"
There is a moment in life that you realize
The world will never bare itself to your naked eyes.
And there will be a day when you finally understand
There is more to the earth than sea and dry land.
And on that day, be courageous and bold,
For even memories do not glitter like gold.
Zena opens the door nearly four and a half years later and says - with some surprise - "Professor McGonagall!"
McGonagall, whose dark hair has just begun to show silver streaks, is wearing the same double-breasted tartan skirt-suit and emerald-hued overcoat she'd worn the first time she'd come to talk about Hogwarts. She even has an envelope in her hand, and though this time it is inscribed with purple pigment, the seal - a crest split into four parts, emblazoned with a lion, eagle, badger, and snake - remains the same.
"Miss Sinclair," McGonagall says, looking unusually bewildered. "Were you… expecting me? I didn't realise you knew about Hogwarts. I was under the impression that you were Muggle-born."
"Of course I know about Hogwarts," Zena tells her. "My aunt and uncle told me about magic when I was seven."
"Your aunt and uncle? You don't live with your parents?"
"No, my parents are…" Zena trails off. Something about this is off. She has no aunts and uncles; both her mother and father are only children. They couldn't have told her about magic. So how does she know about magic, or Hogwarts, and why does she remember conversations she's never had with people she's never met about things she's never learned about?
(It is not just magic, either, that she remembers not learning. It is names, and faces, and rules; it is how many staircases are in Hogwarts, and how beautiful the Forbidden Forest is, and how cold the Black Lake is in February. It is the tumultuous relationship between the Houses, and the chill of the dungeons, cold black eyes, and whispered hisses, and the realization that even when it does not matter blood matters. It is finally understanding that even the safest place in the world is not so safe after all.)
"Your parents are?" McGonagall prompts.
Zena looks up at her. "I was going to say dead, but they're not. Maybe it was a dream. I don't know. It's a little confusing, all these memories, when I've learned about Hogwarts from people I've never met." She shakes her head. "Please, come in. My mother is in the sitting room."
McGonagall gives her an odd look, the slant of it almost curious, before stepping inside. The door closes softly behind her.
What follows is a spiel not unlike the one Zena remembers. Indeed, the only things that have changed when she looks at her acceptance letter are the name written on the front of the envelope - though she cannot think of what it should be, when it is her name written there - and the books for each class, though even many of those are the same. There is the inclusion of a book on Muggle and Wixen Studies, and so she assumes that this class is a new part of the Traditional magic portion of the Hogwarts education. The only other thing that has changed is the name beside the word Headmaster. Instead of Albus Dumbledore, it reads Neville Longbottom.
"Neville is Headmaster?" Zena asks curiously. "I always thought that you would become Headmistress after Dumbledore."
McGonagall's eyes are piercing. "I was Headmistress, but I stepped down and returned to my position as the Transfiguration Professor a few years ago. Neville took my place. How do you know of him? As far as I know, he has spent little to no time in the Muggle world, and certainly not enough to have been noticed."
"Neville and I have been friends for five years," Zena tells her. "We met in Gringotts, when I was eleven. I think you were there that day, in fact. Don't you remember?"
"Zena, darling," her mother says, "You just turned eleven in December. You can't have been friends with anyone for five years if you just met them five months ago. This is like what happened in London a few years ago," she tells McGonagall, who gives her her full attention. "Zena and I were walking down the streets, and a man bumped into her. She called him… Caspian, no, Cassius, and told me she'd known him for five years. But he didn't recognize her."
"That's very peculiar," McGonagall says thoughtfully. "However, with this in mind, I would encourage you to attend Hogwarts; there are people in the Wixen world who can help you in ways that Muggles cannot."
"What do you mean 'help?'" Mum asks.
"In our world, there are stories about reincarnation. I would want to consult a Shaman to be absolutely certain, but I think there is a chance that Zena here is a reincarnated soul."
"What is a Shaman?" her mother wonders. McGonagall opens her mouth to reply, but Zena answers before she can.
"A Shaman is one of the many affinities or specializations that Wixen can have. They have the ability to separate their body and soul, not unlike a Hedge Magician, though unlike a Hedge Magician, they cannot send their astral form to other dimensions. Instead, they can perform obscure magics while in their astral form, and can even see the souls of others. Wixen believe that every soul has its own distinct appearance, but the theory is that if a soul is reincarnated, it will look the same as it did during its first life, regardless of how different the physical bodies are."
"That's exactly right," McGonagall says with some surprise. "If I hadn't suspected before that you were a reincarnated soul, that would have convinced me. I will admit, though, that for all that we have heard of reincarnation, it is usually within families. You show up as being Muggle-born, which is why I'm here at all, but are you certain that you have no magical ancestry? Reincarnation is rare in and of itself, but I think that the fact that you are, by all appearances, a Muggle-born might be the most astonishing thing about this situation."
"If our family has magical ancestry," Mum replies, twirling a thick lock of her black hair around a slender finger, her dark eyes downcast and thoughtful, "I do not know of it. Of course, you may be able to find out if you ask Aindrea; perhaps he knows something. His side of the family is rather private, you know?"
McGonagall nods regally. "Indeed I do. Why, my mother's father was Muggle-born, and his father ran a crime syndicate. Can you imagine?" She huffs amusedly, shaking her head. "All things told, he was quite successful; my mother's side of the family has been well-off for decades because of it."
"A… crime ring?" Mum asks bemusedly, laughing slightly. "How'd they explain the money?"
McGonagall purses her lips (she wears the same expression on her face every time Fred and George pull something, and it becomes more prominent when the result is Umbridge's continued suffering), fighting back a smirk. "They ran a paper store as a front, and claimed that greeting cards were in high demand."
"And people believed them?"
"As a matter of fact… yes."
"You must be joking."
"I never joke, so you can believe me when I say this: allowing Zena to come to Hogwarts so that she can meet with a Shaman - and learn to control her magic - is the best thing you can possibly do for her."
Mum's gaze sharpens. "And why is that? Why does it matter if Zena is a reincarnated soul?"
Up until now, Mum has been quietly supportive; she has listened to McGonagall's spiel attentively, asking clarifying questions, and never once has she seemed as though she doesn't approve of Zena's going to Hogwarts. McGonagall's face betrays her understandable surprise at the sudden change.
"In all reality, being a reincarnated soul is the least of our worries; all Zena will ever have are memories of her past life. They might be confusing, or strange to live with, especially if she runs into people she knew, but if you decide not to follow up with it, it is unlikely to be detrimental to her growth. The most important thing is that Zena's magic needs to be trained; she needs to learn to control it, and the best way to do that is under the guidance of qualified instructors.
"It is, of course, entirely your family's decision, but if you do not send Zena to Hogwarts or some other magical school, you run the risk of her magic developing into an Obscurus."
"What is an Obscurus?" Mum asks worriedly, obviously sensing the ominous tone behind the word.
"An Obscurus is a parasitical manifestation of a witch or wizard's magic that will do anything to stay alive. It is often physically and magically destructive to both its host and its surroundings," Zena says, suddenly remembering Professor Binns' lecture on the subject back in first year with vivid clarity. "Typically, an Obscurus is developed over several years, when a young Wix represses their magic out of shame or fear. Most Obscurials - the unwitting host of an Obscurus - are young children who do not survive past puberty. The oldest documented Obscurial was Credence Barebone, an American wizard who was alive during Grindelwald's reign of terror. When Credence was discovered to be an Obscurial, he was twenty-five; according to Newt Scamander - Hogwarts alumnus, a Magizoologist, and the author of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them - Credence was the most powerful Obscurial he'd ever encountered. Some scholars have theorized that it was in part Credence's age which made him so powerful. Ultimately, even the Obscurus was not powerful enough to protect Credence during his encounter with several American Aurors and Grindelwald himself."
McGonagall nods. "Precisely. There is another way an Obscurus can develop beyond the method of magical repression. It is not so thoroughly documented because we do everything in our power to prevent it, but if a Wix is not properly trained in the usage of their magic, it can become destructive. That is why we insist on a minimum of five years of education, be it at Hogwarts or some other magical school, or from qualified tutors.
"I would say that - if she truly is a reincarnated soul, and her knowledge implies that she is - Zena's situation is actually a bit more delicate than most." She looks Zena in the eye. "Am I correct in thinking that you remember learning magic?"
"Kind of," she replies thoughtfully. "The memories have triggers. Like, if I see a person, or their name, like with Neville's, or hear a word, the memories come. But not all of them; it's just vague details when it's about people, almost like it's an opinion formed over several years, and it's got bits and pieces of memories about that person in there, but it's little things that help fill them in, I guess. And the other memories don't just come without prompting. I mean, obviously once they come, they're there. But it's patchy. Fragmented memories and lots of holes, I guess. So I remember learning some magic, but not all of it, and some of it is the doing aspect of a spell, or the theory, but not really both."
"As I suspected. So, Mrs Sinclair, it really would be detrimental to Zena's growth if she did not receive a magical education. Whatever memories she may have from her past life are simply not informative enough to allow her to relearn magic on her own. In fact, I worry that if she were to attempt such a thing, she would damage her magic in such a way that the result would be an Obscurus. Such a fate is not something I would wish on my worst enemy."
Mum looks away, folding her lips together in a thin line. Her hands fall from her hair to her lap, her fingers lacing tightly together, and her shoulders sag. "It's not that I don't want you to learn magic, darling," she says quietly. "My reasons are rather selfish, all things considered." She looks down at her knotted fingers. "I just. I don't want you to leave. Hogwarts is a boarding school, and it's in a place I can't visit you. I just worry, is all."
"I need this," Zena tells her. "I need to go."
"I know."
"Even if it was a case like Credence's, I'd still die young if I don't go. All Obscurials do," she pushes.
"I know. I know, Zena. You're going. Of course you are. It's what's best for you, and I know that, but it doesn't mean I like it, when what's best for you is going to Hogwarts, which means I won't see you for the better part of the year - for the better part of anywhere from five to seven years, really, and because you're you, it'll be seven at least."
"I'll visit you on breaks," Zena tells her consolingly, "and I'll be here every summer, too."
"And when you graduate? Zena. Darling. Once you leave, you won't come back. You were born into a world that can't accept you for who you are, and with a world that can? With a world that wants you because of your magic, why would you come back and stay in a world that doesn't?"
Zena is quiet, thinking."I'll come back as long as you're here, Mummy, because you love me whether I have magic or not."
Mum offers her a sad, knowing smile. "Alright, darling." She says the words like she doesn't believe it, and Zena can't tell if it is her or the words that her mother doubts.
"I presume you will be joining us on the trip to Diagon Alley?" McGonagall asks, her face serene, as though she didn't witness the words exchanged between Zena and her mother.
She remembers going to Diagon the first time, remembers the people she'd met, and the colourful beauty lining the streets. In some ways, Diagon is her favorite part of the magical world, second only to Hogwarts itself, and it is in part due to the fact that Diagon was where her first foray into the magical world took place.
"Yes, I think so; it was how I met several of my closest friends."
You were Muggle-born in your previous life, then?" McGonagall asks curiously. "How unusual."
Zena tilts her head. "Maybe. But I don't think so," she says doubtfully.
She is given a speculative look and a brisk nod before McGonagall stands and gathers her things. "Well then. I suppose I will see you next week when I arrive to pick you up for our trip. I'll show myself to the door. Have a lovely afternoon, ladies."
She is gone in a swirl of green, and though it is a week before Zena sees her again, it doesn't seem as though nearly that much time has elapsed before she is opening the door to McGonagall's stern face once again.
"Magnus Gaunt," a handsome boy with dark hair and eyes introduces himself. His name seems familiar, somehow, but she can't quite place it. Zena doesn't think she's ever known anyone named Gaunt. Magnus - with his hair and his eyes and his placid expression and his name most of all - reminds her of Tom. She can't remember who Tom is.
He is the first one who has offered anything more than a superficial greeting now that she has joined the group of first-years standing outside her house. He sticks his hand out, and she takes hold of it, pumping it twice, just like her uncle taught her so many years ago. She wonders if he's still alive before remembering that she's never had an uncle.
"Zena Sinclair," she tells Magnus, and for the first time in her life, the name doesn't seem to fit quite right. She shakes the odd feeling off; this has been her name since the day she was born, and it'll be the name she has until the day she dies.
"I have a feeling we'll be great friends, you and I," Magnus says. This is something she remembers. This is familiar. It has always been so very easy to make friends. All it ever takes is a flash of a smile, or a kind word, or an abrasive statement, or standing up to put herself between them.
Who is them? She doesn't know anymore. Has she ever known?
"I rather think you're right," Zena replies in a posh tone, and slips her arm into his. "Come on then, old boy. We've things that need doing."
He looks at her in slight shock, though he recovers quickly. "Quite right, quite right. And look, yon! Our noble chariot awaits."
She snorts a laugh, ignoring the curious glances the firsties are casting in their direction. Not far ahead, McGonagall is standing patiently by the open doors of the Knight Bus.
How interesting that it finally lives up to its name. The last time she'd seen it, it had been painted a conspicuous royal purple. Now, however, the massive double-decker is a midnight blue, spangled across the top with glittering stars; at the bottom, a knight in shining armour rides a beautiful stallion across the landscape that has been painted.
Zena pulls herself out of her musings to continue her charade with Magnus. "Come, my dear gentleman, and escort me there."
"Certainly, my lady," Magnus murmurs, and they prance together across the street to board the bus.
"They're really weird," a girl with sleek black hair mutters to her friend, who nods.
"Do you think they knew each other before today, and that's why they're acting like that?"
The black-haired girl snorts. "No, didn't you see them introducing themselves to each other? They're both just freaks."
It seems to Zena as though it's a little early in the game for insults, but she's never been one to take them lying down. "Excuse me," she says to the black-haired girl and her friend, who jerk their heads up in startlement. "I couldn't help overhearing your conversation about Magnus and me. I just wanted to let you know that I think it's more freakish to be all," she waves her hand vaguely at them, "judgemental about two kids who're having fun than it is to be those kids having fun. It's not our fault that the two of you've got sticks up your butts and don't understand the concept of spontaneity."
They scowl at her. "If being spontaneous means we have to make fools of ourselves, I'd rather not risk it."
"Suit yourselves," Zena shrugs. "But when you finally realise that you don't know how to stop being boring, stuck-up pricks, don't come crying to me about it, mmkay?"
"Don't worry, we won't," the friend tells her with mild disgust, her lip curling.
"Well, good. I'm glad we're on the same page," she says cheerfully, and moves back to her seat beside Magnus.
McGonagall is sitting in front of them, and Zena leans forward to tap her shoulder. "When did they repaint the Knight Bus?"
"About ten years ago," McGonagall replies dismissively.
Zena frowns. She remembers McGonagall being far more talkative last time, and tells her so.
"I'm giving you all a chance to make friends," McGonagall says, and returns to the fifty-pence novel in her hand.
Zena settles back into her seat, turning back to Magnus, who proceeds to ask various questions and provide his own answers to them. She learns that where her favourite colour is red, his is blue, and where she has always liked English and History classes, Magnus much prefers Maths.
"So are you Muggle-born?" Zena finds herself asking once they have run out of mundane things to talk about.
Magnus gives her a peculiar look. "Professor McGonagall asked me the same question. She said my surname was a well-known name in the Wixen world. As far as I know, both my parents are non-magical. It's possible that the man whose -" he makes a face that is part disgust, part anger "- despicable actions resulted in the birth of my Great-Grandpa is where my magic came from. Great-Great-Grandma told her parents she'd married him when she found out she was pregnant, and so she gave Great-Grandpa his last name. That's how my family became Gaunts."
"Well, I'm sure we can find out, if you want," Zena says.
"I'm not sure I do," he tells her as the Knight Bus comes to a jerking stop. They file off, and Zena finds herself standing in front of the Leaky Cauldron, which looks just as grungy and unwelcoming as she remembers.
Like the Leaky, Diagon Alley is the same as it's always been; after stopping in Gringotts to convert their Muggle money into Galleons and Sickles and Knuts, they go off in groups to gather their supplies.
Zena doesn't see anyone she recognises, and she has already written the other Muggle-borns off; if they - coming into a world of magic - cannot bring themselves to accept her eccentricities, then they aren't worth her time and effort. She likes making and having friends, because it's always nice to have people to talk to in the middle of the night, but she doesn't really need them. And besides, she's already made one friend today. Though it's nowhere near the number she managed to collect last time, it's still not too shabby.
Somehow, Diagon seems less exciting than she remembers. Perhaps it is just that she's seen it so many times before, but Madam Malkin's is boring, and Flourish and Blotts had lost its charm after the first time; the shelves and towers of books in the common room are more diverse, and they're easier to find.
Really, the only truly fascinating thing about Diagon is Ollivanders. She's vaguely surprised that it's still standing, but it looks the same: a little bit rickety, the walls slightly warped, the door hinges squeaky and covered in rust. Inside, the myriad of wand boxes balanced haphazardly on every available surface of the shop is familiar, too.
One by one, they find their wands. This time, there is no one to talk about Wandlore, and so Zena and Magnus sit side by side trying to assign meanings to the woods and cores that Ollivander announces.
Finally it is Zena's turn. She half expects Ollivander to pull out her wand, but he doesn't. He hands her various wands, none of them with the core or wood she expects. "Holly," he says, and this sounds vaguely familiar, "and Phoenix feather. Eleven inches. Go on, give it a wave."
She does, and warmth rushes through her, flooding her veins.
Ollivander cackles. "How interesting. Very interesting. That wand was quite difficult to make, you know. Holly and Phoenix feather don't tend to get along, and the Phoenix that particular feather came from was a very interesting creature. That wand is one of a kind, Miss Sinclair, and very picky; I've been trying to help it choose someone since I made it back in eighty-one! I think you'll do very interesting things with it under your employ."
Zena frowns down at the wand in her hand. It's a beautiful, sleek thing, and fairly sturdy despite the fact that it tapers down into a thin, delicate-looking tip. It feels right. It likes her, she can feel that much. But she can't help feeling disappointed. She doesn't know what she was expecting, only that this - holly wrapped tightly around Phoenix feather, all eleven inches of it surprisingly flexible - was not it.
She is still wondering hours later, when McGonagall has dropped her back off at home, and she has promised to find Magnus on the train so they can sit together on the way to Hogwarts.
Suddenly, all these memories that don't belong to her are tiring. It's exhausting to remember the world one way, and to see the world without that rose-coloured tint. She's glad she's going to Hogwarts; maybe there there'll be a way to get this stranger's life story out.