Nearly 2 months had passed since Harry first met Medea. Each day, he somehow found excuses to go visit her, and because the Dursleys didn't mind his absence in their household, he spent hours talking to her in Mrs Figg's backyard. Medea always had interesting stories about the wizarding world, and Harry loved hearing them. Some days, they would secretly hide behind the fence and he would longingly watch her perform simple magic tricks; and some days, they would just sit on the grass, not talking, but both felt contented anyway.
All too soon, it was almost September. Harry had seen Medea busily hustling around her room, packing her belongings into her suitcase and cramming heavy books inside as well. At first he was bewildered. Where was she going? Then he remembered that Medea was eleven, and would attend Hogwarts that year. Suddenly he had an urge to stop her, but he felt too selfish. He couldn't stop her from going to the school of her dreams just so he wouldn't feel bored during the day. He recalled the familiar twinkle in her eyes every time she talked of Hogwarts; it would surely be the best times of her life. Besides, he would be starting primary school anyway. Harry then felt a lot better, glad to have the pressure lifted off his shoulders.
On August 31st, Harry ran over to visit Medea one last time before she left. "Promise you'll write?" he had asked. She answered, "Twice every week, I promise. But I'll send them to Auntie Figg, then she'll show them to you. Your aunt wouldn't be pleased to see owls swooping in all the time, would she?" Harry giggled. "Hurry up, young lady! The Knight Bus'll be here anytime soon, you do want to catch it, dontcha?" Mrs Figg grumbled. Medea gave Harry a hug. "Please be safe. If you want to write, ask Auntie. She'll help you." She glanced at Mrs Figg. "Right?" Mrs Figg grunted 'yes'.
Just then, a lopsided purple three-decker bus zoomed in from nowhere, almost knocking Harry over. A scrawny young man shouted from the door, "Welcome to the Knight Bus, blah blah blah….Just get on now, won't you? " Medea heaved her own suitcase on board, followed by Mrs Figg. Harry only had just enough time to wave at her before the crazy bus fled.
Harry's year wasn't that bad. Uncle Vernon had enrolled him at a public school, right across the street, just so he 'wouldn't have to send that little brat off every morning' if he could do it himself. The teachers were all nice, especially the English teacher, who had found Harry's written stories highly amusing. He had tried to tell her that they were all real, but she had laughed and praised him for his creativity instead. Soon, Harry gave up and learned not to mention magic to anyone else, as it was clear that others simply did not believe in it.
Medea had kept her promise and sent letters back home every week. Harry found himself begging to read the letters every day he ran to her house. Even though he never understood the difficult words, she was nice enough to read them aloud to him, and Medea's stories were much more entertaining now that she was old enough to experience actual magic. She talked about moving staircases, paintings that could talk, delicious feasts every day and oh, such lessons! She could now levitate things at will, even turn matches into needles! These letters filled Harry with envy, and he wished for the day his acceptance letter would arrive to come quickly.
To his dismay, Medea never came back for the holidays. "There's so much to do here, I don't seem to have time for anything!" She had once written in her letters. "I do miss you, though. How I hope you could come with me!" Harry had to stay at the Dursleys' for Christmas dinner, but earlier that day he had received a slice of chocolate cake and a treacle tart from Medea. "Merry Christmas!" she had written. It was his first present ever. Feeling grateful, Harry insisted on writing a Christmas card to her. Even though his handwriting was messy as usual, it pleased him at the thought of her opening the card and finding a surprise which awaited her, as Harry had managed to stuff a drawing of her inside which he had made himself.