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Words: 4,347 words Pages: 16
Chapter 1: Strange Things Are Happening
July 10th
Knock. Knock.
"Morgan? Can you get the door, please," Betsy Wood called to her daughter from her spot near the stove in the kitchen. She went back to the eggs in the frying pan, making breakfast, early this Saturday morning. Betsy strained her ears, waiting to hear the front door click open and the murmuring of voices that would let her know Morgan had obeyed. She heard nothing, not even a creak from the couch.
Betsy swore that it was Morgan that she had seen up and about, just an hour ago. How awful it would be if she had mistaken the twins after eleven years without a slip-up? Morgan would be furious for being thought to be her sister. Margaret would more likely be sad at the idea, rather than too terribly angry. It wouldn't matter to either of them that it would be an honest mistake. The girls were, after all, identical twins. They were both tall and thin; though Morgan was more athletic, like their father, Winston. They had large, loose, robust chestnut curls that fell just below their shoulder blades. They had Betsy's eyes; round and a deep brown. Tan freckles gathered in bunches just around their small, straight noses. It was nearly impossible to tell who was who, unless you managed to get close enough to see a short, thin scar resting on Margaret's right cheek. The girls even sounded remarkably alike. All the same, Betsy hoped that she hadn't called Margaret by the wrong name.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Betsy moved to the kitchen doorway, peering out into the living room. It was definitely Morgan; Margaret wouldn't be sulking on the couch due to just a little bit of rain. Morgan had had plans this morning; wanting to go out in the tiny backyard to kick her soccer ball up against the side of the house. Betsy wouldn't let her out this early, let alone in the rain.
"Morgan," Her mother hissed. The girl turned to her head a bit to the side, looking at her mother, reluctantly.
"Please, get the door," She said. Morgan turned towards the door, glaring at the offending object. She stood up and marched, loudly, over to it. She heard her mother sigh, then the sound of the sizzling eggs in the frying pan.
Morgan stared at the painted white door, willing it to open. She narrowed her dark eyes at it, thinking hard about it opening. Nothing happened. She sighed. She could have sworn when she was younger it had worked once, but every time she tried after that first time, it had failed. Morgan reached for the tarnished knob, and turned the cool metal in her right hand.
Behind the door, stood a woman wearing an unusual, long coat; it looked like an expensive, bright blue bathrobe. The woman's back was to her. It looked as if she had been about to leave. The woman turned at the sound of the door having been opened. She shoved a skinny, ornate stick quickly into the many folds of her coat. She gave Morgan a friendly, apprehensive smile.
Morgan thought the lady was much prettier than anyone she had seen; except her mum, of course. This woman had bushy brown hair, and sparkling brown eyes, and across her nose were the tiniest smattering of freckles. Morgan gathered her manners, quickly. She stopped staring at the woman by blinking rapidly a few times, and throwing a smile up.
"Hello? May I help you," Morgan queried. The woman nodded.
"I was wondering if I could talk to your parents," She asked. Morgan decided her voice was nice; soft and welcoming. She could, however, imagine this lady becoming stern and bossy in and instant.
Hesitating only for a moment, Morgan pulled back the door, a silent way of asking the lady to enter, before turning into the living room. The woman followed her, closing the front door behind her. The living room was very cozy, small and intimate. There was one worn red couch, banked on either side of it were end redwood end tables. Across from the couch were two high back, red recliners. A redwood coffee table separated the recliners from the couch. All around the walls of the room paintings of meadows and mountains and there were family photos on shelves. The photos depicted the smiling Wood family through the years. There was Betsy and Winston's wedding day; a photo of Winston hugging Betsy around her pregnant middle, a newborn photo of the twins (pink faced and sleeping), photos of the twins growing up and several of the whole family dressed immaculately and smiling widely at the camera.
"Mum," Morgan yelled. She thought she saw the lady wince, before her mother's head popped into the kitchen doorway, again. Her mother stared at Morgan and the strange lady, a bit surprised, before masking it, quickly. Betsy stepped into the living room. She was wringing a navy dish towel in her hands.
"Morgan, could you watch the eggs for me, please," Betsy asked. Morgan groaned and sighed dramatically. Her whole body nearly deflated in protest.
"Mm-um, can't you make Margaret do it," She whined, not caring whether or not they had a guest. Morgan hated watching the eggs; she hated watching anything that didn't move very fast. If it wasn't zooming by, preferably on the soccer pitch, she wasn't very interested in even pretending to be interested. Her twin, Margaret, loved boring stuff. Margaret liked things that took a long while to do; school, reading, cooking. Watching the eggs would be just Margaret's speed.
"No, I very well cannot. We have a guest and it would be quite rude of me to holler up the stairs for your sister, or even your father as it were," Betsy placed her hands on her hips, pushing her pink, spotted apron out in the front. Morgan gave a sly smile.
"I'll do it," She answered. She took a considerable deep breath, preparing to bellow. Her mother slapped a hand over her mouth. Morgan looked up at her mum, gulping at the stern look she saw.
"You'll do no such thing. Now, scoot, go watch the eggs," Betsy said. She pushed Morgan gently toward the kitchen. Morgan went in, reluctantly, dragging her feet, to slow reaching the stove. She didn't want to admit it, but she really did want to hear what it was that the strange lady wanted. She stood in front of the stove, leaning to towards the door to hear what was happening in the living room.
"I'm sorry about that. Morgan can be a bit… rambunctious," Betsy explained to the stranger. The woman gave her a knowing, amused smile. Both adults stood staring at each other for a brief moment. They let the silence settle in.
"I know quite a few people like that; very wonderful even at their most rambunctious," The strange woman offered. Betsy gave a clam breath through her nose, pleased that this woman wasn't appalled by Morgan's ever present activity and loudness.
"I'm assuming that you wanted to speak with me," Betsy asked, a little nervously. It wasn't often that neighbors or anyone, really, came to visit her home. Often, it was because the other women in town thought it odd that her twins could be so different from each other. It was stupid, really, that how her children behaved determined how many people came to visit or asked them over. It was that and that strange things happened in their home on occasion. Sometimes the lights upstairs would flicker when the girls fought. Or cauliflower would disappear even though Betsy was positive that she had scooped out healthy portions onto dinner plates. Winston swore that when he had been called in to work last week, disappointing the twin's planned family weekend, his car had developed four flat tires, but just seconds before when he had gotten into the car, the tires were fine. It had been much too late in the day for anyone to pick him up, so he wound up not going in. Not that it mattered, Betsy found her neighbors to be perfectly boring. At least, she did when she learned they wanted nothing to do with her. This woman, now seated across from her, dressed in a fancy bathrobe, had her intrigued, and she hadn't even explained why she had come.
"Oh, yes," The woman seemed flustered, almost looking sheepish. It seemed she had forgotten why she was here. "I was really, rather hoping, I could speak with both you and your husband. What I have to say, may or may not be a bit hard to swallow." The woman appeared to be apologetic. Betsy frowned slightly, before nodding and rising. She walked out of the room. What on earth could be so important that the woman needed to speak to both Winston and her?
Morgan moved closer to the kitchen doorway, stealthily. She peered around the doorway, hoping to catch a view of what the strange woman was doing. The woman sat on the rust-colored couch, her brown eyes darting around, swiftly. Appearing to not have caught Morgan peeking, the woman took her stick out and tapped her hand. Immediately, she was clutching two square looking envelopes that came out of thin air. Morgan blinked furiously. She stared at the woman in absolute awe. A magician! She had to be.
"Morgan? What are you doing," Morgan turned from the door quickly, looking in the direction of the voice. Margaret had come into the kitchen from the front hall entrance. Morgan stared at her twin, unsure of whether or not to tell her sister what she had seen the woman doing. She turned back to the doorway, avoiding the question all together. The woman was now talking to both Betsy and Winston Wood. Betsy and Winston sat in the chairs, facing the couch.
Margaret stood behind her sister, leaning over her a bit, to peer around the doorway into the living room as well. They both curled a hand around the door jamb, steadying themselves in their perilous positions.
Margaret didn't see anything that could have possibly caught her twin's attention, but then again, Morgan was unpredictable. If she so desired Morgan would sit a top the washing machine during a load of laundry, just to be moving around. Margaret sometimes wondered if they were separated by four years instead of four minutes; like their parents had claimed.
"Who's that," Margaret asked of Morgan, speaking about the unfamiliar woman on their living room couch. Morgan shushed her, quietly. Apparently they were trying to listen in.
"Mister and Missus Wood, I'm not sure that you are aware, but-" The strange woman broke off. There was a moment of silence in which the woman appeared to be preparing her speech mentally. "I am a representative from a private school and have been dispatched to your home to inform you that your daughters, Margaret and Morgan Wood, have been accepted to our establishment. It would be our pleasure towelcome your daughters at the start of term, on September First."
The moments that followed were awkward, far more so than any other moments that the Wood family had ever experienced. Betsy was beaming at the strangely dressed woman; proud of her two girls. Winston seemed to be itching for his wallet; the Wood Family was well off enough, but to send both, Morgan and Margaret to private school would put a heavy strain on their pockets. Even so, he smiled in pride.
Margaret's mouth was opening and closing in astonishment, making her appear to be part fish. A private school was the happiest news she had ever hears. It would mean better classes, more learning and better universities, if she wanted. And she did. Margaret did want that, very much. Morgan seemed to be the only one not ultimately happy with the idea of private school.
Morgan knew of several girls who had gone to private school and when they came back for holidays, their noses seemed to be sniffing the air constantly. That was not something Morgan wanted in the least. Besides, who knew what kind of fun those private school snobs had. They probably didn't play soccer, or run around outside at all. They probably spent free time in the library or talking about silly things like clothes and boys. Morgan was not at all pleased with either of those prospects.
The woman on the couch shifted awkwardly, effectively drawing everyone's attentions back to her.
"There's more, I'm afraid," She said. Everyone stared at her, not to sure if they should be excited of not about the news of private school anymore. The woman didn't sound too happy.
"We're not exactly a normal private school. We do run for the gifted, but not gifted, meaning strictly limited to intelligence," She paused. The Wood family waited for the woman to drop the bomb. It was only natural that a bomb be dropped. They had the worst luck.
There was the time Morgan swore that the front door had opened by itself, while she had been waiting in the living room staring at it. The only evidence had been a large amount of leaves inside the doorway. It had taken nearly an hour to get them all back out. Margaret had been convinced that she had cut her finger on a sharp knife once, but there hadn't been any blood, except the strange, crimson droplets on the floor and knife blade. Odd things always happened in the Wood house.
"We teach classes like Potions, Transfiguration, Charms, and Care of Magical Creatures," The woman said slowly, "We teach magic. Magical Spells with wands." The woman took out her ornate stick. Margaret's brow furrowed. What kind of school was this? Morgan's eyes went wide. She knew it! She knew that lady was a magician. Maybe she and Margaret could learn some decent card tricks, now
"Magical Creatures," Winston asked. He pushed his wallet to the back of his mind. There was no way he was sending the twins to a private school to learn how to make a rabbit appear in an empty hat.
"Yes. Uhm, creatures like skrewts, flobberworms, hippogriffs, dragons," The woman explained. She seemed uncomfortable talking about the idea. Morgan was beginning to like the idea of this school. She ignored Margaret's squeaks of protest as she marched into the living room.
"You mean real dragons," Morgan wanted to know. She moved to stand in front of the magician. Her brown eyes were wide with excitement. Her mother jumped, not realizing she had come into the room. Her dad frowned a little. It would be hard to stop Morgan's interest in this subject or any subject not taught in a public school. She would undoubtedly be upset when they told her she wasn't going.
"Ah, no. Well, yes, in a way. You probably won't see any dragons except in books, but you will be able to study them from, well, the books," The woman answered. Morgan backed up and sat on the arm of her father's chair. She was definitely going to this school. No one was going to keep her away. It sounded fantastic. Well, dragons sounded fantastic, anyway.
"That's just silly. Dragons aren't real," Margaret piped up from the kitchen doorway. Morgan turned to stare at her twin, horrified by Margaret's suggestion.
"Who says they're not real," Morgan demanded. Margaret rolled her eyes. Honestly, Morgan wasn't always in reality when it came to some things. Margaret marched into the living room, leaning against the back of her mother's seat.
"Have you ever seen a dragon," Margaret countered.
"Girls, I don't think this is the time," Betsy cut in. Both girls ignored her.
"No, I haven't. That doesn't mean they don't exist," Morgan narrowed her eyes at Margaret, challenging her sister.
"Yes, it does."
"Have you ever seen the wind? No. You only see leaves blowing and know it's there."
"Margaret! Morgan! Girls, stop it, this instant. We have a guest and you're being very rude," Betsy interrupted the argument. The girls glowered at each other, but ceased their arguing, and stared at the stranger in the fancy robe. Betsy sighed, squeezing Winston's hand that he offered for her. Magic? Honestly! That's just what they needed. To have the neighbors talk even more about their strangeness. Maybe they could wrap up this ridiculous visit in a hurry. That way they could just forget about this meeting; and forget about magic.
Morgan wouldn't have any of that. She began mumbling under her breath about her twin.
"…Ruddy Margaret…. Thinks she knows everything…. She doesn't know a thing…. I bet dragons are real". Margaret frowned, standing up straighter behind her mother's chair.
"Stop that, Morgan! They don't exist," Margaret yelled at her. Morgan turned to face her, her face turning pink as she tried not to get angry. She saw Margaret standing with her hands on her hips, obviously thinking she'd won. She forgot all about the female magician (a witch, Morgan corrected herself) and her mother's warning. She stood up, stomped all the way over to where Margaret was, stood before her sister, placing her hands on her own hips in an identical pose.
"DRAGONS ARE REAL," Morgan shouted.
The lights in the room started to flicker. Winston swore the room was getting foggy. He smelled smoke. Betsy was up in an instant, trying to quiet Morgan down. His wife didn't seem to notice the fog, so Winston just assumed he was seeing things.
Morgan finally quieted down. The haze stayed in the room, the smell becoming more obvious. The woman on the couch stood up, sniffing into the air. Betsy watched her for a moment, confused, before blanching.
"The eggs," She whispered, panicking. She ran into the kitchen, frantically. Everyone followed her. On the stove the eggs were burning. Not just being over cooked on the 'low' heat, but they were in the middle of a pit of blue fire. The azure flames were nearing the ceiling, licking upwards. The twins moved behind their father, not wanting to get any closer than they already were. Betsy and Winston stared at the odd color flames, neither one making the move to put the flames out. Did you put out blue fire the same way as a normal fire? They didn't know.
The witch pushed herself in front of the Wood family, gripping her wand tightly. She said a funny word that didn't make any sense to the family behind her. Her stick was pointed at the flames. It seemed as if sparkles of water and light were sent from the tip of the stick. It was amazing. The flashing little specks of… whatever faded over the middle of the roaring fire. The blue flames subsided and then disappeared.
The twins let out simultaneous identical gasps, just like their parents. The strange woman turned towards them, her brown eyes wide. She hadn't expected that to happen. She reached into her robe, dug through a pocket and produced the letters that Morgan had seen her make appear from her wand. She handed a letter each to Morgan and Margaret, before walking slowly back into the living room. The Wood family followed her, sitting back down in the places they had vacated only minutes ago. No one spoke for the longest time.
Hermione Granger apparated from the Wood home in Richmond to her house in Ottery St. Catchpole, which was just a block from Molly and Arthur Weasley's Burrow. Today felt like one of the longest days of her life. She had arrived at the Wood's home at nine in the morning; she had spent four hours in their home and she was about to enter her own home. She hoped her husband, Ron Weasley, hadn't allowed the kids to eat candy for breakfast like he did yesterday when she had to tell a muggle family in Glasgow that their son was welcome to attend Hogwarts.
It had taken her two hours and forty-five minutes to actually get inside the Woods' house, without them screaming and fainting or calling their police. It seemed that announcing she was witch and performing a spell to prove it was not at all a good idea. It had worked for several other families, she had visited as part of her job as a muggle liaison for the Ministry of Magic's Department of Muggle Relations. She had to keep obliviating the family and start all over again thirty-seven times. To think, all she had to do, that really had changed anything at all, was make sure that Morgan answered the door.
Hermione felt anxious for the Professors at Hogwarts. She could imagine the kinds of things Morgan Wood would get into. After the family had read the twins' acceptance letters, Morgan had been bouncing off the walls. She bombarded Hermione with question after question, demanded to see more spell work and had convinced Hermione to come back to their home the next day to personally take them to Diagon Alley. The last request had come from one hell of a guilt trip on Morgan's part.
Hermione frowned thinking of James, Harry Potter's son, who would be starting Hogwarts this year. Her frown deepened as she entered her house; her son, Braden would be starting too. She could feel it in every part of her body that Morgan Wood, James Potter, and Braden Weasley were going to be the best of friends. Did she really want Braden to get into as much mischief as she, Harry and Ron had? Certainly, not!
Her thoughts were interrupted by her husband, wrapping his strong, freckled arms around her from behind. He gave her a loving peck on the cheek.
"You were gone a long time, love, you get lost?" Ron teasingly asked Hermione. When she didn't answer, he moved in front of her to be able to see her face. His smile disappeared at her frown.
"'Mione, what's wrong," He asked. He brushed a strand of dark hair away from her eyes, tenderly.
"Is it wrong of me to hope that Braden will behave himself at every moment and stay in his dorm room every chance he can get, while at Hogwarts," She asked, quietly. Ron stared at her for a moment, before laughing out right.
"What happened? Did one of those muggles scare you or something," Hermione smacked Ron's arm. She wasn't mad, but she didn't want him laughing at her.
"As a matter of fact, I expect that when Braden comes home at Christmas, covered in bruises and failing half his classes, talking non-stop about a girl named Morgan Wood, that you'll be frightened of her too," Ron stopped laughing, abruptly. He stared at Hermione in awe.
"You think a little girl is going to corrupt Braden? Hermione, give the boy some credit. I'm sure he can corrupt her first," Ron chuckled quietly. He walked into the family room and spread himself out on their sofa. Hermione scowled and followed him.
"Braden is a gentleman and will not be participating in any corrupting, especially of the girls."
"Oh, please, 'Mione. Braden is a Weasley, corrupting girls is what we do. I mean, just look what I did to you. I managed to turn your spotless school records into a car wreck. I was quite pleased with myself. I do believe that Braden might possibly be able to corrupt someone in under seven years, he's had the best teachers after all; nearly the entire Weasley family."
"Ronald, you don't understand. I've met this little girl. I've felt as if I've had an awful premonition. I spent nearly three hours with that little girl, just trying to get into her house. She's not normal," Hermione moved to sit on the recliner in their living room, but Ron pulled her down next to him on the couch. "She has a penchant for trouble and she's always in motion. I'm quite surprised her parents haven't gone mad or that their house isn't in shambles. Ron, I think that Braden mightlike her a great deal. They're so much alike." Ron gave Hermione a skeptical look.
"Like? He's eleven. Girls are the enemy at eleven."
"Her sister, Margaret, would be considered the enemy. Morgan, however, I do believe she may be a product that Fred and George have invented to wreak havoc at Hogwarts." Now, Ron frowned.
"She's that bad, huh?" Hermione rested her bushy haired head on his chest.
"Not bad, per se, and that's the problem. She's going to make the best of Hogwarts. I'm just not sure I want Braden to get involved. I mean what if they turn into another us; another Ron, Harry and Hermione?"
"I see your point. He could put himself in danger; she could put him in danger. They'll skip classes, run off into the forest, pick on the Slytherins, annoy Snape; they might even murder the game of Quidditch. You know James is going to be sucked into their little group, poor kid. Harry and Ginny'll kill us, you know? Well, that settles it, doesn't it? You know what we have to do, don't you," Ron rattled off. Hermione lifted her head off his chest, to look at him.
"What," She asked, breathlessly. She had been caught up in his tirade.
"We have to forbid Braden from meeting this Morgan Wood. We'll have to forbid him from having any fun at all. We'll have to ask Snape to lock him in his room at night, just to be on the safe side. That Morgan Wood is probably very sneaky and devious."
Hermione hit Ron's arm again, as he started laughing. It wasn't funny.
"Ron, this girl is rather… rambunctious."
"Oh no, not rambunctious," He mocked her, "Honestly, Hermione, what could possibly happen?" Ron got up from the couch and stretched, before announcing that he was going to start lunch.
"What could possibly happen," Hermione repeated, slowly, "Famous last words, indeed."