I look at the orientation package then throw it on the table. I make sure the door is locked and head to the washroom. The bathtub looks an awful lot more complicated than the one I grew up with, but simpler than say the bath in the prefects' bathroom in Hogwarts. Hogwarts might be real. I should ask someone but I feel like I'll look dumb either way. "Oh you silly muggle of course Hogwarts isn't real," or, "Oh you deprived squib, of course Hogwarts is real." I turn on all three taps. Hot water, bubbles and vanilla scented steam. I love vanilla. I undress and start to soak.

I go over the events of the past few days. It was only yesterday Eric and I didn't get engaged. I find myself not caring. If I hadn't been abducted by my magical rebound guy I'd be home on the phone with a girlfriend, talking about him and his fiancée. I wonder who she is, then remember I don't care.

Magic is real. Is Harry Potter a real person? Was there a war going on in Europe during my childhood? Why did I not have these questions while Joon was here? Joon is a real-life wizard. Holy crap I have a magic friend. And apparently a magical father. I wonder if my mother was a witch? She died before I can remember. Why did my dad keep it from me? I know I'm a squib but isn't that discrimination?

My father was born in Canada to Japanese parents. He went to school in Japan from the time he was seven, staying with my great grandparents. I remember J.K. Rowling wrote an article about wizard schools on Pottermore, and one of them was in Japan. If Hogwarts is real maybe what's-its-face is real too?

After my bath I put on my robe and look at the orientation package. It's a blank pad of paper plus a complimentary pen- not a quill. I knew those were just for show! I draw some swirls on a corner of the paper to test the ink. It's purple, how cute. To my surprise the swirl sinks into the page and a message appears. It reminds me of Tom Riddle's diary. Though tbh can you really picture Voldemort writing in a diary? Dear diary, today here are my murder plans. Anyway, the page said she couldn't read my writing. Yes, it's a she now. I've named her Siri. I write below Is Harry Potter real? A newspaper article fills the remainder of the page.

Where is he now?

The Boy Who Lived currently resides in London with his wife and three children… blah blah blah... attended Hogwarts… so that's real, good to know... works as an Auror… I scan the article, it's nothing you couldn't find on Pottermore. I flip the page and write on the back.

Who was Akira Watanabe?

An image of my father fills the upper left corner and a short article appeared.

Akira Watanabe was best known as the producer of a muggle-friendly adaptation of Rita Skeeter's story of Harry Potter. A gold-caped graduate of Mahoutokoro School of Magic, Watanabe is succeeded by his one daughter.

It was an obituary, I realise. I cry a little and start to make a tea. I get as far as the much and the tea leaves, but the building doesn't have electricity. So I abandon that plan and go to bed.

The next day I find the library. It is on the second floor. I run a little research with Siri based off what Joon taught me yesterday. I search for any threats against J.K. Rowling and get no hits. Orlando theme park? Nothing. Canadian animation team? The death of my father, deemed unsuspicious. But wait, an animator was mugged and left injured. And an artist's home burnt down, killing her partner. That explains the caution around next of kin. I check the international news again. Nothing. Maybe other governments did better cover ups? Or maybe this was a Canadian problem.

I swing around in my chair and come face to belly with David. I stand promptly. We are now face to chest. I take a step back.

"Hi," I say, and fold my arms. I'm angry with him for deceiving me but despite myself I am comforted by the familiar face.

"Sakura! I was hoping to run into you. How are you feeling?"

"What happened yesterday? Who are you?"

"I'm David, David Thompson. Yesterday we went on a date but got ambushed by the gang that killed your father. They bound you but I managed to apparate us away before they could take you. Now you're in protection."

"Why does the gang care about my father and I?" I don't mention the other two production staff members.

"They have a grudge against wizards threatening the exposure of magic," he says smoothly. "Your father's picture-show must have qualified as a threat. Though it's a bit redundant at this point considering the widespread popularity… I'm so sorry I'm being insensitive, please excuse me."

I cock my head. It's not his fault murderers are batshit crazy. He clears his throat.

"So how are you settling in?"

I tell him about my new apartment and my enchanted cupboards and lack of electricity. I tell him about my mousse moose and he laughs.

"Those have been around forever! I remember when I was a kid my dad enchanted one so it would walk around. It escaped and he got fined but it was worth it."

It's my turn to laugh. Hearing stories from an actual person about magical memories is just too much. We chat for a few more minutes before he excuses himself.

When I get back to my room I look up David Thompson. Siri doesn't have any results.