I was a noisy child. Mum called me "ADHD." She made me take the pills so that I won't bother her. When the pills were in, I was a quiet child. I didn't say weird things. I just sat quiet in the chemically-induced numbness all day.

I was sitting quietly in a plastic chair in front of a coffee shop while my 22-year-old mother hung out with her friend somewhere in the city. She had told me to never leave this place, but I'd read in her eyes that she wished for it to happen.

I had drunk most of the iced chocolate Mum had bought me. The ice cubes were melting at the bottom of the glass, diluting the remaining chocolate.

It was drizzling so there were few people in the street. The tables around me were occupied by some people taking refuge from the rain, but still most tables were empty.

Empty, just like the table next to the shop's door. There was an empty glass on the table, except that it wasn't empty. The glass was filled with a brownish liquid. Then I noticed a brown bottle next to the glass, then a hand around the bottle, then a woman attached to the hand.

What did just happen? I blinked. The woman was still there, filling the glass with the brown liquid from the bottle. Where did she come from?

She took a sip from the glass, smiled contentedly, then returned her gaze to the book she held with her other hand. She was blond and kind-looking. She was wearing a black robe, just like the people in Harry Potter movies.

Then it clicked. I knew this woman. She was on the back cover of the seven books I read in the town library. I recognised her warm smile.

The book was thick and bound in leather. On the cover, there were golden letters that I couldn't read. They looked like the letters on the boxes of the treats Mum's boyfriend brought from Greece. But they looked more complex than the Greek letters.

I was so engaged in the thought that I didn't notice the woman was looking at me. I met her gaze and she gave me a warm smile. "Hello, dear," she said. "Are you lost?"

Her voice was so full of caring warmth, that it almost made me cry. I said nonetheless, "No."

"Then why are you all alone here?"

"My mum told me to stay here. She'll be back soon."

J. K. Rowling looked at the empty glass in front of me. Then I felt a funny sensation. I felt like a warm hand was caressing my heart. The woman was looking at me intently, with a concerned look on her face.

She asked me, "Rory, why is your mind clouded?"

Then I realised that she had read my mind. How else could she know my name? I had read about it in her books. I don't quite remember the name, it was something-mency. That evil snake guy could read Harry's mind. Oh, what had Harry done to make it stop? My mind was racing.

Then I remembered what the wizards do to Muggles when they are found. They wipe people's memories! I noticed her hand tucked in her robe as she looked at me suspiciously. I should say something. She just asked a question.

I said, "My mum put a spell on me." The words just flung out of my mouth.

"What spell?"

Methylphenidate. But I couldn't tell her that. "I don't know. Something complicated."

Rowling closed her book, stood up, and came closer to sit next to me.

She said, "Why?"

"Because I was a bad child and she needed to fix me."

"Bad?"

"I kept asking stupid questions that made her angry."

"Now you don't?"

"No. Now I'm a good child."

Something in her face broke at this. She asked, "Rory, may I take a look at your mind?"

I nodded, eager to see magic.

She took out her wand from inside her robe, and gently pressed the tip on my head. I took a glimpse around me without moving. People didn't seem to notice. They just continued their conversations. Drizzle had turned into a downpour. I hadn't noticed. Rainwater coursed through the cracks between cobblestones in the street.

I returned my attention to the author. Her eyes were closed and she was muttering mysterious words. I waited for my head to burst into flames. But that didn't happen. Instead, I felt a oddly cool yet hot sensation spreading from the point where her wand touched my head. Soon the sensation filled my entire head, coursed through my spine. It felt as if she was filling me with peppermint candy extract. I felt the bizarre energy coursing through all of the nerves in my body, finally exiting through my fingertips, toes, and the soles of my feet.

Rowling lifted her wand. The cold and hot sensation dissipated over time, but it took something else away with itself. The perpetual numbness that reigned in my head was gone too. I felt like myself before my mother made me take the pills. My head felt clear, glowing, and full of thoughts. The "thought birds" started chirping in my head again. I had believed they had all died.

The lady's blue eyes were gazing at me. Blue so transparent, that her eyes seemed to be made of sapphire itself. There was a gleam beneath the blue. I felt in her gaze, sadness, concern, anger, but also, a lot of love.

I felt talkative. Just like me before the pills. I asked, "What'd you do?"

Rowling smiled. "I lifted the spell your mother put on you. It's a powerful spell developed by," she paused, averting her gaze, then resumed, "powerful wizards." She held my hand. Her warm hand melted my cold hand, stiffened, without me noticing, by the cold brought by downpour.

Rowling continued, "The spell is meant to help struggling people. But it wasn't meant to be used on you, Rory. So I lifted it. Your mother shouldn't be doing this to you."

Then I felt the warm, invisible hand embracing my heart again. I felt a question pop up in my head. "When will I get the letter from Hogwarts?"

Her composure shifted slightly at this. She said, "You're six, Rory. There's still much time left."

But I knew. She could read my mind, but she didn't know I could read hers too. Well, a bit.

I said, "You're lying. I'm not a wizard. You felt it when you touched my heart." Tears were welling up in my eyes. Hot, hot tears.

I continued, "I will never go to Hogwarts. I will never be saved like Harry." I hadn't realised it until I voiced it to the woman in front of me. I must have been secretly longing to be saved like Harry.

I sobbed, but no one around us seemed to notice, as if we were in a kind of sanctuary. I saw her eyes locking to mine through my tears. I felt a hot teardrop run down my cheek. Then her hand held mine firmly on the table.

Rowling said, "Rory, dear, I need you to listen to me and remember what I say. This is really important. Are you listening?" I tried to swallow the tears and nodded. My throat hurt.

Rowling said, "Everyone is a wizard, Rory."

I said, "But I am a Muggle?"

Rowling shook her head. "That is not a good word, Rory. Wizards, grown-up wizards, think they are so different from 'Muggles.' But that very word shows that they're just the same. Grown-up people, whether magical or not, like to label things. Label people."

She continued after a moment of silence. "The 'wizards' that make the 'potions' you take every morning, Rory, are not strictly magical. Most wizards will call them Muggles and dismiss them."

Rowling held my shoulders and looked into my eyes. "But these people are more powerful than most wizards, Rory. These men and women are armed with logic, a powerful tool that most wizards lack. Your world calls them 'scientists', and they are great, and powerful people. For example, they are capable of reducing the entire Britain into dust in a few seconds. No wizard is capable of that."

Rowling continued, "Everyone has their own magic, Rory. Everyone is magical. Being able to make some sparks out of a twig is nothing at all, really. You need to remember that. True magic lives in your heart."

I asked, "Then, what is my magic?"

Rowling smiled at this. "Even though in today's world, all kinds of magic are categorised into 'magic-magic' and 'non-magic', everyone still shares one branch of magic. Sadly, it's ignored by both the wizarding and non-wizarding worlds."

"What is it?"

"It's imagination, Rory. It is also my magic."

Rowling glanced at the corner of the street, then continued, "Grown-up people, magical or not, seem to be allergic to imagination. But you shouldn't let them take it away from you, Rory. Because your magic is as precious as you are, and you can't survive without each other."

"That's what my mother wants to take away from me?"

Rowling nodded. "Yes. And that is unacceptable."

"Then what should I do? She gets mad when I don't want to take the pills."

"I'll send people who'll help you."

"Really?"

"Yes. I promise." Rowling smiled.

"But I'm worried. Because I go to school soon and Mum told me that if I don't stop asking stupid questions, they'll beat me up."

"Rory, you have another magic."

"What's it?"

"Hope."

"But, Miss, I don't exactly know what that is."

"Hope is imagining good things. Your mother made you imagine bad things about school. That is despair. Hope brings good things to your life. Despair brings bad things. But Rory, you can choose hope. Because your imagination is yours."

I wasn't sure if I understood it, but I nodded anyway because I didn't want to look like an idiot.

Then an idea popped into my head. "Miss, could you give me your autograph?" I'd watched on TV that people ask this when they meet famous people. But I didn't have any book or paper. Library books were not mine. My mother didn't buy me any books. So I carefully held out my palm to her, feeling foolish. The author lady smiled and took out a quill from within her robe. She autographed my palm and tip of the quill was tickling so I laughed.

Then I suddenly felt very sleepy. I slouched in my chair and closed my eyes. I couldn't help it. I said, "Excuse me, Miss, but I'm feeling rather sleepy."

I heard her say before I fell asleep. "Everything is going to be all right, Rory. Nurture your hope. Your hope will protect you."

#

Someone shook me out of sleep. "Rory. Wake up." Mum's voice. I opened my eyes. The night had fallen. Streetlamps were on. People at other tables were glimpsing at Mum disapprovingly. I looked around. The author lady was gone. I looked at her table. There was no glass or bottle. Mum grabbed my wrist and pulled. "Come on. Let's go home." Her freshly-manicured nails glistened in the warm light coming from inside the coffee shop.

Mum let go of me and I walked in her wake. Then I remembered something. When I was under the next streetlamp, I opened my hand. There it was, her autograph written across my palm, slightly smudged by sweat.

"Thank you, Miss." I muttered.

Then something blocked the streetlamp above me. I looked up and saw Mum's face.

Mum asked, "What's that?"

I said, "I met the lady who wrote Harry Potter. She autographed my hand."

Mum's lips twitched then bloomed into a smirk. "Yeah. You need a bigger dose. You've grown."

That made me sad. But I didn't let it take over my imagination. As I walked behind Mum to our flat, I imagined myself in school.

Before, I practised in my head, not saying stupid things in front of people. Now I imagined having friends. I'll have friends like Hermione and Ron Weasley. I'll have friends who'll understand what I say, what I think.

Because that is hope. And that will protect me.

Epilogue

J. K. Rowling watched as the woman half-dragged the child out onto the street. When they disappeared from the last streetlamp's range, she took out her phone and dialed the number.

"I need to report child abuse." She said as she watched the owner of the coffee shop close the shutters. She had fortified her sanctuary charm. She didn't expect it to be broken by a child, but it does happen occasionally.

"Yes, Peckham. Correct. Call me if you need any help. Thank you." She hung up. Then something swooped in and dropped a roll of parchment onto her table. The coffee shop owner turned as the Ministry owl bolted out of the premises, but the bird had already disappeared into the gloom.

J. K. Rowling sighed as she unrolled the parchment. "They never leave me alone, do they?"