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There was something about thick parchment, Olivia decided. The rough feeling, the weight in her hand, the feeling of mystery. It had an antiqued look to it, and was scrawled in green ink. Green ink, often joked about as a sure sign of mad people, was the only ink Olivia ever wrote on paper in, because, she figured, you had to be mad to be writing on actual paper in the twenty-first century.
It was all so pretty and realistic and clever and worth posting about on all her social media apps, and her reaction was a close to the surprised penguin meme as she was ever going to be, and the lady sitting in front of her in her weird dress and dollar store lipstick that looked completely out of place in their cream armchair and modern, fashionable apartment was so serious, which was why it was so sad that it was clearly a hoax.
Or, at least, that was what Olivia thought at first, and would have continued to think, if 'Professor McGonagall' hadn't just levitated her into the air and put all thoughts of what a good post she could make firmly at the back of her mind. Olivia checked for strings. Then devices. Then she had the woman empty out her pockets (there was catnip in one, for whatever reason, along with an assortment of strange coins and devices), and roll up her sleeves. Nothing. Nothing at all to prove Professor McGonagall wasn't telling the truth.
"So that was magic? For real?" Olivia asked.
Her mother was shaking her head in wonder. "I told you, Olivia, this is why I'm so sensitive. I'm a Cancer. It's all real, you know. All the horoscopes. I've been telling you for years now, I knew those yoga classes I've been taking weire a good idea, I must have been helping you channel your inner peace..." she rambled on, sounding somewhere between dazed and elated. To Mcgonagall's credit, she gave a quick glare in her mother's direction, although she didn't correct her.
Her father just shook his head. "I don't believe it. You're a cult."
"I'm not going to disrespect your religion, but are you a cult?" Olivia asked.
Three hours and some arguing later, it was decided, for better or worse. Olivia was going to wizarding school. It was massive. It changed her world view. It definitely surprised her to learn she was a witch, despite the time her nails had turned blue suddenly, or the time she'd supposedly turned invisible. But somehow she wasn't sad about leaving the small amount of friends she had behind. She'd miss them, sure. But this way... She could redefine herself. She didn't have to have the stigma of a tomboy from when she was young, or the rich girl attitude she'd assumed in more recent years. Olivia got up and left the adults to discuss the details, ignoring their sensible voices and endless arguments.
She stood in front of the large window dominating one wall of the room. Night was falling, now. You couldn't see the stars in London, but the city looked pretty at night, its lights sparkling like a horde of fireflies, each by itself a hopeless shout into the void of darkness, together a beacon bright enough to be seen from space. Kind of like us, she thought. She'd always liked that analogy, even though it never made her feel any better. She didn't want her life to be a hopeless shout into the void, but no matter how many people she surrounded herself with, something always went wrong, or got in the way, or, worst of all, ended up just one light among many, shining no brighter than the rest.
It occurred to her that now would be an excellent time to make a tweet or instagram post with the view while she still could. She'd argued for an hour against going to Hogwarts, ever since she found out about the technology block, but only half heartedly. Part of her didn't really believe there was no technology there. Another part was too caught up in the moment of it all to care. Doom and wifi-withdrawal symptoms seemed distant tonight.
She spent a small infinity in front of that window, feeling only the cold metal of the frame under her fingers and seeing only the city below her. Eventually, the woman disappeared with a goodbye and a sharp crack, and Olivia turned to her parents.
They looked about ready to give her the Talk and about as awkward. Her mother was sitting, looking worried. She was wearing a cashmere sweater the same cream colour as Olivia's, and a horrible starry skirt, but she still looked kind of pretty, although not as pretty as Olivia. Her father was next to her mother, in the same suit that he wore everyday, or possibly a different one - they were all the same to her - and a stern expression. They couldn't have looked more different. Olivia cautiously sat down on the couch opposite.
"So?" she said, picking at a fray in her designer jeans, feeling surreal.
"Are you going?" her father asked.
"Yes." And that was that.
The entrance to Diagon Alley was horrifically seedy.
She had worn her favourite blue coat, jeans and ugg boots to keep away the early Autumn chill, but had looked ridiculously out of place the dingy pub they walked into nervously. Everyone was either in strange dresses (even the guys, Olivia was forward thinking, but still, it was strange) or in ugly, badly fitting muggle clothes.
The place was filthy, and the scruffy looking bartender was only making the glass he was cleaning dirtier. She shivered, imagining for a mo
ment that she could feel the mould in the air. Her father walked up and demanded where the 'entrance' was.
He cast a pitying glance over at Olivia. "Muggleborn?"
"Wow, okay, usually people say hi before c
alling each other names. Yes, I'm a muggleborn, greasy bartender. Where's the door thingy?"Olivia replied briskly, feeling a little righteously offended.
"I'm Warwick, thank you very much. Here." he replied, giving her a glare and walking over the the wall opposite the entrance. He drew out his stick (wand, Olivia reminded herself) and tapped a sequence on the bricks that she was sure she wouldn't remember, because just then it opened to reveal wonderland.
"No." she breathed.
"Yes." the bartender answered, sounding a little self-satisfied.
"No."
"Yup."
"No, seriously though, you're kidding me."
"I'm not."
"This is officially the awesomest thing ever." Olivia declared, and strode forth, eyes drinking in the long, colourful street and its fabulous attractions and viewing them with the experienced gaze of a professional shopper.
Five hours later, the largest shopping spree ever was finally over, and Olivia had placed it all in a weightless blue suitcase that was, wait for it, bigger on the inside. It was like she'd stepped straight into an episode of Doctor Who, minus the aliens, with magic instead of science. What had surprised her most, though, was what they didn't have. Sure, the joke shop had been great, but there was no magical makeup shops, no real clothes stores, nothing you would expect in what was supposedly the biggest shopping center in wizarding England. She fingered her wand thoughtfully - dragon core, twelve and a half inches, red oak, surprisingly springy - and wondered if they really just hadn't thought of much stuff, and if she could use her newfound powers to make it herself. Plans and ideas ran through her mind, designs and plots that kept her so busy she nearly walked into a tall blond man with ice chips for eyes and dour expression.
"Sorry." she said absently. He ignored her and carried on, dragging his son, who was clearly a clone of himself, behind him. She carried on, still thinking hard, and reflexively drawing out her lipstick and refreshing her make up.
"Hurry up, Olivia." her dad called.
"Coming!"
She took a deep breath. She had a plan.
Five days later, she was standing in front of a suitcase, scrolling through her twitter feed for perhaps the last time in months. A cough came from the door, and she looked up. Her mother was standing in the doorway to her room, looking a bit awkward, which was normal for her.
"Yes?"
"Look, sweetie, I know that this is going to be big for you, and I'm just wondering...are you going to be okay? You'll write to us, right? You know you can't have your phone there."
Olivia looked up reluctantly, and sat down. It was coming. The Consequences. Making spontaneous decisions was easy. Dealing with the aftermath wasn't, and Olivia Thorne knew that better than anyone.
"I know, mum. I don't know how I'm going to survive!" she joked, but with little humour. The truth was, she didn't quite know how she would survive.
"I know you're going to miss your friends."
"It's okay, mum. I'll make more." Olivia said, with practised false bravado and a grin.
"You'll always be our little girl, you know? Even though you won't see us much."
Olivia nodded, and was about to go back to her phone when something unexpected happened. Her mother hugged her. It was a slow, awkward hug. They patted each others backs. It didn't make either party feel that much better. But it's the thought that counts, Olivia reminded herself.
"I love you, 'via."
"I know. I love you too."
Twelve hours later, she was standing in a magical antique train, gripping her phone with the desperation of a starving man holding on to his last piece of bread. The reception sign disappeared. The screen fuzzed. Olivia started to lose her grip on reality. Then, as she had known it would, the train started and the screen went black. Her heart broke. Her fantastic outfit did nothing to console her. She had nothing now, no connection to the outside world, no way to escape her life.
Olivia shoved the phone into her pocket, took a deep breath, and walked off to face 'real' life, simultaneously surrounded by people and lonelier than she had been in years. The game had begun.