CHAPTER THREE

THE INHERITANCE

Persephone twitched, her hand clenched in Sister Maria's sweaty tight grip. It was a punishment of the worst sort. Maria didn't trust her, nails digging into soft pale palms as she tugged her towards the school. The looming, grey gates looked back at her, made of old iron bars, nailed down to the mossy, damp soil.

(It was a prison.)

The nun bent down, her black skirts brushing across the wet grass as she loosened her leather-satchel.

(They all had them, old things that the Sisters found in the cellar. Each had been dotted with a stitching of their name. Maria had spent hours with that needle and thread.)

Maria's old fingers grasped at the buckle, pulling it through as the leather strap loosened on her shoulder.

Persephone didn't like Maria, and she knew the woman didn't like her. But, the nun took her job quite seriously; a stern frown, and an affectionate pat was to be expected. She didn't look like the sort of woman to love children, Maria was all rough, jagged edges, and a love for the prim and proper. God-forbid if her kitchen wasn't cleaned in an orderly fashion. She wasn't like the other mothers' Persephone had seen, the ones that had picked up their drooling, snot-nosed brats. They were warm; a sprinkling of summer sun, and comfy clothes. Sneakers instead of heels. A cotton cardigan instead of a coat. It wasn't because of this that she disliked the woman. No, it was her tendency to hover, to grasp at the holy-cross and pray when Persephone did something well and truly odd.

"Persie," droned Maria, those dark brown eyes peering into her own (she hated that name), "I don't want to hear another call from the Headmistress of you running out into the fields. Please, just this once?"

Persephone scowled.

"I don't run into the fields!"

That was a lie. She did.

"Don't lie," huffed Maria, twisting her ear gently. "It's not safe."

It was safe for Persephone. There was a collection of snakes that had gathered in the fields near Bly Lane; a family of poisonous things, accidentally arriving from a long flight from Australia. It was nothing unusual, Maria had once told her, it happens every year. But this time, they escaped the airport, travelled to their small little village, and bred like rabbits. Pest Control still hadn't managed to get rid of them.

But she liked them. They were her friends. Persephone even had fangs like theirs! They were better company than humans anyway.

Maria glanced at her stern, cuffing her on the head as she sent her through the towering gates.

Persephone didn't look back, she clasped tightly at the leather strap as she moved into the crowd. Mundanes were everywhere, children sweltering in their thick woollen jumpers as she chattered and rushed through the school halls. It was an infestation, they were in every corner; leaning against the walls, sitting on the floor, swinging on the gym bars.

They were like cockroaches.

Persephone cursed, gritting her teeth as an elbow was sharply lodged in her side. She stumbled, feet falling over one another. An emerald orb peeked through dark curls.

It was another one of the brats. She'd seen her a hundred times in her classes, sitting at the back, and picking his nose.

She shuddered in disgust.

"Watch where you're going, Persie!"

(Everyone called her that. She blamed Madeline. The bitch.)

"Shut up," she mumbled, pushing past him with a sneer. "Moron."

The boy looked at her weirdly, furrowing his brows as Persephone hissed.

"Weirdo."

"Come on, Regan, we're going to be late!"

The boy huffed, rolling his shoulders as he ran after his friends. They turned a corner, slamming the gym door wide open.

Persephone grumbled, her hand twitched as she grasped at the leather strap. Her class wasn't that far away; tucked in the corner near the clock-tower, by old cleaning cupboards, the dank-smelling school hall. It wasn't the best place in the world, it wasn't the best school either. Her primary at Little Whinging had been better, filled with rows of clean, polished floors, and shiny new desks.

(All new equipment was funded by Grunnings, and led by Vernon Dursley. Anything his son attended had to be perfect.)

"Get in," ordered Mrs. Wilkins, who was standing by the door, her glasses perched neatly on her nose. "Come on you lot, I don't have all day."

Of all the people that Persephone tolerated in the mad-hatter school of hers, it was Marigold Wilkins. She was cold, stern, and had a freezing frown that would terrify any child. Mrs Wilkins was kind to the quiet students, the ones that sat at the front of the class and completed their assignments ten minutes early.

Persephone was one of them.

(She didn't love class. No. In fact, it couldn't be over sooner.)

"Good morning, Persephone."

She smiled, a small twitch of her lips, and a slight nod of her head.

"Morning, Mrs Wilkins."

She tucked her fingers into the side of her blazer's pocket. Dropping her bag as she settled into her seat. It was the nicest one, perched next to the window that looked down over their small village.

Persephone could see everything from it. From the hills, to the Church, to the Orphanage that rested out in the fields and moors.

"Now listen up," declared Wilkins. "I know this is our very last week, and some of you will be moving out to the city for school, or heading to Cardiff. So, the teachers have organised an end of school dance—"

Her classmates (festering cockroaches) cheered, fists banging on their desks. Everyone liked the school dances; there were glow sticks, cakes, fizzy drinks, and a lolly bag or two.

(Persephone would rather die in a hole.)

Summer was almost here. Along with the holiday crowd that poured in, tourists and back-packers that travelled up and down the country. Her nice small walkways in the hills and valleys would be packed, there would be no more peaceful evenings.

She gritted her teeth at the thought.

"Oooh," cooed one of the students behind her, pressing his nose up against the glass. "An Owl."

"Don't be ridiculous, Sam," sniffed Wilkins. "Owls are nocturnal."

"Not all of them," muttered Adam, "the Northern Hawk and the Northern Pygmy are diurnal."

(Even Mrs Wilkins was impressed.)

Persephone furrowed her brows, glancing at her class-mate curiously.

"How do you know that?"

Adam shrugged.

"M' da studies 'em."

"Ah," Wilkins eyed the owl. "That is a Barn Owl. It's most unnatural for it to be up at this time."

Persephone hummed, leaning closer to the window as she peered at it. She almost jumped back, it was almost as if it was staring at her. Those dark beady eyes watching. It cooed, fluffing white wings, in its small claws was a letter.

The letter was moved out of the sight, hidden behind the fluffing wings, as they spread out wide; cream and gold.

"It's so pretty."

Hushed whispers hovered in the classroom, a few classmates rushing to the window as they peered out at the creature.

"Alright!" Ordered Wilkins, pulling the curtains close with a loud thump. The pole at the bottom slammed on cold stone, a leathery cotton material covered the wide-reaching windows. "That's enough of that. I'm sure the owl doesn't appreciate your stares. Now we were last at symbols—"

The students groaned, slumping in their seats as Wilkins began to draw on the whiteboard; the sum off. It almost looked like a Greek symbol, a twist of curved lines.

(Persephone loved Algebra. It was a mix of pretty lines.)

Persephone shifted closer to the window, blinking out of the almost see through material (if she was close enough). The owl was still there, cooing and shifting on the branch.

She wanted to pull up the curtain, to open the window, just to get a closer look. Persephone swore it had a letter in its claws.

An owl had a letter!

It even had a name on it. Persephone huffed, gnawing anxiously on her bottom lip, despite wanting to, she couldn't get a closer look.

"Miss Potter! Head back in the classroom, please."

She scowled, her shoulders slumping at the killer-of-fun as she shifted in her chair. Eyes turning back to the whiteboard. It was brand new, glittering with a white sheen under the yellow lights above. Persephone had wanted to use the new whiteboard markers, which came in seven different colours, far more interesting than the old chalkboard that had been replaced. But this fascination had quickly faded, her hands fidgeted as she eyed the curtain. She wanted to see the owl and its letter, with a loud coo and a sweeping flutter of wings, she knew it was gone. It was, by far, the most interesting thing that had happened all week! Her new home was wonderful in its bright colours, and comfortable bedroom, but there was little to do apart from that. The Dursleys (damn them all to hell) had let her roam as she pleased, caring little for her life as it was, the Orphanage did not. The Sisters liked to keep them all in one place.

It was bad enough that her past five attempts of escaping into the fields had been foiled by Sister Maria, the blasted wretch always had her by the ear and in the Church for morning prayer. Persephone had long grown tired of the scent of incense and the oil that stunk up the altar.

School was better, she supposed, at least she wasn't saying her Hail Mary's all day long. She sighed, leaning on her hand as she chewed on her pencil.

Miss Potter," snapped Wilkins. "Keep your eyes on the board."

She wrinkled her nose, eyeing the crudely drawn symbols. Even Maria could draw them better, and the woman was no professional in the artistry industry. Not like Sister Catherine.

It was a gruelling seven hours before she was let out of her prison. Their lunch break was a measly half an hour. Never mind the morning tea that lasted fifteen. Dudley would've declared it to be slave-labour, a word he understood little off, but had heard his father mention more than once. Fifteen minutes was hardly anything, and for Persephone, who was in the consistent company of brats that liked to pick their noses, pull at her plaits, and poke her arms with their newly sharpened pencils, it was horrendous.

'Thank you," clapped Wilkins sternly at the end of the day, "Don't forget your permission slips for the dance!"

Persephone winced. Like hell. She made a run for it, slinging the strap of her bag over her shoulder as she made her way towards the door. The bell rang just in time, slamming it against the wood as she took off down the hall.

"Persephone! Slow down!"

She didn't slow down. Her feet jumped over the left gate (it was half her size), and out into the paddocks behind the school. It was a large one, with a gathering of woodland at the end. It was usually where the sheep were, hiding in the shade near the water trough. Behind it was the woods; a dark towering place, with endless pathways, and hollow trees that sang in the wind. Nobody liked the woods except her, it was a haunted and grim place, Maria often declared, hands pressing tightly to her silver cross. Persephone thought it was nonsense, there was nothing in the woods! If there was, surely she would've seen something by now.

It was empty, nought but the wind, and rustling leaves in autumn.

(Persephone loved it.)

She grumbled, climbing over the old stone wall. It was a bit of a struggle, her skirt getting caught on the edges. A curse slipped from her lips as a stone tore through the side of her skirt, a large hole in the kilt-like material.

"It's summer," she muttered to herself. "Maria won't even notice!"

She would, and Persephone knew it.

("Another hole! What have I told you, Sephie? We don't have a fortune to keep repairing your clothes at whim.")

She shuddered, tugging at her school blazer at the wind swept by; an icy chill breathing down her neck, with the wet dribble of rain running through her locks.

"Really?" She hissed, emerald eyes peering up at the sky. "Really?"

"Hoo!"

Persephone jumped, clutching a hand to her chest as she stared up at the tall, leaning branches. Her eyes widened, her mouth gaping. It was the owl, the same one as before, resting there on old wood in all its creamy-golden glory.

"Hoo. Hoo."

The letter was still there, resting neatly in its grip. The owl stuck out its leg, cooing, wings arched high as she grasped at the pale paper. Her fingers rolled across it, it was almost more like parchment than paper.

(Persephone had only seen parchment once when she was four, and tottering around her uncle's office. It was where he kept the nice paper. She later learned never to touch it again.)

"Hello, beautiful," breathed Persephone, her hand reaching up to touch golden wings. "Is that for me?"

It was wonder that breathed life into her. The kind that she'd never felt, filling her to the brim with delight. It was almost a nauseating feeling, a brightness that she was unused to.

"Thank–"

She paused, blinking at the barn owl before it took off, its wings drumming loudly as it swooped between the trees, and out into the sky.

"Hmm," she hummed, blinking at the wax-seal. "Huh."

She'd only ever seen them in museums. That classical wax style that dripped with elegance. Even her uncle's grandfather, who was an earl, didn't use those anymore.

It was her name that rested on the front, in a simple swirl of green ink.

Miss. P. Potter-Black

White Tree Wood,

Llangynidir,

Powys

She sucked in a deep breath, her hands trembling.

It had her name and one that she was unfamiliar with too. It had her location, the exact spot where she stood as if it had known. Persephone reached for the wax seal, slipping her finger underneath it with a harsh tug.

She raised a brow, gazing at the words and spotted ink, it was a rushing feeling that threatened to choke her. It was hope, disbelief, knowing (Persephone was different, she was special), and fear.

It had to be real, more than anything in the world, she hoped it was.

Dear Miss. Potter-Black,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31.

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall

Deputy Headmistress.

Persephone stared, slumping against the fallen log, branches brushing across her arms, scratching at pale skin. She couldn't believe it.

She ignored the first letter, a gnawing anxiety that boiled in her veins. Persephone had no choice, there was little to write on, and even a neatly folded piece of paper from her school bag couldn't be sent. She had no owl.

Owls, she would often hiss to herself, who even sends the post with owls?!

Yet, the letters kept coming. Even if Persephone never saw a single owl, she knew they were somewhere.

Likely hiding in the underbrush.

She had found seven letters since then; two on her bedroom windowsill, one in the bathroom while she was showering, and four on her bedside table in the morning. How they got there was a mystery, even more so to the Sisters who had found the sixth, that was a nightmare that she didn't wish to repeat.

("I won't have devilry in my house! Get rid of it, now!")

Persephone had emerged from the church with bruised knees and sore wrists. She had sat there for four hours, her head bent in supplication as she prayed to Him. For forgiveness and obedience, as if it were her fault.

Persephone had hardly sent the letters to herself!

"Persie," called Sister Maria, her voice echoing in the halls, a loud screeching noise that was unseemly for summer mornings. "Get down here!"

"Jesus," she cursed, slipping on her dressing gown. Emerald eyes flickered over to her table, blinking drowsily at the alarm clock. "Christ."

It wasn't even eight in the morning. The summer holidays were good for one thing, and one thing only. Sleep.

Figures Maria would ruin that too.

Persephone grumbled, slamming her door close as she ambled down the creaky stairs, her home wasn't much to admire. It was ridden with dust, mice, and creaky old wood.

"Persie!"

"I'm coming!"

She sighed, her shoulders slumped as she wandered into the living room, collapsing on one of the moth-eaten couches.

There were three; one had dust-covered arms, another with holes in the back where Charlie the Mouse lived, and the last rested near the wall with broken wooden legs.

She and Sister Maria were not alone.

Persephone blinked, ogling at the strange man who stood in their home. He was of the odd sort; dressed in yellow and blue robes, the kind she'd once seen in a picture book as a child, he looked positively medieval. The pointed silver witch-hat and long beard didn't help either. He wore small bronze bells there too, tied tightly into his white beard.

(Was this a wizard? Was he magic too?)

"Sephie," nodded Sister Maria, "This is Professor Dumbledore."

"Dumbledore?" She breathed, the name had been on the Hogwarts letter. "Are you from Hogwarts, then?"

He smiled, a beaming thing that pulled at his pale face, blue eyes twinkling merrily.

Persephone eyed Maria, surely she wasn't going to —

"I'll be in my office, Sir."

"Of course, my dear! It was lovely to meet you."

She stared, eyes widening in disbelief as Maria left, dazed and light, her shoulders loose, and a small smile on pink lips. Persephone had never seen her so happy, so free.

Persephone frowned.

"What did you do to her?" She demanded, glaring stubbornly at the man. "You… didn't curse her, did you?"

Maria and she might not see eye to eye, but she was still her Maria. Just as the hills, woods, and house were hers.

"Oh," he chuckled. "A simple charm is all. No harm will come to her, my girl. Now, come, sit!"

He patted the moth-eaten couch, brushing it lightly with a small wooden stick.

Persephone gasped, a ragged breath forcibly pulled from her lungs. Her mouth gaped, dry lips cracking, her body jolting from the sight of a new, and golden velvet couch.

"Wha -- How did you do that?!"

She trembled, her hands brushing over the soft material. It was beautiful.

"Magic, my girl. Sit. Please. It won't last long, of course, but enough time for us to chat. Hmm?"

"It won't?"

Her shoulders slumped, disappointment echoing in her bones. She wanted it to be. She wished he could do it to the whole house!

"I'm sure you have many questions, Sephie."

Persephone glared, her knuckles clicking.

(She hated that name.)

"Persephone."

"Hmm?"

She gritted her teeth.

"My name is Persephone."

Dumbledore stared, his brows furrowing. It was a bewildered expression, one that stayed, gazing at her unblinkingly.

"I don't like that name."

"Ah," he nodded sagely. "Your parents called you Sephie, if you would like–"

"How did you know my parents?"

He smiled tensely.

"I was their headmaster," he admitted. "After they left Hogwarts, they became great friends of mine."

Persephone huffed. There was something about the man that had her on edge, an itching feeling that tugged at her flesh. She didn't know what it was, but she didn't like him.

"I assume you've read your letters?"

"Yes."

"Do you have any questions?"

Persephone hesitated, eyeing him sceptically.

"Were…"

"Hmm?"

"Were my parents like… me?"

He frowned, a stormy stare piercing her.

"Would it matter, if they weren't?"

Persephone didn't know. It sinked in, they could've been. Her mother and father could've been magic, born and bred from an energy, something that made them special. Better. Superior. It was in her blood, she wanted to scream, it made her more. It had to be.

"They went to this school, didn't they? They had to be special!"

Dumbledore hummed, his eyes flickering over her. Persephone for a mere moment, a second, almost felt lacking.

He quirked a brow, that silent judging stare remained. It was worse than Sister Maria's. A gripping kind that felt filthy.

"Your parents were both magical, yes."

Persephone breathed a long sigh of relief.

"They were both the best students Hogwarts had seen in a while," said Dumbledore sternly, "They would be proud of you, even if you didn't have magic."

Well, she wanted to say, I do.

She frowned, hands clutching anxiously at the sides of the couch. They couldn't have been the best students, her mind whispered insidiously, they died in a car crash. It seemed impossible; magic thrived in their blood, and yet, a small metal contraption had ended their life, squeezing at pale flesh until there was nothing left.

Persephone had nothing left of her mother and father, she had imagined them, in her weakest of moments. A woman of red hair and lavender-scented comfort, and a father, he was even more hard to see, strong and kind. A love she'd been given since birth, despite what her Aunt Petunia preached. She didn't even have a single picture. But, she thought, if they had been like me, of power, how could they have left her? Alone. Cold. On her aunt's doorstep with the bottles of morning milk. It was inconceivable.

"If they had magic," hissed Persephone. "If they were so powerful, how come they're gone?"

Dumbledore softened.

"Their murder is a great loss not just to you, Persephone. But to all of us."

She stared, her lips trembling as she paled.

"Murder?" She croaked.

"Well, yes," he paused, eyeing her uncertainly. "You do know what happened?"

Nothing slipped past her lips. Her tongue was frozen, stuck to the ridge of her mouth. Murder echoed in her mind like a curse. Murder. Murder.

"Aunt Petunia told me they died in a car crash!"

"I… see. No, my girl. They did not. Has your Aunt told you anything else?"

Persephone glared.

"She can't, can she? My aunt is dead."

"You knew nothing of magic," he said, more to himself than her. "She told you nothing."

And yet, she realised, he was not surprised. There was no disbelief, no horror. Just a cold-stone truth. As if he knew her, knew her so wholly that nothing her aunt could do would surprise him.

"Your parents were murdered," he admitted, a sombre silence lingered in the room. "By a dark wizard, the worst I've ever seen or taught."

Persephone shifted, fingers fidgeting.

"Who was he? Why would he--"

"Lord Voldemort," said Dumbledore, a sad smile pulling at wrinkled cheeks. "Unfortunately, he was one of my best students too. He was powerful, too powerful. Your parents, Lily and James, stood up to him."

"Why?" She frowned, huffing as her hands grappled at the sides of the chair.

"Hmm?"

"Why did they stand up to him?"

Dumbledore stared.

"Voldemort hated people like your mother, of supposed impure blood, they didn't have much of a choice, my girl. If he had won, there would've been no peace, no muggles, no life. In the end, they were very, very brave."

Persephone gritted her teeth. She didn't want them to be brave, she wanted them to be here, with her! Not dying on some foolish errand against a madman. They were hers. Her mother and father were not an ornament for this… wizard to hold and admire.

"Why would he hate my mum?"

"Lily was a muggleborn. Not all wizarding families are so accepting. Your grandparents were great people," he frowned, staring sternly, that bright twinkle gone. "Their lack of magic didn't make them lesser, Miss Potter."

"I-I never said–"

"No," he sighed. "But you thought it. I wish you to know, Persephone, that such thoughts aren't accepted at Hogwarts."

She glared at him sullenly.

"I never said I was going to go," she sniffed. "I might want to stay."

"Oh?" Dumbledore chuckled. "You don't wish to learn magic? To attend where your father's family has for centuries?"

She blushed, shifting as she turned to glance out the window. She didn't know what she wanted to do. These halls had been her home for so long, the valleys, hills, rivers, and trees. To leave them unsettled her, but, that nauseating need to know more, to be more ate away at her.

"Hogwarts is open to all like you, Persephone," he uttered softly. "You'll learn all you need to control that power in you. To leave it unchecked is dangerous, perhaps even explosive. It won't be forever, you can come back for the holidays. You'll even be able to see your cousin again, hmm? Mr. Dursley got his letter a month ago."

Persephone startled, gaping at him, blinking bewilderedly. A pale sheen clung to her skin, a prickle of sweaty palms.

"Dudley? He's alive?!"

Dumbledore frowned, a jolt echoing through him.

"You didn't know? Yes. He's been in medical care for a few years, but I suspect his magic helped him heal. I am terribly sorry about your loss, Miss Potter. Such a tragic thing. To lose loved ones at such a young age."

He patted her on the shoulder, a consoling and comforting smile etched across his lips.

She shuddered. A fear tingling in her spine, a choking feeling that swarmed; if anyone knew, if anyone found out what she'd done...

"I'm sure he'll be delighted to see you, Miss Potter," he chortled. "You might even be in the same house!"

Persephone choked. "H-House?"

"Ah, yes," he said jovially. "How could I forget? Hogwarts has four of them; Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and Slytherin," he tapped his nose mischievously. "But, just between us, I think Gryffindor is the best. It was my old house, after all."

I'd rather be anywhere but there, she thought, eyeing him in distaste, anyone that doesn't have Dudley in it.

It clung to her like a shadow, a primitive fear that settled into her blood and bone. The kind she hadn't possessed for years, not since she lived in the dark, musty cupboard under the stairs. She gritted her teeth, her jaw tensing at the thought of him; blonde hair, chubby cheeks, misty blue eyes, and pudgy arms. Her fat pig-cousin in a wig, a boy that would rather tantrum over his losses than take them silently. A broken computer and a new toy car were usually done by his hand.

To think, her new perfect life free of him, would end by the next turn of September.

"Where," she paused hesitantly, "Where is he?"

"A foster family, I believe. A lovely couple! Doctors that work in Edinburgh. I'm sure he'll be glad to see you."

Persephone wanted to scream. To clutch at her throat and heave. He wouldn't be glad to see her. He hated her.

(She wished he died. She wished the fire had eaten away at his flesh and bone.)

"Yes," she rasped, eyeing him anxiously. "T-This Voldemort. He won't—"

"Ah," muttered Dumbledore, his hand rustling around his pocket. "About that."

He pulled out a Sherbet Lemon, humming as he unwrapped it and popped it into his mouth.

He smiled contentedly.

"Would you like one?"

Persephone shook her head.

"The night Voldemort killed your parents, he turned his wand on you. Most don't know the reason, it's presumed he wished to finish the job, I suppose… But, the curse reflected, and hit him instead. Vanquishing him. I suspect it was because of your mother, she gave her life for yours, protecting you from him. A strong sacrifice of love, my girl."

Her stomach quivered, heart racing at the thought. Her mother — she almost had her image in mind.

Strong, beautiful, and brave.

"So," muttered Persephone. "He's dead, then?"

Dumbledore hesitated, his fingers tapping gently on the side of his bright, silken robes.

"I do not know. His body was never found. He was destroyed, yes, but dead? I'm not so sure."

Persephone wanted to groan. She was sick of this old man and his riddles! To be destroyed you had to be dead. He made no sense, everything he said was convoluted. She almost wished she was back at school, at least her mathematics class had rules. Clearly, the twinkly-eyed bastard thought the rules of life and death were not so simple. A chill settled in her spine.

Perhaps in a world of magic; of power, of ash, bone, and blood. It was not so simple.

Dumbledore reached into his pocket once more, pulling out a pale letter. Persephone recognised it, the paper was the same kind that she'd found in the woods. The same ink, and the same old wax-seal at the back.

"Here, my dear. I believe this belongs to you."

She opened it. Her brows furrowed as she read the long list of textbooks and equipment. Hell, there were even robes. She knew for damned sure they didn't sell those in town!

"I've read it. No offence, Professor. But I don't know — well, I can't buy these."

Dumbledore nodded, a wry smile pulling at his lips.

"Yes, you can. I'll be taking you myself to Diagon, one of the Professors will meet us there. I don't have much time on my hands, I'm afraid."

She spluttered.

"What? Now? I don't understand, Sir. What's Diagon?"

"Diagon Alley, of course! It's where you'll get your books."

"B-But I don't have the money for it!"

"Your parents left you some. Don't worry, my girl. We'll have it all sorted out by this evening."

"What? Really? How much?"

He ignored her, placing the lolly wrapper back in his pocket as he got up. Twisting his wand as the couch changed back.

Persephone yelped, jumping off it with a shudder, the rough, torn cotton was the same. Covered deeply in old holes, and a loud squeak echoed, Charlie was not all that pleased either.

"Wha—"

Professor Dumbledore beamed.

"Magic, my dear. Magic."