Dumbfounded.
Yes, if I'd had to put my reaction in a word, that would've been it: dumbfounded.
I just stood there and stared at the old man. The first thought was that surely I must have misheard, so I asked: "Uh... I didn't catch your name?"
"Dumbledore. Albus Dumbledore."
Oh.
The next thought was that this had to be a joke. Except that the Harry Potter books hadn't been released yet, and wouldn't be for a few more years, so it was too early for this joke. And the thought that maybe my fore-memories were wrong, or that I'd been fooled into believing I'd been reincarnated didn't even cross my mind: I had verified their authenticity —and that of the world around me— quite often enough to be sure by then of the true nature of both my own pasts, and that it indeed was 1991.
So not a joke, then.
The third thought —and I arrived there after a full five seconds of awkward silence– was that perhaps the character in Harry Potter had been based off a real person. That perhaps there had existed some real school in Britain whose headmaster's name was 'Dumbledore', back in the early 90s.
Sure, let's go with that.
"That's a- um... an unusual name, no?" I asked.
"Sylvia!" muttered the Giraffe, appalled.
But the old man simply let out a soft laugh. "Indeed, indeed it is! Please, sit down," he replied, motioning me towards the only empty chair in the office. Then, he turned back to the Giraffe: "My sincerest apologies, Mrs. Sherwin, but perhaps it would be best if I were to speak with Miss Sarramond privately. I assure you, we shall of course remain in the realm of utmost decorum."
That was a dismissal if I ever heard one, and I was sure the Giraffe would refuse being asked out of her own office. But she surprised me by nodding enthusiastically and vacating the room, closing the door after her and leaving me alone with the strange old man.
"Ah, I almost forgot," he said, producing a large envelope out of the depths of his antique jacket and handing it out to me. "I believe this is for you, Miss Sarramond."
I picked it up, with red alarms blaring inside my head. It was addressed to: Sylvia Sarramond. Room #3, The Hauxwell Youth Residence. 211th Willcox Street, Brentwood.
"Please, do not hesitate to open it," said Dumbledore, giving me an encouraging nod after I remained frozen with the envelope in my hands for a few too many beats. "I have a feeling you might find its contents rather interesting."
Oh, shit.
I took a deep breath and opened the envelope, extracting the letter inside. And sure enough...
"Hogwarts," I mumbled, reading. "Wizardry."
"The finest school of magic, if I may humbly say so. Now, might you be interested in a modest demonstration?" he asked, producing a thin stick of wood —a wand, a magic wand! Dumbledore's magic wand!— out of another of his pockets. "I have found that young students raised by Muggles, as it is your case, often enjoy such displays."
"Uh... a demonstration would be nice, sure," I replied. Because having memories from a previous adult life was one thing, so familiar by this point that it felt perfectly natural; but discovering the world of a fantasy book series was real... that was another matter entirely. One that demanded more proof than a parchment letter and an old man's word. And I was still half hoping this all was some sort of joke.
He aimed his wand at the sheets of papers spread around the desk, and they all flew into their proper folders, stacking themselves neatly on top of each other. Another piece of paper folded itself into the shape of a little origami bird and took a wide circle around the room, flapping its paper wings as it flew over our heads. It landed on my knee, then jumped onto my hand when I reached to touch it.
"Right," I said, moving the little bird closer to my face, examining it as it pretended to preen its non-existing feathers. "So... it's real."
By which I really meant to say... the story, the book, the whole thing.
"Indeed, magic is real. And you are a witch yourself, Sylvia, possessing magic within you. Do you perhaps recall any peculiar events in your past? Things that you couldn't quite explain, happening around you?"
I snorted. Peculiar? Like knowing the future, or being dropped straight into a fictional story? Oh, boy, if only he knew.
Which reminded me of a little something called legilimency: that the apparently kind man in front of me was supposed to be able to read your thoughts merely by looking into your eyes.
I averted my gaze, trying to make it look as if I was trying to remember. "I guess that means I did burn down the Coverdales' house, after all," I said.
He gave me an understanding nod, perhaps taking my sudden avoidance of his eyes as a sign of guilt. "An unfortunate example of the dangers of accidental magic, yes. It's crucial that you learn to harness and control your magic," he explained. "Which you will, at Hogwarts. Equally as important is keeping this knowledge secret, sharing it only with fellow wizards and witches. The safety of the Wizarding society relies heavily on the preservation of our secrecy."
"You mean I can't tell the Gir- I mean, I can't tell the truth to Mrs. Sherwin and the rest of the staff?"
He nodded. "Indeed. Nor to the other residents of this institution. To them, it will appear as if you are attending a school for gifted children. In a sense, that is not far from the truth, as Hogwarts is in fact a school meant for those of unique talents."
"Uh huh. So what about this, then?" I asked, raising the letter. "How can I get robes, or a cauldron, and do it all without any of them noticing? And do I need to pay for all this? Because I'm not really flush with cash, you know."
Or at least that's what I thought. Maybe there was a vault of gold with my name on it hidden somewhere under London. Maybe I should ask my fairy godmother, which the way this day was going was probably just around the corner and waiting to introduce herself.
"Ah, of course. A professor will soon visit you to gather the necessary school supplies. And regarding their payment: rest assured, the Ministry of Magic maintains a special fund to cover the expenses of those students who require assistance," he explained, his attention slightly wandering across the room, as if he'd said this line many times before. But then he fixed his eyes on me again, and his tone became suddenly more intense and serious. "And always remember this, Sylvia: if you need help while at Hogwarts, you only need to ask for it."
I nodded, focusing my own gaze on the magic paper bird —which was now perched on Dumbledore's shoulder— rather than risking looking straight at his face. But it seemed to satisfy him, because his voice then recovered his gentle, smooth inflection as he stood up and clapped his hands.
"Well. I believe it's time for us to part ways for the time being," he said, gingerly placing the bird back on the desk, where it unfolded itself back again into a sheet of paper. He then escorted me back to the office's door, a hand resting on my shoulder. "I look forward to seeing you again at Hogwarts, Miss Sarramond. Have a most pleasant remainder of your summer."
And after we'd said our goodbyes, and he thanked the Giraffe for her hospitality, he simply departed and left me in an odd, confused state that lasted for days.
It was a sort of introspective, existential mood that grabbed me. Because the revelations Dumbledore's visit brought, the implications put forward by his own very existence, cast a doubt over everything I thought I knew about the world, about myself.
At times I was sent back to wondering if this entire new life was some sort of hallucination. If perhaps I was still the old me, maybe unconscious, hooked up to some IV and in a coma or something. But it never grew into a serious concern: I never truly doubted the reality of the world around me, of my own existence as Sylvia. Because the world was tactile: the Residence's walls solid, the food either tasty or soggy —depending on the day. And time flowed consistently, one minute after another —fast when I was having fun and slogging unbearably when at school— but always without any unexplained gaps.
Compared to that, to the immediate reality of the world that surrounded me, my fore-memories were simply... memories. At times feeling almost dreamlike, like something that had happened to someone else, some other version of me who wasn't actually me. If I had to put something in doubt, it would always be the memories, and not the present, the reality around me. That I was alive, that I was Sylvia, felt as certain as I could imagine.
And perversely, the existence of magic offered a sort of explanation to the mystery that was my own existence, to how I could remember the future. Granted, 'it's magic' wasn't that great an explanation, but all things considered it was more than science was offering me, so I was tempted to grab it and run with it.
Other moments I would forget about the visit altogether, while I was doing my summer homework —which I had argued I didn't need to do anymore since I wouldn't be returning to my old school, but to no avail— or when I was busy with some chore or another. Funny enough, it was Astrid who always sent my mind back to the unreality of my situation. Ever since she heard that I'd be changing schools she started watching me like a hawk, her eyes following my every movement. In our room at night, on those few minutes before we turned the lights off, I'd catch her stealing glances at me from behind the refuge of her ever-present blanket and comic books.
Two weeks had passed when the professor finally arrived to take me to London, with no warning at all. She arrived on the afternoon: an older woman who knocked on the front door and introduced herself as Minerva McGonagall. And like Dumbledore, she too had tried to fit in with her choice of attire, wearing a muggle coat over a button down shirt and matching skirt, a small hat on her head.
I had been wondering which member of staff would come visit, and McGonagall was certainly among the lead options. But it took me a few moments to recognize her, partially because of her unassuming appearance, but also because she didn't really look all that much like the actress in the movies, being younger herself —something I had noticed with Dumbledore too, but only to a lesser extent.
She didn't last long in muggle wear, though, just long enough to convince the Residence's staff to send me off with her. And the moment the front door closed behind us she produced her wand and waved it all over her clothes, transforming them into full wizarding regalia: dark robes of an almost purple tint and an elegant witch hat to top it off.
She then offered me her left hand. But when she noticed I hadn't taken it —still shell-shocked at the second display of magic I'd ever witnessed— she quirked an eyebrow. "Transfiguration is one of the deepest, most complex magic disciplines you'll learn at Hogwarts. And while transfiguring your own clothes is quite effective for short interactions with Muggles, and more ethical than subjecting them to the Confundus Charm, I do suggest you don't attempt it until you have a firm grasp of the subject, as mishaps can be... quite embarrassing."
She then produced a small object wrapped in a cloth of linen, which turned out to be a thimble. "Now, grasp my arm with one hand and touch this portkey with your other hand, so that it can transport us both to our destination. We have a full schedule this afternoon."
Oh, portkeys, right.
I sighed and reached for her hand, mumbling under my breath: "...and here I thought we were going to take the bus." Then, I touched the thimble with the tip of my index finger.
I felt the jerk almost immediately, followed by a sensation of vertigo, as if I was both falling and being dragged forward. I took a glance at our surroundings to see only a nauseating whirlwind of colours, my mind trying in vain to make sense of the chaos and vague shapes flying around us. I could sense that if I kept doing that it would certainly make me sick, so instead I focused my eyes on the thimble itself, the only thing that seemed solid in this tornado of chaos. And soon enough I felt my feet hitting the ground again, and the noise and motion ended as abruptly as they had started, leaving me stumbling around like a newborn fawn, my stomach all upset.
McGonagall was kind enough to allow me a minute of recovery, in which I managed a quick glance around —we were in some random London street, apparently— before having to close my eyes and take a few depth breaths. Then, a whirlwind of a different nature started: she all but dragged me into a mangy, dark pub —I knew it from the fore-memories, sure, but I couldn't remember its name— where we marched towards the back. I had glimpses of strangely dressed people, some of whom greeted the witch. A "Hello, professor!" here, from the man behind the bar counter; A "Oh, new student? Muggleborn?" there, from a woman seated on a stool.
But soon enough we were at the back of the pub, and she was opening the wall of bricks with her wand. I'd seen it in the movies, but there was something... well, magical about it happening in real life, right in front of me. I couldn't stop thinking that this had to be an incredibly elaborate joke. But at the same time, I understood that the idea of a joke of this magnitude was somehow even more unlikely than magic simply existing.
Then Diagon Alley appeared in front of me, and all thoughts of it being a joke vanished.
"Fuck me. It's real," I muttered.
Next to me, McGonagall tutted: "I understand that this might be a startling experience, Miss Sarramond. But please mind your language."
And then we were through, and into Diagon Alley, and already I had inadvertently crossed that threshold into the fantasy world. The one I knew I could never uncross. Not really.
In fact, that was what sobered me up. And as much as the sights in front of my eyes were incredibly whimsical —the crooked walls, the impossible floating books, moving pictures and curious objects behind the shops' windows, the very busy cobblestoned street itself, full of people of eccentric appearances— I frowned at McGonagall for taking that choice away from me. For simply barging ahead across the archway, me in tow, and robbing me of that moment of standing right at the edge of the precipice, of taking that first step by myself; making that critical decision on my own. Petty, perhaps, but I couldn't help but resenting her a little for it.
We advanced, cutting through the crowd, McGonagall explaining the nature of the alley and the sights around us —most of which I already knew: 'that is a house-elf, those are owls, used for sending letters...' But it was interesting to learn that there were a handful of other minor streets that connected to Diagon Alley. Other than the only one I could remember, that is: Knockturn Alley. I risked a glance as we passed by that particular corner, some stairs descending into the shadows of a narrow passageway, and noticed a creepy-looking man staring right at me. I frowned at him, doing my best to hide how vulnerable he made me feel all of a sudden. I became immediately self-conscious of the jeans and loud green T-shirt I was wearing —it featured a Ninja Turtle, with the text 'Born to be Rad' written on the front.
To put it bluntly: I was dressed in obvious Muggle clothing, in the middle of magical London. I guessed, in the eyes of some of the more colourful characters down there, I was pretty much dressed as prey. And once more, it was McGonagall's fault, because had I known which day she'd be arriving to take me to London, I'd have made sure to dress more appropriately.
"-that is Gringotts, the goblin bank," she was saying as we walked past the entrance of the largest building in the street. "It's likely you'll open a vault there eventually, but there's no need to visit it today: the Ministry's fund will suffice to cover the costs of the essential purchases you require. And past that corner is-"
"What does essential mean, exactly?" I interrupted. "I know school robes are included, but can I also get some more personal clothing? Just so that I don't stick out like a sore thumb when I'm not wearing those?"
She looked me up and down, as if seeing my attire for the first time. Then, she produced a piece of parchment that she unfolded and started reading from. I tried to edge sideways around her and take a look, but she wrapped it closed again before I could.
"Very well. The fund does allocate some provisions for additional items of clothing. Meant mainly for undergarments, but in your case we could extend that purpose to... enhance your wardrobe. Naturally, this presumes that you shall arrive at Hogwarts equipped with your own Muggle undergarments, and..."
I rolled my eyes. "Sure, I'll bring my knickers."
She let out a soft sigh and motioned me forward again, resuming her teaching role. "We shall start with your clothing, then. This establishment before us is none other than Madam Malkin's..."
The place was crowded with items in display: robes, yes, some soft and velvety, others thick and patterned, but also boots and pointy hats and all manners of vests and shawls. My eyes roved greedily over the exotic fabrics and attention-grabbing colours, but I wasn't allowed a chance to examine them any closer because the moment we entered the shop, McGonagall and the shop assistant conspired to manoeuvrer me onto a stand, where a dark robe was promptly draped over me and slowly turned into one that fit my short body. I remained motionless while sharp pins danced in the air, passing dangerously close to my skin, all while the two older women discussed among themselves: apparently Percival Moonridge was retiring at last, oh my!
In the end I managed to cajole McGonagall into getting me an extra robe —an elegant dark turquoise thing, with a subtle wavy pattern along the rims— a set of pyjamas with stamped dancing fairies, along with a dressing gown, two shirts, some trousers and a single grey vest. She declared it good enough when she noticed me ambling my way towards the shawls and hats.
We visited Flourish and Blotts after that, the book shop. And while McGonagall quickly gathered the required coursebooks —Hogwarts' books were displayed in nice and easy to grab stacks near the entrance— I took a quick look around. Because now that I was here, in the Wizarding World, the gears in my mind were finally getting unstuck and starting to turn again.
And so I was now realizing the full scope of it, the enormity of the situation I now found myself stuck in: because I was going to Hogwarts, apparently in the same year that Potter and all the others. And so I would have to live through the future war.
I wasn't yet sure what my approach to the whole kerfuffle should be. Whether I should intervene and try to avert the worst of it from happening, or simply keep to the sidelines —which seemed the most reasonable option, given that I knew the side of light would end up winning. But then again I was a Muggleborn myself —to the best of my knowledge— so my own survival was by no means guaranteed.
I could attempt to run away, escape to a different country; but it was surprising how impaired your choices in mobility became when you were an eleven years old orphan. And there was no escaping the fact that wizards and witches existed, that all of this was apparently real, and that I was now one of them. If I tried to leg it, it wouldn't be just the Muggle authorities on my tail.
Plus, I kinda didn't want to live like that: as a fugitive always on the run, with no true control over my own future.
I could do that later, if it came to that, as I still had some years before I needed to make any final decisions; so for the time being the better plan was simply to keep my head down and ensure that I had as good a grasp of magic as I could. My best chances of surviving would be to learn what I needed to know in order to protect myself, and to hone my skills as much as possible so that I could keep as many doors and options open as I could.
So that was why I ended up walking back to McGonagall with another stack of books to add to the school ones, containing titles such as: '101 Jinxes', 'Curses and Counter-Curses', 'The Definitive Self-Defence', 'A Primer on Duelling: Tips & Techniques' and 'The Tale of The Talking Teapot' —and sure, that last one was fiction, but it still looked like fun and I was curious about what a wizarding detective story read like.
McGonagall, however, seemed determined to put a rain to my parade: "Miss Sarramond, I'm afraid that the fund will only cover the cost of your coursebooks."
I sighed. "How much do these cost, then? It's not like I'm swimming in gold, but I should be able to afford one or two."
She gave me a sympathetic smile, for once: "Perhaps it would be better to be patient. Hogwarts contains one of the largest magical libraries in Europe. You'll likely find many of these books there as well, without having to buy them yourself."
That... that sounded smart, actually. It sort of irked me to put them back, because I wanted those books and I wanted them with me whenever I felt like reading them. I didn't want the tyranny of being subjected to the library's rules and regulations. But at least I managed to keep the Teapot one —apparently the Hogwarts library didn't do much fiction— and also convince her to get me the second volume of 'The Standard Book of Spells' series, since I'd be buying it for second year anyway, so it was covered by the stupid fund.
A similar situation happened when I reminded the Professor that the letter from Hogwarts made mention of owls and cats —it had also mentioned toads, but I didn't. Again, she encouraged me to make use of Hogwarts' owls if I needed to send any messages. I sighed, but agreed in the end. After all this time living as Sylvia, I had a good grasp on what I was now: a poor orphan kid, with no vaults bursting with gold. An orphan who hadn't saved magic Britain as a baby. So no Hedwigs for me.
I wasn't nearly so cavalier in respect to the sunglasses, though.
I saw them while we were buying the telescope, quills and other stationery. Silver-framed, with stylish round dark lenses. A bit large for my head size, sure, but I knew I'd eventually grow into them. It was the placard next to them that convinced me; it said: 'On sale! Protective spectacles, rated against Gorgons and Basilisks.'
I didn't know what a gorgon was, but I knew of basilisks. And if they worked for those, I was willing to hazard they would also prevent my mind from being read by any legilimens I happened to cross paths with —an alarmingly high risk at Hogwarts, it seemed like. It was the perfect solution to that particular problem: with these there was no need to spend endless hours learning to shield my thoughts; I could simply wear them, protect myself and look totally fabulous at the same time!
McGonagall, however, wasn't as enthused:
"Do I need to remind you once again that the Ministry's fund covers only the essentials for your time at Hogwarts?" she explained after my second attempt at convincing her, her voice weary now. "Items of fashion are not part of the provisions."
"I know that! But I'm telling you: it's not fashion!" Well, not only. "It's protective equipment, see here?"
"Rest assured, Miss Sarramond, you will encounter no basilisks at Hogwarts. Now, put those spectacles back and let's continue."
"I will pay for them myself!"
She towered over me now, all stern and looking like she was barely containing herself not to throttle me to death.
"And might I enquire if you possess, by any chance, forty Galleons at your disposal?"
"How much is that, in real- I mean, Muggle money?"
"Around two hundred pounds."
What in the-? And that was on sale?!
"Well, I can... I can pay for them later, get a loan at Gringotts."
"Enough, Miss Sarramond! I won't be so irresponsible as to allow you to incur in debt for the sake of appearance. There will be no more discussing this matter! Return them at once, while I complete the payment for the items that you will genuinely require."
And with that, she simply turned back to the shop's counter and let me rooted there, not even giving me the opportunity to reply. I clenched my jaw, fuming, and walked back to the shelf where I'd found the glasses.
I hated this. I hated being treated as a child. I hated having to ask for permission for everything I ever wanted to do, everything I wanted to wear. I hated the adults for keeping the money out of my hands, for putting me in a position where I was forced to beg for anything I wanted, and then not listening to a word I said.
I hated that I couldn't simply buy some stupid sunglasses, even if they were a little on the pricey side. Especially when I had legitimate reasons for wanting them. Hell, if Voldemort was stuck to the back of the head of that one teacher at Hogwarts —as I remembered— it would be irresponsible of me to attend his class without even this lacklustre protection! My fore-memories were the key to the future. In the wrong hands they could just as easily become a tool for evil. And these sunglasses... well, they might quite literally be all that stood between us and the triumph of tyranny.
So of course, I nicked them.
Perhaps I wouldn't have, had I had more time to think about it. Perhaps I would have wondered about magical alarm systems and whatnot. But I only had the one chance when McGonagall was talking to the shop's owner, and I was feeling pretty peeved by then. So I simply placed them into my jeans, secured by one of their arms to my belt, and with my T-shirt covering the evidence. Then walked back nonchalantly to join up with her.
Odd, that in my fore-memories I'd been a bit of a goody two shoes. Too much of it, perhaps. When I was young I'd been fearful of authority, and it was only later... after I'd grown up and saw those authorities fail time and time again that I realized the truth: that authority was merely a facade, just a projected image of control. One that served only those at the top.
But I had never given into thieving —and, at a price of two hundred pounds, I was under no illusions: this was proper thieving. No, that was a new thing, in this new life. It had started during the second offensive of the Great Elliot-and-Miles War —when I got into the habit of borrowing some of their stuff now and then, which I then returned pretty much worse for wear— and gotten worse ever since. The Residence hadn't helped, with the older kids teaching us young ones their more sophisticated criminal ways: how to acquire cans of coke and gummies and toys, all free of charge.
And I showed promise, at that. At school, they had involved me in a plot to obtain the questions to an exam from the teachers' room —although that one didn't fully count, because I was just the lookout. But even if by then I was already aware of being a reborn adult, I still found it hard to rid myself of all the childish impulses that assaulted me everyday.
And maybe my sense of morality itself had shifted too, because while the old me would've been appalled, the new me... Sylvia... wasn't. And of course I wasn't. Old me wouldn't have understood how it felt, how much of a release it was to be able to... what, exactly? Do what you wanted, at last? Rebel? When every other second of your entire life was controlled and regulated by some adult, adults that at the end of the day weren't any smarter or wiser than you yourself had been?
So yeah. Challenging behaviour indeed, but it kept me sane.
In any case, the sunglasses were expensive enough that I started to have second thoughts. Guilt, you could say. But by then we were already out in the street, and I refused to lose face to McGonagall, so I resolved I'd somehow pay them back next time I returned to Diagon Alley, as soon as I managed to save forty Galleons. And with those thoughts in mind, we finally arrived at Ollivanders.
All this time I'd kept my eyes peeled for characters I would recognize —although perhaps it was better to start thinking of them as people, truth be told— but while we had came across a few other children my age and older, which I guessed probably made them students of Hogwarts themselves, none of them had felt familiar at all. No boys with lightning bolt scars or packs of redheads so far.
The old man that greeted us as we entered the narrow, dusty shop I did recognize. Mr. Ollivander was small and wiry, but moved with ease among the stacked boxes.
"Here for a wand, aren't you, Miss...?"
I waited for a beat, expecting McGonagall to lead here as well, just as she'd been doing in all the previous shops we'd visited. But she surprised me by remaining silent, just a step behind me, next to the wall by the entrance.
"Sarramond," I replied. "And yes, a wand would be nice."
He approached, looking at me with curiosity, as one would a strange artefact. For a moment, I wondered again about legilimency. Could this man...?
"But of course, it's the wand that chooses the witch," he muttered. "Isn't that right, Professor? Fir, nine and a half inches, and with the core of a dragon heartstring, if my memory doesn't fail me. How is it handling these days?"
"As good as always, Mr. Ollivander."
"Yes, dragon... Yes, I can see that," he mumbled to himself, retrieving a thin box out of one of the packed shelves while a measuring tape fluttered around me. "Right handed?"
It took me a moment to realize he was addressing me again. "Sure, yes."
He opened the box, and placed the wand inside —a crooked wooden stick— in my hand. "Cedar, ten inches, with a dragon heartstring," he declared.
It didn't feel like anything, just a stick. A stick of wood in my hand, making me look slightly ridiculous. Still, I recalled from my fore-memories that I was supposed to wave it around, so I did. I noticed McGonagall taking a half step away off my line of sight.
But nothing happened. Absolutely nothing. I was just... waving a stick around. Like a lunatic.
I looked at it, confused and slightly betrayed. Wasn't there supposed to be some sort of reaction? To have nothing happen at all would mean... was this when the cameras rolled out, when they announced how much of a fool I-?
"Hmm... wrong wood, most likely," Ollivander said, rummaging once more. "Not willow, either, no. Try this one then: alder; inflexible yes, but also with a dragon heartstring."
Another wand, this one elegant, straight and smooth and of a light brown. And still it was just a dead stick of wood in my hand.
I started to worry then. I had seen enough magic by this point to know all of... this world... wasn't a joke. Hell, I'd been dragged across London in the span of a few seconds. That kind of thing certainly helped dispel any remaining doubts that might linger. But that didn't mean... could it be that I wasn't magical myself after all? That whatever process Hogwarts used to send those letters had tripped up on my unusual circumstances —my rebirth or whatever it was— and erroneously flagged me as a witch?
A third wand yielded similar results, but Ollivander didn't seem dissuaded at all. He glanced at me from a step away, his creepy eyes focusing on my facial features. "Not dragon after all? How curious... I could've sworn..." But then his eyes widened and he stepped away to retrieve one more box in a hurry. "Oh! I see, I see! Detached from this world, of course, of course!"
I felt a deep shiver as those words registered, but I didn't have time to ask him what he meant before a new piece of wood was placed in my hand. This one was so dark it looked almost black, with a neat corkscrew groove that spiralled down its length.
And this one, I did feel.
I was like a strange coiled tension in my arm, almost like a tingling, but not quite. And also the knowledge that I could push it, down my hand and into the wand with just a thought. I was about to do just that when I remembered that I had leafed through a few pages of 'The Standard Book of Spells' back while McGonagall was paying for the books at Flourish and Blotts. So instead I waved the wand in a tight loop that resembled the diagram I'd seen, and released the inner tension at the same time I spoke aloud: "Lumos!"
It was like a flashbang. A flare going off in the little shop, the tip of my wand lighting up so much that it hurt to look at, bathing the stacks of boxes and dusty corners in bright white. Then, barely a second later, the light faded away and the three of us were left blinking. I guessed I still needed some more practice with the spell.
But also: my first spell!
"Yes! Great, yes! Ebony, eleven and a quarter inches," said Ollivander, taking the wand off my hand and placing it back in its box. "Solid, but not unyielding. And with a core of a Phoenix feather... the bird that dies only to rise again from its own ashes, of course," he remarked, eyeing me with a curious look that made my throat go dry; but he simply resumed talking about the wand: "Difficult to tame. Does not trust easily, no; and can display greater independence than most wands, can be stubborn at times—"
"Quite," I heard McGonagall mutter under her breath.
"-but earn its trust and you'll have a lifelong companion, Miss Sarramond," he concluded, handing the box to me.
I wanted to inquire about the holsters displayed on the front window when he asked if that would be all, but McGonagall pre-empted me by getting straight into payment, and I was in too much of a daze to argue. It wasn't like I really expected her to buy me any of those, in any case; it was just the principle of the thing. We did argue shortly after we left Ollivanders because I wanted to carry the wand in my pocket and she said it'd be best to keep it in its box until I was on my way to Hogwarts, lest I misplace it. I let the matter lie, as I was already feeling exhausted from the afternoon full of novelty, and I could tell that the older witch's patience was wearing thin. Besides, I could always take it out the box when I were on my own, back at the Residence.
And so, another portkey trip afterwards, and I was returned tired and nauseated to the Residence's front door, with a large trunk next to me that I had to recruit Colin —one of the older kids— to help me drag upstairs and to my room.
For the next few days I managed my best to spend as much time alone in my room as I could, plotting my future steps and practising with my wand —McGonagall had warned me about the trace, but I sort of half-remembered that it would only activate once I put foot on the Hogwarts train. Or maybe that was just a theory I'd read somewhere online. In any case, boundaries were there just to be tested, so when I didn't receive any visits from the Ministry after my second try, I did start practising in earnest.
I managed to regulate my light charm into lasting for longer than half a second and stopped it from being so searingly bright —apparently focus and intentionality was the key to it, who would have thought? I also made some inroads into the levitation charm —I made my pillow hover for a few seconds— and the 'Finite Incantatem' counter-spell that I found in the second year book. But most of the time I spent simply reading the books and learning the fundamentals, especially those for charms, transfiguration and defence. As much as potions could be an effective tool, if a fight to the death suddenly broke out you couldn't exactly whip out your cauldron and start brewing; it was your skill with a wand that would either save or condemn you. So I was determined to perfect my wandwork.
To Astrid I simply said I was studying ahead —which was true— and left it at that, hiding anything pertaining magic. Since I was supposedly going to a school for genius children, I figured she would think I didn't want to flounder in my studies. But she kept stealing subreptitious glances at me, and the night before I had to leave, she finally gathered enough courage to confront me, right before I went to turn the lights off for the night.
"So, you leave tomorrow," she said, as if we didn't know already.
"Yes. And you get a full room all to yourself until I get back. Lucky chipmunk."
"Is that school- is it like Xavier's school?"
"Like what? What Xavier?"
She pointed at one of the comic books on her bed, an issue of the X-Men. "You know, Xavier's School for 'Gifted' Youngsters." She even did air quotes for the word gifted.
"I- Um- No, not at all like-"
"I know you've got superpowers," she blurted out, looking at me all serious.
"Super-? Astrid, whatever you-"
"No! Don't deny it!" she exclaimed. "I was there too, remember? I saw you turn invisible! That's why the Giraffe didn't catch you!"
I let out a deep sigh, sinking deeper into my mattress. Now, this was a complication I really didn't need. If I didn't say anything, or if I tried to defuse it, I knew she wouldn't believe me and would keep digging and digging until she found something, something that could hurt her. Or maybe she'd tell someone, and word would get out. She could even end up being obliviated!
And if I admitted the truth, and she let it out somehow, then I'd be in violation of the Statute of Secrecy —which McGonagall had warned me about. Twice. I could end up being expelled even before I started my first term!
Except that... maybe not? Because I hadn't really told her about magic, had I? And I didn't need to. This was all her. And if she thought it was superpowers, then I could simply say...
"Fine. Fine. But you can't tell anyone about this, do you get me?"
She looked both enthused and affronted. "I can keep a secret!"
I lowered my tone: "No Astrid, I really mean it. There are people who can take your memories away, make you forget about this, about me. So you cannot tell anyone."
She nodded briskly, pressing her blanket against her chest, her face livid. I felt like shit for scaring her, but scared was better than obliviated in my book.
"So... are you going to be saving people?" she asked after a beat.
I snorted. "As if... I just want to learn more about ma- my powers. Get better at it, to the point nobody dares cross me. Then I can just make some money —I have plans for easy and profitable schemes, you know— and retire as young as possible. Then it's all about living the trust fund life: do fuck-all all day, spend my time wandering the world... enjoying life for once, no one to tell me what I can or can't do. That's the dream."
She nodded, and at last I turned off the lights for the night.
Then, a couple minutes later, she whispered from her bed: "But Sylvia... that's how villains talk."