Of Magic and Wolves

A Letter

I stare at folded pieces of parchment in my hands and read the emerald green letters on the front again and again until they lose all meaning.
Ms. Liane Lupus.
I flip the letter over and run my fingers over the elegant H stamped into the wax seal until it is warped and distorted from the heat.
I must've been motionless too long because an indignant hoot startles me and nearly makes me drop the letter. I look up at the tiny brown owl perched on the arm of the couch beside me, wincing when I see the tiny claw marks marring the smooth black leather.
"What do you want, little fella?" I ask the bird. He - or maybe it's a she -- tilts his head slightly and looks at me expectantly. I'm glancing around the living (sorry, family) room for a treat to give my little messenger - do owls eat peppermints? -- when the front door slams open, and the owl makes a hasty retreat through the open window. I sigh, wishing I could escape that easily before looking up at the imposing form of my uncle and the much scrawnier form of my little brother. Both of them froze in the doorway at the sight of the owl leaving the room, and now, they immediately turn their eyes to the still-unopened letter in my hand.
My brother, Alan, moves first, dropping a bag full of new school supplies on the plush carpet and racing through the maze of couches and over-stuffed chairs with surprising grace before coming to a stop directly in front of me.
"Is that what I think it is?" he asks, eyes wide and round; his squeaky voice makes me wince and curse my sensitive hearing. Alan stands on his tiptoes in order to catch a glimpse of the ruined seal of the letter, and when that fails, he resorts to trying to snatch it out of my hands.
"Maybe..." I answer, raising the letter above my head and out of reach of his grasping claws, "but we'll never know if you rip it before I can read it, butthead."
Alan crosses his arms over his chest and imitates me mockingly under his breath, but I hear him as clearly as if he'd shouted. He gestures to the letter in the universal sign of get the hell on with it.
I smile and oblige, using my nail to carefully break the seal, and unfold the letter. The parchment crinkles in my hand as I read the heading:
HOGWARTS SCHOOL
of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY
Headmaster: ALBUS DUMBLEDORE
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock,
Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)
I pause, already wholly confused, my brain automatically committing this to memory so I can analyze it later. What's a Mugwump? I frown and continue reading:
Dear Ms. Lupus,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
Oh thank God, I think, unconsciously letting out a tiny, happy squeal. I continue reading with a pleased smile:
Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. Also enclosed is your Gringotts key.
Wait. My what? As if summoned by my thoughts, a large gold key appears in my palm. Starting to feel a bit dizzy from the complete and utter wrongness of this all, I sit down heavily on the couch before continuing:
Term begins on September 1. We apologize for the lateness of this letter.
My eyes widen as I count the days and realize that today is August 30.
I only have 2 days! 2 days!!
Taking a deep breath, I turn my attention to the last lines of the letter:
Due to your condition-
I snort at the word. Condition. I guess that's as good a term as any.
Due to your condition, we ask that you meet with Hagrid, our gameskeeper, at his hut on Wednesday, September 12 to discuss the arrangements made in order to make your stay at Hogwarts as comfortable as possible.
I feel my hackles rise, and I clamp my teeth together with a sharp click to stifle a growl. Arrangements. As comfortable as possible.
I warily glance over the letter to see if there's more, but the only thing left is the closing:
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
Minerva McGonagall,
Deputy Headmistress
I let out the breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding and look over the second sheet of parchment, which I assume is the "enclosed list of all necessary books and equipment", but I give up a moment later, a throbbing headache beginning to form.
​"Li?" a small voice asks. I ignore my brother and close my eyes, trying to take it all in.
​"Liane." This voice is more of a command.
I open my eyes and briefly glance at my uncle, who's now leaning against the front door amidst a pile of bags, a king overlooking his kingdom of notebooks and pencils, before dropping my gaze. My uncle has recovered from his earlier shock, and his face is now a stern, impassive mask. Io Lupus doesn't do "emotions".
​"Yeah," I mumble. At Io's raised eyebrow, I elaborate, "I've been accepted."
​He nods as if there was no other option but for me to be accepted, but I've noticed how his not-so-subtle glares and frustrated sighs have increased over the past month and have continued to increase every day my letter was delayed. Suddenly, Io's phone is in his hand - I swear it's surgically attached to him -- and he's murmuring to himself as he makes a few calls. Without turning to face me, he says, "We'll go get your supplies tomorrow," and then he's gone in a flurry of motion and angry words to whoever's on the other side of his call.
​I shake my head to clear it and pinch the bridge of my nose. Talking to Io always leads to a massive headache. I turn around and am faced with a wide grin plastered onto Alan's face. "You did it, Lia!" he exclaims, his voice a squeal of pure delight.
​An equally large smile stretches across my face, chasing away my frustration and abolishing my annoyance. "No," I say, wrapping him in a hug, "we did it."
Our grins turn into giggles which turn into howling laughter, and it doesn't matter that mine is a bit hysterical.
~O~
​The light-grey fog shrouding downtown London does nothing to help my mood. Last night, Alan and I sat on my bed - if a pile of scavenged pillows and blankets lying in the corner of Io's attic can be called a bed - for hours, giggling at strange words like Mugwump and laughing at the ridiculous items on the "enclosed list of all necessary books and equipment". Al had laughed until tears streamed down his face at the request for a "plain pointed hat (black) for day wear". But once the initial excitement had worn off and Al had stolen all the blankets, the questions had started to form.
What if I can't be a witch?
What if the other students don't like me?
What if they find out what I am?
I nervously twist the silver ring on my finger around and around and unconsciously trace the tiny moon and stars carved into it, the familiar burn strangely soothing. With my attention focused on my hand, I bump into my third - wait, fourth? -- innocent pedestrian, and Io shoots a piercing glare at me and says something that's drowned out by the comforting music in my ears. I take the earbud out of my right ear, and he repeats himself. "Take those damn things out of your ears, Liane," he practically hisses in annoyance.
"Yes, Io," I mumble, and it's a testament to my self-control that I don't roll my eyes.
One of Io's black, bushy eyebrows rises so much it seems as if it's trying to crawl off his face - I can't really blame it for trying. "What did you just call me?" he asks quietly, which is so much worse than if he had yelled.
"Oh, umm...Uncle Io...?" I correct myself hesitantly.
Io's expression, coupled with a slight shake of his head, perfectly describes annoyance.
I duck my head and silently curse him for being such an arse and myself for being such a bloody idiot. I've been chastised countless times for calling him Io, but it physically pains me to be reminded that I'm related to the man every time I speak to him. Anyway, Io certainly doesn't act very uncle-like. I haven't had a parental figure in years - four to be exact...ever since that night...
I'm shaken out of my thoughts by a rough hand on my arm stopping me from following the flow of the people around me. There's a unanimous grumble of annoyance from those around Io and me before the lunch-time rush continues on its way. I frown at the grubby-looking pub in front of me. A small sign barely hanging on above the door reads: The L aky C uldr n.
I smile; someone seems to have taken every other vowel from the sign. I assume that it's supposed to say: The Leaky Cauldron, but that's a strange name for a pub, and why has Io taken me to a pub anyway if we're supposed to be shopping? Despite my misgivings, I scramble to catch up to Io as he strolls into the pub like he owns the place - he might actually; I'm not quite sure what Io does for a living, but it involves lots angry phone calls and tons of money.
The inside of the pub somehow looks grungier than the outside. Mismatched tables and chairs are scattered randomly throughout the tiny room. The only thing more motley than the furniture is the customers. A tiny woman with pointy ears and an even pointier hat sits in a highchair and sips a green liquid from a teacup patterned with flowers. In the far corner, a group of large men wearing black cloaks talks in low whispers over plastic cups filled with something orange and bubbling, and I'm pretty sure they aren't speaking English. A large box sits on the floor beside one of the men, and I'm busy trying to divine its contents when it jumps, suddenly and violently, making me jump and knock my shin on a coffee table that has no right to hover less than half a meter above the cracked wooden floor. The noise makes everyone, including the old, bald bartender who's intently polishing a cracked beaker that's definitely seen better days, glance up at Io and me. The mood immediately shifts from bored to hostile, and every instinct I have tells me to run, but Io doesn't break stride, continuing through the bar, out the back door, and into a small courtyard.
I glance around and frown in confusion. There's not much back here: a couple of unhappy-looking trash cans, and a few rebellious weeds poking through the cement in search of a ray of sunshine. Sorry, buds, but it's bloody London. I look at Io for a clue as to what the bloody Hell we're doing here, but his attention is completely focused on the brick wall at the back of the courtyard. He taps a brick three times, and the wall falls away to reveal-
Shops. One advertises cauldrons: pewter, silver, copper, brass. Another has a massive, glowing sign promising "the largest back-to-school sale in the entire Wizarding World" with letters that I swear aren't the same size, shape, or color they were a moment ago. A noisy racket comes from a shop a bit further down the road, where a group of kids about a year older than me are clustered around a...something. Whatever that something is, it's putting up a good fight against the kids, who are laughing and squealing as they poke it with sticks, and I find myself silently cheering it on.
People. There are people of all shapes and sizes and ethnicities and is he green?! I stare at a tall, thin man with olive green skin who stops to check his watch before disappearing with a loud crack. Most people (most of the humans at least) are wearing long, flowing, ornate robes with matching, pointy hats, and I fiercely wish Alan was here with me. He put up a good argument this morning which lasted all of two seconds before he withered under Io's glare. Small gaggles of children and teens loiter in and around stores, too busy getting in the way of busy mums to notice that they are getting in the way of busy mums.
Magic. Paper airplanes zoom in and out of stores seemingly of their own volition; I snatch one out of the air and it hisses at me. A bloody metal dragon with Welcome to Diagon Alley painted on its side in what appears to be liquid flames perches on top of a store and spits fire at two boys who appear to be trying to conceal something in their robes. The boys hastily drop the object, which appears to be some sort of candy, except it's moving, and scramble to escape from the heat. People keep randomly appearing and disappearing like the man from earlier. I yelp as a man with fiery red hair appears in front of me. I try to stop, but I have a theory that it's my destiny to run into every bloody person on the planet at least once in my life, and apparently the universe sees no reason to change that now. The man stumbles and catches me with one hand while pushing his wire frame glasses back up his nose with the other. My breath leaves me in a hiss as something burns my arm where he's touching me. The man quickly removes his hand from its vice grip around my arm, and he looks up at me with curiosity as I look down at his hands with alarm. Each finger is covered with at least one plain, silver ring, nothing like the gorgeous, detailed ring on my hand. Silver.
Io clears his throat, and I look up, noticing how the man's eyes are the same shade as the pale clouds lurking above before he shifts his gaze to Io. Immediately, his entire demeanor changes from curiosity to open hostility.
​"Lupus," he says, and I shiver at the ice packed into the single word.
​"Do I know you?" Io asks, cool as a cucumber - I don't get that expression. Wouldn't something like ice be cooler than a cucumber? - despite the stranger's hostility.
​The newcomer gives Io a grimace that can barely be mistaken as a smile. "Carnelian Bane," he introduces himself, shaking first my hand, then Io's. I try to resist the urge to roll my eyes. Why don't they just whip out their-"I'm the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts," he continues, interrupting my train of thought. "I assume you're a student there." It takes me a second to realize that the statement was actually a question and a second longer to realize that it was directed towards me.
​"I...umm...Yes?" I answer intelligently, bowing my head to hide the embarrassing flush of my cheeks.
​Bane smiles and says, "Well, it's been nice meeting you, Liane."
I frown - I never told him my name, did I? - but he's gone before I can think about forming a reply.
​"Do you have your key?"
​I jump a little, startled by the sudden question, and turn to Io. "Sorry, what?" I'm just so bloody smart today.
​"Your key, Liane," Io repeats patronizingly slowly, more than a little annoyed. "Do you have your key?" I stare at him dumbly for a second; repeating it definitely did not help my understanding of the question.
With a long-suffering sigh, Io points to the enormous white marble building in front of us. I jump again at the sudden appearance of the building, and turn to look over my shoulder back at the way we came. There's no sign of the brick wall Io and I came through earlier. How have we walked so bloody far? I turn my attention back to the building in front of me. It looks like the pictures of the White House in America I've seen, with large marble columns and an obsessive number of windows. Carved above the door is the word: Gringotts. The name triggers a memory, and I reach into my pocket, fumbling a bit before withdrawing the key from my Hogwarts letter -which is also safely tucked away in my pocket -- and holding it up triumphantly. "Got the key," I say unnecessarily.
Io stares at the key, and for a moment, he almost seems wistful... The moment is ruined when he rolls his eyes and points from the key to Gringotts. "Use the key, get your money, get your supplies, and meet me where we came in at four," Io commands, making it sound like a battle plan. I barely restrain myself from saluting him by crossing my arms over my chest, and I give him a small nod in agreement before remembering that I have a question.
"Where are you going?" I ask, my voice pathetically small.
Io seems to scarcely refrain from rolling his eyes. "I have some business to attend to. Need me to hold your hand?" he sneers.
I don't trust myself to respond without cursing, so I just shake my head, and he's gone. I panic for a moment before remembering the plan. Use the key, get your money. Right. I can do that. With a deep breath, I head into Gringotts, and my breath is immediately taken away.
Most of the space is wasted on making the place look big. Mission accomplished. The ceiling is ridiculously high and is dominated by a single massive chandelier. Everything is decorated with gold: the friezes bordering the windows, the chandelier, the bloody walls, and the long slab of marble directly in front of me sectioned off into a number of desks, each manned by...by a... dwarf. An ugly, tiny, warty dwarf. I don't realize I said the last bit out loud until all conversation around me stops and everyone's gaze is upon me. The mums and dads look scandalized, their children aren't trying very hard to muffle their giggles, and the dwarves...the dwarves look absolutely murderous. I gulp and turn to the nearest dwarf, whose ears are pink with rage.
"I-I'm sorry...I didn't mean to--" I try to explain, only to be cut off.
"It's quite alright young witch," - Right. Cuz I'm a witch now - "I'll just have you know one thing."
"Umm...and what might that be?" I ask nervously.
"We," the dwarf begins, "are goblins."
"Oh." I didn't expect that one.
"Oh," the dwarf - goblin -- repeats with a pleasant smile. "What may I help you with today?"
"Oh!" I say again, remembering why I'm here -- other than to make a complete fool of myself. "I have this key," I begin, showing the key to the goblin, "and...I need money..." I finish lamely.
The goblin takes the key, raising his busy white eyebrows and turning toward the back of the bank with a swish of his floor-length beard. I'm led across an obscene amount of empty space, past a score of glaring goblins, through an ornate wooden door (bordered in gold as well), and into a dark, cramped, stone tunnel, which is in direct contrast with the bright, airy room we just left. The goblin gestures to the solitary cart sitting on the left-most set of tracks lining the floor before turning to take one of the flaming torches from the wall. When he turns back around to find that I haven't moved, he sighs in exasperation. "For the love of gold, will you just get in the bloody cart? I haven't got all day," he complains.
I hurriedly obey, not wanting to get on the bad side of the only goblin that doesn't look like they want to strangle me. "Umm, Mr-" I pause. "I'm sorry; I don't even know your name."
The goblin settles in the cart next to me and takes the chance to tell me his life story as the cart hurtles down the tunnel at breakneck speeds. "Name's Mory," he begins. The cart takes a sharp left, and I almost brain myself against the chiseled stone wall. "Got twelve brothers and sisters," he continues. "Bory and Wory, they're the youngest." We pass an empty cart that's racing past in the opposite direction. "Then, there's Tory, Dory, and Story." I see something green and shiny out of the corner of my eye, but by the time I twist my head around to get a better look, it's long gone. "Nory and Kory, they were a handful." Something jars the cart, and I almost bite my tongue off. "Can't forget Flory and Glory...though I wish I could..." I don't think I was meant to hear that last part. "Next are Yory and Lory." Somehow the flame of the torch hasn't blown out by now. Magic a little voice in the back of my head sings. "And finally, big brother, Steven." The cart curves slightly to the right. "I don't know how Mum dealt with us all those years," Mory concludes with a chuckle as the cart comes to a surprisingly smooth stop. "Well, we're here," he says unnecessarily. I'm already out of the cart and trembling on the cobblestone walkway surrounding the tracks.
Years and years ago, Dad took me to the Winter Fair for my birthday, and he'd sat by me on the rollercoaster and promised that everything would be alright simply because he was there. It'd been terrifying, and I'd cried for an hour afterwards, but it was the last memory of my dad I had before....before...I blink the sudden tears from my eyes and glance up to see Mory staring down at me pityingly. "First time's always the hardest," he reassures me, turning away before I can explain and fitting my key into the lock of a small door.
Everything I had to say dies on my lips when the door swings open. Inside is a room even larger than Io's precious family room, and every surface is covered with coins. Most are large and gold, and they're stacked in tall columns or sprawling pyramids, as if someone had way too much free time on their hands. The rest are tiny and bronze, and they're scattered around randomly as if an afterthought. A narrow path winds through the coins, and I find myself following it unconsciously. The trail leads to the back of the room, which is much bigger than I originally thought. I turn sideways to fit through a narrow gap between two columns of gold, and I stop dead.
Directly in front of me is a wolf. Or rather a statue of a wolf. A statue of a wolf that's so life-like, I immediately feel myself tensing, ready to fight, and I don't need a mirror to know that my eyes are as gold as the coins surrounding me. I let out a shaky laugh at myself and warily move closer to inspect the statue.
It really is a stunning work of art. Every strand of fur on the wolf seems to have been carved with the same exquisite detail, making the plain, grey stone look white and black in some places. The wolf's ears are pointed forward, and its teeth are bared in a fierce, protective snarl, but the real eye-catcher is the eyes. Alert, dangerous, wild, and a cold silver that burns with the light of the moon. I shift my gaze downward to look at what it's guarding, and my heart almost stops.
Nestled between the wolf's paws is another, much smaller wolf carved out of glossy black stone. There isn't as much detail on this wolf because the entire focus is on the eyes. They're open, curious, innocent, and a burning gold that's exactly the same as mine. Surely, it could just be a coincidence. Gold is a rather lovely color after all. But are the tiny flecks of silver scattered in the eyes an accident? Is the tiny spark of humanity I see in them a trick of the light? Is it a coincidence that I see these eyes staring back at me in the mirror every time I lose control of my emotions?
After what seems like an hour, I glance away from the wolf's eyes. A flash of silver catches my attention and I turn my attention to the silver necklace around the pup's neck. I kneel down to take a closer look at the golden pendant hanging from the chain.
It's a sun. A tiny sun that fills me with a pleasant warmth when I grasp it, completely eradicating the icy burn of my ring. Impulsively, I slip the necklace over the wolf's head and into my pocket just as Mory rounds the corner, knocking over a stack of golden coins.
He gives me a contrite grin before saying, "I have taken the liberty of collecting enough coins for you to last you a good long while, Ms. Lupus." I muffle my snort and take the heavy pouch he offers me. I'm sure he took the liberty of collecting a few coins for himself as well if his bulging pockets are any indication. I don't mind though; there's enough money here to fund the rebellion of a small country. Mory continues, "The gold ones are Galleons, and the bronze ones are Knuts. Four-hundred ninety-three Knuts to a Galleon..." he trails off with a frown before continuing again, "But normally there are silver Sickles too. Don't know why there aren't any here."
I have a sinking feeling that I know why, but I just offer him a smile and say, "Don't worry about it. Thanks for all you've done, Mory," which is apparently enough because Mory smiles happily and heads toward the door. I start after him, pausing at the collapsed stack of coins - Galleons - to glance back at the wolves. I freeze, and my heart freezes with me. The little wolf's eyes are completely black.
~O~
​I stop outside the bank to lean against a pillar, close my eyes, and think about what the bloody Hell happened in the past hour. Scratch that; in the past two days.
I stand there until my breathing calms and I'm sure that the last traces of gold have left my eyes. I glance at the clock hanging above the store across the street, and it helpfully informs me that it's a quarter past you're probably late. Stupid useless magic clocks.
I'm about to commence Phase Two: get your supplies, when a high-pitched squeal distracts me.
​"Oh thank God you're alright!"
​I blink dumbly at the girl who just appeared in front of me. It wasn't magic or teleportation, but simply the erratic flight of a pixie with nothing to do but not enough time to do it. The girl is my age, with coppery hair and eyes and a pale face painted with freckles, and somehow, she's even shorter than me. It takes me a moment to realize that I've been staring, another moment to realize that she was talking to me, and entirely too long to make sense of the jumbled words that yes, in fact, really were English.
​My lack of response apparently doesn't phase her, and she continues talking. "I saw you go down with that goblin, and you didn't come back for so long, and I thought that maybe after you insulted them, which wasn't a very smart thing to do by the way, you must be new here like me," she pauses for breath and starts to chatter on again before pausing as if she forgot what she was going to say. "Oh thank God you're alright!" she exclaims again.
​It takes me less time to process her words and come up with a suitable response this time, but all I can manage is, "Umm...who are you?" I cringe at the question, about to take it back, but I'm stopped by the girl's gasp of horror.
​"Oh my God, I totally forgot my manners!" she squeals. I silently promise myself to never upset her again, and my eardrums readily agree. "Hi, I'm C.J., but everyone calls me C. J.," she says, holding out a hand in greeting. I frown - something wasn't quite right with that sentence, but the words were too rushed for me to pinpoint exactly what it was - and take her hand. I'm about to introduce myself when she continues talking, "I'm a witch, or at least I'm gonna be one, and I assume you are too, and I'm getting my school supplies today cuz I totally forgot to tell my mum how to get here, she's a Muggle ya see? Dad's one too. And that makes me a Muggle-born," she finishes proudly.
​I think through the ever-growing list of questions in my head, trying to decide which one needs to be answered right now, but my brain and my mouth don't seem to be talking to each other at the moment, so I ask, my voice slightly strangled, "You're a what?!"
​"A Muggle-born," C.J. repeats as if I'm the one not making sense. "Muggles are the ones without magic. A Muggle-born is a witch or wizard born from two Muggles," she says, and the slight monotone of her voice tells me that she's memorized this. C.J. gazes at me, sizing me up before nodding to herself. "Wanna shop with me?"
​I curse whatever evil spirit makes me nod my head, and at C.J.'s scream of pure delight, my ears and my head immediately begin to plot their revenge. I can already tell that years of dealing with Alan have been preparing me for this moment, and that my patience is about to be put to the ultimate test.
​I almost fail the test at the first shop, a quaint little thing called Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. Madam Malkin is a squat little woman with an easy smile and a harsh frown. She leads C.J. and me to the back of the shop where she (along with her handy dandy magical tape measure) proceeds to measure every bloody inch of me. Why does she need to know the length of my nose? I stand straight and still like a good little witch - the idea of me being a witch is still ridiculous, but maybe having the pointy hat will help -- even when the snake-like tape measure slithers over places it has no business being, but C.J. giggles and twitches at every poke and prod from Madam Malkin until she threatens to turn C.J. into a pretty little toad. Despite my throbbing head, I find myself beginning to like C.J., even if my ears are still threatening to commit mutiny.
​After Madam Malkin's, C.J. drags me into Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor and shoves her bags at me before skipping to the counter, nearly knocking over a man - a wizard - and his wife - a witch. While she orders, I find a little booth in the corner and set our bags down before joining C.J. at the counter. She's happily licking three scoops of chocolate ice cream that make my stomach hurt just thinking about them, and she heads toward the booth when I point it out. I'm about to follow her when the man behind the counter (Mr. Fortescue I assume) clears his throat and offers me a small cup of ice cream.
"I didn't order anything," I say, confused.
​"I know," he responds. "Just thought you could use some," he says with a pointed look at C.J.
I'm about to deny the kind offer when a panicked squeal makes me follow his gaze to the back of the store. C.J. is standing over my bags with an apologetic expression and only one scoop of ice cream on her cone. The other one and a half scoops are happily melting on my brand-new robes.
"Sorry." She doesn't sound sorry at all.
Mr. Fortescue raises his eyebrows, and I gratefully accept the ice cream (pumpkin mixed with little bits of something cinnamony). I grab my soiled robes and stupidly agree to meet up with C.J. outside the Apothecary after returning to Madam Malkin's to do something about the chocolate stain marring my robes. I don't ask what she could possibly need from there - frankly, I don't want to know.
Madam Malkin is less than pleased to find me eating ice cream in her store, but she's surprisingly accepting of the stain on my robes.
"Ms. Carlin?" she asks when I've hastily finished my ice cream and thrown the container in the rubbish bin.
I have no bloody clue who she's talking about, but from the way she says it, I assume she's talking about C.J. C.J. Carlin...I commit the name to memory, if only so I know to run in the opposite direction if I ever hear it again. I answer with a nod, feeling inexplicably guilty for ratting out C.J. I'm sure she didn't mean to do it...maybe...
Madam Malkin nods to herself and pulls a stick from a pocket in her mauve robes that I swear wasn't there before. "Scourgify," she says calmly, pointing the stick at the stain in the robes, and the chocolate agreeably lifts into the air before disappearing as if it has somewhere else to be. "There," Madam Malkin says, as if this were all perfectly normal, "good as new." She hands the robes back to me, and I take them, feeling numb. Bloody magic. She must've noticed my dazed expression because she gives me a sympathetic smile, reaches into another randomly appearing pocket in her robes, and drops a handful of small, individually-wrapped yellow candies into my hand. "They're Sherbet Lemons," she explains, which isn't really an explanation at all, but she's already turning away to deal with another customer, so I guess I'm dismissed.
I head toward the Apothecary, arriving just in time to hear, "...and stay out!" as C.J. is unceremoniously tossed onto the cobbled street. She sniffles, brushes herself off, and heads purposefully down the street without seeing me, bumping into no less than three wizards and two witches on her way. I surprise myself with the thought; I'm finally thinking of them - of us - as what they are: not just regular people - Muggles -- but what they truly are -- something different, wonderful, magical.
I turn to look at the shopkeeper, who's watching C.J.'s retreat with narrowed eyes. He looks down at me with a frown. "Are you friends with her?"
I start to shake my head, to tell him that I just met the girl and that we are most definitely not mates, but instead, I find myself nodding.
He makes a rude noise before handing me a small, glass vial filled with a clear liquid. At my questioning glance, he grunts. "It's for the headache," he explains before turning away to snap at two boys who immediately scatter in fear, dropping what appear to be unicorn horns. I smile to myself. Seems like a pleasant bloke.
~O~
​Sherbet Lemons are my new favorite candy.
They get me through what I assume to be the joke shop (the sign explodes into glitter before I can get a good look at it), where I find C.J. after the run-in with the Apothecary, and she almost takes my head off with a Fanged Frisbee. The shopkeeper hands me a bag of what appear to be innocent jellybeans on the way out.
They get me through the cauldron shop, where C.J. dents every single bloody copper cauldron while deciding if she wants to go with the standard pewter or not. Mr. Potage, the shopkeeper, gives me a pitying smile and drops what appears to be a toad into my new cauldron. I stare at it until he assures me that it's just peppermint, but I decide that Mr. Potage is a bloody, lying snake when the toad lifts its head and croaks at me, just as I've let my guard down.
They get me through the wizarding equipment shop, where C.J. pressures me into buying a chart of the lunar phases -- even though I always know where the moon is -- because I "haven't bought anything interesting!" The shopkeeper, a ruddy-faced man named Wiseacre, assures me that it's perfectly accurate before offering me a vibrant-green lollipop.
They barely get me through Flourish and Blotts, the bookstore, where C.J. hands me a handful of silver coins (Knuts I guess) and asks me to get her books before going off to gawk at a book locked in a cage that appears to be growling (the book, not the cage). I hiss in pain, quickly drop the coins into my back pocket, and head to the counter. The shopkeeper, a woman this time, doesn't look up from her book before asking, "Hogwarts?" I nod, even though she can't see me, which apparently isn't a problem because she sets a stack of books on the counter and says, "That'll be thirteen Galleons," before turning the page.
"Another set for my friend, please," I say with a sigh as I take the right amount of money out of the pouch Mory gave me. C.J. didn't give me nearly enough money.
Suddenly, there's a commotion from the front of the shop, and I turn around to see C.J. running away from the book that has somehow gotten free of its cage. Its covers open and close like snapping jaws, and it appears to have grown legs at some point. I wince as C.J. knocks over a stack of books in her haste to escape. What did the books ever do to her?
I turn back to the shopkeeper with an apology on my tongue, but she simply purses her lips, sets another stack of books on the counter beside the first, places a small package on top, and says, "Second set's free." I nod and accept the books and package. The label reads: Chocolate Frogs. Why do people keep giving me candy? I can't even eat chocolate.
The Sherbet Lemons also get me through a large store called: Quality Quidditch Supplies. Things go well for about three minutes while C.J.'s distracted by a strangely shaped broomstick on proud display in the center of the store. Then, she accidentally knocks over an innocent glass box, and everything goes straight to Hell.
Tiny golden balls with white, angelic wings swarm out of the shattered box, twisting and twirling through the air in their glee to be free. I find myself transfixed by their erratic dance, even as one zooms straight towards me, pausing at the last possible second before racing back to join its friends.
A harried-looking woman storms out of the back of the store, a stubby little stick in her hand which she points at the flock of balls. "Immobulus!" she cries, waving the stick, and one by one, the beautiful winged balls fall to the ground, their wings frozen at their sides. I'm strangely disappointed by the sudden halt of dizzying motion. The woman sighs in exasperation before returning to the back of the room (presumably to find another box).
As soon as her back is turned, one of the tiny balls makes a break for it.
My arm snaps up of its own accord, snatching the golden sphere from the air right before it escapes through the open door. I stare down at the object that fits perfectly in my hand, its delicate wings fluttering feebly, and look up at the shopkeeper to find my utter befuddlement reflected in her eyes.
"Nice catch," she says after an awkward moment. I offer her the golden ball, which has gone limp in defeat in my hand, but she shakes her head and gives me a strange look. "Keep it," she says. "It's yours."
I blink and mumble my thanks before grabbing a shell-shocked C.J. and dragging her out of the store. Outside, I pause to look at her. "What even is Quidditch?"
She shrugs and with a mumbled "I dunno," continues down the street.
I watch her walk away for a moment before opening my tightly clenched fist, letting the golden ball fly a few centimeters above my head before catching it again. I smile as it desperately beats my palm with its feathered wings. Definitely better than candy.
~O~
​My patience and I fail the test at the last shop, a shabby little thing called Ollivanders. Both C.J. and I almost knock something over within three seconds of stepping into the store, though C.J. manages it a moment later, knocking over a stack of boxes and spilling their contents onto the floor. I turn to glare at her (I'm getting very sick of her clumsiness), but she's too busy examining something on the fluffy, purple carpet to notice. I bend down to get a closer look at the object: a long, thin stick.
​"A wand," C.J. breathes, and I mentally slap myself. Of course the sticks are wands. C.J. picks up the stick - wand - and mumbles to herself, "I heard a spell earlier...now if only I could remember it...Ah ha!" She raises the wand triumphantly and shouts, "Avis!"
I have just enough presence of mind to duck out of the way as miniscule white birds shoot from the tip of her wand, but the old man that appears from behind a shelf laden with hundreds of boxes isn't as lucky. He falls on his bum with a squeal that would probably be hilarious if it wasn't so pitiful. I give him a hand up, tensing at the sight of his pale eyes for a moment before relaxing. This man is as far from Bane as one can get, with white tufts of hair sticking up on his balding head and a kind, fatherly demeanor.
The man (Ollivander, maybe?) turns to C.J. and says crossly, "No magic in the store please, young witch."
"Sorry," C.J. mumbles unapologetically as the shopkeeper grabs a wand from a table that's attempting to hide behind several stacks of boxes, which I presume are filled with more wands.
"Evanesco," he says, and the tiny birds disappear as if they never existed. The man looks down at the wand in his hand with a frown. "This isn't my wand..." he murmurs, turning away to search through the rubble around him for a minute before giving up with a sigh. He turns to look at C.J. with a paternal smile, and says, "No harm done, my dear," gesturing to indicate the lack of magically-conjured birds in the store. "Anyway, it seems as though you have saved me the trouble of finding you a wand," the man (definitely Ollivander) continues.
C.J. looks down at the wand - her wand - with surprise. "This is mine?!" she asks, her voice a breathy whisper of awe, and I suddenly wonder if C.J. has ever had anything that truly belonged to her. The thought makes me inexplicably sad, and I hastily blink tears out of my eyes. Stupid hormones.
"Yes, yes," Ollivander answers. "Twelve and three-fourths inches. Solid. Apple with a phoenix feather core."
I don't have a bloody clue what he's talking about, but C.J. squeals in pure delight before clutching the wand to her chest protectively. I smile at her and can't help myself from asking, "How much?"
"Oh, no, you don't have to-" C.J. protests, but I cut her off with a smile.
"What else are friends for?"
C.J. watches me with a look of absolute adoration as I hand Ollivander the seven gold Galleons he requests. When the last coin falls from my hand, she screeches and jumps onto me, latching on like a baby koala. I smile, thinking that maybe, just maybe, the torture had been worth it. My eardrums vehemently disagree.
"I assume you'll be needing a wand as well?" Ollivander's voice asks, completely ruining the moment.
C.J. climbs off of me, and I give the wandmaker a nod in answer. He glances over me, and I have the uncomfortable feeling that his misty eyes are seeing more than skin-deep. A frown creases his brow, and he ducks between the rows of shelves, returning a moment later with two long boxes.
The first is wooden and plain. I take the wand out of the container and hold it up, but Ollivander grabs it from my hand almost immediately with a firm shake of his head.
The second box is sleek and black, and it vaguely reminds me of the statue of the wolf pup deep under Gringotts. Inside, a short wand rests on a cushion of velvet. I hesitantly grip the wand with my index finger and my thumb, and a rush of magic fills me - electrifying, dangerous, powerful. I gasp as a gust of wind tears through the small shop, disturbing the carefully stacked boxes placed haphazardly throughout the room. The silver light from the wand grows brighter and brighter until I have to close my eyes to keep from being blinded.
I open my eyes to find C.J. and Ollivander staring at me, C.J. with awe plastered over every inch of her face, Ollivander with a troubled expression marring his. The wand falls from my numb hand and onto the purple carpet that suddenly seems darker than it was before.
"Well," Ollivander begins gruffly, "I guess that's your wand-"
C.J.'s excited squeal drowns out the rest of his sentence. "Oh my God that was amazing!" She takes a step closer to me.
Something cracks.
C.J. moves her foot, and we both stare down at my wand. My wand....My brand-new wand, that's now snapped in two.
C.J. looks up at me with horror mutilating her spritely countenance. "I'm so sorry..." she breathes.
Something inside of me cracks too.
"Get. Out." I growl, and the ice in my voice surprises both of us. The sight of the unshed tears in C.J.'s copper eyes as she grabs her wand and hurries out of the store threatens to break me even more.
My wand releases a feeble stream of sparks, and suddenly, I want to cry again. My one tie to this strange world of wands and magic, my proof that I belonged here among these witches and wizards and goblins - surely wands don't produce wind like that for just anyone - and it's gone, just like that.
The harsh jingle of the bell above the entrance makes me jump out of my thoughts and nearly out of my skin, and I turn to the front of the store. My body immediately tenses at the sight flame-bright hair, but the boy in front of me is even less like Bane than Ollivander. His hair is more orange than red, his pale eyes are the shy, tentative blue of the sky after a snowstorm instead of white like the unforgiving snow, and they're filled with a mixture of curiosity and worry, and an easy smile rests on his face. Basically, he's the most stunningly beautiful human being to ever grace the Earth with his presence. I quickly banish the thought to the dark corners of mind that are usually reserved for nightmares and thoughts of kicking puppies.
The boy freezes when he sees me, his features contorting in shock before being replaced by a calm mask. "What's going on?" he asks, pointing out the door to indicate C.J. His voice is soft and smooth and contains a lilting accent that's bloody adorable, but I do not swoon. Not even a little bit... His eyes widen as he takes in the broken remains of my wand, Ollivander's slightly harried - yet strangely relieved - expression, and the single tear that stubbornly lingers in the corner of my eye. "Oh," he says in realization. He gives me a warm smile that melts the ice around my heart. "It's alright. We can get you a new wand," he reassures me. "Ollivander's the best in the whole Wizard World."
Ollivander, as if suddenly remembering a forgotten line in a play, says overenthusiastically, "Well, young Loki," Loki -- I tuck the name safely away in the back of my mind, where it can be analyzed and reanalyzed later until it loses all meaning - "that's what they say, but I'm hardly the best..." Ollivander trails off dramatically so we can appreciate the full depth of his humility. "Now, let's see about getting-" he pauses. "I'm sorry, dear, would you mind giving me your name?"
"Liane," I answer, my voice coming out in a squeak. An embarrassed flush spreads across my cheeks, and I clear my throat before continuing, "Liane Lupus."
"Liane," Loki repeats, a little breathless with shock, the way a person whose worst fears were just confirmed would sound. I turn to frown at him, and I become breathless too at the sorrow marring his countenance.
Ollivander interrupts my thoughts before they can process this. "Now, let's see about getting Ms. Lupus a new wand," he says, heading into the maze of shelves at the back of the shop with a gesture for us to follow. Loki and I share a glance before trailing after the wandmaker, and his visage is back to being open and friendly.
I don't know how long we search, but it's long enough for Loki to find his own wand --fourteen and a half inches, unicorn hair core, and made out of pear wood (not that I memorized it or anything). "Huh," he says, staring down at the wand, which glows faintly purple at his touch, "I didn't know pears grew on trees." I roll my eyes; definitely not a Ravenclaw. Why do the cute ones have to be so stupid?
I glance at Loki's half-startled, half-amused look before clamping my hands over my mouth in horror. "Did I just say that out loud?!" I ask, ready to die of humiliation.
"Yeah..." Loki answers with a small smirk on his lips.
I huff in annoyance - at both myself for being so bloody dense and him for being so bloody adorable (really, it just isn't fair) - and stalk away down an aisle, where I resume searching for the perfect wand. Distantly, I hear a bell ring, and I allow myself a single sigh before continuing the hunt. I don't care that he's gone. Not one bit.
Each wand has a flaw that's frustratingly small. This one's too short, that one's too thin, and none of them feel right.
A noise from further down the aisle startles me, and I look up from the ornate, red box in my hands, but it's just Ollivander, muttering to himself as he searches the bottom shelf. "Where is it?" he asks the boxes. "Where. Is. It?!" he demands frustratedly. I step forward, about to offer my assistance when he apparently finds what he's looking for on the top shelf, hiding behind several boxes. "Accio," he says, pointing the wand he just picked up at whatever he's trying to get. Ollivander discards the wand with a scowl (apparently that isn't his wand either) as a box flies off the shelf and into his arms.
I can't help but let out a breathy gasp of awe at the sight of the box: a gold - wait, no, it's silver - container that looks as though it's been fashioned out of a single piece of precious metal. It calls to every part of me - every deeply rooted instinct, every hidden desire, everything that makes me me - as if there's a box-shaped hole in my soul where the case should be.
Ollivander looks up at the sound, and the sheer terror etched into his face makes my inner predator smirk in satisfaction while the more human part of me recoils at the expression. It's a look I'd hoped I'd never see again. "Liane," he says pleasantly, but the faint warble in his voice is unmistakable. Ollivander not-so-subtly tries to hide the golden box - wasn't it just silver? - behind his back.
"What's that?" I ask, pretending that every box in this bloody store doesn't contain the exact same thing: a wand.
The wandmaker looks down at the box (it's definitely silver now) as if surprised that he's holding it. "Oh this? It's....nothing." At my raised eyebrow, Ollivander continues hurriedly, "I don't think this particular wand would be suitable for you."
"Give. It. To. Me," I growl, and from the combination of shock, awe, and fear in his eyes, I can tell that my eyes are blazing gold. For once, I don't give a damn. A pitiful whimper escapes from his lips, and Ollivander reluctantly holds out the box.
As soon as my hands touch the box, which is very much so gold now, everything within me, every part of me that never felt like it belonged, settles, like the sea calming after a violent storm, soothed to sleep by the comforting murmur of the wind that's finally decided to relax. Inside the box rests a short, simple wand that's not particularly different from any of the multitude of wands I've already seen, but the moment I see it, I know that it's mine. I pick up the wand, and something hidden deep inside of me lifts its weary head and stretches tentatively - ecstatic to be free but wary that it's all some cruel joke. The ring on my finger burns (more than usual), a white-hot pain that threatens to pull a scream from my mouth, but it recedes just as quickly as it came.
A word appears at my lips, begging to be released, and I oblige. "Nox." A rush of pure energy rips through me, and the world goes dark. The sound of my ragged breathing fills the void left by the light, and for a moment, it goes unchallenged as the only noise left in this world of shadows. Then, a voice, harsh and loud in the silence, interrupts the serene quiet.
"Liane," it pleads, "let go of the magic. Release it. Please." I snort in derision. Why would anyone ever want to let go of this feeling? Magic continues to stream out through my wand, leaving behind a dizzying sensation of power that I've never felt before, but I'm not tired at all - far from it, actually. It's as if there's no limit to the vast amount of magic living inside of me that's been resting for much too long, and now that it's awake, there's no stopping it; who could, even if they wanted to? Right now, in this moment, I am invincible....until I'm not. "Finite Incantatem," the same voice from early says, and just like that, the magic pouring out of me pauses, retreats back into me, and settles down unhappily.
Light returns to the store, momentarily blinding me. I blink away enough spots to see Ollivander standing in front of me in the same spot he was standing in earlier -- the boxes scattered around him haven't moved either, though that wooden one appears to have fallen over at some point. I frown at the normalcy of the scene; to me, it feels as though everything's changed, but the world apparently doesn't feel the same way. I hold up the wand (which looks deceivingly innocent in the light) to a shell-shocked Ollivander and say, firmly and a little shakily, "This one's mine."
He nods in reluctant acceptance, his pale eyes so full of apology that he might as well have said, "I'm so sorry."
I frown a little - what could the wandmaker possibly be sorry for? - and ask, "How much, again?" I know he told me earlier, but I'm still slightly dazed from casting that spell earlier. I startle at the thought. That spell...because that's what it was - a spell. A spell cast by a witch. A spell cast by me.
Ollivander shakes his head, his voice drowning in regret and sorrow when he says, "It's free. I think you've already paid more than enough, Ana." I stiffen at the nickname I haven't heard in years - four to be exact - but Ollivander answers my question before I can ask it, "Your father was a great man. I can only hope that you will follow in his footsteps."
I blink away my sudden tears, and with a hasty, "Thank you," I escape from the store, the abrupt need to get the Hell out obscuring the need for answers. For the second time today, I pause outside to catch my breath, but this time, I stubbornly keep myself from thinking, afraid of where my thoughts will lead me. I look around for a clock, but apparently witches and wizards don't believe in keeping time. I agree with the verdict of the clock from earlier, I'm probably late, and I hurry to avoid Io's lecture on the importance of punctuality.
As if summoned by my thoughts, I hear Io's voice as I race past the mouth of an alley. I pause, wondering if I should go to him or continue with Phase Three: meet Io back at the wall. The sound of my name makes the decision for me, and I place the cauldron containing all my supplies on the ground softly before leaning against the brick wall of an abandoned store as I eavesdrop, suddenly grateful for my sensitive hearing.
"Oh yes, Liane," a familiar voice says, and it takes me a moment to match the voice to its owner. I cover my mouth with my hands to stifle a gasp when it hits me -- the voice belongs to Carnelian. I peek my head around the corner to confirm my guess, and I see Io standing with his back to me, facing the flame-haired man, who looks as if he'd much rather be burning in Hell right now. "Do you really think he'll take the bait?"
"I'm certain of it," Io replies. "Haven't you noticed how the attacks have increased?"
Attacks?
Bane grunts in agreement. "I'll be keeping an eye on her then until I receive your signal. Don't fail us again." With that, he disappears in a dramatic puff of green smoke, leaving Io to stand there and simmer.
I take that as my cue to exit as well, and after grabbing the cauldron, I make a hasty retreat. I start heading back to the wall outside the Leaky Cauldron slowly, wanting to get there before Io but needing time to process my thoughts. Why does eavesdropping have to be so unhelpful? I have more bloody questions than I started out with.
Who's the mysterious he?
What attacks?
Who did Bane mean when he said, "us"?
And most importantly, what the bloody Hell do I have to do with any of this?
I'm startled out of my reverie by a loud, hopeless voice coming from the alley between the pet shop -- Eeylops Owl Emporium and Magical Menagerie, unless the tarnished sign above the door is lying - and the Quidditch shop - I still want to know what the bloody Hell Quidditch is. "What am I going to do with you?" the voice asks. I round the corner to find a large, bald man standing over a creature in a plain, wooden cage. The man sighs regretfully and reaches into his pocket.
"What are you doing?" I ask suspiciously, inexplicably protective of whatever is in the cage. I move closer to get a better look at it, and I recognize it as the thing from earlier that was being tormented by the group of kids. Its back is to me, so all I can see is a large, oblong, feathery ball that's trying - and failing - to hide from the man, who at least has the decency to look remorseful.
"Well, Miss, sometimes when the owls can't behave around people, it's best to...to let them go."
I bristle at the euphemism and his condescending tone. Let them go... Feeling a rush of sympathy for any creature that would have to live under the man's care, I stick a hand through the bars of the domed cage, stopping before my fingers reach the animal.
"Don't!" the man shouts in warning. "He's dangerous..." the man trails off as the owl lifts his head, pressing it against my hand in search of comfort.
I shoot the man a smug look, my grin growing at his look of utter bewilderment. "He doesn't seem that dangerous." The owl seems to share in my amusement by the twinkling in his tawny eyes.
"I can't believe it!" the man exclaims, his voice slightly strangled with awe. "Mad Mags doesn't let anyone touch him."
I glower at the nickname and make my voice as monotone as possible when I reply, "Yeah, how strange." It really isn't that peculiar; I've always gotten along well with birds - it's cats that can't stand my presence.
"Well..." he begins hesitantly, "do you wanna have 'im? I'll give you the owl, the food, the treats: the whole set for just ten Galleons," he offers in a perfect imitation of a game show host.
I frown in consideration. Io told me to get my supplies, nothing else...but technically, the list had the word "owl" on it somewhere... The owl's bronze eyes, desperate and hopeful, make the decision for me, and I take ten gold coins out of my still-full money pouch and hand them to the man who lets out a squeal that would make C.J. proud before dashing off through the back door of the shop. He returns a minute later, laden with boxes. Apparently, the "whole set" consists of several boxes of owl food, a box of treats, a book on "the right and proper care of screech owls", and a daunting set of tools supposedly used to clean the owl's cage. The man starts to head back to the store, turning around just inside the threshold. "Oh, and the monster's name is Magnus," he says, chuckling to himself as he closes the door behind him.
I blink and turn to my new companion, who regards me silently with burnt-orange eyes. "Hi, Magnus," I say tentatively.
"Who?" he asks, tilting his head and moving into the light after checking to make sure that the man's gone. Now, I can see that his feathers are every shade of gray and brown, as if they couldn't quite decide on a single color to be, and he is blanketed in white, fluffy down underneath.
I run my hands through his soft, silky feathers and answer his question. "You, you twit," I say - and yes, I know he can't understand me.
"Who?" Magnus asks again, and I roll my eyes, already fond of the owl - my owl.
I grab his cage, and I'm making my way to the end of the road when--
"Liane!"
I let out a startled yelp at the all-too-familiar squeal. C.J.
C.J. runs at me with a mug filled with amber liquid that matches Magnus's eyes occupying each hand. She stops in front of me, hesitant and shy as if I'm a wild animal that might attack if she makes one wrong move, and she opens her mouth to speak, but I cut her off before she can begin.
"It's ok, C.J.," I promise, doing a bit of maneuvering to hold up my wand. "Ollivander found a better wand for me," and it's true - this one is better. Where the other wand had felt dangerous and wild, this one feels calming and right, as if it's been waiting all this time just for me.
"Oh that's wonderful!" C.J. exclaims. "I thought you'd hate me. You were so upset..."
I sigh. "C.J., I'd never hate you." No matter how much I want to, I think, but I don't say that last part out loud.
C.J.'s expression brightens like the sun peeking out from behind a cloud, and she holds out one of the mugs in her hands. "I got this for you,"
I take the mug warily. "What is it?"
She shrugs. "I dunno. Some bloke in a funny hat gave it to me." Normally, this would bother me immensely, but since it seems as though every bloody bloke in the Wizard World wears a funny hat, it only bothers me a lot. "On three?" she asks, raising her mug.
I sigh, knowing I'll probably regret this later, but I nod my head and count down in unison with her.
"One, two, three."
I take a tiny, hesitant sip, but C.J. pours half the mug into her mouth; her eyes bulge, and she spews the amber liquid all over Magnus. Both of them let out squawks - Magnus in indignation, C.J. in surprise.
"You got an owl?!" she demands.
In between laughs, I gasp, "Yeah, obviously. His name's Magnus."
C.J. slips a hand through the bars of Magnus's cage. I let out a warning shout, but it comes too late, and C.J. quickly withdraws a hand covered in blood.
"He bit me!" she exclaims in surprise, but she doesn't seem too upset by the two puncture wounds in her hand; in fact, C.J. seems positively delighted. Magnus - the little arse, I think crossly - looks entirely too pleased with himself.
"Sorry about him," I say, subtly moving Magnus away from C.J. "He's a prat."
"Well, he's an adorable little prat," she says, leaning down and putting her face much too close to Magnus's beak.
"C.J.!"
All three of us jump at the shout, and I look over C.J.'s head to see a tall, harried-looking woman weaving through the crowd. Her lack of flowing robes and a pointy hat make it easy to identify her as a Muggle.
"C.J., where have you been?!" the woman - C.J.'s mum I guess - demands.
"Mum!" C.J. says happily, either not noticing or not caring about the frantic note in her mum's voice. She wraps an arm around my shoulders and, completely ignoring the question, says, "This is my new mate -" she pauses, frowns, and looks at me sheepishly. "Sorry, I might've, maybe, quite possibly have forgotten your name."
I don't remind her that she never gave me a chance to tell her my name. "I'm Liane," I introduce myself, holding out a hand to Ms. C.J.'s mum - Ms. Carlin, I think, remembering the name Madam Malkin used.
"This is my new mate, Liane," C.J. continues as if she never stopped talking.
Ms. Carlin grabs C.J.'s arm in a vice grip and starts to pull her away. "Well, time to say goodbye to Liane."
C.J. sags in defeat, and I hate to see the life taken out of her so easily. "Bye, Lia," she mumbles sullenly.
I step forward to give her a one-armed hug, my other arm preoccupied with a cauldron filled with supplies, an owl, and a mug of something that tastes like liquid butterscotch. "Bye, C.J.! See you tomorrow!"
She cheers up as if she'd forgotten everything that's happening tomorrow, and with a tiny wave, C.J. and her mum disappear around the corner. I let out a sigh and deflate a little at the sudden lack of perky.
I turn around and jump back with a startled yelp because Io is right there.
"Io!" I squeak, remembering the overheard discussion between him and Bane. His eyes narrow, and I rewind the last few seconds of my life to figure out what I've done to annoy him this time. I turned around...I squealed...Oh, I called him Io again...
"Uncle Io," I correct myself and somehow manage to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.
Io shifts his eyes heavenward as if praying for patience before growling, "You're late," and with that, he walks away toward the Muggle World. Apparently God wasn't paying attention.
Bloody wizard clocks, I think as I follow after him. And bloody uncles.
~O~
​Io owns a massive marble mansion in one of the nouveau riche inhabited suburbs of London. It has three living rooms, four family rooms, and enough pillars to rival Gringotts. The gardens, my favorite feature of the manor, contain a comical number of fountains, each equipped with grotesque statues of creatures, every species of flower and tree known to England, and a maze of towering hedges that hides the outdoor entrance to the basement, my absolute least favorite place...in the whole bloody world, really. My room is located in the tiniest attic of Io's humble abode, and that's where I head as soon as I get back to Io's house - I refuse to think of it as my house - dodging Alan and his infinite curiosity by offering a sacrifice of all the candy I received at Diagon Alley - I keep the Sherbet Lemons for myself, of course.
Once I'm safely locked away in my room, I carelessly toss my new supplies on the floor - Magnus lets out an indignant hoot as his cage hits the floor -- and lean against the door heavily, letting out a long-suffering sigh as I look over the sparse contents of the attic: a sprawling pile of random pillows and blankets scavenged over the years, a too-short desk buried in books and papers facing the open window that looks out over the garden, a wardrobe and matching dresser containing jeans, t-shirts, and maybe a wayward dress or two, and a trunk trying and failing spectacularly to hide in the far corner.
I walk to the case and pop it open, rifling through clothes permanently packed in case I need to make a quick escape, timeworn photos of my family that I put away carefully, trying not to stare too long, and old food wrappers - gross - before finding what I'm looking for: a scratched and tattered handheld mirror with an ornate border. I stare at my reflection for a while, finally seeing what the shopkeepers in Diagon Alley saw, and I probably would've given myself candy as well; my long, brown hair frames a tiny, drawn face, and bags formed by sleep-deprivation hang under eyes that currently look more like wilting dandelions than roaring fires. I drop the mirror back in the trunk, letting out a breathy, shaky laugh at Io's roar, "She bought an owl?!"
Who am I to own a bloody owl? Who am I to have magic? Who am I?
I grab my journal off my dresser, turn to a random, empty page, and do what I always do when my thoughts get too jumbled to be contained in my head: I write. My tiny, cramped hand-writing fills the top of the page with a title: Who am I? Then, I set to work answering the question with everything that comes to mind:
I am Liane Lupus,
An eleven-year-old,
A sister,
A music-lover,
An introvert,
​I pause, hesitant to write down the truth I've spent the past four years avoiding, as if writing it down will make it true in a way it wasn't before. With a deep breath and a slight shake of my head at my silliness, I continue:
An orphan,
​I stop again, unsure if I should write down the last thought, but I continue writing before I can overthink the consequences:
A werewolf,
​I scan the list, searching for anything that I've missed, and after a moment's thought, I add two more words:
A witch.
~O~
​That night, I dream of girls with copper freckles, boys with fiery hair, and wolves with golden eyes.