𝐒𝐎 𝐒𝐄𝐓𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐔𝐍; 𝐞𝐯𝐚𝐧 𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐞𝐫.

𝐚 𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬

𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐨𝐧, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟: 𝐚 𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐀𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐀 𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐄𝐕𝐀𝐍 𝐑𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐄𝐑❜𝐒 𝐀𝐒𝐒.

𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝟏𝟗, 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟏. 𝐃𝐢𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧 𝐀𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐲.

Amara glanced behind her, where the bricks between her and the Leaky Cauldron resealed themselves and her parents, tight and uncomfortable in this new, scary world, watched her go impassively. She held their gaze until the bricks completely resealed, rendering them separate. 

She was free.

The first thing on her list was a wand, and to Amara, that seemed the most important thing for magic anyways, so she set about looking for any store that had a sign reading 'WANDS'. It was busy; dreadfully so, with chattering children dragging their parents about and peddlers perched on the edge of the cobblestone street, yelling exaggerated self-advertisements into nothingness, waving flyers and throwing hats.

"Excuse me," Amara said, tapping a young woman—perhaps four, five years older than her—on the elbow. "Excuse me, I'm trying to buy a wand. Do you know where I can do that, perhaps?"

"Why, hello!" The woman glanced down at her, smiling complacently. "Well, you'll want Ollivander's, if it's a wand you're looking for. It's right down that way, and it'll be on the right at the end of the street."

Amara thanked her and moved on. It was easy enough to find, with a large purple sign that read OLLIVANDER❜S in great, majestic letters and arching windows on the exterior of the shop. She stepped in, coughing slightly in the now dusty air.

"Ah, sit down, dear, and I'll be right with you," an older man called out. 

He must be Ollivander, she realized. 

He was standing in front of a boy her own age, a boy with dark hair and a bit of a sour gaze. Amara looked at him with a slight frown as he tried wand after wand.

"Can't you find the right one already?" the boy asked with a large huff.

Amara scoffed, quietly—a noncommittal noise in the back of her throat, but he heard.

"What? You got something to say?"

She looked up to find the snobby boy looking straight at her. His dark hair was cut in a rather unfortunate bowl cut, framing his face just wrong.

"Maybe you could be a bit nicer, that's all," she said shortly. "He's trying his best, isn't he?"

"The wand chooses the wizard, lad," Ollivander said from behind a bookshelf. "It may take time."

"Or maybe you're just bollocks at magic," Amara said. She looked the boy up and down, letting disgust take over her features. "Maybe you'll never find a wand for you, because there isn't one."

He flushed deeply—a crimson just around his ears and the top of his cheeks and the edge of his nose, and if Amara weren't so critical of his severe flaws, she would almost find it cute. He eyed her sourly. "What's your name, anyway?"

"Amara Mae Avison," she replied, feeling herself stand a little taller and look him dead in the eye.

He only laughed. "So you're a Mudblood, then. Figures."