Chapter Text
PART 1: THAT'S ALL I ASK
Wednesday, August 31th 1977. Marlene.
Marlene McKinnon had been in worse situations than kissing someone when she felt a dementor nearby.
Inside the storage room, Tina had her hands up Marlene’s shirt, kissing her like she meant it. Tina --the bartender from the Stirrer, a muggle pub not far from Marlene’s house-- wasn’t part of the life Marlene had planned for herself. Then again, not much of her life had turned out the way she’d planned.
She didn’t used to go there often. But lately, leaving the house had become a reflex, a way to run from the silence of the lonely house. She’d sit at the bar, filling notebooks and drinking more than she ought to. Vodka, whisky. Tina topped her glass up when it ran out. No questions. Tina didn’t talk much, but Marlene found she preferred it that way.
On the first night of July, Marlene had turned up at her door drunk, shaking, and possibly crying. Tina had made her tea. “Who died?” she’d asked, half-joking.
Marlene hadn’t had the courage to answer, Who hasn’t?
That morning, she’d made the mistake of actually looking at the Daily Prophet instead of tossing it straight into the bin as if she’d got used to doing it that summer. The moving photograph on the front page had shown a thin, young body sprawled on the ground, eyes wide open and utterly empty. Elias Carter. Two years below her. Hufflepuff. The extent of their relationship had been trying to knock each other off their brooms during a quidditch match after he’d made beater. Still, Marlene had wanted to scream. She was so tired of recognizing faces in those grey pages, tired of the same headlines: Disappeared under mysterious circumstances. Murdered by unknown parties.
Tina had held her that night. Marlene couldn’t remember the last time anyone had touched her properly. She’d hugged her back. After that, things had stopped being particularly clear. At some point Tina had kissed her. At some point Marlene had said something about Tina having a boyfriend; she’d seen him once or twice --- a broad-shouldered farm boy who looked like conversation might physically pain him. Tina had shrugged.
“Sometimes you do what you have to for a better life.” That was a sufficient response to kiss her back.
Since then, Marlene had been coming back most nights. Waiting for Tina to finish her shift. Drinking and following her into the back room, not thinking about it too much.
Tonight, Marlene had just started working her way through Tina’s absurdly button-heavy shirt --wondering to herself who on earth needed so many-- when she felt it. The temperature dropped sharply, goosebumps prickling along her arms. A strange, burning cold settled in her chest --the kind that felt like touching ice-- and was quickly followed by that familiar, crushing wave of despair.
Oh. Fantastic.
She pulled away from Tina’s neck. Tina blinked at her, flushed and slightly dazed. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah. It’s just--” Marlene stepped back, peering through the tiny, grimy window. During the day they’d keep the shutters down, but at night the street outside was usually empty except for the occasional drunk who could barely walk, let alone notice anything suspicious. Now, though, the darkness felt heavier.
“Hey,” Tina said behind her, voice softer now. “We can stop, if you want.”
Marlene didn’t answer. She narrowed her eyes, scanning through the small, dirty window. The street outside was empty. Still, something about it felt wrong.
“Are you worried about going back to school?” Tina tried again. “What was it called again?”
Marlene turned sharply. Tina was already rebuttoning the shirt Marlene had fought so hard to open.
“I never told you its name.”
“Mm. True.” Tina hopped up onto a beer barrel, and fished a cigarette out of her jacket. “You just don’t exactly look thrilled about going back.” Marlene stared at her. Tina lit the cigarette, took a drag, and studied her through the smoke. “You’ve been more on edge than usual this week. Which is saying something. Is it bad? The school? Strict and religious?”
“Something like that,” Marlene muttered, pulling her shirt back on.
“‘Is it an all-girls' school?’
“Oh, no.”
“What a shame. I've heard they're always packed with people...like us.”
“Right. Not as far as I know.”
“What’s wrong?” Tina asked, arching a brow. “You’ve got friends there though, haven’t you?”
Oh, Marlene had friends. That was, inconveniently, the best part.
The thought of seeing Lily and Mary again --of Sirius, James, Peter and Remus-- was the only thing that had kept her remotely functional that summer. She’d waited for their letters like her life depended on it, counting the days between owls with a mix of anticipation and quiet dread. Because there was always the possibility that one wouldn’t come, and then she’d have to go digging through her rubbish, sifting through crumpled copies of the Daily Prophet, bracing herself for a headline that would do something worse (way worse) than make her cry in a muggle pub with a girl she barely knew. Luckily, that hadn’t happened.
The letters had arrived with near-military precision every three days, each one filled with updates that were, on the surface, aggressively mundane. Sirius and James (inseparable, as always) had spent the summer together at the Potters’; Remus was still in the orphanage --- a situation Marlene suspected was as grim as her own. Peter, Lily, and Mary were with their families, enduring normal summers that Marlene envied with a bitter sort of longing.
In previous years, she’d called Lily and Mary instead. Both muggle-born, both perfectly comfortable using a telephone --- an object Marlene regarded with deep suspicion. Her father, who was also muggle-born, had tried to explain it to her once, slowly, patiently. She still didn’t understand how voices could travel through wires without magic involved; it felt like a scam.
But this summer, they’d all heard the same thing --- muggle telephones might be tapped by the Ministry. And while Marlene had many hobbies, getting interrogated by an overzealous Ministry official was not high on the list. Especially not when her letters consisted primarily of complaining about the Ministry these days. The last thing she needed was some tight-lipped bureaucrat from the Improper Use of Magic Office taking notes while she ranted about government incompetence.
Lily’s letters were the hardest. They were surgical, full of targeted questions: How is your father? Have you heard about the latest disappearance? How are your siblings holding up?
Marlene’s response strategy was simple: ignore, deflect, or lie with alarming enthusiasm. My family is fine, Lily. We spend our days holding hands, singing, and playing children’s games in the garden. It’s all very wholesome. You’d hate it.
Lily’s replies inevitably included an aggressively scribbled drawing of herself looking furious. Sometimes with steam coming out of her ears, for emphasis. Marlene considered that fair.
“I do have friends, Tina,” Marlene said, stepping closer and gently plucking the cigarette from her fingers.
Tina watched her, amused. “Oh, do you now? Are they all as odd as you are?”
“Worse,” Marlene replied, taking a drag. “You’ve no idea. Truly alarming people.”
Tina smiled at that --- an easy, warm smile. A good one. Marlene knew dementors affected muggles too, in theory; but Tina looked entirely unbothered, as if existential dread simply wasn’t her problem. If anything, her smile seemed to push the cold back.
“Well,” Tina said lightly, “only one year left for you, isn’t it?” Marlene nodded. “What happens after school, then?”
She exhaled a thin stream of smoke. “What’s with the interrogation?”
Tina shrugged. “Just curiosity. I can’t quite picture you propping up my bar for the rest of your life.” A beat. “Besides, this is the first proper conversation we’ve had since you left me a cup of tea full of tears and snot.”
“Don’t remind me,” Marlene muttered, handing the cigarette back. “And what about you, then?”
Tina took it, but her smile faltered --- just slightly. “Marry Jim, I suppose. Stay on here.”
“That doesn’t sound depressing at all.”
“Not all of us go to posh boarding schools in Scotland, Marlene.”
That, rather inconveniently, shut her up. Tina looked away, her expression dimming, something tired and distant settling in her eyes. For a moment, Marlene wondered if the dementor had drifted closer again.
“Dad wants us to move, actually,” Tina went on after a pause. “Out of England, I mean. Says things are getting worse. More crime.” She glanced back at Marlene. “You’ve noticed, haven’t you?” Marlene didn’t answer. “There’s a girl I know… Kira. Her dad just…disappeared. One day he was there, the next… gone. No explanation. Nothing.” Tina let out a quiet breath. “Like he’d simply vanished into thin air.”
“Yeah,” Marlene said quietly. “I can imagine.”
The cigarette had burned down to nothing. She dropped it, crushing the end under her boot as she bent to pick up her leather jacket. It was well past midnight, and she had a train to Hogwarts to catch the next morning. The thought alone was enough to sour her mood. She didn’t bother with a proper goodbye.
“Will I see you next summer?” Tina asked, just as Marlene’s hand closed around the doorknob.
If you’re still alive. The thought came uninvited --sharp, heavy-- and seemed to settle in her throat like a stone. Marlene forced it down.
“If you keep the vodka free,” she said, glancing back over her shoulder, “I’d say it’s practically guaranteed.”
Tina laughed softly behind her.
“Take care, Marlene McKinnon.”
Marlene paused, one foot already out the door. “Yeah,” she muttered. “You too.”
…
The dementor found her the moment she stepped outside.
It wasn’t the first one she’d ever seen --- but she very much hoped it would be the last. Frankly, she wasn’t surprised, given that Peter had warned them in one of his letters earlier that summer: the Ministry had taken to deploying dementors in areas linked to recent disappearances, as if blanketing tragedy in more tragedy was some kind of strategy.
Marlene thought it was madness. Not that dementors were known for restraint. They didn’t exactly pause to check whether you were a muggle, a law-abiding witch, or someone who mostly respected the rules, like her.
The temperature dropped the moment she crossed the threshold. Sound vanished, too --- like the world had been wrapped in thick wool. Marlene knew before she saw anything. She drew her wand from her coat pocket and pressed herself against the wall.
There was just one problem. Technically, she wasn’t allowed to do magic yet.
Seven months left until she came of age. Seven months until the Ministry stopped breathing down her neck. Not that they were in a position to be strict; the government was fraying at the seams, yet they still prioritised punishing teenagers for self-defence. Sure, there might be Death Eaters breaking into homes, Marlene thought bitterly, but Merlin forbid you cast a spell about it.
Still, she stayed put, wand raised, her breathing shallow and uneven. Then she saw it --- just at the edge of her vision. Two decayed hands emerging from beneath a long, black cloak, its fabric torn and rotting as it drifted forward without sound. A wet, laboured breathing filled the air, as though drawn through deep, drowning water. And with it came the familiar, suffocating certainty that she would never feel happy again. Not a new sensation, all things considered.
She forced herself to think. Good things. Her first quidditch match, scoring fifty points in a single game; winter evenings with her siblings, playing Exploding Snap; her mother’s stews; Tina’s mouth on hers, warm and real. Gryffindor common room laughter. Sirius and James arm-wrestling over a table that really deserved better. Remus smoking by the window. Peter and Mary arguing over chess while Lily --Merlin bless her-- explained, for the fifth time, that no, Marlene could not copy her essay.
But the images began to unravel like smoke pulled apart by wind. Her friends faded, laughter dissolving into something distant and thin. Her chest tightened. The cold inside her deepened until it felt less like an emotion and more like a place she might fall into and never climb out of. Her wand hand trembled.
Suddenly, the memories swirled until Marlene found herself in a dark room. In that room. There were no windows and no exit, and the air felt thick and suffocating. At the far end of the room, two small figures stood embracing each other. A girl and a boy. Isla and Ben. Tiny, pressed into the corner of the room like they were trying to disappear into the walls. Their faces pale, eyes wide and shining with panic, hands clasped over their mouths to keep from making a sound. Something was outside the room… Someone was outside the room. Marlene tried to move toward them, she had to do something. She had to protect them, but she couldn’t. She wanted to scream their names but her voice wouldn’t come out.
Then, they turned their heads at the same time and looked straight at her. If she didn’t manage to move her body, it would be too late…
“No--”
Her breath broke. Her wand hand trembled violently now, slipping.
Think of something, Marlene. Anything. Something good. Something--
“EXPECTO PATRONUM!”
The voice sounded distant, as if underwater. Light exploded somewhere beyond the darkness. A surge of silver force; something vast, breaking through the suffocating black. But Marlene didn’t see it properly. Her knees gave way. Everything collapsed inward like a snapped thread. And she fell.
…
“Marlene McKinnon? Is that you?”
The voice cut through the fog. Her eyes fluttered open. The alley returned in fragments --- stone, movement, the lingering warmth of the patronus. She tried to speak, but her throat was dry. A face loomed over her.
Her cheeks burned instantly with humiliation. “Longbottom?”
Frank Longbottom --- three years above her, already graduated by the time she was still trying (and failing) to behave herself at Hogwarts. Married to Alice (a really cool girl that taught Marlene how to do a proper lip-liner). Competent with a wand and very good at quidditch. Incredible at quidditch, actually. Marlene had had the privilege of playing with him for a year before he graduated, the year she joined the team. Frank had taught her to do amazing things with a broom. He gave her a tired half-smile.
“Thank goodness, I thought you wouldn’t wake up” Marlene sat up with a start. “Hey,” Frank said more softly now, lowering her carefully against the wall. “Hey… easy. You’re alright.”
Marlene swallowed, throat tight. “I-- I saw--”
“I know,” he said gently. “They’re getting stronger.”
She blinked at him, confused, still half trapped between worlds. “I d-don't know why I've– Th-- This has never happened to me bef--”
She covered her face with her hands, utterly mortified. Not again, please. Frank looked at her with pity, and Marlene hated that look.
“You’re not the only one,” he said. “Lots of people have fainted. It’s because of the current situation. They feed off it… Off the fear, the uncertainty, everything. The whole country seems to be holding its breath.”
Marlene tried to sit up straighter and, despite the dizziness, remained stubborn.
“I haven’t fainted,” she muttered.
“Of course not.” Frank’s mouth twitched slightly. “But if you had... I wouldn't tell anyone.”
Marlene tried to get up, and Frank reached out to help her. “I’m fine”, she muttered. “Really, Longbottom.”
He shrugged, letting her get up on her own. Marlene brushed the dust off her clothes and picked up her wand.
“I don't have any chocolate, I'm sorry--”
“It's fine,” Marlene cut him off quickly, though she still had a nagging feeling of suffocation. “What on earth are you doing here, anyway? I thought you and Alice had moved to Lincolnshire--”
Frank exhaled, shifting his weight as though still riding the aftershock of the spell. “Auror duty. We’ve been assigned to northern patrols --- tracking increased Dark activity, responding to dementor sightings.” His mouth twisted slightly. “Mostly, I end up containing the dementors while I’m meant to be looking for Dark wizards.”
“Mm. Very efficient,” Marlene said dryly.
“It’s spectacularly not,” Frank replied. “Yorkshire’s been a mess. And now they’re spreading further south. Ministry says it’s preventative containment.”
“Right,” she muttered. “Because nothing says ‘control the situation’ like releasing bloody soul-sucking monsters into it.”
Frank huffed something that might have been a laugh, if he’d had the energy for it. He looked past her shoulder for a moment, as if expecting the dementor to come back for a second round just out of spite.
“They’re getting closer to civilian areas,” he said quietly. “We’ve had reports in places we used to consider…safe.”
Marlene let out a short, humourless breath. “Right.”
There was a pause. The kind that usually meant neither of them had anything particularly comforting to offer. Frank glanced at her properly then --- taking in the way she still held her wand too tightly, the faint tension in her shoulders, the aftermath of the dementor still clinging like cold dust.
“Are you sure--?”
“I liked you back at school, Longbottom; but if I hear you ask me if I’m alright one more time…”
“Sorry. Old habit,” Fran apologized. “But, really, you handled that well. You've woken up quickly. The other day it took me two hours to wake up an old wizard who then insulted me in a hundred different ways…”
“I had a bit of help,” Marlene replied, nodding vaguely in the direction the patronus had gone.
“A very large bit of help,” Frank allowed, a faint smile returning. “Still. You were very brave”
“Yeah. Brave enough to faint.”
“Brave enough to pull out your wand. You're still sixteen, aren't you?”
That almost got a real smile out of her. Almost. Frank shifted again, rolling his shoulders as if trying to shake off the weight of the night. “You shouldn’t be walking around alone at this hour.”
Marlene raised an eyebrow. “I’ve been doing questionable things alone at this hour for years. I’m practically experienced.”
“Still,” he said, more firmly this time. “dementors are not exactly…predictable right now.”
She opened her mouth to argue, then didn’t. Because he wasn’t wrong. And because she didn’t particularly feel like being brave out of stubbornness tonight. Frank hesitated, then gestured slightly down the street.
“I can walk you home,” he offered. “I’m heading that way anyway. And before you say no… your mother wouldn’t object to an auror escorting you, would she?” A faint, tired amusement flickered in his eyes. “I remember her. Very talkative woman. Pretty sure she tried to feed me soup at a Ministry function once.”
Marlene’s stomach tightened slightly at that.
“My mum?” she said too quickly, then forced it into something lighter. “Right. Yes. She’d probably interrogate you about your entire life and then somehow make you fix a shelf.”
Frank gave a small chuckle. “Sounds about right.” He tilted his head. “So? Shall I walk you back?”
For half a second, Marlene almost said yes. It would’ve been easy, and normal. Just a walk home, some talk about quidditch and Ministry chaos. Except…
Her mind caught on the detail like a snag in fabric. Home. Her older brother's voice still lingered somewhere behind her ribs. Don’t do anything stupid, Marlene. We’d be back as soon as we can. Reality settled back in.
“No,” Marlene said.
Frank blinked. “No?”
She cleared her throat, forcing her voice into something steadier. “It’s fine. Really. My parents are…asleep. And I’ve got to leave early anyway. Hogwarts tomorrow.”
The lie came out smoother than she expected. Frank studied her for a second, then shrugged lightly. “Alright. If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.”
He didn’t push. He just gave her a small nod, professional again.
“Be careful, McKinnon.”
“Always am,” she said automatically.
Frank gave her one last look --tired, kind– and then turned away, wand still loosely in hand, disappearing into the dark street. Marlene stood there for a moment longer than necessary. The cold had gone. The dementor was gone. Everything was technically fine. And yet she felt, uncomfortably, like she’d just failed something she couldn’t quite name.
She tightened her grip on her wand, adjusted her jacket, and started walking.
Alone.
…
Thursday, 1st September 1977. Dorcas
Dorcas Meadowes had not slept properly in over two months.
The past three weeks had been particularly grueling, thanks in no small part to the witch in the adjoining room at the Leaky Cauldron. The woman had taken to casting amplifying charms on herself in a misguided attempt to master muggle opera.
Her singing didn’t wake Dorcas --- if only it had. Instead, it was the nightmare that dragged her from sleep each night, leaving her drenched in sweat and shaking. And once awake, the witch’s relentless, off-key aria ensured that any hope of rest vanished completely. Dorcas was beginning to seriously consider violating half a dozen Ministry regulations simply to cast a silencing charm strong enough to grant her one blessed night of peace.
The dream never changed.
She ran through a green field, tall stalks of corn rising on either side of her, whispering as they brushed against her arms. Behind her stood the house of her childhood: a modest country cottage with whitewashed walls, a sloping tiled roof, and a narrow porch that sagged slightly under the weight of years. The windows glowed with warm yellow light.
Dorcas saw herself there --- except she was much younger than she was now. Eleven, perhaps twelve at most. She was going somewhere… No, rushing. Urgency burned in her chest, sharp and unbearable. She had to get there in time. She had to apparate. She had to reach him before…
His body lay in a clearing.
Limbs twisted at impossible angles, eyes fixed on nothing at all. His clothes were soaked; short black hair plastered to his skull with water, his long wizard’s robes heavy and dark with it. Dorcas collapsed beside him, calling his name, her voice cracking as tears came without warning.
Then, impossibly, he moved. His head turned, slowly, as though dragged back into life by sheer will alone. He looked at her. Those eyes. Empty and glassy; stripped of everything that had once made them his. She had never seen them like that, not even in her worst imaginings. And then, his mouth opened. I’m going to do it, solèy mwen. I’m going to save the wizarding and muggle world alike. You have to wait for me. You have to…
She woke with a violent gasp, the sheets tangled around her legs and her heart hammering against her ribs. Then, inevitably, a sharp, wavering note from next door split the silence. I am going to petrify that woman, she thought bleakly. That is exactly what I will do.
Her body was still shaking. She pushed herself upright and crossed the small room to pull open the window.
Outside, Diagon Alley was restless. It was that ugly, over-stimulated energy the wizarding world had adopted lately --- too many voices, too many people lingering long after midnight, pretending that noise was a substitute for safety. The Leaky Cauldron had always been busy, but recently it felt less like a pub and more like a fortress. People didn’t stay at home anymore. Homes were where the dementors found you. Or the men who murdered entire families while they slept; Dorcas had spent the whole summer reading about it in the papers.
She walked to the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face, studying her reflection in the small mirror as it stared back with equal parts exhaustion and accusation. What are you looking at? she almost asked.
The bedside clock read 4:23 a.m., 1st September 1977. Brilliant. She had completely forgotten --- it was the day she was meant to return to Hogwarts. Dorcas lit the lamp and sat on the edge of the bed, pulling Transformation Guide, Advanced Level onto her lap more out of habit than intention. Seventh year. Her last. She had chosen her subjects exactly as her mother advised: take everything, keep every door open, and pretend that indecision was a strategy rather than a flaw. It had worked well enough until now. Until that summer, she’d had no idea what she wanted to do after Hogwarts, and that was after she’d chosen her seventh-year subjects. As she stared at her trunk, she realised she was currently qualified for absolutely nothing, in several directions at once. Something slipped from the pages of her textbook and landed softly on the blanket. The letter. Against her better judgement, she unfolded it with deliberate, mechanical care.
31st July 1977
Dorcas,
I hope you understand my decision to leave you at the Leaky for the remainder of the summer. I did not tell you in person because I knew precisely how that conversation would go, and frankly, I am too tired to repeat it.
I am spending the summer in muggle London, to remain close to the Ministry, attempting to repair the mess your father left behind; leaving us to deal with the consequences. Besides, perhaps this way I can finally put an end to the issue you and I discussed. Do not write back to argue. It will not change anything.
I have sent all the books you will need for next year. I strongly suggest you read them in full before term begins, to avoid unnecessary surprises.
I will see you at Christmas, if circumstances allow.
Your mother.
P.S. I heard about the prefect badge. I am pleased Slughorn finally came to his senses.
“Of course you are,” Dorcas muttered. She lingered on the last line longer than she cared to admit. Then she folded the letter with deliberate care and slipped it back into the book, as though putting it away might also neatly resolve everything it contained.
Outside, the opera singer struck another heroic note. Dorcas lay back on the bed for a moment, briefly considering the logistical feasibility of setting the building on fire. She stretched out again, though she knew perfectly well she wouldn’t fall asleep. Her hands were still trembling, and the image of the body remained etched into her mind with brutal clarity.
The summer had been dreadful. The worst of her life.
Her father had taught her to understand her anger --to use it, to sharpen it into something useful-- but the rage she had felt after the incident had been too large, too consuming. It swallowed everything else. It didn’t let her sleep; didn’t let her eat; didn’t let her think.
The only thing she had done --first at home with her mother, and later at the Leaky Cauldron-- was read. Read, read, and read again. Mostly the textbooks, though she had also packed her favourite muggle novels, carefully hidden at the bottom of her trunk so her mother wouldn’t find them; but she hadn’t touched them. She was afraid to open them.
Afraid that the voice in her head, the one that read the words, would become his again. His warm, gentle voice. The way he pronounced each syllable, soft but steady, with a clear, patient cadence, as though determined that Dorcas would never forget them.
The memory made her close her eyes.
She was eleven again, lying in her bed in the house of her childhood, the mattress dipping beneath the weight of both of them. Dorcas was so tired… She could hear his rough voice; she could see him if she opened her eyes --- large and steady, watching her with quiet affection. Dorcas wrapped herself in that memory, let it burn through her from the inside out. She allowed the tears to fall freely down her cheeks, mixing with the sweat still clinging to her skin.
At some point in the early hours of the morning, she drifted back to sleep.
…
Wednesday, September 1 1971. YEAR 1. Dorcas.
Platform Nine and Three-Quarters was just as Dorcas had imagined it. Clutching her Papa’s hand, she weaved past students and heavy trolleys, her eyes drinking in the long succession of gleaming red carriages. There were children her age, yes --- but far more older students, some in flowing robes of vivid colours, carrying cages filled with animals.
She cast a rather rueful glance at her own. Butterfinger, she had named him --- in honour of her favourite muggle chocolates. Her Papa had chosen him for her: a scruffy kitten with barely any fur, broken whiskers, one eye of each colour, and missing half an ear. Dorcas had had her eye on another: a pristine white cat, soft-furred, blue-eyed. Her Papa had refused. “This one will be left behind if you don’t take him. You see, solèy mwen, people discard what looks weak. But weakness teaches strength.”
She squeezed her Papa’s hand. He looked down at her and smiled. From where she stood, he seemed like a giant: radiant, impenetrable, safe. Dorcas knew she had to say goodbye to him that day, and the thought made her throat itch, her eyelids prickle. But she refused to cry. If she arrived on her first day with a blotchy face and swollen eyes, the other children would think her weak. And whatever her Papa said, Dorcas knew the weakest were always the ones most picked at.
“What house were you in, Papa?”
“You’ve asked me a thousand times, Dorcas. Ravenclaw.”
“The one with the eagle?”
He nodded. His eyes were dark and kind, his skin smooth and deep, catching the sunlight. That day he wore a long robe the colour of the sky.
“But it doesn’t matter which house you’re sorted into, solèy mwen. They all have their virtues, and the Sorting Hat never makes a mistake.”
He had told her about the great hat that whispered in your ear, that could read your thoughts. Dorcas found it rather frightening, though she would never admit as much.
She wanted Ravenclaw, like him, and she was certain she stood a good chance. Dorcas was quick with letters and numbers, and her memory was sharp. Her Papa had read to her since she was little --- magical and muggle books alike, despite her mother’s protests. Dorcas was quite sure she was the only first-year who knew about the history of Gringotts and the goblin rebellions --- but also about the French Revolution and the Second World War. Except, perhaps, the muggle-born children.
Her Papa said goodbye with an embrace: strong arms wrapped tightly around her slight frame; his lips pressed to her freshly braided hair; his fingers gripping her ribs as though reluctant to let go. The prickling behind her eyes grew worse, forcing her to blink rapidly.
“I’ll write,” Papa promised.
Dorcas nodded, afraid that if she spoke, a sob would escape her.
The train pulled away with a long, sighing whistle. Families waved from the platform, their figures shrinking into colourful blurs as the station slipped away. Dorcas made her way down the corridor with difficulty, dodging elbows and shoulders, until she found a half-empty compartment occupied by two girls.
“Hello, may I sit here?”
“Of course! The more the merrier!” said the first girl. She was Black like Dorcas, though her skin was a shade lighter. She had a beautiful cloud of brown, flecked curls. She was very pretty --- smiling broadly, showing a row of bright white teeth, her eyes wide with enthusiasm as she watched Dorcas sit opposite her. “I’m Mary. Mary Macdonald.”
She thrust out her hand with such eagerness that Dorcas nearly flinched. Still, she took it, a little hesitantly, forcing a polite smile. Beside Mary, the other girl sniffed loudly.
She was small --- smaller than both Dorcas and Mary. Her hair hung to her shoulders, a dull, dirty blonde, and she wore a most peculiar outfit: jeans, a yellow T-shirt, and an oversized brown leather jacket that swallowed her whole. She was crying. Her eyes were red and swollen, her cheeks damp. When she noticed Dorcas looking, she glared back defiantly.
“This is Marlene McKinnon,” Mary said brightly, as though the girl were not visibly in tears. “She’s a bit upset about saying goodbye to her parents.”
“I’m n-not crying,” Marlene snapped, as though accused of something dreadful. Which was rather silly, considering she plainly was.
“No, I didn’t say you were,” Mary replied cheerfully. Dorcas half-expected her to share a knowing look, but Mary simply kept smiling and gave Marlene a few reassuring pats on the back. Dorcas liked her at once. “Isn’t it brilliant? The train, I mean. I heard someone say it runs on magic…”
She said the word ‘magic’ with a kind of reverence and disbelief that surprised Dorcas --- as though it had not quite settled on her tongue yet, as though she expected someone to leap up and call her mad.
“Are your parents muggles?” Dorcas asked simply. Mary nodded eagerly.
“Th-that doesn’t matter,” Marlene cut in sharply, shooting Dorcas a murderous look. Dorcas didn’t return it. She merely shrugged.
“Of course it doesn’t. Some of the greatest writers in the world were muggles --- though Papa says many kept their magic hidden.”
Mary clasped her hands to her chest, delighted. “Which ones? They never taught us that at school, obviously…”
“Lewis Carroll, Oscar Wilde, Miguel de Cervantes. Shakespeare, of course…”
“Shakespeare was a wizard?”
They fell into lively conversation. Mary bombarded her with questions Dorcas had to resist rolling her eyes at. She was particularly fascinated by the idea that the Second World War had unfolded in parallel in both worlds --- that Adolf Hitler and Gellert Grindelwald had operated side by side, each pursuing his own ends.
Marlene, meanwhile, kept casting them furtive glances, though gradually she calmed, wiping her cheeks on the sleeve of her enormous jacket.
About half an hour later, someone knocked on the compartment door. Two other girls stepped inside to ask whether they might join them. Dorcas recognised the first on sight, from a handful of Ministry Christmas dinners her parents occasionally allowed her to attend. Then again, all pure-blood families knew one another through such gatherings --- long, tedious evenings during which Dorcas grew so bored she amused herself by silently reciting verses in her head.
“Hi, Dorcas,” she greeted.
“Hello, Pandora,” Dorcas replied politely. Pandora had long, straight hair, slightly frizzy, of a pale platinum blonde --- much lighter than the other girl’s, Marlene’s. She had small blue eyes and a mouth that seemed permanently curved into a dreamy smile, as though someone were gently tugging at the corners of her lips.
Dorcas did not recognise the other girl, the one who had asked whether they might come in. She was pale as milk, with straight hair the brightest shade of red Dorcas had ever seen. Mary, delighted, waved them in at once.
“It’s amazing, isn’t it?” the girl said, opening her palm to reveal a Chocolate Frog, which promptly leapt onto Mary’s lap. “I’m Lily Evans, by the way. And her name’s Pandora Lestrange.”
Lily, it turned out, was also muggle-born, though she had known a little about magic thanks to a neighbour; a friend of hers whose mother was a witch. She had been quite astonished to receive her letter, especially since her older sister had not.
“My friend Sev has told me all about the houses and the Sorting Hat.”
Mary’s eyes widened. “Houses?”
Lily seemed delighted to explain. She folded her hands in her lap, sitting up as though about to deliver a speech. “There’s Hufflepuff, the badger, for the just and hardworking; Gryffindor, the lion, for the brave and loyal; Ravenclaw, the eagle, for the intelligent and learned; and Slytherin, the serpent, for the cunning and ambitious.”
Mary’s mouth fell slightly open. She pressed a finger to her lips, thinking. “I’m not sure where I’d belong…”
“I’m g-going to be in Gryffindor,” Marlene declared. She had stopped crying at last, though her eyes were still red and her brow furrowed. “My whole f-family’s been in Gryffindor.”
Dorcas realised then that the girl had a stutter. At first she had assumed it was from crying, but now she understood that it was simply the way she spoke. The others seemed to notice as well, and Marlene narrowed her eyes, studying them one by one as though daring anyone to make fun of her. No one did. Lily offered a kind smile and asked,
“Are your parents wizards?”
Marlene nodded. “Yes, b-but Dad’s muggle-born.”
“Gryffindor and “Hufflepluff” sound nice, I suppose…” Mary began.
“It’s Hufflepuff,” Lily corrected. Dorcas could already picture her putting her hand up in class to correct people as though it were her sworn duty. Still, the redhead was kind---there was no doubt about that.
Pandora let out a soft sigh. “I think I’ll be in Slytherin, if it runs in families. My cousin Rodolphus is in sixth year, and my cousin Rabastan’s in fifth, and they’re both in Slytherin. My father and grandfather were too.”
“My b-brother says Slytherin’s the w-worst house,” said Marlene McKinnon. “He g-graduated last year.”
Pandora merely shrugged, and Dorcas felt an unexpected urge to defend her. “My Papa says all the houses have their virtues.”
“But if you could choose?” Mary asked.
“Ravenclaw, like him,” Dorcas replied. Pandora looked at her with dreamy eyes. They had never quite been friends --not really-- though at some Christmas gatherings Dorcas had let Pandora paint her nails and chatter on about music.
“Ravenclaw doesn’t sound so bad,” Pandora said, as though she had plucked the thought straight from Dorcas’s mind.
For the rest of the journey, they talked about classes and professors; Marlene McKinnon knew many of their names thanks to her brother, and Lily Evans confessed she had already skimmed through most of the textbooks. Pandora wanted to see the greenhouses --- she had been told they were enormous and filled with magical plants; Mary was eager to start using her wand, and Marlene spent most of the ride explaining to Mary and Lily what quidditch was, declaring she intended to try out for her House team as soon as she possibly could.
When they reached the grounds, they changed into their uniforms --though Marlene McKinnon stubbornly kept her jacket on-- and climbed together into one of the little boats. Mary and Lily seemed astonished by everything around them, yet Dorcas realised she felt a dizzying sensation in her own chest, somewhere between her ribs, when she caught sight of the majestic castle rising before them. Tall towers and battlements, stone walls stretching towards the sky; tiny lights flickering in the windows. Lily and Mary clutched each other’s hands whenever they found something too wonderful to put into words; McKinnon watched them with a faint frown, and Pandora carried on wearing that perpetual smile of hers. Dorcas wondered whether these girls might become her friends. The thought, suddenly, felt sugary as a boiled sweet dissolving on her tongue.
Until now, her father had taught her at home in a variety of subjects: basic spells and readings in the history of magic, but also mathematics and a curious blend of muggle and magical biology. He insisted the two were intertwined --- that what one lacked, the other supplied; that the human body remained a mystery even magic could not fully explain. Though she had loved those lessons with Papa, she had dreamt of Hogwarts for as long as she could remember: having friends to talk and read with in the gardens; practising magic and sharing dinners in the Great Hall. That group of girls --different as they all were-- did not seem the worst possibility.
The Great Hall only deepened Dorcas’s sense of wonder. It was the largest, most spacious room she had ever seen, with four long tables arranged across the vast chamber. Floating candles made Mary McDonald’s jaw nearly drop; above them stretched an enchanted ceiling that revealed a sky strewn with stars. At the far end stood the staff table. Dorcas recognised Albus Dumbledore, the Headmaster, from everything her father had told her about him. They were old friends, and he always referred to him as the most powerful wizard of the last four generations --- a claim that made Dorcas too embarrassed to ask his age. Standing there, watching the students enter one by one, he gave her the impression of someone ancient beyond measure; he radiated a quiet power, yet smiled with a warmth that seemed to fill the entire room.
All the first-years had to wait standing. Dorcas recognised some of them just as she had recognised Pandora earlier: Garrick Mulciber, James Potter, Evan Rosier, Kira Nott, Gideon and Fabian Prewett, Sirius Black, Concordia Rowle, and several other children besides. Their names were called one by one, in alphabetical order. Sometimes the Hat took only a few seconds; other times, several long minutes. Though most people appeared excited, the process began to feel tedious to Dorcas, nerves notwithstanding, after the only truly remarkable event turned out to be Sirius Black --a boy with long black hair and a perpetual grin on his face-- being placed in Gryffindor. Dorcas had a vague memory of her father speaking about the Black family, with whom he had once shared a close relationship, and mentioning that every single one of them had been sorted into Slytherin. Sirius moved towards the Gryffindor table, which erupted into surprised but enthusiastic applause, while Slytherin booed loudly; he looked as though he wished the floor would swallow him whole.
The red-haired girl, Lily Evans, was sorted into Gryffindor as well. To Dorcas’s surprise and quiet pleasure, Pandora was placed in Ravenclaw; her cousins shot her murderous looks from the Slytherin table, which Pandora answered with an exuberant wave. Mary McDonald and Marlene McKinnon followed short after --- Gryffindor too; the former seemed delighted, especially at being with her new friend Lily, and Marlene grinned as if she had never doubted it for a single second, though Dorcas had seen her fidgeting nervously with her fingers only moments before. Not long afterwards, it was Dorcas’s turn. She focused on placing one foot in front of the other without stumbling as she felt every pair of eyes in the hall settle upon her.
Professor McGonagall placed the Hat upon her head, and Dorcas could see nothing but darkness.
Well, well… what have we here? A most brilliant mind, I daresay. Very sharp indeed.
The hat’s voice echoed inside her own head, resounding. Dorcas thought of her father, of the overwhelming admiration she felt for his intellect and his understanding of magic.
Hard-working, certainly; and brave, too…
She thought of her mother as well --- bitter and severe. Of the way she would react depending on which House Dorcas was placed in; Dorcas knew her preferences all too well.
But the answer seems rather obvious to me.
She thought of the girls she had just met --- of Lily Evans’s lively chatter, Mary McDonald’s wide-eyed wonder, Marlene McKinnon’s quiet resignation.
She thought of Pandora Lestrange. She thought of the years that lay ahead of her.
The Hat gave a soft chuckle inside her mind.
“SLYTHERIN!”