I. Janus
Eleanor recalled with perfect clarity the afternoon her life was wrenched onto an unforeseen course. She had been three years old, sitting alone in the orphanage nursery after lunch, when the summons came.
The nun’s office was dimly lit, its air heavy with the scent of old paper and damp wool. On the couch sat a man and a woman, elegantly dressed, their posture exuding an effortless superiority that marked their elevation from this part of London. Lord and Lady Clarendon. They were there to adopt her, the nun had said, though her tone was anything but approving.
Eleanor had watched the couple in silence, her expression unreadable. The nun, in sharp contrast, had launched into a litany of complaints about her peculiarities, insisting they would do better to take a boy. But the Clarendons were unmoved. A single raised hand from Lord Clarendon ended the discussion, and Eleanor was ushered out of the orphanage without ceremony.
At a solicitor’s office, papers were signed. She became a ward of Lord Clarendon. From there, they boarded a stagecoach northward, the city receding into a haze of soot and smoke. The journey ended at the gates of Clarendon Manor, an estate sprawled over seven thousand acres of woodland, its manor house a dark silhouette against the evening sky.
The family was distant. Lady Clarendon and her children remained specters at the periphery of Eleanor’s existence. She took her meals in solitude and spent her days in a private suite—sufficiently furnished, if impersonal. The estate grounds were hers to explore for an hour each morning and at dusk, but beyond that, she was left to her own devices.
Lord Clarendon, however, was a presence. Their first true conversation took place on the evening of her arrival, in a private parlor on the ground floor. He informed her that her adoption was conditional. Her education would be rigorous, and failure to meet expectations would see her returned to the orphanage.
“You will begin with English, French, and Latin,” he said, his voice measured. “I presume you cannot yet read or write?”
Eleanor met his gaze impassively. “I can.”
Surprise flickered across his face, though he suppressed it swiftly. He retrieved a book from a nearby shelf, opening it to a random passage.
“Read.”
“When those states which have been acquired are accustomed to live at liberty under their own laws, there are three ways of holding them…”
Lord Clarendon raised a hand, halting her. “Do you understand?”
She considered the question. “It explains how to rule those who were once independent. One may destroy them, govern in person, or allow them the illusion of self-rule while ensuring their dependence.”
His reaction was more telling this time—shock, quickly masked. “Who taught you?”
“No one.” She spoke without inflection. “I read what I could find.”
A pause. Then, a curt nod. “Go to your quarters. I will reconsider the pace of your instruction.”
And so, her education commenced. Tutors came and went, remarking on her ability with varying degrees of astonishment. Latin, Greek, mathematics, philosophy, science—each subject absorbed with the same methodical precision.
“Ms. Cliffe-Clarendon is the most capable student of Latin I have encountered,” remarked Anthony Graham, an Oxford scholar. “Her recall is unnerving.”
Her mathematics tutor suggested early entry to Cambridge. Lord Clarendon refused. “She is too young.”
With time, restrictions eased. On weekends, she was permitted equestrian lessons and tennis. She excelled at both, her movements precise, economical, devoid of excess. She took to running in the mornings, not out of pleasure but out of habit.
Yet, it was her studies with Ms. Linton that diverged from all else. Florence Linton was young, sharp-eyed, and unassuming. She taught two subjects: astronomy and something Eleanor alone seemed to study—magic.
It was a term Ms. Linton used sparingly. “In truth, it is merely the projection of will,” she told her. “The shaping of thought into matter.”
Eleanor did not question it. She had always been able to do things others could not—retrieve objects without touching them, lock doors with a thought. It had been frowned upon at the orphanage. At Clarendon Manor, it was studied.
“Ignis,” said Ms. Linton. “The English?”
“Fire.”
“Say it, and imagine flame in your palm.”
Eleanor obeyed. A flickering ember sprang to life in her hand. She felt neither wonder nor fear, only the quiet satisfaction of success.
Magic, she learned, was a tool. She mastered small things first—light, fire, ice, wind. Then, the more intricate—shields, wards, concealments. She learned to think spells rather than speak them. She experimented, testing Greek against Latin, Latin against English. The results intrigued her.
Eleanor was magical. She knew Lord Clarendon knew of this, as he’d seen her perform magic. But he didn’t view it as heresy or censure it, the way the nuns at Wool’s Orphanage detested her for her accidental, youthful magic. Instead, he observed. Approved.
----
It was late July when her life shifted once more. She was in the library when a maid informed her that Lord Clarendon wished to see her.
In the parlor, he sat behind his desk, leafing through documents. He did not look up as he passed her an envelope.
“A letter for you.”
She took it, turning it over. The parchment was thick, yellowed, and sealed with an elaborate crest. A lion, an eagle, a snake, and a badger entwined. Beneath it, a Latin inscription: *Draco dormiens nunquam titillandus.*
She broke the seal, unfolded the letter. Read.
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
She glanced up, unsurprised to find Lord Clarendon entirely composed.
“You knew.”
“Of course.” A pause. “You will attend for seven years. Your tuition, board, and supplies will be covered. An allowance will be provided. In return, I expect excellence.”
He continued, detailing travel arrangements, funds, expectations. Eleanor listened in silence, absorbing it as she had absorbed all else.
There was no need for questions. The course was set.
That afternoon, a carriage bore her to Charing Cross Road. She stepped out before the Leaky Cauldron, a nondescript pub tucked between ordinary buildings. Dismissing the driver, she crossed the threshold and sought out the bartender. A brief exchange, a tap of brick against brick, and the wall parted before her.
Beyond it, a cobbled street unfolded, teeming with life and unfamiliarity. Eleanor took it in without expression.
And then, without hesitation, she stepped forward into the world that had awaited her all along.