Angeline, Angeline

Today is the first day of year five--the first day of the rest of my life, Angeline likes to say.

"It'll be wonderful," she assured me with tears brimming her bright-blue eyes, a wide grin spreading across skin wrinkled from many smiles. "You'll love it, dear. I promise, you will make many lifelong friends."

I nodded along, because what else was I supposed to do? I couldn't possibly tell her what I wanted to say: "No, grandmama. I will not make any friends, because everyone there has already found their platonic soulmates, and there is no room left in their hearts for someone like me."

I don't pretend how she'd answer, because I don't want to make up a situation akin to that one; the real life version would hurt so bad even the fake kind leaves a small ache in my chest.

As of today I only have half of my uniform; the rest of it will be given to me once I'm assigned a house. I pull my skirt on, adjust the shirt, and take a long look at myself in the mirror.

I know how it will go. I will walk up there with the crowd of first-years, much obviously older, and there will be whispers. There will be stares. There will be rumors.

"I heard she was too scared to come earlier, but they finally dragged her," a Slytherin boy would whisper to his friend, his tone mimicking that of his house mascot. The friend would snicker, looking me up and down like a dog. "Bet she's raised by non-magical humans. Think she'll fail all her classes?"

They will assume and assume, and no matter what house I end up in, they will believe their rumors and never the truth, never the words that come from my mouth. I believe those will be rare anyways, for who would ask the stupid girl I'm sure to be known as questions about her life? She is uninteresting; the most captivating this about her is the fact that she is new.

"Oh, people love new things," Angeline says, as if she can hear my thoughts, an ability I wouldn't put past her. "And you're the sweetest girl, too. You'll make many friends," she repeats.

It is grandmother logic, the same way I would not believe her if she told me I was beautiful, that I would have a line of suitors out the door when I grew. When I look in the mirror, as I am doing now, I do not see a beautiful, sweet, girl, the kind people would want to be friends with: I see a girl with heavy bags under her eyes from nights of fitful sleep, her skin pale, almost deathlike. Her hair is straight, too straight, and a mousy brown colour I doubt many find attractive. Her smile is kind, I must admit, yet forced nonetheless.

I would not want to be friends with myself, so why would they?

I am sure Angeline would have answers if only I were to ask, but I will not, so those words will go unsaid, at least for now.

She reaches for my trunk, but I move past her, lifting it up as if it as easy to take the burden away from her. She is old and frail, and I am not.

Angeline pulls her wand from her back pocket: a long stick of mahogany, decorated with burls that make patterns of hearts and swirls. It is flexible, and in my opinion, beautiful. With a swish my trunk is in the air, the weight disappearing from my arms, the heavier one on my back still very prevalent.

"Thanks," I mutter, and unconsciously feel for my own wand, which is tucked into a pocket in my skirt that seems to be made for exactly that purpose. I do not know how to use it, nor have I even tried, as apparently it is illegal. So it is not surprising how alien the object feels beneath my fingers. The magic is obvious, as if the wand is calling out to me, tentatively almost, testing the waters of who I am and how I may serve it.

I feel as if that should be the other way around, but I don't feel magical, so I would have no idea how to go about that.

Angeline checks her watch and starts, hurriedly guiding my trunk out the door, bumping into two walls and the doorframe on her way. I follow her down the stairs, sitting down on the small bench by the door and grabbing my new, fancy shoes.

I stare longingly at my old trainers, the comfortable type I would most likely be teased for wearing at this new magical school. Instead I am forced into these shiny black monstrosities, the type that are so hard at the toe I bet I wouldn't feel a thing if Angeline dropped that whole trunk on my foot.

"Come, dear, we'll be late," she says, and the trunk falls to the ground with a thud and a sound of surprise from Angeline. She decides to leave it, pulling on her own shoes, which are noticeably more comfortable and normal than mine. Lucky.

"I can carry it, you shouldn't use your magic outside," I say, reaching for the trunk, because I know that Angeline is forgetful and very well will give some poor non-magic human a terrible surprise. My brain flashes back to a scene from Sleeping Beauty, a broom sweeping itself, and the corners of my mouth tilt into a slight smile Angeline is too worried to notice.

"I'll start the car," she decides. I nod, and she is out the door before I can remind her that I can drive too (with an adult in the car, but still) and probably better than her, too. More focused, at least.

I open the door all the way, slowly dragging the trunk out onto the doorstep. Before I close it behind me, I take one more long look at the foyer; the house that feels so familiar yet as alien as my shoes. The long, carpeted staircase, family photos hung on the walls.

I wonder how I never realized, before. All those holidays spent here, all those times I'd run up the stairs to play with my cousins, did I never spend a long second to look at the portraits? Did I never notice the horns on that bearded man right there, the green skin of that young woman? Or did I simply not care, my youthful mind unburdened by the worries of maturity?

That was a long time ago. It doesn't matter anymore. Or at least, so I like to pretend.

I close the door. I'll be back for the holidays anyways, which will come soon enough, I'm sure. If what Angeline says is true and friends will come quick and willingly, then I'm sure the time between will pass in the blink of an eye.

The beforementioned woman waits for me at our old beat-up Ford, the type you'd find at scrap lots more often than sitting beside used car salesmen. "Ready?" she asks, as if I have a choice.
I cannot turn around right now, run into my room, and slam the door behind me, yelling that I will not go. I cannot jump into the driver's seat and race off into the distance, never to be seen again. My choice disappeared the moment I was informed of my magic heritage--magical children must be educated; that is the rule. It's dangerous otherwise, said the Minister when he visited our house a year ago, his frown both unsettling and unflattering. He said that I would not know what to do with myself, that I would be shooting firebolts at humans and whatnot. Well, I haven't felt like doing any of that, but Angeline seemed to trust his judgement, and so I suppose I should too.

My trunk goes in the backseat, with some effort, and I slip into the passenger seat, reclining the chair just a little bit. Angeline sits beside me, starting the car. She tries once, twice, before finally it works, and we are off.

My grandmother is not a bad driver, I would say, and yet I find myself glad I am not the driver of any of the other cars on the streets beside us. She is quick though, that I must admit, and it is not long before we have arrived at King's Cross, the railroad station where the train is supposed to pick me up.

We find a trolley to carry my trunk, and set off, searching the building for a station Angeline can't quite seem to remember the name of.

"Hello, Miss, are you going to Hogwarts?" she asks a woman, who gives her a prompt glare, as if Angeline is joking, an attempt to make a fool out of the other woman.

She tries again, because of course she does, and the second, a man with two sons, nods, his gaze glancing from me to Angeline. I have not spoken to him, nor do I intend to, but I decide that I don't like him. He unsettles me more than the Minister's smile did, the look in his eye indecipherable.

One of his sons is my age, it seems like. "Why haven't I seen you before?" he asks, as if this is my fault; I have committed the crime of being unknown to him.

"Oh, I'm new," I respond. He frowns, and I do too. 'Is that answer unsatisfactory?' I want to say. 'What could you have possibly expected otherwise?'

"You're new? We never get anyone new."

He has the look in his eye, the same one as his father, who promptly leads us through a pillar and into a different, hidden station, which really I should not be surprised by, at this point.
After a long moment, most of which is interrupted by my walking through bricks, I answer. "Well, now you do."

His eyebrows, thick like two hairy caterpillars, are raised. I wonder if I have done wrong by talking to a boy in such a sarcastic manner. I wonder if anyone at school will care, I wonder if I should even care that they care. He has spoken to me much more rudely, I think I have the right to a little bit of sarcasm.

"What's your name?" he asks. I toy with the idea of telling him a fake name, just for the fun of it, but eventually decide against it.

"Alexandra," I introduce, and his responding frown makes me wonder if this boy is capable of doing anything but.

"Alexander? Isn't that a boy's name?"

"No--Alexandra, with an A at the end. Like the city, in Egypt."
"I don't know about any city in Egypt."

"Have you not taken history?"

"Only thing they teach about Egypt here is the Sphinx, 'less you take Divination."

He gives me a look. "How'd you know about Egypt? You haven't done school."

"Just because I haven't gone to Hogwarts doesn't mean I haven't been to school," I say defensively.

His caterpillar eyebrows raise even higher. "But you haven't learned magic, have you?"

I know my cheeks must be flushed by now, which is rather embarrassing, and I am ready to be done with this conversation. "What is your name? I must know it, so I can remember to avoid you in the future."

He brushes right over the insult, and I half-wonder if he even heard me, or if he regards my words to be as coherent as Charlie Brown's teachers'. "William. I go by Will."

I mimic his frown, desperate for a little bit of revenge, no matter how little. "Willa? Isn't that a girl's name?"

It seems he is done with this conversation too--Thank God--and he walks away from me, towards his father, who is coincidentally still speaking with Angeline.

I latch onto her arm as if I am younger than my true age of fifteen, and subtly lead her away, taking the guise of controlling the trolley.

"Oh, the train is almost here," Angeline says, with a trademark grin and a point towards the tunnel that seems to lead off into the void, or perhaps the outside world.

I follow her gaze, but see nothing. "It's a normal train, yes?"

She nods, hesitantly. "Enough of."

That is not a good enough answer for me, but I suppose it will have to do, for now. I'll see soon enough.

A horn blows, a loud sound that makes me jump, glancing around for the source before my gaze finally lands on the train: it is tall, and red, and over all, dramatic. The horn blows again, this time accompanied by the clacking of the train tracks and the whooshing of steam. I find myself ready to be on the train already, watching the hills roll by, and out of this loud, chaotic station.
Beside me, students say goodbye to their parents. Tears are shed, an owl flies by my face, hooting softly, and I resist the urge to bat it out of the sky.

"I'll miss you," I tell Angeline, wrapping my arms around her and burying my face in the scratchy fabric of her sweater.

"I'll miss you too, dear," she agrees, hugging me tightly.

Her hair smells of ash and vanilla, her clothes of the same wintry perfume and a faint hint of mint. I know that I will long for this specific scent in the months I am away, and so I breathe it all in, letting myself feel all of it, everything, before I am to bottle it all up for school.

I don't cry, though. I have made a rule for myself not to cry in public, and so far, I have stuck to it. That is embarrassing.

Looking around, the boy named William is long gone, which I am glad for. I separate from Angeline, hauling my trunk onto the train, in the midst of a crowd of other students, all clambering to move past me and find their friends.

When I turn around to wave at my sweet old grandmother, she is already out of sight.

I knock on the car doors, looking for an open one, and eventually there is one that is completely empty. My trunk fits in the space above the seats, and I sit beside the window, watching everyone load on.

It is my second time on a train, although the first was not quite as nice--more bitter, less sweet. I did not have Angeline watching me go, then. I had a man in a suit and dark sunglasses making sure the train left safely.

"See you soon, grandmama," I whisper, as if she can hear. I imagine she smiles, as if she can.

The door slides open, and a girl steps in, tall and redheaded. She startles when she sees me. "What're you, a fourth-year?"

"Fifth," I correct.

She gives me a look, the same look the boy named William had, one that makes me shift uncomfortably in my seat. "You're lying."

"What? No I'm not. I'm new."

"We don't get new kids here."

I huff out an annoyed breath, following her with my gaze as she takes a seat across from me, her trunk set haphazardly on the floor in front of her feet. "That's what the boy before you said."
"Why, what's his name?"

"William, I think."

She rolls her eyes. "You're really new?"

"Yes. How would I be lying about that? I'm here, aren't I?"

"Fine," she grumbles. "Sad you met Will first, then, ain't it?"

"I... why?"

"Guess you'll find out soon enough. He's a bloody spaz. No idea how to talk to anyone, much less girls."

She shoots dumbfounded me a grin, as if this is a joke I am supposed to laugh at, frowning slightly when I stay stone-faced, my jaw dropped slightly.

"Well, um... thanks for letting me know, I suppose?"

"Oh, don't be so proper," she teases, punching my shoulder lightly. I clutch the area, although it does not hurt. "No more parents to supervise you anymore, and the teachers barely care! You're safe now."

I give her a short, crimped smile. "What was your name again?"

"Jemma," the red-haired girl said with a grin. "Nice to meet ya. You ready for the first day of the rest of your life, new girl?"

"It's Alexandra," I correct, my soft smile almost real. "And no, but I guess it's happening anyways."

"Oh, you'll love it, trust me," she says, and I wonder how it is possible that this girl is so similar to Angeline yet so completely different.
I take a deep breath. "We'll see about that."