Mindreader

If there was one thing that never failed to shatter Seraphina’s calm, it was the hard stone walls of Durmstrang.

This castle, admired by many for its rigorous education—too harsh for tender hearts or young girls with dreams too high, too grand—was nothing short of a nightmare for her.

Had it been a reasonable choice, she would have hopped on the first broomstick or boarded the first train to escape. She had never cared about the destination; would she ever have to disembark? To step down and face what people called “life”?

Seraphina wanted nothing to do with life. The idea of confronting a destiny she neither chose nor desired did not appeal to her. Was she truly obligated to conform to what others claimed was “happiness”?

Perhaps it was in the things she didn’t understand that happiness resided. How could people enjoy life? Through her eyes, it was merely a fragile chronological arrow, disrupted by events that were sad, dangerous, stressful—or, occasionally, joyful.

Seraphina hated her life. And that sentiment had not eased over the years. How could she love the first breath that had cast her into hell? These thoughts haunted her every morning as her eyelids reluctantly lifted to greet the orange rays of the Siberian sun.

Watching the sky darken under a thick blanket of clouds through her dormitory window, she unfolded her legs and let them dangle in the freezing void of Siberia. This icy late afternoon promised nothing good. Below her, she noticed younger students several metres away engaging in a snowball fight, clearly using magic. She sighed at the sight.

The boredom threatening to fill her lungs once more dissipated as a screech owl landed on her windowsill. Her legs remained frozen in the cold as she watched the bird drop a missive onto her trembling lap. She was shivering violently.

The bold black ink on the parchment stirred no emotion in her. It was like catching a snowflake on her nose in the heart of winter—utterly unremarkable. And yet, as she withdrew into her dormitory to prepare herself for the headmaster’s office as the note instructed, she felt uneasy. The clumsy, heavy-handed calligraphy betrayed the brusque nature of her headmaster, who cared little for appearances, even less for aesthetics. Among the many things she despised, Karkaroff ranked in her top ten. His very name—a toxic haze—tainted her already harsh judgments of him.

The vast corridors stretched endlessly before her, and Seraphina wondered how many more steps separated her from the headmaster’s office. The familiar fatigue in her legs was ever-present as she trudged through the frozen guts of the school, her taciturn grace born from sheer habit.

For as long as she could remember, Seraphina had never felt she belonged in this austere castle, steeped in prohibitions and steeped in dark magic. Even the walls seemed to harbour secrets far darker than the rumours whispered by the elder students. Although the younger generation was no less shadowed by Durmstrang’s looming presence, the name itself carried an ancestral terror, a history etched into its icy stones.

As for her, Seraphina had few, if any, true friends. It was said that her soul gravitated toward nothing luminous. The whispers of others crept into her mind like invisible blades, sneaking into her ears—always open but never ready to yield.

She murmured the password scribbled on a scrap of paper, her voice barely audible, as the parchment burst into flames between her fingers, crumbling into ashes before her cracked lips closed. The massive wooden door groaned against the stone floor, revealing the tense silhouette of her headmaster bathed in shadows. His long black fur cloak swept the flagstones of the office, where the flickering light seemed to plead with the walls to linger but ultimately surrendered to the oppressive darkness.

Seraphina hated this place as much as she despised the man who inhabited it. The medieval architecture of the office, with its sinister arches and suffocating vaults, made her feel as though she were being swallowed by a monstrous fortress. And yet, on this dreary, grey day, a shiver of curiosity replaced the usual unease gnawing at her insides.

To Karkaroff’s right stood a man, far less imposing but strangely more compelling than the headmaster himself. His presence radiated a certain vitality, an almost magnetic charm. Seraphina felt her throat tighten; words refused to form, as though the emotion stirring her spine paralysed her voice.

“I present to you Albus Dumbledore, headmaster of Hogwarts, the British school of witchcraft and wizardry,” declared Karkaroff, his words heavy with disdain as they rolled off his tongue with his thick accent.

Seraphina’s gaze settled on the man whose name was etched into the minds of countless witches and wizards. He didn’t seem dangerous at first glance—quite the opposite. His apparent frailty suggested that even a gust of wind might topple him.

“Pleased to meet you,” she said with some effort. “I am Seraphina.”

“Grindelwald. Seraphina Grindelwald,” Karkaroff interjected, pronouncing every syllable of the name with calculated slowness.

Seraphina’s blood boiled, her anger nearly overwhelming her. Her name, that cursed burden, seemed to be a weapon Karkaroff delighted in wielding. She turned her gaze toward Dumbledore, hoping to catch a reaction, but his expression betrayed nothing beyond a disarming calm. And that smile… “He’s smiling?” she thought, stunned, as though dreaming.

“You know why I’m here, don’t you?” asked Dumbledore, tilting his head slightly as his piercing eyes studied her over his half-moon spectacles.

“Yes… I’ll be attending your school after being expelled from mine for—”

Her voice faltered, swallowed by shame. The weight of her name, that cursed legacy, was enough to crush her in a battle she couldn’t hope to win. She was guilty of nothing but being born with a name the world scorned.

A Grindelwald is always guilty.

“The reason matters little to me,” Dumbledore interjected softly, his gaze unwavering through his glasses.

“Of course, Hogwarts is known for welcoming rubbish without batting an eye,” Karkaroff sneered with contempt.

Seraphina didn’t miss the disdainful look her headmaster shot at the man before him—a loathing she hadn’t seen from him before.

“Hogwarts is a school that recognises talent, even in the darkest places,” Dumbledore corrected gently, punctuating his remark with a subtle wink.

That comment stirred something in her. For the first time, Seraphina felt seen, understood, perhaps. Dumbledore seemed to see beyond her name. Still, she didn’t dare indulge in this fragile hope. Changing countries wouldn’t erase the weight of her legacy.

Like her, her great-grandfather had once left Durmstrang for Hogwarts. And though his story had taken a tragic turn, it remained engraved in history. After all, history never forgets the shadows of the past.

“We’ve much to prepare before term begins,” Dumbledore said, stepping closer. “If you’re willing, I believe a little journey is in order.”

She clung to his arm, glancing up at him with wide eyes.

“But… what about my belongings?”

“Your owl and clothes are already in your new room. I’ll leave you to bid your headmaster farewell.”

She threw a grimace of disgust over her shoulder and hissed, “Good riddance, Karkaroff.”

In the next instant, she was suddenly yanked through a narrow, suffocating tunnel, darkness pressing in on her chest. She felt the ground reappear beneath her boots, and she clung tightly to the arm of the headmaster, who remained as calm as ever.

Before them loomed an immense, dark building—almost decrepit—with the marks of time and malice etched into its surface.

“I hope the journey wasn’t too unsettling?” Dumbledore asked.

Her eyes still fixed on the sinister building, she shook her head.

“I’ve had worse,” she replied.

“A bout of nausea?” he asked, his curiosity gentle.

“Apparating. I was trying to escape my professor.”

He chuckled into his long beard, which nearly grazed the stone pavement.

“I must warn you, apparition is forbidden at Hogwarts.”

“It was the same at Durmstrang.”

He exhaled a sigh that seemed to say, “I’m not even surprised.” She smiled faintly.

Dumbledore pulled a pocket watch from his grey robes and examined it thoughtfully.

“We mustn’t keep Mrs. Weasley waiting. One doesn’t want to anger a mother, does one? Come along.”

She followed him, her gaze lingering on the number etched into the building’s façade. Not far off, she caught sight of the street sign painted in white on a green background.

“12 Grimmauld Place,” she murmured under her breath.

How strange. She wondered what lay behind the poorly maintained door of this sharp-edged building.