09-01-1991
September 1, 1991
Dear diary,
There’s been a mistake. Someone messed up. Someone really, REALLY messed up.
I’m not supposed to be here at this school. This Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardy-stuff because I am not a witch.
I’ll say it again for the people in the back. I AM NOT A WITCH. NOT A WITCH.
I can’t do the abracadabra-bibbity-bobbity-turn-a-teacup-into-a-mouse-thing. Like I can’t enchant pumpkins into a horse-drawn carriage or make a pair of glass slippers out of thin air. I’m not like Cinderella’s Fairy Godmother, even though now I do have a little wand (Not actually that little. It’s over a foot long.) up my sleeve. (And it wouldn’t fit up my sleeve. But ya'know what I’m getting at.)
Yes, they gave me a wand. I don’t know what I was expecting a wand to look like. Like maybe something with a bedazzled star on the end and a bunch of ribbons. Or maybe something plastic and glittery and pink that you’d find in a child's fairy Halloween costume.
I don’t know…Mom and I didn’t do Halloween.
What they gave me was not some plastic little toy. It was a stick. Like literally a stick. Professor McGonagall (I think I’m spelling that right.) somehow convinced my mom that she was from a church school and pulled a brochure out of—I don’t know where—and mom had been enthusiastic to learn that there was a good Seventh-Day Adventist School so nearby and was even more excited when she learned that my tuition and school supplies would already be covered by a generous donor. At that point there wasn’t anything I could say to get out of it. And the woman, the witch, my future teacher promised to return a week before the new term begins to help me shop for my school supplies and Mom was surprisingly okay with not tagging along to Diagon Alley.
Turns out, Diagon Alley was in London. Yeah. London. That was a whole other country. A lot closer than the United States to Canada, but surely not that close that we would’ve been able to pop on over for a school uniform—Or in this case a wand. Diagon Alley had the only wand maker in all of Britain, Ollivander (I don’t think I spelled that right.) who was a creepy, old man in a little shoebox shop selling sticks.
Like literally sticks.
And how did we get to London?
We teleported.
Yeah, Professor McGonagall can teleport. If I didn’t believe magic existed before, that whole experience would’ve changed my mind in a second. Turns out teleporting is awful. Like really bad. The only way I can describe it is like you're a penny getting sucked into a vacuum hose. It’s loud and fast. And I’m certain I blacked out because when the world stopped violently spinning, I was facedown on the ground in the middle of some cobblestone street.
Professor McGonagall apologized for letting me hit the ground like that and hoisted me up by the hood of my jacket. She did some sort of waving movement with her wand, her little stick, that got rid of the dirt from my knees. “Yer alright, ‘eary. It’s nothin’ a wee bit of magic can’t fix.”
A wee bit of magic. She said it like a small thing that just happened. Like she and I didn’t just break some law of physics. Yeah. No. There’s definitely been a mistake here.
I tried to tell her this. I tried to tell her that I wasn’t a witch. She didn’t believe me. In fact, she assured me that the very fact I was accepted to Hogwarts confirmed my supernatural abilities. I told her I had no supernatural abilities, at least as far as I was aware.
“Ye never done anything ye couldn’t explain?” She had asked me.
I told her I didn’t understand the question. And she started listing off some examples. Like children starting spontaneous fires or changing the color of their clothes or making glowing orbs of light with their hands. I’ve never done any of that. Ever.
And when I told her this, McGonagall got an intense furrow to her brow. “There’s nothin’ ye can think of dat ye couldn’t explain?”
“Does déjà vu count?”
“Déjà vu?” She had repeated. “Like da feelin’ of havin’ done somethin’ before?”
“Well kinda. It’s less feeling like I’ve done something and more I remember a vague dream I had of me doing that exact thing in the moment. I get that constantly,” I told her. “Mom says it's because I’m forgetful and I daydream too much.”
“Yer a seer?”
“A what?”
“What yer describin’ is called premonitive dreamin’,” she then told me. “It’s common among wizards dat practice divinations. Dey’re called seers. Like see-ers. Because dey have the ability to see the future before it happens. It’s not a common ding. Most of de wizards dat claim de sight are charlatans. But dere have been notable exceptions. Cassandra Trelawny fer example was a well-renowned seer. Her granddaughter actually teaches divinations at Hogwarts.”
“And Professor Treloony has this ability to predict the future?”
McGonagall smiled at me as if I had just made a joke. Maybe I had? “It’s Professor Trelawny, as een lawn not loon,” she corrected. “And she claims she does. Though if ye ask eny of de staff dey will tell ye her predictions are rarely accurate.”
Oh. That explains the smile. I think I’d unintentionally insulted the divination professor. Doesn’t loony mean crazy in Britain? I think mom told me that. Instead of scolding me for it, the witch led me to the wand shop and assured that my claims of being a muggle (that’s what wizards called non wizards apparently) were untrue.
I was still not convinced. Even after getting my wand from Ollivander…Oliveander? (I need to double check that spelling.) I was not convinced. Mostly because the whole experience was me just waving a bunch of random sticks in the air, until the shopkeeper found the right match. If there was a spark or a light or anything when I did this I might’ve put more faith in it, but there wasn’t. Even after McGonagall instructed me on how to hold it, even showing me how to do a charm spell to turn the tip of my wand into a flashlight, nothing visibly magical happened.
“Are ye sure dis is de right wand fer the lass?” McGonagall had asked the shopkeeper. Even she must’ve been a bit suspicious at the lack of any visible magic.
The wand maker had been adamant that it was.
“Yes, thirteen inches black walnut, surprisingly swishy, with a phoenix feather core. An ideal wand for a young witch who is both adaptable, inutive, and independent; if not a bit wary of strangers. Although the wood can be finicky if you are not sure of your own abilities. Be careful of any self doubt or it could negatively affect it.”
Was what he told me.
Almost as if he had known I was nothing but self doubt at the moment. Still am as I sit here and write this. None of this feels real. It feels like dream. Or maybe a nightmare.
I’m seeing dead people. Like literal dead people. Ghosts. Or as mom calls them demons in disguise. I don’t know. All I know is they don’t have feet. Like they're floating in the air with no feet.
The first ghost I met was called the Fat Friar. A rude name, I think, because you weren’t supposed to comment about a person's weight. That was like calling me the gap-toothed girl. Or that blond kid who sat next to me at dinner rabbit face. Or the girl in the bed across from mine pug nose. It’s just rude. And I didn’t even realize that the Fat Friar was a ghost at first. He looked copperal enough, like a person, a heavyset man with a shaved bowl cut and a dark brown monk’s habit, smiling. He appeared behind me out of nowhere and I may have yelped before I noticed the man didn’t have any feet.
No feet. It wasn’t misty or anything. He was just cut off at the knees.
I think I went into some sort of shock after that. I don’t really remember how I got here.
I remember eating dinner in this giant planetary room with thousands of floating candles. And I remember the talking hat that they put on my head. I can’t remember what it said to me, though I think it was something along the lines to calm down. And I may have laughed. I don’t know. But I definitely tripped when I hurried over to my assigned table.
I planted myself in the closest available seat, not even looking at who I sat next to until the food appeared. I was too busy looking at the man covered in blood hovering uncomfortably over a blond boy with a pointy chin. And when the man noticed me staring, he looked back giving me such a sense of fear that I didn’t pay much attention to anything else. I vaguely remember everyone getting strangely quiet then the table across the room breaking out into a whooping applause. But I don't know why or what for. And eventually, the boy I sat next to nudged me to get my attention to pass the potatoes. I did. But I don’t remember taking any for myself.
Doubt I could’ve eaten them if I did. Actually, I don’t remember if I did eat. Maybe that’s why my stomach felt like it was twisting itself into a big knot. Or maybe it was the giant, singular eye pressed against the window next to my bed, staring at me.
I’m convinced this must be some wild, melatonin-induced nightmare and I just haven’t woken up yet.
Oh, God please let me wake up.