Moments in the Muggle World
It’s both better and worse than I expected. There are no sadistic storytale matrons–just real, fallible adults working in an imperfect system. There’s plenty of food, but it’s institutional food. British institutional food. It’s winter, so it’s constantly dark and gray and damp and cold. I am given clothes that fit and nobody hurts me.
* * *
“You know, it’s normal to have a lot of confusing feelings after what you have experienced. It’s okay to feel angry or sad about what happened. A lot of children feel scared because they don’t know what to expect. Please understand that I am here to help you during this transition, and that nothing you tell me will get you into trouble.”
I privately wonder whether my feelings as an adult, trapped in a child’s body and grieving the loss of everyone I knew, can pass for that of an abused, uprooted child. Vulnerable, isolated, wary.
“Yes, Mrs. Pierce.”
* * *
At recess, I run. I imagine that the activity checks off a few boxes in Mrs. Pierce’s weekly assessment: Regular exercise is clinically proven to help with depression. It will help my body recover from abuse. Racing the other boys is a perfectly normal form of primary school socialization (and certainly beats relentless childish chatter).
Another good reason to run: years of “Harry-hunting” have trained this body to be quick and light-footed, accustomed to pushing through heaving lungs and burning calves. It would be foolish to give up any advantage that might save my skin in the coming months or years.
Mostly, though, I run to feel connected to this new body I inhabit. I quiet my mind, focusing on the blood pumping through my tiny arms and legs, reminding myself that this is me. Whatever happened, this is my body. I belong here now.
* * *
“Henry, I wanted to check in with you about your most recent assignments.”
“Is something wrong, Mr. Knightsbridge?”
“No, not at all.” Mr. Knightsbridge hesitates, ruffling through a small stack on his desk. “Franky, Harry, it’s the opposite. Your performance thus far this term has been excellent. Gifted, even. You have an impressive vocabulary and demonstrate strong critical reasoning skills.”
“That’s good, then, right?”
“Yes.” Mr. Knightsbridge puts the stack down on his desk before looking up to make eye contact. “It’s just… surprising, given the records sent over from St. Grogory's.”
“Ah.” I purse my lips together, nodding slightly. “Mr. Knightsbridge… I don’t know what Mrs. Pierce has told you about… my situation, but my previous guardians were not very nice people. They made it very clear that outperforming my cousin was unacceptable. And unfortunately, Dudley was… not very academically motivated, sir.”
“Tremendously stupid, you mean.” I let out a surprised snort and Mr. Knightsbridge smiles. “Well, Henry, I’m glad that you are no longer holding yourself back. In fact, if you stay on your current track, I think you may be eligible to test into an accelerated track next year.”
“That’s great, sir!”
“Indeed. Even more than your academic performance, I’m delighted at how well you’ve integrated with your peers.”
I nod, pleased that my efforts have been recognized. By now, my new classmates had figured out that I was “pretty smart” and maybe “a little weird” but I’ve been so focused on avoiding showing off that I’ve spent a lot of time quietly frustrated. I’ve tried to take an anthropological approach to my situation, but it’s been hard. When we reviewed a concept in the classroom yet again , I tried to dampen my frustration and analyze Mr. Knightsbridge’s pedagogical approach. When paired with my classmates, I’ve resisted the impulse to solve the assignment and try to gently teach without patronizing them. I’ve done my best to alleviate my near-constant boredom by picking apart the actions and motivations of my peers, trying to predict and imitate their behavior. Good practice for Hogwarts, I guess.
After the conversation with Mr. Knightsbridge, things get easier. I’m given more opportunities to self-study and Mr. Knightsbridge sometimes even lets me turn in alternatives to the standard assignments. He indulges my eclectic interests and quizzes me on my Latin. He alternates between pairing me with the students that need the most help and a couple of whacky kids whose creative antics help bring me out of my shell.
* * *
There’s not a lot of privacy at school or the children’s home, which severely limits my investigation into the magical world. Fortunately, Greater Whinging has a pretty decent library not too far from the children’s home, and the staff takes us there alternate Saturday afternoons. So, while I can’t read my magical books very often or openly attempt wandless magic, I can check out books on folklore and Latin. I can trace celtic knots and botanical illustrations. Odd as it makes me seem, I can practice writing with a quill.
More to the point, I can practice wandless magic if I’m careful. I obsessively attempt unlocking charms in the bathroom stalls and on a padlock I keep in my hoodie when pretending to watch telly. Time awake in my bunk is spent meditating or attempting warming charms. A few nights a week I slip away to the restroom to read passages from Meditative Arts, Protective Runes, or Intuitive Homecrafts .
Although I’m more dedicated to the unlocking charm (I neverever want to be trapped in a closet again), the warming charm comes more naturally. It takes nearly a month before I convince myself that I’ve been successful, and weeks more before I reliably draw out the golden, bubbling warmth of magic from my core and out my arms. But when it comes, it feels as if winter has already ended. It’s thrilling and magical and mine.
By Easter, my best attempts at wandless summoning just make my pencils wiggle, but I’m able to unlock everything I encounter, and am usually able to relock them too. I exchange my nighttime readings for practice sessions with a glass of water and a thermometer to finesse my magical control. I’m less sure whether the protective runes I’m stitching on my clothes are doing much, or whether the pebbles I’ve ritually placed around the dormitory are silencing nightmares, but I don’t have any run-ins with Death Eaters and I sleep remarkably well.