(no subject)
“Wendy!” someone shouted. “Wendy! Wake up! Hurry up, you lazy lump of rocks! It’s nearly 8 AM!”
The girl named Wendy sat up in her bed groggily. She knew what time it was, but she didn’t exactly care. It was Saturday, after all. She was supposed to be allowed to sleep in, but she was one of the oldest, so it meant she had to clean on the days she wasn’t at school.
“Are you up yet?” shouted Mrs. Olive, rapping on the door.
Wendy was quite unfortunate in a number of ways. First of all, she was one of the oldest children belonging to one of the oldest orphanages in London. She lived in the smallest room, all by herself, because none of the other girls liked her. She was also, of course, an orphan-but she didn’t really remember this one very often, because she’d always been an orphan so she’d never experienced anything else.
Wendy was sort of short for her age. She was eleven, but people mostly assumed she was eight or nine. She had pale skin that’d always been pale, and a small nose that had been broken once a long time ago so it had a bump in the middle (Andy Walkin, a troublesome boy, broke it with a fallen branch from the dead tree out in front of the orphanage). She had long black hair and round blue eyes, but some of the other kids thought she looked scary.
For reasons that Wendy didn’t entirely understand, she’d never been adopted. People wanted bright, blonde little girls like Susan Winkle, who left last week, or athletic boys like Andy himself, who was taken a little over two years before.
Wendy climbed out of bed and pulled on a faded pair of jeans. Her shoes and her jacket, like everything else she owned, were very ratty looking.
“Finally,” shouted Mrs. Olive as Wendy appeared from behind the door. Mrs. Olive was a very fat woman in a purple skirt. She had a pudgy nose and wide, angry brown eyes. She was holding a mop and a bucket. “Sarah’s made a mess all over the kitchen floor again. Good lord-Well, hurry up! Don’t just stand there!”
She shoved the mop and the bucket into her hands and stormed off down the hallway, muttering about some of the children. Wendy followed after her, tripping over the large bucket and long mop in her tiny arms.
Wendy walked into the kitchen after Mrs. Olive, where the toddler Sarah was sitting on the floor in a puddle of what smelled like apple juice. The kitchen was dark and gloomy, like the rest of the house. The wallpaper, a faded yellow with red flowers, was pealing off the walls and the bricks around the stove were black from smoke and age. There were windows, but it wasn’t exactly sunny outside, and the glass was very dirty.
“Come on Sarah,” said a blonde, twelve year-old girl. Wendy scowled.
The blonde’s name was Jasmine, and she was Wendy’s least favorite person in the whole world. She was a very good actress; she was always sucking up to Mrs. Olive, who absolutely adored her. She was the kind of person who talked in a girly, sickly sweet voice when she talked to adults, but tried to beat up anyone she didn’t like.
Who, unfortunately, was mostly Wendy.
“Bring her here, Jasmine,” said Mrs. Olive, holding out her arms. She took the baby and sat down at the old lopsided table. “That’s a girl,” she said, balancing the baby on her knee. There was a mousy looking boy standing over the stove, cooking breakfast. He was at the most fifteen, and he looked terrified.
Jasmine shot Wendy a dirty look for no particular reason, and sat down next to the old caretaker.
“What’re you making, Francis?” asked Wendy. The mousy boy glanced at her, glanced at Mrs. Olive, and said nothing.
Wendy rolled her eyes and filled up the bucket in the sink.
Somewhere down the hall someone rang the doorbell. Mrs. Olive sighed.
“Oh, gracious,” said the woman, getting up from the table and plopping the baby back down on the cold tile. “It’s eight in the morning, can’t they tell that we’re...”
She walked down the hallway muttering, straight to the door.
All three children hung their heads out the door, hoping to get a glance of whoever it was that came to the door. Francis was the tallest of course, so his head had the best view. Jasmine punched Wendy out of the way, so Wendy watched around the corner from her spot on the floor, massaging an angry bump on the top of her head.
“Good morning!” said a voice from the door.
“Er...good morning,” answered Mrs. Olive nervously. “Can I help-?”
“Yes, actually, I’m here to see someone named Wendy-“
“Wendy?” interjected Mrs. Olive, sounding surprised. The two children frowned down at her doubtfully. “What for?”
“Actually, I’m here on-may I come in?” he asked suddenly. “Do you have an office where we can speak privately?”
Wendy had a feeling he could see them from the front of the hall.
“Well, sure,” said Mrs. Olive, still sounding a little bewildered. “I have an office-“
“Excellent!” said the man. He brushed past Mrs. Olive and walked straight into the room she’d been motioning to. “I’m Professor Lockhart...”
They walked into the room and their voices cut off with a snap.
There was a mad scramble in the kitchen. Francis and his long, spider-like legs got into the hallway first, and he crashed into the wall with a bang. Jasmine used Wendy’s head to propel herself forward, and Wendy’s chin hit the tile with a crack. Her head ached and she skidded after them.
“Move, Jasmine!” she hissed at the girl. The blonde had her head pressed up against the door. “I want to hear! They’re talking about me anyway!”
“Get off,” said the girl, pushing her away.
Wendy settled once again for the floor, where she listened under the door.
“What’s it called again?” asked Mrs. Olive, sounding confused. “Hog-“
“-warts,” finished the man. “Hogwarts is a very fine school for people with special abilities like young Miss Wendy’s,” he said with a flourish. “Talented people.”
“I’ve never noticed anything special about Wendy,” said Mrs. Olive. Above her, Jasmine giggled. “She’s a bit odd, that much I picked up-“
“Well, we specialize in the extraordinary,” said the man.
“Who signed her up for this school?” asked Mrs. Olive, sounding doubtful.
“Ah,” said the man, sounding annoyed. “This will explain everything.”
Suddenly, there was silence, and the sound of rustling paper.
“Ah,” said Mrs. Olive, sounding dazed. “Of course. I must tell you sir, Wendy’s been here since she was born, there’s not a penny to her name-“
“That won’t be necessary,” he said. “There’s a special fund for students who need it-some of her things will have to be second hand, lord knows Madam Malkin-“
“Who?”
“Oh,” he blustered. “Nevermind. May I, um...speak to the girl?”
“Very well,” said Mrs. Olive. They heard her get up from her chair.
Francis once again took off down the hallway, hitting a coat stand as he went. Jasmine and Wendy both scrambled up at the same time, but Jasmine pushed her back.
They disappeared into the kitchen. Wendy grabbed the mop again, pretending to be busy. Francis fought the burning bacon away from the fire, and Jasmine snatched the baby, who had knocked over another bottle of milk.
“Wendy?” asked Mrs. Olive. She still looked dazed. “Mr.-Professor Lockhart would like to speak to you.”
Wendy glanced at Jasmine and Francis. Francis’ expression was blank, as it always was, and Jasmine was giving her a dirty look, as if she was almost jealous. Wendy felt suddenly brighter.
Mrs. Olive nearly pushed her down the hallway and into the dusty office.
“Here she is,” said Mrs. Olive, giving Professor Lockhart a doubtful look as she ushered the girl into the room. The door closed sharply.
“Ah,” said the man, smiling at her. He had very white, straight teeth. “Just a moment,” he said, and turned. He pulled something out of his sleeve, and muttered something under his breath. Wendy stared, spotting Mrs. Olive’s shadow from somewhere nearby the door.
“There we are,” he continued. “Now that we’re not to be overheard. That would be dreadful, wouldn’t it?”
He smiled at her cheekily, and sat down in the chair across from her.
“Now,” he said. “Where to begin? How much did you hear from under the door?”
She jumped.
“Something about-about a school,” she said, wondering if he’d told Mrs. Olive. “Some place called Hogwarts.”
“Yes!” he said. He was a very lively man. “Yes, exactly. You see, that’s exactly why I’m here. I came to offer you a place at this school.”
“Why do you want me to go to your school?” she asked, confused. “I don’t have any money, and I’m not...gifted, or anything.”
“Bah, money isn’t a problem here. What do you mean, gifted?”
“Well...I can’t sing or anything. And...I’m not very fast. I’m not smarter than the other kids, and I don’t-“
He waved his hand.
“That,” he said, smiling again. “Isn’t the kind of thing this sort of school specializes in,” he said, whispering dramatically. “This is a different sort of school.”
For once, the girl was sort of interested.
“What does it specialize in?” she asked, still wary.
“Have you ever done anything that you couldn’t explain?” asked the professor. “When you were upset, or angry, that you didn’t know a person could do?”
The girl said nothing and thought. In fact, it wasn’t that she did anything when she was upset, or even angry, she just did things-wonderful, miraculous things that she knew she shouldn’t be able to do, and they happened anyway.
“Well...there are some things,” she said tentatively.
“Hogwarts,” he started, and she wished he would keep his voice down. “Is not a school for silly things like singing, or sports. It’s a school of magic.”
She stared blankly. Wendy wasn’t quite sure if this man was serious, or even sane.
“Magic,” she said slowly.
“Yes,” he said, nodding fervently. “Magic.”
She gave him a look similar to one of Mrs. Olive’s.
“Well...how can you-how do I know that-?”
“I’m not making it up?” asked Lockhart, smiling knowingly. “I’ll show you.”
Without another word, the strange man pulled a long wooden wand out of his sleeve. He was staring across the room, at a stuffed duck that Mrs. Olive had sitting on a table in her weird office.
The man waved the wand, and suddenly, the duck was no longer stuffed. It was moving, as if it was once again alive.
It squawked, and slipped across the smooth table.
“How did you-?” the girl wondered aloud. “Where can I-?”
“Buy a wand? All in good time,” he said, waving his wand once more at the duck. It froze, but Wendy wondered if it had been in the same pose before. “You see, you’re a witch, Wendy. And witches are rare-there are not a lot of them sitting around. Anyone can sing, or run fast, or do arithmetic-but you’ve got truly wondrous abilities right here, inside of you.”
Professor Lockhart pulled a piece of paper out of his inside pocket.
“If you need it, someone will be by tomorrow to take you to Diagon Alley to buy your school things. That is, of course, if you’re going to accept-“
“Yes!” she shouted, a little too loudly. “Where is this place, I mean, that I can get a wand and things?”
He gave her a quizzical look.
“I can find it myself,” she said. “I don’t need any help, if you’ll only tell me how to get there.”
“Take this,” said Professor Lockhart. He gave her a brief description of how to get to Diagon Alley-it wasn’t too far away from where she lived, and she wondered why she’d never noticed it before. “Take this paper to Gringotts, the wizard bank, and they’ll give you a bit of money with which to buy your things. Some of them will have to be second hand...”
He pulled out another piece of paper.
“Here’s your list of supplies,” he said, handing it to her. “You can get most of these things for a small price, nothing’s too expensive.”
She glanced at the paper quickly.
“Professor,” she asked quietly. “If...I’m a witch, does that mean...”
“Does that mean what?” he asked, frowning at her.
“Does it mean that my parents were magical? A witch, and a wizard?” she asked quietly. The question had been burning in her throat.
“Well,” he said uncertainly. “That depends. There are some witches and wizards, you see, who don’t have magical parents at all. Some of them do, of course, but most don’t. It could be either way-I never met your parents, neither do I know who they are.”
“Oh,” she said, a little depressed. “I see.”
“Well,” he said, getting his wand ready. “It’s best if you don’t mention this to Mrs. Olive, of course, or the other children. Mrs. Olive won’t ask you any questions, I’ve made sure of that. If anyone asks, Wendy, you were signed up for Hogwarts a long time ago by some distant relative. Do you understand? We keep our magic a secret.”
She nodded.
“Good! Do you have any questions?”
Actually, she had a thousand questions.
She shook her head.
The man smiled at her weakly and waved his wand once again at the door.
“Very good, dear,” he said, shoving his wand away hastily and opening the door. “We’ll be seeing you soon, then, I expect?”
She nodded doubtfully, and he smiled broadly at Mrs. Olive. She was still giving him a funny look.
“Then I’ll be on my way. Mrs. Olive, it was such a pleasure,” he said, bowing to her. “Remember Wendy! September 1st. Don’t be late, or you’ll miss the train.”
“What platform is it?” she asked.
He shot Mrs. Olive a scared look.
“It’s, um...on your ticket. See you at school!”
Without another word, he opened the door and stepped out into the cloudy day.
Jasmine, still looking sour, was standing by the kitchen with the baby Sarah in her arms.
“What was that all about?” asked Mrs. Olive, now eyeing her cautiously.
The girl shrugged and said nothing. Without another word, she darted from the hallway and ran to hide in her room.
The girl named Wendy sat up in her bed groggily. She knew what time it was, but she didn’t exactly care. It was Saturday, after all. She was supposed to be allowed to sleep in, but she was one of the oldest, so it meant she had to clean on the days she wasn’t at school.
“Are you up yet?” shouted Mrs. Olive, rapping on the door.
Wendy was quite unfortunate in a number of ways. First of all, she was one of the oldest children belonging to one of the oldest orphanages in London. She lived in the smallest room, all by herself, because none of the other girls liked her. She was also, of course, an orphan-but she didn’t really remember this one very often, because she’d always been an orphan so she’d never experienced anything else.
Wendy was sort of short for her age. She was eleven, but people mostly assumed she was eight or nine. She had pale skin that’d always been pale, and a small nose that had been broken once a long time ago so it had a bump in the middle (Andy Walkin, a troublesome boy, broke it with a fallen branch from the dead tree out in front of the orphanage). She had long black hair and round blue eyes, but some of the other kids thought she looked scary.
For reasons that Wendy didn’t entirely understand, she’d never been adopted. People wanted bright, blonde little girls like Susan Winkle, who left last week, or athletic boys like Andy himself, who was taken a little over two years before.
Wendy climbed out of bed and pulled on a faded pair of jeans. Her shoes and her jacket, like everything else she owned, were very ratty looking.
“Finally,” shouted Mrs. Olive as Wendy appeared from behind the door. Mrs. Olive was a very fat woman in a purple skirt. She had a pudgy nose and wide, angry brown eyes. She was holding a mop and a bucket. “Sarah’s made a mess all over the kitchen floor again. Good lord-Well, hurry up! Don’t just stand there!”
She shoved the mop and the bucket into her hands and stormed off down the hallway, muttering about some of the children. Wendy followed after her, tripping over the large bucket and long mop in her tiny arms.
Wendy walked into the kitchen after Mrs. Olive, where the toddler Sarah was sitting on the floor in a puddle of what smelled like apple juice. The kitchen was dark and gloomy, like the rest of the house. The wallpaper, a faded yellow with red flowers, was pealing off the walls and the bricks around the stove were black from smoke and age. There were windows, but it wasn’t exactly sunny outside, and the glass was very dirty.
“Come on Sarah,” said a blonde, twelve year-old girl. Wendy scowled.
The blonde’s name was Jasmine, and she was Wendy’s least favorite person in the whole world. She was a very good actress; she was always sucking up to Mrs. Olive, who absolutely adored her. She was the kind of person who talked in a girly, sickly sweet voice when she talked to adults, but tried to beat up anyone she didn’t like.
Who, unfortunately, was mostly Wendy.
“Bring her here, Jasmine,” said Mrs. Olive, holding out her arms. She took the baby and sat down at the old lopsided table. “That’s a girl,” she said, balancing the baby on her knee. There was a mousy looking boy standing over the stove, cooking breakfast. He was at the most fifteen, and he looked terrified.
Jasmine shot Wendy a dirty look for no particular reason, and sat down next to the old caretaker.
“What’re you making, Francis?” asked Wendy. The mousy boy glanced at her, glanced at Mrs. Olive, and said nothing.
Wendy rolled her eyes and filled up the bucket in the sink.
Somewhere down the hall someone rang the doorbell. Mrs. Olive sighed.
“Oh, gracious,” said the woman, getting up from the table and plopping the baby back down on the cold tile. “It’s eight in the morning, can’t they tell that we’re...”
She walked down the hallway muttering, straight to the door.
All three children hung their heads out the door, hoping to get a glance of whoever it was that came to the door. Francis was the tallest of course, so his head had the best view. Jasmine punched Wendy out of the way, so Wendy watched around the corner from her spot on the floor, massaging an angry bump on the top of her head.
“Good morning!” said a voice from the door.
“Er...good morning,” answered Mrs. Olive nervously. “Can I help-?”
“Yes, actually, I’m here to see someone named Wendy-“
“Wendy?” interjected Mrs. Olive, sounding surprised. The two children frowned down at her doubtfully. “What for?”
“Actually, I’m here on-may I come in?” he asked suddenly. “Do you have an office where we can speak privately?”
Wendy had a feeling he could see them from the front of the hall.
“Well, sure,” said Mrs. Olive, still sounding a little bewildered. “I have an office-“
“Excellent!” said the man. He brushed past Mrs. Olive and walked straight into the room she’d been motioning to. “I’m Professor Lockhart...”
They walked into the room and their voices cut off with a snap.
There was a mad scramble in the kitchen. Francis and his long, spider-like legs got into the hallway first, and he crashed into the wall with a bang. Jasmine used Wendy’s head to propel herself forward, and Wendy’s chin hit the tile with a crack. Her head ached and she skidded after them.
“Move, Jasmine!” she hissed at the girl. The blonde had her head pressed up against the door. “I want to hear! They’re talking about me anyway!”
“Get off,” said the girl, pushing her away.
Wendy settled once again for the floor, where she listened under the door.
“What’s it called again?” asked Mrs. Olive, sounding confused. “Hog-“
“-warts,” finished the man. “Hogwarts is a very fine school for people with special abilities like young Miss Wendy’s,” he said with a flourish. “Talented people.”
“I’ve never noticed anything special about Wendy,” said Mrs. Olive. Above her, Jasmine giggled. “She’s a bit odd, that much I picked up-“
“Well, we specialize in the extraordinary,” said the man.
“Who signed her up for this school?” asked Mrs. Olive, sounding doubtful.
“Ah,” said the man, sounding annoyed. “This will explain everything.”
Suddenly, there was silence, and the sound of rustling paper.
“Ah,” said Mrs. Olive, sounding dazed. “Of course. I must tell you sir, Wendy’s been here since she was born, there’s not a penny to her name-“
“That won’t be necessary,” he said. “There’s a special fund for students who need it-some of her things will have to be second hand, lord knows Madam Malkin-“
“Who?”
“Oh,” he blustered. “Nevermind. May I, um...speak to the girl?”
“Very well,” said Mrs. Olive. They heard her get up from her chair.
Francis once again took off down the hallway, hitting a coat stand as he went. Jasmine and Wendy both scrambled up at the same time, but Jasmine pushed her back.
They disappeared into the kitchen. Wendy grabbed the mop again, pretending to be busy. Francis fought the burning bacon away from the fire, and Jasmine snatched the baby, who had knocked over another bottle of milk.
“Wendy?” asked Mrs. Olive. She still looked dazed. “Mr.-Professor Lockhart would like to speak to you.”
Wendy glanced at Jasmine and Francis. Francis’ expression was blank, as it always was, and Jasmine was giving her a dirty look, as if she was almost jealous. Wendy felt suddenly brighter.
Mrs. Olive nearly pushed her down the hallway and into the dusty office.
“Here she is,” said Mrs. Olive, giving Professor Lockhart a doubtful look as she ushered the girl into the room. The door closed sharply.
“Ah,” said the man, smiling at her. He had very white, straight teeth. “Just a moment,” he said, and turned. He pulled something out of his sleeve, and muttered something under his breath. Wendy stared, spotting Mrs. Olive’s shadow from somewhere nearby the door.
“There we are,” he continued. “Now that we’re not to be overheard. That would be dreadful, wouldn’t it?”
He smiled at her cheekily, and sat down in the chair across from her.
“Now,” he said. “Where to begin? How much did you hear from under the door?”
She jumped.
“Something about-about a school,” she said, wondering if he’d told Mrs. Olive. “Some place called Hogwarts.”
“Yes!” he said. He was a very lively man. “Yes, exactly. You see, that’s exactly why I’m here. I came to offer you a place at this school.”
“Why do you want me to go to your school?” she asked, confused. “I don’t have any money, and I’m not...gifted, or anything.”
“Bah, money isn’t a problem here. What do you mean, gifted?”
“Well...I can’t sing or anything. And...I’m not very fast. I’m not smarter than the other kids, and I don’t-“
He waved his hand.
“That,” he said, smiling again. “Isn’t the kind of thing this sort of school specializes in,” he said, whispering dramatically. “This is a different sort of school.”
For once, the girl was sort of interested.
“What does it specialize in?” she asked, still wary.
“Have you ever done anything that you couldn’t explain?” asked the professor. “When you were upset, or angry, that you didn’t know a person could do?”
The girl said nothing and thought. In fact, it wasn’t that she did anything when she was upset, or even angry, she just did things-wonderful, miraculous things that she knew she shouldn’t be able to do, and they happened anyway.
“Well...there are some things,” she said tentatively.
“Hogwarts,” he started, and she wished he would keep his voice down. “Is not a school for silly things like singing, or sports. It’s a school of magic.”
She stared blankly. Wendy wasn’t quite sure if this man was serious, or even sane.
“Magic,” she said slowly.
“Yes,” he said, nodding fervently. “Magic.”
She gave him a look similar to one of Mrs. Olive’s.
“Well...how can you-how do I know that-?”
“I’m not making it up?” asked Lockhart, smiling knowingly. “I’ll show you.”
Without another word, the strange man pulled a long wooden wand out of his sleeve. He was staring across the room, at a stuffed duck that Mrs. Olive had sitting on a table in her weird office.
The man waved the wand, and suddenly, the duck was no longer stuffed. It was moving, as if it was once again alive.
It squawked, and slipped across the smooth table.
“How did you-?” the girl wondered aloud. “Where can I-?”
“Buy a wand? All in good time,” he said, waving his wand once more at the duck. It froze, but Wendy wondered if it had been in the same pose before. “You see, you’re a witch, Wendy. And witches are rare-there are not a lot of them sitting around. Anyone can sing, or run fast, or do arithmetic-but you’ve got truly wondrous abilities right here, inside of you.”
Professor Lockhart pulled a piece of paper out of his inside pocket.
“If you need it, someone will be by tomorrow to take you to Diagon Alley to buy your school things. That is, of course, if you’re going to accept-“
“Yes!” she shouted, a little too loudly. “Where is this place, I mean, that I can get a wand and things?”
He gave her a quizzical look.
“I can find it myself,” she said. “I don’t need any help, if you’ll only tell me how to get there.”
“Take this,” said Professor Lockhart. He gave her a brief description of how to get to Diagon Alley-it wasn’t too far away from where she lived, and she wondered why she’d never noticed it before. “Take this paper to Gringotts, the wizard bank, and they’ll give you a bit of money with which to buy your things. Some of them will have to be second hand...”
He pulled out another piece of paper.
“Here’s your list of supplies,” he said, handing it to her. “You can get most of these things for a small price, nothing’s too expensive.”
She glanced at the paper quickly.
“Professor,” she asked quietly. “If...I’m a witch, does that mean...”
“Does that mean what?” he asked, frowning at her.
“Does it mean that my parents were magical? A witch, and a wizard?” she asked quietly. The question had been burning in her throat.
“Well,” he said uncertainly. “That depends. There are some witches and wizards, you see, who don’t have magical parents at all. Some of them do, of course, but most don’t. It could be either way-I never met your parents, neither do I know who they are.”
“Oh,” she said, a little depressed. “I see.”
“Well,” he said, getting his wand ready. “It’s best if you don’t mention this to Mrs. Olive, of course, or the other children. Mrs. Olive won’t ask you any questions, I’ve made sure of that. If anyone asks, Wendy, you were signed up for Hogwarts a long time ago by some distant relative. Do you understand? We keep our magic a secret.”
She nodded.
“Good! Do you have any questions?”
Actually, she had a thousand questions.
She shook her head.
The man smiled at her weakly and waved his wand once again at the door.
“Very good, dear,” he said, shoving his wand away hastily and opening the door. “We’ll be seeing you soon, then, I expect?”
She nodded doubtfully, and he smiled broadly at Mrs. Olive. She was still giving him a funny look.
“Then I’ll be on my way. Mrs. Olive, it was such a pleasure,” he said, bowing to her. “Remember Wendy! September 1st. Don’t be late, or you’ll miss the train.”
“What platform is it?” she asked.
He shot Mrs. Olive a scared look.
“It’s, um...on your ticket. See you at school!”
Without another word, he opened the door and stepped out into the cloudy day.
Jasmine, still looking sour, was standing by the kitchen with the baby Sarah in her arms.
“What was that all about?” asked Mrs. Olive, now eyeing her cautiously.
The girl shrugged and said nothing. Without another word, she darted from the hallway and ran to hide in her room.