The rain had been falling since before she woke.
Not the sharp, purposeful kind that arrived with thunder and meant something — just the low, grey, persistent kind that had settled over Crook's wood sometimes in July like it had nowhere better to be and no particular hurry to leave. It streaked the dormitory windows in long crooked trails, turned the iron fence outside into dark watercolour smears, and made the whole world smell of wet soil and withering stone.
She lay still for a moment, listening. Not from reluctance — she was already awake, had been for a few minutes, her mind doing its quiet inventory before the rest of her caught up. The other three girls in the dormitory were still asleep. She could tell by their breathing without needing to look. Jenny on the far bunk breathed through her mouth. Clara made small sounds sometimes, like she was having a conversation in a language that didn't quite exist. The girl in the top bunk opposite — she was the quietest of all.
Sophia had been that quiet once. She didn't remember when she had stopped choosing that quite and when had it simply become the part of who she was.
She got up from her bed as the rest of her body caught up with her mind.
The floor was cold under her feet as she moved to the shared bathroom to get ready for her day. She was fresh and dressed in the grey pre-dawn with the efficiency that had become a habit. Afterall, she never had the luxury of having a slow morning. Her fingers started working through the buttons from memory, as her eyes adjusted to the dark of the early morning. By the time the radiator in the corner had made its first tentative clanking effort at warmth, she was already at the door, her small hair pulled back and tied in a ponytail as her day begun.
The corridor smelled of old carpet and the tail end of last night's dinner. Boiled potatoes and beans, always boiled potatoes and beans, the smell of it had become embedded in the walls by now, as much a part of the building as the water stain spreading on the ceiling near the bathroom. Three days she had been watching that stain grow and three days she had reported it to the duty caretaker, receiving the response she had learned to expect: an agreement so warm and immediate that it meant nothing at all would be done.
One of the younger children would slip on the wet patch below it eventually. She knew that it will happen, and when it did, she would remind whoever was in charge that she had reported the issue before and to whom. Not out of any desire to see someone in trouble, no. Out of the understanding that clear facts and documentation are armour, and that armour was something you maintained before you needed it, not after.
She went downstairs to the laundry room.
The machines had been running since five, their low steady hum filling the room with a warmth that had nothing to do with comfort. Steam curled from the vents in slow spirals. The smell in the washing room was clean in the antiseptic way of industrial detergent, a smell that had long stopped being either pleasant or unpleasant. It was just the smell of morning and work needed doing.
She sorted through the finished loads with the practiced ease of long habit, her hands moving on their own while her mind ran through the remaining tasks of the day. The tailor on Brook Street should have her payment waiting — she'd finished the last set of designs three days ago and sent them over with the younger boy from down the road who ran errands for a few pence. The bridesmaid order had been collected Tuesday, which meant she'd hear about the dress adjustment and accessories she had suggested to be made. This review will decide how it had been received, and will tell her how much she could push the autumn designs.
Her fingers paused on a small pair of trousers near the bottom of the pile. The seam at the right knee was opening along three centimeters. Another wash and it would go entirely.
She set them in the repair pile. Not with any particular feeling. Just because that was where they belonged.
It was the kind of moment that accumulated into a life without anyone marking it — the small, quiet maintenance of a place you had no ownership of and no future in. She had done it for years without examining why she did it. It certainly was not for gratitude, no. She had no gratitude for this place, nor for the people who ran it.
They did not do this job because they have a bleeding heart, No. They did this work because it was the only thing they knew that got paid, or just the people who never had the courage to leave the place they had known since being a child, or both. She understood that. She even respected the honesty of it; in the way she respected most things that were exactly what they appeared to be.
She kept doing her work as she moved to working through the second pile of clothing, when her eyes met the green shirt on the top of the pile. Her hands slowed as memories rose uninvited.
Her mother had owned a green cardigan of same color. The particular shade— muted, soft, the color of things that had been outside in all weathers — was close enough that for one unguarded moment the laundry room fell away entirely. What came in its place was a dining table with her mother wearing the same green cardigan. The one with loose button on the left cuff. It had been loose for three weeks at least, as remembers noticing it every time her mother sat down to dinner. And each time, she had thought she would fix it later. The later never came while it mattered.
Later came in the hospital, during the long hours when she had nothing to do, except wait and drown in her memory. She had thought about it with an intensity that made no sense alongside everything else. Not about time. Not about things said and unsaid. Just that one small insignificant loose button, the one thing she remembered not completing when it mattered.
Coming out of her memories and wiping the slight dampness from her eyes, she pressed her thumb into the fabric in her hands and kept moving.
The shirt went into the folded pile. Her hands found the next item, and the next, and the rhythm of it drew the memory back down to wherever it lived, the way it always did when she kept herself occupied enough to give it no room.
She finished the second pile, stacked everything neatly by the dormitory door where whoever needed it would find it, and went to get ready to go out.
Brook Street was quiet in the late morning and early noon. The few people out now did so by keeping their heads down against the drizzle that had thinned since earlier, but hadn't quite decided to stop. The pavement was dull pewter where the rain had soaked it, and the air smelled of wet stone and someone's early lunch drifting from an open window further down the street.
Sophia walked with a steady, unhurried confidence that read as older than she was. Her face carried its usual neutrality — not unfriendly, not open, simply settled, like weather that had made up its mind. There was, if anyone cared to look closely, a faint upturn at the corner of her lips. Not quite a smile. Just a small persistent thing that had outlasted everything else and was too minor to bother removing, too stubborn to disappear on its own. She had noticed it herself, a small reminder for her that; even after all the cruelty from the world and betrayal from people she considered close, there still existed a person in her who would like to see the world as a beautiful place.
As she pushed the door to the tailor's shop open, bell on the door rang loudly as usual. Drawing attention of a man behind his workbench — a man in his late sixties, white-haired, with a face that had been kind for long enough that the kindness had settled permanently into the lines of it. As he saw her enter the shop, a genuine smile came onto his face, warm and unhurried, the smile of someone who was genuinely glad to see her.
"Ah, here comes the designer." He said in a jolly tone. As he came out from behind the workbench, his movements showing slight stiffness of someone with weak knees in cold weather. "You must tell me, Sophia — how do you always know which adjustment will make the whole dress look better on the person wearing it? The bride's mother rang yesterday. Said how her daughter and her bridesmaid looked in their dresses was the only part of the whole wedding that went exactly as she imagined."
"And my answer is still the same, Mr. Taylor." She reached the counter. "I don't explain my process."
"Cold as ever." He shook his head, fond rather than bothered by her cold response, and withdrew an envelope from the drawer beneath the counter. "Your commission. The wedding dress and the bridesmaid gown both." He slid it across. "The mother wants to commission something for her daughter as a gift. I told her I would pass her details along to my designer."
Sophia took the envelope without opening it. "Is there anything else that you want before I bring the design for autumn series."
"No kid, nothing for now." saying so Mr. Taylor went quiet for a moment. As though he didn't know how to voice the words in his mind. Folding his hands on the counter and looked at her with the expression he got sometimes, the mix of pity, concern and a longing for gem just beyond reach, he said, "Sophia." Pausing and taking a small breath. "Are you happy at the orphanage?"
"I manage myself." Sophia replied, her voice still as dry and detached.
"That's not what I asked." He said, his voice exasperated by her response and tone. "You know that I could adopt you if you are willing. The offer hasn't changed."
The shop was quiet around them. Outside, the drizzle tapped at the glass, but inside the atmosphere was tense from a question that had stung both of them many a times.
She knew the offer was genuine. He meant every word of what he said and she did not doubt that.
She had assessed him early, before ever coming to his shop with her first design. Every one of her enquiries were clear and concise. Who is the man running the shop? What is he like? And what is his past? Every answer she had received was same, an honest to God man trying to build his life around his work, to replace all that he had lost everything else.
"Thank you, Mr. Taylor." Her tone came out softer than she had ever used— not soft by most standards, but softer than her usual dry tone, "I have plans of my own."
The old man looked at her for a moment, his expression a mix of emotion that she did not wish to classify. Then he exhaled slowly and nodded, accepting it with the grace of someone who had expected this answer and was still, quietly, disappointed by it.
She left the bundle of clothes requiring alterations on the counter, took the envelope, and went out.
Under the awning, she counted the notes with the quick hands and attention of someone for whom money had never been abstract. She separated her contribution for the orphanage without thinking about it — the same fixed percentage every time — and put the rest in her other pocket.
She stood there for a moment, her hand resting against the pocket with her own money in it. With today's payment, she would be close to five hundred pounds.
By the time she would be leaving the orphanage, she should have enough money for her living expenses alongside pursuing higher education through government scholarship and small amount for long term investments into a field she knew would bloom in future.
Thinking of her plans, she remembered a promise unfulfilled. How she had promised her parents a carefree life in their twilight years. She never got to fulfil that promise. She had spent her first life in becoming someone who could earn enough to have no financial difficulties later in her life. That's why she had spent her last life perusing engineering rather than designing, which she liked. For all she knew back then was, an engineer was paid more than a designer. But none of that mattered in the end. Did it? Her mother died from a heart attack, and her father, that sweet old man who could make even a stone smile had died that day. What remained, and what she saw each day after that was a man wearing her fathers' skin. At the end, even he had left her.
Her graduation was supposed to be a happy occasion. A symbol of her resilience to continue on even after losing a pillar of her life. But instead, it was the day she had lost the remaining pillar of her life. She had a degree, she had a job, she had a way to earn enough to live a relaxed life. But she had lost the reason for her to do any of that.
She had thought at one point in her new life that she was keeping that promise for them. But each day when she woke and could remember less of their faces made her understand that she was making it for herself. That was not a lesser reason. Perhaps it was a cleaner one.
She pushed herself off the wall and started walking back. The memory of the promise and her living it now being the only important things remaining.
The drizzle had almost stopped by the time the orphanage came back into view at the end of the street. The pavement around it darkly gleaming as the iron gate was standing open as it always was during the day. As she moved towards the orphanage, she calculated the best way to utilize the tie for upcoming week. She had her homework to finish, upcoming scholarship exams to prepare for, the autumn designs needed to be completed along with the new commission that she got. Then there was the question of what higher books could access through the school library.
As she neared the gate of the orphanage an unusual sound made her stop. As she turned to check what the sound was, she saw an owl coming down towards her. As unusual as the sight of a massive brown owl coming towards her is, what's more unusual is the fact that the owl was holding what looked like a letter in its beak.
As she was watching the owl coming down, she noticed that it was coming towards her. Unconsciously taking a step back, Sophia saw the owl land near her on the small wall of the orphanage.
The owl sitting on the garden wall beside the gate, stared at her with the fixed, amber-eyed attention, and she knows that it sounds weird but, its eyes were filled with some form of intelligence as though it were more than just a bird.
Seeing that the bird would not make any sudden movements apart from staring at her, she started to move towards it. As she moved closer, she could see that it was observing her as well. And the strange feeling of it somehow possessing intelligence came again, but this time it was clear to her that the owl had intelligence.
The owl seeing her approach did not move an inch from its spot. It kept staring at her as if confirming her identity. Then, it extended its neck and the letter it held in its beak. This action stumped Sophia. She had never received any kind of letter in hr last life, let alone a letter delivered from a bird.
Seeing her inaction, the owl, as if irritated dropped the letter.
That pulled her attention. Before the letter could be ruined, she picked it from the wet grass and looked at it.
There on the front, written precisely in emerald green ink:
Miss Sophia Scarlet,
St. Andrew Orphanage,
Crook's wood,
Dormitory Room 3, bed 4.
She read the front page and read it again and again.
Not her name, not the building, not even just the street. The specific bed inside the specific room of the orphanage. Written on the front of the letter with the confidence of a fact, not a guess was her address. Not just the orphanage name and street name, but the exact bed of the exact room where she slept.
Reading her address again and again, she felt a tight discomfort in her chest. The letter was not written by someone who was just guessing of her. It was written by someone who knew, and was telling her that he or she knew of her.
Turning the letter, there was a red wax seal. Another thing peculiar about the letter. The seal was in form of an H with four animals, a lion, a badger, an eagle and a snake surrounding it.
The seal came undone easily, as she ripped it and opened the letter and started reading it.
She read the letter and read it again and again.
The letter had written:
HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY Headmaster: ALBUS DUMBLEDORE (Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorcerer, Chief Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confederation of Wizards)
Dear Ms. Scarlet,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.
Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress
Following it the required equipment for the first-year students:
UNIFORM
First-year students will require:
Three sets of plain work robes (black) One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar) One winter cloak (black, silver fastenings) Please note that all pupils' clothes should carry name tags
COURSE BOOKS
All students should have a copy of each of the following:
The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk.
A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling.
A Beginners' Guide to Transfiguration by Emetic Switch.
One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore.
Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger.
Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander.
The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin Trimble
OTHER EQUIPMENT:
wand cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)
set glass or crystal phials telescope
set brass scales
Students may also bring an owl OR a cat OR a toad
PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICKS
As she read the letter, the words kept ringing in her head again and again. Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore, wands, cauldrons, brooms, magic. As the words roamed her mind the images, lines and faces long since berried in her mind kept resurfacing. A boy with a lightning scar, a villain with no nose, a manipulative old man, a naïve and gentle giant and a world filled with mysteries, intrigue and magic far deeper than the tip that was written in the books or shown in the movies.
Standing at the orphanage gate with the letter from Hogwarts, she could not help but feel the world that she knew of coming undone. She was as she realizes now, in a world that she thought would stay as nothing more than a memory of her care free times. Nothing more than a source of entertainment for her to have consumed and later discarded. But now, as she came to realise from this letter, she is a witch, someone who has the gift of magic.
Ha…HAHA. HAHAHAHAHA….
As she came to this realisation, a laugh escaped her lips. It started as a small rumble in her chest, moving to become a rumbling laughter of a seemingly mad person, as Sophia threw her head back and started laughing as though she had gone mad.
The sound of mad laughter attracted the head caretaker from her office on the ground floor. Seeing that the person laughing as a madman was none other than Sophia, the caretaker Mrs. Alden could not help but shake her head at seeing her laugh like crazy. The only thought in her head seeing this scene was 'Ugh… What new madness will this problem child bring? There is already a lot of odd things happening around her. And no one willing to adopt her for those reasons.' But externally, she called out in a relaxed and easy voice, "Sophia, what happened? Why are you laughing?"
Listening to Mrs. Alden's question, Sophia stopped laughing, though her smile was still on her face. Looking at Mrs. Alden watching her from her office, Sophia gave her a wide smile and said, "Well Mrs. Alden, you asked me the other day if I would be willing to let some other kids of the orphanage take the scholarship? Well, your wish came true. It seems I am accepted to a boarding school. The guide will be coming tomorrow."
Saying so, she left the clearly stunned Mrs. Alden behind and went towards her room. IF this letter was true and there truly existed a school as Hogwarts, then her plans needed to change to accommodate this new variable of magic and Hogwarts in her life plans. Whatever happens, this new life of her it seems will bring her more and more surprises than she had expected.