Sugar & Spice

I woke up the next morning to the sound of cheerful birdsong. My ears and nose were frozen and automatically I burrowed deeper into the warmth of my duvet. I'd left my window open again.

I peeled one of my eyelids back to squint outside the open window to the sky, and found it was only just beginning to lighten with the dawn. I gave a tiny groan and rolled over, reveling in the fact that I had hours of (hopefully) undisturbed sleep ahead of me.

My mind began to wander as I floated away on a cloud of blissful unawareness. I began to pick over different memories, completely at random. And then I remembered the night before, and my decision to write to Dumbledore.

I sat bolt upright in my bed, all thoughts of sleep completely gone. I ran my hand through my thick, wavy black hair, and tried to remember whether or not everything (including the suspicion that I wasn't a squib) was a dream. If it was, it was certainly the best I had ever had in my life. So good, in fact, that I wouldn't want to wake up if it was.

After a few moments of gathering my thoughts and wits about me, I slung my legs off the edge of my bed, struck by the realisation that it wasn't some creative night fantasy bourne from years of wistful wishing. It was all wonderfully real.

I did not bother to get dressed, but rather stuffed my arms into my bathrobe and opened my bedroom door without bothering to do it up. I knew there would be nobody around, except for our house-elf, Doro, who I was sure wouldn't mind.

I put the kettle on the boil as in my head I turned over the possibilities of what that brief moment with the wand could really mean. Surely it was enough bring me up out of my squib status.

Let me explain a few things a bit more clearly: I am apparently a squib, which means a witch or wizard born into a wizarding family, but who possesses no magical abilities at all. Until that fateful night, one year ago, I had no reason to doubt this unfortunate fact.

When the letter came for Tom all those years ago, I was overwhelmed with excitement - I'd be getting my letter in a few short years! Or so I thought.

About a year after my father first called me a squib, the realisation hit me: I was never going to Hogwarts. And I accepted this... as best I could, at least. Apart from the 100mph motorbike riding, smoking, sneaking out at night and staying up until 6 o' clock in the morning almost every night.

But I realised, suddenly, that this new breakthrough could really only mean one very simple, very obvious thing: I was a witch. I was magical. I poured the boiling water from the kettle into a mug and added milk immediately (forgetting the tea completely).

I decided I was right about my options - the only thing I could do was write to Dumbledore, the greatest wizard of all time and headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. He'd know what to do.

I hurried into the study with my mug of watery milk - snatching up a handful of digestive biscuits and shoving one whole in my mouth on the way - and fished around in the expensive mahogany desk of my father's. He would be beside himself if he found out I was routing through his things - or even in his study - but he wasn't going to, because he was never here.

I finally located a quill, but the only ink I could find was a bottle of the colour-changing kind. I stared at it a moment, and then shook my head. It didn't matter.

Now that I was sat here in his expensive chair at his expensive desk I didn't know what I should say. I brushed the tip of the feather against my lips for a few moments before I set quill to parchment.

Dear Professor Dumbledore,
I know that I don't know you personally and you probably don't know who I am, but you are the Headmaster of Hogwarts, and since I have a problem regarding magic, I thought it best to ask your help.
It's difficult to explain this simply, so I shall just say it.
My father told me that I'm a squib. Since I was 7 years old I thought I had no magical talent.
But, last year (at this point I paused, suddenly feeling stupid for not doing anything about it for a whole year) I touched a wand - for the first time - and I felt something.
I thought that it might be magic, but if it really was, I can't help but wonder why I'm not at Hogwarts right now.
Please, could you tell me if you know what's happening to me?
Sincerely,
Rosie Tamsworth

I read through it, grimacing at some parts that were rather sad and pathetic-sounding. I was going to cross them out, when some little voice inside told me not to; after a pause I decided to leave it as it was.

I leaned out of the open window and called, "Hunter!"

I sat back down in my father's leather chair, and after a few moments of waiting, our huge barn owl came swooping gracefully into the room and landed neatly in front of me. I stroked his beautiful array of brown plumage.

"Hunter, I need you to take this to Professor Dumbledore at Hogwarts. It is very important that he receives this as soon as humanly possible. Can you do that for me?" He blinked his dark brown eyes once and swiveled his head in the direction of the window. I took that as a sign of confirmation.

I quickly tied the letter to his leg and he nabbed half of the biscuit in my hand before promptly taking off out the window. The morning was dawning crisp and bright, the perfect November day.

As per usual I began to daydream; while staring at a patch of sun on my fathers desk I took a sip of my drink.

"Blech!" I muttered, pulling a face. Grimacing, I stared into its milky depths as I idlly stirred the liquid with the tip of my finger.

Oh boy, I thought. This is going to be a long day.