‿︵‿︵୨˚̣̣̣͙୧ - ✦ - ୨˚̣̣̣͙୧‿︵‿︵

“WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS!?”

Nahida had luckily finished decorating the cake when Mr. Jordayne and the rest of the family returned from shopping.  Emmaline carefully strode over to Nahida while rubbing the back of the ten-year-old girl's hair.

“It’s just a cake, nothing more.” Nahida replied, trying to hide behind Emmaline.

“Huh! So you think you can make something good with those filthy hands of yours? I saw you putting beetles on it, you brat!”, shouted Mr. Jordayne.

“Scarabs.” Nahida corrected him, arms crossed.

“Father, must you always try to make things difficult for us? Do recall that this isn't your day. Only Layla will decide if she wants the cake or not.” Emmaline reasoned.

“Do me a favour and shut up, girl. I wasn't asking you anything.”

Nahida and Emmaline glanced at each other, with Nahida giving her step-grandmother a perplexed look; Is this how fathers treat their daughters around here?

The tension in the room was thankfully diffused by Layla's arrival, the redhead sweaty from running home.

“Did someone beat Nahida again? I heard shouting.”

“Your great-grandfather is just being himself… again.”, Nahida replied.”And no, he didn't beat me this time.”

The sisterly pair then glanced at the parents, who looked like they would rather put whatever was inside the shopping bags in a private corner, than hear Mr. Jordayne’s prattle.

“Are those my presents?”, she chirped, then dragged Nahida along, so that both girls could see the pile of boxes.

“Of course silly; you always get the large ones every year.” Nahida mumbled and peered behind Layla, who didn't even mind being called “silly”. More often than not, she didn't like the gifts given to her mostly by her great-grandfather, and she would secretly re-gift them to some classmate at school, which Mr. Jordayne didn't need to know.

(Unless it were jewelry).

“Let's eat the cake, shall we?”, she smiled, trying to keep the tension low. Please don't throw the cake away, please don't throw the cake away, please don't throw the cake—

“You mean that?”,. Mr. Jordayne pointed out, a bonny finger almost touching the scarab icing on the pyramid-shaped cake. Layla gave him a cold look.

“Yes, and you're not included because of the doctor's orders.”

Mr. Jordayne scratched up his nose and walked back to the living room, arms crossed. Layla gave Nahida a small high-five and took her usual spot at the table.

“Good thinking, sis.”

“He isn't a man of sugar, probably because his heart's rotten.”

Lucretia stifled a laugh while Emmaline pretended to cough.

“Nahida, language.”, warned Prometheus, only to receive an eye roll from the girl.

“Let her vent.”, soothed Layla.

Lucretia lit up the eleven candles and everyone except for Mr. Jordayne (who decided to smoke some cigars outside) sang the customary birthday song. After Layla blew out the candles, the family dined on take-out meals and a slice of the tiered cake.

“Mhm, not as sweet as last year’s.”, Prometheus remarked.

“We made it earlier and used less sugar.” Layla explained. “Huh… even the icing isn't as sweet.”

Nahida nodded and took a small bite of her cake slice, then looked out of the window.

“Um Layla, who's that?”

Layla, who sat across from her sister, also looked out of the window and spotted a rather diminutive figure standing on the doorway, his purple cloak standing out in the otherwise muted tones of the street.

“A cosplayer? Maybe he's from the guild!”

Both girls rushed out of the dining room and sprinted towards the front door. Layla opened it and smiled.

“H-hello, are you from the guild?”

The small man with the purple cloak, tilted his head. “A guild? Young miss, what has your parents taught you?”

“This letter", said Layla, who waved her envelope at the stranger. Nahida pulled her aside to let him inside.

“Ah yes, you've confused Hogwarts for a theater troupe haven't you? I'm sorry to disappoint you but Hogwarts is a real school, Miss Campbell. In short, you're a witch.”

Layla just nodded and slumped on the chair. By then, her father, her stepmother and grandmother had finished their food and headed to the living room, just in time to hear the stranger’s statement.

“Layla? A witch?”, asked her father.

“Yes, and where are my manners; I am l Filius Flitwick, the Charms professor.”

Emmaline placed a hand on her granddaughter's shoulder, which Layla was more than thankful for. So what happened back then…

“How is this possible, Professor Flitwick? I don't recall any family members practicing witchcr— magic.”

“You may know Drusilla Black, a talented witch who studied at Hogwarts during the early 1930s. Headmaster Dippet had a few interesting stories about her talent for potions. Last the Headmaster saw her, she found work as a perfumer around here..”

Emmaline tensed and ran her fingers through Layla's hair as memories filled her mind.

“She used to tell me her stories of Hogwarts.”, she added with a sad smile. “I wish I was able to go there myself.”

And risk falling to my demise, intruded a voice in her mind. Emmaline shook the thought away, but her eyes could never lie.

“What does that mean for me?”, added Layla.

“That you're a half-blood, or should I call you an “eighth-blood” now? It just means that you're related to some high-ranking magical family.”, Emmaline responded.

“That’s not the point.”, grumbled Nahida; “you know how the old coot —”

Emmaline ruffled her step-granddaughter’s curls, effectively silencing the girl. Layla gave Professor Flitwick an apologetic look.

“Forgive my sister, hot if I am truly a witch, that may spell trouble for me. You see, my great-grandfather has his own views about magic.”

“Ah, so that explains the whole “guild” thing and you wish to cover up your status by using a different name for the school.”

Layla nodded.

“Hmmm…  let me think… “Harrington School of Performing Arts!” How does that sound?”

“Brilliant!”, everyone exclaimed.

“It sorta makes sense.”, added Layla “but have you heard of the Hogwarts Serial Disappearances Case?”

Professor Flitwick raised a brow and looked at the rest of the family with some fear in his eyes.“Y-yes. How did you come to know about that?”

“Father Goldstein told me.”, Layla confirmed and approached the teacher, then whispered; “He has a brother who attended Hogwarts some time ago.”

“I need to get some sleep.”, said Nahida, then turned around to face the dining room. “Professor Flitwick can have my cake.”

Prometheus merely smiled and retrieved the plates of food from the table, giving Nahida's unfinished plate to the teacher.

“What would this mean for Layla?”, Lucretia asked politely; “There are certain issues with being a witch.”

“For starters, she will get free education on how to control her magic.”, replied Professor Flitwick. “Hogwarts is also a boarding school, so she will be away from you for most of the year. She can however, return for Christmas and Easter break.”

“What about Nahie?” added Layla, facing her father. “You can't leave her alone with someone like him.”

“Your sister will be fine.”, soothed Prometheus. “What you need more, is to control your powers.”

“Um, about education, where can I buy my supplies, Professor?”, Layla inquired.

“You can buy them at Diagon Alley. “

“Thank you.”

Lucretia read the Hogwarts letter, and checked the list of requirements. She found a third paper that was a consent form, and quietly filled up the paper with important signatures.

“So, where's this Diagon Alley exactly?”

“Oh… wel…”

· · ─ ·☾☽· ─ · ·

Two months had passed and Layla found herself reading the requirements list that came along with her letter of acceptance. Due to certain circumstances, Nahida had stayed at home, reading some new books she had received from her friend. Her stepmother also stayed at home, which left herself, her father and her grandmother in the car with the diminutive Professor Flitwick sitting in the front.

HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

UNIFORM
First-year students will require:

1. Three sets of plain work robes (black)
2. One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear
3. One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)
4. 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 Emeric 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

1 wand
1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)

1 set of glass or crystal phials

1 telescope set

1 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

“I remember my own mother telling me how the Leaky Cauldron was a portal to the Wizarding World.”, sighed Emmaline.

Layla finished reading the letter and stared back at her grandmother. “Really?”, she asked.

“Yes.”, added Professor Flitwick; “there is a certain signage that only appears to Wizardkind— ah, there it is!”

It was a tiny, grubby-looking pub. If the teacher hadn’t pointed it out, Layla wouldn’t have noticed it was there. The people hurrying by didn’t glance at it. Their eyes slid from the big book shop on one side to the record shop on the other as if they couldn’t see the Leaky Cauldron at all. In fact, Layla had the most peculiar feeling that only she and Flitwick could see it.

Before she could mention this, they had emerged from the car, waved goodbye to her father and grandmother (the latter telling her to buy something for Nahida) and steered her inside.

For a famous place, it was very dark and shabby. A few old women were sitting in a corner, drinking tiny glasses of sherry. One of them was smoking a long pipe. A little man in a top hat was talking to the old bartender, who was quite bald and looked like a toothless walnut.

“Whoa!”, Layla finally whispered, eyeing the figures carefully.

      “Good Lord,” said the bartender, peering at Layla, “is this — can this be—?”

      The Leaky Cauldron had suddenly gone completely still and silent.

      “Bless my soul,” whispered the old bartender, “Jasmine Potter… what an honor.”

      He hurried out from behind the bar, rushed toward Layla and seized her hand, tears in his eyes.

      “Welcome back, Ms Potter, welcome back.”

      Layla didn’t know what to say. Everyone was looking at her. The old woman with the pipe was puffing on it without realizing it had gone out. Flitwick was confused.

      “I’m not Miss Potter.”, corrected Layla. “Who is she anyway?”

The strangers gave her surprised looks, as if she had just come out of Plato's cave (Nahida would love this one!). A pale young man made his way forward, very nervously. One of his eyes was twitching.

      “Professor Quirrell!” said Flitwick. “Miss Campbell, Professor Quirrell will be one of your teachers at Hogwarts.”

      “H-H-hello,” stammered Professor Quirrell, grasping Layla's hand, “c-can’t t-tell you how p-pleased I am to meet you.”

Layla hissed, and quickly pulled away, clutching her medallion. Giving this new professor a closer look revealed nothing out of the ordinary, which was something she hadn't experienced before. Is something wrong with it? Father Goldstein did say it's enchanted…

“My apologies. What sort of magic do you teach, Professor Quirrell?”, she continued on despite the discomfort of her medallion.

      “D-Defense Against the D-D-Dark Arts,” muttered Professor Quirrell, as though he’d rather not think about it. “N-not that you n-need it, eh?” He laughed nervously. “You’ll be g-getting all your equipment, I suppose? I’ve g-got to p-pick up a new b-book on vampires, m-myself.” He looked terrified at the very thought.

Professor Flitwick nudged Layla to the side, and waved goodbye to the terrified professor. Layla tried to soothe herself from the burning sensation on her necklace, and was relieved to feel it going away once she was a few meters away from the teacher with the strange turban.

“Have I… seen him before?”

No, of course not!, answered a voice in her head. Truth be told, how was she supposed to have seen Professor Quirrell when they only just met? It must be the turban… hm?

Flitwick, meanwhile, was counting bricks in the wall above the trash can.

      “Three up… two across…” he muttered. “Right, stand back, Layla.” He tapped the wall three times with the point of his wand.

      The brick he had touched quivered — it wriggled — in the middle, a small hole appeared — it grew wider and wider — a second later they were facing an archway large enough even for a giant to pass through, an archway onto a cobbled street that twisted and turned out of sight.

      “Welcome,” said the teacher, “to Diagon Alley.”

Layla's eyes widened; So it really is a portal! They stepped through the archway. Layla looked quickly over her shoulder and saw the archway shrink instantly back into solid wall.

The sun shone brightly on a stack of cauldrons outside the nearest shop. Cauldrons — All Sizes — Copper, Brass, Pewter, Silver — Self-Stirring — Collapsible, said a sign hanging over them.

      “You’ll need one,” said Flitwick, “but we gotta get yer money first.”

      Layla wished he had about eight more eyes. He turned his head in every direction as they walked up the street, trying to look at everything at once: the shops, the things outside them, the people doing their shopping.

A plump woman outside an Apothecary was shaking her head as they passed, saying, “Dragon liver, sixteen Sickles an ounce, they’re mad…”

A low, soft hooting came from a dark shop with a sign saying Eeylops Owl Emporium — Tawny, Screech, Barn, Brown, and Snowy.

Several boys of Layla's age had their noses pressed against a window with broomsticks in it. “Look,” Layla heard one of them say, “the new Nimbus Two Thousand — fastest ever —”

There were shops selling robes, shops selling telescopes and strange silver instruments Layla had only seen in those children's fantasy movies, windows stacked with barrels of bat spleens and eels’ eyes, tottering piles of spell books, quills, and rolls of parchment, potion bottles, globes of the moon… 

      “Gringotts,” said Flitwick.
      They had reached a snowy white building that towered over the other little shops. Standing beside its burnished bronze doors, wearing a uniform of scarlet and gold, was —

      “Layla, that’s a goblin,” said Flitwick quietly as they walked up the white stone steps toward him. The goblin was about a head shorter than Layla. He had a swarthy, clever face, a pointed beard and, Layla noticed, very long fingers and feet. She bowed as they walked inside.

Now they were facing a second pair of doors, silver this time, with words engraved upon them;

  Enter, stranger, but take heed
  Of what awaits the sin of greed,
  For those who take, but do not earn,
  Must pay most dearly in their turn.
  So if you seek beneath our floors
A treasure that was never yours,
  Thief, you have been warned, beware
  Of finding more than treasure there.

    “This is the bank of the Wizarding World. Safest place to keep your valuables after Hogwarts,” said Flitwick. “Also, this is where Muggle money is exchanged for our currency.”

Hopefully, without spirits making them vanish into oblivion., a thought Layla kept to herself.

“I suppose I'll say goodbye to my British pounds.”

      A pair of goblins bowed them through the silver doors and they were in a vast marble hall. About a hundred more goblins were sitting on high stools behind a long counter, scribbling in large ledgers, weighing coins in brass scales, examining precious stones through eyeglasses. There were too many doors to count leading off the hall, and yet more goblins were showing people in
and out of these. Flitwick and Layla made for the counter.

“Good morning Sir “ greeted Layla. “We’ve come to exchange… currency.”

She couldn't get used to her money being called ”Muggle”. She took out her wallet and emptied it out of her savings and the bills her parents gave her as extra allowance, and watched the goblins take them somewhere else.

A few moments later, the goblin returned with a bag of coins. Layla looked over them, confused. They were made of gold, silver and bronze.

“The gold ones are Galleons,” Flitwick explained. “Seventeen silver Sickles to a Galleon and twenty-nine Knuts to a Sickle, it’s easy enough.”

Layla nodded, silently thanking the goblin and the tiny teacher and they exited the bank together.

“Might as well get your uniform,” said Flitwick, nodding toward Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions. Layla nodded, and sped off towards the store.

Madam Malkin was a squat, smiling witch dressed all in mauve.

“Hogwarts, dear?” she said, when Harry started to speak. “Got the lot here — another young man being fitted up just now, in fact.”

      In the back of the shop, a boy with a pale, slightly chiseled face was standing on a footstool while a second witch pinned up his long black robes. Madam Malkin stood Layla on a stool next to him, slipped a long robe over her head, and began to pin it to the right length.

      “Hello,” said the boy, “Hogwarts, too?”

      “Yes,” said Layla.

      “My father’s next door buying my books and mother’s up the street looking at wands,” said the boy. He had a soft, deepening voice. “Then I’m going to ask them to let me look for books by Thomas Aquinas. A shame that such a philosopher isn't so popular here.”

      Layla was strongly reminded of Nahida, whom she recalled, should get that exclusive copy of Plato's many dialogues.

      “Have you got your own broom?” the boy went on.

      “No,” said Layla; “I don't usually clean the whole house.”
.
      “No, silly; it's used to play Quidditch.”

      “Oh,” Layla said again, wondering what on earth Quidditch could be.  The boy must've noticed, because he quilted down a little, looking for another topic to talk about.

      “Anyways know what house you’ll be in yet?”

      “No,” said Layla, feeling more stupid by the minute.

      “Well, no one really knows until they get there, do they?”

      “Mmm,” said Layla, wishing he could say something a bit more interesting.

“…what's your name?”

“Anthony Goldstein. And you?”

Layla was speechless; Could it be…?

“Oh, um… I'm Layla. Layla Campbell.”

Anthony smiled, and was about to shake Layla's hand when he spotted a figure walking by the window.  But before Layla could shake Anthony's hand, Madam Malkin said, “That’s you done, my dear,” and Layla, a little sad about having to stop talking to the boy, hopped down from the footstool.

      “Well, I’ll see you at Hogwarts, I suppose,” said Anthony, and waved goodbye.

“Likewise Anthony.”

Layla was rather quiet but happy t as she ate the ice cream Flitwick had bought her (chocolate and mint with vanilla marshmallows).

      “What’s up?” said Flitwick.

      “Well,” Layla was about to say, but she found Anthony approaching her.

“I spy a new friend!”

Flitwick smiled and let her be. Layla then sped off to catch up with the pale boy with the brunet hair and familiar, green eyes.

The two stopped to buy parchment and quills. Layla grinned a bit when she found a bottle of ink that changed color as you wrote. When they had left the shop, she asked,

“Anthony, is your uncle a priest?”

“I have a number of uncles. Not sure about the priest.”

“Fr. Romulus Arthur Goldstein?”

Anthony's eyes widened. Layla smiled.

“He told me a few things about Hogwarts the day I received my letter.“

Anthony looked around, and guided her to a more secluded part of the alley.

“If you're talking about that priest, don't mention him in public. Mother will have a fit.”

“And why is that? All he really talked to me about was his brother.”

“That's a good thing. Father told me he had a little brother whom he was forced to leave near a church when said brother turned seven and didn't show any signs of magic. I didn't know his name was something like Romulus.”

“What did you think his name waps?”

“Arthur.”

“Well, his middle name is Arthur.”

Both burst out laughing.

“Now that would explain why my middle name is “Romulo”, of all names. Anyways, what did the priest tell you about Hogwarts?”

Layla then told him about the Serial Disappearances rumors.

“Oh, that.” responded Anthony. He rummaged under his polo, and pulled out a medallion.

“Father says this had been enchanted and consecrated too. I don't know how that works, but if the rumor is true…”

“Then you're not the only one armed with a protective medallion.”

Layla showed Anthony her own medallion, which both realized, complimented each other; Anthony's gold to Layla's silver.

“We should get going.” Layla reminded both of them. Anthony merely nodded.

They bought their school books in a shop called Flourish and Blotts where the shelves were stacked to the ceiling with books as large as paving stones bound in leather; books the size of postage stamps in covers of silk; books full of peculiar symbols and a few books with nothing in them at all. Even Nahida, who never was already an avid reader (of philosophy), would have been wild to get her hands on some of these. Anthony almost had to drag Layla away from Demonology for Starters by Cleon Slickwell.

      “I was trying to find clues.”

      “I’m not saying that’s not a good idea, but definitely don't buy that if you have a Frollo at home.,” said Anthony. “He might push you off a balcony.”

Unfortunately for Layla, there was nothing about Plato in the store either. She did manage to buy a book about Ancient Egyptian magic

Anthony wouldn't let Layla buy a solid gold cauldron, either (“It says pewter on the list”), but they got a nice set of scales for weighing potion ingredients and a collapsible brass telescope.

Then they visited the Apothecary, which was fascinating enough to make up for its horrible
smell, a mixture of bad eggs and rotted cabbages. Barrels of slimy stuff stood on the floor; jars of herbs, dried roots, and bright powders lined the walls; bundles of feathers, strings of fangs, and snarled claws hung from the ceiling. While Flitwick and Anthony asked the man behind the counter for a supply of some basic potion ingredients, Layla examined silver unicorn horns at twenty-one Galleons each and minuscule, glittery-black beetle eyes (five Knuts a scoop).

      Outside the Apothecary, both checked their list again.

“Just our wands left.”

“Yes, and I still have enough to spend on something extra.”

“How about a pet?”, suggested Anthony. “Owls are the best choice; they send you mail, carry your parcels and everything.”

Twenty minutes later, they left Eeylops Owl Emporium, which had been dark and full of rustling and flickering, jewel-bright eyes. Layla now carried a large cage that held a beautiful Northern Hawk Owl owl,
fast asleep with his head under her wing.

“Do you have a pet owl, Anthony?”, she asked, grinning.

“Yes. I got him last week. His name is Agustin.”

Layla pondered for a moment about the name of her bird, then had an idea; “I’ve always liked the name ”Plato”.”

“I don't see you as someone who reads much Plato… no offense.”

“It’s my sister who reads it. A good book, if only I don't fall asleep while trying to understand it.”

Anthony chuckled, and nudged Layla forward

The last shop was narrow and shabby. Peeling gold letters over the door read Ollivanders:
Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C. A single wand lay on a faded purple cushion in the dusty window. A tinkling bell rang somewhere in the depths of the shop as they stepped inside. It was a tiny place, empty except for a single, spindly chair that Anthony sat on to wait. Layla felt strangely as though she had entered a very strict library; she swallowed a lot of new questions that had just
occurred to her and looked instead at the thousands of narrow boxes piled neatly right up to the ceiling. For some reason, the back (and front, thanks to the medallion) of her neck prickled. The very dust and silence in here seemed to tingle with some secret magic.

      “Good afternoon,” said a soft voice. Layla jumped. Anthony must have jumped, too, because there was a loud crunching noise and he got quickly off the spindly chair.

      An old man was standing before them, his wide, pale eyes shining like moons through the gloom of the shop.

      “Hello,” said Layla awkwardly.

      “Ah yes,” said the man. “Yes, yes. I thought I’d be seeing you soon. Miss Campbell.” It wasn’t a question. “You have your great-grandmother’s eyes. It seems only yesterday she was in here herself, buying
her first wand. Fourteen and a half inches long, unyielding, made of blackthorn. Nice wand for dueling.”

      Mr. Ollivander moved closer to Layla. Layla wished she would blink. Those silvery eyes were a bit creepy.

      “What was she like?”

Mr. Ollivander did not reply. “Hmmm,” he finally mumbled, giving Layla a piercing look. “Well, now — Ms.  Campbell. Let me
see.” He pulled a long tape measure with silver markings out of his pocket. “Which is your wand arm?”

      “Um — well, I’m right-handed,” said Layla.

      “Hold out your arm. That’s it.” He measured Layla from shoulder to finger, then wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, knee to armpit and round her head. As he measured, he said, “Every Ollivander wand has a core of a powerful magical substance, Ms.. Campbell. We use unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers, and the heartstrings of dragons. No two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons, or phoenixes are quite the same. And of course, you will never get such good results with another wizard’s wand.”

      Layla suddenly realized that the tape measure, which was measuring between her nostrils, was doing this on its own. Mr. Ollivander was flitting around the shelves, taking down boxes.

“That will do,” he said, and the tape measure crumpled into a heap on the floor. “Right then, Ms. Campbell. Try this one. Beechwood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible. just take it and give it a wave.”

      Layla took the wand and (feeling unsure) waved it around a bit, but Mr. Ollivander snatched it out of her hand almost at once.

      “Maple and phoenix feather. Seven inches. Quite whippy. Try —”

      Layla tried — but he had hardly raised the wand when it, too, was snatched back by Mr.
Ollivander.

      “No, no — here, ebony and unicorn hair, eight and a half inches, springy. Go on, go on, try it out.”

      Layla tried. And tried. She had no idea what Mr. Ollivander was waiting for. The pile of tried wands was mounting higher and higher on Anthony's lap (he had gone back to sitting on on the chair), but the more wands Mr. Ollivander pulled from the shelves, the happier he seemed to become.

      “Tricky customer, eh? Not to worry, we’ll find the perfect match here somewhere — I wonder, now — yes, why not — unusual combination — cypress and unicorn, sixteen inches, unyielding.”

      Layla took the wand. She felt a sudden warmth in her fingers. She raised the wand above her head, brought it swishing down through the dusty air and a stream of gold and white sparks shot from the end like a firework, throwing dancing spots of light on to the walls which curiously formed a vague shape of the cross.

Anthony whooped and clapped
and Mr. Ollivander cried, “Oh, bravo! Yes, indeed, oh, very good. Well, well, well… how curious… how very curious…”

      He put Layla's wand back into its box and wrapped it in brown paper, still muttering, “Curious… curious…”

      “Sorry,” said Layla, “but what’s curious?”

      Mr. Ollivander fixed Layla with his pale stare.

      “I remember every wand I’ve ever sold, Ms. Campbell. Every single wand. It so happens that the unicorn whose tail hair is in your wand, was once encased in your great-grandmother’s.”

      Layla swallowed.

      “Blackthorn, fourteen-and-a-half inches. Blackthorn. Curious indeed how these things happen. The wand chooses the witch, remember… I think we must expect great things from you, Ms. Campbell. Consider this an heirloom from someone who passed too soon.”

Layla shivered. She wasn’t sure how Mr. Ollivander knew about her great-grandmother. She paid seven gold Galleons for her wand, and after Anthony claimed his own wand (rowan, phoenix feather, ten inches), Mr. Ollivander bowed them from his shop.

“That was unexpected.”, Anthony remarked once the two found a bench for them to sit.

“Yeah. Just how much .”

Flitwick waved at her from a distance, and Layla could spot two figures talking to the teacher. She and Anthony approached the adults, and the redhead's eyes widened slightly when she noticed how the tall man looked almost like Fr. Goldstein.

“…and the medallions?”

“Consecrated. I had my brother bless them beforehand.  Anthony already got his, but the other one — oh?”

Mrs. Goldstein nudged her husband's shoulder, and quietly pointed out Layla's necklace. Layla herself looked surprised that she was even noticed. Thankfully, Flitwick intervened before Mrs. Goldstein could say anything.

“See you around, Anthony.”

“You too.”

The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky as Layla and Flitwick made their way back down
Diagon Alley, back through the wall, back through the Leaky Cauldron, now empty. Layla said goodbye to the teacher before heading to the car, where her father was waiting.

“So, how was the trip?”, asked her grandmother.

“It was all good, only I discovered that my great-grandma was a witch. Professor Flitwick alluded to it earlier, but Mr. Ollivander confirmed it.”

Emmaline was silent. Of course they would spill somehow.

“Did you make any new friends?”

“I sure did; Anthony Goldstein.’

Layla swore she saw her grandmother smiling fondly. “And, did you buy something for Nahida?”

“Of course! Not Plato, but this still counts.”

Emmaline gazed at the book on Layla's lap, and gently took it.

“That old coot isn't getting his hands on this, I promise.”

Layla was rummaging through her pocket, and picked out an envelope; my ticket to Hogwarts! First of September…

She spent the rest of the car ride smiling.

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