Outside the open window of a tall tower a tabby cat sat silently on a narrow stone ledge. It was late afternoon on a midsummer day and a light breeze moved across its fur. The cat’s long tail moved in a slow swish and flick as it gazed thoughtfully into the distance. Mountains east of the vast castle were starting to gather evening greys , only the tallest peaks still in full sunlight. The sky was a clear blue but for one faraway white line, the cloud trail of a Muggle ‘jet’.
The cat’s eyes, framed in darker fur like square glasses, turned to look down from its high perch. In the distance lay the Quidditch field, with tall spectator stands and golden hoops of the goals casting long shadows on the grass below. The noise of the whooshing brooms and cheering crowds of spring had faded away many weeks ago.
Far below the tower, the walled courtyards of Hogwarts lay quiet, empty of their usual school year bustle. Sections of new lighter stonework contrasted with the weathered original masonry. Clearly visible in many places were relaid blocks, the repairs of spell-shattered or giant-crushed walls and gates. The wizard builders could have charmed the rebuilt sections to blend with the ancient grey, but were directed not to. The great school bore its scars openly and proudly, a reminder for the students and families of Hogwarts to always remember the hour they had stood together against the evil of Voldemort. And won.
From inside came the sound of knocking, followed by the creak of the oak door slightly opening.
“Headmistress?” a high voice inquired.
The tabby cat rose from the stone ledge and stepped back through the open window. Gracefully it jumped to the floor of the tower room, disappearing behind the clawfooted legs of a huge polished desk. As it landed, in blurring quickness its shape grew and changed into a cloaked woman in square spectacles and tight bunned hair.
“Here, Professor Flitwick,” said McGonagall, emerging by the desk.
A short man in flowing robes and tall pointed hat stood in the arched doorway. The little Charms teacher entered the office with a tall stack of papers.
“The Ministry census and birth records, courtesy of our young Mr. Creevey.” It had been quicker to get the copies from a student intern at the Ministry than by the slow bureaucratic process normally required for the information.
“Well done, Filius. Let me complete this last letter so we may set them out here.”
On the desktop lay a sheet of parchment bearing the official Hogwarts letterhead and seal. Its handwritten message was similar in form to a previous letter.
August 5, 1999
Dearest Killian and Colleen,
Thank you for your inquiry about your son. His acceptance letter was not lost or misdelivered. I am sorry to have to inform you that Adrian has not been selected for Hogwarts. Notwithstanding your evidence that he can run very fast with his toy broom and pretends to fly, our records have not shown him to possess the required magical ability. It is always difficult for us to give this news to a loved child of a fine wizard family.
By your request you may appeal this decision to the Ministry of Magic. I will point out however that, in numerous cases for centuries, these findings have never been overturned. The lengthy process of challenges often implies to our nonmagic chidren that there is something wrong with them, which is simply untrue.
I’m sure Adrian is a wonderful child and gifted with other talents. There are alternate educational opportunities for Squib children in Wizard and Muggle society. It is so very important that you show Adrian that despite not being accepted at Hogwarts he is a valued member of your family and the Wizarding community. Above all, please do not let yourselves or your son see this as a disappointment, but as life’s way of opening another world to explore.
Respectfully Yours,
Minerva McGonagall
Headmistress, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
McGonagall pointed her wand at the quill beside the page and it floated up and began adding a few more lines to the letter.
P.S. Please remind Adrian that one of his great grandfathers was a Muggle who flew a ‘Sopwith Camel’ in 1917. He may be interested to study some of todays Muggle ‘aircraft’, some of which can carry over 500 people as fast as a broom.
The parchment folded itself and dropped into an ‘Out’ box, ready to leave by the owl mail. Professor Flitwick dropped the heavy stack of folders on the desk.
“Complete birth records for the last ten years,” he squeaked.
“Thank you for meeting me here today, Filius,” McGonagall replied. “ I had hoped our summer would be more restful.”
After last year’s break spent not on holiday but first with the many funerals then the rebuilding and training of new teachers, the two weary Professors had thought this summer would be free of any extra toils. But these new developments required some investigation. McGonagall laid her hand on the outgoing letters of rejection.
“One last year and two this year,” she said shaking her head.
“It is troubling me as much as you, Minerva,” short Flitwick replied. “Something seems not right. First the Muggle students. Only two new Muggle-born wizards selected last year and this year not one!”
“That first sign I overlooked in the commotion of reenrolling all the Muggle-borns after the Carrows year. But now we have full Wizard-born children not being selected.”
“And the lists sent to Beauxbatons and the other schools seem far too short,” added Flitwick. “Something is amiss.”
“I suppose these will confirm if our concerns are true then,” said McGonagall as she began dividing the folders into separate piles. “The book, Filius?”
Professor Flitwick took his wand from inside his cloak and stepped to a wall at the back of the room. With a ‘Tap “ tap tap “ tap’ he touched the wand to seemingly random stones and the blocks folded back to reveal an alcove. Upon the secret shelf lay an enormous aged leatherbound book, its parchment pages spread wide. On the left the open page was filled, hundreds of lines each inscribed with a name followed by a city and country. On the right side, a quarter of that page also held names. The contents of this timeworn book, kept in the tower for centuries upon centuries, traced the gift of magical ability in all the human population of Europe.
By the thick book sat a silver inkpot and above it floated a gleaming white feather quill almost three feet tall. The Quill swayed continuously back and forth, as if suspended by a tiny wind, waiting to record the next line in the moment somewhere on the continent a new wizard life was given a new name. This knowing feather was the source of all the book’s invaluable information, and the lines it wrote guided the enrollment of children in all the wizard schools of the surrounding countries. The Hogwarts acceptance letters sent last month flew on owl wing to the British children who had been recorded eleven years ago.
Flitwick closed the book’s silver-hinged cover and hefted the huge volume into his arms, teetering precariously as he packed it over to McGonagall’s desk.
THUD! It landed on the desktop.
“Always hated that,” chuckled McGonagall. “Charming a seventy pound book against levitation spells is rather…”
“…inconvenient!” huffed Flitwick as he climbed onto the chair across from the seated headmistress. “You might have picked someone larger for this job.”
“Who could I trust but you, Filius?” she replied sweetly.
To protect the treasured book, its keepers centuries ago had charmed it against Levioso, Accio, Evenesco, and a host of other spells. As a result, it could only be moved about by common Muggle labor. Which was quite a labor. McGonagall recalled the midnight journey she and Flitwick made three years earlier to carry the book, along with the much lighter Quill, down seven floors of stairways to secure it deep within the floor beneath her bed. Thankfully the Ministry oafs had believed the story that Dumbledore alone had known its hiding place and the book was lost after his death. There were no acceptance letters to nonwizard families that year. She shuddered to think what further evil would have been done if Voldemort’s puppet Ministry had found the names of all the next decade’s Muggle-born wizards. The book was protected against much magic, but Fiendfyre could destroy even it. And McGonagall would have burned it to oblivion herself rather than let it fall into the hands of Death Eaters. Happily those dark days were past and the book was in its rightful place again.
“Headmistress,” Flitwick spoke again, “of course I’ve only had this responsibility the last two years, but is it possible there’s something wrong with the Quill? That it’s… broken?”
“As Deputy Headmistress I checked the list of names for twenty years. I have never known it to be wrong. It has never chosen a child that wasn’t magic and never failed to find a child that was.”
“But could the Quill’s spell be fading? Could it be missing entries?”
“I don’t believe so. The Quill still records names every day. Over a thousand years Hogwarts has relied upon it.”
“Then maybe we’ll find the answer in here,” said Flitwick opening a folder.
“We’ll begin with next year’s enrollment,” she directed. “You take Hogwarts area and I’ll check Beauxbatons. Turn to the 1989 births.”
Flitwick began turning the huge pages, then paused. “I feel as if I’m breaking the oath.”
“I know Filius. In all these years I’ve never allowed myself to look ahead at future names. Not that I didn’t get subtle requests almost every year.”
“Johnsons, Bulstrodes, Understumps…” recited Flitwick.
“Ah, the tradition continues,” McGonagall smiled.
The contents of the mysterious Quill book was an ongoing interest, for it held now the information that would not be revealed for a decade hence. Some persons, unwilling to wait so long for answers, would on occasion contact the school for confimation of a newborn’s inclusion in the book. Wizards married to Muggle spouses were anxious to know that a new baby was born magic. Pureblood families with a young six or seven year old not displaying any magical traits yet asked the favor to check that there was nothing wrong with their child. Each request was met with an official denial of information and polite assurance that the announcement would come in due time near each child’s eleventh birthday.
By strict tradition established many centuries past, a Fidelis Charm was cast between only Headmaster and Deputy that bound them to never speak any of the book’s names before a certain time and in a certain way. Every name remained a secret until the day it was written upon an acceptance letter.
“It’s not that we can’t look, it’s simply been our custom not to since they can never be shared before the appointed time. But I don’t believe counting and comparing the book’s figures to the birth records will break our proper procedures Filius.”
“I suppose not,” he agreed. “But it feels like… cheating.”
The two Professors began examining the pages before them, checking the birth records against the book. As they totalled the figures McGonagall spoke notes to her desk quill, which in turn recorded them on a parchment pad.
“Hogwarts 1989. Forty-two born, forty selected. One Muggle. Beauxbatons 1989. Thirty-nine born, thirty-eight selected. Two Muggles.”
“Hogwarts 1990. Forty born, thirty-nine selected. One Muggle. Beauxbatons 1990. Thirty-eight born, thirty-six selected. No Muggles.”
If a child’s name was not in the wizard birth record but written in the Quill book, that meant he or she was a Muggle-born wizard. After 1991 there simply were no more. Any child in the wizard birth record that was not in the Quill book would be a Squib, a child born of magical parentage but not magical. After the 1997 records there were no further halfblood children, those born of a wizard and a Muggle parent, written in the Quill book. And each successive year there were more Squibs born of even pureblood wizard parents.
“Hogwarts 1997. Thirty-six born, twenty-nine selected. No halfblood, no Muggles,” McGonagall noted as they completed another year. “Beauxbatons similar.”
She reviewed the totals tallied on the parchment pad. As the years accumulated the pattern became more apparent and McGonagall became more convinced. They then reviewed the book’s list for the other schools also.
“It’s happening at Delphi and Durmstang too.”
“Not that Durmstang cares about loss of Muggle-borns,” Flitwick noted.
“How could I have been unaware of this?” McGonagall asked herself, shaking her head in dismay. “How did I not see sooner?”
“Tut tut, Minerva,” came a kind voice above her shoulder. “You had more urgent matters on your mind. You also, Filius my friend. Defending students from Death Eaters and battling Voldemort’s armies certainly held higher priority at the time.”
“Dumbledore,” she turned to the portrait of the white bearded wizard in the tall hat and full dress robes. “Have you followed all of this? Do you know what it means?”
“It seems Hogwarts has a shortage of Muggle-borns.”
“Of course they were all sent away the year after your death. For good reason. And the new enrollments vary up and down between years. But they never just disappear altogether. Yet none are being born.”
“And the decline of magic appears in wizard-born births also.”
“Albus, I thought it was only because of the deaths from the war. All the wizards that didn’t survive to have children. I thought that’s what the records would show.”
“But you have found it is certainly something more than that.”
“No matter the number of births, each year there are less and less of our children born with magic. Each new year the Quill lists fewer students. In a decade there will be no more Muggle-borns at our school. If this trend continues,” her upset voice hesitated, “Why, in thirty years there will be no magical children for Hogwarts to teach!”
“And Headmaster,” added Flitwick addressing the attentive portrait, “it is not only Hogwarts. It seems all of Europe is affected.”
“And what do you believe the cause of this is?” Dumbledore questioned.
“As of yet,” McGonagall replied, “I have no idea, Albus. An extremely powerful curse?”
“Unlikely,” the portrait replied. “No Dark Arts known can curse an entire continent. Unless there were a hundred wizards coordinated doing it family by family. But very, very few even have the skill for such curses. And your opinion, Filius?”
“I am confunded Dumbledore. This is very unusual.”
“Very unusual indeed,” replied the painted image. “Forces greater than the powers of wizards may be involved here. I believe you plan further investigation of this mystery, Minerva?”
“Yes Albus. But without declaring that we’ve laid open the contents of the Quill book. I’m sure the other schools must soon be realizing this trend also. And more parents will be finding out in the coming years.”
“I’m sure a public announcement is not in order yet. But one must wonder,” the portrait suggested, “how far this problem spreads.”
“Of course, Dumbledore!” McGonagall exclaimed as if she had completely overlooked something. “Filius, we need to compose a letter to the other Quill schools. Do not imply we consider it a crisis, but explain what we are experiencing and ask if they find any similar patterns.”
“Yes Headmistress,” Flitwick agreed. “And I am to send these letters…where?”
“Salem Institute and Witness Stone in the Americas,” Dumbledore’s voice directed. “Trelephant Tusk in Africa, Lotus Ghost in Asia, Wuriupranili in Australia.”
“I do pity the birds who deliver these letters,” squeaked the short Professor.
“If you do not object, Minerva,” stated Dumbledore’s image, “I would confer with Kingsley on this matter.”
“Yes. Do go, Albus,” she replied. “Kingsley should know about this.”
Dumbledore disappeared out of the frame of his portrait, leaving to the Ministry.
Yes, Minister Shacklebolt should know about this. Though what good would it do him to know until they could find out why? Why was magic disappearing from the blood of the children of the Wizarding World?
After the letters were written and addressed to their faraway destinations, Flitwick laid them in the box for the evening owls. But as he stepped to the desk to close the ancient Quill book the pages began fluttering forward until the half blank page lay open. The tall white Quill floated over to the book and began inscribing the next line.
August 5, 1999 Olivia Wood Puddlemere, England“There is a good omen at least,” Minerva McGonagall smiled. Flitwick read the name, nodded and smiled also. He looked at the swaying feather.
“It stays amazingly bright for a thousand years old.”
“I think it’s all the moving about,” she commented as the pure white Quill glided back and forth. “Keeps the dust from settling.”
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A young woman stood by herself at the front of a long narrow room. She had a fair complexion with hazel eyes and dark brown hair, pulled back and gathered in an intricate braid the flowed halfway down her back with a score of silver charms woven into the tresses. Tall and slender, she wore a long eggshell white robe with embroidered designs that seemed to continually move across the surface of the fabric.
Three walls of the room were stone. Not identical small blocks laid in orderly layers, but immense irregular slabs of worn granite weighing many tons each and set together like puzzle pieces with no two alike. The fourth wall of the room was lined with tall windows whose vista looked down upon a dense canopy of trees that stretched far as the horizon. From the view one could tell that this room sat on a high floor of a very tall structure.
Upon the walls hung posters, charts and displays that told this was a classroom. The young woman traced the dates on a large desk calendar. It was December, just a week until Christmas. In London, from where she had just returned, that meant winter holiday for students. But here in South America the seasons were opposite and it was summer vacation.
A folder and a stack of textbooks lay to one side on the desk. A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration, Intermediate Transfiguration, and Guide to Advanced Transfiguration, all Professor’s editions of the training material. She had spent the day here reviewing lesson plans and now her work was complete. The young woman pulled her wand from within her sleeve and waved it. “Evanesco,” she spoke as books and folder vanished.
The aged panes of grey tinted glass stretched floor to ceiling between the stone columns. Grace Merrythought looked out across the rows of empty desks and chairs and into the rainforest beyond. The steady drizzle of a warm summer shower soaked the lush green foliage and dripped down trailing vines and wide leaves of immensely tall trees. In her years as a student she had spent many hours staring out these windows here in Professor Amaral’s Transfiguration classroom, but many, many more hours absorbing the knowledge and skills of a very wise wizard. Now it would be her classroom. Soon the new school year would begin and it would be her responsibility to teach first year wizards and witches how to change twigs into needles and train seventh years to pass their Nastily Exhausting Wizarding Test.
Heavy stone scraped against stone on the opposite side of the classroom as a giant slab folded to one side. A passageway opened on the solid wall and an older man walked into the room. He had the deep tan skin of a rainforest native, short cut dark black hair greying at the temples and a stern, serious expression upon his face. Today he was lightly dressed in a short sleeve cotton shirt, shorts and sandals. Wide chested, solid and muscular, he was no taller than Grace but still an imposing figure of quiet strength. Although his clothing was simple, his biceps and forearms were encircled with complex decorative tattoos and he wore the paxiuba seed necklace common among tribal wizards.
“Professor Katupya,” Grace smiled as the Vice Principal entered.
“Professor Merrythought,” he nodded, smiling lightly as her expression changed.
“I’m not used to that title with my name yet,” she replied with slight embarrassment.
“You will adjust quickly. Come February you will have hundreds of students calling it over and over. Soon you may forget you have a first name.”
He walked to the back wall behind her desk where tall bookcases and storage closets formed a darkened corner where the shadowed figure of a large bird rested on a tall bronze perch. “Hello Asuoby,” he said as he held out a few palm nuts that had suddenly appeared in his hand. “How are you, old finger biter?”
“He misses Professor Amaral,” she observed and the older man nodded in agreement as he strode back to her side.
“Welcome back from your travels, Grace,” Professor Katupya said as they embraced in greeting. “How was Great Britain?”
“Very cold!” she laughed. “England’s weather is so different from Brazil, but just as I remembered. Everything else seemed changed though. So unlike the wizard society when I was a child there a lifetime ago.”
“But it has changed for the better now that their dark wizard is dead.”
“Yes. The defeat of the Dark Lord by the Boy Who Lived is still the most frequent subject of all their conversation.”
“He will be among their legends soon,” Professor Katupya stated. “Justly so.”
“I brought your package myself, Professor,” she said, confirming delivery of the parcel she had taken across the Atlantic. “Instead of mailing it.”
“Is the owl post so unreliable in Britain?” he smiled knowingly.
“I wanted to see Hogwarts.”
“Where they had the battle?”
“It’s where my grandmother taught. Where I would have gone to school if we had not moved here to South America. You know my family fled from Voldemort’s threats when I was very young, so I’d never been there before.”
“I am happy you had the chance to experience it. Hogwarts is famed throughout the Wizarding world. It is a great tragedy that Dumbledore was killed in the struggle. And so many students too.”
“The new headmistress seemed quite glad to receive the package. What was it?”
“Some research Principal Absencia delegated to me,” Katupya replied. “Statistics.”
“Her name is Minerva McGonagall. She knew my grandmother and was very kind to show me the entire castle. Did you know their great hall has a charmed ceiling the same as Witness Stone?”
“I believe that magic was brought from Europe. It may have been first cast at Hogwarts.”
“It surprised me. Just because the two schools look totally unalike in any other way.”
“One hopes you will make them alike in both producing well educated Transfiguration students.”
“Yes sir, Professor,” she replied reassuringly. “And thank you so very much for your recommendation to the Principal.”
“I believe Professors Galhos and Galaxia provided you letters also.”
“Yes, but I know your words made him offer me the position,” Grace smiled.
“We are glad you are back with us and hope you enjoyed your visit home.”
“It was more a trip to a place I once lived,” Grace replied thoughtfully. “England was my parents and grandparents home. But I was raised here so Brazil is my home. Brazil and Witness Stone School.”
Katupya stepped over to the window. Looking out he could see the great Owlery Tree and spy between the branches the hundreds of ornately carved wooden houses upon its trunk that housed the school and student’s messenger birds.
“Acceptance letters go out tomorrow. Are your lesson plans ready for the semester?”
Grace swished her wand once more and her folder reappeared on the desk. Katupya flipped through the first few pages and nodded his head. “Very good. Very thorough.”
The professor folded his hands behind his back and looked back at Grace Merrythought. “Then I have another task for you if you feel you can perform it.”
“What is it sir?”
“There is an acceptance letter that must be delivered by a personal visit.”
Grace knew what that meant. “A Muggle-born?” she asked. “But don’t the senior professors usually contact the parents to explain the Wizarding world and magic?”
“I thought you might be more suited for this particular child. Professor Guerra can be rather intimidating and Infinita begins her contacts with an half hour discourse on destiny and the alignment of the stars that may confuse the child. And there are no parents.”
She took a deep breath as thoughts connected and she realized something. “Professor. Is the letter for a child from Sao Paulo? In Santa Efigênia?”
“How did you know?”
“I have a friend. There is a little girl she has seen and told me about. Angelica swears she has seen her perform magic. But she’s a street child sir. She has no home and no family.”
“There was no last name listed in the Quill book. Only a first.”
“She’s never even been to a Muggle school. She may not even be able to read.”
“Witness Stone would be a very difficult challenge for her. When you first came to us you did not even speak our Portuguese language. I thought you would be well suited to explain to her about coming to a different world.”
“Yes,” Grace agreed. “And she’d be with other first year students from Muggle families whom this is all new to also.”
“Grace, there are no others this year,” Professor Katupya informed her.
“What?” she questioned unbelievingly. “In my first year there were ten Muggle-born students in our class!”
“There are changes in the Wizarding world. She is our only Muggle-born this year,” Katupya calmly stated. Grace was shocked.
“But this might not even be the same girl anyway,” she said. “My friend said she thought the girl was only eight or nine. What is the name on the acceptance letter sir?”
Before the word came from his mouth, Grace knew it was the very same child. A little lost witch in the slums of a giant city. She could tell as the first letter formed on his lips.
“Marissa.”