Dippet’s quill quietly tapped the rim of the ink bottle, jarringly out of time with the whoosh of the pendulum clock behind him. Dumbledore sat opposite, seemingly patient, but certain tenseness about the lips gave away his urgency to those who would look closely. Dippet himself liked to finish one task before beginning another, yet also disliked leaving people waiting outside his door. This conflict of habits led to many frustrations amongst his staff, but the general consensus was that he would never notice.
The scratching of quill on parchment finally ceased, and he looked up at Dumbledore. They stared in silence for a few moments, before Dippet clucked his tongue and said, ‘I’m sorry Albus, it really is very sad but I just can’t do it.’
Dumbledore’s face did not move, and his voice stayed calm, yet something bubbled unpleasantly under the surface. ‘With what reasoning?’
Dippet inhaled with unease. ‘You have to understand, Albus, this girl is not the only Jewish child in danger. We can’t make a special allowance for her, and not save the others.’
‘So you believe that because we cannot save all, we should not save any?’ Dumbledore said sharply.
‘That’s not at all what I mean.’ There was a long pause as Dippet gathered his thoughts and gave a heavy sigh. ‘It’s not school policy to allow people to join part way through their education, let alone this child. She’s missed out on two years; imagine how far behind she’d be! Although, yes, it has to be admitted that no other Jewish children have applied to Hogwarts, we can’t open the floodgates. Not to mention her poor English – you’ve read her letter! Do you really think she’d be happy here?’
Dumbledore joined his fingers into a steeple and leaned forward. ‘There are very few magical Jewish children. We could help them, we could save them. I don’t know if you have heard about the Kindertransport that the Muggles organised? Why not a magical version? The Muggles were forced to stop, but we have more ability, more knowledge, more-’
‘-Risk,’ finished Dippet. ‘You might get along well with Grindelwald, Albus, but even you must appreciate that his policies are best kept outside of British borders.’
Dumbledore’s face showed for the first time an expression of uncertainty. ‘Gellert’s ideas are revolutionary, but he is enforcing them in ways that are perhaps... unorthodox. If it is angering Grindelwald you’re concerned about, I would not worry. The actions in Eastern Europe are of Muggle origins – he encourages them, yes, but ultimately it is Muggles at the core. But this girl, these magical children; surely they should not suffer from their Muggle counterparts.’
‘Certainly not, I agree with you. But we do not take students in that are not eleven. It just does not happen. She would struggle, and it is not fair to the others. It’s a firm rejection. I thought we had been through this at the staff meeting; I cannot fathom why you insist on continually bringing it up. I only spoke to you about it as a matter of conversation.’ Dippet’s exasperation and boredom shone through his dull eyes as he glanced at the offending letter on his desk. ‘I mean, look at it, Albus. She barely speaks a word of English and her handwriting leaves much to be desired. We don’t need to take in a student doomed to fail.’
‘She’s doomed to death otherwise.’
‘Come now, Albus, don’t exaggerate. The situation in Krakow is sad, but it can only get better from here. Do not worry yourself about it; your priority should be the students of this school and the magical community in this country. It is not our duty to solve Muggle problems in Europe.’
Dumbledore’s eyes flashed, but he said nothing. He rose, and left the room bitterly as Dippet crouched over his desk and began to write his reply.
Dear Miss Goldhirsch,
Thank you for your application to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I regret to inform you that at this time your application was unsuccessful and the institution is unable to offer you a place. We are currently unable to accommodate refugees or students who are unable to start at the age of eleven. We thank you for your interest and wish you every success for the future.
Sincerely,
Armando Dippet
Headmaster
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
Order of Merlin, Second Class.
Vice Chairman of The Alchemists Association.
Sofia’s eyebrows crinkled as she peered over the letter with her parents.
‘Nie rozumiem,’ she said sadly. ‘Co to znaczy?’
Her father shrugged helplessly. He struggled with English as much as she did, and was equally clueless concerning the decision. Her mother, on the other hand, knew just enough English to allow the words written so elegantly on the parchment to seemingly float to her eyes and provoke the watery beginning of tears. She quietly informed her daughter of the verdict.
‘Oh,’ said Sofia quietly. She had expected this, but the disappointment still created an icy coldness in her stomach. Her father suddenly twisted away and kicked a chair. She flinched, and watched him lean on the window sill, breathing heavily. She had a horrible feeling that he was crying.
‘Daj mi to,’ her mother said sharply, snatching the letter from her.
She stormed over to the bed and sat, immediately scrawling foreign words at the bottom of the parchment with a fury and desperation Sofia had never seen.
Her mother scrawled the letter in messy Polish. Sofia doubted anyone at Hogwarts would be able to understand it, but her mother’s passion would prevent her from writing comprehensible English anyway. Nevertheless, passionate or not, there was no glorious glimmer of hope in Sofia’s mind, no white dove gracing her imagination, no stubbornly burning flame of determination in her chest. It was over; she had exhausted all avenues. She had not wanted to admit to herself that she had grown excited about the prospect of Hogwarts, with its promise of freedom and life and safety. In her head she had known that it was a long shot, yet her mother’s limited knowledge of a few famous staff members had led her to believe that perhaps she may benefit from generous charity.
Her mother had been born a Squib, not an especially uncommon occurrence within the very small magical Jewish community. Whether it was genetics or pure bad luck, Sofia didn’t know, but very few Jews had the gift of magical skill, something which herself and her brother, to the pride of their parents, had acquired, albeit with average skills at best. She weakly tried to console herself by remembering that she would not have understood any of the lessons, and would have failed and been thought of as stupid or retarded. She may not have been the most popular or the most gifted student at Durmstrang, but at least she had been well liked and never bullied, aside from the odd comment about her race or occasional anti-Muggle joke.
Leaving her father still staring at the cracked windowsill and her mother scribbling away through half-choked sobs, Sofia shuffled out of the room, leaving an air of disappointment and hopelessness behind her. A sudden burst of angry energy ushered her feet into a run.
Down the twisted, splintered stairs, dodging the woman clutching a silent baby, over the pile of looted suitcases, through the wrecked door, and out; out onto the grim street where a skeletal dog stalked with its nose low to the cobbles. The misery filled every crevice like a weed and Sofia gritted her teeth to imprison a wail as she thought of her old home in pleasant, sheltered suburb with a neat lawn and a fat ginger cat that used to lie in the cradling branches of a leafy tree. It was probably just a mile away from where she stood and panted now. Her breath coiled into smoke in front of her.
She looked down and saw a dead, muddy stalk that had once been a flower. Lord knows why it was there, but it was; trampled and downtrodden and dead. A swell of bitterness and grief overcame her, and she picked it up. As she did, it re-grew in her hand, a rich green stem, and the flower a beautiful deep, vibrant purple with three proud petals standing tall, surrounded by three lowly, drooping petals, so soft to the touch. She gazed at it in adoration and gave a tinkling laugh, for she had not experienced accidental magic since she was tiny.
Oh, what a wonderful feeling it was, to hold something alive in her hand, something with such glorious colours with such elegant shape and pure scent. It gave her faith and a new sense of carelessness. So Hogwarts didn’t want her. She could survive; she would prove to them that she could.
It was a curious thing for a spectator to observe, to see a young girl of maybe fifteen, sixteen at a push, laugh while tears fell onto a dark purple iris. But nobody did observe, as the Ghetto made people selfish beasts. Their own threatened lives and looming deaths were the only concepts which filled their bowed heads as they fought domination with nought but individual dreams.