Kirsten and Tamsin

Kirsten and Tamsin - chapter 1

Kirsten and Tamsin Johnson were born and brought up in Dagenham, a dreary industrial sprawl just outside London, spawned by the local great Ford works during more than a half-century Their father left when they were nine and seven respectively, and their mother had to struggle to make ends meet. She managed to keep the house and to bring up her daughters more or less decently, though continuously complaining about having no money - whining became more or less the tone of the house. She did not date: her husband had not been her first disappointment, and she simply did not want to risk her house and her living on another unreliable bone-idle man.

When Albus Dumbledore was first informed about their existence, he made sure - as he always did with Muggle-born prospective students - to familiarize himself with their family and background. And the more he looked at them, the more he became convinced of one thing: a simple owl with a message tied to its leg would simply not have been believed. These were people who lived in a world so prosaic and so constricting that the notion of a world beyond, a different mankind with different powers, would not be considered; and the time was coming when Kirsten, and then Tamsin - for he was sure that the younger sister also had magical potential - would have to be entered into Hogwarts. Kirsten had just turned ten, and the number of unexpected events around her was multiplying; Tamsin was pushing nine, and would soon reach the age of revelation too.

On such occasions, Dumbledore found spectacular means convenient - though sometimes dangerous. The first thing, after all, was to convince the family that magic existed and was powerful; the second, that it was benevolent. He had heard reports that Durmstrang and some other less reputable schools, when faced with similar problems, simply kidnapped the sons of Muggles they wanted, especially if they belonged to poor families, peasants and the like. That was a path down which he was not only not disposed to walk, but which he fully intended to make illegal, by forcing Arthur Weasley's new Muggle Protection Act through. It had not been practised in the British isles for over two hundred years, but to Dumbledore mere practice was not enough; what was needed was the cold hard strength of the law, to prevent some future egotist from simply resurrecting some barbaric practice now in abeyance. There was much that the Death Eaters had done which they could justify in terms of laws that were still on the statute book.

One late September afternoon, when the family were at home and had nothing outside that could be damaged, a thunderstorm suddenly burst around their part of Dagenham. In a few minutes, the windows, though UPV, were shaking under a rattle of hailstones, as the sky turned as black as pitch; and then the house seemed to shake, as thunderbolt after thunderbolt fell, with crashing noise, in the close neighbourhood. As the storm was thoroughly unnerving Martha Johnson and her children, the lights suddenly went off; and came a lull in the storm. Then the door flew open of its own accord; and the last, most crashing of thunderbolts back-lit a tall, apparently towering, bearded figure, wearing a long cape and a pointed hat that made him look even taller against the black sky.

"Mrs. Johnson, Miss Kirsten, Miss Tamsin," said the strange and fearsome apparition in what they would have called an ultra-posh voice, "good evening." The door, again, shut behind him, apparently unbidden; and the lights went back on.

Martha and her daughters simply looked on, bewildered and more than a little scared. Martha wondered whether she should call 999; then she looked at her visitor again, and wondered whether it would do any good.

"My name is Albus Dumbledore, and I am a wizard. Forgive the rather noisy performance just now, but it was necessary to convince you that magic exists and that I can use it." He then conjured a teapot and four cups out of what seemed thin air, and asked, "May I offer you some tea?"

It was the strange mixture of the ordinary and the insane in this that let Martha react, allowed her, indeed, a way to react. "Well... I was going to say that... I mean, I was going to offer you some..."

"Don't worry, madam. It is very easy for me, I assure you. And I owe you something for the disruption of your evening."

Suddenly little Tamsin ran over to the tall old man and said, "You are a wizard! You are! You really are! Can you do something else magic?"

Dumbledore smiled and took his long pointed hat from his head with his left hand. He reached into it with his right, and pulled out - a rabbit; a white, fluffy, unmistakable live rabbit, with long ears and soft Angora fur. "Here, Miss Tamsin, a gift for you. He is quite real and he will make a nice pet. You've got to look after him, though... clean his cage and watch for ticks and feed him."

"Oh, I will, I will! I promise I will! Has he got a name?"

"I don't think so."

"I'll give him a name, then. I'll call him Bill. Here, you are Bill the Rabbit."

Dumbledore stretched out a long warning arm. "Wait, Miss Tamsin, wait. Aren't you forgetting something?" And as the little girl looked at him in puzzlement, he reached out into his long hat again. The hat bulged in the most extraordinary manner, and out came... a complete rabbit cage, ready for use. "There. Now Bill is no longer homeless," he said, looking at Mrs. Johnson with meaning. "People work hard to make and keep their homes; you should not let your pets go without. And this," he said, reaching into the hat a third time, "is the first meal. Just so he gets used to this place." Out came a bunch of carrots.

At this point, Martha Johnson spoke. "Mister... what is your name again?"

"Dumbledore. Albus Dumbledore."

"Dumbledore. Mister Dumbledore, you make very nice tea" - and she set down an empty cup - "but I think you ought to tell us why you are coming here to visit us."

"Yes, Mrs. Johnson, I think I should. Tell me, what did you want to bring your little children up to be?"

"I'd never really thought of that, sir. I think they are both quite bright, and I'd like to have them educated, if the money holds out."

"I see. You don't have anything particular in mind for them?"

"No, sir. I was just waiting to see if they were particularly good at anything... they do well at school, I can tell you that. And Tamsin is a bit athletic."

"I see. Now, have there been any strange or unexplained events around here lately?"

"Yes!" said Martha, with a sort of sudden explosive relief. "There were things I saw with my own two eyes! There was a burn in a good silk shirt that Kirsten made, that vanished before my eyes - one minute the silk was burned and ruined, the next it wasn't. Tamsin broke that mug over there" - she pointed at a pink mug with a design of an artistically simplified cow, and the word milk - and it flew back together! And nobody can tell me that I didn't see what I saw!"

"Tamsin? Hmmm... Tamsin should be too young. Tell me, was Kirsten in the room at the time?"

"Yes... yes, she was."

"In that case, it was probably her. She was sorry for the mug and for her sister, and she wanted to undo the damage. This sort of thing is typical of the onset of magic."

"Ohhh..." Mrs. Johnson breathed out slowly, and then asked: "Are you telling me that my little girl is a magician?"

"A witch is what we usually say, Mrs. Johnson. Oh, I know that the word has bad overtones in the Muggle world... A Muggle, by the way, is what we call a person like you; a person who has no natural magical powers. It has no insulting meaning at all, I assure you."

"Well, it does sound rather funny."

"Yes, we do find Muggles rather funny. And your little girls, I dare say, will come back to you with stories that make us sound rather funny... I think everyone is free to laugh at everyone else, as long as it is not nasty."

"No, indeed." Martha Johnson looked at the tall man, and she realized that, behind the forest of white beard and whiskers, he was really quite nice. His eyes held a certain twinkle which she had only seen before in the eyes of her favourite uncle - killed long ago by a mugger, alas! - and his speech was clear and precise without being elaborate. He left an impression of character and sincerity, and, although he was clearly a great personage, he managed to speak to her - the ordinary, commonplace, worn-out housewife from Dagenham - as an equal, without either condescending to her or lowering his dignity. Still, she had been through too much to trust entirely to an utter stranger. There were, she knew, con men who could make you believe to the end that they only wanted your good - until you had been swindled out of house and home and livelihood. She had not survived so far by trusting to strangers.

"So what you are saying is that my little girls are witches. Tamsin too, I guess, because you said she was too young to show her powers."

"That was quite sharp. Yes, I am almost certain that Tamsin will soon begin to show powers; but as for Kirsten, the matter is beyond doubt. There is a secret Ministry of Magic which has experts who scan the population for children showing signs of magic... an untutored wizard or witch, you realize, could grow up to be a real menace - and refer them to us."

"I am the Headmaster of the only School of Magic and Wizardry in Britain, Mrs. Johnson. As soon as your family was identified as a possible focus of magical power, I was notified. There are only a few dozen magical births in Britain every year, but we make sure that every one of them is sent to our school... unless, of course, the parents are inalterably opposed."

"What happens then?"

"There is a special watch list at the Ministry that concerns people with magical powers and no training. They are kept under discreet surveillance. Mostly nothing happens, but when things go bad... they can go very bad."

"So I could refuse to send my daughters to your school?"

"You could. In times past, this was not allowed, but I and many people like me are fighting to make it illegal. And as long as I am headmaster, no abducted child will ever cross the borders of Hogwarts School."

"Of what?" And Martha Johnson burst out laughing; the first sincere, uncomplicated, and above all unafraid reaction she had had all evening. Thus far, she had felt as though she was walking on the edge of some sort of abyss that she did not even understand, having to negotiate about the future and - if things went wrong - about the life of her children as well. "Is that what you call it? Hogwarts?" And she shrieked with laughter again.

"Yes, that is usually the reaction. I would explain the name to you, but it is quite a long explanation, it involves three or four dead languages, and it is by no means as funny as the name itself."

"Hogwarts!" said Martha again, and laughed again, with both her children joining her. They had been too busy contemplating Bill the Rabbit up till then, to follow what the grown-ups were doing .

"Okay," she said when she had calmed down. "Mister Dumbledore - or do you have a title? What should I call you?"

"You may use Professor Dumbledore, if you want."

"Good. So, Professor Dumbledore - if I understand you right, you are here because you want my children to study at your school."

"That is quite right. Kirsten at least, and, I am almost certain, Tamsin."

"Well, Professor... don't get me wrong. You look a heck of a nice guy, you brew a mean cuppa, and you are funny, and you look like my favourite uncle."

"I'm blushing."

"Don't bother. The thing is, even so, how do I know I can trust you? How do I know that you are who you say you are, and that your school is any good, if it exists at all? I don't know anything about magic, before tonight I didn't even know that it was real. I've got plenty of friends at work who believe in it, but they all looked like crackpots to me."

"They probably are, too. It's always a problem with Muggles... the ones who do believe in magic are so often the ones you would want to believe in almost anything else. They embarrass you."

"The problem, you see, Mrs. Johnson, is basically twofold. First, a Muggle such as yourself is physically incapable of perceiving magic. It is a disability, rather like being tone-deaf. Magic can only become visible to you if a magician wants it to - like I do with you, tonight. And the other is that, this being the case, every witness and evidence I could bring to you would not be reliable. They would all be my friends or people who work with me. Almost the only Muggle who knows of our presence independently is the Prime Minister - and the Queen, of course. I could arrange for you to talk with him in confidence..."

"Y-you could?"

"Well, certainly. Our Ministry always works very closely with the Muggle Government. And the appearance of a new wizard or witch is always an important event. Most Prime Ministers have been willing to help when needed... We had a little trouble not so long ago, but nothing serious."

"With 'that bloody woman', I'll bet."

Dumbledore twinkled at her. "Names are confidential, Mrs. Johnson. There is another thing we could do, which you might find more enjoyable. Hogwarts is heavily protected by spells, against Muggle discovery and many other kinds of attack. However, we can lower these spells in respect of people we choose, especially the parents of students and prospective students. The Christmas vacations are coming; have you arranged anything?"

"Of course not. There is hardly enough money for presents, let alone going anywhere or doing anything special."

"In that case, would you like to spend it at Hogsmeade? That's the village outside Hogwarts, and it is just as enchanted. The population is all witches and wizards; I warn you, to them you would be a curiosity. But it would allow you to get an idea of the wizarding world. You might visit Hogwarts, too, though that would require the company of a member of our staff... for your protection, because it is easy to get lost or to suffer the practical jokes of our resident poltergeist. Would you like to spend the holidays in a particularly enchanted part of Scotland?"

"It's in Scotland, is it?"

"Indeed."

"Then that does it. I was a child in Scotland... I went away, and now I've lost the accent... but I've always dreamed of it. It's my home. Of course I'll come!"

"Good. Thank you, Mrs. Johnson."

"All the same, I'd like to see the Prime Minister too. You know, just to be sure."

"That will be arranged. When are you free?"

.............................................................................................................

A week and a half later, Martha, Kirsten and Tamsin Johnson were in the garden of Number Ten, Downing Street. The Prime Minister of the time, John Major, was proving a most courteous host; and while Martha could never vote for his party, she made a mental note not to vote at all at next election, so as not to have to vote against the man who was showing her so much kindness. As with Dumbledore, there were cups of excellent tea, and if the manner was grey rather than twinkling, it was a comfortable kind of grey. Once or twice, Martha thought she perceived a streak of something else in him, something that meant that she was not at all surprised when, in later days, the news of his famous affair broke; but it was never anything but proper, correct, friendly in the right manner.

There was no way this could be faked, she realized. What impressed her the most was the way Mr. Major never spoke openly of the issues before them, alluding to them in ways that only she and he could understand; it was clear that, even in this world where so many secrets were known, the existence of magic was one that was strictly restricted - even the confidential workers of Downing Street could not be allowed to know about it.

"Then, Prime Minister, you feel that I should take up this bursary and send Kirsten to that public school you know about?"

"Yes, Madam, I do. It's an investment in her future, and I rather think the environment will suit her better than the ordinary kind of school."

"It's a wrench losing your children nine months of the year..."

"I think, Mrs. Johnson, that you will find that they are rather more accessible than you think... You know, there is only one feature of this school that I don't like."

"And it is - ?" said she in sudden alarm.

"It has no cricket." The famously lifelong cricket fanatic smiled. "But they tell me that their own school game is just as traditional, so I don't suppose you should complain."

"You play cricket, sir, don't you?" asked irrepressible Tamsin, the little sportswoman of the family; and the conversation was diverted into wholly sporting and childish channels. Nevertheless, as Martha Johnson left the centre of British government after a most delightful afternoon, her mind was made up. Her children would go to Hogwarts; it was not only good for them, the Prime Minister had implied, but practically her duty to the country.