The Force of History

Air bubbled up from the stream, twirling slightly in the current. Its spirals grew larger as it rose to the surface, and then rested there for a moment on the surface tension before finally bursting, an almost imperceptible amount of water splashing outward as it did; a person who wasn't looking for it wouldn't have seen it, but Minerva did. The stream was unremarkable, but Minerva liked it for that very reason: the current was not strong and powerful, awing the viewer into submission, but neither was it soft enough to be picaresque. It was a little stream, unnoticeable in its regularity. But, here, here it was different.

It was a little section of the stream, at first glance no different than any other--Minerva always thought that it should have been enclosed by a circle of trees, like the faerie circles she had seen in pictures. But, later, she would reflect and realise that this would have ruined it for her. Its very banality made its deviation all the more special.

It flowed uphill. Not long, of course, but it did. The force of history--some distant hill at the mouth of the stream--propelled it upwards for a few metres, up a gentle slope before it crested and fell where a new, fresh stream would never have succeeded. Far out of Minerva's sight, the force of history kept it going.

She was sure that, once, someone would have seen something like this and called it magic. Magic is a convenient name for forces you can't see.

But Minerva was so intent on the stream that she missed the dark flash of shiny black that was growing steadily larger until it was close enough to throw a stone into the stream, splashing water up onto the bank where she sat. Minerva looked up, the diffused orange of twilight shrinking her pupils so she couldn't quite see the person's face, but she didn't need to. Only Arabella knew to meet her here.

Arabella was dressed in Minerva's clothes, though, which was strange. They were about the same height and build as each other, so they traded clothes often, but always to supplement what they already had. Only now Minerva remembered how, recently, Arabella had asked more than usual, and had been slow in returning the clothes that she had borrowed. Even Minerva's little Hufflepuff badge, for loyalty, was worn instead of Arabella's own, both of which they had slaved over with scissors and glue, too young to use magic, the task too intimate to ask their parents for help. A pact, for loyalty. But why was Arabella dressed in her clothes for Halloween?

"What are you dressed as?" Minerva finally asked, youthful impatience overcoming her.

"A witch." It was said with the tone with which all facts among many are said: carelessness.

Minerva always felt that the world should have been swayed by the comment, that the sky should have instantly blackened, the orange of twilight blasted out by darkening clouds, pregnant with electricity. But, instead, her voice didn't even echo. It sounded, and was gone.

This made it more haunting.

Minerva had dressed with a more directly frightening approach in mind. Next year would be her first year at Hogwarts, so her mother still had to cast all the spells; she had enchanted the black cape so that spider webs covered it and glowed with an internal orange light so that the white, translucent fabric was still visible at its edges. Multitudinous spiders crawled over the surface of the webs, their black faces detailed in orange from the reflected light of the webs. And the rest of her costume was so black that not a single photon could be reflected off its surface; the brightest light could be shone on it, and would all be completely absorbed. Her face was spelled so that it was just as black, except for her eyes, which shone a brilliant red, lightning crackling throughout it. Her mother had worked on the costume so hard, taking everything Minerva's imagination could conjure, every frightening thing of which she could think, but now, instead of the sublime effect she had hoped for, it was only gaudy.

And so Minerva sat there, staring at the improbable stream even as Arabella stood across it, on the other side.

"A person, looking at the stream, would think it was impossible; they can't see how, but we know," Minerva finally said.

Arabella was silent, staring down at the stream with Minerva, watching the bubbles spiral to the surface. She was good at this, at feeling for the meanings that couldn't be seen. "The force of history."

"Exactly." The word was uttered triumphantly.

Arabella's voice did not share in the triumph. "Do we have the history behind us, as well?"

Minerva wanted to shout that, yes, they did; they had all those nights lying out by the stream planning out their future, their inseparable future. At Hogwarts.

Hadn't that always been their plan? To become sorted into the same house at Hogwarts--Hufflepuff, for loyalty--and sleep in beds beside each other, always helping each other out with homework, with magic, with everything, and finally forsaking boys and becoming old maids together?

"I'll give your clothes back tomorrow," Arabella said, her voice calm. "But I'm keeping the badge."

"Why the badge?"

"You'll be in Gryffindor." One fact among many.

But what could Minerva say to that? After all, it was true.

And so, as the orange faded from the horizon, they both sat and watched the bubbles twirl upwards in the impossible stream; they both thought about the force of history.