The Logic of Fate

Chapter 1 – Of Fathers and Owls

The soft click of the Enter-key triggered the start of the calculation process, while the cooling fans hummed silently in the background, and the man sank back into his armchair.

‘And now we wait,’ he thought bitterly by himself.

He hated this part of his job, since the machine began the calculation, which could last hours if not days, leaving him to his own thoughts, which at the moment were the place he wanted to be least in the entire world.

Inevitably his gaze was drawn to the photograph on his desk and, without even realizing it, his hand followed only seconds after, touching first the frame and then the glass, which covered the picture itself. His fingers caressed the cold surface lightly, as if it could break at any moment and the battle-hardened man at the desk felt his eyes fill with tears. This seemed to happen a lot lately, he thought with a slight sting of frustration.

A deep sigh escaped him as he leaned back and closed his eyes, either to rest them a little bit after all those hours of work at the computer-screen, or to bite back his tears. He didn’t really know or care for that matter and he simply enjoyed the tranquilizing, silent hum, which came from the machine for a moment, before memories either too sweet or too bitter to bear, could catch up with him.

He was so lost in this short moment of peace that he didn’t notice the soft snap of the opening door, and a sleepy, “Good morning, papa ,” was the first hint he got of the presence of the little girl behind him.

Prof. Robert Morrigan cursed himself silently, while his eyes opened abruptly and immediately sought ought the system clock on the screen.

‘Damn! 8:00 already,’ he thought in the brief time it needed for his armchair to swing around. ‘There goes another all-nighter. And I promised we would go to the zoo today.’

Then his eyes fell upon his daughter and he knew that no matter how tired he was, or how many sleepless nights he had endured, she would never have to pay for it. He would walk barefoot into the deepest pit of hell and back for his little girl.

Eliza was currently rubbing her eyes, no doubt to drive the sleepiness out of them, and her slim body was shivering slightly in her pyjamas, as the chilly morning breeze blew through the window and the now open door. She had hidden the naked toes of her right foot under the sole of her left one and Robert shook his head in slight amusement.

“Why are you not wearing your socks, Eliza?” he asked, his tone scolding, but his lips smiling.

“Hmph!” she pouted, sending him a short glare, her eyes now fully awake and sparkling.

Robert had to force himself to breathe evenly and maintain his facial features in place.

‘God! She looks so much like her mother,’ he thought with a slight twinge in his chest, as he took the picture of the slightly offended eleven-year-old in.

Eliza was a slim young girl, who was a little shorter than average for her age, a drawback she usually balanced in pure attitude. She had straw-blond, curly locks like her mother, which were cut short all over, making it look like a fluffy, sun-coloured afro. Her facial features, although often covered in dirt or little scratches, were elegant and smooth with a little button nose to match, and her skin was a little darker than his own, also a gift from her mother.

Her eyes though were his, two dark pools of barely contained curiosity, and they sparkled so lively that at times they seemed almost like little orbs of black onyx.

But Robert was quickly brought out of his reverie and brutally thrown back to earth, when the insulted look left her eyes and she murmured:

“I had a dream of mama again, papa .”

Robert felt a chill all over and only his relentless training in keeping his emotions in check allowed him to ignore the melon-sized lump in his throat, as he bent forward and pulled his daughter into his massive arms. He cradled her to his chest and lifted his right leg a little, so that she could bury her freezing toes under his warm thigh.

He could feel her little hands tightly clasping the front of his shirt as she rubbed her cheek at his chest, seeking much needed comfort, and his arms tightened around her little form to alleviate if not her pain, at least her chills.

But Robert realized with a painful sting that one thing was missing from this scene. Something one should expect from an eleven-year-old girl who had lost her mother just a few months ago: not a single tear smudged the fabric covering his torso. Eliza wasn’t crying at the still fresh wound of her mother’s death. She hadn’t cried at the hospital, at the funeral, not once since her mother had drawn her last breath, and even though Robert couldn’t blame her for this, as he was still to shed tears for his beloved Maria himself, he was still concerned at such behaviour.

Eliza snuggled herself into her papa ’s arms and listened to his soothing heartbeat. She remembered that she did like to listen to her mama’s heartbeat, when she was scared at night and came into their bed. She always used to snuggle against the massive form of her papa , but she always pressed her ear against her mama’s chest, to listen to the soft, comforting rhythm of her golden heart. But her papa  had a nice heartbeat too, she decided as she rubbed her cheek against the soft shirt: stronger and slower but nice nonetheless.

Eliza tilted her head up to look into her papa ’s eyes, not leaving his chest with her ear for a second. Her papa  looked down at her like he always did, and while someone else would not have noticed it, she clearly saw that he was tired.

Her papa  was a big man, bigger than most of the other men she knew like her teachers or her schoolmates’ fathers. But unlike some other men of his age, who had a belly, like her geography teacher Mr Corben, her papa  had a big muscular chest and strong arms. He trained daily and often accompanied her to the park, where he played basketball with the older boys, while she skated on her board with her friends. He also still had all of his hair, which was cut short and was jet black.

‘Well,’ she thought with a smirk. ‘There are already some grey hairs in there, but Mrs Cornwell says that makes him only look distinguished, whatever that means.’

Now he began to smile at her and she noticed the little scar just under his left eye become a funny little hook, while his square chin came down on her and his rough lips planted a slightly stinging peck on her forehead, as he hadn’t shaved yet.

She giggled at the sensation and he unlocked his right arm around her to touch her forehead with his finger, where he had just kissed her.

“What is going on in here?” he asked teasingly as she grabbed his finger and softly pulled it down to see the scars on the back of his hand. She liked those scars because, when she had been little, he would make up stories from them, and she would listen in fascination to the tale of the brave knight just on top of his middle knuckle and his clash against the terrible dragon on his wrist.

‘Mama loved those stories too,’ she suddenly thought and her eyes unfocused for a second. Then she looked up again into the eyes of her papa  and said:

“We don’t need to go to the zoo today, you know. If you’re tired, we can stay here and go tomorrow.”

At that, pain quickly flashed in his eyes, but it was gone before you would have had the time to blink and a mischievous grin spread on his lips. The only problem was that Eliza hadn’t blinked.

“Now that’s not acceptable, missy,” his voice rumbled through his chest. “What have I told you about unfinished business and leaving it until tomorrow?”

“That it’s not a plausible way of action, sir!” she immediately snapped to attention, her left hand at her temple, only to mime the talking beak of a duck a moment later.

“Oh…” he retorted, his features freezing into a very disconcerting expression that was though belied by the glee in his eyes. “So this is how you want to play it, marine?”

And before she knew it, he had started tickling her mercilessly, while she wriggled in his arms in loud fits of laughter. Soon she started pummelling his chest to get free although she knew exactly that she could as well have thrown punches at a wall, for all the effect that her efforts had on her papa . Nonetheless he soon switched tactics, jumped out of his chair holding her suspended between his hands and began to twirl her around the little room, which made her positively shriek with joy. Then he began to plaster her face with loud smacking kisses.

“No, papa ,” she howled between giggles, while she tried to push him away with both hands and feet. “Stop that. That’s… ewww!” she squeaked.

“Well if that’s so…” he stopped his onslaught and deposited her softly on the floor. “Then you better wash up, and come down for breakfast, on the double. We have a long day ahead of us.”

Eliza nodded firmly and stretched her arms, standing on tiptoes to give her father one last peck, before she darted outside the door.

“And put some socks on, young lady,” he shouted after her, while he rose to his feet again.

He stood still for a moment, smiling at the empty space she had vacated, and then made his way to the door, giving the computer screen behind him only a short glance to ensure that the process was still running.

When he stepped into the kitchen and walked over to the cupboards a soft light was already flooding the room and the orchid on the windowpane glowed in golden and red colours. Robert had never had the green thumb, but Maria had taught him nonetheless and now he was at least proficient enough to keep this orchid alive long enough for it to bloom in its complete magnificence.

The orchid had been Maria’s favourite flower and there had always been an orchid in this kitchen, ever since they bought this house over thirteen years ago. And no matter where Robert would go from here, there would always be an orchid in the kitchen.

After a few more moments of silence, Robert pulled himself out of his memories and began to prepare breakfast.

When Eliza finally entered the kitchen, two eggs were already bristling in the pan, while the delicious smell of bacon tickled her nose. The bread was cut, the margarine and jam were waiting to be spread and the orange juice sat on the table, ready to be drunk.

She was wearing a bright pink t-shirt with a faded and quite torn pair of old jeans. The mistreated pair of old sneakers completed her skater look as she strolled in to sit on one of the three chairs around the little table in the kitchen, but as she reached for the orange juice, Robert said over his shoulder:

“Before you start to stuff yourself, young lady, could you please collect the mail?”

With a little groan, Eliza got up from the table and went to the entrance door, where a few letters lay on the doormat. She picked them up and began to flip through them, in case there was something for her, while she began to walk back to the kitchen. She was just leaving the entrance when she uncovered a funny-looking envelope under all the letters, advertisements and bills for her papa .

It was a heavy envelope, made of rough and yellowish parchment like the one they used during the Roman – or was it the Egyptian? – Empire. On the front was an old-fashioned wax seal, like the ones her grandma always used on her birthday-cards, but this one was not red, but of a rather funny purple with four animals twined around a big ‘H’ in the middle. Eliza turned the letter around and stared at the address written in green ink – who used green of all colours to write something? – which clearly stated her name on top.

Seized by curiosity Eliza broke the seal and opened the envelope, to find an equally yellowish parchment letter inside. She sat in her chair, the other letters forgotten on the table, and read curiously with her tongue between her teeth:

HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore
(Order of Merlin, First Class,
Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump,
International Confed. of Wizards)

Dear Ms Morrigan,

We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.
Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress

While Eliza read the letter, her eyes grew wider and wider, until they reached the extent of fully grown saucers. When she then reached the second page, she let out an unbelieving gasp and shook her head to clear it. But when she opened her eyes and looked again at the letter, its content was still there.

‘Magical Herbs… Fantastic Beasts… wands, cauldrons and… a toad?’ she thought disbelievingly, while she scanned the page before her over and over. After a second she turned the page around, half expecting something like ‘April Fool!’ written on the backside of this ludicrous piece of parchment, but there was nothing there.

“What is it, darling?” said her papa , when he dropped a plate with an egg, some bacon and toast in front of her on the kitchen table. “What are you reading?”

Eliza looked up at him and handed him the parchments almost automatically, her eyes still wide from shock and her jaw hanging open. He frowned a little at the state of his almost unfazeable daughter and took the parchment from her hands, but after a few seconds he surprised Eliza by laughing out loud.

She stared at him in puzzlement, when he suddenly asked, “Who sent you this?”

Eliza stretched forward the envelope and he took it gingerly into his hand and chuckled some more while he turned it around and saw the purple wax seal.

“What is it, papa ?” she finally asked a little shaken.

“Oh, it must be a joke,” he said between bursts of mirth, “or some sort of advertisement, dear. Don’t think about it.” Still shaking his head, he walked over to the trash bin and dumped the odd letter in it, before he stepped over to the table again and sat in front of his own plate.

“Come on now, eat your breakfast, missy. We’ll have to hurry if we want to see them feed the cheetahs,” he said just a second before the first strip of bacon disappeared in his mouth.

Eliza’s gaze snuck once more to the trash bin for a moment, but then her no-nonsense attitude took over and she dedicated herself to her breakfast, shaking her head a little at her stupid reaction.

‘School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Spells and Transfiguration… yeah right!’ she concluded with a final shrug, before every thought of the odd letter was wiped from her mind.

Her papa  sure was a good cook, she mused, while she tucked in.

• • • • •

Eliza walked alongside her papa , holding his hand and hurrying along, to keep up with his enormous strides. She was though used to his pace and jumped up and down giggling near him, without breaking a sweat. Every once in a while, when she became tired, she would tug at his hand and he would swing her up effortlessly to carry her on his shoulders for a little while. Eliza knew that she was technically too old to be carried around on the shoulders of her papa , but she didn’t mind as long as he didn’t mind and the view from this high up was simply too cool.

They had had a very pleasant day at the zoo and Eliza had zipped all around the place up until lunchtime, when they had gone to the zoo restaurant and gotten themselves some really big stakes with lots of barbeque-sauce and two oversized lemonades. Her papa  had frowned at some point and asked her where she hid all that stuff, given her short size, which caused a rather angry reaction on her part, including a lot of glaring and some fork-waving. Her papa  had immediately surrendered with plenty of mock implorations for mercy and subsequent fits of laughter from both of them.

They had seen the elephants, the giraffes, the lions and the cheetahs. She had wrinkled her nose at the serpents and reptiles and had watched the aquarium show in fascination. At some point the orca had smacked so heavily into the pool that she had to use her papa  as shield to avoid the splashes of water, while he had sat there completely unfazed by the wet projectiles coming his way. But as it was a sunny day, his shirt was already dry, when they reached the insect house.

After the zoo they went to the park, where he had stretched out on a bench and relaxed a little, while she pulled her skateboard out of her backpack and started to enjoy the new obstacle course. She had rolled up and down the ramps and half-pipes without interruption for an hour and a half and was even daring enough to slide down the new steel pipe, impressing the boys around quite a lot, until her papa  had called her, for the last stop on their adventure trip: the planetarium.

She had sat in her papa ’s lap, while he pointed out constellations to her and explained what the stars and planets were and what some of the Greek names meant. She had stared in wonder at the infinity of black spotted with little points of white and couldn’t believe the thought of these enormous balls of gas millions of light-years away, some of them already gone for eons, but their light still on its way to us, bearing the news of the death of yet another cosmic giant. She had stared in awe at the beauty of Saturn’s rings, trembled at the power of a black hole and dreamt of walking the valleys of Mars.

Then they went to a sushi restaurant to conclude the day with a maxi-plate of food, at which most of her friends at school would probably have wrinkled their noses in the best of cases. She however liked the stuff and a little, playful chopstick duel ensued between them over the last bit of octopus.

Now they were strolling home under the streetlamps and Eliza enjoyed the last warmth of the day, while their house appeared around the corner and her papa  looked fondly down at her. She grinned back at him, adjusted the straps of her backpack around her shoulders and took off screaming, “Last one has to read the first chapter.”

Her papa  reached her just in front of the porch and swept her up into his arms, before she could cross the garden gate.

“No fair,” she squeaked between giggles, as he threw her effortlessly over his shoulder like a bag of peas, completely ignoring her wriggling and kicking feet. “Let me down, let me down!” she shrieked with glee and tried to tickle him under his arm. The attempt remained not without a result, as he twitched a little bit, loosening his grip around her waist and before he knew it, she had already grabbed his shirt and swung down him with a move of remarkable athletic prowess for an eleven-year-old.

He immediately whipped around and crouched down, extending his arms at his sides, as if defending the front entrance against her; she swiftly imitated him, dropping her backpack and getting low herself. She moved abruptly first to the right then to the left, but he blocked her both times as if reading her thoughts, so she adapted another strategy: she poked her tongue out at him whereupon he shot her a mock-glare and growled, “You’re asking for it, young lady!” And with that he lunged for her, his arms closing in on her for a bear-hug.

But she had been prepared for that, and as soon as he was close enough she dove through his legs and rolled onto her feet in one fluid movement, so when he turned around, he found her already at the door, smirking.

Smiling softly at her, he shook his head in desperation and chuckled, “I’ve taught you too well, haven’t I.” Then he grabbed her backpack and made his way to the door.

“You bet you have!” she nodded, her hands firmly on her hips, her chin raised defiantly. Of course her raised chin was kind of a necessity, as she barely reached his bellybutton, but the attitude was well present nonetheless. But only a second after that her smirk turned into a wide grin and she grabbed his hand again.

“Can we read one of the robot stories today, papa ?” she asked with pleading eyes, whose gaze he knew perfectly well he couldn’t resist.

He returned her a warm smile and said, “Sure, which one would you like?”

“Robbie!” she cried out immediately, bouncing up and down on her toes.

“Again?” he groaned and shook his head smiling inwardly. Eliza had always loved this story ever since he first read it to her as a little child and even if she was ‘an adult already’, as she liked to point out, every once in a while she asked him for this story. He still remembered her wide eyes looking over the rim of her blanket, the look of shock when Gloria was about to be run over by the truck and the sigh of relief, when Gloria’s parents finally gave in and brought Robbie back home… and Maria had stood in the doorway smiling the whole time and laughing at his walking around the room, to illustrate the walking of a robot to the incredulously staring Eliza.

He was caught a moment in his memories, while the key clicked in its lock and the door swung open, so he didn’t immediately notice the two parchment envelopes, with green addresses and purple seals, waiting on the doormat.

• • • • •

When he ran to the front porch this morning, Robert’s temper was already somewhat short. So when he ripped the door open and bellowed, “You, come in here! Now!” the brown barn owl, who had just delivered her message and was about to take off again, stopped dead in its tracks and looked back at the sternly looking human in astonishment.

She thought for a moment, if she had done something wrong, but she had delivered the envelope quickly and to the correct address, like a respectable post owl such as herself should, so she really couldn’t understand the excitement of the human and ruffled her feathers at him in indignation. But on the other hand the look in the human’s narrow eyes – and the yellow ball in his hand – didn’t seem to admit any room for argument and finally the owl decided to abide his order and hopped from the fence to land on the human’s outstretched arm.

He carried her into the kitchen and deposited her on the back of a chair. Then he filled a little bit of water into a cup and dropped it along with a few slices of bacon on the table in front of the owl.

“I warn you,” he growled, looking the puzzled bird straight in the eyes. “If I find one drop of something that could even remotely have come from your backside, you’ll wish that you could turn your head around more than 180 degrees.” Then he left for his study, where he sat down in front of his computer and started his word-processor.

This had gone on long enough!

Three days in a row now Eliza was getting more and more of these weird letters, which had neither a stamp nor a return address on them. Yesterday morning there had been five letters on the doormat and today they accumulated already into a little heap.

Robert had searched for the crest on the seal, but there was no known teaching institution in Britain – or Europe for that matter – to which it could have belonged to and the simple idea of a school of sorcery was simply ludicrous.

He had though thought about it and had to admit that there had been strange things happening around his daughter every once in a while: in kindergarten the hair of one of her classmates, who had bullied her on the playground, had inexplicably turned pink all of a sudden and when her mother had insisted on buying shirts with laced collars for her first school uniform, the next morning all the laces were gone, but the shirts still looked new.

But the strangest thing happened not as much as one year ago, as they all went to the park and one of Eliza’s friends convinced her on trying out the new half-pipe. When he heard the shriek of his wife, Robert whipped around from his basketball-game, to see his daughter fall from as high as three meters… only to literally bounce off the ground, completely unharmed. And come to think of it, every one of Eliza’s skater friends had been injured at least once, with things ranging from distortions, to dislocations all the way up to broken bones and the sort. But the worst Eliza had ever come home with was a bruised knee or elbow.

So Robert – although a man of science to the bone – was ready to accept certain things as inexplicable and believed that those occurrences could be called magic, if one wanted to use such a superstitious term for it. And since the writers of these letters seemed to be very eager to take Eliza into their school and at least the headmaster was mentioned with some kinds of titles – though somewhat funny looking ones – Robert was ready to at least consider the possibility.

But he would be damned if he would allow Eliza to become part of some sort of cult. So unless he would be authorized to visit and thoroughly inspect this so called Hogwarts, these people wouldn’t come within wide artillery range of his daughter.

There was one problem though: how was he to communicate with someone of whom he didn’t have neither address, nor telephone number nor e-mail address?

The letters just stated that a response by owl was expected, which had left Robert quite dumbfounded, until he had decided to determine, how they were delivered. His phone call to the post office had resulted in clerks, who were even more clueless than him, so he decided to do it the old-fashioned way: he went on stake-out over the next night and to his utter bemusement he found out that the letters were indeed delivered by owls – as in night-active birds, scientific name Tyto alba – who swooped in from nowhere and threw the letters with mathematical precision through the slit in the door.

So Robert had decided to use one of these unusual messengers to deliver his response and had waited for them the whole night.

Now he cracked his knuckles in front of his computer, before he started pummelling the keyboard:

Dear Deputy Headmistress McGonagall,

Both my daughter and I are honoured by your kind offer to accept her at your school, but I have to regrettably inform you that Eliza has already been accepted to the Isaac Newton Middle-school, one of the most prestigious learning institutions in the United Kingdom. Quite frankly I don’t see why I should cancel her admission there, for a school that has no official record anywhere in Europe.
Your rather peculiar insistence though – which, to be entirely honest, could be interpreted as harassment I might add – has led me to believe, that in the interest of my daughter’s future, I have to consider all the options, before making a final decision.
With this interest at heart I write to you, asking to be allowed to visit your institution to get a better idea what Hogwarts is all about, and as much as I regret this, I have to inform you, that I will under no circumstances permit Eliza to attend your school, if this visit should be denied or if it should yield unsatisfactory results, as this is my responsibility as a parent.

In the hope you will understand my request, I remain yours sincerely,

Prof. Robert Morrigan
Vice Dean, Dept. of Applied Physics
Cornwall University, London

Robert reread the letter again quickly to make sure it contained the necessary balance between determination and politeness, then printed and signed it, before he printed what he knew of the recipient’s address on an envelope. Subsequently he walked down to the kitchen with the envelope and entered the room just as the owl was finishing her bacon and addressed the bird directly.

“Do you need a stamp for this, or what?”

The owl fixed him shortly with her huge eyes, blinked once, swooped up to pluck the envelope out of his hand and zoomed through the still open door.

Robert looked after her for a while, before he shrugged and closed the door with a shake of his head.

‘Well,’ he thought. ‘Now it’s up to them.’

• • • • •

Albus Dumbledore was having a bad day.

That alone was somewhat newsworthy, as the elderly wizard’s notorious sense of humour usually kept him from sinking too much into any kind of depression to actually say that he was, in fact, having a bad day. But lately those quite unusual days had become something of a recurring disturbance in his life, and this for a wide variety of different reasons: first and foremost there had been the chaos in the ministry only a week ago after Cornelius’ latest brilliant idea to request the passing of a Dark Creatures Registration Act, which in his mind should ensure the protection of both the wizarding world and “those poor aberrations of nature, either not willing, or too weak to resist You-Know-Who’s calling,” as he had put it. The entire ministry had gone haywire for three complete days, as everyone tried to figure out how to effectively register vampires and dementors, especially those, who didn’t want to be registered. Then he had to endure multiple attacks from the Daily Prophet regarding “the Order of the Phoenix’s lack of action in sight of our impending doom at You-Know-Who’s hands.” Sometimes he really felt the urge of leaving that Skeeter-woman together with Remus in a room with nothing but lots of moonlight.

‘And throw in Umbridge as well,’ he thought acidly, while rubbing his temples and looking at the towering stack of parchment on his desk, which was surely doing nothing to alleviate his headache, rather attempting to turn it into a fully blown migraine. The ex-Senior Undersecretary, now head of the Department of Magical Education had begun a petty vendetta against the headmaster of Hogwarts after she had recovered from her adventure with the centaurs of the Forbidden Forest. However she found herself deposed of her old position and demoted to head of a rather insignificant department, as Dumbledore himself was universally regarded as the authority in this field and the department itself had been nothing more than a paper-pushing, bureaucratic necessity. But nonetheless she managed to flood his desk with mountains of parchment every other day, as soon as she had figured out yet another trivial detail, which needed attention – and tons of forms.

And then there was Harry.

Dumbledore let his mind go blank and his eyes unfocussed for a brief moment, while he recalled the memory of a little baby almost exactly sixteen years ago, as he lay peacefully sleeping, enveloped in a little blanket… How much that baby had changed over the years into the teenager that he was now. Dumbledore could almost not believe it.

Harry had had his share of tragedy in his life, earlier and harder than most people: parents murdered by a maniacal madman; forced to grow up in an environment that despised him at best; attacked and injured over and over by people he didn’t know and for reasons he didn’t comprehend. And finally the death of the one and only person, that had been to Harry like a father, the only one he ever had.

Dumbledore took his half-moon spectacles from the bridge of his nose to wipe a little tear from his left eye, as he thought of Sirius Black. The man had been pigheaded, rash and almost irresponsible at times, but he had given Harry everything he had and more. He had loved the boy, as if Harry had been his own, up until his last breath.

His death had left Harry broken in a way that even Dumbledore could not fully understand, but nonetheless The-Boy-Who-Lived had not exactly been himself over the past year. He had become silent, preferring to be alone even while in the company of his best friends, almost secluding himself from anything and everything. But gone was also every hint of shyness, his eyes turning almost as hard as chipped emeralds, every time he turned his gaze upon somebody else.

It had taken his two best friends’ strongest efforts up until Christmas to get him out of his shell again, but there was still something buried deep inside, that showed his ugly face only in Harry’s darkest moments. And even Dumbledore had to admit, that it scared him to his very core. And more often than not the old wizard caught himself thinking if he hadn’t been wrong all along and if the path he had lain out for Harry was not, in fact, going to break the boy completely in the end.

Dumbledore sighed and lay his glasses down in front of him on his desk and sat back in his armchair, to rest his eyes a little, while he listened to the soft clicking sound of all his gadgets and gimmicks he held in this room. When he heard the knock at the door he almost groaned in exasperation.

“Can an old man not have a single moment of peace around here?” he mumbled to himself, as he reached for his glasses again and straightened himself on his chair, collecting the long robes around him comfortably.

‘Well, no,’ a little voice in the back of his head responded to his question. ‘That’s what you get for being a smartass and becoming headmaster of Hogwarts, while one of the best students you ever had has become the greatest single threat to the magical world in two centuries.’

With a grin Dumbledore lifted his pointed hat to the top of his head and shifted it around a little, until it sat straight. Then he called, “Come in.”

The stern witch who stepped in was almost concerned about opening the door too much and when she came to a halt just on the other side of his desk, all tight hair-bun, orderly robes and straight, thin mouth, she shuffled a little with her feet, before the Professor in her took control over her actions again.

Dumbledore almost did a double-take, while he thought in shock, ‘Since when does Minerva McGonagall shuffle her feet like a first year?’

Then he noticed the parchment in her hands, or to be precise, one of the sheets was made of parchment, but the other was made out of common paper, cleanly cut and snow-white, like the ones used by Muggles.

“What is it, Minerva?” Dumbledore began a quizzical look in his blue eyes. He just hoped that Fudge hadn’t done anything else, or that Umbridge hadn’t gotten her hands on the Bureaucraticus Demonicus – not that she needed it anyway.

But his Transfigurations Professor just handed him the sheet of Muggle-paper and he began to read it immediately after a glance at a steadier panicking Minerva. When he had finished, he couldn’t contain the chuckle, but muffled it immediately as soon as he felt her stern glare upon him.

“This is no laughing matter, Albus,” she admonished through clenched teeth, while her frown deepened. “This man refuses to allow his daughter to attend here, if he can’t visit Hogwarts beforehand.”

“And?” Dumbledore asked innocently, turning his gaze to Minerva. “I’d say, finally a responsible parent,” he concluded a bit flatly. But Minerva brushed his remark aside with an impatient wave of her hand.

“He can’t visit, Albus. Only taking down the wards, to allow him to enter the school grounds would take at least a week. Not to mention that we would be completely defenceless for another month or so, until they can be replaced,” she mused.

“I know, I know,” Dumbledore cut her off again. “But why hasn’t the ministry already taken action and sent somebody to explain the facts to him… or screw his brain up, if plan A fails.” Dumbledore’s tone spoke volumes on his view in this matter: he had always been against the forcible correction of the parents’ minds, if they should refuse to send their magically inclined children to Hogwarts. Fortunately this hadn’t occurred for a few decades now, but the simple fact, that it was still regarded as a possibility disturbed the headmaster more than he would admit in front of anyone not being Minerva McGonagall.

“That’s the point, Albus,” she said handing him the parchment, which Dumbledore saw now, came from the Department of Muggle Relations. “They already sent somebody. And Professor Morrigan was thoroughly instructed of our existence and of Hogwarts, but he still refused to send his daughter here without a previous visit.”

“So what happened to plan B then?” Albus continued, while he scanned rapidly through the report, his eyes growing wide, as he read the part concerning just that.

“Well, the representative, who was sent, tried the Confundus charm, the Obliviate curse and even Legilimency. But nothing worked and as the representative didn’t know how to react to something like that, he left and immediately wrote me a letter, sending a copy of his report along with it, for you to read.”

“Hmm,” Dumbledore mused, while putting together the tips of his long fingers. “This is surely uncommon: a Muggle who can withstand magical attacks on his mind to such a degree. Rather fascinating.” Then he abruptly turned his gaze on Minerva again and asked, “Do we know anything about this… Professor Morrigan?”

“Yes,” Minerva sprang into action snatching some more sheets of parchment out of the intricate waves of her robe, making it look like she had pulled them out of thin air. “Kingsley has dug up some useful information about this man.” She pushed her square glasses up her nose a little, before she continued.

“Robert Morrigan seems indeed to be a lecturer at both Cornwall and London State Universities. He’s an ex-Royal Marine with a flawless conduct record and more than a few decorations. He served from ’68 till ’85, studied during his service achieving a BSc in chemistry, an MSc in both electronic engineering and math and finally a PhD in applied physics. His thesis was about some theoretical machines called ‘nanobots’, whatever that is.” She paused and looked at Dumbledore, who nodded acknowledging the information.

“That is quite an impressive resume, I dare say. Do we know anything about his family and why he hasn’t been notified by the ministry right away, when his daughter came to be of age?”

“Well,” Minerva wriggled a little uncomfortably in her robes. “His wife was a witch by the name of Maria Silvanelli. She graduated here in ’77. He met her in ’83 and married her one year later. He left the military for her, even forfeiting his full pension, as he quit his service before his 20th year was complete. They even proposed him a promotion to the rank of Major if he would remain to the end of his regular service, but he declined, stating personal reasons as motivation…”

“You said, ‘His wife was a witch,’ Minerva,” Dumbledore interrupted her suddenly, meeting her wavering gaze with clear blue eyes, shadowed slightly by compassion for the inevitable conclusion, that her phrase posed.

“She died six months ago. She was run over by a drunk driver and died two days later in a Muggle hospital from her internal lesions.” As Minerva reached for her glasses, to push them up her nose again, Dumbledore noticed, that her hand was shaking a little. Then she looked up at him and continued, suppressing a sigh, “She probably died before she could tell him anything and the ministry representative said, that because of that ‘dark creatures registration act’ of Minister Fudge’s office, they where so overwhelmed with work, that the notice must have slipped their attention.”

‘Marvellous work Cornelius,’ Dumbledore cursed by himself and his eyes became steely for just a second. Then he announced, “Well, I guess there is nothing we can do about it, I’m afraid.”

“But Albus,” Minerva sputtered, now leaning over his desk, her hands firmly on the table top and Kingsley’s parchments crumpled together between her fingers. “We can’t just leave this young witch completely uneducated. She has to be sent here.”

“But the man is right, Minerva. Given the choices he has at the moment he’s making a perfectly reasonable decision, considering that the Isaac Newton Middle-school is one of the best scientifically inclined schools in the United Kingdom. And we are asking him to forfeit his daughter’s future at this institution for a school that doesn’t even officially exist. What would you do in his position?” Dumbledore stood up and began to pace around the room, to clear his head. He simply wouldn’t have been able to sit at his desk one more second.

“And since our methods of, shall we say persuasion, didn’t work on him, Mr Morrigan doesn’t only have the right, but for once also the choice to act according to his conscience and his sense of responsibility. Until now we have always played God, Minerva, telling parents what to do with their children, and I always wondered if we weren’t wrong about that.”

“But the girl still needs to be educated, Albus, or she could blow our cover wide open revealing our world in one single outburst of wild magic,” she said, while watching his restless pacing.

“I wonder if that was necessarily such a bad idea,” Dumbledore mumbled under his breath, but obviously not silently enough for her to miss.

“Albus!” she almost shrieked. “Don’t even joke about such a thing.”

“I know, I know. I’m sorry, Minerva,” he whispered tiredly. “It’s just Cornelius and Umbridge and all what’s happening. I must be becoming senile already.”

“Don’t joke about that either,” she scolded him, her tone gentle though and Dumbledore noted that a slight smile had crept up to her eyes. He shook his head now smiling himself and sat down at his desk again, leaning heavily against the back of the old chair.

Then he sighed and announced suddenly, “I could still go there in person and try to convince him.”

“Hmm. That would be the only logical course of action, I guess,” she admitted and sat down on a chair in a corner right across the desk. He nodded shortly, before he asked, “Do you have any more information on him?”

“Not much,” she confessed, trying to flatten the now crumpled piece of parchment. “Just the names of his parents.” Dumbledore nodded encouragingly, meaning her to continue.

“Well his mother is a certain Virginia Juliet Morrigan, hotel maid since the early 60ies, now retired. She lives in a little flat in South London.”

“And his father?” Dumbledore asked with a growing interest. The name Morrigan had stirred something in him, a memory long thought lost, but it had been there the whole time, nagging at the back of his head. And now he almost feared the answer.

“A war hero during the second world war by the name of Francis Albert Morrigan. Deceased.”

Minerva saw up from the parchment in her lap, to see that Albus’ gaze had become almost impenetrable for a second, before the usual twinkling she loved so much about him came back to his eyes for the first time during this entire conversation.

“Let him come,” he smiled with satisfaction.

“But Albus, the wards and…” she trailed off, as he cut her off with a wave of his long fingered hand.

“Minerva! Don’t worry about the wards. Just let him come,” he said jovially, his entire bad mood seemingly evaporated into thin air. “Don’t worry,” he added then after a few seconds. “I know what I’m doing. I’m not senile after all. Not quite,” he chuckled and she responded with a short giggle.

‘Oh my God,’ he thought as he watched her stand up and make her way to the door. ‘Minerva McGonagall just giggled. This is a sure sign for the apocalypse.’ This thought was though wiped from his mind, when she looked back at him on the door-sill, her no-nonsense attitude firmly back in place, tight bun, stern glare and all.

“Headmaster,” she nodded to him.

“Professor,” he nodded back thus officially dismissing her from his office. He watched the door closing until he was alone in his study again, only with the soft clicking and ticking noises of his various gadgets to fill the silence. But it wasn’t nearly as lonely as it had been just ten minutes ago and his headache was all but evaporated, as he grabbed the first sheet off the Umbridge-pile and went to work.

‘Yes,’ he thought. ‘This is going to be fun after all.’