Memoirs of an Unlikely Ravenclaw

Memoirs of an Unlikely Ravenclaw

Or The Gryffindor That Should Have Been...But Who Ended Up in That Other House Instead

Chapter One: The Girl Who Read

It was once believed that my first words were "I'm going to be a Gryffindor."

It was once said that I chanted these words like a mantra. It was once told of how I took all the Personality Tests and the House Aptitude Examinations, and I was destined by all professional accounts, to be in Gryffindor.

It is now a known fact that I was not a Gryffindor.

Unfortunately, at the time, I didn't know that. Poor, delusional little eleven-year-old me.

Allow me to introduce myself, as all would-be autobiography narrators would. My name is Maven. My mother once told me that 'Maven' came from the word 'Meaveen', which is a pet form of the name 'Maeve'. 'Maeve', I later discovered, is from the Gaelic name Méabh meaning "intoxicating". In Irish legend this was the name of a warrior queen who killed the hero Cuchulainn. I, of course, as a three-year-old and a Canadian no less, had no idea what the word 'intoxicating' meant or who 'Cuchulainn' could be, but I tried my best to pronounce the names, earning my mother (and my father and countless other relatives) a few good laughs out of the effort. You'll see that getting a laugh out of me seems to be a reoccurring theme in our family.

But let's move on, shall we?

This is my story, the retelling of my life in form of prose, a near accurate compendium of my experiences over the years. And like any story, this one is based on a place, a place very dear to me. Perhaps you've heard of it: Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

I spent a great portion of my life at Hogwarts and met a great many interesting creatures and people. I ran rampant through its hallowed halls of learning; I threw dungbombs and pulled other pranks; I managed to learn quite a lot of magic; I taunted Peeves and nearly got away with it; I met my one and only true love and pushed him off his broomstick...but I'm getting ahead of myself. Let's start at the beginning.

Like I said before, my name is Maven, which is derived from an Irish name. I have not now, nor ever, had any idea why my mother and father chose to name me that. I am not related (by marriage or otherwise) to anyone Irish. We have no relatives living in Ireland; I'm fairly certain that my mother's never even been to Ireland before, nor my father. I mean, my mother's Italian for goodness' sake, and my father's the truest of the true blue French Canadians; he even says 'eh' at the end of every sentence! But, there it is; I was born Maven and shall forever more be. Of course, that didn't stop me from hating my name.

I've always believed that a name is something you grow into, like your looks or your body. You learn to accept it and appreciate it as an extension of your personal being, one that anyone can more or less understand without complicated evaluation or needing to get to know you for a prolonged period of time. However, you'll generally find that growing into your name is not high on the priority list of any young girl, and it was exceptionally low on mine.

I grew up in a small town in the south of the 'Canadian Wilderness' as everyone seems so keen on calling it. There was no 'wilderness' in the south. The closest I ever came to seeing a moose was watching National Geographic. There were no bears, no wolves, no rabid pumas circling our house hungrily every night, waiting for a meal. I lived in a modest, two-story brick house with my parents and my little brother, and went with 'minimum' complaint to the Muggle school they had enrolled me in, just in case.

You know what 'just in case' is, don't you? It's every witch- or wizarding parent's biggest fear: that their child turns out to be a Squib. At the risk of sounding like my parents, in my day, there wasn't a cure for this rare form of magical defect. Nowadays, of course, they've developed a way to fix this defect before it gets too bad, but during the time I was growing up, the best you could do was either take a Qwikspell Course or, if that didn't work, pack for University and hope to get a degree in something that actually interested you.

So, keeping that 'just in case' in mind, my parents sent me off to Muggle Elementary School for a total of six miserable years. Knowing about the 'just in case' didn't stop me from making it hard for them, however.

I devised ways of avoiding school frequently and without pause, from the early age of six. That year, I was expected to go into 1^st grade and have a rollicking good time, making friends and finger-painting. I didn't want friends or finger-paint; I wanted to expand my newfound love of reading, which incidentally was the inspiration for the first of many school-avoiding tactics I invented.

My parents said it wasn't healthy for a lively six-year-old girl to spend the entire day sitting inside and reading picture books by herself, while there were other kids her age tearing around outside with their tricycles and scooters and wagons and assorted sports equipment. My response to this was that I didn't like all the other kids, and that they were stupid. Of course, this got me absolutely nowhere, and for the entire duration of the summer before 1^st grade, I was forced to associate with the children on my street. I could only read in the afternoon or at night after my mother had looked in on me and assumed that I was asleep. Now, reading after 'lights out' introduced a startling revelation to my six-year-old self: if I read for long enough periods of time after dark, I developed a nasty headache, and in the morning found myself too tired to get out of bed. I quickly learned to use these ailments to my advantage.

On the first day of school that September, there I was, lying in my bed, complaining pathetically of a large, painful headache behind my eyes, and my utter lack of energy and inability to get out of bed. Accompanying those symptoms was the ever-useful nausea/stomach ache.

By second grade, it was worse. After the gradual but utter failure of the reading excuse, owing to my mother's (who was an avid reader as a child herself) final discovery of what the problem was, and deciding it was due time I go to school anyway, no matter what ailed me, I was forced to change tactics. Getting me to the bus stop on time soon became a daily challenge that neither of my parents was eager to face, and they would debate over whose turn it was every morning. After dressing complacently enough for school and accepting my backpack, I would wait until we were just out the door and then throw myself to the ground, howling in what seemed to be utter agony. I had no qualms about developing my reputation among the neighbours as an 'insane demon child'; truly, I reveled in it as long as it meant that I did not have to go to school that day.

Third grade brought about the employment of the Guilt Trip. My parents, abruptly deciding that public transportation was not the thing this year, agreed that it would be best if, on the way to work, my mother dropped me off at school in the morning, and on the way home picked me up. This arrangement could have actually turned out well, as my mother was a school teacher herself and kept the same hours as I did. But alas, it was not to be.

Every morning my mother would pull up in front of the school, kiss me goodbye and say in a firm tone: "Now Maven, I want you to be good, play nice with the other kids and listen to your teachers. I'll be back to pick you up around 3:30." And I would look up at her, my eyes full of tears, and say in a brave tone, "If I have to...but Mommy, I'll miss you too much!" Then, the waterworks would begin in earnest, and I would cling to her as she carried me into the playground and set me down. Granted, I earned some particularly disdainful looks from the other, happier school goers, but what did I care? Because I knew that if I clung to the fence that enclosed the schoolyard and followed my mother's every movement with a pathetic, helpless, homeless puppy-dog look long enough, she'd come back, pick me up with a sigh of resignation and bring me to work with her, every time, guaranteed.

Now, you may be wondering, why so keen to avoid going to school? It's not that bad; sure the teachers may suck and kids can be cruel, but it won't kill you to get an education, and it may actually be fun after you settle down and made a couple friends. Now, I won't spin you all that stuff about 'not fitting in' and 'feeling like I didn't belong' because instinctively I knew that if I tried hard enough and actually applied myself, I could have belonged, even from day one, and made those 'couple of friends'. No, that was definitely not the reason I rebelled against Muggle education.

It was because it was MUGGLE education.

You know that old saying, 'Ignorance is bliss'? I've always, without a doubt, believed it to be true (well, ever since I was old enough to understand it), because I lived in accordance to what it decreed, for five horribly long years. I probably would have fit in fairly well, and even enjoyed myself at my Muggle School, if I hadn't known about magic.

My Dad, a wizard, and my mother, a witch, had never been forced to endure the subtle torture that is Elementary school themselves, though my mother dealt with the recipients of this torture on a daily basis, having chosen to integrate herself with the Muggle School System, rather than take a low-paying job at our forever-lacking Ministry. Dad was unemployed during much of my childhood, my parents having decided to sacrifice two incomes for the sake of staying a family (for this, I am eternally grateful). We did our best to get by, and we were happy enough, especially when surrounded by our...more than extensive family.

Now, Mum's parents lived on a farm out in the county a ways out from our house. To say that its location was convenient is to say the least: no neighbours for miles and a little used road in front meant a practically free rein when it came to magical mischief. My family would spend many weeks in summer there, the children riding brooms and playing mock-Quidditch, the older ones sometimes managing to get their hands on one of the adults' wand and covertly terrorizing livestock for the rest of the evening, trying valiantly not to be caught. On that note, I think it's safe to say that by the time I was ten, no chicken, goat or pig was left psychologically unscarred.

We had so much fun there that when the inevitable time came, I never wanted to leave; I wanted to continue stealing wands and bewitching things and riding broomsticks and pretending that I was Quidditch Champion of the World.

Perhaps the mere knowledge of our return to the farm during the summer would have been enough to placate me and keep me quiet throughout the school year. Unfortunately for my parents, however, my cousins, Mum's nephews and nieces, knew all about wizarding schools and always kept me updated with secret reports by owl or by phone. The reason they knew how to use a phone was in light of the large expanse and thus subsequent under-population of Canada, which makes for an extremely understaffed Ministry of Magic, and gives that many wizarding couples have to take Muggle jobs to make ends meet.

But I digress. Because I knew that there were places in my country where going to school was combined with doing magic (which I considered the epitome of fun pastimes), I was loathe to be attending an ordinary, boring school, when I knew there was so much more I could be doing, and so much more fun I could be having. I even developed a short-lived grudge against my parents for forcing me to frequent those terrible Muggle facilities.

Anyway, when I was about nine, my parents informed me that the age of eleven was the time that likely witches and wizards were accepted into Wizarding Schools. You have no idea how excited this made me. It was alarming how quickly my entire attitude about going to that hateful Muggle School changed: my parents barely had to say "Time to get up," before I was out of bed, had eaten breakfast and prepared my backpack, eager to get down to the bus stop. I wanted to get to Wizarding School as quickly as possible, and I had begun to view Muggle School as something to be hurriedly put behind me, or to occupy me while I waited for my Acceptance letter from whichever school I would attend.

However, there were some problems of which my parents had not enlightened me.

First: Canada is a huge landmass, but can barely afford to employ as many Muggle teachers and run as many Muggle schools as it does. Unfortunately, the same is true, if not more so, for its Wizarding Community. The Wizard Schools in Canada are few and in-between and nearly all are understaffed. Those of which I know today are Magecroft's Academy of Sorcery in British Columbia, Sisters of the Rowans' School of Witchcraft (an all girls' private school) in Saskatchewan, L'Académie de Sorcellerie à Madame Bonsort in Québec and finally a recently opened school in Nunavut: the Inuit Incantation Institute (better known as III). That's a grand total of only 5 under-funded schools to house the future wizards and witches populating a country with a surface area of 9 984 670 kilometers square. Sure, we are under-populated for our size, but there are still a lot of people living in Canada.

Second problem: of those schools, only the ones in British Columbia and Québec had actually been opened when I was a child, and though I could speak French fluently (oh yes, did I mention that my Muggle schooling was all in French? Vive la gaie Paris!), my parents had neither the means nor the money to send me to either school, and would have been reluctant to send me so far away.

Fortunately for my die-hard aspirations of going to Wizarding School, at this point my great-grandmother decided to step in.

Now, my father was French Canadian, as I mentioned before, but my great-grandmother, my grandfather's mother, was British. At the time when I was nine and my brother was four, my parents were struggling financially, trying to pay off their debt for our house and fretting over where (if so) I was going to go to Wizarding School, and my great-grandmother could see that we needed a fast solution.

After my great-grandfather's (that where I get the French Canadian from) death, the family knew that my great-grandmother always planned on going back to her homeland before she died. It wasn't that she didn't want to stay with her family; it was just that she was homesick for England and her parents' house, which she had owned since their death. So, after a year of mourning her husband, she was ready to go. However, when the time finally came, this eighty-year-old mother, grandmother and great-grandmother who had raised six kids and dealt with plenty more, this devout supporter of professional wrestling (clichéd, I know, but amazingly enough, she truly was) who would 'knock your bloody block off' if you ever tried to convince her it was fake, would not go alone.

Of course, that far from meant that she wasn't going at all.

She, I admiringly recount, obviously had the cranky-old-lady-with-a-cane-and-an-attitude shtick down pat. She raved, screamed, threw tantrums (all of this with me taking notes for possible future personal use) and even made things explode without her wand (setting the understaffed Canadian Ministry of Magic's Department of Improper Use of Wandless Magic after her), insisting all the while that she specifically needed accompaniment on her voyage to England, and that my family was just right for the job. My parents, just as stubborn as her, put their proverbial feet down and insisted that this was not the right time, and there was no "bloody" way they were moving to a foreign country with me just about to start Wizarding School, and my little brother already enrolled in Muggle School.

Then, at last, three weeks, several unopened Official Notifications and one Misuse of Wandless Magic Fine from our dilapidated Ministry later, my parents caved, after Great Gram threatened to transfigure them both into matching tea party sets and escape to England with my brother and me.

Obviously, my parents had no choice, so they packed all their furniture and silverware and other assorted house-hold necessities, filled up their suitcases with clothing for themselves, my brother and I, and unhappily took the Floo circuit with us to Great Gram's house that very afternoon. Once there, we all took hold of a conspicuous looking flowered bonnet circa 1850, which was a Trans-Continental Portkey, and we began our journey.

Once we arrived in an old, abandoned and boarded-up factory somewhere in England, my great-grandmother directed us toward the rather dusty front door with a shattered window pane, and then led us down a weed-strewn hill, toward a road that eventually cut into what must have been the downtown area of some larger town or city. We walked down the sidewalk of the grimy, busy road, with Great Gram still in the lead, until we came upon a rather derelict-looking and old-fashioned inn which no one else on the street seemed to see. My parents looked at it uneasily, taking in the dirty, peeling, faded painting of a grinning cat in the window and the grimy, moldy wooden sign that hung from the eaves and read 'The Cheshire Cat', but my great-grandmother strode confidently into the building.

Inside, it was musty and poorly-lit; the walls covered in peeling and faded dark green wallpaper overlaid with the obscure floral pattern that those variety of ancient establishments always seemed to boast.

To the right of the doorway there was a large desk occupying the wall, and behind it were dozens of cubbyholes with assorted mail items and packages, and a large corkboard studded with numbered keys, one for each room of the inn, I assumed. In addition to the aforementioned things behind the desk, there was a frazzled looking young woman with bright and curly orange hair, frantically searching the shelves, cubbyholes and lone table behind the desk for something she must have been missing.

There was a sudden clatter from above, and peering through the shower of plaster and dust that rained down from the ceiling, I saw the woman glance, frustrated, toward the staircase on the wall directly opposite from the doorway without noticing our entrance at all. The woman scowled at the staircase, shook her head free of dust and rubble, and committed herself once more to her harried search.

Great Gram merely smirked in a nostalgic sort of way, then walked up to the clerk's counter and rang the small, silvery desk bell.

The clerk cast one last desperate glance around her work area, then, giving up a last, defeated sigh, she quickly fixed my great-grandmother with a piercing black gaze.

"Yes, what can I do for you?" she asked brusquely, tucking one of her many stray orange curls behind her ear.

"Where's your mother dear?" replied my great-grandmother. I wondered about this. Why would she want to see this woman's mother? Was she perhaps the manager of this inn?

The woman seemed surprised, and rather flustered. "She's--well--why do you want to see her, anyhow? She's very busy, you understand, and she doesn't often--"

My great-grandmother shook her head and smiled. "Dear girl, don't you recognize me?" she asked.

The obviously bewildered clerk slowly shook her head no.

"Cornelia, dear, it's me! Aunt Emmy! Don't you remember?"

A look of recognition slowly dawned on the woman's, Cornelia's, face. "Aunt Emmy?" she repeated wonderingly. "But you left, years ago! With Henry--no wait, was it Harvey? You said you were...were off to Canada, on a grand new adventure...of course I was only seven or eight then...oh my! I can't believe it's really you! Aunt Emmy, you're home!"

Suddenly, the hysterical young woman leapt up from behind the desk and caught Great Gram in a wild embrace, sobbing happily and chattering incoherently. My brother and I exchanged looks, then I proceeded to draw him back a few paces, for fear of injury.

A few minutes later, Cornelia regained her composure enough to ask us into the parlor for a cup of tea, and showed us to the room adjacent to the entrance foyer, pausing only long enough to decree that she would "go and fetch that darned, good for nothing chef Dennis, and demand that he serve us immediately", then she was happily on her way.

"Well, then..." my father started, a little unbalanced from his exposure to that emotional spectacle. "Um...so, who was that, exactly, and what was with the frickin' conniption fit?"

"Daniel!" my mother scolded half-heartedly, as she was rather bemused herself, and curious at that. "Watch what you say in front of the children!"
My father threw her an exasperated look. I merely stared up at them innocently, pretending I hadn't been listening in the slightest. My brother was slowly nodding off to sleep.

"Come here Michael," my mother said tenderly, bending over to scoop up my brother, and then sitting down on a gaily-patterned loveseat. My father settled himself down beside her, and my grandmother installed herself in a chair next to them, with me sitting quietly on her lap. She smiled at my mother and father.

"That was young Cornelia Treacle," my grandmother explained. "Her mother and I were good friends when I was young, and I used to sit for her when her mother went out. That was around the time I met Henry...that would be your grandfather, Daniel."

Dad nodded, not really paying attention, as he was anticipating another long family anecdote. Unfortunately, he had anticipated correctly.

"Henry was only about eighteen then, I was seventeen and Cornelia's mother was nineteen or twenty," my grandmother began nostalgically. "That would have meant Cornelia was--"

"Around one or two years old," interrupted Cornelia excitedly, poking her head around the doorframe of the parlor, and in the process saving us all from fate worse than...well maybe not, but sometimes stories like that can go on for eternity. "I found Dennis! He's making us some tea!" I noticed she looked a little flushed, but I couldn't for the life of me tell why. "Have I walked in on some reminiscing?"

"Why yes, dear," my grandmother said, taking in Cornelia's rosy cheeks and brilliant smile. "But that can always wait until later; why don't you ask Dennis to come and join us here? I'd love nothing more than to finally meet him."

'Finally', I thought. Why 'finally'? We'd only just gotten here, and Cornelia had only mentioned Dennis once or twice. Where had Great Gram heard of him before?

"I'll be right back," said Cornelia, near breathless, and her head popped out of sight once more.

"Why do you want to meet Dennis 'finally', Gram?" I asked curiously.

"Well, dear," my great grandmother started, her eyes twinkling mischievously. "Dennis and Cornelia have been friends for a long time, ever since they were tiny children. And I think," she continued, leaning forward and whispering in a conspiratorial manner, "that they are finally going to be married!"

I gasped, and held my breath excitedly, waiting for her to continue. A wedding! Would I be able to attend?

"Cornelia used to tell me all about Dennis, when I stayed with her at her mother's house, of course." Great Gram sighed dreamily. "She'd tell me of all their adventures, terrorizing the local pets and going down to the creek and playing in the muddy banks, and catching frogs by the pond...I never really met him, but I imagine one afternoon I saw two little ragamuffins running at top speed down to the pond, all covered in mud. Cornelia's hair stuck out like a sore thumb, and so I believe that she may have been with Dennis that day."

"So now, they're getting married?" I asked. I remembered that Dennis was a cook, or something of the sort. "Is Dennis going to bake the wedding cake?"

Great Gram laughed and shook her head. "I don't know, Mav, child; we'll just have to wait and see for--"

Just then, Cornelia poked her head into the doorway, looking more excited and flushed than before. "I've brought him," she announced. "And we've got tea!"

She quickly strode into the room, pulling behind her, by the hand, someone that looked to me like a lost puppy carrying two silver trays, one loaded with a china bone tea kettle and several cups, the other filled with delicious-looking pastries. I immediately sized up the distance to the tray from where I was standing, weighing the intensity of my hunger against the punishments that leaping at the platter and knocking over the puppy-man would surely merit.

Just as I was about to strike, Cornelia started chattering happily, so I decided that it really wasn't worth the punishment and began listening again.

"--Dennis, my fiancé. We're getting married in the spring; sometime around April; next year, of course. Isn't it superb?" Cornelia clapped her hands happily.

"Congratulations, Cornelia, Dennis," my grandmother said, nodding her approval. "I'm happy for both of you. Now, let's sit and have some tea." Cornelia and Dennis did as she suggested, choosing another loveseat next to the one my mother and father were sitting on with Michael.

"Children, help yourselves to the pastries, I'm sure you're both starving," Great Gram continued airily, pouring herself some tea. I had to smile as I reached for a chocolate éclair. Not two minutes in a new place and she had already appointed herself Queen of Everything. Michael slid off of Mum's lap, and waddled over to me unsteadily, wiping the sleep from his eyes. I ripped the éclair in half, trying my best to drop not a single crumb, and handed him a piece. He took it gratefully, and shoved the whole thing in his mouth, smearing chocolate around it and his nose. I sighed, and reached for a napkin.

A few minutes later, when everyone's tea had been poured, (with the exception of my father's; he hates tea, something I inherited from him), and introductions had been made all around ("Oh," squealed Cornelia delightedly. "Her name is 'Maeve'? Well isn't that just the cutest thing! She's so cute! And look at little man Michael over there..."), talk of the impending wedding began in earnest, and I decided to study the puppy-man more intently, having no interest whatsoever in the meticulous methods one employed to plan a wedding.

Dennis, the puppy-man, had big, sad, brown eyes. This may have led me to dislike him intensely, because his eyes made him look like he was always about to cry, and people like that annoy me, but (fortunately for him, I'm sure), he always seemed happy, and when he smiled, laughed, and even talked, his eyes crinkled up at the corners and seemed to twinkle merrily. He had a wide pink mouth, always grinning, and a rather round nose, like a button or a cherry. His cheeks were rosy, and his hair was a mop of shaggy brown that fell into his eyes constantly. At one point, I could see my mother fingering her wand unconsciously, no doubt eager to give it a good trim.

Michael had fallen asleep again, so I picked him up and plopped him down on my lap. He was so tiny, only six (and a half, he would insist) years old, and his small hands clutched a worn baby blanket, his constant companion since he had been an infant. He stirred, his green and hazel eyes half open, making me wonder if I'd woken him up, but they closed again and his chin rested against his chest.

"Well Grandma," my mum said suddenly and loudly, most likely many hours later, effectively jolting me out of my boredom-induced stupor. I suddenly wished I had a clock. How long had they been droning on for? "The kids are falling asleep, so I think it's about time to be going."

Great Gram looked over at us, her eyes kind. "Yes, I do believe you're right dear. Quite right; in fact, I believed we've stayed much longer than I had planned."

"Oh no, don't go!" cried Cornelia, bereft. "You can stay here at the inn! We've got plenty of extra rooms, and Dennis is the best cook for miles!"

Dennis pretended to blush, trying to look modest and failing spectacularly. Everyone laughed.

"She's right, you know," he said, once the giggling had finally ceased. "All the other places to stay around here are tacky, repossessed B&B's, and there's only one more inn within a five-mile radius. And anyway, it's no where as awesome as this one," he pointed out, eyes sparkling.

"Mum, mum," I said, suddenly wide awake, and tugging on her pant leg. "Can we stay? Please? Please!" I repeated, staring up at her pleadingly.

"Now Mav," my mother began, but Great Gram cut her off.

"Maven Wicks," she said severely. "We have stayed quite long enough. It's almost nightfall already, and we haven't much time left to begin unpacking when we get to where we're staying, so take your little brother to hand and please calm down!"

I hung my head, scowling darkly at the floor. Michael had woken up during Great Gram's tirade, and was now sobbing pitifully, obviously disoriented and frightened by the ruckus we were making. I grabbed his hand roughly and shook his blanket in front him to get his attention, managing to quiet him down somewhat. But I was far from wanting to be quiet. Why couldn't we stay, for just one night? I was tired, and longed for a nice soft bed to sleep in. And there was the irresistible lure of sampling more of Dennis' cooking. Where did Great Gram plan on staying, anyway?

While I was sulking, Cornelia, Dennis, Great Gram and my parents had exchanged goodbyes, and hopes of seeing each other soon. I moved Michael off my lap, then stood and pulled him up beside me, holding his hand and leading him into the hallway, heading toward the door. I was surprised when Great Gram gestured to me to follow her with Michael, as Cornelia stepped behind her desk and everyone else followed.

Cornelia peered at the wall intently, as if trying to decide whether to take a stack of mail out of the cubbyholes, or grab a keychain off its hook. Finally, after what seemed like much debating, she reached for a keychain that sported an ostentatious and rather ludicrous-looking false blue gem, but instead of picking it up off the hook, she merely took the large stone between her thumb and forefinger and gave it two sharp squeezes. What was she doing?

Suddenly, the wall dissolved; the vast multitude of occupied cubbyholes and even the corkboard full of keys melting quickly into the floor. I gaped stupidly, then recovered myself enough to notice a fireplace molded rather similarly to the one we had seen in the parlor.

"Here it is, then," said Cornelia, a tad wistfully. She really was disappointed that we couldn't stay.

I couldn't help it any longer. "We're using that to travel by Floo, right?" I asked quickly. Cornelia nodded slowly, a puzzled expression on face. "Well, why can't we just use the fireplace in the parlor?" I continued.

"Oh," said Cornelia, her confusion evaporating at once. "Dear, this is a Muggle inn, and we can't have them sitting in the room drinking tea and eating scones, when suddenly one of our friends decides to drop by using the Floo! No, not at all! So, we connected this fireplace to the Floo network instead, so that Muggles'll just think someone's come out of the back room, is all. It works well, too, for anyone who needs to be going when we have Muggles staying here, who might see someone using the parlor fireplace."

"Was that a Muggle upstairs then, before, when we came in?" I asked eagerly. I'd met plenty of Muggle children during my trials at the school, but never any Muggle adults. I came from an extended wizarding background, and could trace my roots back on my dad's side to the first Native North-American shamans in Canada, so naturally I was interested.

"Well, obviously," said Dennis. "We don't get too many this season; the middle of summer is always rather slow. Just wait until end of August, though; all the flowers are in bloom in the next town over...Cheshire, it's called...and, well, anyway, the flower gardens are all in bloom and this place is swarming with tourists needing a place to kip."

"Gram?" I said, in a pleading tone of voice. "Could we maybe visit Cheshire sometime...during the summer, you know, when all the flowers are in bloom?" Of course, I meant that very summer, but there was still plenty of time to wheedle a positive response out of her, so I decided that she needn't know right away.

Great Gram just smiled down at me enigmatically. "We'll see, no won't we?"

I just looked at her, confused. This made her smile even more. I wondered what was so funny, but before I could ask, she turned and said, in a tone that brooked no resistance, "Cornelia, dear, it was lovely visiting with you, and meeting Dennis, but we really must go now. Tell your mother I dropped by and that she has to come by with you, and Dennis, of course, to the Old Chalet, some time."

At this last bit, Cornelia's eyes had widened knowingly. She smiled, and then turned and brought out, from somewhere under the desk, what looked like a novelty pencil tin. It was emblazoned with the words 'Monty Python's Flying Circus', and as my mother stepped forward to take a pinch of Floo powder out of said tin, she laughed a little as she read the logo. Again, I couldn't find the humour, never having been exposed before in my life to the Monty Python brand of comedy.

Dennis pulled a wand from the back of his Muggle jeans' pocket, and muttered 'Incendio,' directing its tip toward the hearth. Immediately, a fire roared to life, and Dennis stepped back quickly to allow my mother passage.

Mum threw the powder into the fire, and it turned a deep purple. She looked at Great Gram and asked, "The Old Chalet?" and Great Gram nodded, confirming whatever it was she had questioned. Quickly, then, Mum stepped forward into the grate, shouted 'THE OLD CHALET!" and disappeared among the purple flames.

Dad was next, with Michael, then me, with Gram. I held fast to her hand as we stepped into the fire, the flames tickling me, pleasantly warm on my face. I saw Dennis and Cornelia waving and smiling, through the purple and waved back, though immediately after I drew closer to Great Gram. I had heard too many horror stories about children my age letting go of their parent's hand halfway through the voyage to another grate, and ending up alone and scared, in horrible places, while everyone searched for them but no one could find them. Just then, Great Gram shouted "THE OLD CHALET!" and I felt a rushing noise behind my eyes and bile at the back of my throat as the world tilted on its axis and began to spin madly.