The day started with Hermione Granger, though Cael had not yet learned her name.
He woke up to the opening of a trunk in the next bed.
Trunk opening, evidently, was not a silent process in this particular dormitory.
He lay still for a few seconds with his eyes closed, recalling the sequence of the previous day’s events, laying it out in his head neatly as one would arrange the setting of an elegant meal for review.
There was a smell of smoke from the common room fire from last night, and socks.
He opened his eyes.
The ginger boy was opening the trunk.
The boy looked up, saw that Cael was looking at him, and offered him a grin despite the fact that what he seemed to have for breakfast was, perhaps, the least breakfast-like breakfast known to man.
Cael, to be fair, also considered chocolate frogs a somewhat unusual breakfast.
“Morning.
Up early?” “Apparently.” “You got a name today?” “Still got yesterday’s.” “All right, all right.” Ginger boy raised one hand as if trying to shield himself.
“My name is Ron Weasley.
The one with the glasses is Harry Potter.
The one who is usually missing in action is Dean Thomas, and the one who snores, believe me, you’ll figure it out sooner or later — it’s Seamus Finnigan.
The boy in the corner is Neville Longbottom.” And, pointing at each as he introduced them, he added, “Cael, “Mourne.” “Mourne, yeah.
*Mourne* as in, you know…” “Not intentionally.” Ron laughed, and Cael realized that Ron was from a house where laughter was routine.
Having never known where he himself was from, Cael found that the sound of this sort of laughter appealed to him immensely.
The dormitory door opened without knocking.
McGonagall came inside.
Ron froze mid-action, with half the frog in his hands.
The curtains around Neville’s bed stirred slightly, then stayed still like a hedgehog readying itself for a nap.
Harry, who had until then been snoring lightly, abruptly opened his eyes.
“Mr.
Mourne,” “If you are sufficiently refreshed.
The Headmaster would like to see you.” “I am.” “Then get ready.” She did not even specify that he was to dress.
“Mr.
Weasley, that is not breakfast.” “What isn’t?” “Whatever you are doing right now.” She did not specify what he ought to have been doing, either.
“Mr.
Potter, sleep for forty minutes if you can.” She left.
Cael sat up and dressed.
His clothes from last night were neatly folded on a chair.
Someone had, evidently, taken care to add some new articles of clothing during the night: a clean jumper of a grey color that was not unlike Hogwarts’ house colors, a school shirt, a red-and-gold striped tie, some plain trousers and socks, as well as some rather well-used shoes.
He put the clothes on and realized with dismay that he had no idea how to tie a tie.
Ron sighed sympathetically.
“Come on.” In two quick movements, he tied Cael’s tie and stepped back.
“Thanks.” “Nah, you’re welcome.” Ginger boy grinned again.
“My big brother taught me.
Bill’s my brother — we have six of them and one sister, and you’ll meet them all, they’re a *lot*.” Ron paused, as if suddenly remembering something.
“Anyway, let’s go.
Headmaster’s office is — ” He pointed upwards.
“McGonagall will show you.
Don’t eat anything weird there.” “What’s weird?” “All of it.” — The Headmaster’s office was located above a gargoyle.
The gargoyle moved.
Walking into a spiral stairway that ascended slowly and steadily towards what seemed like infinity, Cael decided he would reserve all impressions until at least a week after arriving here.
He was, in fact, considerably impressed.
The Headmaster’s office was circular in shape and full of items, many of which were moving actively.
Little silver mechanisms on little silver desks hummed and hissed.
Portraits on the walls observed students from their positions in an air of practiced indifference.
A red-and-gold colored bird standing on a stand was, in fact, on fire — or at least appeared to be.
It regarded Cael calmly for a moment, then returned to grooming a flaming wing.
The old wizard who sat at the desk was surrounded by an aura of tidiness that made no sense whatsoever.
The old wizard himself was, however, standing up to receive Cael.
When Cael approached and sat down in a chair facing the desk, he also sat.
“Mr.
Mourne,” He spoke in soft tones, but Cael instinctively felt he was under no illusions of being able to hide anything from him.
“I hope you got a decent amount of rest last night.” “I did.” “And I hope this morning finds you in good shape.” “This morning finds me…” he stopped and smiled.
“Well, we’ll see what we can do about that.
Tea?” “Yes, thank you.” There was tea.
McGonagall took a cup from him, as did a small gnomish-looking creature sitting on a stool in front of Cael and making notes in a notebook that was larger than he was.
This creature was not, in fact, a gnome: he resembled a tall man compressed into the body of an eight-inch-tall man.
He did not appear to notice Cael’s presence.
“This,” the Headmaster announced, “is Mr.
Tessler.
He works in the Department of Mysteries and will be present today purely as a courtesy.
Mr.
Tessler will take notes, nothing else.” He paused briefly as if to give the Headmaster’s title a thought.
“Albus Dumbledore, at your service.” He sat back down.
“Cael Mourne.” “As you told me last night, of course.” Dumbledore paused briefly.
“May I ask you — ” “No.” “You did not yet ask,” the Headmaster corrected gently.
“But thank you.
I did not expect to hear as much on our very first meeting.
In any case, may I ask — where are you from?” “I have no idea.” “Really,” Dumbledore repeated.
“I am genuinely sorry.
I — sorry.
Tea is very hot.” Cael put down his cup.
“As soon as I landed, I knew where I was.
I recognized the Great Hall as soon as I saw it.
I know how spells work — but I don’t know where I got that information from.
I don’t know if I have parents, or if I even had any for a while.
I’m not distressed about that, really — just letting you know.” “I had not yet asked,” Dumbledore repeated patiently.
“Thank you, I appreciate your honesty.
Now — the spell you used last night.” “It backfired.” “How?” “Lumos was supposed to make the room brighter.
Instead, it darkened, swallowing wand-light from other students trying to find out what was happening.
I’m pretty sure it was not a wand glitch — it looks like it worked *exactly* as intended, only upside down.” There was silence for a moment.
Cael was being looked at with an intensity that was difficult to define: the expression on Dumbledore’s face hovered somewhere between polite encouragement to keep talking and interest in finding out what substance the young man was composed of.
Cael proceeded.
“In order to test it, I would require, firstly, a way of recording observations, secondly, a control — someone who knows how to use the wand properly and can cast a set of standard spells for comparison.
And I — would probably want to check that it is just Lumos or everything.” McGonagall set her tea down.
Mr.
Tessler had ceased taking notes.
“Dumbledore,” he addressed the Headmaster, “Mr.
Mourne.
How old are you?” “I’m thirteen, maybe fourteen.” “Do you know whether you have ever, prior to today, held a wand before.” “I have no idea.
The wand I was using last night didn’t feel familiar.
The *spells* did, though.
My hand remembered the right movement — whether that’s from experience, or…
whatever else, I can’t say.” “Whatever else.” “Casting spells felt natural somehow.
Just like knowing where I was when I first got here.” “It sounds like that might have come from somewhere else.” “I don’t know where it might have.” There was another pause while the phoenix fluffed out his feathers.
A couple of embers dropped and turned to ash before reaching the floor.
“Minerva,” Dumbledore began gently, and without looking at her.
“I think a demonstration today will be productive for everyone.
Filius will be available to assist at — ” “Lunch time,” “I’ve spoken to him already.” “Of course you have, Headmaster.
Mister Tessler — ” “I will be here, Headmaster,” Mr.
Tessler replied.
His voice was the sort of voice that was sure he had been waiting impatiently since he walked in the door to be called upon for something; it was evident relief to finally have his moment.
“If it be permitted.” “Permitted.
Cael — ” Dumbledore turned back to him.
“This afternoon, you will perform some small spells, while a few of us observe and record our observations.
Harmless.
Nothing that will tax you except your time and patience.
Can you live with that understanding.” “Hm.” “And the wand you used last night – yes, it is a school wand, not the right fit.
Perhaps you might have one of your own made soon enough.
That wand will suffice for today.
Is there anything else for which you require clarification before leaving this office.” It had, in fact, occurred to Cael to ask the same handful of questions more than once during that conversation.
*Did you know I was coming.
Have others arrived this way before.
Are you going to call me a liar at any point.
Are you also going to tell my Head of House that I am a liar.
Where do I sleep tonight.
Where do I sleep next week.
Do I owe someone money for the bed.* He decided on one.
“Will you tell me, “he asked, “if you discover where I came from.” Dumbledore looked at him for a long, steady second.
“If it is mine to know, Headmaster,” the man continued calmly, “then yes.” “Very well.” “Very well,” Dumbledore agreed, with a gentleness to his words that said, in its own way, ‘the conversation was over.’ — The classroom Flitwick used for the demonstration had most of the desks lined against the far wall.
In the center stood a small table, with several objects on it – a feather, a quill, a book, an apple, an empty tumbler, a candle, a slumped practice dummy, and a pile of stones.
Filius Flitwick was about four feet tall, highly energetic, and clearly excited at the prospect of taking part in something interesting.
He greeted Cael by name, shook his hand warmly – both of his hands, which made Cael wonder how big Mr.
Tessler’s hands must be – pulled a large roll of parchment from a drawer, and fastened it on the board efficiently.
“List,” he said, pointing towards it.
“Third year standard spells, plus some second year ones.
Nothing unpleasant or harmful.
We will run down the list and you and I will each cast a spell and document the result.
Agreed?” “Agreed.” “Wonderful.
Wand.” With that, Filius handed Cael the wand used in last night’s lesson.
Cael took it.
Mr.
Tessler sat behind one of the desks on the side, pen, paper, and ink bottle at the ready, in an air of professional interest.
Professor McGonagall stood in the back with her arms folded; the Headmaster had not even waited until this session started before excusing himself.
First, Flitwick gave Cael the feather.
“Wingardium Leviosa.
Gentle and delicate, please.
No flicking.
Think of lifting a teaspoon.” Cael tried to follow the instructions.
There was a small problem, however – the feather did not rise.
Instead, it seemed as if the feather had been suddenly possessed with the intention of pressing itself into the table.
The wood of the table bent, where the feather met it – *gave*.
But it did not splinter; it simply yielded, and allowed the feather to sink into the wood as if being buried, about a half-inch deep.
“Tssk,” Mr.
Tessler muttered.
“Now,” Flitwick said, with the tone of someone who found himself pleasantly surprised.
“Now, note that, Tessler – just how deep did it go, please, and whether the grain of the wood was – yes, excellent, now.
Next.” Next up was Lumos again, but this time the sphere was considerably smaller.
Cael had gotten some control over his wand and now his sphere was quite well-formed, with a clean edge, an interior that was clearly marked off, and it lasted for almost three seconds.
Mr.
Tessler noted it in his report.
Then came Reparo to fix the split quill – the quill snapped into approximately sixteen pieces along its *structurally weakest grain points*.
Then it was Incendio, directed to the candle – the wax cooled and formed a lace-like pattern of ice along the wick, extinguishing the candle.
Stupefy at the practice dummy – that particular model suddenly activated and hyper-energized, vibrating where it stood, bounced off the floor twice and then hit the wall and slid down it.
Flitwick was no longer attempting to hide his delight by now.
“*Now.* The one I really wanted to see.
Brace yourselves.
Cael, cast Expelliarmus at my wand, will you.” “Very well.” “Remember, now, Expelliarmus disarms normally, but we won’t make assumptions.
Stand there and cast.
Wait, wait, Minerva, would you mind?” Professor McGonagall slowly and reluctantly drew her wand and put it at the side, ready to be cast.
Mr.
Tessler, who did not get the heads-up, did not.
“Expelliarmus,” Four wands flew across the room and ended in Cael’s hand.
“Bravo!” “I see.” “Yes, I rather thought so.” Cael carefully placed the four wands on the wooden table in their places, distributing them – Flitwick’s wand nearest Flitwick, McGonagall’s to McGonagall, and handing Mr.
Tessler his own.
With that accomplished, he returned to using his own wand.
“Sorry.” “Don’t apologize, my dear boy!” “Don’t apologize,” repeated Professor McGonagall, giving him an encouraging smile.
She was almost smiling.
Almost.
“Don’t be sorry.
*Note that*, Tessler, the summoning range is at least – eight meters?
– and the gravitational pull is… what would you describe it as, Cael.” “Polite.” “Polite!” Filius echoed happily.
“He calls it polite!
*Note that.*” McGonagall got back her wand, still offering an encouraging smile.
“Mr.
Mourne.” “I suspect you will keep us busy.” “I’m sorry.” “Nothing to be sorry about.” — Mr.
Tessler typed up his report that evening in the office he rented at the Ministry of Magic.
Four-and-a-half pages long, the report mentioned such terms as ’empirical anomaly’, ‘no current regulatory category’, ‘recommend monitoring’ and ‘recommend further consultations with the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Phenomena Not Otherwise Specified’, which he had to look up, because the department was created in 1873, and sent/received exactly nineteen letters in its entire history.
He finished the report, and it joined the queue.
Which would never be touched.
In a small notebook bought that afternoon at the Hogwarts stationery shop with borrowed knuts – which Ron Weasley pressed into his hand, insisting it was nothing – and *don’t worry, mate, you’ll pay it back when you have any*, Cael Mourne wrote in his newly-discovered very small and very neat handwriting: *Lumos – darkness, sphere, ~1m radius, ~3s.* Cael looked at it and drew a line beneath.
Then he added on the next line: *Wingardium Leviosa – sinking.* Cael suspected he’d need a larger notebook soon.
And he wrote more.