It seemed like just another ordinary end to another ordinary day at the office. I checked my message boards one more time, changed from heels to running shoes, fished my sunglasses and keys out of my purse, slung my backpack over my shoulders, and began the half- mile trek to the parking garage. It was a glorious autumn afternoon; a slight crispness in the air, but the sun was abundant and warm.
I was mostly lost in my thoughts and more than likely talking to myself on the walk to my car. As I approached the entrance to the garage, I felt a small prickle on the back of my neck, a slight sense of foreboding; but quickly dismissed it and began descending the stairway that took me into the underground lot. Because I arrive at work so abysmally early in the morning, I usually get a great parking space, quite close to the pedestrian exit. Today had been no exception. I was parked in the first row, four cars from the exit.
As per my usual routine, I unlocked the car on the passenger side, so I could deposit my jacket, (which had seemed very necessary in the brisk morning chill, but merely burdensome in the afternoon sunshine), my backpack, and my purse. As I reached for the open passenger door to shut it, I felt something sharp between my shoulder blades, and then was overwhelmed with a sick smell, like stale crackers. This foul odor was indeed the breath of my assailant.
“Give me your purse and come with me,” rasped the cracker-breathed punk.
For a moment, I froze. Zillions of possible scenarios zoomed through my head—everything from me doing my fabulous impression of Buffy, to trying to outwit the mugger by feigning illness. I thought about the woman who was carjacked, but managed to dial 911 on her cell phone and then proceed to talk loudly, so that the dispatchers could figure out where she was. I also realized that I got no cell reception in the underground garage. The next thought that I distinctly remember made me laugh out loud for the sheer absurdity of it. You see, I am sort of a freak by some people’s standards. I am a seemingly normal, educated, professional adult obsessed with Harry Potter. One of those message boards I mentioned checking before leaving the office? A community of adults who have the same sort of passion for Harry. Yes, we are our own subculture. Anyway, I have often laughed at the notion that those right-wing extremists condemn the Harry Potter series because “children will wish they could do magic.” Well, duh. What child, or for that matter, what adult, doesn’t sometimes wish that with a wave of a wand or a wiggle of the nose all could be made right?
So, back to my little predicament in the garage. There were no other people within sight. The mugger had what I assumed to be a knife in my back and possession of my purse, and was frog-marching me toward a supply closet, his beefy hand with a death grip on my arm. My mind was racing, and I thought of something that was so absurd I laughed out loud. Then, because I was nearly hysterical with adrenaline and fear, I said the thing out loud.
“Petrificus
Totalus!”
I kept walking, knife in my back, for several feet, before I felt the hand that had been squeezing my arm slide off, and heard a heavy THUMP on the ground behind me. I turned around to see my assailant lying motionless on the gray concrete.
I screamed; I think mostly just from the circuits in my brain being so overloaded that I couldn’t do anything else. For the next few moments, I just stood there, heart pounding. What should I do? Obviously, the man had fainted or had a heart attack or something. Should I go for help? Would it be crazy to try to help this person who could have killed me a few minutes ago? Because the garage is built underneath a downtown park, I thought an officer would be pretty easy to find, so, after prying my purse out of the mugger’s stiff hand (careful to be light on my feet, lest he grab my ankles as the killer does in so many horror movies), I ran to the nearest exit and up the stairs into the sunlight. I looked at my watch and noted that I had only been in the garage about four minutes.
I did spot an officer, on horseback, in the park about 100 yards away. I ran toward him, took a deep breath to steady myself, and then proceeded to burst out in tears. The officer dismounted, and as I struggled to stop crying, I began to tell him the story of my near mugging and the perpetrator collapsing suddenly. The officer pulled out his radio to call for backup, and soon a patrol car pulled up to the nearest curb. As two patrolmen emerged from the car, the mounted officer and I headed toward them, to meet them halfway. Officer number one recounted my tale to officers two and three, with me interjecting details as I remembered them. They asked if I knew what made the mugger collapse.
“No,” I answered honestly, “one minute he was pushing me across the garage, the next minute he was on the ground. I only came to find help because I didn’t want him to come to and try to attack someone else.”
They followed me into the garage where a small group had begun to gather around the mugger’s still paralyzed body. As we got closer, I realized that despite being unable to move a muscle, the mugger’s gray eyes were wide open and he appeared to be conscious. I wondered if he’d had a stroke. The officers radioed for an ambulance, took my name and driver’s license number, in case they needed me for future questioning, and dismissed me.
I walked back to my parked
car entirely drained. Another glance at my
watch told me that everything that had happened since getting to my car
had taken place in a mere twenty-five minutes. I
pulled out of the garage, into the light once more, and quickly pulled
in to the
The drive home was a blur. I felt so tired and drained; I just wanted to go home and crawl into bed and put this day behind me. As I pulled into the alley behind our house, I reached, as usual, for the garage door opener that would let me into the detached garage. As most people are aware, once you hit that button, you’ve got a 5-10 second wait until the door is actually up. That day, the door flew up instantly, like it was a roller window shade instead of a garage door. We had been having some problems with a short in the opener, so as I turned the wheel to maneuver the car into the open doorway, I chalked the speedy opening up to another weird thing that had happened on this very weird day. Sighing to myself, I pulled into the garage and screamed again. There, against the wall, directly in front of my car, was another man, holding out another sharp instrument pointed at me.
I immediately reached down on my door to make sure the automatic locks were still engaged, and reached over to the passenger seat to hit redial on my cell phone.
“Honeythere’samanouthereinthegarage! I’mafraidtogetoutofthecar! Call911!”
“Carla?” my husband answered, sounding concerned but confused.
“Please! Call the police! There’s a maniac out here in the garage with me!”
As I was screaming into the phone, the strange man, who I assessed to be in his mid-to-late forties, dressed in an ill-fitting suit with a horrendous skinny knit tie circa 1985, walked ever closer to me, until to my horror, his face was next to mine, separated only by a thin sheet of window glass. I screamed again and saw the door to our backyard open and my husband come flying into the garage, armed with our biggest knife and followed by our two dogs, who were barking hysterically with all the confusion. The man turned to see my husband, then turned back to me and said,
“Did you summon him from the house with that?” He was pointing to my phone. “Brilliant! But I’m afraid that doesn’t help your case much…”
“What do you want?” Craig and I demanded of him at the same time, he in a forceful voice and me in a whimper.
“Now, now, no need to get violent,” said the stranger, tucking the sharp object he had been holding into his waistband. “After all, you were the one committing an infraction.”
“What are you talking about?” Craig and I asked, again in tandem.
“Practicing magic without a wand,” the man said, as if what he was saying should be completely obvious. “All magical people capable of this type of charm casting are supposed to register. Oh, I am sorry. Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Hermann Hoppspopple, deputy for the Department of Unauthorized Use of Magic office.”
Craig and I glanced at each other, and then back at the man, errr, Mr. Hoppspopple. If I hadn’t already been so traumatized by the events of the past hour, I would have laughed, and tried to figure out which of my friends had arranged this. As it was, I was frantically searching the date book in my mind, trying to remember if this was anywhere near my birthday. Who would be playing this kind of joke on me?
“I’m sorry. Whoever hired you couldn’t possibly know what kind of day I’ve just had. Who asked you to do this anyway? If you don’t mind, I was just nearly mugged about an hour ago and I ‘m going to have to ask you to leave,” I told the man, as I noticed that my two dogs had placed themselves at his feet, and were contentedly laying down. I figured he wasn’t a homicidal maniac; usually my four-legged friends are keen judges of character. Assuming I wasn’t going to be skewered immediately, I got out of the car and made for Craig.
“Of course I’ll leave”, the man said, “as soon as I give you your citation.”
“OK, what citation? What’s the joke?” I asked tiredly.
“No joke, madam, no joke at
all”, he replied. “You owe a fine of 10
galleons, or, if you wish to contest the
charges, you will need to appear in court on Monday at
“What?” I asked, growing frustrated. “Who put you up to this? Ok, I get it, I get it, I like Harry Potter waaaay too much. Point taken. Ha ha. I’m going inside.”
“Sir, if you don’t leave immediately,” Craig said, pointing to the still-open garage door, “I will call the police. My wife has had a horrible day—as she said, she was attacked earlier-- and she needs to come inside and relax. Your act is very convincing, but this really isn’t the right time. Good bye”
“Attacked?” questioned the man, “this afternoon? Well now, that puts things in a different perspective. I recommend you appear in court on Monday and plead self-defense. You probably just did what you had to do.”
“And what exactly did I do?” I asked impatiently, as Craig surreptitiously tiptoed around my car to the passenger side to retrieve my cell phone.
“Why, you performed Petrificus Totalus without a wand”, answered Mr. Hoppspopple, “and according to US Ministry records, you are not even a fully qualified witch.”
“OK, you are really good,” Craig said impatiently, walking closer to Mr. Hoppspopple, “but the show’s over. We get it. Harry Potter, magic, blah, blah, blah. Now you’ve got to go. C’mon Honey.” With that he pushed the button for the door to go back down, and he began ushering me out the smaller door toward the house, gesturing for Mr. Hoppspopple to follow so that he could exit our property. I stopped a few steps later, short of breath and feeling close to passing out.
“Craig,” I whispered, “This is really weird. I DID say Pertificus Totalus today in the parking garage. My mind was just racing through all kinds of ways to get away, and I wished I could do magic, you know, how we always talk about it, and well, it was so silly…I just laughed and said it, ‘Petrificus Totalus’, and a few seconds later, the guy hit the ground. I just assumed he had a heart attack or something. Do you think…do you think I did that? Do you think it’s all true?”
“Of course it’s all true,” said a new voice. We looked toward the entrance to our back porch to see yet another man, this one younger, in his early twenties or perhaps late teens, with red hair and freckles, dressed in jeans and a maroon sweater, and apparently British, judging by his accent.
Well, thank God for the patio tables outside, because I fell into one of the chairs instead of collapsing onto the hard concrete.
“Ron?” I asked the newest stranger to this very strange day.
“Yeah, I’m Ron. Quite perceptive of you. This must come as quite a shock to you. It’s all right, Hermann, I’ll take it from here,” Ron said, as he dismissed Mr. Hopspopple, who seemed to vanish immediately.
“R-Ron Weasley?” Craig stammered, as the color drained from his face and he sank into another chair near me.
“Errr, yes, that’s me,” said the redhead.
“But you’re a fictional character…” Craig started
“…well, not exactly,” Ron interrupted. “You see, I’ve done a little reconnaissance work around your home over the past half hour or so—don’t worry, I didn’t harm or remove anything—“ he added quickly, seeing the alarm on our faces, “I noticed that you have quite a collection of Harry Potter memorabilia. Two sets of years 1-4, an umbrella, some trading cards, magazine clippings, a calendar, and some sort of…doll?”
“Yes,” I answered, “it’s a doll—Craig gave it to me on my birthday, as a joke, it’s…wait a minute—what is going on here?” I rose and took what I considered to be menacing steps toward Ron. After all, here he was, just a kid, trespassing, I should call the police.
Ron remained calm and looked at Craig and me rather sympathetically. “Please,” he said, “that’s what I’m here for, to tell you what has been going on, for your whole life.”
“My whole life?” I questioned.
“Yes,” Ron answered. “Please let me tell you the whole story. First of all, I am real, not just a fictional character. I am here because I am doing an internship with the Department of International Cooperation in the OMA division. That’s Overlooked Magical Adult. The magical world is real, and there are many other people like you, muggle-born adult witches and wizards who never knew they had magical abilities. There are several reasons for this. For one thing, if there are no other magical folk living near you, sometimes the people in charge simply aren’t aware of your existence. In other cases, such as yours, there were a few other magical children nearby as you were growing up, but, well, times were strange when you reached the age to begin your magical education, and officials were simply not that thorough about owling muggle-borns. As terrible as it sounds, it’s quite common. You see, you turned 11 years old in 1983. The wizarding world was free of the Dark terror, but worldwide, ministries were in an uproar and there was a lot of political upheaval.”
“Wait a minute…” I interrupted, waving my hand to get Ron to stop for a moment, “you’re telling me that the whole Harry Potter story really happened?”
“Well of course it did,”
Ron answered. “Perhaps I should cover that
bit first. You see, in 1998, at the end of
our seventh year, Harry Potter did indeed defeat Voldemort. Back
in 1992, though, at the end of our first year, Dumbledore commissioned
a biographer, Jo Rowling, a well known witch writer, to document Harry’s
life, because Dumbledore, being Dumbledore, knew Harry, along with,”
Ron cleared his throat and stood up a little straighter, “a
few of his friends, were destined to help
bring about the fall of Voldemort. Children
all over the magical world learned of the adventures and lessons that
Harry, Hermione, myself, and, well, everyone faced. They
were written to be historical reference books for children. Well, all hell broke loose in 1996, at the end
of our fifth year. It was a sad time. We had pushed Voldemort back into
“Snape died?” Craig and I both demanded, then immediately felt a little silly. Did we really believe all this? Were we dreaming?
“Afraid so,” Ron said,
casting his eyes downward for a moment. “Tortured
to death by Voldemort, but he died a hero. Without the information he had been passing
us, we would have been blindsided by several
Death Eater attacks. Anyway, in 1996, a
muggle-born second year at Hogwarts left his Philosopher’s Stone book at
home when he came back to school after the Christmas holidays. His muggle cousin read it while at the
student’s parent’s house for a visit and thought it was a great story. Anyway, long story short, the student,
who should have been a Slytherin, muggle-born or not, convinced BWP,
that’s Bloomsbury Wizarding Publications, to give the rights to the
Harry Potter Histories to the publisher’s muggle brother at the other
“Like I did today?” I ventured
“Exactly. Now normally it wouldn’t even matter, because OMAs like you don’t have wands and have never been taught the correct way to use spells, but sometimes, when there is a lot of energy behind it, the spell will work, and then we have a problem,” Ron explained.
“So because I was scared, I made the spell work?” I asked.
“Right.”
“So how does everything end?” I couldn’t help asking. “Does Harry survive? What about Hermione and Dumbledore and Hagrid, and…your family?”
“Well,” Ron answered, looking down at the concrete, “ my family was lucky, all things considered. We lost Dad and Percy. Not bad really, when you consider there were nine of us.” He gave a small choked laugh. “It happened in 1997, but you know, we’re still…”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I shouldn’t have asked. I’m still having a hard time believing all this.”
“I understand,” Ron said. “That’s usually the case with OMAs. At least you’ve read the first four Harry Histories though, so you at least have a frame of reference for all this. Imagine if you didn’t even know about those…
Well to answer the rest of
your question, we lost Dumbledore at the very end of the war. Hagrid was badly wounded
and spent over a year in St. Mungo’s, but he’s better now and back to
teaching Care of Magical Creatures. Harry
is alive and well and is taking a much-deserved break from fighting bad
guys. He’s playing seeker for the Chudley
Cannons, and they actually finished in the
top ten last season! Fred and George opened
Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes in Diagon Alley after the war, and Hermione has
been studying advanced curse breaking with Bill, at the Gringotts
branch in Diagon Alley. I’m doing this
internship, hoping to be accepted into the
“I knew it!” I said to Craig, “didn’t I tell you from Book One those two would end up together? Oh, sorry,” I said to Ron, “didn’t mean to embarrass you.” A slightly awkward silence followed. “So,” I ventured, “what exactly is going on? Why are you here?”
“Well,” Ron began, “since you successfully used a charm without a wand, you showed up on US DMA, that’s Department of Magical Affairs, radar, and you were met with Mr. Hopspopple. You see, OMAs do things like you did today relatively frequently, you know, make things happen, but these things are usually chalked up to coincidence, and the wizarding world doesn’t get involved. Figure it’s better to leave well enough alone. But today, the Unauthorized Use of Magic office sent dear old Hermann, and well, you were here…”
“So what happens now?” Craig piped up, looking as if he didn’t really want to know.
“There are two choices. Either I can perform a simple memory charm on you both, you know, obliviate, and you’ll have no more memory of this conversation or of meeting Mr. Hopspopple; or, Carla, you can accept the offer to embrace your magical abilities and take part in a special OMA program. It’s a night class that will teach you everyday magic and help you qualify for the GED-- that’s the General Enchantment Diploma—let’s you use magic like a fully qualified wizard, except you’ll only have limited clearance for potion making and divination. You’ll also be able to take flying lessons and apparation classes.”
“Is this really happening?” I asked weakly, turning to Craig, who was wearing the same look of confusion and anguish on his face as I felt on mine.
The afternoon I have previously described took place two years ago, in the late summer of 2000.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
GLASS (Great Lakes Academy
of Spellcraft and Sorcery) is situated on an island in
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ron had arranged for his supervisor, Blythe Jones, to take me shopping for school supplies that weekend in Magical Chicago. Ms. Jones was the Deputy Director of OMA Integration for the Central North American division. A pretty, blond, middle-aged witch, who had risen rapidly though ministry ranks, she was very thoughtful about explaining things to me in detail as we did our shopping, and what an experience that shopping trip was!
The
If you were a
muggle , and if you entered the third door from the left end of
the building directly behind the original Wrigley building, in Wrigley
Plaza, and if you were to get in the elevator with the
“temporarily out of order” sign on it and if you were to push
the button within that elevator that was completely devoid of a number
or symbol, you would take a trip down two stories to the river’s edge. When the elevator doors opened, you would see
the same brackish river water that is viewed just as well from the
bridge that you probably walk across each and every day, and then you
would suddenly remember somewhere you were supposed to be at that very
moment. You would get back in the elevator,
the doors would shut, and you would hear some soothing
music, vaguely familiar, perhaps the tune of a tried and true Sinatra
song, played over the elevator Musak. When the
elevator stops and the song ends, you have no memory of the last five
minutes, as you re-enter
I am a witch. So, I saw something completely different. When Blythe and I took the rusty-looking elevator down to the river’s edge, I saw a colorful community, bustling with Saturday shoppers. Although most of the wizard folk shopping were dressed like any muggle you’d see on the street above, the stores themselves were pure magic. There were shops along both sides of the river, with many more shops set up on barges that crossed the rivers as if they were streets. Whenever a muggle boat came through, the barges simply sank under the water, safe in an enchanted bubble, and people went about their business until the boat passed. If you need to leave Magical Chicago while it is submerged, you make your way to the end of the barge, and enter the lower-level door of a riverbank shop, then walk up the two flights to water level.
First, Blythe and I
stopped at the
After I opened my account (and smiled to myself, wondering if my employer would do direct deposit to Gringotts), Blythe and I headed to Scrolls, passing several fantastic looking shops, including Voldemutts Pet Planet, where there was an array of cats, owls, mice, dogs, and toads on display.
“Dogs?” I asked Blythe. “That’s great. I’m really not a cat person, and I certainly wouldn’t want a rat as a pet, so I’m glad to see that wizards have dogs. I have two at home. One is actually named after Lily Potter, because I was completely obsessed by the Harry Potter books, and I didn’t think Hermione was a good doggie name…I sound like an idiot, don’t I,” I stammered, blushing.
Blythe smiled, showing a full set of perfect pearly whites. “Of course not. It’s nice to meet OMAs who already have affection for our world. As to your question about dogs, well, that is a rather new development—their popularity, that is. You see, many common domestic animals possess magical or preternatural qualities. For instance, cats are hypersensitive to minute changes in aura. They can tell when another creature or person enters the aura of a building or a room. Dogs are equally adept at sensing evil, and judging people accordingly. A dog’s first impressions of people are seldom wrong. Dogs are pure of heart. Because of this, most breeds will not associate with dark creatures, like vampires.”
“I completely believe that,” I answered. “I think animals can sense things we don’t. When one of my dogs shies away from a person on the street, I take that as my cue to steer clear too. Why are dogs suddenly more popular pets in the wizarding world?”
“Ah, “ Blythe replied, “That is a matter of celebrity—wizard pop culture. You see, Sirius Black was finally cleared last year, and as part of his testimony, he had to reveal his status as an unregistered animagus. I trust you know about that from your Harry Potter reading?”
I nodded, and she
continued, “Well, Mr. Black has become quite the hero figure. Imagine the wizard
equivalent of Michael Jordan here in
“Like what?” I questioned. “Is he very good-looking? I always pictured him as ruggedly handsome, almost rogueish, but really, you know, sexy.” I could feel my ears turning red as the last words came out of my mouth. What was I? A teenager?
Another giglette escaped the cool-looking Ms. Jones, “Yes. Yes he really is. When he does signings of his book, ‘My Time in Azkaban’, the witches line up like he was Gilderoy Lockhart. In fact, Sirius has been in Witch Weekly quite a few times himself.” Blythe tried to regain some of her composure, “Well, as you may imagine, the popularity of rats has gone down considerably.”
“Well, that’s just so great that he was cleared, “ I added, also trying to act like an adult, as we made our way into Scrolls, the bookshop.
Scrolls looked pretty much like a muggle bookshop, except for the occasional tome zipping overhead, the result of an employee’s summoning spell. There were several rooms of books, organized by subject, and a special section devoted to GLASS textbooks. Out of curiosity, I looked in the “foreign schools” section and found a copy of Hogwarts, A History. I can really understand why Hermione was obsessed with it. There really is so much fascinating information and history there! I purchased a copy for myself along with my textbooks using the Gringott’s signature method (the equivalent of muggle debit cards), and Blythe and I continued with my shopping. We passed an elegant dress shop, Witchy Woman, which had a gorgeous window display of both muggle and witch apparel, all in dazzling fabrics that would be rare finds up on North Michigan Avenue, which, although only yards away, felt like it could be in another world while I was getting my first eyeful of Magical Chicago. There were fancy dresses and dress robes of luminous fabrics that appeared to be one color at first look, and a myriad of colors upon a longer look. There were robes of a silk so fine they had to be enchanted. There were supple leather handbags that were the trendy mini-size on the outside, but could fit the contents of a backpack when opened. I made a mental note to check this place out on my own.
We also had a look into the candy and joke shop, Whizbangs, and the trendy Café Luna. We purchased my cauldron and potion supplies at Pots and Potables, and my wand (9 inches, holly, with a core of dragon heartstring) at Ollivanders Chicago. Ollivanders has new technology also, to expedite the wand selection process. The customer slips his or her hand into an enchanted glove that is made of a shimmering, almost liquid material. After a few seconds, a few wands are summoned to the front counter for the witch or wizard to try. Blythe explained that this spell is a similar in construction to the spells in the Sorting Hat at Hogwarts. When I slipped my hand into the glove, I felt a gentle tugging, almost like a massage, and then two wands were summoned; mine and another that was identical, except the wood was a hard maple. I was a little disappointed that I only got to try two wands, and a little afraid that since there were only two, neither may be the one who chose me. When I gave the maple wand a wave, sparks shot out in all directions, and my arm felt like it was being pulled from its socket. When I waved my holly wand, though, there was a nice swoosh to it, it felt almost like a natural extension of my arm, and soft lilac-colored sparks sprayed from it, making a soft arc in the air. Although I didn’t know what to do with the wand yet, I could tell it was supposed to be mine, and my fear and disappointment at not being able to give more wands a swish melted. I reflected on the fact that I had had magical ability my whole life, yet I didn’t know it. How long had this wand been waiting for me? Was there another witch who could handle this wand as well? What if I had decided not to enter the OMA program? What would have become of this wand?
After I stopped philosophizing about wands, and when we had finished getting my supplies, Blythe and I stopped for some coffee at Camelat-te. She told me about her school years at GLASS, her job, and the experiences of some of the OMAs she had worked with over the years. She spoke with fondness of many of the OMAs like me she had introduced to the magical world, and how they had adapted. Most were success stories indeed, and had thoroughly embraced and been embraced by the magical community. The more we spoke, the more excited I became to attend my first class that Monday night.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And so my magical education
began at GLASS. I’ve already told you that
GLASS was designed like a sprawling, sparkling beach house, with lots of
windows and a bright, warm decorating style. It was built by Frank
Lloyd Wright (also a wizard) after his Prairie phase, but it still
retains the simplicity and clean lines associated with many of Wright’s
muggle houses in
The more I thought about it, the more this made sense to me, although I was still somewhat enamored by the tradition of sorting, and a little disappointed there would be no sorting for me, even though, I suppose, I wouldn’t be living in the GLASS dorms anyway.
There were six other people in my OMA cohort, four women and two men, all about my age, in their late twenties to mid thirties. There was John O’Malley, an attorney, Steve Jackson, a chef, Gwen Debry, a tax accountant, Lisa Foster, an executive assistant, Stacy Jacobs, a medical student, and Jennifer Dyer, a teacher. All six of us had found out quite recently that we were OMAs. We all kept our muggle jobs, and attended the GED program four nights a week, so we were very busy, but also very excited to be a part of the magical community.
Classes were a thrill. Our classes included Charms, Transfiguration, DADA, History of Magic, OMA-to-Wizard Seminar, Identification and Behavior of Magical Creatures, Herbology, and Potions. Luckily, Potions was only an hour a week (hence the limited certification in this field of study at the end of the course), because I found that it brought back horrible memories of college chemistry lab that I thought had been relegated to the realm of recurring nightmares. The reason for the limited Potions training was that we had the same instructor, Professor Brewster, for both Herbology and Potions, so the lessons overlapped a bit. I also took lessons in flying and apparition theory. Apparation practice would come in a few terms.
Right away, my favorite classes were Charms and History of Magic. Charms was everything I imagined, and I thoroughly enjoyed the “foolish wand waving.” The OMA program focused less on theory and more on practicality than the classes for school-age witches and wizards. The instructor, a Pakistani witch, Professor Chandra Duvi, explained that because we were already adults, we were better able to focus our energy into each spell, therefore, once we got the hang of the wand movement, and the feeling of focusing our energy into our wands, most spells would work for us. I found this to be true, especially for the more elementary spells. It’s really just a matter of concentrating on exactly what you want the spell to accomplish, and then saying the incantation and focusing your mental energy through the wand. The spells that are the hardest are the ones that require more concentration. For instance, alohamora is simple. You point your wand at a lock and say the incantation, and it requires little concentration (once you get the hang of it), because it is very easy to visualize the lock turning and also easy to fully expect that spell to work. Accio is somewhat harder, because you don’t always know where the object you are summoning may be coming from, and you need to take the time and energy to form a full, vivid mental picture of the item in your mind’s eye. A spell like Expecto Patronus is very difficult indeed (I am still working on this one, and fully realize that I may never master it), because it is very hard to picture what you want. All you really know is that you want protection, but until you successfully conjure a Patronus, you have no idea what it looks like. Right away, Professor Duvi started us with simple, practical spells that we could use at home; housekeeping charms (escobamus will sweep all your floors instantly, recouvre lit will make the beds), and yard work and cooking spells especially. Craig really liked me using these charms as well. He was (and continues to be) very supportive of my being a witch, and he doesn’t seem to mind or be jealous that he doesn’t also have magical powers. Due to me spending so much time at OMA class, the housekeeping charms had the added bonus of letting Craig and I spend as much time as possible doing fun things together.
My other favorite class was History of Magic. Professor Geoffrey Gallatin was a young, enthusiastic, thirty-something muggle-born wizard. Instead of focusing on ancient magical history, Professor Gallatin preferred to focus on current events, and then have us discover the historical reasons why things are the way they are. There was very little memorization of goblin rebellions in Professor Gallatin’s class. One of his favorite topics was the existence of good and evil, and how one cannot truly exist without the other. He often used muggle examples of what he considered to be pure evil (Genghis Khan, Hitler, Stalin), along with wizard examples (Grindelwald, Voldemort). Many times he asked us to muse on whether these people were born evil or if they became evil by circumstances forced on them (bad childhoods, etc), or if they consciously chose to seize power, thereby becoming corrupt.
(A/N: Some of the ideas about Voldemort’s destruction are blatantly stolen from “The Long Road Home” by Ashwinder, posted on Gryffindortower.net and sugarquill.net.)
A typical assignment in Professor Gallatin’s class was to read the last week’s worth of The Daily Prophet and The North American Forecaster and analyze current wizarding events by looking at what has led up to them. For instance, in our first term at GLASS, there was an assassination attempt made on the headmaster at Durmstrang. By researching old newspapers and, of course, historical references, we learned that Durmstrang has had a problem keeping headmasters ever since the defeat of Grindelwald. Whereas Hogwarts headmasters keep their tenures for decades, the longest-serving headmaster at Durmstrang since the 1940’s was Karkaroff, and he only lasted six years. Using our heads and historical data from both wizarding and muggle politics, we were able to surmise that this turnover has been in large part due to racial and ethnic issues in eastern Europe. Not only among the Serbs, Croats, and other groups, but also among wizard families who are involved in the Dark Arts and those who fought with The Order of the Phoenix. Many Dark wizards had been appointed headmaster of Durmstrang because the board of governors is made up primarily of those who had fought with Grindelwald, or their offspring-- many of whom fought with Voldemort. However, overall there are more “Light” wizard families who have children who attend Durmstrang. Therefore, each time a Dark wizard is appointed headmaster, the Light families campaign relentlessly for his or her removal, until usually the Ministry gets involved and names a replacement, typically a known Light wizard or witch. This annoys the governors, so instead of petitioning for another replacement, they simply try to kill the headmaster so that they may replace him or her with another of their chosen candidates. Then, there is usually a cycle where Light families who can afford to, send their children to Beauxbatons or Hogwarts for awhile until the Ministry realizes that in order to keep Durmstrang afloat they need a Light headmaster. It is apparently a vicious cycle. Meanwhile, there is racial and ethnic bickering going on in both the Light and Dark factions. I found all this fascinating, even though I realized that to someone who grew up in the wizarding world it would be common knowledge, learned in History of Magic from a textbook, if not at home from family discussions. I found Professor Gallatin’s approach to be most helpful in uncovering the ins and outs of wizarding politics of modern times; it really helped put everything in perspective for me.
Professor Gallatin liked to integrate muggle history, especially modern muggle history, with wizarding history because so often, world events entwine the two. For instance, Hitler and Grindelwald were defeated in the same year. Coincidence? Most magical scholars think not. In some circles, especially among seers, astronomers and arithmantists, because these three specialty areas of magic rely heavily on patterns, the theory is that evil comes in great cycles, in both the wizard and muggle worlds. Others propose that Hitler and Grindelwald were actually in league together, and that while Hitler may not have actually had magical power, he was aware of its existence. They certainly had similar goals—ethnic cleansing among them. Our class period would usually be a discussion or series of discussions that covered far more history than our text, and made me look at my watch in disbelief when our class time was over. Professor Gallatin was a truly inspiring teacher, the kind that makes his students passionate about class, and I looked forward to learning from him each week.
All of us in the OMA cohort
got on well together, but Jennifer Dyer and I became very good friends
quickly. It was strange, really, that we
hadn’t met before. We discovered we lived
in the same neighborhood, we were the same age, had been married the
same length of time (both to muggle men), and had both lived in
One early November evening, as Jennifer and I walked into the History of Magic classroom, comparing notes about keeping mum about being a witch at our muggle jobs, we noted Professor Gallatin looked a little tense, and he appeared to be deep in thought as he pored over a newspaper, brow furrowed. Meanwhile, Jennifer, myself, and the rest of our cohort engaged in small talk amongst ourselves as we took our seats.
“Has anyone read today’s papers?” Professor Gallatin asked with a start, breaking through our chitchat. Several of us nodded our heads, myself included, as we focused our attention on our teacher. I hadn’t noticed anything particularly grave in that day’s editions of the Prophet or Forecaster.
“What do you think about
the colonies of ghouls that have been springing up in
“What has happened in
Well of course we all knew
that Voldemort was defeated in
“Where do you think these ghouls are coming from?” Professor Gallatin asked. “Do you think there is any connection between the defeat of Voldemort and these ghoul colonies?”
John O’Malley raised his hand. “But wasn’t Voldemort defeated completely?” he asked. Then, summoning his lawyerly ways, he continued on a diatribe to rival any of Hermione’s, “The spell he used to recreate his body in 1995 was reversed by the spell that Harry Potter, Ginny Weasley, and Sirius Black devised and used to kill him, In Reducto Morto Infinitum. We know he was defeated permanently because not only was his body turned to dust and fed to a dementor, but Pettigrew’s silver hand disintegrated, Voldemort’s father’s grave apparently imploded and sealed itself, and Harry Potter’s scar healed.”
“All this is true, John,” Professor Gallatin conceded, “but what really happened to Voldemort? Besides being killed, destroyed? Do you think there is any part of him that lives on?”
I raised my hand. “Well, since the dementor ate his ashes, doesn’t that take care of his soul?” I asked. “I mean, dementors are soul-suckers—they suck the souls out of bodies, but since Voldemort’s body was destroyed and what was left, his essence, I guess, was fed to the dementor, doesn’t that eliminate him completely?”
“Well, Carla, most people certainly hope so, and that is the general theory, Professor Gallatin answered. “After all, this happened two and a half years ago and since then, other than a few random death eater demonstrations, there seems to be no evidence of Voldemort still existing. Still, I always wonder. It’s a pet theory of mine—that evil never truly goes away. Think about it—when a loved one dies, where does the love that person expressed go? Does it go away? I know I’m exposing a bit much of my sensitive side here,” he continued, chuckling slightly, “but I believe that it never truly goes away. All that positive energy that person put out still exists.”
Most of us were silent, trying to wrap our brains around that theory. Gwen Debry ventured to speak first. “But Professor, is it the love itself that still exists or the memory of love that remains so strong that it simply feels like part of the person’s, umm, essence, is still with us?”
“Yes, that’s a good question, Gwen,” Professor Gallatin agreed. “I suppose nobody truly knows the answer. Here are two questions for your homework though, to be turned in day after next, in essay form: first of all, tell me of at least three other places in the world that ghoul colonies exist and hypothesize where they sprang from; and second, expound on my pet theory—do people leave some of their special energy in the world when they die, or is it simply the persistence of memory that sometimes makes it seem as if they do?”
Our class left the History of Magic classroom to go to Charms, abuzz with talk of our most recent assignment. Jennifer and I walked side by side, voicing our own experiences and theories.
“I guess I believe that people live on, but only in our memories,” Jennifer said sketchily. Although it may seem a simple question of What-Do-You- Believe- Happens- When- You- Die, suddenly being immersed in the magical world as an adult can make you rethink many beliefs.
“I’ve thought that I felt a person’s presence with me sometimes,” I confided, “and I admit, I really think they were there, at least for a fleeting moment. Knowing I’m a witch makes me wonder, though. If it is true that a person’s ‘essence’ lingers, is that true for both muggles and wizards?”
“And,” Jennifer added, “what is the difference between someone’s ‘essence’ lingering and the person just being a ghost? If you assert that someone’s essence hangs around, then aren’t you saying it’s his or her soul? Then, aren’t you saying that everyone becomes a ghost?”
“Hmmm,” I responded, pensively. “I don’t think that’s what Professor Gallatin meant, exactly. I don’t think he’s talking about the soul, but about the energy people leave in their wake. For instance, if you know someone who is usually grumpy, or cranky, or just moody, and you visit their home, don’t you sometimes pick up the same vibe from the house and the décor and everything that you get from the person---like an aura! I think that is more what Professor Gallatin is describing. So someone with a really strong aura, positive or negative, may have put out so much energy during his or her lifetime that it lingers long after the person has died!”
“I think I can buy into that,” Jennifer conceded. “But I need to think about it awhile.”
“Ok, what about this?” I asked, foraging ahead and thinking aloud just to get the thoughts out of the swirl in my brain and into some sort of order. “Another house example. You know how when you walk into a house, especially your own, you can usually sense whether anyone is there or not? And you know, this is something that I think muggles can do too. I’m going to ask Craig and see what he thinks. I think that whatever theory you come up with should be able to apply to muggles as well as wizards, because after all, we are all human.”
Jennifer was quiet a moment as we made our way through a glassed-in walkway leading to another wing of the school, where the Charms classroom was housed. “You know how sometimes after a loved one has died you can still feel their presence with you? Like, my grampa died years ago, but sometimes I swear, I think he’s right there with me.”
“Exactly!” I exclaimed.
“But I’m still not sure. I always thought it was his ghost, or spirit, coming to watch over me for a moment.”
We had reached our classroom, and we trailed behind our classmates into the glass-walled room, illuminated by starlight from outside as well as some pretty lamps. Shruggingly I said, “I guess I need to think about this a bit longer before I start writing. Oh, and I definitely need to do some research on ghouls!”
We took our seats and Professor Duvi entered the room, followed by Headmaster Wissagon. “The headmaster has an announcement for you,” she noted, and took a seat, giving Wissagon the floor.
Disclaimer: These stories are based on characters and situations created
and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not
limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and
Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark
infringement is intended. Other citations will be made where necessary.
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