Now the legend of the Four Points and Conservato would be safely classified as extinct, as it was decided by Bertie Babblesheath that the pursuit of this mythical organization would lead only to a tremendous waste of time and odd consequences. The most recent scholar of this legend was oddly enough Gallert Grindelwald, who was fanatic in his search for the lost society of the Darkhiders. Attempting to exterminate all forces that could oppose him, he followed a trail that he believed would lead him directly to the center of Conservato; however, his explorations came to a dead end, as could only come from chasing after an invisible thestral…

Bathilda Bagshot, Legends and Myths of the Magical World, Volume XVII.

It all began one summer morning, as it invariably does, with a morning post.

Alex Wilson jumped from the breakfast table, her half-eaten toast and eggs already forgotten.

"I shall get that, shouldn't I, Mom?" she said, but she was already running out the kitchen, not waiting for an answer.

It is difficult to pinpoint the exact time that Alex Wilson began to look forward to the mail. She was eleven, almost twelve but not quite, tall for her age, with a strong build and dark eyes that always seemed to challenge whatever was in front of her. She was soon to attend a public secondary school in the area, something she was not particularly looking forward to. The mail would contain nothing new, she knew, some old advertisements, but perhaps there would be something different this time…

The outside was cloudy, an odd mixture of the hidden sun and humidity. Alex closed her eyes and breathed in the summer air, feeling at home. It was the air she knew well, the atmosphere of the town she had lived all her life. She opened her eyes. There was the tabby cat again on the other side of the road beneath the tree shade, quietly watching the house. The cat had been spending most of its days in that spot for the last few days although Alex had heard no news that the Prices had acquired a new pet. Once, upon the first time she had seen it, she had attempted to draw closer to it and pat its head, but the expression it had on its face was so dismissive, so lofty, as though it was daring her to touch her, that Alex had to withdraw her hand hastily. Today she settled for giving it a wave and ran to the mailbox, throwing the flap open.

She bent sideways to peer into the mailbox.

Inside lay a single envelope.

Alex reached into the mailbox, wondering at the thickness and the sheer size of the envelope. It was made of parchment, which seemed like unusual luxury, and her address was written, it seemed, with actual ink and fountain pen. But it was not the envelope, the red seal with a large H, or a strange, antique-looking crest with four creatures that caught her eye; it was the name of the recipient: Atria Polaris Wymond.

"What is it, darling?" the voice of her mother coming from the window pulled her out of her confusion.

"Is there an Atria in our neighborhood, Mom?" Alex asked, walking toward the house.

"What?"

"I asked, is there an Atria in our neighborho—" she had reached the kitchen, but was caught off mid-sentence when the envelope was snatched away from her.

"Where did you get this?" Sophia Wilson asked, her voice strangled. Alex looked at her mother in surprise. Sophie Wilson, in her memory, had never lost her calm expression, nor her equanimity.

"It was in the mailbox, but I noticed that it was addressed to someone else—"

"You didn't open the letter, did you?" her mother asked quickly. Alex frowned.

"'Course not, it's not mine." By now her mind was turning; what could be in the letter that could upset her mother? In fact what would her mother know about a letter that was addressed to a complete stranger? Yet the name Atria Wymond somehow sounded familiar…

"Mom, what's in the letter?"

The room seemed to still for a moment, the temperature in the room drop down a few degrees despite the summer heat. Alex watched as her mother's face paled slightly before she casually pocketed the letter.

"Nothing, darling," her mother said, smiling, but there was tension in her eyes.

"Why are you keeping it? It was meant for someone else."

"I said it was nothing!" The abrupt shrillness in her tone made Alex draw back, and she stared at her mother in shock, wide-eyed. Sophia seemed to notice this, but she did not offer any explanations, instead saying,

"Now eat your eggs while they're still fresh. I need to— I need to go to the post office and report a misdelivery." Her mother grabbed the jacket on the coat hanger by the door. "I won't be long—just put the dishes in the sink after you're done, won't you?" Sophia swiftly kissed her daughter on the cheek and patted her hair before going out. Alex heard the door shut, and slowly sat on the breakfast table, surrounded by silence. Outside the window she saw the cat staring straight ahead, and for a moment she imagined that the cat had heard everything.

The morning was progressing into noon, but her mother had yet to come back. Alex, having washed the dishes and cleaned the entire house, went outside and sat on the doorsteps, staring at the sky. The sky was now almost gray, the opaque yellowness of the sun already fading into cool, cloudy thickness. She sighed, not knowing why.

"It's going to rain soon," she muttered to no one in particular. Perhaps she ought to run to the post office with an umbrella for her mother. But as she had been gone for more than two hours, Alex doubted that her mother was still at the post office, and running around town trying to find her mother seemed like a pointless endeavor. She also had a feeling that her mother, wherever she was, was not going to be in the best of moods to see her right now.

"It's going to rain soon," she raised her voice so the cat could hear. The cat blinked.

"Not that it matters, of course," Alex continued, "but the trees are not the best protection against the rain, you know?" As though the sky had heard her words, a fat drop of raindrop fell on her toes, than another, and then another. Alex retracted her legs and curled up into a ball.

"You're welcome to sit with me, if you'd like," she offered. "It's drier under a roof."

To her surprise, the cat quickly darted across the street to the front of her house. It shook the rain off its body, as though it didn't wish to bring any water into the house, and promptly jumped up the doorsteps onto the porch, sitting in its lofty way. Alex looked at the cat more closely, and noticed an odd pattern, like a rectangle, around its eyes.

"Look at that," she breathed. "It's like you're wearing glasses."

The cat blinked again, this time perhaps a bit more warmly.

"You don't suppose Mom would want an umbrella, do you? She said that she was going to the post office, but I don't think that's where she is," Alex asked, and the cat stared back at her as if it, too, was considering the question.

"No, I don't think I'll go out—Mom freaks out whenever I step outside the door without her knowing about it, anyhow." Alex picked up a twig at the edge of a doorstep and twirled it between her fingers. "She thinks that I'll get abducted, or something—that's not very likely, though, don't you think?" She kept twirling the twig. "I think she wants to keep me out of trouble. People think I'm always up to something fishy—I'm not, not really. It's not my fault that things happen whenever I'm around. Well, I did sort of wish Nancy Crawford had pink hair—she's really vain about her hair and she was talking stuff about me and my mom. But I didn't make her hair pink, you know. People can't do that. But look." She held up a pencil that rested between her fingers, the wet twig nowhere to be seen. "Explain that to me." The cat was now looking at the pencil, its head cocked slightly askew, as though it really was trying to find an explanation for how a twig could suddenly transform into a pencil. Then it looked back at Alex, its eyes searching.

"This isn't the first time, you know, Mom not telling me something" Alex continued, scribbling on the step. "I don't know where she's from, or where her family lives, or who her friends are." She paused. "I don't even know who my father is." The rain kept on pouring, and the only sound that she could make out was her own breathing. She glanced at the cat and quickly turned her attention to her scribbles again. The cat's stare was now almost unnerving. Most cats ran away from her before she could get close to see the patterns on their fur.

"I'm not, you know, a nutter, or anything like that, talking to strange cats" she said defensively to the ground. The cat meowed, as though it understood what she meant, and nuzzled at her knuckles a couple of times before drawing back to its lofty pose again. Alex looked at in surprise and grinned.

"Does it mean that I can touch you now?" she asked, and the cat looked at her as though she was the stupidest person on the planet. Somehow, this made her feel better and Alex chuckled quietly. They both turned their heads to the street, listening to the rain.

"Atria," she muttered. "The name feels familiar. I don't know why."

"Alex!" her mother's voice rang through the rain feebly. "What are you doing out here?" Sophia Wilson was walking slowly toward the house, a green umbrella in her hand. Alex frowned, discreetly pocketing the pencil in her jeans.

"I was waiting—well, I thought you didn't take an umbrella with you," Alex said, somewhat sheepish, as though she was caught in middle of a conspiratorial scheme. She automatically stood up as her mother drew closer, blocking the cat from her view. Somehow it seemed to her that her mother would not approve of the newfound acquaintance.

"Mr. Whitman was kind enough to lend it to me," Sophia Wilson answered; Alex frowned. She knew Mr. Whitman, one of the math teachers at her school. He was decent, she supposed; he always answered the students' questions and helped them with the math problems. He was quite popular among the students, girls especially, who giggled whenever his floppy brown hair and brown eyes behind the spectacles drew near, and he always treated Alex kindly, which was not always the case with her teachers. He and her mother met at school, where Sophia Wilson worked as a receptionist. As far as Alex could remember, Mr. Whitman had always been involved in her life in some way—a nod at a dinner party, a weak joke in the grocery line, something. He wished for more, and even though her mother denied this when Alex pointed this out, she knew. She also knew that she did not give a whit about Mr. Whitman.

"What a coincidence, Mom, that he just happened to be there at the post office," Alex said loudly, trying nudge the cat with her foot to tell it to go away. For some reason, however, it wouldn't budge.

"Well, I didn't see him at the post office. I thought I would stop by the nearby store and pick up some milk—" Sophia stopped mid-sentence. Alex looked around, trying to find something to divert her attention.

"Let me get that for you—" she said, reaching out for the milk cartoon, but her mother remained unresponsive.

"What is that?" she asked quietly, looking at Alex's feet.

"What's what?" Alex said.

"The cat," Sophia said. "Where's she from?

"I don't know," Alex said, crouching to scoop the cat into her arms. The cat, predictably enough, resisted by baring its teeth and Alex gave up on the endeavor. The ploy to endear the cat to her mother was defeated before it even began, it seemed. "It was in the Prices' yard, under the tree," she pointed at the tree with her finger. "I don't think it's theirs. Maybe it's a stray," she added hopefully, although Alex could surmise from their interaction that the cat was not homeless. No stray cat would ever sit so loftily, dismissively turn its head at everything without prowling for food. "Couldn't we—"

"No," the answer came before she could finish the sentence.

"But—"

"The owner's probably looking for it as we speak, Alex," her mother's tone was softer, almost pleading, as though she could not bear to have this argument any further. Alex looked at her mother, puzzled and slightly guilty. "Let's leave her to go back to her place."

Defeated, Alex dragged her feet to the door, stepping inside and holding the door for her mother. She quickly stepped inside, barely taking the time to shake the water off the umbrella, but Alex thought, for a moment, that she caught her mother exchanging a glance with the cat.

The rainy day passed quickly as rainy days do, softly, without a bang, slipping away unnoticed. The entire house rang quietly with the sound of the drizzle after Sophia Wilson left for her shift at a local restaurant—one of her summer jobs. Alex dutifully stayed inside, knowing that her mother would not approve of it if she attempted to play with the cat again. She set about the house, vacuuming the living room, washing the dishes, and organizing the few books there were. It was a one-storied house with a small attic, which was Alex's bedroom, with a bathroom, living room that led into the kitchen, and her mother's bedroom which also functioned as her study. The house was on the edge of the town they lived in, a small, quiet town where few accidents happened far and between, and change, if it occurred, was so slow to take hold that no inhabitant was aware of it. It was a small town, and everyone knew one another, more or less—and everyone knew of Sophia Wilson and her odd daughter without a father.

As long as the town—and Alex—could remember, Alex Wilson was without a father. The town reluctantly accepted Sophia Wilson as a part of the local primary school, and recognized her hard efforts to raise a child by herself, often taking on multiple jobs at the same time. And she was a pretty woman, barely over thirty, whose wavy honey-brown hair was still shiny and her smile still warm. Her diligence and attractiveness would have guaranteed people's acceptance of her, had it not been for the daughter.

Alex was—different. At least, that was what Mrs. Abbott, after much consideration, could say about her student in a delicate parent-teacher meeting to Sophia. It was not that she was particularly peculiar: she was a quick learner; she did not cause any troubles in class; she ate what other students ate, and said what other students said. It was not, Mrs. Abbots hastily explained, that there was anything wrong with Alex. But other children were simply unused to students like her, and they didn't know what to do with her. The implications were simple enough: she was a disreputable child, and the parents did not want their children associating themselves with her. And still there were rumors of accidents, hairs turning pink, odd happenings. Of course, they were all ridiculous—the tallest tree in the playground must have been that tall as long as people could remember—but nonetheless, they were enough to convince people to steer clear of the Wilsons unless they had to talk with them.

The said odd girl was looking out her bedroom window, her body pressed against the windowpane as her breaths created patches of fog in her field of vision. Only a month, she knew. A month would quickly pass, and she would be in secondary school. She would graduate, she supposed, and go to a university, if she was lucky and tried hard. Would she get out of this town, she wondered, and leave her mother behind, or would she, through some circumstance and happenings, be induced to stay?—such fate did not seem so terrible, yet her heart squeezed queerly, as though it could not bare the thought spending the rest of her life where she was. But it was what people did, wasn't it, to settle down and live out their lives without a trouble? But her life in this town would be lonely indeed. Perhaps a stranger would come—her lips curled into a rather sarcastic smile—a handsome stranger, indeed, who had no knowledge of her family or background, would whisk her away. But even eleven-year-old girls know that such strangers rarely do come into their lives.

A knock came from downstairs.

Alex jumped from her seat. She had been thinking, but she had not been inattentive—she had been looking out the window the whole time, watching occasional cars carefully go by in the rain, the raindrops growing fatter and fatter on tree leaves before they grew heavy enough to fall. A visitor coming to her house could not have escaped her notice.

The knock came again, sharp, impatient, demanding. Alex turned to the staircase leading downstairs. A strange sense of dread filled her, even though she knew there was nothing that could harm her. Her mother was in the house—she would get the door. As she heard vague murmurs of conversation beginning, she looked at the clock on the wall. It was eight in the evening. It could not be the mailman, and it could not be one of the neighbors—they rarely bothered her nor her mother, preferring to solve their problems amongst themselves.

She crept downstairs, wondering who it was. The small voices that she heard were growing louder and louder as she approached the living room. It was the voice of her mother—

"I have repeatedly sent letters to Professor Dumbledore—"

"Professor Dumbledore," a curt voice cut her off. A woman's voice. Alex stuck her head out to see who it was, trying to conceal her body in the hallway. In the livingroom stood a tall, thin woman perhaps a few years above her mother. Her dark hair was tightly pulled back into a bun, and a pair of angular glasses rested on a sharp nose. The eyes behind the glasses were sharp the way her knocks had been. And this otherwise seemingly intelligent and sensible woman was wearing an emerald cloak.

Alex frowned, trying to conjure up images of women and girls she had seen on the street. Had cloaks come in style recently? Not that she was aware of; unless, of course, this woman was from a foreign country. Perhaps people in big cities dressed themselves in cloaks. It would not be altogether surprising.

"Professor Dumbledore," the woman in emerald cloak was saying, "has received every one of your letters. Nonetheless, he believes that Alexandra would get the proper education she needs at Hogwa—"

"With all due respect, Professor Dumbledore does not have the authority to make that decision," Sophia said, crossing her arms in front of her.

"It is quite apparent, Sophia, that you are also unfit to make that decision at the moment," the woman retorted. "That girl has clearly shown signs of being magical, and it will only grow more noticeable as she grows up. Even now she seems to have some knowledge of her abilities—"

"That I will think about later," Sophia said cooly. "It is not your business, Minerva, how I choose to raise my child."

"You are not safe here. She is not safe here. None of us are anymore. And if you chose to open your eyes, you would see that."

"He would hardly bother with such a small, insignificant Muggle town—"

"You think he does not have contacts in the Ministry? They are monitoring magical activity in the entire country. You may escape their radar, but she would not. She can't. She can't control herself."

Silence followed. Alex could see that her mother was upset, but it also seemed like a bad idea to go up to her to comfort her. They were talking about her, her mother and the woman, or so it seemed, although not much of the woman's words made sense. Magical. What did that even mean? Her abilities?

"I would like you to leave," Sophia finally said quietly.

"I would, but I suspect that your daughter has some questions," the woman said, equally cooly. Alex's eyes widened as her mother turned around to find her daughter hiding behind the doorway. Alex quickly glanced at the woman—how did she even know?

The woman chuckled drily. "I have a very good hearing. Something that one learns to cultivate as a teacher."

Meanwhile, several expressions crossed Sophia's face, something akin to fear, anger, and resignation. Alex looked imploringly at her mother—she didn't want her mother to be mad at her.

"I didn't mean to," she said. "But you were talking about me. Talking odd things." Her mother didn't respond to this, so she crossed the livingroom to her side and led her to the sofa. Sophia sat down wordlessly. The woman followed, sitting on a chair near them. "Who are you?" Alex asked her.

"Minverva McGonagall," the woman replied. "I am… a friend of your mother. We used to go to school together." Alex looked at her mother, who neither denied nor confirmed this.

"Oh," Alex said. Some moments of awkwardness ensued. "And what are you?"

"That, Miss Wilson, would take a longer time to answer," McGonagall said stiffly, and Alex was confused for a moment by 'Miss Wilson.' Normally it was her mother people would call Miss Wilson. "For now I am a teacher at the same school we both studied at. Its name is Hogwarts, and it is where young witches and wizards such as yourself go to learn how to use their magic."

"Oh," Alex said, trying to sound like she understood what McGonagall was saying, but felt like she was in a particularly challenging math class, nodding along with everyone else but secretly wondering what was written on the board.

Apparently McGonagall could sense this. Alex remembered that she was a teacher. "You are a witch, Miss Wilson," she said calmly, as if this was no news to her. "As is your mother, and as I am, you have magical abilities. Do you think anyone has the ability to turn a twig into a pencil?"

"But how do you know that I—" Alex started, looking up at McGonagall, at her glasses, and paused.

"Oh."

"Yes, it was me that morning."

"But how is that even possi—"

"That's enough," Alex jumped as her mother suddenly spoke up from beside her. Sophia Wilson's face was now blotchy, as if the anger she was holding back physically made her red. "I have told you, Alex will not go to Hogwarts. She will not join the magical community."

"But why not?" Alex asked, looking at her mother uncomprehending. It was odd to see her mother and think that she was magical. Sophia Wilson was, in Alex's mind, her mother, a quiet school secretary at the reception desk, a young woman who did much to take care of both of them. The idea of her mother—or herself, really—being magical seemed ludicrous. Far-fetched. Impossible.

"It's not safe for you out there," Sophia said firmly. "These are dark times, and there are people who will want to harm you."

"Why? I haven't done anything?" To this Sophia did not answer, instead grimly looking down at her. Alex turned to McGonagall, who was looking at her with what almost seemed like pity.

"In any case, it would behoove her to learn how to protect herself, if nothing else," McGongall said to Sophia.

Sophia's response was almost inaudible. "I know," she said.

"The measures you have taken so far may be effective for a couple more years, perhaps, but sooner or later—"

"I am aware."

"So do you agree? To send her to Hogwarts?" Alex turned to look at her mother. Sophia Wilson's face was as pale as the December snow. Their eyes met.

"Yes," Sophia said quietly.

"It's settled, then. I will inform Professor Dumbledore at once." McGonagall's voice was brisk and Alex's eyes followed her as she turned to leave.

"I will send you another letter of acceptance from Hogwarts. After all, you will need one after having incinerated every single one you received, won't you?" Sophia did not answer, and McGonagall turned to leave.

"Will you promise me," Sophia Wilson suddenly said, without turning her head to see McGonagall's back, "that you will take care of her?" McGongall turned around.

"As a professor, I cannot—"

"I ask you as a friend." Moments followed.

Finally, McGongall replied, softly, "I will."

"Well then," Sophia replied, almost tonelessly. "Good night. Give Professor Dumbledore my best regards." It seemed for a moment that McGonagall had something more to say, but she closed her mouth and left without another word. Alex realized that she had been sitting on the sofa next to her mother during the entire exchange in the same position.

"So," she began timidly. "I won't be here in the fall?"

Sophia looked sadly down at her daughter. Alex looked down on her hands, feeling uncomfortable. "No, dear. You won't."

"Oh." Quiet silence.

"Are you really a witch, mom?" the question burst out of her like a firework. "Am I really a w—" Her words were cut off as Sophia suddenly drew her close to her, holding her tightly like a five-year old. It took a few moments for Alex to realize that the wetness she felt against her cheeks were her mother's tears. Alex patted her awkwardly on her back, befuddled yet guilty. But the moment, filled with the distant sound of the rain, the electric lights above them and her mother's warmth infused with her faint perfume, felt different from other passing scenes in her life.

"You'll be okay," she heard her mother's muffled words. "You'll be okay."