The Fire Waltz

Chapter One: Welcome to 1990

There are many stories in the wizarding world. Some of them are good. Some of them bad. Some of them even funny. This is not one of those stories. This is the story about the people that inhabited it and the struggles that they faced. This is the story of one particular person. Robin Kennedy. This is the story of how he failed to save the world.

From the moment I opened my eyes I knew I was in a body that was not my own. It felt too small, the proportions not right, even the eyes were different. It was a jarring sensation that felt like a bad dream, as I was starring up at a bunk-bed that was very clearly not there before. I was pretty sure my bed was a single, and I was dead certain one thing my bed was not was surrounded by two other bunk beds, packed in close together like sardines in favour of getting as many people in as possible. "Okay," I said aloud to nobody in particular, "What the hell?"

"Bad dreams?" A woman with an afro-style haircut approached me from the stairs, someone who seemed to know me but I had no idea who she was. She looked to be in her mid-twenties, and was exhausted, but given the amount of people who were under what was presumably her roof judging by the amount of beds in just this one room, it was easy to see why. "I know settling into an orphanage can be difficult for some people, especially when the memories of what happened are still recent. But don't worry, Robin, we're going to do our best for you. You just have to trust us. When you're ready, breakfast is downstairs, but don't take too long. You know that Michael always wants to eat food that's left behind…"

Except I didn't. The news that I was apparently in an orphanage was a shock to me. I was sixteen, and up until today it seemed, I lived in a North London apartment block in the Islington area, and both my parents were alive, thank you very much. My name was also not Robin. It was Aaron. Aaron Hughes. So why the name change? Had I body swapped with someone? Had I done what by all rights should be impossible? I ran to the nearest mirror to confirm, which thankfully, wasn't far – there was a bathroom just down the hall, past another room, which again, was empty. The mirror confirmed what I already knew – my entire appearance had changed. Brown hair was replaced by blonde. Height and weight had both been lost, and I was a scrawny, blonde-haired pre-teen. My eyes were blue, rather than brown. I wasn't even a teenager. I was eleven years old.

I pinched myself, and then followed it up with a punch, just to be sure. But I wasn't dreaming. I didn't jump up in bed, the floor didn't fall in on me, this was very much a real experience. And a real, traumatising experience. A call greeted me from downstairs, and it was the same as before, "Robin! Breakfast is ready. I don't want to have to call you again!"

I decided that if I was in this orphanage for more than two minutes, it would be better to not disappoint my new carer. So, I quickly made sure to change out of my – Robin's - pyjamas – seriously, what the hell kind of a name was Robin? I pitied the kid; his parents must have been Robin Hood fans. That must have been the only explanation for a name like that. Nobody in their right mind would call someone Robin. I made my way down after I'd got changed, opting for a non-branded red t-shirt and blue jeans, and found myself greeted with my new housemates, the orphanage kids, a cluster of orphans who were all keen to meet the new guy.

The Orphanage itself was like a large house, several rooms built on top of each other with no care for style. The kitchen and dining room was combined into one, and there were several layers of tables for the kids to sit at. I had to stop myself from going to hang out with the older sixteen-year-old kids, I wasn't sixteen anymore and judging by the looks of things it was weird for people to hang out with either those who were of the different age, or the different gender. So, I sought out a pair of eleven-year-old boys, one with red hair and the other with black hair and a dark skin. "Can I sit here?" I asked timidly, testing out the new voice that was not my own. It sounded lighter, which was no surprise, puberty hadn't broken yet. I'd hoped I wouldn't stick around in my body long enough to live that after only now reaching the other end.

The Red-Head shrugged and then paid no further attention me, and the Black Haired one was too occupied with a toy car to respond. I decided that it would be a good time to continue with my food as I sensed that a food fight was brewing in between a couple of younger kids, but what caught my attention was a dark-skinned girl who addressed me directly. Her name, I would later find out, was Naomi. "Hey, did you dye your hair last night? It looks different."

I had no idea of knowing what my hair looked like last night. The Red-Head spoke up net, "Yeah, I could have sworn your hair was brown last night. You are the new kids, right?"

"If by that you mean I'm new. Then yes."

"Then what did you do with your hair?"

"Dunno," I said with a shrug – as honestly as I could, and that seemed to be the end of the conversation when they realised that I wasn't going to give them much more. I'd let them develop their own theories in private. I was still in so much thought, still getting used to the idea of bodyswapping being possible. I wanted to ask what year this was just to confirm that it was still 2018, but that would only make things more awkward so once I finished breakfast I went back into the living room which I had passed through on the way in to find out that the television was on and the news, and to my horror, I realised just how big I'd screwed up, how big fate had decided to screw me.

I was in 1990. I was not just stuck a few years in the past. I was stuck 28 years in the past. 28 years. There wasn't even an internet yet. That was how far I had gone back. Hell, Margaret-freaking-Thatcher was still the Prime Minister, although mercifully, I would only have to tolerate a few more months of her rule until her resignation in November before John Major would come into power, a man who I didn't know that much about politics-wise. It wasn't my area of speciality. It was such a culture shock to me, who had been born in 2002 and had, no – was - coming of age during the 2010s, during the era of internet, Snapchat, Facebook and Twitter, that to come back to an age like this, even one only 28 years ago – reminded me just how far we'd come since, and how jarring it would be to transition to a world where knowledge was not available at the tip of your fingertips.

I relied on Google for pretty much every answer to every question. If I wanted to know a maths question that I couldn't answer, I'd Google it. If I wanted to know how to fix something, I'd Google it. The only thing that I didn't need Google for was the French language, which was something that I had carried over from my French mother. One of the benefits of having a multi-cultural parentage allowed me to ace Foreign Languages at school, and I was pretty much the person who people came to for to help with their homework. I hoped the same knowledge would come in useful here, in Robin's memory.

"Change the channel!" protested a bumbly kid rather bluntly, who I assumed to be Michael judging by the way he had come in with an extra cereal bar in hand. He was fourteen, and whacked the TV remote out of my hand like it was nothing and changed it to BBC One, and Muppet Babies was on television, not paying attention to brief flicker in the screen followed by the mysterious Red Walled Room that was evidently a background in another television show, before the brief flicker of energy died again. Seriously, this kid was fourteen and he was watching Muppet Babies? It showed the power that Michael must have had that he was not jeered at by other kids his age, and nobody demanded that the channel be changed. It helped that the younger audience must be enjoying it too, as there were a few who still had to eat breakfast in highchairs. It was a crowded place, and the sofas were full within seconds.

I wondered what my options were in this new world. What school did I go to? Were my parents alive or dead? The Carer didn't sound too optimistic about my chances, but then again, this was an orphanage. Nobody was optimistic about any of our chances. I decided to investigate something, going off a hunch, I went upstairs and checked underneath the bed to find a safe with the name marked ROBIN KENNEDY on it in capital letters, bold print. I searched in the nearby drawer, again with Robin's name on it, and withdrew a key around a necklace, and unlocked it, and found a wad of ten-pound notes inside tied up together. Robin's final cash reserve?

I took some notes plus a couple of pound coins, and made my way out of the door before they could notice me. I had to make sure, I had to check something. I knew there was televised evidence for me being here in 1990, but I had to see it in person, I had to confirm it. There was one way that I knew how. I caught the bus to Islington.

Being on the bus and seeing signs of shops that no longer existed and hadn't for years was a surreal feeling. Woolworths stores were present, and I almost felt like getting off to go to one of them. But assuming this body was now a permanent fixture for me, I could go to all the Woolworths I wanted to. The bus took me to Islington, right past Highbury Stadium, perhaps the biggest confirmation yet that I was in the past by the fact that it was still brand new. The new season hadn't quite yet started, and I made a mental note to go to as many games as possible. I'd have to find a job first, but that could wait for another few years. There weren't many places that employed eleven-year olds even in 1990.

Music was playing from a loud beatbox to the left of me, someone who had keyed up cassettes to a Sony Walkman, a hangover from the 1980s, and even from a distance it was clear to tell that it was Prince's Thieves in the Temple. Of course, the music genius was still alive, along with Bowie and several others, in 1990. From where the bus stopped it was clear that as I glanced on in the distance my apartment and block of flats that I called my home was not there.

It felt odd, like the final confirmation that I needed. I don't know why I went, out of semantics, maybe? Thankfully, even in the 1990s, parents didn't pay that much attention to where kids went in the school holidays so I wasn't on the receiving end from some questions asking me where my parents were, and the bus fee for kids was cheaper than it was for adults. The bus looped past Islington and I stayed on it for what felt like an eternity, sat there in the seat, deliberating my new reality. I could potentially make a fortune in betting and insider knowledge, but that wouldn't be until I was old enough to bet. So 18. That would luckily come before the triple header of Brexit/Trump/Leicester winning the league, so if I put my money down on all 3 I would be rolling it in. Of course, the future was flexible and I liked to think that the reason that I was being sent back in time was to stop Brexit and Trump, but as an eleven-year-old orphan in North London I wasn't really in much of a position of power to do so, especially not when these events were 28 years in the future and might not happen at all.

I looked in the mirror, and my hair had changed again. What the hell? It wasn't blonde, it was now a dark, auburn red. I made sure to get off the back door at the bus so the driver wouldn't notice me, eternally thankful for the fact that it was a double decker, and I was wondering what happened to me. Was I some kind of mutant? An X-Man? Was my power changing hair colour? It was a rather lame power. But the news didn't give any indication that mutants existed, and if it did, I imagined it would be front page news all the time, given how much stuff happened in the comic books. So no. I was not an X-Man.

What was I? I brainstormed in my head. More importantly, who was I? What kind of kid was Robin Kennedy?

I didn't even notice that I was back at the Orphanage until I opened the door at around lunchtime, to find a letter waiting for me on the doorstep, at the top of the pile of a bunch of others.

ROBIN KENNEDY.

THE FOURTH BED FROM THE LEFT, BOTTOM BUNK

ROOM 3, "THE CAVALIAR ROOM"

SMALL-HEATH ORPHANAGE

THACKERY ROAD

UPTON PARK

E6 3BW

And at the bottom was a seal that I instantly recognised as being Hogwarts' logo.

Shit.

Shit.

Double shit.

How was that even possible? Hogwarts wasn't even real? It made sense, it explained the whole hair-change thing. Apparently, people who were magical would experience certain quirks before, and frequent hair change was one of them. It had wierded me out – it would weird anyone out – and at least I now had an official explanation for this. But the explanation in its own was as weird as hell – I had somehow travelled to a different universe where the Harry Potter books were real, which begged the question, why? Was fate being nice to me for a change and giving me a chance that everyone could only dream of? Or was it something more sinister?

I remembered Harry Potter didn't start Hogwarts until 1991, so I had a full year before he joined if I wanted to go, and you can bet you any money that I wanted to go. Who wouldn't? I opened the letter and took it all in, still not quite believing it.

I was going to Hogwarts. With a capital H.