"You're a witch, Amanda."
Amanda Goodwin's hand was still clapped on top of her scar. It seemed, from the very moment she had turned eleven, something fiery had erupted inside of her neck. A sharp pain was pounding inside of her skull, seething inside of her brain, and eating away at her slowly. The feeling got stronger every moment, and the more she thought about it, the more she felt like collapsing on the spot. Her vision blurring, she beckoned her tawny, pug-faced, now curious, cat, Pandora onto her lap. She felt numb. She felt like everything she had ever known, had been turned on its head.
'Mr. H. Potter' she thought. The emerald-green words seemed to have burned off the parchment envelope and etched themselves permanently into her mind. She could see Harry Potter again, a nine, almost ten-year-old boy, standing in the living room, wondering who she was. Amanda Goodwin, she had said. Was it true though? Was she truly Amanda Goodwin? Had she lied to the strange boy Harry, whom she could only vaguely remember? Did her grandmother lie to her? Her nine-year-old eyes rested on the boy's green eyes, black hair --- lighting bolt scar.
Pandora's orange, scraggly fur was slipping out of her fingers. The whole attic --- everything from the creaky floorboards to the purple-curtained windows to the grimy rafters were slipping away into darkness . . . darkness . . . darkness . . . the scar
Green smoke was billowing over her closed eyelids. An unbearable white-hot pain was searing all over her body, and she felt her scar prickling more painfully than it ever had in her life, as if her neck was being split open. Amanda opened her mouth to scream, but the sound had been drowned away by cold, merciless laughter. From the second she turned eleven, something had woken up in side of her, and it was angry. The smoke became thicker, the laughter got louder, a woman began screaming, and if it was possible, the pain got worse. Frightening images were shooting across her mind --- the sound of the woman's continuous screaming, a man gasping for breath and buckling to his knees, and then finally a roaring motorbike and a smiling, sleeping baby, everything being drenched away once more by the cold, piercing laughter and a vision of the scar beneath the black bangs on Harry Potter's forehead. She felt herself twisting in agony on the floor of the attic.
Amanda Goodwin sat bolt upright, her sharp, green eyes fluttering open with a start, causing her nervous cat to squirt underneath the bed. She glared at Pandora's orange tail, which was visible under the musty sheet. With a ragged, wheezing breath, she wiped the cold sweat off her forehead, and hoisted herself onto her bed, her scrawny legs still rattling violently, just like her heart.
"It wasn't a car crash," she said plainly, ruffling her cat's fur, "I don't know how my parents died. Gran --- I think she lied to me. I think I'm related to that neighbor boy, Harry." She looked down from the rafters and turned to her cat, who was curled beside her, watching Amanda vibrate as if a bucket of ice cold water had been turned on her head.
She sighed, her lungs emptying of air, "That Figg. She's a mad old woman, that's what she is. What's that Dennis boy's mother going to say when her son comes home with a bloody nose and tells her that my grandmother went on about witches? And then there's the flying letter and the fact that my grandmother disappeared all morning! Who else is going to take me in? What's going to happen to my gran?"
* * *
Mrs. Figg wiped tears clean off her wrinkly face, as she ran a hand through her graying, flyaway hair, which had now escaped the once, most-Dursleyish bun, and let out another dry sob. Her head was pounding with the most horrible headache, and she was leaning entirely on the bathroom sink for support. Every time a thought issued from her faraway brain, it was the same thing --- I have failed Dumbledore, which thusly lead, once again, to more crying. She lowered her head into her hands and sobbed.
"Arabella!" yelled an all-too-familiar voice, coming from downstairs. "Arabella get down here this instant!"
Mrs. Figg looked up at her mirror quickly, aimlessly guessing whom the voice may have belonged to. Dumbledore? she wondered. She felt like fainting at the very thought that Dumbledore may have entered her home, after all she had done. But before more tears could emerge from her aged, hazel eyes, she heard more yelling, and rushed down the stairs.
The head of Minerva McGonagall was inside the flames of Mrs. Figg's fireplace. At once, Mrs. Figg let out a strangled cry, and nearly tripped over her own tartan carpet slippers and an oblivious Tibbles, who seemed less than excited to be tripped over twice by a mad old lady.
"Careful!" warned McGonagall, her firm, black bun poking out of the fire, "We don't want you breaking your leg again; then you'd have to keep the twins away from each other, like you were supposed to. Now wouldn't that be terrible?"
She had been pushed too far. As if she were twenty years younger, Mrs. Figg turned a bright red, grabbed her crutches nimbly, and hobbled over to the hearth, her nose snorting and her heart drumming like a bull. She flashed McGonagall a dangerous stare.
"You've got some nerve," she told her, her nostrils flaring, "just appearing in the fireplace in a Muggle home, in a Muggle neighborhood, and telling me that I'm the one acting foolish. Don't you think I tried, Minerva?! Don't you think I was trying to keep the twins away from each other?! Do you really think they'll like it, and --- and accept it, once we've told them the truth?! It would scare any kid in our world, let alone the one we're in right now! The position those kids are in . . . ha . . . they may never accept it! What did you expect?! For me to hide everything from them . . . and then just force them to accept it the day it matters?! The day they matter?! To everyone?!"
McGonagall blinked, "Now you know Arabella, I really didn't mean that, I---"
Mrs. Figg laughed cruelly, as Fluffy curled up on the sofa, "Why not? Why not, when it's true?! The twins --- they know it when they look at each other! I've seen it! They know there's something going on, something --- something that their horrible guardians aren't telling them! Car crash?! HA! Amanda . . . she'll believe that as soon as her aunt becomes a relevantly decent person!"
"Arabella, please don't be this way," Professor McGonagall pleaded sympathetically, her head still sitting gravely in the embers of the thickening fire, "You knew what this was when you signed up for it---"
"Oh, but did I?" Mrs. Figg choked, tears now streaming down her face again, "Did I really?! Somehow they managed to find each other, and now heaven knows where Harry's run off to, while Amanda's scared half to death, and --- and one boy saw a letter fly, and --- and another's seen er --- been punched in the nose --- and I was so foolish! Who was Dumbledore to trust me with something like this, when I couldn't so much as Stun a mushroom or Transfigure a teabag?!" She swatted the trickle of tears off her face, wheezed sadly, and snapped, "Even that Petunia Dursley was raising him better than I raised her. I bet --- I bet --- I bet you Harry hasn't suspected a thing --- not one thing Minerva --- until he got that letter!"
McGonagall's stony face loosened into a look of pure comfort. She looked as though she wanted nothing more than to jump out of the fireplace and embrace Mrs. Figg in a tight --- but formal --- squeeze.
"Oh shush now Arabella, you should have known from day one, that your plan was incredibly sloppy," she scolded, making Mrs. Figg's bloodshot eyes water, "I mean, look within reason! You talked about babysitting children, the day you knew the twins would arrive on their doorstep! Petunia Dursley, she may be an idiot, but she's not a moron . . . . If she knew any better, she could've connected the dots and figured out that you knew about Harry, and squandered your own plans just like that." McGonagall heaved a sigh, adjusted her head in the flames, and shook her head slowly.
"Not only that, but you went through with your plans to watch Harry, even now that you have Miss Potter living with you --- Even now that the Potter twins are supposedly hidden from each other. Everything could have been ruined, ruined, in the blink of an eye, during numerous, unsupervised occasions. If you weren't wearing that hairnet, Figg, I would've taken you for Mundungus Fletcher."
Mrs. Figg let out one last, audible sob, before stamping her good foot as hard as she could, and burying her tear-streaked face in her fingers. "I've been horrible to Dumbledore, and where's Amanda in all of this, hmm? That's right. I've been a horrible grandmother, a horrible, horrible grandmother!" she shrieked.
"Don't, don't, save your breath, I was under the impression that the both of you loved each other very deeply---"
"---a horrible, horrible grandmother! Worst decision Dumbledore ever made!---"
"You're acting senseless, Figg!" If McGonagall could throw her arms up in the air, exasperatedly, it seemed like the thing she would most likely do if her whole body was present.
"---couldn't raise a sea slug or a flobberworm---"
"I think you're a wonderful grandmother," called Amanda Goodwin, from the top of the stairs. Mrs. Figg looked up curiously at her granddaughter, who appeared to have just climbed down the ladder to the attic, her favorite cat wrapped around her shoulders. A thought occurred to the old woman --- she had not yet heard, nor seen, Minerva McGonagall's head sitting in the living room hearth. She shot the professor a watery, furtive glance before jolting her head back up at the young girl, apprehensively.
"What's going on?" Amanda asked, looking at her frightened-looking grandmother, suspiciously. Mrs. Figg replied with a quaver in her Adam's apple and a nervous, hesitant and somewhat cynical glance. If she walks down the stairs, she thought, and down the hallway to the kitchen, she'll see what looks to be a decapitated head floating in our fireplace.
"Absolutely nothing, Miss Goodwin," McGonagall said quickly from the hearth, aware of Amanda's presence, "Absolutely nothing that concerns you---"
"On the contrary," Mrs. Figg snapped, "Absolutely everything concerns you." She sighed, "You should have heard about this a long time ago, dear . . ."
Despite McGonagall's warning looks, Mrs. Figg didn't move a muscle as Amanda and Pandora crept down the hallway to the kitchen, where they both peered into living room . . . . . . and saw the professor's head floating in the flames.
Amanda let out a shriek and Pandora bolted from the room, making a strange hissing noise, tail in the air. Ginger, Tibbles and Tufty emerged from numerous hiding spots around the room and followed in their ringleader's pawprints. Amanda's hand, before she could stop it, flew back to her scar, and the pain returned . . . the pain . . . the laughter . . . the screaming . . . it all came back. Her knobbly knees gave away instantly.
There was an emerald-green flash, and before Amanda knew it, Professor McGonagall had stepped out of the fire, brushed the soot off her cloak, and carried her now-limp body over to the sofa, where she curled up like a cat, and stared up at the grave woman in awe. McGonagall side-glanced at Mrs. Figg over her square spectacles, as if she were saying, "Well . . . go on."
"Amanda y-you do indeed have a brother. A twin brother at that. You've met Harry Potter in recent years, inadvertently, of course, but nonetheless, you've seen him. Your twin . . . well . . . you've met him," Mrs. Figg stammered, shakily, "Er . . . you do believe, right?"
Amanda, even though she had not seen Harry in almost two years, she could picture him perfectly in her mind, eleven years old now, the light of lightning reflecting off his circular glasses and pale skin. She nodded, glassy-eyed.
"Your parents, Amanda," continued Mrs. Figg, "were Lily and James Potter. You and Harry have your mother's green eyes, no doubt, but he looks more like your father, and you look more like your mother. T-They were b-brave people . . . and they loved you . . . so much, so much . . . and they were k-killed, when you were only an infant. A man named Albus Dumbledore decided to leave you and your brother with your only living relatives --- the Dursleys. Well, I wouldn't have it . . . I wouldn't watch my horrible neighbors ruin the next ten years of your life . . . I did some yelling, and next thing I know . . . you're my granddaughter, Amanda Goodwin, your fake last name to hide your real one . . . Potter.
"I couldn't let you and Harry find each other . . . . I couldn't let you know that there was more to your story. Because there is. Even if you're not the Girl Who Lived, you must know that your incredibly extraordinary, Amanda, incredibly extraordinary, just for being alive and well. I promised to keep you alive at all costs, to tell you nothing, until you were absolutely ready . . . and it seems the day of reckoning has arrived."
How could it possibly be true: everything that her grandmother had said? Yet, at the same time, how couldn't it? The visions, the dreams, the scar --- everything told her there was more to her story. And now here her grandmother was, admitting all of it. But out of nowhere, a voice seemed to snap back --- Don't listen to a loony old woman telling you exactly what you want to hear!
"If my parents weren't killed in a car crash . . . well, how did they . . . die?" asked Amanda furtively, her eyes darting back and forth between her grandmother and the woman who had hopped out of the living room fireplace, as if she were merely walking down a hallway. She tried to picture herself standing next to Harry and her parents, according to her grandmother's description. They both had black hair, and she had green eyes like Harry and her mother.
"I would not advise Arabella to tell that story, Miss Goodwin," McGonagall said firmly, "There were some dark times when you and Mr. Potter were born, and I believe that you will not find much solace in them, or even comprehend the things that happened to you as an infant. As your grandmother well knows, I did not come here to discuss the past."
There was a short silence as Amanda decided on how best to respond. She bit her tongue, and looked over to the fireplace. "Who are you?" she asked, rather rudely.
"I am Professor McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress and Transfiguration teacher at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry --- the school you'll be attending in the fall."
"N-No," said Amanda, who was thoroughly confused, "I'm homeschooled. I'm not allowed to leave the house. Isn't that right, Gran?"
Mrs. Figg, who was as white as paper, and trembling more than ever, fished a yellowing envelope out of the pocket of her dressing gown, and handed it to Professor McGonagall. She gulped, "You're a witch, Amanda Potter, and whether y-you want to ac-accept it or not, it's all right here." She sat down on the other side of the sofa, put her crutches gently on the floor, and buried her face in her thin, gnarled fingers.
Amanda's eyes became white all around as she saw the same heavy parchment, purple wax seal and emerald-green ink on the envelope, that looked just like the stray letter that Malcolm boy found on the Dursley's front doorstep. Her heart was in her throat.
Miss. A. Potter
The Attic Above the Second Floor
7 Wisteria Walk
Little Whinging
Surrey
She opened it up slowly and carefully, like nothing had never mattered more than seeing the contents of this letter. She felt her scar prickling uneasily from the back of her neck, but she was too overwhelmed with excitement to pay attention. At last, she seemed to have found the missing piece of the puzzle. She read:
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)
Dear Miss. Potter
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.
Term begins on September 1st. We await your owl by no later than July 31st.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall,
Deputy Headmistress
Despite the fact that the letter gave Amanda more questions than answers, she felt a surge of eagerness and curiosity. She couldn't find the right question to ask first.
"Minerva McGona --- "
"Professor McGonagall," corrected the professor, dryly, "If you are going to attend Hogwarts, Miss Goodwin, you must call me 'Professor' or 'ma'am.' You will not refer to me as 'Minerva' or 'McGonagall.'"
"Professor McGonagall --- Am I truly attending a boarding school for witches and wizards?" Amanda said eagerly, yet mostly disbelieving.
"Yes, it is a shock to most," Professor McGonagall replied truthfully, "and you --- like your grandmother said earlier, are an incredibly extraordinary case. Unfortunately, there is only so much we can recount in one night, and there is only so much that you will understand."
Mrs. Figg choked, "So, what would you like to know about magic, dear? A-Ask away." Her hazel eyes forced themselves to meet Amanda's green ones.
"Tell me about my parents --- Lily and James. Were they wizards too?"
McGonagall shook her head, "They were phenomenal wizards."
"Two of the best and two of the most brilliant wizards of their time," agreed Mrs. Figg.
Amanda listened to the pitter-patter of the pounding rain, bouncing off the patio and dripping into an empty garden pot, and the sound of the rolling thunder, coming from the window behind her. She remembered dreaming about her mother as a child, well, when she wasn't dreaming about green smoke and cold laughter, of course. She had pictured her to be very beautiful --- and she still was --- except now she was wearing a cloak just like McGonagall's, a witch's hat, and brandishing what Amanda imagined to be a wand. She couldn't picture herself, eleven years old, with Harry and her parents again, she just couldn't. She opened her eyes and wiped the tears off her face with her sleeve.
"They did many wonderful things for our world, Amanda," Mrs. Figg told her granddaughter, "many wonderful things. They were good and gracious and loving. They were loved by many other wizards. They were loving, and they were loved. Professor McGonagall and I, we wept buckets when they went . . . "
"How did they die?" Amanda snapped, "Tell me how my parents died. If my parents really were wizards, what was strong enough to kill them?"
"Miss Goodwin, I though we confirmed we weren't retelling this particular story---"
"Tell me how my parents died!" repeated Amanda, two, crystal clear lines stretching down her face, where tears had emerged. It wasn't fair, she had been lied to all her life, and now, she was being denied something she had wanted to hear most, since near birth. Although, the pain in her scar did seem to have a hand in her tears . . . .
"V-Very well then," McGonagall stuttered, eyeing Amanda's tears over the lenses of her square glasses, "Arabella, if you'd kindly---"
Mrs. Figg interjected, "No. I swore a long time ago that I'd never say the name again, and I most certainly will not tell the story. I swore. And I'll have you know, Minerva, that Arabella Doreen Figg, does indeed, keep some of her promises---"
"Some promises were meant to be broken. I have a perfect right to know about them --- they're my parents, and if they lost their lives so I could have a better future, then I'd like to know about it, thank you. I have a right to know who I truly am." Every syllable Amanda spoke, trembled with utmost rage, and love for her family.
"Amanda Lilith Potter!" Mrs. Figg gasped, "If you knew what sacrifices I made, so you wouldn't end up with your horrible aunt and uncle, you wouldn't sit here --- you wouldn't sit here, and take that tone with me, young missy!"
"The only reason I'd have to live with them in the first place, is because my parents died! I don't care if I never get a birthday present ever again --- just tell me who would dare lay a hand on the people you said my parents were --- who would dare lay a hand on people so pure?" Amanda yelled.
Mrs. Figg sighed. All three of them listened, absentmindedly to the worsening storm outside, for a few moments, Amanda Goodwin --- or Potter presumably --- felt her heart pounding just as fast as the rain outside.
"It started way back when, about twenty years before, when a boy, a seemingly innocent boy, became a monster," Mrs. Figg began, "This extremely crafty, gifted wizard, gathered himself some followers --- some of which who were talented, and shared his beliefs, some who, like him, craved power, and a select few who were cowards, traitors who would prefer betrayal over death at his hand.
"Things got of control. He practically ruled the country, killing all those who dared try and stop him. Once a brash witch or wizard stepped across his path, they were killed. Death was something that he was not afraid of, Amanda. People still shudder at the very mention of him, and I, all except for Dumbledore, belittle anyone who thinks they are tough enough to say his name out loud. And for wizards like your parents, it was their sharp wits and brilliant power, that kept them alive as long as they lived. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, as people in our world called him, killed the McKinnons, the Prewetts and the Bones, who were some of the greatest wizards of our time.
"It happened one Halloween. The world seemed to be at peace . . . you and Harry were just babies, and your parents, the Potters, were nursing to you, with only love in their hearts. You-Know-Who, well, he found out pretty quickly where they were staying --- don't ask me how --- and he went through the gates at Godric's Hollow, and --- and he killed them off, j-just like that. Rumor has it that he tried to kill you two as well . . . but that's the thing . . . . he couldn't. Something about you two broke his powers. In one night, You-Know-Who dissapeared. Vanished. Some say he fled forever. You and Harry killed him."
Professor McGonagall had pulled a handkerchief out of her robes, and was now sniffling as she dabbed her tear-filled eye. Both she and Mrs. Figg were sobbing, although, from her very stiff, grave appearance, a few moments ago, Amanda would have though her to be unable. It dawned on her that the professor, along with her grandmother, knew her parents more than she ever had, and their death seemed to affect them twice as much.
"A-And now, now you see!" Mrs. Figg cried, dabbing her eyes and ruddy face with the handkerchief, "Y-Your parents, they were b-bloody brilliant, they w-were, and now they're dead, so now you see where b-bravery left them! A-And you --- and your t-tw-twin Harry are a-lone --- and y-you're off to H-Hog-ogwarts by your-yourselves --- and---and You-Know-Who could still be out there --- ready to kill m-my granddaughter!"
McGonagall sniffed, "Don't be that way, Arabella, I-I'll be there to watch Amanda at all times. You have my word. And Dumbledore's word, don't forget . . . his word is as good as his life. I'll take Miss Goodwin to Diagon Alley on Thursday, and if it makes you feel better, I can stay in a camp bed in this house, with you for the next few days. We'll be---"
Seeing Amanda's look of confusion, she stopped immediately. The only sounds in the room were Mrs. Figg's crying and the unceasing rainstorm outside.
"Diagon Alley, Miss Goodwin, is where you and I will be collecting your things for Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. It's the only place in the world where you can get wizarding supplies." (Amanda nodded) "Now if your grandmother will help me set up a room in this house---"
Mrs. Figg looked up and soaked up all her courage to say in between sobs, "No, no. You aren't staying with us . . . you've got a term to prepare for. Diagon Alley . . . I wouldn't dream of it. I'll have Mr. Oscar and Mr. Tibbles take Amanda to Diagon Alley."
Amanda tried to hold a straight face. There was no way a cat whom she found chasing his butt last week was going to take her to a magical street that sold cauldrons and wands. She tried to ignore the fact that her grandmother was still batty and listen to the stories about her parents. She knew deep down that it wasn't true, but that wouldn't stop her from listening. She wanted to believe it. She wanted to have a memory of her parents to comfort her, for she was lonely often, with her cats and her attic.
"I'll take you, Miss Goodwin," McGonagall uttered underneath her breath. She half-smiled at her.
"Professor?" she asked.
"Yes, Miss Goodwin?"
"Why are you calling me Miss Goodwin if my name's Potter? Amanda Lilith Potter?"
McGonagall grew very pale. "Yes . . . well . . . that seems to be another topic that didn't come up. Ahem ahem . . . during your time at Hogwarts, you will be called Miss Goodwin by our students and staff . . . because the thing is Amanda, very few know this to be false . . . . in the wizarding world, you are known to be . . . dead."