The silence that followed Addam's departure was not a cold one, but it was certainly quieter. For the first few days, the cottage felt like a song that had lost its melody. But as the September dew began to settle on the heather surrounding our home, a new, gentler rhythm took over.
Being eight years old in a wizarding household is a peculiar kind of magic. In my previous life, I remember the frustration of being "too small" for the world. Here, the world is too big to ever truly outgrow.
Raven's Cottage sits on a jagged shelf of rock overlooking a loch so deep and still it looks like a fallen piece of the midnight sky. The stone walls are thick, draped in creeping ivy that turns a fiery crimson this time of year. Inside, the architecture defies the laws of physics I once studied in textbooks. The kitchen, where Mipsy is currently humming a tuneless melody while charming a set of wooden spoons to beat cake batter, is much larger than the outside of the house would suggest.
My favorite spot is the breakfast nook. It's tucked behind a bookshelf that smells of cedar and ancient parchment. From here, I can watch the mist roll off the lake. Sometimes, if the light hits the water just right, I see the shimmering wake of a Kelpie—though Mother strictly forbids us from going near the shoreline without her.
"Ashlyn, darling, stop daydreaming and help your brother with his charms," Mother called out.
Serena Carter is the grounding force of our family. Today, she was draped in a shawl of enchanted wool that changed color based on her mood; right now, it was a soft, contented lavender. She was at the long oak table, her own wand—willow and dragon heartstring—flicking delicately as she mended a tear in Alex's favorite cloak.
Alex was currently sitting on a rug by the hearth, scowling at a stack of matchsticks. Father had told him that if he could turn just one of them into a needle, he'd get an extra helping of Mipsy's treacle tart.
"It's not moving, Ash," Alex groaned, flopping onto his back. "Addam probably had them turning into gold coins by now. It's because he's a Ravenclaw. I bet the Hat won't even know where to put me. It'll just say 'Better luck next time' and send me home."
I climbed down from my nook and sat beside him, Barnaby the Kneazle trailing after me like a ginger shadow. "The Hat doesn't send people back, Alex. And you're not Addam. You're... well, you're the one who accidentally turned the cat's whiskers blue last month. That's a very brave sort of magic."
"Gryffindor brave?" he asked, a spark of hope in his eyes.
"Maybe," I whispered, though I suspect he's a Hufflepuff through and through—loyal, stubborn, and obsessed with snacks.
The highlight of our week arrived on Friday evening. The sun was dipping behind the peaks, painting the loch in shades of bruised purple, when a tiny speck appeared on the horizon.
"Archimedes!" Alex shouted, sprinting toward the window.
The Great Grey Owl landed with a dignified thump on the sill, his feathers ruffled but his yellow eyes bright with importance. Tied to his leg was a roll of parchment thick enough to be a small book.
Father, came wandering in from his study, his glasses perched on the end of his nose and a quill stuck behind his ear. He looked every bit the eccentric researcher. "Is that from our scholar? Set him down, Alex, let the poor bird have some owl treats first."
We huddled around the fireplace as Father broke the seal.
Dear Mother, Father, Alex, and Ashlyn,
I've been sorted! It happened almost the moment the Hat touched my head. It shouted 'RAVENCLAW' so loudly I think the Slytherin table jumped. The Common Room is incredible—it's at the top of a tower and the entrance is a door with no handle, only a bronze eagle that asks you riddles. I got the first one right (What has a heart that doesn't beat? An artichoke!).
The Great Hall is exactly as Ashlyn imagined—the ceiling looks just like the sky outside. Tonight it was stormy. Professor Flitwick is my favorite; he has to stand on a pile of books to see over his desk...
As Father read, I closed my eyes. I could see it. I could see the floating candles, the silver ghosts drifting through the walls, and the taste of pumpkin juice. My heart ached with a familiar, hollow longing, but it was tempered by the warmth of the room.
In my old life, I was an observer of stories. Here, I was waiting for my own chapter to begin.
After the letter was read and reread until the ink began to smudge, the house settled into its evening glow. Father went back to his manuscripts—he's currently translating an ancient text on Pictish ley lines—and Mother began brewing a batch of Pepperup Potion for the village apothecary, the cauldron bubbling with a rhythmic glup-glup.
I sat on the porch for a moment, the cool Highland air biting at my cheeks. The stars here are different than the ones I remember. They seem closer, more vibrant, as if they too are powered by the magic that saturates the soil of Raven's Cottage.
I am a girl of eight, living in a world of wonders. I have a brother who sends me riddles from a castle, a mother who weaves colors into her clothes, and a father who talks to the stars.
"Three years," I whispered into the darkness of the loch.
The water rippled, perhaps a fish, perhaps something older. I wasn't afraid. I went back inside, where the fire was warm, the tea was sweet, and the story was just getting started.