The world, for the past six months, had been a tapestry woven with muted colours and the scent of old paper and lemon polish. It was a gentle, quiet existence, a stark and almost unnerving contrast to the life she remembered before. The before-life was a cacophony of digital noise, of deadlines and traffic, of a world that spun so fast it threatened to fling you off into the void. Here, in St. Jude's Orphanage for Girls, the world moved at the pace of the sun's crawl across the worn floorboards of the library.
She sat in her usual armchair, a magnificent beast of faded floral chintz with arms worn smooth by generations of lonely children seeking refuge in printed words. Her name, in this world, was Ariana. Ariana Dumbledore.
The name had been the first great shock, a jolt so profound it had very nearly shattered the fragile composure she had painstakingly constructed since waking up in this small, unfamiliar eleven-year old body. She had woken up not with a scream, but with a gasp of stolen air, her mind a frantic storm of disjointed memories from two entirely different lives. One was of a woman in her late twenties, an architect who loved rainy days and the bitter taste of dark coffee. The other was a smattering of faded, watercolour impressions: the rough texture of a woollen blanket, the taste of thin broth, the kind, wrinkled face of the matron, Mrs. Gable.
It had taken her a week to fully accept the impossible truth: she had been transmigrated. The how and why were gaping, unanswerable questions that she had learned to pack away in a neat little box in the corner of her mind. Panicking, she had quickly reasoned, was a useless expenditure of energy. Survival, adaptation, and understanding were the only logical priorities.
The name 'Ariana Dumbledore' had come from Mrs. Gable, delivered with a sad, gentle smile. "Your parents chose a beautiful name for a beautiful girl," the matron had said, tucking a stray strand of her long, honey-blonde hair behind her ear. "They were a sweet couple, your mother and father. A bit… distant, perhaps. Kept to themselves. Said they came from a very old, very private family. The Dumbledores."
The woman from the before-life—the architect—had been an avid reader. She had devoured fantasy series like a starving woman at a feast, and the Harry Potter books had been a cornerstone of her literary childhood and adulthood. The name Dumbledore struck her not as a curiosity, but as a klaxon horn in the dead of night. And Ariana Dumbledore… that was not just a name. It was a tragedy. A lynchpin in the history of one of the most powerful wizards of all time.
She had sought out a mirror that first day, her heart a cold, heavy stone in her chest. The face that stared back was not her own, not the familiar face with its tired eyes and the small scar on her chin. This face was… ethereal. It was the face of a girl on the cusp of true beauty, with a delicate, heart-shaped jawline and skin like pale cream. Her hair was a cascade of light, honey-blonde silk that fell to her waist. But it was the eyes that held the true power of the illusion. They were a startling, luminous shade of periwinkle blue, vast and deep and holding a wisdom that no eleven year-old should possess.
She knew, with a chilling certainty born from fan-art and vague book descriptions, that this was the face of Albus Dumbledore's lost sister. The resemblance was uncanny, an echo across a century.
The matron had explained her lineage simply. Her father was a Dumbledore, yes, but from a line that had "lost its spark," as she had put it. A Squib. He had married a Muggle woman, and for a few blissful years, they had lived a quiet life. Their deaths, a mundane car accident, had left their only daughter, Ariana, an orphan, delivered with a note to the matron, a distant relative of theirs. This explained her presence here, away from the notice of the main, magical branch of the family. She was a footnote, a genealogical anomaly.
And crucially, she was not the original Ariana. There was no trauma etched into the marrow of this body, no seething, uncontrollable mass of suppressed magic. She was not an Obscurial. The thought was a profound relief, unclenching a fist of fear around her heart she hadn't known was there. The tormented soul of the first Ariana was at rest. She was just a girl who had inherited her name and her face, a vessel for a new soul.
A quiet confidence began to bloom in the ashes of her initial fear. She was not a victim of circumstance; she was a player, albeit an unexpected one, in a game she knew the rules to. She had knowledge, foresight that could be a shield and a sword. And she had something else, something the books had never truly captured.
Magic.
She could feel it. It wasn't a thought or an idea; it was a physical sensation, as real as the warmth of the sun on her skin or the solid feel of the book in her lap. It thrummed at the base of her skull, coiled in the pit of her stomach, and pooled in the palms of her hands. It was a living, breathing part of her, an extension of her own life force.
In the quiet solitude of the orphanage, she had begun to experiment. She didn't need a wand; the very notion felt foreign, like needing a wrench to turn a key. She could weave the magic. She would sit in the garden, and with a gentle nudge of her will, persuade a wilting rose to perk up, its petals regaining a fraction of their lost colour. She could summon a soft, warm breeze to dry the laundry on the line a little faster. When young Timmy, a perpetually sniffling six-year-old, scraped his knee, she would rest her hand over the wound while distracting him with a story, and feel the magic flow from her palm, a soothing, tingling warmth that knitted the skin together faster than it should,
leaving behind only a faint pink line by the next day.
She never did anything flashy, never anything that would draw attention. They were small, subtle acts of will, as natural to her as breathing. It felt… right. She was a calm sea, and the magic was the deep, powerful current that moved beneath the surface. Her confidence wasn't arrogance; it was the quiet certainty of someone who knew, intimately, the full scope of her own being.
"Ariana, dear."
The voice, soft and familiar, pulled her from her reverie. She looked up. Mrs. Gable, the matron, stood at the entrance to the library, a kind smile on her face. She was a stout woman with greystreaked hair pulled into a sensible bun and an apron that always smelled faintly of baked bread.
"Lost in your books again," the matron chuckled. "It's nearly time for tea. Come along, you'll miss the good biscuits." Ariana closed her book, marking her page with a practiced, gentle motion. She slid out of the armchair, her movements fluid and graceful. "Of course, Mrs. Gable. I wouldn't want to miss your biscuits."
Her voice was soft, melodic, yet held a note of composure that often made the other adults at the orphanage treat her more like a peer than a child. They saw a polite, reserved, and unusually mature girl. They didn't see the ancient, knowing soul behind the periwinkle eyes.
In the dining hall, the familiar, comforting chaos of twenty-odd girls reigned. The clatter of cutlery, the chatter and laughter, the occasional squabble over the last jam tart—it was the soundtrack of her new life. Ariana took her usual seat at the end of a long wooden table, beside a shy nine-yearold named Mary who was her closest thing to a friend.
"Did you finish your sums, Ari?" Mary whispered, pushing a biscuit towards her.
Ariana accepted it with a small smile. "I did. I can help you with the long division after tea, if you like."
"Oh, would you? You make it seem so easy."
It was easy. Mathematics, history, literature—the curriculum of the small school attached to the orphanage was laughably simple for a mind that had completed a master's degree in architecture. She had to consciously hold herself back, to make small, believable mistakes so as not to appear freakishly intelligent. It was all part of the act, the careful construction of her new identity.
As she sipped her lukewarm tea, her gaze drifted to the calendar on the wall. It was the last week of June. Her eleventh birthday was a few days away, on July 3rd. According to the timeline she held so carefully in her memory, the Hogwarts letters for those born in the first half of the year often came in the last week of June or the first week of July. It was close. The quiet hum of magic in her veins seemed to thrum with a low, expectant energy. She was ready.
The week passed in its usual, tranquil rhythm. She helped the younger children with their lessons, spent long hours in the library, and tended to her small, semi-secret garden patch behind the kitchens, where the tomatoes grew suspiciously large and red. With every passing day, the feeling of anticipation grew, a quiet tension coiling in her chest.
She found herself watching the postman more intently, her ears straining for the sound of an unfamiliar knock at the door.
It came on a Thursday morning.
The sky was a brilliant, cloudless blue, and a gentle breeze rustled the leaves of the ancient oak tree in the front yard. The children were outside for recess, their shouts and laughter a distant, happy noise. Ariana was inside, helping Mrs. Gable polish the silverware in the main office, a quiet, meditative task she enjoyed. The rhythmic motion was soothing, and the office was the nerve centre of the orphanage; from here, one saw everyone who came and went.
A sharp, authoritative knock echoed from the heavy oak front door. It wasn't the postman's quick rap or a delivery driver's impatient banging. This knock had weight. It had purpose.
Mrs. Gable wiped her hands on her apron. "Now who could that be? Stay here, dear."
Ariana's hands stilled, a silver fork held forgotten in her grasp. The magic inside her, usually a placid river, stirred. It was as if it could sense a kindred presence, a great and powerful concentration of magic just beyond the door. It was like feeling the air pressure drop before a storm.
She heard Mrs. Gable's surprised voice, then the deeper, crisper tones of a woman she had never met in this life, but whose voice she recognized from a thousand cinematic viewings in her old one. Her heart gave a single, powerful thud against her ribs.
"Good morning," the voice said, its Scottish burr precise and unmistakable. "I am here to see a Miss Ariana Dumbledore. My name is Minerva McGonagall."
A moment of silence, then Mrs. Gable's slightly flustered reply. "Oh! Oh, of course. Please, come in. Is… is everything alright?"
"Everything is perfectly fine," came the reassuring, if slightly impatient, reply. "I have a matter of… school enrolment to discuss with her."
Footsteps approached the office. Mrs. Gable appeared in the doorway first, her expression a mixture of confusion and deference. Behind her stood a tall, severe-looking woman who seemed to have stepped directly out of another century. She wore robes of a deep emerald green, and her dark hair was swept up into a tight, no-nonsense bun. A pair of square-rimmed spectacles were perched on her sharp nose, and behind them, her eyes were keenly intelligent, missing nothing.
Minerva McGonagall surveyed the room, her gaze sweeping past the filing cabinets and the worn desk before landing, with laser-like focus, on Ariana.
For a split second, an almost imperceptible flicker of something—shock? recognition? memory?— crossed the stern woman's face. It was there and gone in an instant, so quickly that anyone else would have missed it. But Ariana saw it. McGonagall was seeing the face of a ghost. The name, combined with the face, was a potent combination.
Ariana placed the fork down soundlessly on the velvet polishing cloth. She stood up, her posture straight, her hands clasped loosely in front of her. She met the professor's intense gaze with her own calm, periwinkle one.
"I am Ariana Dumbledore," she said, her voice quiet but clear.
McGonagall's lips thinned into a straight line. She gave a curt nod. "Professor McGonagall. I am the Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."
Mrs. Gable let out a small, bewildered squeak. "Witchcraft? I… I beg your pardon?"
"Perhaps it would be best if I spoke with Miss Dumbledore alone, Mrs. Gable,"
McGonagall said, her tone leaving no room for argument. She pulled a straight-backed chair away from the wall and gestured for Ariana to sit, before taking the one behind the desk for herself.
Mrs. Gable, looking completely overwhelmed, could only nod. "Yes… of course. I'll… I'll just go and check on the children." She scurried out of the room, closing the door softly behind her, leaving Ariana alone with the formidable witch.
An intense silence settled over the office. It was a weighted silence, a test. McGonagall was observing her, evaluating her reaction to the bomb she had just dropped. She was likely expecting tears, disbelief, or frightened confusion. She was not expecting the preternatural calm that radiated from the girl in front of her.
Finally, McGonagall reached into the sleeve of her robes and produced a thick, yellowish
parchment envelope. The address was written in shimmering emerald-green ink.
Miss A. Dumbledore
The End Armchair, The Library
St. Jude's Orphanage for Girls
London
Ariana felt a small, genuine smile touch her lips. The detail of her favourite chair. Of course. Magic.
"This is for you," McGonagall said, her eyes still fixed on Ariana's face, searching for any sign of a crack in her composure.
Ariana accepted the letter. The parchment was heavy, real, and a faint tingle of magic vibrated from it into her fingertips. She ran a finger over the wax seal, the perfect impression of the Hogwarts crest: a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake intertwined around a large letter 'H'.
She broke the seal with a neat crack. Inside, the letter was just as she remembered it would be. The acceptance, the list of required books and equipment. It was her ticket out. Her key to a world she already knew so well, yet was about to experience for the very first time.
"Hogwarts," Ariana said, her voice soft. "It's a school… for people like me?" She tilted her head, a carefully crafted look of dawning comprehension on her face.
"Indeed," McGonagall confirmed. "A school for young witches and wizards. Your father, despite his… condition, was from a magical family. Your mother was not. It is not uncommon for magic to resurface in a family line. Have you ever… noticed things? Things you couldn't explain?"
This was the critical question. Her chance to set the narrative. She wouldn't lie, not entirely. She would simply frame the truth in a way that fit her persona.
She looked down at her hands, then back up at the professor. "I feel things," she began, choosing her words with care. "It's like… a warmth. A current, inside me. Sometimes, if I concentrate, I can encourage it. The flowers in the garden grow a little brighter. A scraped knee heals a little faster. A cold cup of tea becomes warm again. I thought… I thought it was just something everyone could do if they were quiet enough to notice it."
McGonagall's eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch. This was not the typical story of accidental magic. There was no mention of exploding teacups, of floating uncontrollably to the ceiling, or of making a bully's hair turn blue. Ariana's description was one of control, of an innate, intuitive connection. It was unusual. It was powerful.
"You can control it?" McGonagall asked, her voice sharp with interest.
"Control is a strong word, Professor," Ariana replied thoughtfully. "It's more like… a partnership. It's a part of me. I don't command it. I guide it." She held up her hand and, focusing a minuscule thread of her will, she made a small, forgotten paperweight on the corner of the desk lift an inch into the air. It hovered there for a moment, steady and silent, before she gently set it back down without a sound.
McGonagall was silent for a long moment. Her stern façade remained, but Ariana could see a new light in her eyes: respect. And a deep, profound curiosity. Wandless, silent, controlled magic from an untrained eleven-year-old was not just unusual; it was nearly unheard of.
"I see," McGonagall said, her voice a low murmur. She looked at the girl's face again, at the uncanny resemblance to the tragic sister of her oldest friend and colleague. The name 'Ariana Dumbledore' had been a cause for concern when it appeared on the registry. A name freighted with sorrow and whispers of volatile, destructive power. But this girl… this girl was the opposite of volatile. She was a placid lake, and somewhere in her depths, a great power resided.
"Your name," McGonagall said, her tone softening slightly, "You were named for a relative of your father's, I believe. Ariana."
Ariana met her gaze without flinching. "Yes, Professor. My father told me she was a great-aunt I never had the chance to meet. He said she was a kind, gentle soul." She delivered the line with perfect, innocent sincerity. It was what a loving, Squib father, trying to reclaim a piece of his family's history without the associated pain, might say.
A flicker of old sadness passed through McGonagall's eyes. "She was," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "She most certainly was."
She cleared her throat, her professional mask sliding back into place. "Very well, Miss Dumbledore. Welcome to Hogwarts. A representative will be here in three days' time to escort you to Diagon Alley to purchase your school supplies. Given your circumstances, the school has a fund to assist with these expenses."
"Thank you, Professor," Ariana said, clutching the letter to her chest. It felt like holding the weight of her future, a future she would forge on her own terms.
As Professor McGonagall stood to leave, she paused at the door, turning back one last time. She looked at the beautiful, serene girl with the ancient eyes, the girl who bore a haunted name and an impossible face, yet radiated an aura of profound, unshakeable peace.
"I have a feeling, Miss Dumbledore," she said slowly, a thoughtful, almost mystified expression on her face, "that you are going to be a most… interesting student."
And with a final, sharp nod, she was gone, leaving Ariana alone in the quiet office, the scent of magic and old parchment hanging in the air. The story had begun. Not the story from the books, but her story. And she would be the one to write it.