An owl pushed a letter through the letterbox. I drew it into my right hand with a small flick of magic.

It was my Hogwarts letter.

I could finally use magic freely—not just in our tiny neighbourhood, not just in secret, but properly, with Lily. Since she left for Hogwarts last September, we’d only seen each other once at Christmas. I missed her stories about moving staircases and floating candles and homework that exploded if stirred wrong.

Summer and Christmas gatherings are never quiet in our family. The Potters, the Granger-Weasleys, and us all pile into one house or another for two whole weeks. There are feasts that last all afternoon, treasure hunts in Grandpa Sirius’s mansion, and family Quidditch games where no one agrees on the score. But in recent years, our holidays have taken on a different ritual.

They’ve become Albus’s study counselling time.

As a legendary wizard, Uncle Harry has been constantly venting about his son’s poor school performance. “How many feathers do you need to break into pieces? It’s already your third year, come on, son.”

Albus simply stared at the carpet, as if grey mist had settled around him.

“No worries, mate,” Uncle Ron said, clapping his shoulder. “You’re already better than I was. I couldn’t even say the spell right. At least you could pronounce ‘wingardium leviosa’ from day one.”

Aunt Hermione smacked the back of Ron’s head with her Wizengamot Precedent Volume I and whispered, “You’re not helping.”

Ron grinned regardless. “Less theory, more doing. That’s the trick,” he said.

The adults rolled their eyes, but Albus managed a small smile.

This summer, Mum and Dad suggested we do something special before I started Hogwarts. I proposed the Quidditch Friendly in London in August—England versus Australia. “Uncle Draco would reserve enough VIP seats,” I said.

However, Mum shook her head gently. “That’s exciting, but I don’t think we should invite Uncle Harry’s family.” Dad explained, “Albus has enough pressure already.” I suddenly remembered Uncle Harry was the youngest Seeker of Gryffindor.

Later, Uncle Draco did reserve the entire VIP cubicle for us and his family. It’d be great to see Scorpius again.

For something enjoyable with the Potters and the Granger-Weasleys, we decided to go on a magical beast excursion across Europe, Africa, Asia, and Australia. We’d visit forests, coastlines, and maybe even mountains. Places where creatures lived without worrying about who could cast the perfect spell. “Beasts don’t judge,” Dad said. “And Harry won’t have space to complain,” Mum added with a smile.

Lily, Hugo, and I wanted to explore beasts all over the world rather than just half the globe. The quickest way to travel would be using a Portkey, so we could have plenty of time to explore and return for the Quidditch Friendly, but our parents thought it was too dangerous for kids.

I asked if we could try travelling the Muggle way this time—planes, airports, all of it. I said I could manage the non-ergonomic seats. Dad stroked my hair, said, “You shouldn’t have to squeeze yourself into something that hurts you.” And Mum said softly, “And you shouldn’t have to hide your magic either.” She continued, “I mean, how can you go to the toilet if you’re not even allowed to use a broomstick to fly? You can’t fully participate if you have to hide your basic needs.”

So, we’ll travel the wizarding way instead—brooms for short stretches, an enchanted car for longer ones. All have spells wrapping around us like invisible cloaks. Safer. Easier. Still free to a certain extent. Why on earth does reality keep reminding me how light I am?—as if I’m like dust that can be swished away easily?

I don’t remember the very beginning. My first clear memory is warmth and a voice saying, “You’re safe now.”

Before that, as I was told, I was born to Muggle parents. I couldn’t crawl. I couldn’t stand. But magic burst out of me anyway. Toys floating. Objects sliding across rooms. Things breaking when I cried.

One night, my parents were ecstatic, thinking I had taken my first step. It was only a stumble—magic surging under a full moon. The Ministry detected the surge and related it to lycanthropy—werewolf transformation patterns that were overgeneralised into danger and fear. They asked questions my parents couldn’t answer, used words my mother had never heard before.

Soon after, I was sent away.

At the orphanage, the other children played in the yard while I could only sit still on the bed, because nobody understood that I loved playing like other kids as long as I had someone to help me move around. While I couldn’t pretend to be a “normal” walking kid, I could pretend to be a Muggle sitting kid. I learned to swallow my magic. To stay quiet. To be small. I was always afraid that if something floated, cracked, or shimmered, I would be moved again. Forgotten.

Mum and Aunt Hermione found me there while working on a story about Muggle children. At first glance, they thought I was a shy Muggle kid. They approached me and saw I was close to becoming an Obscurial. That’s how they found out I’m magical. I only know that I was tired of being afraid of myself.

“You’re safe now, honey,” Mum said, pulling me into her chest when she took me to the home I was longing for.

That is my first real memory. Warmth. Breathing. A heartbeat that wasn’t afraid of me.

I never grew up as a Muggle, disabled or not, but I don’t fully belong in the wizarding world either. Outside wizard homes and Hogwarts, my magic must stay small and quiet because I’m underage. I’m also worried about my future as a witch, because the wizarding community is obligated to hide their magical abilities from Muggles—the mainstream of the world. My needs seem to shrink to fit other people’s rules forever.

But Hogwarts feels like space.

I try to picture the castle the way Lily described it—windows lit like constellations, staircases that move when they feel like it, ghosts drifting through walls like mist that forgot it was once water. She said the ceilings sometimes look like the real sky. I wonder if I’ll be able to tell the difference between stars above me and stars painted in magic overhead.

There, everyone casts spells. Everyone flies. Everyone knows what magic feels like in their bones.

Maybe there, I won’t feel like dust.

Tomorrow, we’ll go to Diagon Alley for uniforms, books, and a wand that will finally be mine. Can’t wait to step into a place where magic can be unleashed.