The Very Beginning solo

31st August 2018, 

A piece of parchment left behind in an 11 year old's empty bedroom

Dear Diary,
This is the first and last time that I’ll ever write to you, so don’t complain in the future- you’ve been warned. I sit here at the desk in my bedroom now, for the last time in what will be months, because tomorrow I set off for Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I must be concise today though, as it would be just great if I were to miss the train in the morning (note the sarcasm). Although we live here in Scotland, much closer to Hogwarts than Kings Cross Station will ever be, I will be dragging my self out of bed tomorrow at early o’clock in order to floo to the very station that I just hinted was a waste of time going to. According to my dear brother, Toby, the Hogwarts Express is a vital part of magical education... or, at least, is something that a very high percentage of the students take. Now, I don’t want you getting the wrong idea, so I’m going to tell you straight, I am NOT looking to follow the trend or for friends/associates/ partners in crime... I merely want some new conversation opportunities. If I can find someone who will listen to me read this entire diary entry out loud and reply with a nice witty remark, then I know I will have found my soulmate at Hogwarts.

Speaking of Hogwarts, I wonder what it will be like to prance around its cavernous halls, and to have nice conversations with the suits of armour that guard the walls. All my family has walked under the arches of the classrooms there, and the last thing I want is to be another White studying peacefully. I want to be memorable, I want to grab the amazing experience that is a Hogwarts education and dress it in the brightly coloured, handmade clothes that are now tightly stuffed into my trunk. I think my brother tried to do what I’m going to do, but let’s just say that his performances up on the ski slopes on Cairngorm Mountain are an indicator that he didn’t get very far. Toby may be one year older, but I like to think know that my mental capacities reach far beyond his. My parents, on the other hand... well, you could say that I am much more adept with the art of modern communication and sarcasm, but when it come to actual knowledge, you have to give it to them. My father now works in the Department of Magical Cooperation in the Ministry of Magic behind a desk all day (yippee, how exciting) and my mother keeps the muggles in our county oblivious to magic. They were both in the house of Ravenclaw in their time, got excellent grades and passed all of their chosen NEWTs, all accomplished while occupied by the trying illness that is known as ‘falling in love’.

Now, I hope you didn’t take that the wrong way- I, or at least my parents, would be offended if you did. My parents are amazing people who are nice and contribute to the world, and I’m not jealous, it’s just... sometimes I feel like I don’t belong with them (as you're a diary I’m holding you to your confidentiality here). I mean, look at me. Even when I read I write sarcastic comments in the margins, I’m more spiky than pineapple skin, and I could never, ever bring myself to be polite and just blend into a crowd. Both of my parents had amazing displays of first magic, my dad even saved a life, and I, well, how about I give you an excerpt from my seven year old mind to show you exactly how amazing I am (yes I could write at seven, and yes, I lied when I told you this was my first time writing a diary).

Seven year old me:
Toby’s been mean again. My girl barbies are mine but I let him use them to play. His man army barbies are his but he lets me play. I like playing with man barbies and Toby likes playing with girl barbies. But Toby snatched back his man barbies from me when Mummy and Daddy arrived. Snatching is mean. I don’t understand why Toby wants the man barbies when Mummy and Daddy are looking but not in other times. Because I am a kind sister I made the girl barbies play with Toby when Mummy and Daddy were looking so he would be happy and use the truth. I felt like being naughty so I made them tickle him as well. It was fun! My hands felt tingly after but it’s ok now. Mummy and Daddy looked very happy when the barbies attacked Toby. I didn’t know being good was so fun.
Love Margo

Eleven year old Margo speaking here. Can you tell the difference? I‘m truly an admirable child, right? The Muggle school I went to hated the sight of me. Some lovely things would happen when I was around, like the teachers' hair changing colour and the classrooms starting to rain when the lessons were too easy. My best friend was the library, and the best part was, the librarian was so deaf that he (yes, not all librarians are female I’ll have you know) could never hear me laughing my head off at the amazing literary ideas that came into my head. There was a book I remember about a sailor who lived on a different island each week- an idea that I found incredible since I had (and still have) lived in Aviemore for my entire life. The sailor met a shark who showed him what it was like to have a family and I remember asking my mum why it didn’t eat him. When I was younger, adventure tugged at my heart. I used to run around the woods like a mad thing, feet bare, leaves in hair and face covered in mud. I had a special rock I’d make my family visit when we went on walks. Once, I lovingly stole the permanent markers from the draw in the living room and drew a giant (slightly misshapen) scorpion on the rock. I’m a Scorpio- misunderstood with a sting, though when I was younger I adored my star sign. Back then I took the star signs as law, basking in the light of my supposed competitiveness and creativity.

I’ll have to leave you on that note then, Mum’s calling me for mine and Toby’s last dinner at home. Don’t tell anyone this, but I do love her a lot.

~Margo White, one time author of this diary.