Dear Diary,
It is I, Ragna.
The representatives, Aurors of The Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes have informed me that this is my name. They have spoken so much nonsense that perhaps I might not be Ragna; I might just as well be Marie, Eleanor, or someone else entirely.
Yet, this is the name I now possess. And it seems a whole new persona.
“Ragna, we have ascertained that you are a witch,” one of the Aurors said.
R a g n a
It feels harsh, constrained, redolent of rage, suffused with the ancient sea.
I laughed.
“A what? A witch?”
Nevertheless, their seriousness was evident. They surrounded my bed and waved their wands around my head and body as if they were trying to extract something from within me.
I told them to burn me down to ashes and scatter those ashes right where they found me. Though I do not know where that might be, they could just as well consign me to the flames here, in this very hospital chamber, for all I care.
I swear, I was convinced that someone, my parents presumably, had committed me to the asylum. A witch, indeed. Witches do not exist; they defy nature.
Alas, their faces spoke louder than their voices.
Their conjurations spoke louder still.
I could still see those waves of blue and yellow and crimson, razoring the air and then dissolving into sunlight.
Aurors assured me I would soon be capable of doing such things myself. How could that be?
From what I have discerned, I was devoid of any magic until a week ago, when an incident occurred at my familial manor. Though the Aurors are unclear on the specifics, they are adamant I was involved.
They told me I was a squib as if I were expected to comprehend what that meant.
Perhaps I once did. Squib. The world stung something hidden within, a memory too faint to grasp and laden with disdain.
“The whereabouts of your parents remained unknown,” they said.
“What will become of me?” I asked.
Are there orphanages in the wizarding world? If there are, I might be sent to one, beyond question.
Or so I thought.
“We are not certain,” one of them replied. “We shall return to see you again. For now, you should get rest.”
They said nothing more.
They handed me clothes and an ill-fitting pair of shoes and then vanished into the emptiness with a sound, that left a grinding track behind.
I was left alone in the chamber, my head aching and without any recollection of what — or who — I was.
The clothes they gave me were itchy and coarse, threads protruding. I scratched my hands, leaving the marks on the skin. They burned red.
Unacceptable.
I recall lying in my bed, thinking that very word. I had made a grave mistake. People were screaming downstairs, yet their voices I could not hear. I remember feeling guilty and… lost.
"She besmirched the dignity of our legacy."
A judgment I feel deeply within still.
So little else do I remember. I remember being but a small child, small enough to conceal myself within a cedar chest, enveloped in lavender-smelling garments, for nobody to find. I remember black and blue, splatters of ink, aquarelle drops. My fingers were stained with colors.
I remember the smoothness of velvet silk, all the rustling ruffles of my dress swaying, whispering through the air as I ran up the hill. I remember a sky full of stars. It was framed by the iron bars on a window. The stars floated so low I fancied I could touch them with my hands.
The other hands, I remember, were soft and pale, alabaster, with slender fingers. They brushed my hair, stretching it into coiffures. The curls cascaded down, tickling my cheeks and shoulders. I remember the voice mumbling: “You are a disaster.”
Whose voice was it? My mother’s? My governess’, if I had one?
What an intriguing person I am, with the only clear memory being of myself seated upon the wooden floor, playing with a white, fluffy bear.
Much else has escaped me.
My father, my cat, my friends, my home. Not an image, not a silhouette, or even a mist — mere inane impressions that I once possessed something more substantial than a name. These impressions are no more than shadows on the wall I stare at. Empty and plain.
A family, a lineage, a position in society. I have lost them all.
In their place, I was given a feeling. And this feeling my body rejects with trembling hands and a headache. Or is this a sign of acceptance?
For I am ready to accept whatever these wizards — Aurors — have to offer. There is something in their hands that I am meant to hold in mine, something I was robbed of.
The power.
And I am poised to seize it.
I spent way too much time on this one. But I haven't written a word since January, so it's still better than nothing, right?
