Chapter Fifteen - Saoirse's Memory.

December 11th, 1975.

One year ago.

I'm surrounded by cold walls, bleached white with paint, crisp and clean - too clean. They're bare too - you'll find no pictures of mine hung on the wall of my room, no posters, no photos. In fact, nothing in the room gives any hint to that a human resides within. The bed is plain and smothered in soft white sheets. The bedside table is bare on the surface and the draws held within the piece of furniture are filled only with uniform clothes, garments of material made plainly and in a generic fashion, not fitted to anyone in particular. There are no books, no records - nothing that would suggest that anyone is occupying the room. But I am.

The lantern, framed with silver metal and dim as it hangs in the centre of the light room, does not seem to respond to the rush of cold air as the door to the room opens with force and a tall, sallow-faced man enters. He's dressed in a suit and tie and is carrying a briefcase, telling me at once that he is not a doctor like my usual visitors. Despite my body being weary and my uniform clothes, made out of thick, soft wool, weighing me down, I stand up at once, my eyes flitting feverishly over this man. There's a badge on his shirt and I realise where he's from. The Irish Ministry of Magic, unlike the citizens of this great country that are so friendly and slightly on the crazy side, seem to employ the worst of our country to work - the miserable, downswept people who don't seem to care about other people anymore. Or from my experience they do.

He looks around my room, having never been to my quarters before. ''Nice place, you've got here.'' He comments, face unmoving and without a glimpse of a smile. I say nothing in return - it's a room designed generically and often feels like my prison; with its white walls and small windows.

The man turns back to me and can see his comment fell flat. If I thought his face was grave before, it grows even more grim now and he sits down in the lone chair positioned in the corner of my room and looks me up and down apprehensively.

''Miss Evans, I have some good news for you.'' His voice is heavy but I suddenly feel light - and surprised. His whole expression and vocal tone had hinted more at impending bad news than good. There's silence as he expects me to answer, but I say nothing - it's not that I don't speak to strangers - it's that I don't speak to anyone.

After pausing, he affects my silence and goes on. ''Ministry officials have evaluated you and have accepted your request to go to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.''

My heart leaps furthermore, and even my expression shows it now, a slight smile spreading across my face and my eyes becoming bright as I regard my future fate. All my life I've known I have to get to Hogwarts. Something deep inside me, something I can't explain, has always urged me towards that school. And finally, five years late - I'll be able to go.

''You will enrol next September for your sixth year.'' I realise the official is still talking and look up, slight horror coming into my expression as he speaks. ''A member of the underage sorcery squad will accompany you to Liverpool and then London.''

I look at him with confusion and horror filling my expression - I need not say any words, he understands simply from my face.

''You are very behind on school work, Miss Evans. You must study extensively before then and take a ministry course in Dublin during the summer.'' The Official explains, watching me closely to see my reaction. He probably thinks I'm a mad mute or something. But I do understand and realise whoever decided on my fate was both cruel and kind. My academic schools are far behind the standards of others - I can't even brew the antidote to common poisons. It's not because I'm stupid. My complicated past would explain it. But I try not to think of my past.

I look at the man and nod slightly, signalling my acknowledgment. Unsure of what to do, the official gets up in silence and moves to the door awkwardly as I stare at the floor, entering my head once more to reflect upon my newly decided fate. I hear the door clunk softly as he leaves and compare his quiet exit to his powerful entrance. The difference is, he now thinks I'm a mute lunatic.

The door closes, and I'm on my own again. Left to the white walls and the chipped washbasin, the bedside table with it’s peeling varnish and the rickety bed upon which I am sitting. My home for the past two years.

I lay back on my bed, stare up at the ceiling, and enter my mind. Although, my mind is no better place to dwell than the cold, pale room in which I reside.