It’s finally time – Ollivander calls. It took us forty minutes to choose our owls, mostly because I wouldn’t move from the cat cages, desperate to free them somehow, and Seth deliberated over a typically white owl and the female twin of the one that caught my eye. Eventually, Seth chose the grey owl, fortunately, as I got the male twin – an adorable little silver-grey thing that quivers in my palm whenever I hold it, as though not used to such love. I’ve decided to call him Earl, because it means intelligence and nobility, while Seth opted for the name Edwina – which means serious-minded, responsible and stable – appropriate for a delivery owl; not that Seth cared much about the meaning. He just thought it was a cool female name.




































‘Don’t be nervous, you two,’ Mum says as we round the corner, where the famous wand shop awaits, ‘just stay calm and wave the wands Mr Ollivander gives you – okay?’











‘Right,’ Seth says, trying to look casual – but he fiddles slightly with his jacket pocket, a variation of my nervous habit of playing with my hair.





































‘What happens if no wand suits you?’ I half-whisper – it’s something that’s been playing on my mind all day.






























Mum laughs at my question, but, seeing our big scared eyes, says: ‘That doesn’t ever happen, Summer. I told you, there’s always a wand out there, waiting for you. And even if that did happen,’ we look stricken, ‘which it never does, you would just have to go with one that suited you moderately – but, ideally, you’re looking for your perfect match – ah, here it is.’







We’re standing outside Ollivanders: The Makers of Wands since 382 BC, Seth and I, as Mum enters without us, shoulder to shoulder. The sign is old and rusty, but the title is well preserved. In the window, a lone wand is on display, and around it is black velvet.











‘Come on, Summer,’ Seth says – and when I still stand there staring at the displayed wand, he tows me in with him.



































Mr Ollivander is light-skinned and ancient, with searching pale silver eyes that glimmer yellow in passing light, with whispery white hair that comes out of his ears. He’s wearing a faded lime green suit – but comfortable slippers rest on his feet under his slightly ripped trousers. I feel a little uncomfortable, standing nervously with my twin. My mother doesn’t share the same reservations. She goes over to him immediately and they have a chat about the core of her wand, until Ollivander looks round her and beckons us over, closer to the collection of wands. Dad didn’t exaggerate about this place being like a library. Long shelves flank each other on either side, old and brown and chipped, like most of the shop – apart from the perfectly shaped rectangles that hold the wands – which are, I’m sure, in excellent condition, and probably treated like royalty here, as Ollivander’s life’s work.


























‘You, boy, you can start,’ Ollivander says in a raspy voice like sandpaper, and Seth stumbles towards the shelves, Mum giving encouraging smiles, but thankfully nothing embarrassing like a thumbs up or something.



























Mr Ollivander tosses down five boxes, and Mum catches four – Seth having to dive wildly to catch the fifth. Mum opens the box carefully, as though it is glass that might shatter at any moment, or something really valuable like gold, and brings out a short, rigid wand and hands it to Seth, who looks, frankly, as bewildered as dear Earl. I try to say something comforting, but my mouth and feet seem to be frozen, waiting. Swallowing, Seth waves the wand, and feeble sparks fly out. Excitedly, Seth waves it some more, but nothing else is produced. His shoulders sink a little in disappointment – and the same thing happens over and over, until he gets to the fifth box, the one he caught. With faintly trembling fingers, Seth slowly brings out a medium-sized wand coloured light brown, with deliberate markings. He holds it in awe, his whole face seeming unearthly and illuminating for a second – and then Ollivander speaks, breaking the spell.


































‘That’s it,’ he enthuses, ‘let the wand get a feel of your character. Nine inches, that wand, smooth and supple – unicorn hair and sycamore wood. Suited to wizards eager for new experience, and with a curious and adventurous manner. The core produces some of the most consistent type of magic there is – and they make very loyal, faithful instruments.



















‘Try it out, Mr Spear – go on, wave it, gently does it, let it familiarize with your touch – that’s it!’ Mr Ollivander cries as real sparks not just fly but dance out of his wand, and the peeling green door swings open, the little silver bell above tinkling as it goes.

















No longer paralysed with anxiety and expectation, I’m able to appreciate the wonder the situation eludes. Seth has found his match – so what will mine be?















I walk towards Seth with a slight spring in my step – or maybe jiggling nerves – and examine the chosen wand. It lies still in Seth’s shocked, outstretched palm. I stroke the pale yellow-brown wood, and it hisses in response. I mull this over in my head, wondering if I’ll have a similar one – if we were always destined for the same, as twins – maybe some people get more than one perfect pair in their lives.




























‘Your turn, sis,’ Seth says with a glorified smile, one that touches the pupils of his eyes – Seth’s moment was so special, like fate – what if mine is some boring, failure of an event?










But I don’t want to ruin Seth’s day, so I say instead, more bravely and confidently than I really feel: ‘I can’t wait.’





























I step forwards, waiting as calmly as I can for Mr Ollivander to put away the discarded boxes Seth abandoned. He’s longer bringing out boxes for me to try, at first starting small (because I am) but when none of these cause any impact, he brings out three dusty, faintly golden cases.


































‘Interesting,’ Ollivander says, looking at me with unblinking eyes, ‘I think we should try something with a little more power…’

























Power? Me? This has to be some kind of joke – and what’s so interesting about waving a bunch of dwarf wands that don’t even work?
























‘I think you’re mistaken,’ I say, finding my voice at last, ‘I’m not…powerful.’













Ollivander again turns the full force of his wrinkled, experienced eyes on me, and says wisely: ‘I have worked with many amateur wizards and witches, Ms Spear.’









‘I didn’t mean any offence,’ I say quickly, ‘I just don’t quite understand, Mr Ollivander. I haven’t done anything.’




























‘I hand people wands to try based on my initial judgement of them – and when that fails, I go through more shelves of wands…when you first entered, you appeared to be very apprehensive and timid, for example, but I see now that I was wrong. Perhaps…hidden depths…an insightful perception of life? Possibly. But I think I see power there, Ms Spear, where you do not…so maybe a wand that draws out talent would best suit you?’ he pauses to look sideways at me, and I try to imagine what he must be thinking, looking at this small, blonde-haired eleven-year-old girl.




































With fumbling fingers, I take the hat off the first box, ignoring everything around me. My world seems to have become Ollivander, with his wide knowledge of wandlore, and these three little boxes containing wands with power…what if I really just have nothing?








Well, I reason with myself, you can’t know until you try.




























The first wand, again, has no impact, to my intense discouragement. Nevertheless, I reach for the next wand – Black walnut and Vine wood and pretty rare, according to Mr Ollivander.









As I hold it in my surprisingly strengthened fingers, I feel a warm, stimulating sensation run through my body like fire…and the feeling is so strong, so amazing, so beautiful that I don’t even notice my hand has taken on a mind of its own, lifting the chocolate-coloured wand with lighter vines twisted around its body in triumph and sending out a flutter of golden ferns that shoot in a V shape towards the ceiling…and it doesn’t stop there. The long-handled wand rises once more and with sparkling fingertips I bring out essences of peppermint and lavender and something sweet, innocent, and untouchable…something like success.
















I put the wand back in the box shakily, exhausted. What did I just create? Was that powerful girl really me – am I really destined for power? What does this even mean? I can’t think.











Beside me, Seth and Mum are almost as astounded as me – but above, Mr Ollivander wears a pleased, knowing expression. I can’t believe…wow. I must have a really powerful wand, because trust me, I’m not the kind of girl fated for dynamic things…I’m not that person.









I’m just Summer, the same idiot who had silly play fights with her brother in a shop – the same Summer who waited anxiously for the owl post for two whole hours, the girl desperate to rescue the poor little animals…not the strange, ethereal person I turned into the first time I had a wand. My favourite subject is potions, where there is no wand work! I’m not sure I like this girl, this destiny. This is not me, whatever Mr Ollivander says.


















‘Well, Ms Spear,’ Ollivander says with bright, fixed eyes, ‘I see you understand what I meant? I am very experienced in these matters…and I know something great when I see it. That is one of the most remarkable first experiences with a wand I have ever seen…I am right in saying, if I may, that you are destined for greatness, Ms Spear. There is raw, undiscovered talent…and a strange connection to nature.’ He shakes his head. ‘But beware Ms Spear…this is not a wand to be treated lightly; you must do it justice, and use it in the correct frame of mind – believe in the wand, Ms Spear,’ he suddenly turns to Mum with a smile, ‘and that’ll be fourteen galleons for both, please, dear.’
























‘Yes – of course –’ Mum fumbles in her moneybag, and brings out the fat golden coins, all fourteen of them. Ollivander accepts them gratefully.























My mind dwells on what Ollivander said…his warnings…and my head aches. This morning, I was just this impatient, eager girl…and now, with the knowledge in my heart that I must treat this wand with greatness, I don’t think I know quite who I am anymore…or if I’ll ever be able to live up to the standards, the destiny Mr Ollivander promised for me. Because what if the truth is, I’m not great at all – and it’s just the wand?
















Plagued with these fears, I walk back to the car in silence, while Seth babbles on to Mum. How can I go to Hogwarts now? I’m sure to mess up and embarrass fate. I wish – I wish I’d just found a nice dwarf wand that sent out pretty little sparks. I wish I didn’t have this great thing hanging over me.






























The trouble with fate is the fact it doesn’t listen, just plans out your life. Already, aged eleven, I feel weighed down with expectation. I’d rather be like Albus Potter; predicted good things because his family are great, rather than having to individually face this. For the first time in my eleven years and just over seven months, I feel alone, lost, and trapped, as caged in as those poor screeching cats. I want to be a flying canon, a free spirit, a seed blown by the wind or maybe…maybe a glittering meteor far out in the distance, floating through the galaxy…whatever I want to be, it isn’t this. It isn’t greatness – or power.















When I dream that night, I am in a simple, blissful green meadow, surrounded by bubbling potions and circled daisy chains…there is a warm feathered pillow, soft and safe…and definitely not extraordinary. No, I am just Summer, a young Potioneer in a pretty laced dress, and in that dream, I smile.

‘I can’t believe we’re finally going,’ Seth says in a slightly empty voice.

























‘I’ve dreamt of this my whole life,’ I say, ‘but, somehow, I didn’t think it would ever come. Sometimes I thought I might have made the whole thing up.’














‘Your imagination isn’t that great,’ Seth insults, and I have just enough time to push him again before his eyes go strangely wide, and he points at a compartment silently.





















‘What?’ I say, peering too – and then I see them. Albus Potter, Rose Weasley, and a boy I don’t recognize. It’s like seeing the minister of magic in the flesh, twice over. Every week there’s a new story about their family in the Prophet.
























Albus sees us staring and waves us over with a cheery smile, obviously used to it. I like the fact he doesn’t act all snobby and annoyed like some people would. But there’s one problem – there’s only one seat left in their compartment. I can hardly deny Seth the opportunity to meet Albus Potter and Rose Weasley – and their friend, can I? Besides, they’ll all be in Gryffindor, and I might not make it, so it’s best Seth makes some friends without me. I’ll just find any old compartment and keep to myself.

























‘Come on,’ Seth urges, as if I’m mad for delaying. I hiss there’s no room for two more.









Seth waves an airy hand. ‘We’ll make room – come on.’ He starts to walk, but stops again once he sees I’m not following.























































































‘You go,’ I say, ‘I don’t want to get in trouble on my first day.’





















‘Mum told us not to split up,’ Seth argues.









































































‘We might not even be in the same houses,’ I say, heart beating hard in my chest and feeling mean for saying it – but it’s true. Seth looks surprised by the suggestion.















‘Sure we’ll be in the same house,’ he laughs, beckoning me over to the door. I shake my head.



































‘See you at Hogwarts,’ I start to back away, giving him a quick smile before entering the next compartment.























































































‘No – Summer – wait,’ Seth protests, but the door’s already swung off its hinges.















I wander down the hall aimlessly for a while, looking for a spare compartment – but I can’t find one, and the train’s gathering speed. Seth and Mum and Dad and life as I knew it are far behind…safe and away from me. Starting to panic now, I dump my trolley full of stuff at the end of the corridor, and take a seat by the window, lost and alone. This is not how I pictured my first Hogwarts express ride. I was so excited…























‘Are you going to sit out there forever?’ calls an amused voice, and I look up to see the mysterious boy from the shop leaning out of the end compartment, watching me. I realize he was the teasing voice on the platform. How much more mortifying can my life get?











‘Every where’s full,’ I explain, gesturing to my suitcases.
























‘Come in here,’ he says, rolling his eyes as though it’s the most obvious solution.









In fact – it probably is. ‘Yeah, alright,’ I say, and then add: ‘Who’s in there with you?’










‘Nobody,’ he says, ‘everywhere else was full,’ he grins at me.
















































I grab my two cases and Earl, who is sleeping peacefully in his cage (which I still think is pretty barbaric, but it’s the train’s rules or something – I’ll let him fly in the owlery once we get there). The boy holds the door for me, but it’s still an effort to heave all my stuff inside.

































‘You never told me your name,’ I say as we sit down.
























‘You’re always too busy fighting,’ he says, and laughs when I blush.








































I fiddle with the material edging my suitcase, and when he asks where that famous brother of mine is, I shrug, thinking how much fun he’ll be having in the celebrity compartment.
















‘Seriously, I thought you two were joined at the wand,’ he says, honestly looking curious, ‘you looked really close.’ He looks almost wistful. Maybe he hasn’t got any siblings.






















‘We are,’ I insist, and mutter something about their only being one spare seat in Albus Potter and Rose Weasley (and friend’s) compartment.
























































‘So he ditched you?’ the boy says.




























I turn to him huffily. ‘He did not! I ditched him, actually! He wanted me to come, but I walked off…and he shouted after me!’










































‘Alright, Little Miss Head screw,’ he retorts.























‘Why do you even care?’ I say back, angered now. This is the worst journey ever!



















He shrugs. ‘You know, you should be more grateful, considering I saved your teapot back in the corridor.’























































































‘Grateful?!’ I splutter, before I realize he’s smirking. Right. That was a joke.


























‘Your face,’ he chortles, ‘could have turned Gryffindor green.’






















I sit up, interested by the mention of Gryffindor, even if it was used as an insult. ‘Do you think you’ll be in Gryffindor?’







































‘I dunno,’ he looks thoughtful, ‘My family are kind of split. Mum was in Hufflepuff, Dad Ravenclaw, my grandparents Gryffindor and my cousins Slytherin. My family’s pretty confusing.’

































































































‘I’ll say,’ I answer, blinking at him, ‘but I think you’re kind of lucky. You’ll always have a family member or two who were in the same house as you are, so you know they can’t really get disappointed.’

































‘Will your family be disappointed if you’re not in the house they were in?’ he asks me, frowning.


































‘They said it doesn’t matter,’ I say, ‘but they’re lying. I saw Mum’s face after Ollivander’s –’ I stop short, because he doesn’t know this story, and I don’t want it leaking out, either.















‘What do you mean? What did he say?’ he looks really intrigued, hazel eyes inquisitive and soul-searching. I’ve never seen eyes that colour. I blink again, a little too fast, too delicately.

















‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ I stare down at my nails, polished clean by my mother this morning (‘we can’t have you looking scruffy, Summer, dear’).
































‘I won’t tell anyone, if that’s what you’re worried about,’ he leans in confidentially, eyes bright, ‘I promise.’ For some reason, I believe him, and find myself recounting the story of the flying gold ferns and the sweet aromas.






















The boy looks astounded. ‘You didn’t!’ I nod, half-ashamed. ‘Then why are you so embarrassed?’


































































‘I can’t be great,’ I confess, feeling a heavy weight come off me, ‘I’m not powerful.’














‘Have you seen your shoves?’ the boy contradicts, and I glare at him. ‘See what I mean – scary!’



































‘See!’ I bury my face in my hands. ‘Scary! That wand turned me into a monster!’
















































‘I was only having you on,’ the boy assures me, ‘I don’t think you’re scary at all.’










For some reason, his cheeks look a little red.














































‘It’s too much pressure,’ I admit, ‘I can’t do it – live up to it, I mean. I’m not good enough.’ I hang my head in shame, and it suddenly occurs to me that if I hadn’t told anyone, nobody but Seth would expect anything! Well, apart from Mum and Dad. Still, he did promise, and I can’t shake off the feeling I can trust him.



























‘By the looks of it, you are good enough,’ he sees my alarmed face, ‘but, obviously, however you do, you do. No worries. Moving on – you sound like someone who likes potions, if you gave out all those smells first time around. Are I wrong?’ he tilts his head towards me.










‘You’re right,’ I say grudgingly, ‘I’m a total potions freak. I sometimes make my own.’ I wait for him to laugh, but he only stares at me as though I’ve given him a thousand galleons, his whole face lighting up.






























































‘Me too,’ he enthuses, digging in his suitcase for something – and emerges a moment later with a silver box. I know that box!


























‘Wait a sec,’ I rummage in my case too, properly excited for the first time today, without being weighed down with nerves. I come up with the same box, only mine is gold.











































Inside is my entire collection of bottled potions and herbs and concoctions. It means the world to me, and the fact this sort-of-stranger-but-kind-of-familiar boy has the exact same thing means a lot. It’s like a special connection, a bond made of too-full compartments and potions.




































‘It was my Grandmother’s,’ the boy tells me softly, stroking the dusty edging.






















‘So yours is ancient too!’ I say.




















‘Why? Whose did yours belong to?’’ the boy asks me curiously.

















































‘Name first,’ I insist, because it seems a little ridiculous not to know by this stage – and it suddenly occurs to me I probably should’ve bothered to ask before. But as he didn’t ask me, I’m guessing he’s not that big on introductions.




















































‘Fine,’ he sighs, ‘it’s Logan. Logan Turner. You?’





















The name ‘Logan’ seeps through my brain, so appropriately matched. He looks like a Logan, now I come to think of it. And it just happens to be one of my favourite names. If I didn’t have a twin brother, I’d say I share the most in common with him right now. Seth is enthusiastic and cheerful and ready for any challenge…and I’m nervous, a little depressed, and unsure if I can deal with my future. We’ve never felt more different. But this boy…it feels like he understands, maybe.























































































‘I’m Summer,’ I tell him, ‘Summer Spear.’
























‘Pleased to be acquainted, Summer,’ Logan says, and holds out his hand.


















I take it; experiencing the same warm, fuzzy feeling I felt when he helped me out in the shop the other week. It feels exciting, natural, electric. Almost as powerful as the tingling from the wand to my fingers…only this seems like something I want, something I can handle.






As he relaxes his grip on my fingers, he says: ‘So, whose did yours belong to?’













‘My Great-Grandmother,’ I say, ‘she was a Potioneer. Only one in my family. She died when I was five – but she left this case to me in her will. She said (in the note) she knew I out of all her family would know how to use it. I didn’t really get it then – I mean, surely anyone can brew up a few potions? But I do now. It’s a skill, an art…it’s magic without a wand.’ I stop, embarrassed, as Logan stares at me as though entranced by my words. I think I said too much…he’s probably freaking out; wishing he’d never invited this weirdo into his compartment. Why can’t I be more like Seth? Why do I have to spoil everything?











‘You do get it,’ Logan half-whispers, ‘most of my family think it’s a respectable enough subject, but not really extraordinary…your Great-Grandmother knew what she was doing, by the sounds of it.’































This time, I flush with pleasure. There’s some kind of truth about him…hidden depths or perception, whatever you want to call it. It feels as though he can penetrate false acts and flesh, blood and bone, and cut right through to the soul. There’s a dance, a twinkle in his eyes, that says he understands, he’s on your side…he knows you. I’ve never believed in all that kindred spirit stuff, not really…but for some strange reason, this boy, practically a stranger…he knows me. Without questions or doubt. I take heart from the fact someone believes in me, without expecting anything in return.




























‘I wish she’d lived longer,’ I confess, ‘I mean, she lived to a good age – she was always a strong old woman, Mum says, but I feel like I need her guidance sometimes. Mum and Dad try their best, but they don’t really understand. Seth, my brother, he’s usually great at that kind of stuff, but he’s never been one for potions…and I can already tell we’re more different than I thought, and we haven’t even got to Hogwarts yet.’






























‘My brother has always been different to me,’ Logan says, ‘I have a twin brother, too. We’ve never been that close – but still, I did think he might stick around longer than to put up an act for our parents. But, no – he waltzed off with the first like-minded people he could find. So much for sibling loyalty.’



































‘Oh,’ I say, biting my lip. That explains his wistfulness earlier. My differences from my brother seem minute in comparison.

























‘You don’t have to feel bad for me,’ Logan says, ‘I guess it’s worse for you. At least I’ve never got on with my brother. But if you two drift apart…it’s sadder, if you know what I mean.’































































































My heart thuds at three beats per second at the thought. ‘Do you really think that’ll happen, Logan?’



































His eyes melt a little more in their hazel shell when I say his name, and he blurts out: ‘I didn’t mean it like that. I was just thinking, that’s all, if you end up in different houses. But don’t worry – most twins stay together.’







































But now he’s said it, that worry is at the forefront of my mind. I love my twin brother – he’s my best friend. We’ve never been apart for long – even today is unusual. I can’t bear to be separated from him now, after all these years. It just isn’t fair. Seth will be so upset when he realizes I’ve got us sorted into different houses. It’ll be all my fault – Seth is a ready-made Gryffindor, but me…I feel like nothing. Not loyal or compassionate or hard-working like the Hufflepuffs, not clever and intuitive like the Ravenclaws, or brave and heroic and warm-hearted like the Gryffindors…or even sly and assertive and original and bold like the Slytherins. What if I get sorted into nothing?
















































‘Suppose…suppose the hat can’t make up its mind – or I can’t,’ I say quietly, eyebrows forming a worried crease.







































‘That has never happened,’ Logan scoffs, but, seeing my anxious face adds: ‘and it won’t happen to you, either.’









































‘How do you know?’ I ask, feeling like a small child seeking knowledge from a teacher.



















‘Because…because you’re bright and brave and passionate and you – I don’t know – kind of understand people,’ Logan says, looking a little abashed.


















I’m a little startled. After just two meetings, how can he claim to know all these things about me? I don’t even know myself, for a start. This boy must be really good at reading people – either that or he feels sorry for me. Yes, that’ll be it. You’ve got to reassure the poor unworthy cast-aside girl.





































‘I meant it,’ he insists, seeing my unconvinced face, ‘there’s…I dunno…something about you, Summer.’





















































I swallow, blinking hard. ‘Thanks for being so nice to me. You must think I’m a total idiot,’ I gesture to my anxious face.






























‘Not at all,’ Logan grins, ‘you’re bound to feel nervous. Everyone is. Anyway – there’s the trolley, do you want anything?’




















































I shake my head, feeling sick to the stomach with nerves.



















‘Anything from the trolley dears?’ the old plump woman says, wheeling trays and trays of sickly delight. I almost change my mind – but decide it’ll be better in the long run.







































































‘I’ll have a few of those sugar mice – oh, and some chocolate frogs. And maybe a couple of those,’ he points to something sticky on a tray blocked from my view.














‘Eleven sickles please, dear,’ she says, and Logan throws a handful of coins in her palm, telling her to keep the change.






























As she goes to leave, I call after her: ‘Wait – excuse me, but do you – er – think you could tell me your name? If you want. Only nobody seems to know, and I think names are kind of important.’ My cheeks tingle a little, and I feel ridiculous. Why can’t I ever just leave things?













But the trolley lady positively beams, showing surprisingly even pearly teeth considering her age and occupation. ‘It’s Maureen, dear – here, take one of these for your trouble,’ she hands me a small box of Bertie’s every flavour beans.























‘You really don’t have to do th-’ but she’s already pressed them on me.








































Logan gives me a smirk as Maureen leaves. ‘Are you permanently obsessed with names?’









‘No,’ I reply haughtily, ‘I just think everyone ought to have one, that’s all.’















‘You’re so strange,’ he says, but he’s smiling in a way that tells me it’s not a bad thing.














‘Good observation,’ I sigh, resigned to my new reputation.



















‘Cheer up,’ he says, ‘I even got you one of these.’





















Clutched loosely in his palm is a small, glutinous lollipop in the shape of a wand.











‘Thanks,’ I say, smiling back and accepting the token. This I can choke down.













I unwrap the plastic and let the smooth sweetness of the lollipop ride irresistibly over my taste buds, melting any indecision in my heart. I’m about to take another lick when I detect another, familiar flavour. Yuk! Ketchup! He’s given me ketchup! Now I really will vomit.






‘You absolute idiot!’ I cry, flinging the plastic at him – where it gets caught in his wavy brown hair.
































He screeches in response. ‘That could get stuck, you know!’




















‘Well, you are a wizard, aren’t you? Unless there’s something you’re not telling me…’ I let the thought trail off, waiting for him to take the bait.



















‘You’re the one Ollivander’s obsessed with!’ Logan counters. ‘So why couldn’t you?’











Ouch. But I can take a fair point. ‘Well, it’s not stuck, so get over yourself,’ I lean over and lift the plastic from his hair, showing him how easy it is. Then I put it in my pocket.






‘Why’d you do that?’ Logan asks.






























‘Saving the planet,’ I answer, and he shakes his head again.
























After that, Logan comes up with an ingenious game of guess the flavour of the Every flavour beans. I make the first move, turning up the trumps with a shiny green one.













I chew on the hard, floppy centre as Logan watches me, trying not to groan is disgust so I don’t give the game away.

































‘Snot,’ Logan guesses, and I shake my head, giggling a little.

























‘Am I warm?’ he asks. I shake my head.

























Evidently, I can’t contain myself any longer. ‘Eww…it’s cranberry and raisin!’ I choke on the last piece, gulping it down with the help of fizzy water.
























‘Gross,’ I say, ‘Ok – now it’s your turn. And it better be good – or should I say bad – after my ordeal,’ I watch him unpeel his sweet, and take his first experimental bite.













Immediately, his whole face changes from amused to considering to revolted.















‘Difficult one,’ I muse, reading the expression on his face again, ‘but I’d say mustard with pig fat.’




































This time, Logan goes from pink to cream to white, looking astonished. ‘That’s it! But how did you know?’ he looks so suspicious it’s funny – but my only secret is knowing every flavour backwards, and judging by the many faces I’ve seen my brother Seth pull over the years. He had exactly that look, just then. Freaky how you can read people, isn’t it?













I refuse to give myself away, tapping my nose in the perfect way to initiate annoyance.








‘So small yet irritating,’ he says in response, and doesn’t flinch when I whack him on the arm with a casual: ‘Enough of the small, already!’ That puts him back in his place nicely.











Following this, Logan gets toffee, nose hair, raspberry juice, flamingo tail, Yorkshire pudding and something he swears is real gold – but I don’t believe him. There’s no way anyone would be stupid enough to eat gold, is there?






































































































I get smoking hot bacon (mmm…), cold rotten fish (disgusting), peach-flavoured chocolate, hazelnut, Brussels sprouts (give me a break, mother) and finally, toe nail. Yes, toe nail! How do you think I felt? Infected toe nail, too, by the looks of that fungi bean. Right now I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between the sick feeling in my mouth and a vomit-flavoured bean, it’s that hideous.

































Then I challenge him to guess my star sign. He observes me for a long time, as though if he looks hard enough he’ll find it written in glittery lights in my eyes. I like his eyes, a mixture of woodsy brown and chipped hazel and flecks of a colour I can’t identify, but somehow make his eyes different, unique, and kind of special.


































‘I’d say…I’d say Capricorn…no, not quite, actually,’ he pauses to look at me again, taking in my excited, waiting features, ‘maybe…I think I’m getting warmer here – are you a Sagittarian?’


























































‘Yes!’ I squeal. ‘How did you know?’
























‘I guessed, based on astronomy,’ he says mysteriously, knowing he’s winding me up, ‘Ok, ok, I’ll tell you…according to the stars, Sagittarians are honest and straight-forward, philosophical and intellectual – and they love their freedom – oh, and they’re very liberal,’ he tips his head towards me.































‘Do you study astronomy?’ I enquire, impressed, and looking through the mist in the window to see we’re still far out in the clumsy hills and forked mountains. What a journey.




















‘My grandfather taught me some bits and pieces,’ he shrugs modestly, but I can tell I’ve hit on something he takes pride in knowing.





























‘Seth loves astronomy,’ I find myself saying, letting my thoughts drift to my twin, who is probably stuffing himself senseless in the Potter /Weasley/other boy compartment.
















‘Does he? Cool,’ Logan says, ‘I’ll have to meet your brother properly some time.’











‘Yeah, I can introduce you if we end up in the same house,’ I say gloomily, thinking the chances are pretty slim on that score. It seems like I’m destined to be parted from my brother, beginning today, September 1st. It’s appropriate, at least. And, personally, I’d rather separate now if what Logan suggested is going to happen to us. It’s too painful to think about. At least this way I will have left things amicably. Although somewhere deep in the weed-ridden depths of my heart, the curled tangles around my heart tell me amicable isn’t enough after a lifetime of friendship, comradeship, adventures. Something tells me I’m only half a self without my brother.































‘You look sad,’ Logan says, ‘what’s up? Still worried about houses?’ he takes my silence as confirmation. ‘I wouldn’t give it another thought if I were you. Whatever house you’re in, you’re in – and remember, it’ll never be the wrong one. My Dad told me the hat never lies, and it knows what truly lurks within you, something like that. He told me to just be myself, and I’ll be alright – ’cos there’s nothing else you can be really, is there?’











‘I wish I shared you and your Dad’s philosophy,’ I say with a touch of longing, ‘and your Dad sounds pretty cool.’















































‘He is,’ a smile suddenly breaks across Logan’s face, smoothing out the layer of creamy white skin, ‘I get on with him, but not so much my Mum. She prefers Steve, I reckon. But it’s okay – better a Dad’s lad than a Mummy’s boy, I always say.’
























‘Logan!’ I say, but I can’t control my own laughter. ‘Stop it! Don’t be so mean!’















‘The truth kills, Summer,’ Logan says wisely, ‘and anyway – why are you laughing if I’m so cruel?’



































‘Because inside every human being is a wicked sense of humour,’ I answer, and he nods in agreement.






























There’s a rough knock on the compartment door. I lean away from Logan to see who it is; a little embarrassed we were so close together.























I know that wheat-blonde hair, that big grin. Seth’s come calling at last – and he’s brought his brand new friends.

I open the compartment door, trying not to stare at the untidy black hair of Albus Severus Potter, or the gleaming green eyes behind their frames. Behind him stands the vividly red Rose, blue eyes eager and friendly – and behind her is a boy with neatly-cut dark hair and twinkling brown eyes to match. I wait for Seth to speak, still trying not to stare.















‘Hey,’ Seth says brightly, looking like he’s had the time of his life, ‘Al, Rose, Tristan – meet my sister. Summer, meet Albus, Rose and Tristan.’



















‘Hi,’ Rose and I say shyly at the same time, and laugh a little, causing some of the tension that always comes when you meet new people to disappear.























‘Hi, Summer,’ Albus says, pushing his glasses up nervously.















‘Hey Albus,’ I say back politely, giving him a smile of reassurance to show I want to be friends.








































‘Hi Summer,’ Tristan adds, stepping forwards so he’s at level with Rose, who is still smiling a little mechanically.






















‘I finally know your name!’ I blurt out. ‘I mean, before you were just that-boy-in-the-Potter/Weasley-compartment – and now you have a label! You have no idea how significant that is,’ they look at me with wide eyes, even Seth, and I go pale pink. Oops.













‘Sorry,’ I say – but everyone starts giggling, and after that, no one feels awkward anymore.








‘Summer has a thing with names,’ Logan says, appearing from further inside the compartment, ‘first off, she demanded mine, and then begged a name off the trolley lady!’











Everyone smirks, but I say hotly: ‘Don’t call her that! It’s Maureen! And names are important!’ I flounce back into the compartment, and take the seat by the window, staring out at the puffs of smoke dramatically.




























‘Wow,’ Tristan says, and I try not to giggle, keeping my poker-face.








































































The crowd takes this as an excuse to pile into the compartment; Tristan and Rose sit on the carpet below, not seeing to mind the fluff, while Seth, Logan and Albus sit on the seats above. I hover over the carpet a little aimlessly, then verbally decide to sit on the carpet too, to ‘make things fair’, even though Tristan and Rose aren’t fussed.
























































































‘Great first impressions, sis,’ Seth says, but he’s grinning.





















‘Oh! I forgot to introduce Logan,’ I say, ‘everyone, Logan Turner. Logan – everyone.’









‘Hi Logan,’ everyone says cheerfully.






























































‘Hi all,’ he says back – and digs in his rucksack for something, ‘aha! Here it is.’













We all unwind our necks for a closer look, peering at what he’s produced.












‘Oh – exploding snap,’ Rose realizes, and then adds, ‘my Dad loves it. But not as much as he loves wizard chess!’ she stares curiously at the flame-coloured cards.














‘Up for a game everyone?’ Logan asks – and by general majority, the playing of exploding snap is legalised – only, since there are six of us, we decide to get into pairs.














Albus and Rose pair up immediately, and I look from Seth to Logan, for a moment actually considering my loyalties.



























Logan spares me the choice. ‘Want to pair up?’ he says nonchalantly to Tristan, and he nods and shifts closer, still on the carpet.

























I instantly feel guilty I didn’t automatically pick my twin – but maybe being apart from him has given me a sense of freedom. Sometimes you need space from someone to really appreciate them – and Seth and I have had no space from each other for over eleven and a half years. It took today for me to really recognize Seth individually, away from me. It felt like a less biased judgement.




























Rose Weasley, no doubt trained to perfection by her father, wins every game with Albus – but the point isn’t really winning; it’s about bursting cards and bonding and laughter. I can honestly say today has turned out to be the best ever – and not because it’s been perfect, either.
































Then Seth says: ‘I can see Hogwarts!’ and there’s a sudden flurry as everyone pushes up against the cold window to catch a glimpse of a wide, turret-like castle faraway in the distance, blanketed by ferns.



































































‘Wow!’ I whisper, staring at the place that’ll be my second home for the next seven years.









‘I’ve seen pictures of it and stuff, from Dad,’ Albus, who seems to be on my wavelength, gabbles excitedly, ‘but nothing really prepares you for the real thing!’




















‘It’s alright,’ Tristan says with a shrug.
























Rose nudges him immediately. ‘Don’t be such a bore, Tris! Even you like it, don’t you, Logan?’










































Logan, who hasn’t removed his stare from the window, says in a slightly enchanted voice: ‘Yeah, it’s great’, without even looking at her, and Rose catches my eye and we both giggle a little. Boys – one tries to act cool, and the other’s more interested in the castle than friends!









There’s a sudden announcement from a magically-enhanced voice – I recognize the spell from my many trips to Quidditch matches.



















‘All students on the train must be changed into their robes in the next ten minutes! I repeat, all students must be changed into their robes in the next ten minutes! We will be arriving at Hogwarts shortly.’ The voice evaporates, leaving us all wide-eyed, until Rose breaks the silence:





























‘Well, you heard the woman – come on!’ she starts to move out of the compartment, obviously intending to retrieve her stuff. ‘Guys! Stop looking and come and get dressed!’ she rolls her eyes at me. ‘Summer, will you please get your twin brother away from the window!’






But, at the sound of her voice, Seth has already turned from the window, grabbing Tristan and Albus with him.

































‘See you at Hogwarts!’ Seth just has time to say, before Rose shuts the compartment door firmly. The door clicks as it hits the metal, and it’s just us two left.




























Logan remains at the window while I dig for my stuff, despite my persistent urges he only has five minutes left. Eventually I just leave him to it, and wander off to find a spare toilet to change in, and finally come across a door marked: ‘Girls’ Changing Room’. Oh. I didn’t know they had one of those!
































Gratefully, I steal inside, where about thirty other girls are unchanging. I see Rose and she gives me a friendly smile, patting the space beside her. I go over, dumping my robes on the seat next to hers.




































‘I thought you might not find it,’ Rose says as she yanks her shoes on, ‘I had to ask a Head Girl – Ravenclaw, I think, by the colours of the badge. She didn’t look too happy, though,’ she adds as she does up her laces.
































‘Yeah, well, you know what older students are like,’ I say, ‘everyone in our year seems nice, though.’






















































‘Yeah,’ Rose says thoughtfully, ‘I’m just glad me and Al and Tristan found you guys!’









‘Me too,’ I agree, ‘though it’s all down to Seth, really. He wasn’t going to leave your compartment in a hurry!’






































‘Yes, he’s nice, isn’t he?’ Rose says. ‘You’re lucky to have a brother the same age as you. I expect it’ll make your experience even better, having someone to share it all with!’









‘If we’re in the same house,’ I say, my old annoying fears starting to return.
























‘Well, there’s no question about that!’ Rose says confidently – so confidently I get suspicious.












































































‘How do you know?’ I say, because there’s conviction in her voice that makes me believe her.




























‘Oh, that’s easy!’ Rose says with a laugh. ‘Mum told me that to get into Gryffindor – assuming that’s where you want to go – you have to be a tiny bit…mad!’ she dissolves into giggles again.










































































I, remembering earlier, with my total uncoolness with names, laugh along with her, for once not minding about houses, because I’m almost at the great old school now, and somehow, my excitement drains away the fear.