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By K.H. ObergfollPublished 2 years ago Updated 2 years ago 21 min read
Photo by Casey Horner on Unsplash

Must have been a bad dream—Clara thought as she shifted into a more comfortable position. It had been her best sleep yet—the most she had gotten in months—but it wouldn’t last for long, little did she know how much her life would change once she opened her eyes.

Just as she slipped back to sleep she was violently jolted awake by a sharp sideways turn that sent her plummeting to the cold, hard floor below.

What happened,” Clara exclaimed as she picked a dirty wayward sock off her shoulder, tossing it into the corner of the room; her eyes had yet to focus on her surroundings before she realized—she was moving quite fast—the rumbling wheels beneath her hit every bump and rock as they hurled down the tracks towards a destination unknown.

Tripping over her spilled luggage, she clung to the dew-stained windows, pressing her face against the glass in a last ditch effort to see where she was; clearly—this was not a dream.

Waves of hills and overgrown wildflowers, prickly crawlers and stalks of dry grass flitted past, billowing in the wind, whipping against the sides of the train as they passed by.

Clara saw a shadow in the window as a man in a smartly pressed black suit and a similarly arranged mustache stopped to tap Clara’s shoulder—“ticket young lady?”—he inquired, thrusting an outstretched hand. His gruff, curt tone sent Clara into a tailspin as she dug into her pockets; nothing, they were completely empty.

“I, I, I, I’m sure it has to be somewhere,” she whispered, finally finding her voice. “After-all I didn’t get on this train by happenstance, surely not by magic, that’s illegal,” Clara began, nervously stammering as she knelt to the floor before burrowing into her ramshackled luggage, throwing more clothes around in a frenzied attempt to find something she didn’t know she had. The penalty for boarding a train without a pass would be a swift trip to the High-Courts, and as it were, she wasn’t in the mood to visit the Magistrate, be jailed, or worse—she didn’t want to get banished from Grommsworth. She was starting school next week and nothing could go wrong, nothing could jeopardize her chance at a new life.

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By Rhii Photography on Unsplash

Her acceptance letter was still neatly zipped in the folds of her bag, right where her passport and train ticket should have been, but neither was there.

She had all but dumped the contents of her trunk on the ground when a young woman’s voice chimed in from behind the looming figure of the ominous train-inspector—“she’s with me.”

The man turned ever so slightly before moving aside—a woman with tightly curled hair pinned around her head like a crown stepped into the room. Her dress was even blacker than the train-inspectors suit as it swept across planks of polished wood, her heels clicking with every drawling step she took as she moved closer to Clara.

“Hello my dear how was your nap?” she asked through a tightly lined smile before nodding to the train inspector. He seemed to be more than happy to leave as he scurried off down the hall towards the next set of compartments; his rapid, sharp knock sent a chill down Clara’s back.

“My nap…” Clara asked curiously as she stopped her jar of Pomswarry serum from rolling around and getting lost under the bench seats.

“Yes, your nap,” the woman continued, eyeing Clara as she continued rifling aimlessly through her belongings.

“Looking for something?” the woman queried, reaching into her dress pocket to pull out a tightly bound leather booklet; it was Clara’s passport. Clara jumped up snatching it out of her hand as she flipped through the pages—there was a series of brilliant blue and green stamp marks emblazoned on the top row of squares. The first one read—Lemswarry Commons, Grierknelts Station. The next marking showed—The Sky Line Express, Destination—Hilwins Preparatory: Magical School of Enchantments and Wizardry Abound.

The date on the pass was stamped—Tuesday, August 1st—on each of the inscriptions. That’s impossible, how could it be she was already going to school? How could a whole week have passed without her knowing, without her remembering? Clara sat back, leaning against the bench as she wracked her brain; unsure of how she missed the signs.

All her things were here for school—her once neatly folded capes and cloaks were strewn about. Her books—the complete set of “Harmless Dreams and other Unnecessary Advice” by E.K. Modarth; “Detailing Mysterious Teleportation and its Inherent Risks” by Grumany Seaworth; “The Dukesmore Guide to Elemental Magic” by Yogsmarts and Halrinds; and lastly, her favorite book— “Volatile Crystals, Deadly Herbs and Unseen Magic” by Brenna Foulgarth—took up one whole set of luggage, not to mention her collection of tightly wrapped crystals, a spell shield, flasks and other assorted corked bottles—filled to the brim with more potions; some for spells, others for things like Comprehension Elixirs, Solar Clumps, Dried Briar Moths, Bark of Milk, Waxwarts, Tea-Horns, Rasrose and Murmurths. Everything she would need for her classes.

Clara’s trusty broom was still latched and folded, securely affixed to the bottom of her bag but she was unable to use it outside the school grounds. She looked around, still missing something, but what? In a smaller suitcase she found her wand case—everything was still as she left it, all her various wands—the most expensive of the bunch—a jewel encrusted hemlock root wand—twisted at the ends, barely the size of her hand was worth more than all her luggage combined. Clara carefully tucked her bag of coveted wands between layers of clothes—now, if she could only shut the massive luggage which was already bursting at the seams as she jumped across the ends of the suitcase—fighting with the zipper.

“Why did you have my passport,” Clara inquired, breathless from pushing and shoving things back into her luggage as she lay across in a failed attempt to latch it shut.

The woman seemed hesitant to answer—“If you must know, we are headed to school and don’t want to be late,” the woman whispered as she checked her timepiece with a huff. To Clara it seemed as though they were already behind schedule, but she couldn’t figure out why, why something didn’t seem right.

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“I’m Professor Albina Treeville,” the woman began, absentmindedly fiddling with the ornate metal shell that housed the clock she so desperately held onto as she swayed in an equally fidgety manner. “I was sent to pick you up, and quite a mess that was as I’m sure you know…”she continued, ignoring Clara’s growing contempt.

“No, actually…I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Clara muttered as she finally gave up on sorting her luggage, happy to leave it in a heaping mess on the floor. “And besides, it was undoubtedly you who went through my things, so you should be the one who has to repack it, not me…” Clara’s eyes went wide, instantly regretting what she had said.

“Are you upset about something my dear?” Professor Treeville mused, tapping the edge of her wand cautiously; Clara’s eyes darted around the room as she took in the unfamiliar sights.

“No, I just don’t know what is going on…” Clara responded, sounding as furious as she looked.

Professor Treeville didn’t give her a chance to say anything further as she tried her best to calm Clara down before something happened. “Never mind that, for now all you need to worry about is getting better, what’s done is done. No turning back now, and besides, the Headmistress is excited to meet you,” Professor Treeville declared as though that would make things better.

A swirling swish of her wand sent Clara’s luggage packing as it assembled itself effortlessly under the bench seat on the farthermost wall.

“That was easy enough,” Professor Treeville whispered, smiling as she turned towards the sliding compartment door. Stunned, Clara sat down, unsure of what to do next.

“I still don’t understand— how’d I get here? I can’t remember anything,” Clara whispered as she wondered what the Professor meant. “Why does the Headmistress want to see me, and why am I in a cabin by myself? I thought I was assigned to be with three other girls, my dorm-mates…am I sick?”

In all the confusion it appeared Clara had also forgotten her dorm-mates names…Ember something, maybe Amelia, or Eleanor. She couldn’t quite recall; either way, they were nowhere to be found. Besides, Clara was afraid to look out into the halls for fear of what she might see. The train sounded deadly quiet, not a peep could be heard, no laughter, giggling, loud pops of forbidden magic or clamoring commotion from the stewardess’s cart. Come to think of it, she hadn’t heard a single noise except for the train inspector and Professor Treeville all morning.

“Have no worries my dear, you will have your answers soon enough. Once the train stops we will get you sorted. But for now, stay put. I will be back around with dinner.”

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Clara waited patiently for dinnertime and was pleasantly surprised when Professor Treeville came by to get her from her compartment—this notion wouldn’t last long as they stepped out into the dimly lit hallway and passed by several windowless doors before rounding the corner. She had never been on a train like this; it was as though the rooms never ended.

“The rules of the train are simple,” began Professor Treeville, “don’t leave your compartment without summons, you are not to practice magic of any kind, wands and brooms are to be secured in your bags at all times. Do not accept company, make eye contact with any other passengers, or attempt to disembark without my express permission. Is that understood?”

Clara must have had a bewildered look on her face as she was ushered into the galley compartment of a spacious dining car. The glow from antique chandeliers dotted the table tops; there were a half-dozen other young people about her age already seated at individual tables as Clara was led to a table of her own. The crimson and gold paisley wallpaper lie in stark contrast to the thick cream tablecloths, black velvet curtains and paneled ceiling.

It was hard to avoid looking at the other people next to her. The tension in the room was unmistakable; Clara watched their eyes as they bore holes into their covered dinner plates, daring not to look up.

It was then something long and thin slammed across the top of her table, barely missing the ends of her hands as sparks shot out, singeing her skin and the table cloth before evaporating into oblivion. It was a wand, but not just any wand—the owner of this wand had slender, bony, reed-like fingers with sharply pointed nails and a baggy gowned cloak that fit four sizes too big against her skeletal frame.

“You will keep your eyes on the table, or I will take them from you,” the old woman cooed, her silvery hair hung in stringy wisps around her shoulders as she forced a smile to spread across her cracked lips. Clara felt her stomach sink as white hot fear welled up in her bones, settling in the pit of her spine. The woman had no teeth, no eyes, and yet there she stood looking down at Clara as though there was nothing wrong.

Clara watched as the old woman walked away—cracking her wand on every table as she passed by. Each whip-like pop shook Clara to her core with just enough fright to make her nauseous. Thankfully, the rest of dinner went by uneventfully as Clara picked at the plate in front of her—the food—a full chicken breast—roasted and seasoned to perfection, crisp green beans, buttery biscuits and mashed potatoes. She gulped down glass after glass of tartly sweet lemonade, but she wasn’t hungry. For some reason she had lost her appetite, losing with it her resolve to stay another second in silence.

After what felt like an eternity, Professor Treeville slipped in, summoning Clara from her thoughts. Finally—Clara whispered as she was led back down a long corridor. Clara counted the number of doors they passed—counting twelve before they came to an abrupt stop.

Professor Treeville tapped her wand gently on the outer pocket of Clara’s room as the door slid open—a bed had been pulled out and plush pillows and piles of knitted blankets were waiting for her. “I will bring tea around shortly, and you are to drink all of it,” Professor Treeville warned before shutting Clara in the darkened room.

Time must have passed as she waited for Professor Treeville. Before she knew it she was fast asleep until a noise, the unmistakable fluttering of wings stirred her from her slumber. Could it be a bird, an owl, her imagination? She crawled quietly over to the sliding compartment door just as the sound of wings flapped past her door again—in short soaring swoops. It was nearing midnight Clara suspected as she stepped out into the hall, she saw nothing. No winged beast was stirring about, stretching its wings; no injured bird piddling around at her feet. She half expected to see Professor Treeville standing there waiting for her to sneak out, but alas, not a soul was around.

Clara had all but locked herself back into her room when she heard something else that piqued her interest—voices, the unmistakable voice of Professor Treeville.

“I have her tea ready now, I already gave some to the others and Finchley…” Professor Treeville began, “you are not to mix them in with the regular passengers. You already made that mistake earlier when you went into Clara Langley’s compartment. Anyone could have seen her; you left the door wide open, in full-view. We can’t risk any further slip-ups. Once we get through the swallowing-quarries and closer to the school we can let them know. We just have to make sure they don’t figure it out before...before…” her voice trailed off. Tears had welled up in her throat—“...whatever happens they cannot find out about the uprisings and recent killings. Each of the students on this train is in a great deal of danger, especially the girl,” she whispered, her voice splitting, a tinge of regret could be heard, maybe even fear.

Clara could feel Professor Treeville hesitating, she must have looked back and forth to make sure the halls were still empty before she continued—“we can’t afford to have any panic, after-all, I have tried my best to combat any use of magic on the train but as you know, these students are crafty and I can only do so much. My stunning and deflecting charms don’t last as long as they used to and I can’t risk them being detected by the wrong person, especially someone from the Magistrate….at least until we know who's behind this.”

She paused again, likely to answer something Finchley had said but whatever it was Clara couldn’t hear, all she heard was Professor Treeville’s response— “Finchley…” she cautioned. “This was the only way we could get them safely back to the school. I know you don’t like it but there aren't any alternatives. Their families are gone now, and the consequences will be even more deadly for all of us if we get discovered.... We barely saved her, and you better pray nothing happens to the Headmistress before we get there or we will be on this train forever.”

Sensing the conversation had come to an abrupt end—Clara hurled herself onto her cot and threw the blankets around her. The dust still hovered in the moonlight when Professor Treeville slid into her room holding a steaming cup of tea before setting the tray down on the end of Clara’s bed.

“Remember, you are to drink every last drop. It tastes better warm…and give it a few minutes before lying back down,” Professor Treeville prodded, nudging the tray closer to Clara as she sat, smiling serenely on the corner, waiting for her to take a sip.

“Yes, I have to watch you drink it all, trust me, I wish it didn’t have to be this way but it’s for your own good,” Professor Treeville sighed as she gave Clara another reassuring smile as though reading the young girls mind.

Clara slowly put the cup to her lips as the bitter liquid poured into her mouth. It smelled strongly of creeping violets and dirty socks, yet it tasted better than she thought—like minty jasmine or powdered roses. She showed her empty cup to Professor Treeville before tucking in for the night.

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In all the hubbub Clara had managed to sneak one of her books out of her trunk for some light reading. If she wasn’t able to explore she might as well brush up on her spells. As she felt around the floor for her book, she thought back to what all she had heard Professor Treeville saying, hoping she would remember it come morning.

Her fingers grasped hold of the large, silk bound cover—“Spell-Whisperers, the History of Uncommon Practices and other Protective Charms” by Dr. Avery Stillspire; Clara thumbed through the pages until she landed on one that caught her eye—it was written centuries before by J. Howell and R. Patrick, a protective spell that allowed one to appear to be fully asleep when they were in fact wide awake, able to see whatever they wanted; to travel outside of their body as a ghost—passing through walls and people effortlessly. There didn’t seem to be any warnings under this particular spell but nonetheless, Clara was quite nervous about trying something new, she hadn’t even read the full effects of the spell as she whispered the words aloud—“Exspiriant Occasium.

Something was going on, but before she could read further she felt a hot wave roll over her as the room started fading, and with that she was gone, lost in a deep, paralyzing sleep.

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The sunlight burned against her skin but she was unable to move. Clara looked down at her translucent hands…it couldn’t be. She leaned over, staring down at herself as she lie petrified on the bed, sound asleep like a mummified zombie. It had to be a dream, it had to be a dream; she couldn’t be a ghost could she? What happened, was she dead? She tried pinching herself but it was no use, her fingers were immobile.

The door to her compartment flung open as Professor Treeville, Train-Inspector Finchley and some unknown woman entered.

“I found her like this, must be stunned or something. I wasn’t sure so I called for you…” Professor Treeville declared as she paced the floor in front of Clara, nervously wringing her hands, checking her clock for the umpteenth time.

Clara couldn’t believe it, she couldn’t understand—why couldn’t they see her eyes moving. She was watching them as they puttered about—poking and prodding at her with various tools.

“Nurse Abbott, Hazel…” muttered Train-Inspector Finchley, loudly clearing his throat—as he watched the nurse give Clara a heady shake before using a small lighted stick to check under the lids of her eyes—“they’re white, like she’s been cursed or something, has anyone given her anything or been in here,” Nurse Hazel asked before squeezing Clara’s cheeks. “Her skin is pale but stiff…definitely a sign of magic…” Nurse Abbott confirmed as the trio huddled over Clara to try and figure out a solution.

Meanwhile, Clara screamed from inside her trapped mind, it was no use they couldn’t hear her pleas. She hovered above herself aimlessly as she floated through their warm bodies. Finchley shuddered but outside of that, no one could feel her. She was a full-fledged ghost. As Clara looked around the room for anything she could signal with she saw it—the book was still open to the page on ghostly charms no one had even bothered looking. She floated over, her eyes reading the words more carefully—it didn’t mention anything about being stuck, and unfortunately for her, there was also no reversal charm listed.

She followed closely behind the trio as they quietly departed her room.

“For now, we will just carry on as usual, make it look like she’s still here, at least until we figure out what is going on,” Professor Treeville insisted; the others readily agreed.

“It’s what’s best for her,” Finchley mused, nervously fussing with the vest of his suit, patting down the top of his slicked back hair. “Business as usual…” he muttered to himself, walking away in another direction.

“I will look through my books and see if there is some sort of remedy—waking salts or stirring fumes I can use to break her out of her trance,” Nurse Abbott added as she shuffled off down the hall towards her personal cabin, the smoke rising out of her ears as she rambled off varying reversal charms to herself—“no, no, that won’t work…”she whispered, “ending night elixir…no, too simple…this will require some studying. No one bother me...I need to consult the books," Nurse Abbott instructed, slamming the sliding doors to her compartment shut.

Mind you, Clara had grown up hearing horror stories, tales of people being trapped in other worlds or paralyzed in their own bodies—and now she was one of them, she had to wake herself up before it was too late. She couldn’t live this way, she didn’t know what would happen to her body—after all, she wasn’t a ghost by traditional means, she wasn’t dead—or, at least she didn't think she was. What would happen to her if her body was killed? Would she be trapped here forever? The thought terrified her as she floated off down the hall—determined to see who was in the other compartments.

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“What in heavens name is that smell…?” Professor Treeville shrieked as she threw the door to Nurse Abbott’s office open—which seemed to only make matters worse.

“Oh, that…” Nurse Abbott replied as nonchalantly as possible—“that my dear is a Disrupting Charm—Lumegra Immortus—to be exact. It should do the trick. I had to pull out all the stops on this one; I tried everything—the Locust paste, Illusion Dust, a Conjuring Cloak, Seeking Spells, all of it. Nothing has worked yet…” Nurse Abbott paused as more frothy green smoke stung her eyes.

Train-Inspector Finchley came barreling in the door using his jacket to defend against the gagging smell.

“Please keep that door shut,” Nurse Abbott yelled as she set about fanning the bubbling opalescent tonic that sent popping sparks of pink and teal specs into the air adding to the smell of ashy, pepper-filled excrement.

“Well Hazel…” Train-Inspector Finchley yelped, “You've done it now. It isn’t like the entire train can’t smell this god-awful concoction you're brewing. At this rate, the smell will be here long after we're dead…” he paused, “and now people are starting to ask questions. We can’t just charm them all…”

Nurse Abbott pinched her nostrils with a worn clothes-pin as she poured remnants of the rotting potion into a pewter jar, humming to herself as she fumbled around her untidy desk before pulling out an unkempt pastry brush—“found it, here you are!” she exclaimed, her voice a tad too cheerful as she used the formidable tool to stir the toxic mush until it became syrupy.

Perfect,” she delighted before rushing down the hall towards Clara’s frozen body.

No, No, No!” Clara howled, yelling mostly to herself; knowing this wouldn't wake her up. She watched as Nurse Abbott slopped the slippery goop on her face, neck and wrists—“you have to get it on her pressure points,” Nurse Abbott exclaimed loudly as though the clothes-pin on her nose impeded her sense of hearing.

“Quiet down Hazel,” Train-Inspector Finchley hissed, “We aren’t deaf.”

“This isn’t going to work,” Clara cried as she soared upwards spinning around the trio like a bat out of hell. Not a hair stirred out of place as she whipped snaking her way through them, the tail of her body trailing behind, threading them together.

The train took another sudden lurch as the concoction in the jar of pewter tilted dangerously close, on the brink of spilling.

“What was that?” Train-Inspector Finchley queried, grabbing a hold of the window in a maddened attempt to steady himself as the train faced a fast approaching tunnel.

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“This isn’t right…” he whispered, the puff of his neck growing redder by the minute. “We shouldn’t be going this way,” he stammered, rushing out the door, heading towards the front of the train. You could hear him spitting and barking the whole way up.

Professor Treeville looked like she had seen a ghost; all the color in her face drained away as she clung tightly to the handle of Clara’s bedroom door.

Hazel…” Professor Treeville whispered, “Hazel…what are we going to do,” she cried. The woman exchanging knowing glances, but before Nurse Abbott could respond loud screeching and violent sparks filled their ears— the train made the most dreadful sound as though it was being ripped open.

The train didn’t appear to slow as smoke filled the room and they were submerged into pitch black darkness; the crushing weight of the tunnel crashed down around them. When they finally emerged from the tunnel the train had all but come apart, the tops of the train hung down around them, Train-Inspector Finchley rushed back in, he was a soot-filled mess, the ends of his hair fried and his tattered clothes shredded to pieces.

“We are on a new course, prepare everyone…” he warned as he turned to sound the alarm.

“We are under attack, Grommsworth is under attack.” He yelled, running from room to room to summon the other passengers—some of whom seemed itching for a fight as they appeared before Clara’s ghostly figure—some groggy, some looking as though they had prepared for this day for centuries. Clara could hear Train-Inspector Finchley whispering to Nurse Abbott as they huddled in the hallway nearest her office—“Hazel, I have no other way of saying this, the Head of Magistrate and the Headmistress are dead. We need to get everyone to a safe place and wait out the storm. There’s no stopping it now, the trains headed for Crystal Lake. You have to prepare yourself, get the students ready...”

Clara stiffened as she looked down at her frozen body. She was in no shape to fight off other Witches or Wizards in her ghostly state–especially not the ones who practiced dark or misused magic; they would surely be able to see her, maybe they would even kill her.

She watched as Professor Treeville tightened black gloves around her hands and readied her wand. Nurse Abbott did the same. The two women went from room to room, rousing the students from their sleep.

"Take them to the front, to the dining cab; begin the sorting..." Professor Treeville urged as she dragged Clara’s body behind the hordes of dazed students as they were ushered into what was left of the dining car.

Professor Treeville carefully laid Clara’s body in the middle of the cab as the students ambled closely about—all unsure of what was going on—“lie back my dear, it will all be over soon,” she whispered, leaning over Clara’s body as the sound of Clara’s own heartbeat could barely be heard over the uproar.

“Nurse Abbott, please keep an eye on her, we will make sure you have what you need…she whispered before turning to the swarming crowds, “I think we can begin…” Professor Treeville said, her orders barely a murmur as passengers began to disappear amongst the shadowy strangers that descended the train. Shouts of charms and spells, flickering lights and sparks of bolting beams protruded from various wands as the fight began and the train soared towards Crystal Lake.

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Clara turned, up until this point everyone had looked through her—not this one, she hovered face to face with someone familiar, someone she hadn’t seen in a long time, herself.

In the mirror she saw for the first time in days her reflection—but how could that be. In all her ghostly ways she thought this impossible, but as she looked closer she realized she wasn’t the only one, and soon, she felt the inky black tendrils of a ghostly dress slinking closer to her own ghostly reflection as she hovered paralyzed with fear—“hello dear, we’ve been looking for you…” the strange woman whispered, her ghostly figure hanging over Clara, consuming her.

Clara hovered, seizing as she grabbed onto every last ounce of her soul as the woman sank her claws into Clara squeezing the life from her in tightly twisting grasps. She felt her body shiver below as her eyes fluttered upward. The train rounded another bend and they plunged into the icy waters.

Clara heard the train scream as water rushed in, pooling around her body as the train plummeted farther below before something happened. It was strange; the light pulled her in as the sky went from a powdered blue to a pale shade of pink and the rickety train soared high above the ground and clouds passed through her like prickling mists.

Clara could see the feet of fellow train-goers as they continued fighting; stepping over her as though she wasn’t there. It took a minute before she realized she had been reunited with her body as the last of the shadowy invaders disappeared from sight, exploding like dozens of tiny stars as the train coasted along the clouds, barely escaping collapse as she crawled over to where Professor Treeville lie motionless and cold.

Nurse Abbott tended to the wounds of other passengers as Clara watched, clenching her jaw tight, waiting. Little did she know what new magic she possessed as the soft glow escaped from the tips of her fingers.

This really wasn't a dream...

Short Story

About the Creator

K.H. Obergfoll

Writing my escape, my future…if you like what you read—leave a comment, an encouraging tip, or a heart—I’m always looking to improve, let me know if there is anything I can do better.

& above all—thank you for your time

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Comments (7)

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  • Leeza Cooper2 years ago

    Wonderful story telling, enchanting, sophisticated plot. I see the connection now. Blessed Be.

  • Jyme Pride2 years ago

    Absolutely inspired writing at its finest! Harry Potter's stories have nothing on your creations--on this gem! A real treasure!

  • Kaliyah Myers2 years ago

    That is so nice! I really enjoyed it, major Harry Potter vibes but in a good way, if that makes sense. It's like a Cannon or Fanfic and I love it. 🥰

  • I'm a huge fan of Harry Potter. Your story was so fascinating to me! Excellent storytelling and world building. You did a fantastic job!

  • M.N. Negus2 years ago

    This is such an amazing story! It would make an amazing novel! I'd read the hell out of that!

  • Al2 years ago


  • Helena Vasquez 2 years ago

    Once I started, I had to keep reading. I like your voice 🌸

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