Ema
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Childhood - Part 3
🕑 Added 2025-06-12 08:20:31 +0000 UTCSacred Morgan Children's Home, Bath, England. July 13, 1989.
“—up! It's time to wakey-wakey Mikey-Mikey!” A squeaky, adolescent voice tore me—unwillingly—from my dreams.
When the vexing little brat then had the subsequent audacity to kick my bedframe, I nearly manifested magic in irritation.
“That’s been happening more and more often lately.” I thought as I blinked away the sleep from my eyes. “Which only asserts my earlier supposition that my magic is getting stronger and more proactive as I age."
If it wasn't for all the practice I’d undergone, not a day would transpire without me accidentally causing some magical mishap or incident.
Heck, even with my practiced discipline, mistakes frequently happened anyway.
“I guess I should count myself lucky I haven't hurt anyone yet.”
I frowned as I sat up in my bed, squinting at my grinning roommate. “Although I wouldn't mind accidentally giving this brat diarrhoea or something.”
Of course, that thought inadvertently caused me to spiral again. Ideas and theories flashing as I tried to conjecture what emotional concoction would allow me to manifest magical diarrhoea.
Not that I practiced magic on other people… or at least, I hadn't practiced on anyone intentionally before.
“Alex, you know you don't need to wake me up, right?” I gestured at our brand-new alarm clock, a courtesy from Father Beverley himself. “I'm perfectly capable of waking up on my own volition.”
“Tsk.” Alex, an orphan one year my junior, crossed his arms, giving me his best impression of the Sister White-eyes. “Like you did last week, you mean?” Alex shook his head with a huge smile. “The Matron nearly started cussing when you didn't show up to make breakfast.”
“Right.” I winced as I recalled that particular incident. I didn't usually cause any trouble, so the Matron hadn't dispensed any thrashing, but I still had to recite six whole verses from the book of revelations.
“Whatever.” I groaned as I stepped out of bed. My body still ached from yesterday's workout.
Alex must've noticed something else he found funny since he started giggling again.
“What?” I clipped, tired and grumpy for having my sleep robbed from me so often. Neither did it help that I constantly had to spend a facet of my energy on restraining my spark from lashing out at any given time.
“N-Nothing.” Alex’s giggling escalated.
“No, you tell me now.” My eyes darkened as my mind raced, conjecturing what hellish prank the brat must've pulled this time. It better not be something like the insects he'd put in my slippers last time, or help me God—magic or no magic—I vowed there'd be hell to pay.
“F-Fine.” Alex said, wiping a tear from his eye. “It's just, you really sounded like Father Beverley just now.”
“Oh…” I sighed, partly relieved, partly exhausted. “That's fine.”
There were worse men in the world one could take after than that jolly old priest.
Without any more time to waste, Alex and I headed down to prepare some breakfast for the rest of the orphanage.
A lot had changed over the last five-and-a-half years, least of all me.
Last year, Jessica followed in Rachel's footsteps and officially graduated the orphanage by turning eighteen. At eighteen, all unadopted orphans receive a stipend from the Church before being thrust out into the real world. And though there were still some social scaffoldings in place—partly from the government and partly from the Church—Jessica hadn't needed either, seeing as she found employment in London.
I wasn't ashamed to admit that I'd cried a little bit when she hugged me goodbye at her graduation party.
Presently, the last of the “old teenagers” was Tom—who got to bask in the glory of being the oldest orphan for a few more weeks before he too graduated the orphanage.
Older kids weren't as sought after by adoptive parents
When Tom's finally gone, Gabriel, Anton, and Isabella would officially become the new top dogs of the orphanage.
Excluding the Sisters and the Matron, of course.
I, on the other hand, was a bit of an outlier in the orphanage’s social hierarchy.
Thanks to my continued maturity, excellent grades, and above average manners, the Matron had begrudgingly granted me a number of privileges few of the other orphans enjoyed.
There'd been a number of minor issues stemming from jealousy, but they'd mostly dissolved by themselves without my intervention.
The issues that required my personal attention were often solved using… unorthodox methods.
Could I have figured things out without always defaulting to magic? Probably. But it was a lot more fun making Anton and Gabriel believe that there's a ghost haunting the orphanage.
Now, while some would perhaps call what I was doing child abuse, I liked to think of it as karma that just needed a bit of extra help getting dispensed.
Needless to say, my relationship with Anton had never really recovered, but neither had it gotten that much worse.
Personally, I liked to think of us as two bickering brothers, though I doubted he viewed me the same way.
Another noteworthy piece of news was the controversy sparked by Sister Taylor’s affair with Father Beverley’s second son. Apparently, word had gotten out that they'd been dating in secret for quite some time. And even though I didn’t know exactly how the affair was resolved, I knew Sister Taylor remained under the Matron’s employ which, to me, was what ultimately mattered.
Additionally, my two favourite twins, Vera and Victor, were growing like weed in the sun. I didn't get to see them as often as I’d like—adopted as they were by a couple living a bit outside of Bath—but I still visited them when opportunity struck.
Out of all the orphans, Vera and Victor were the only ones who called me “Big Brother Mickey”. Usually, the Matron discouraged us orphans from referring to each other with words of familiarity like that, but my relationship with the twins went beyond what was the norm at the orphanage. Which wasn't weird since I'd practically raised them for three whole years.
“Lucky bastards…” I cursed, thinking about the parents who adopted them. Needless to say, I had done my own research to find out what kind of people they truly were. And whilst they weren’t quite good enough for my twins, they sufficed since they were a better option than sporadically getting raised by some weird orphan at an orphanage.
The final big change at the establishment was in actuality a bunch of smaller changes that occurred over a prolonged period of time.
Or maybe they would prefer to be called additions instead?
Yes, that's right, more orphans. And I really wish I could say that I would've preferred it if they were never orphaned to begin with. But based on some of things the children had revealed to me about their lives before the orphanage, I wasn't sure if being an orphan was the worse alternative.
And how sad wasn't that notion?
As their senior, I naturally took it upon myself to make sure they felt welcomed. In a sense, I channelled my inner Jessica.
The uncomfortable divide between what was formerly Michael the orphan and Michael the teacher was now completely gone. And whilst my former life's memories and traumas definitely took the lion’s share of my personality, I was glad that that wasn't all of whom I was.
Naturally, it went without saying that neither of my parents had shown up to reclaim me, despite the Falklands War ending a long time ago.
A few years ago, their absence might've hurt me, but now, even the original part of my personality had started to feel jaded towards the fading memories of my birth parents.
Nevertheless, a part of me wished that my father had returned from the war and was out there looking for me somewhere. But even if he never appeared in my life again, I couldn’t say how affected I'd be emotionally.
I missed him, yes. But I could barely remember him anymore.
Needless to say, I didn't blame him for leaving. If anyone was to blame, it was the Argentinian president who made the stupid decision to invade the Falkland Islands, thinking Britain was weakened by the second world war. To no one’s surprise, the war was short-lived. Still, despite never being officially declared by either sovereign party, the ramifications of the so-called conflict had an ever-lasting effect on thousands of people.
Including me.
Still, the war, because it was a war, no matter what the media portrayed it as, ultimately became a huge political success for Thatcher. The victory cemented the UK’s sovereignty over the paradisical island, halfway around the world. Following the conclusion of the conflict, the Iron Lady had never been more popular.
But my father, along with hundreds of other Englishmen, were either missing or killed in action.
Unfortunately, even if I possessed all the magic in the world at my disposal, I still wouldn’t be able to change the past.
“But…” I hesitated. “Maybe I can change the future?”
The first two events I thought of were the Rwanda genocide in 1994 and 9/11 in 2001. But there were probably many more atrocities I could think of if I put my mind into it.
“Is there a way for me to prevent all these things from happening?” If so, I could potentially save millions of lives. But for one person, an orphan with no money or influence, to do so… It felt farfetched and improbable.
Still, I couldn’t not do something.
“But first, I have to focus on growing up and earning money.” Even in an alternate timeline with magic in it, money remained the undisputed king of influence. And, while I wish my old memories had included knowledge about which lotto numbers would win the jackpot, for some inexplicable reason, the previous me never bothered to memorize those.
Every year that passed was a year of wasted financial opportunities. Furthermore, not even the maturity of an eighty-year-old Buddist sage would be enough to convince the Matron to give me—a ten, soon-to-be eleven- year-old—access to the books.
I'm also glad to reveal that I've skipped not one, not two, but three whole grades. My academic career caused such a stir that it even wound up featuring in some local newspapers.
“The Orphan Prodigy of Bath.” The journalist had dubbed me, ignorant or uncaring of all the embarrassment the title would cause me.
Of course, that was when most of the prospective adoptive parents started to appear from the woodwork, like mosquitoes smelling blood.
Fortunately, even the Matron saw most for who they were: Greedy bastards who cared more about my future potential than my current person. And for all her faults, the Matron would never allow someone untrustworthy to adopt one of her orphans.
However, not all of the prospective parents were bad people. Some seemed genuine in their desire to adopt me, and a few even claimed that they hadn't even known about the article until we brought it up ourselves here at the orphanage.
Still, despite their good intentions, I refused every single one of them without fail. Though most of the reasons I provided the Matron with were complete hogwash.
The real reason why I could never allow anyone to adopt me was that I wasn't who they thought I was.
They weren't adopting a bright-eyed ten-year-old boy, they were adopting a reincarnated teacher who was pushing forty if you combined both lives. And whilst my reasoning might be somewhat oversimplified, it was still valid in my opinion.
No, the more I thought about it, the more sense it made for them to adopt a real orphan: someone who needed a loving family a lot more than I did.
“Ouch.” I accidentally nicked my finger while cutting a pair of cucumbers.
“Be careful Mickey.” Alex said from his station by the sink.
“Yeah yeah…” I waved him off while heading for the first aid kit. Bandaging the cut, I looked at the silly cartoon characters that now danced on my finger.
“I miss Vera and Victor.” I thought without meaning to.
…
After breakfast had concluded, I strolled up to the third floor where I entered one of the offices that had stood empty seven years ago.
That's right. I was no longer practicing magic in decrypt old sheds or dirty, cluttered storage rooms.
After the local news published their article on me, I quickly took advantage of the Matron’s good spirits to ask for a room where I could “study” in peace.
The Matron had been hesitant at first but relented once both of the Sisters began to back me up on the issue.
Best of all? It was a room I was permitted to lock in order to “better focus on my studies”. The orphanage personnel still had spare keys, but it stopped any unruly orphan from accidentally stumbling in when they weren't supposed to.
Needless to say, in spite of all the textbooks that littered the floor, the only thing being studied here was magic.
Overall, I was mostly pleased with the progress I'd made these last seven years. Nevertheless, with how extremely capricious magic tended to be, progress had been slower that I would've liked.
But, over such a long period of time, even minor developments tend to add up.
Based on my findings, magic—as far as I could tell—consisted of three crucial components: intent, a meticulously curated concoction of emotion, and the consumption of a replenishable form of energy which is usually referred to as my “spark” of magic.
So far, the best analogy I have been able to come up with is a blind man painting on an empty canvas with his bare hands. In this analogy, the emerging art on the canvas symbolizes intent, the masterful hands symbolize emotions, and the colourful paint is the replenishable energy created by my spark.
Unfortunately, apart from some minor albeit exciting accomplishments, I had yet to become the next proverbial Avatar. This was mainly due to three different problems.
First, once my "paint" runs out, my "hands" are unable to finish the "art". Ergo, when my dwindling reservoir of energy is depleted, my emotions lose whatever magical significance they are imbued with to manifest magic. Subsequently, the framework of my intent will dissipate into oblivion, more often than not leaving a minor headache in its wake.
Furthermore, it had to be stated how excruciatingly difficult it is to know how much "paint" was required for said "art" to manifest properly. Too much "paint" and you risked blowing everything up spectacularly in your face, too little and you risked leaving the "art" unfinished or too undeveloped to be realized.
Second, despite all the advantages my analogy provided me with, my "hands" weren't actually hands. Neither were they as nimble or easy to maneuver as a physical limb would be. No, in reality, my "hands" were a deliberate and meticulous use of curated emotions: An entirely new kind of self-expression. One could even call it a language of sorts. The base emotions, fear, happiness, sadness etc., make up the fundamental letters in this make-believe language, and the ratio and combination of said letters form words, which in extension become sentences or even paragraphs when combined together.
Needless to say, it’s incredibly complex and even with the language analogy, it is difficult to underscore just how capricious working with one’s personal emotions can be. Even the slightest of variables can result in a mockery of an artwork.
Finally, there was the problem inherent in my "art"—or rather, my intent.
Thanks to the memories I'd awakened from my past life, my intent was most likely leaps beyond what was the norm for a child my own age.
Nevertheless, I frequently find myself grumbling over the flimsiness of my intent. It wasn't just a matter of vivid visualization either, but willpower and mental resilience as well. Any momentary lapse in concentration would inadvertently ruin the manifestation, manifest something completely random, or result in a manifestation lacking in potency.
Although still just a hypothesis, my current theoretical understanding explained why I sometimes manifest magic impulsively when beset by emotions. It also explained why I had such difficulties consciously controlling what form my magic took.
It was obvious. Whenever I got sufficiently angry, frustrated, or upset, I stopped being in control of my emotions, or the "hands" creating the "art". Thus, in that brief moment of impulsivity, whatever flimsy, half-hearted intent I had would be irreparably ruined, all while being pumped with an extraordinary amount of spark energy.
Ergo, in order to master magic, I have to first master my emotions. I had to find a way to deliberately trigger certain emotions, while remaining stoic to others. Additionally, the emotions had to be felt nearly instantaneously.
Moreover, an overdependence on external stimuli could easily lead to being incapacitated when it mattered.
As one would expect, mastering one’s emotions was a lot easier said than done. Especially for someone stuck in a prepubescent body, with undeveloped cognitive abilities.
Still, after a lot of toiling experimentation, I had come up with a way to systematically manifest the same effect multiple times.
All I had to do was work backwards, using a catalyst for my emotions.
By summoning a particularly meaningful memory—and its associated emotional bagage—I could somewhat ubiquitously reproduce the same manifestation as long as my spark remained sufficiently energized.
Interestingly, this was when I discovered that there existed a resonance between certain intents and emotional responses. Even so, since all people have different preferences and proclivities, I reckoned that my current system of magic was tailor made for me.
But work it did, and beautifully so, I might add.
For nostalgia’s sake, let's use the levitating leaf as an example.
All kinds of emotional responses can make the leaf levitate temporarily, but to varying degrees of success and efficiency. To make the leaf float in place gently, a soft emotional concoction was generally more efficient, typically a memory of relaxing by the ocean, petting a cat, or just sleeping. If I wanted the leaf to move faster, a memory of missing the bus or something involving exhilaration proved more efficient.
Interestingly, a stronger memory didn't necessarily translate into a better manifestation.
But the emotional concoction wasn't sufficient by itself. No, to manifest my desired effect, a sufficiently powerful intent was similarly required, along with enough spark energy to fuel the process.
Thus, in incredibly simplified terms, controlled spellcasting was the combination of intent, emotions, and a measured dose of magic.
Presently, I can evoke a magical manifestation deliberately four times out of five. Whether the manifestation successfully fulfils my intent, however, is another question entirely.
The manifestation also becomes progressively more difficult to evoke the further away from my body I try to conjure it. Supporting the theory that I'm not manipulating external energy but burning my own internal reservoir.
My current record is making a leaf wobble a little from approximately five meters away. Yet, I can make a rock the size of my fist float just as easily if it's in the palm of my hand.
Finally, since there's a limit to how many hours I can practice per day, I've currently limited my repertoire of “spells” to three.
Levitating objects being my primary focus since it had the potential of unlocking unassisted flight.
Changing the colour of objects—primarily into blue for some reason—was the second ability I practiced.
And finally, the Jedi push, which was quickly becoming my favourite.
I was currently moderately proficient in all three of my chosen areas of specialization.
I can levitate a rock the size of my fist for about twenty uninterrupted seconds, but doing so presently requires my undivided attention. Thus, I'm currently working on my ability to steady my intent through distractions and disturbances.
I can change the surface of nearly anything into blue. So far, the shift appears to be permanent but requires an astonishing amount of spark energy. To this date, the largest object I've been able to change the colour of is the key to my office. And while I have been able to use other colours, mainly yellow and red, I'm not sure if I did so deliberately or by accident.
Finally, repelling objects away from me. I thought long and hard about which kind of offensive spell I wanted to incorporate into my repertoire. With my childish physique, I was under the mercy of every single adult if it came down to a fight. Thus, I reckoned I should use magic to try to remedy that.
At first, I'd considered learning how to deliberately reproduce the effect of rip objects into ribbons.
Out of all the manifestations I've been able to produce, this one had the potential of being the most lethal. Furthermore, to my exasperating dismay, I felt like I already had the perfect catalyst ready for the effect.
But I didn't need—or want—-to rip people into dozens of slivers. I needed a way to protect myself, yes, but potentially others as well. The “repel objects” spell was a lot more functionally diverse than my “tear objects apart” spell. Besides, I could always learn more ruinous spells in the future.
And also, it pacified my inner child to pretend to use the Force.
“Enough reminiscing.” I shook my head.
My new magic workshop was actually smaller than the storage room had been. But without the cluttering mess, it was functionally larger.
In the middle of the room stood an old table. On it, journals and textbooks remained haphazardly open.
In the centre, however, was the real subject of my study. At least currently.
A suspiciously blue ten-pence coin.
Flicking my wrist, I willed the blue coin to turn red instead. The catalyst I used for manifestation was a very old memory I had of receiving chocolate on Valentine's day.
Inside of me, separate from my physical body, I could faintly feel my spark energy rouse in response to my intent. Following the instincts I'd cultivated from tens of thousands of experiments; I withdrew what I felt was a sufficient amount for the task at hand.
Immediately, magic manifested, and the targeted 10-pence coin turned crimson red on the table.
Shifting the coin around in my palm, I was glad to discover that both sides had shifted colours and were uniformly of the same red hue.
Closing my eyes, I attempted to gauge the state of my spark.
“Hmmm…” I furrowed my brows. “Approximately a third of my reservoir? Maybe a bit less, closer to a fourth?” It went without saying that examining my reservoir was by no means an exact science.
It was kind of like trying to quantify how hungry you are. Is it even possible to be 100% hungry? Is that when you're dead from starvation? Or is it when your stomach starts growling?
Similarly, my spark was never actually empty. Even during the most tedious stage of my “spark measurement” phase, I had continued to feel the faint trace of magic clinging to me.
If it was possible to extinguish the spark of magic, I didn't know how.
Not that I would ever want to extinguish the thing that made me capable of magic.
Following my first successful spell, I proceeded to target the coin two more times, turning it yellow and blue respectively.
Inexplicably, the last spell catalyst—an old memory of me joking around with my grandpa on his boat—was so energy efficient that my spark barely lost a fifth of its capacity.
“There's still so much to research…” I complained, but the faint, indelible smirk on my lips revealed my true feelings on the matter.
Nevertheless, with that latest spell, I had accomplished what I set out to do. My spark was now dull enough that I temporarily wouldn't have to spend the lion's share of my attention on constantly suppressing spontaneous manifestations from appearing.
Of course, by around lunch time, I would have to repeat the ritual if I wanted to prolong the effect of my self-inflicted debuff.
Thus, it was with a nearly depleted spark and the beginning of a headache, that I set off to school.
…
Despite skipping three grades, most of what I did in school remained a dreadful farce that I endured because I had to.
Naturally, my teachers had discovered the ease at which I completed their assignment and proceeded to hand me harder and harder tasks to complete.
By now, I was pretty certain that those pestering bastards were handing me essays that were on a high-school level. I knew for complete certainty that math was already up there, since it said so on the textbook cover.
Nowadays, after some deliberation, I have stopped doing these “extra” assignments. It wasn't because they didn't teach me anything, like all skills, academic ones need practicing if you want them to stay sharp.
However, I could see that my performance was starting to attract an unwanted amount of attention.
So, much to my teachers’ evident consternation, I only did what my peers were doing.
Needless to say, lowering myself to my classmates’ level made school even more of a charade.
All of this resulted in art becoming my favourite subject. In my previous life, I never had the time nor interest to pursue artistic pursuits. Sure, maybe I had dabbled a bit here and there, but since I wasn't innately gifted, I gave up pretty fast.
Therefore, it came somewhat as a surprise that art of all things would find its way into good graces. Presently, art had become my primary academic interest, barring magic, of course.
Although, admittedly, at this point magic was something more reminiscent to a compulsory obsession rather than a mere interest.
Now, was all the amount of time I spent in my office—studying magic until my head started pounding—healthy? Probably and presumably not.
But that's why I've recently started incorporating some physical exercises into my daily routine, specifically before bed. With all the experiments, theories, and analyses of magical manifestations, it sometimes becomes easy to forget that I was in my formative years, after all.
Art, despite my silly prejudice towards the subject, became an outlet for me to express feelings I could not—or would not—put into words. In extension, art helped me practice how to express and understand my emotions in more abstract and creative ways. This naturally had a positive transfer on my primary focus.
And though my artistic proficiency wasn't nearly on the same level as my academic ones, I nonetheless found great joy and meaning in the improvement I made.
Though people might not realize it, apart from magic, art was the second skill I’d developed in this life. And it made it all the difference in the world since it was something I could talk to people about.
No man's an island and, since Jessica graduated, even I had begun to realize that.
Another reason why the art studio became my refuge at school was because of the art teacher, a woman who was around the same age as I'd been before I reincarnated.
And while I wouldn’t refute the fact that I fancied the bombshell of a woman a little, it was purely platonically. My body was that of a prepubescent boy, after all.
No, the real reason I liked hiding out in the art studio was that it was typically vacant—meaning I could sneak some magic practice in occasionally—and luckily for me, Ms. Penrose was awfully lax when it comes to locking the door after herself.
“Finally, some peace and quiet.” I thought as I leaned my back against the door; in front of me rows of empty, miscoloured desks were illuminated by the natural sunlight peering in from the oversized windows; like always, the art studio was vacant during lunch time.
“I have thirty minutes.” I sighed tiredly as I collapsed on one of the stools. “Let’s do this.” With a blue 10-pence coin in my hand, I started.
Today was Friday, which meant the morning had been spent in P.E. class. And whilst I might be smarter than the 14-to-15-year-olds I went to school with, I definitely wasn’t stronger or faster.
And for some reason, Mr. Bradshaw, my P.E. teacher, was determined to single-handedly alleviate me of that perceived flaw.
Still, all my fatigue dissipated when the blue coin began to levitate in front of me. Notably, more slowly than usual.
“Some tiredness must’ve bled into the catalyst…” I concluded, watching the coin spin slowly in the air. The spin I added deliberately and was a neat little trick that required just a touch of creativity.
After ten seconds, I dismissed the effect, causing the coin to drop back into my palm.
“I still have enough spark for one larger manifestation, or two smaller ones.” Today, I felt like challenging myself a bit.
Readying my intent, I focused on the chair in front of me. The catalyst I chose for this manifestation was both old and powerful. It was when, in another life, my dog was attacked by a mutt without a lease. I could still vividly remember the adrenaline I felt coursing through me as I jumped between the two tussling dogs, pushing both mongrels away from each other.
The chair’s legs screeched as it was pushed by an invisible force across the room. If someone saw the moving object, I could easily claim that I’d pushed it with my leg.
After sliding for two meters, it fell over, making a bunch of racket in the otherwise silent art studio.
“A new record!” My eyes shone as I looked at the fallen chair. Not only was it—what I referred to as—a medium-sized object, but it travelled almost a whole meter farther than the last time I attempted the manifestation.
Hurriedly I jotted down as much information I could about the catalyst I had used and the feeling I had gotten from the manifestation. I would have to transcribe the information into my journal when I got home.
“Awesome.” I smiled a toothy grin that didn’t look out-of-place on my ten-year-old face. Happy despite feeling like both my body and soul had been put through the wringer.
Previously, my strongest push had been that of a nasty punch, while this one had been pushed with the power equivalent to a strong kick.
It might not sound like a lot, but in the world of deliberate magic, it was a huge improvement.
Sure, if I unchained my emotions completely and bombarded my intent with spark energy, I might be able to manifest a push several times stronger.
But I was just as likely to tear the chair apart, or make it glow, or get it to start dancing. It was no longer difficult to just manifest magic. What was difficult was manifesting the magic I wanted.
I knew I had the capacity for power; what I needed was the ability to control it. The problem was that the older I got, the more my magical spark grew in intensity. Every day it gets easier to spontaneously manifest magic, and every day, the amount of effort I have to spend to control myself from accidentally hurting someone increases.
When I was five, unleashing all my magic had resulted in some semi-strong winds, a shaking chandelier, and a few cables being overcharged with electricity.
Comparing my current spark to the one back then was like comparing the flame of a flickering candle to that of a well-lit torch.
I often had nightmares about accidentally losing control out in public.
What was even worse was that I theorized that growing older wasn’t the only reason why my energy capacity was increasing. No, I surmised that the more I practiced my magic, the faster the spark grows, similar to a muscle getting flexed constantly.
For now, my control was increasing in unison with my capacity. But I couldn’t completely eradicate the fear of what would happen when that stopped being the case. Would practicing a couple hours every day still suffice, even when I entered puberty?
For some reason, I doubted that.
To stop practicing magic wasn’t a solution either. Even if I disregarded my personal desire to learn magic, my body wouldn’t magically stop growing older just because I needed more time. Heck, even if I stopped practicing how to manipulate magic, who’s to say the situation wouldn’t immediately spiral out of control?
No, as things currently stood, the only option I had was to keep going, hoping that I would keep making enough findings to keep the spark tame and under control.
Lunchbreak ended before I wanted it to. The purpose of a school bell ringing ostensibly ubiquitous no matter what decade you were born in.
After lunch, I had geography and English literature. We’re reading Lord of the Flies right now, which I haven’t read in ages. Discussing symbolism with my teacher, I cannot help but draw some uncomfortable parallels between the Beast and my spark. Like the deserted children’s apprehension for their capacity of violence, so do I fear the capacity of my magic.
Naturally, most of what the teacher and I talk about fly straight over my classmates’ disinterested heads.
After school’s ended, I’m asked to wait behind for yet another one-on-one with my teacher.
Mrs. Brown is one of those teachers who want what is best for her students. And she won’t be happy until she’s wrung every last one of us of our will to live.
I’m exaggerating a bit, but it’s also Friday afternoon. As a former teacher myself, I cannot help but to question her decision to ask a well-mannered student like myself to stay behind on a Friday afternoon.
Is she trying to antagonize me? If so, she's succeeding.
“Yes, Mrs. Brown?” I asked when the final student vacated the classroom.
Sighing, Mrs. Brown corrected her glasses.
“Mr. Morgan.” She began. “I don’t understand why you continue to limit yourself.”
I suppressed a scoff; we’ve had this conversation before. And I wasn’t a fan of repeating myself when there was no reason to.
“Also, I want you to know that I’ve done what you asked for. I’ve spoken with the rest of the faculty, imploring them to change their stance on the issue. But it seems you won’t be permitted to skip another grade. You see, school is about more than just acquiring knowledge, it’s about growing up and learning who you are in larger social context.”
This time, I couldn’t help but to refute her.
“Are you saying I’m asocial?” I stared her in the eyes. “Tell me, Mrs. Brown. What 'growing' do I get exactly from spending more of my time here?” I gestured vaguely at the classroom.
“Well, for one thing, you need to learn how to make friends.” Mrs. Brown narrowed her eyes at me.
“I’ve got friends.” I scoffed before I could help myself.
“You’ve got acquaintances.” Mrs. Brown corrected me. “Or worse, pupils.”
“What about Alex?” I retorted, referring to my roommate in Year Five.
“Please.” Mrs. Brown finally snapped. “Despite what some of my colleagues might think, I do not infantilize you, Michael. The least you can do is return the gesture.”
I wanted to refute her. To tell her she’s wrong. To tell her that she doesn’t know what she’s talking about. But for some reason, I couldn't say anything.
“Your sibling,” mrs. Brown finally said, referring to Alex, “is a lovely boy who’s beloved by many of his peers. In fact, he might even have too many friends, if what I hear from Ms. Penrose is to be believed.”
Mrs. Brown shook her head. And I knew what she was going to say before the words were uttered.
“But you’re not one of them, Mr. Morgan.” Mrs. Brown said, with a tone so steeped in finality that I couldn't help but to wince a little. “Mind you, I’m not saying you don’t care for your sibling, but I’ve seen the way you two interact—how he follows you around the cafeteria. How he, and many of the other kids, do your bidding without question.”
Mrs. Brown sighed.
“What the two of you have—while similar—is different from friendship. And while I cannot stand her and claim that I know what it is like to grow up an orphan—because I don’t—I’ve been a teacher and a mother long enough to recognize a pair of siblings when I see them.”
I couldn't help but to look away from her disturbingly knowing eyes.
“To him, you’re his older brother, Mr. Morgan. Maybe even a role-model.”
Again, unable to refute her, I remained quiet. Alex's a brat who's admittedly grown on me a little, much like how mold grow on cheese after it’s been neglected for too long.
I even admit I care for him a little. But it’s true that I see him more as a younger brother, instead of as a peer.
“Fine.” I said, feeling strangely defeated. If it weren’t for my depleted spark, this interaction definitely would have caused problems.
“Don’t worry.” Mrs. Brown's smile was positiively radiantly, but it did little to comfort me. “Year 11 won’t be so bad, you’ll see.”
…
So upset was I after my chat with Mrs. Brown ended, that I nearly forgot to wait for Alex, Rose, and Beatrice to finish their own classes so we could walk home from school together.
Though it wasn’t strictly necessary, the Sisters greatly appreciated it when I accompanied the younger orphans back home from school. And since it seldom required much effort on my part—we all lived at the same place, after all—I found it difficult to say no.
Anton, Tom, Gabriel, and Isabella were much better at saying no than I was.
Maybe I was doing them a disservice by doing what they were supposed to?
“I need to become better at refusing people...” I muttered bitterly to myself.
Alex’s face lit up like a Christmas tree when he saw me waiting at our usual spot. After hurriedly waving goodbye to his friends, a few of whom had parents waiting for them, he bolted to me with his backpack thumping against his back.
Staring at him, I suddenly realized what Mrs. Brown meant by our “interactions”.
“Mickey!” Alex smiled a toothy grin at me. “Did you wait for long?”
“No, I just got here.” I mumbled back; a bit uncomfortable with how clear the nature of our relationship had become to me all of a sudden.
“What’cha say?”
“Nothing.” I roused myself alert by slapping my cheeks. “Rose and Beatrice?”
“Both on their way, they said.” Alex answered, rummaging through his pockets.
Before long, two other orphans joined us. Rose was two years younger than me—at nine-and-a-half—while Beatrice had just turned six.
“Great. Everyone ready to—" My question was interrupted when Alex suddenly threw something at the girls.
“Ninja attack!!” He screamed, much to my exasperation.
Beatrice let out a girlish shriek as a paper shuriken bumped harmlessly against her chest.
“Alex!” Rose shouted angrily. “I told you! You can’t do stuff like that!”
“Oh please. You’re not the boss of me.” Alex replied, waving away the rebuke in a manner that made it seem like he's accustomed to doing so. “Besides, ninjas use throwing stars, everybody knows that.”
“You’re not a ninja!”
With the trio of orphans at each other’s throats close behind me, I slowly made my way homeward.
What I failed to notice were the two feline eyes watching me.
…
“...Can’t wait for school to end next week.” Alex said wistfully for the sixth time on our way back. Before I could respond, however, Rose ran ahead of us.
“We’re home!” Rose shouted as she opened the gate; in the garden, two teenagers glanced back at us.
“Look, it’s the Tiresome Threesome.” Skinhead Tom greeted with a smirk—Anton standing right behind him like the trained attack dog that he was, ready to pounce at any given notice.
Before Alex or Rose could start something—again—I cut in. “Not today, Tom, it’s been a day.”
“Fine, whatever.” Tom said, after a beat of confrontation.
I smiled mirthlessly at his antics, knowing that it’s not me, but my relationship with the orphanage personnel that made him back off.
“Maybe it's for the best. You've got a guest anyway.” Tom muttered so softly I almost missed it.
“A what?” I unconsciously replied.
“A guest.” He snapped at me, but elaborated, nonetheless. “Some old weirdo wearing a cloak.”
“Maybe you’re finally getting adopted, Michael.” Anton added needlessly. “But I have to say, it’s fitting that only some old weirdo would want anything to do with you.”
“Ahem!” The Matron coughed, causing everyone’s attention to shift to the front porch.
By the entrance to the orphanage, an old, thin, woman towered over the Matron. The elderly woman had glasses and wore an emerald-green cloak—which somehow didn’t look silly on her—as she studied us orphans with her sharp, keen gaze.
“Mr. Morgan, this woman… excuse me but I forget your name?” The Matron asked politely, turning to the tall woman next to her.
“Professor McGonagall.” The tall woman added stoically.
“Yes, of course.” The Matron nodded. “Professor McGonagall says she would like to have a word with you.”
I heard a window crack as I stared dumbfoundedly at Professor McGonagall. The bespectacled woman must’ve also noticed the crack as her lips suddenly thinned in displeasure.
“Nice to meet you Mr. Morgan.” Professor McGonagall’s voice sounded serious. “I believe we have much to talk about.”
…
