Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When Mirabel didn’t get her gift, age five, her family stopped noticing her. It was small at the beginning, Isabela stopped playing with her, her grandmother stopped asking about her day. Then, it was bigger, “Ay, stop it Mira, just stay in your room,” “I’m busy, go bother someone else,” “you ruin everything. ” 

By the time Mira is six, she is aware that she will never be worth anything to her Abuela. She will never be a true Madrigal. She never got a gift, never had a glowing door, and she never will get a magical room in this family of magical people. 

But when Mira is seven, a strange thing happens. A village boy she’s playing with hits his head on a rock when he slips on the road. It bleeds and Mira wishes and wishes she was like her mother and could just give the boy an arepa and heal him. Her hands flutter anxiously around his bleeding head and she wishes so hard to help him that her lips turn blue. When she lays her hand against his forehead, his wound knits itself right up and heals. 

The boy looks at her with eyes of wonder and says, “You really are a Madrigal, Mirabel. Your gift is healing.” 

Mirabel goes home skipping and tells her mom all about it, gesturing excitedly. Her mom gets this soft and sad look and draws Mirabel close to her. “You are my miracle, mija, maybe you did not get a gift because you are a gift to this family just by being you.”

“No but mama, I promise, I healed his head - bam - I can do it, I’m just like the rest of us, I saw it –,” 

And Abuela overhears, and says, “Julieta. You cannot let her harbor these delusions. It isn’t healthy.” 

And so, Mira cries into her mother’s shirt and lets everyone think it’s because she has no gift, even though she know she does, she must. There is something golden inside her. She cries because her family does not see it.

She sees it every now and again, her weird-not-normal-but-still-magic-magic. She summons a spoon to her hand when no one is watching, she lights a candle from across the room. When she needs something and wishes very hard, things happen. Never big things. She’s full of little miracles. Maybe that's why she doesn't have one big gift. She has many minuscule ones instead. She can’t grow bushes and bushes of flowers like Isabela, or lift up mountains like Luisa, but she can make flower petals dance and make heavy things a bit lighter. 

When she’s eight, she tries to prove it to her Abuela. She tries saying, “Maybe I have a lot of small gifts instead of a big gift, see look what I can do with –” but before she can demonstrate her ability to turn a kinder-stick into a needle, her Abuela grabs her by her shoulders. 

“YOU DO NOT HAVE A GIFT, MIRABEL. YOU WILL NEVER HAVE A GIFT!”

“But, Abuela,” Mirabel begins.

“No, Mirabel, no. It is enough already. I am tired of hearing you and I am tired of you pretending you have the miracle when you do not. There is no miracle in you, Mirabel. So just, stay out of the way of the familia, alright? Stop asking for us to see your tricks. It will be better for everyone.”

Mirabel feels her eyes grow heavy with tears. She nods jerkily and stares at the ground, “Yes, Abuela.” 

She feels a heavy hand on her shoulder, and it’s the last time her Abuela touches her until she turns eleven. 

Mirabel spends the next two years practicing her small gifts in the secret of the nursery, and is a quiet child with her family. She stops talking as much and stops responding to Isabela’s barbs. Camilo can’t make her laugh and Dolores rarely hears her youngest cousin’s voice. 

Mirabel goes quiet and thoughtful and stops trying so hard around her family. She stays out of the way for familia and thinks everyone is better off for it. It doesn’t hurt so bad when no one sees you if you don’t see them. 

Sometimes there are whispers from the adults that something is wrong with Mirabel, she looks so sad, so beaten down, but then Abuela says Mirabel is fine and people let it go. Sometimes, Dolores almost says they shouldn’t. But she never does, and Mirabel gets quieter and quieter and her eyes go from light brown to a molten gold. They are always rimmed with red, and Dolores knows it’s because Mirabel often cries herself to sleep. 

When little Antonio is born, Mirabel takes to him like ducks do to water. She cuddles the baby and sings to him and makes little animals with the bubbles whenever she bathes him. He’s the only one in the family who has seen and noticed her not-miracle-not-gift-but-still-probably-magic-magic. He’s the only person she really ever talks to. The rest of the time, she’s unseen and unheard. It’s better that way. 

That march she turns eleven, everything changes. 

A man wearing sky blue robes and with an auburn beard, his skin almost white as snow, walks into the casita with a pleasant smile. 

“May I help you?” Abuela asks. 

“Ah, yes, thank you. I’m here to talk to Miss Mirabel Madrigal and her family, if you please.”

“What’s this about?” Pepa asks, wandering down from the stairs. 

“A school,” the strange man answers, “for people like Mirabel.” 

Mirabel hears her name and creeps out to see the strange man, Antonio sleeping in her arms. When the man sees her, his eyes brighten considerably. 

“You must be Mirabel,” he says. She nods. He considers her and then says, “It would be best if the whole family were here. I am about to share some shocking news.” 

Abuela says, “And who might you be, then?”

“Forgive me. I am Albus Dumbledore. Come, let’s sit.” And then he waves a stick and Mirabel finds herself floating to a summoned coach that has been very much enlarged and the whole family is sitting with her. 

“You have a gift,” Abuela gasps. “Are you somehow related to the Madrigals?” 

Dumbledore cocks his head to the side, “Doubtful, although flattering. You all seem quite lovely. No, I am a wizard. And I am here because Miss Mirabel is a witch. I’ve come to accept her to a school of magic.” 

Abuela sniffs but it’s Isabela who says, “You have the wrong person. Mirabel doesn’t have a gift. She’s the least magical person I know.”

Dumbledore says, coldly, “And what do you mean by gift?” 

So Isabela makes the flowers grow and Luisa lifts the couch with everyone still seated, Camilo shape shifts and Julieta shows her cooking healing properties, and Pepa makes a raincloud, and Mirabel sits silent, still cradling Antonio and sinking in herself to make herself seem smaller. 

“Marvelous, truly marvelous,” Dumbledore says, kindly. “I have never seen a miracle like this, myself. Yes, I can see why Mirabel doesn’t have a ‘gift’ as you put it. From what I’ve gathered, you are all muggles - humans who are not witches or wizards. A bit of magic seems to lend itself to you based on your immense love, but it would not give itself to a witch because she has magic inside of her.”

“Mirabel has no magic,” Abuela says firmly, “But thank you all the same for coming here, Mr. Dumbledore.”

Dumbledore is not deterred in the slightest and turns to Mirabel. He carefully lifts Antonio out of her arms and gives the baby to Pepa. Then he asks her, “Has anything strange ever happened around you, anything…unexplained?”

Abuela is rolling her eyes and her mother is anxiously clenching her hands, but Mirabel nods. The man’s eyes twinkle. “What happened?” He prompts. 

Mirabel swallows a few times. It’s hard for her to speak around her family. She’s been quiet for so long but once she’s talking, it bursts out of her like a damn breaking. “One time, I healed a boy I was playing with. He hit his head and I wished I could heal him like mama, and then I put my hand to his forehead and it healed. I can make things feel less heavy and make flower petals dance. Oh! I make the bubbles look like animals whenever I give Antonio his bath. And look,” Mirabel pulls out a match from a pocket in her dress, “I can turn sticks into needles, see?” And she turns the wooden stick in a steel, pointed needle. “It’s useful because sometimes I leave needles around whenever I stop sewing but then they might hurt people. I don’t know why but whenever I use a stick to be my needle, it turns back into a little stick and isn’t so dangerous anymore after just a few hours. Does that count enough for me to be a ...witch?” She asks, looking back up at Dumbledore with big hopeful eyes. 

The rest of the family stares at her like they’ve never seen her before. 

Abuela whispers, “nonsense.”

Dumbledore looks at Mirabel almost fondly. He examines her needle. “Excellent work. I know very few children who accomplish accidental transfigurations without wands, let alone intentional ones. You will learn all about why transfigured objects have a time limit at Hogwarts. You will learn so much more. And you will belong there, Mirabel Madrigal, because you are indeed a witch.”

Mirabel grins, eyes glowing gold. “A witch,” She whispers, “So I had magic after all.” 

Chapter Text

After Dumbledore enjoys some of Julieta’s cooking, he announces that he will take Mirabel shopping in a place across the ocean called “Diagon Alley.” He is met with hostility and is only allowed to take Mirabel under the condition that he also bring Abuela, Julieta, and both of Mirabel’s siblings along on the trip. 

He smiles tightly and says, “The more the merrier, isn’t it?”

They all crowd around a magical object stopwatch – called a portkey – and there’s this sensation like being squeezed through a tube and suddenly they are somewhere…novel, overwhelming, and so magical it almost hurts Mirabel. 

She thought she understood magic when she watched Isabela pluck flowers from empty air or heard thunder crackle when Tia Pepa was having a bad day. She realizes she's never known magic, not real magic, as she stares at Diagon Alley. For a second, everything her family is saying falls away. She’s spent six years listening to her family members, watching their every move, carefully deciding if she should get out of their way or help in an unobtrusive way. 

As Mirabel Madrigal stands in Diagon Alley, for a few moments, she ceases to care about what her family thinks about her at all. Shops line the shining narrow cobble-stoned streets with windows that bend and wave with glass that seem almost alive. In those windows she sees garish colored candies, cloaks and robes made of deep silk fabrics of red, blue, yellow, and green. There are brooms and gold-colored toads and plants with what might be fairies lying on their branches. All the store fronts are so close together, it’s as if they’re embracing. Mirabel smells spice in the air and people scurry to and fro dressed in robes and holding the same kind of stick she’s seen Dumbledore hold. There’s so much magic all around her, she swears she can taste it on her tongue and feel it warm her face.

“It’s a bit dirty, hmm?” Isabela says, dropping Mirabel a fake smile. “Overcrowded and loud. It's too bad this is how your kind lives.”

Mirabel opens her mouth to answer that it’s wonderful and beautiful but recalls all the times she’s tried to say something and been met with nothingness in return and decides instead to nod quietly. 

Dumbledore catches the exchange and frowns. 

Abuela sighs and says, “I’m sure our Mirabel will learn to feel at home here…in this kind of place.” 

Julieta says, “What exactly are we shopping for?”

Luisa is gaping and gasps, “Look at all the owls!”

“Ah, indeed, they do deliver all the mail. Clever creatures, owls. I think we’ll start with the books and cauldron and then we’ll move to the wand. Save the best for last, eh?” Dumbledore says, waggling his eyebrows at Mirabel and talking to her alone. 

She’s not said anything to him since realizing aloud she has magic. She feels Abuela and Isabela’s judgmental eyes on her and she’s not sure she can respond. She swallows and works up the courage to speak up. 

Dumbledore gets a little crinkle in his red brows and says, quite gently, “Not a big speaker, then?”

Mirabel shakes her head but Abuela interjects, “Shy at the moment, maybe. Our Mirabel can talk your ear off if you let her. She’s still learning when she needs to be quiet.”

Mirabel’s been learning for the last five years that ‘when she needs to be quiet,’ is ‘all the time.’ 

Dumbledore frowns some more and Julieta says, “Mama! Don’t talk about her like that.” 

Luisa says, “I feel like Mirabel’s been a bit quiet lately, actually. Just saying.” 

Mirabel feels everyone’s eyes on her and knows that this is the moment she needs to say something or everything will go terribly wrong so she swallows twice and manages to get out, “Books?”

Dumbledore smiles warmly, “So many of them to buy, so little time. Let’s begin now, shall we? Full steam ahead!” 

They buy books with covers of things out of dreams, charms and transfiguration and potions. When they buy her a cauldron, Mirabel’s family shudders. Abuela says, “Is this real witchcraft?” Mirabel hangs her head and wishes that her mother or sisters will stand up for her, just a little bit.

Luisa holds on to their mother and says, “Oh no, Mirabel’s not evil, is she, Mama?”

Julieta says, “Of course not, Mija,” but she doesn’t sound like she believes it. 

Mirabel digs her nails into her palms and tells herself that this is nothing new. Ever since her door faded away she’s been accused of being evil. She’s alright. She’s alright. 

Dumbledore is clearly getting angrier with every passing moment spent with Mirabel’s family, and Mirabel is unsure if it’s her that’s annoying him or her family members. 

“And what do you mean by real witchcraft, exactly, Mistress Madrigal?” Dumbledore inquires to Abuela politely but icily. 

“Dios Mi, you are not taking Mirabel to be in the service of Lucifer, are you?”

Dumbledore all of a sudden appears haughty and offended, “I assure you that what your granddaughter will be learning is further removed from hell than anything she has experienced thus far in her life. She will learn how to perform things that to someone without her skills, say, someone like you, would seem like miracles. And she will do thousands of those miracles daily.” 

Abuela and Isabela merely sniff in response. 

When Mirabel is taken to get her wand she looks up at Dumbledore with worry. Finding her courage easier when she speaks quietly she asks him, “What happens if I’m not magical enough for a wand?”

Dumbledore stops walking and kneels down in the middle of the road so that he and her are eye-to-eye. “Mirabel Madrigal, you are magic through and through. Never doubt that.” 

Mirabel can’t remember the last time someone believed in her like this. She nods her head, shakily. “Okay,” she whispers. 

The wand shop is small, cramped, and poorly organized. Boxes upon boxes pile into the air and Mirabel’s family shuffles inside the tiny space. 

A man, hardly over twenty if at all, emerges from behind the counter. “Welcome, welcome. I'm the newest Ollivander after mum passed and I can help you just as well as she could. Don't apologize for her death, it was quite overdue etcetera etcetera. A wand for you then, dear?” He says all in one breath, ignoring everyone but Mirabel. 

She nods and attempts to sort all the information he just gave her.

“Don’t be nervous,” he advises. “Which is your wand arm?”

“W-wand arm?” Mirabel repeats quietly. 

“Your dominant hand,” Dumbledore whispers. 

“Oh,” Mirabel says. She extends her left hand. The man’s eyes gleam as a floating tape measure bops around her body taking measurements.

“You’re going to be fascinating.” He says, “Now here, try this one. 11 and ¾ inches, ash, unicorn hair core.” 

Mirabel takes the offered wand. 

“Give it a flick,” Dumbledore prompts. 

Mirabel waves the wand, feeling a bit silly. A few lackluster puffs of smoke come out the end. 

Isabela scoffs, “Oh yeah, Mirabel’s sooo magical.”

“Not that one,” Ollivander says. “Try this one. Apple, 10 and ½ inches, springy, and phoenix feather.” 

This one lights one edge of the counter on fire when Mirabel waves it, and the next releases a thunderous boom which causes her to flinch. Ollivander gets visibly excited as he gives her wand after wand. 

“The wand chooses the witch, you know,” he says. “Someone very special is waiting for you.” 

The next few wands feel better but there’s something about them that feels just slightly wrong, foreign almost. 

“You’re not English, are you, dear?” Ollivander asks after a while. 

Mirabel shakes her head no. 

“From the American continent?” 

Mirabel nods. 

Olivander grins and it looks positively feral. He disappears for a moment and returns with a box that looks different from the others. 

“I got this from a friend in America. I stick to the three most consistent cores: phoenix feather, dragon heartstring, and unicorn hair, but it’s always good to have something in stock for those tricky customers like you. Try this one. 9 and ¼ inches, supple and flexible, vine wood with white river monster spine.” 

Dumbledore looks at the offered wand in surprise. It’s quite understated with a leaf motif carved into the handle. Mirabel grapes the wand and all at once, feels complete. When she waves the wand, a million twinkling orbs of diamond light burst forth and dance around the room, catching the sun and weaving a web of brilliant rainbow color between them. 

Mirabel feels a smile spread across her face, and whispers, “This one is mine.”

“Indeed,” Olivander agrees. “The white river monster spine is used by Thiago Quintana most famously. It tends to favour powerful and elegant casters. Vine wands are one of the most rarely sold. Vine wands are most commonly held by those witches and wizards who see beyond themselves, seek greater purposes, and surprise even those who know them best. I see intrigue and wonder in your future, Miss Mirabel Madrigal.” 

Even Isabela seems transfixed by the lights Mirabel called forth with her wand. There’s something undeniably beautiful about them and Mirabel knows this memory will be something she remembers for the rest of her life. 

Shortly after the shopping is completed – which includes Mirabel getting some robes – the family returns to Casita without Dumbledore. Back in the nursery, school supplies stored until it’s time to leave in September, Mirabel can’t help but feel like it’s all a dream.

The only thing that’s new is that Mirabel is told more often by Isabela that being able to make some fancy lights is not a gift and that Abuela sometimes looks at Mirabel as though she is more than dirt on her shoe. 

But on the whole, Mirabel is left alone again and returns to silence except for when she’s singing to Antonio.

It is another few months until she can leave for Hogwarts, and Mirabel is counting down the days.

Chapter Text

Mirabel leaves for Hogwarts with little fanfare. She has a portkey bring her across the ocean to an oddly named “platform nine and three quarters.” Her family spends the last two weeks leading up to her going to school by ignoring her in the spirit of being “busy.” 

She spends her time cuddling with Antonio and doing her absolute best to train him to sleep well even if she doesn’t sing him a lullaby. He seems to recognize that something in their relationship is changing and clings to her harder than usual. Tia Pepa gets frustrated with Mirabel when Antonio point blank refuses to be held by anyone other than Mirabel in her last week before the Hogwarts term begins. 

“He’s fine,” Pepa insists as Antonio screams bloody murder in her arms, reaching his little hands toward Mirabel. A cloud gathers around her head and starts plinking bits of hail onto Antonio’s chubby cheeks, causing the toddler to wail even harder and start pushing against Pepa. 

Mirabel bites the inside of her mouth wanting nothing more than to grab her baby cousin from her aunt. 

Abuela sighs from the corner and says, “Pepa, mija, give Tonito to Mirabel. You’re scaring him.” 

Pepa says, “He’s not scared.” Antonio flinches as thunder crackles over his head. Pepa’s eyes widen and then she bows her head. “Mirabel, if you would.”

Mirabel immediately surges forward and cuddles Antonio in her arms. He stops crying and snuggles into her chest, sniffling quietly. 

“There’s my brave man,” she whispers. “You’re okay now.” 

Pepa glares at Mirabel and walks out of the room. 

“It will be good when you leave for a while,” Abuela says. “It will give Tonito a chance to reconnect with his mother. He keeps crying because you are around, but when you leave…” 

Mirabel stays silent and hears the unspoken, “he’ll be so much better off.” Abuela always thinks everyone in this family will be better off without Mirabel. 

Due to the time change, the portkey collects Mirabel at 4:30 AM in the morning. Her bags are packed and she leaves a note in the nursery reminding her family that she’s gone to school. She told everyone during dinner, but no one seemed to notice except for Dolores. She imagines in the morning they will come knocking for her and remember she’s gone. She’d kind of hoped her mom would kiss her goodbye and stay up with her, but her mom is busy and needs sleep more than she needs to be there for Mirabel. 

“I’m okay,” Mirabel whispers. “This is fine.”

 She kisses Anotonio on his forehead one last time and is whisked away holding her bags and wand. 

She reappears in an odd station sort of place. A red metallic cylindrical structure rests upon large wheels and sends smoke into the sky as people wearing all kinds of colorful robes bustle this way and that. Mirabel collects herself and makes her way to enter the red cylindrical structure as she sees so many students doing. Inside, there are numerous compartments with sliding doors, windows, and seats. 

She finds an empty compartment and stores her luggage. She pulls out a spellbook from her bag and happily sits on one cushioned bench curious about how she will get to Hogwarts by sitting down. Maybe the entire red cylinder thing is a portkey?

A few minutes pass before the door to the compartment is thrown open. Two dark-haired boys,  green trimming on their robes, appear in the doorway. They look about thirteen based on Mirabel’s knowledge of ages from the children in Encanto. 

“This one’s taken too,” the slightly shorter of the two says with a sigh. 

“Hmm,” says the taller one. “We can share,” he says. He eyes Mirabel curiously, from her skin tone to her butterfly embroidered shirt peeking out through her colorless robes. 

The shorter one gives Mirabel an obvious once-over and then slyly smiles at the taller. “Of course we can.” They both glide into the compartment and close it behind them. 

The taller one inclines his head and says, settling down gracefully, “My name is Tom Riddle.”

The shorter one sits next to him and says, “Orion Black,” with a playful wink.

“I’m Mirabel Madrigal.”

A wrinkle appears in the brows of both Tom Riddle and Orion Black. “Madrigal?” Black repeats. “I do not know the family name.” He wrinkles his nose. “Are you muggle born?”

Mirabel can tell that Orion Black and Tom Riddle have a strong interest in her answer. She cannot tell for certain how they feel about muggle-borns though. Whenever she cannot tell the answer Abuela is looking for, she tries to get more information.

“Muggle-born?” She echoes. 

Tom Riddle throws out, “A person who knows nothing about magic.”

Mirabel understands then that being a muggle born is likely bad in the estimation of these two people. She also knows that although her family has powers, they are not witches or wizards, so she likely is muggle-born. She answers carefully by telling the truth but giving little away, “Everyone in my town knows about magic.”

This catches both their attention. “ Everyone?” Tom Riddle asks. 

Mirabel nods. “Everyone.”

“Fascinating,” they both say at the same time. 

The structure lurches forward and begins moving and Mirabel lets out a scream. “What’s happening?” She asks in a panicked tone. 

“The train is starting,” Orion Black laughs. “What, never been on a train before?”

“What is a train?” Mirabel asks, clutching the bench as she sees the landscape rush by in the window.

“We’re on a train now. They move.”

“Oh,” Mirabel says, feeling a bit foolish. “That’s why the cylinder had wheels.” 

“You are an honest to God pureblood princess, aren’t you?” Tom Riddle says. “You must be quite sheltered if you’ve never been on a train before. But you’re not English, are you?”

“Ah, no. I am Colombian.” 

“Fascinating,” Orion Black says again. “What brings you to Hogwarts? Escaping Grindelwald?”

“Who?” Mirabel asks. 

Orion Black laughs again. It sounds a bit mean. “You are quite something, Miss. Madrigal. You know so very little. If you are not escaping Grindelwald, why are you coming all the way to Scotland from Colombia?”

“Dumbledore invited me, I guess,” she answers, still caught up on his comment that she doesn't know very much. 

Tom Riddle leans forward, “Personally invited you? Why didn’t he send an owl?”

“We don’t use owls to send letters where I’m from.”

“How do you send messages then?”

“My cousin, Dolores, can hear everything for miles and miles. If people want to tell us something, they can just say it and Dolores will deliver the message.” 

“What interesting magic,” Orion says. “I have not learned about such a talent before, but then again, I get the sense that you are from a rather secluded and magical community. You must be very secretive.” 

“I guess so,” Mirabel says. “We don’t really talk to the outside world.”

“No, I suppose purebloods with special talents would not want to. Any other talents in the family?” Tom asks. 

“My mom can heal anyone with just a bite of her cooking, one of my sisters can make flowers bloom from nothing, and another can lift anything no matter how heavy. My aunt Pepa controls the weather and Camilo, that’s my cousin, can shape-shift. Oh! And my uncle, well, he left a bit ago, but he can see the future.” 

Orion and Tom exchange another look. 

“Well, your cousin is a Metamorphmagus , and your uncle is a seer. I wonder because of your cousin if we aren’t somehow related. Being a Metamorphmagus is a Black family trait. I really did not know there were other such gifts beyond sight, metamorphing, and parseltongue in family magic, but your family must be unusually powerful. Or does your whole town have these special talents like the Madrigals?”

“Erm, no. We are the only ones with special talents.” 

“And what’s your talent?” Tom Riddle asks. 

Mirabel looks at the ground and says, dejectedly, “I didn’t get one.” 

Orion Black lays a hand on her shoulder and grins like a shark. “That’s alright. You’re still a witch, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, I guess. It’s just that…” Mirabel cuts herself off, “No, it’s fine.”

“No,” Tom Riddle says, “Please tell us more.”

It feels nice to finally get things off her chest, “People in my family get these magical rooms when they get their gifts, they’re bigger on the inside and perfect for each of my family members, hand-crafted by Casita, and I don’t have one.”

“You live in a sentient magical house?” Orion Black asks. 

“Yes? Dumbledore mentioned that Hogwarts and Casita are friends.” 

Orion Black says, after a lengthy pause, “I insist that you and I become friends, Miss Madrigal. Please call me ‘Orion.’”

Tom Black says, “And call me ‘Tom.’”

“Ah, then call me ‘Mirabel.’”

They continue to make small chatter for the remainder of the trip and Mirabel pretends to slip off to sleep at some point due to her exhaustion. She stays awake, however, and ther4fore does not miss the almost predatory exchange between the two boys as they discuss using her for her connections and to learn more about Colombian purebloods.

“Poor thing doesn’t even understand basic etiquette,” Orion says. “A proper English pureblood would have a chaperone and hardly dare to be alone with two boys.”

“She’s not English though, is she?” Tom replies. “All the better to use her. She may not be the most civilized but the magic that clings to her is positively tantalizing. It makes me want to meet her family as she's supposedly one of the least powerful, being without a gift.”

“Her aunt is especially interesting. There are almost no witches or wizards who can control the weather with spells. The way she talks about it, it seems her aunt has an innate control over the weather. No wonder her town is so secretive.”

“I am sure she’ll prove useful at some point, even if she does sort somewhere beyond Slytherin.”

“Certainly. She will be worth cultivating.”

Mirabel shudders and does her best to maintain the facade of sleeping. People are the same everywhere, it seems. They are only kind to people who are useful. 

The two boys “wake” Mirabel gently when the train comes to  a stop and bid her a warm farewell before Mirabel is herded with the other first years onto a boat and travels across a lake. 

A great stone castle comes into view with spires and gleaming light shining out from tall windows. It is comforting at once. It feels rather like an older and colder Casita, but no less loving. Mirabel smiles small. She can be happy here, she knows it.

Mirabel is quite exhausted when she enters the great halls and only barely notices her classmates or the four tables or the ceiling charmed to look like the sky. She feels warmed by the floating candles and basks quietly in the feel of magic.

She notices in a vague kind of way the hat going on the heads of her classmates and shuffles to the stool when her name, “Mirabel Madrigal,” is called. Dumbledore is standing by the stool and he lowers the large hat onto her head when she sits down. 

“ Interesting, ” says a voice in her ear. “ What an odd sort of girl you are.” 

Mirabel sinks down into the chair. She’s odd wherever she goes. What if she does not have enough magic to be here and they send her away saying, “Terribly sorry. What a mix-up.”

“No, no. None of that, dear. You are not odd in a bad way. You are odd in a rather good way. Maybe odd is a bad word. You are unique, delightfully so. It just makes this harder.”

“Harder? In what way?”

“I really don’t know where to put you. That doesn’t happen very often. It’s all right here in your mind. You are loyal and hard-working. You love learning all you can. You are rather ambitious and cunning. You had to be, didn’t you, growing up the way you did? And yes, you have a heart of courage. Tricky one, you are.”

“Don't most people have more than just one quality?”

“Oh yes. But most children know where they want to go. They want to be heroes or have lots of friends or solve riddles or become ministers of magic. You have so many things you want and none of them lean me toward one house or the other. What to do, what to do.”

The hat is silent for a moment before it shouts in her ear, “Aha! I can just ask you. Would you rather be smart or kind?”

“Both?” Mirabel hazards. “It depends on the situation. Often the smart thing to do is be kind.”

“That’s true, and supremely not helpful. Would you rather have your family acknowledge your magic or save them from losing their magic at the cost of your own?”

“I would never want them to lose their magic, but I also want them to look at me for once. I want both. Neither. I don’t know.”

“Neither do I, child. Therein lies the problem. Which house do you want?”

Dumbledore seems like a good sort of person. He stood up for her and helped her get here, to Hogwarts. She can’t go wrong if she tries to be like him, right?

“Oh, you most certainly can. It does not do to idolize people. They only disappoint. Still, I have many more children yet to sort and that is as good as we are going to get.”

The hat’s voice booms out in the hall, “GRYFFINDOR!”

Chapter Text

The Gryffindor dorms are clean and comfortable, although a bit red for Mirabel’s personal taste. She is in a nice sized room with two other girls, one named Lyra Greengrass and another named Lina Wilkins. Wilkins, she learns, is a muggleborn student (like her). Greengrass is a pureblood, quite proud, and distraught. She’s been crying since the welcome feast.

“It’s just,” she sniffles, “No one in my family has ever been in Gryffindor. We all go to Ravenclaw or Slytherin. That is where a Greengras belongs. I am so ashamed. ”

Mirabel sighs, and then says, “Wanting to be brave isn’t shameful.”

Greengrass turns her wide blue eyes on Mirabel and spits, “Well, of course a Gryffindor would think that.”

Mirabel is reminded uncomfortably of Isabela. She decides then and there that she and Greengrass will never be friends. 

Lina, however, is a different matter. She’s a quiet girl, like Mirabel. Her eyes are haunted. She seems withdrawn and sad in a way that makes Mirabel feel like something in her past has gone very wrong. 

The two of them get ready for bed in the lavatory together and Lina stares at Mirabel for a long moment rather intently before saying, “I’m Jewish.” She has a light accent that Mirabel cannot place. 

“I’m Christian,” Mirabel responds confusedly. Lina stares at Mirabel for a moment longer, nods her head once, and leaves the lavatory. As soon as she leaves, Greengrass enters. 

“I thought she’d never leave. I could not imagine getting ready around her kind.”

“Jewish, you mean?” Mirabel asks coldly. 

“What’s that?” Greengrass responds. “No, mudbloods,” she shudders. 

Mirabel has learned often that being quiet around others is the best option. Sinking into the shadows is the best option. But Mirabel thinks maybe she came to Gryffindor because there was a part of her spirit that wanted desperately to come out of silence and speak. 

“What a horrible thing to say. She’s just as human as you and me,” Mirabel says in a soft but firm voice. 

Greengrass looks like she might start crying again. “Oh, please don’t be upset with me. She’s the vile, horrid creature. Don’t go feeling bad for her. She’s just an animal.”

Mirabel has never felt disgust so intensely before in her life. “If she is, then you are no better. Until you stop talking about Lina that way, I don’t wish to speak with you.”

“So you’re a blood traitor then?” Greengass asks. 

“If that’s what you want to call me, then yes. I suppose I am.”

Mirabel leaves shortly after and slides into her new bed. There is no one telling her to be quiet and out of sight. Antonio isn’t demanding her attention. It feels empty and a bit lonely without him. But she feels a bit guilty for thinking it’s a bit nice too. She feels tired now and she can just sleep without checking up on her baby cousin. It is easier. Even if she misses him. 

***

Mirabel’s first class is charms. She listened intently to her professor, a short man with large ears and a youthful face. Lina sits on one side of her and Greengrass on the other. Greengrass nastily whispered that although, “He just won the dueling tournament, it still is a bit crass to have a half-breed for a professor.” 

Mirabel does not respond both out of dislike and out of immense nervousness. When it comes to practice a levitation charm with a feather, Mirabel clasps her vine wand in hand and closes her eyes. 

She has spent years being told by everyone who loves that she in not magical. She has spent what feels like an eternity hiding and trying to make up for the fact that she doesn’t have a gift. She’s spent so many nights caring for her baby cousin exhausted hoping that today she would do well enough to be loved. 

She is totally convinced that she will try to make her feather float in the sky and nothing will happen, not one bit, and then she’ll be packed back home and stay a disappointment for the rest of her life.

She whispers “Wingardium Leviosa,” along with the rest of her classmates, eyes still shut tight, and imagines the feather rising toward the ceiling. Even if she knows it won’t happen, it’s still a nice cream. 

“MISS MADRIGAL, OH WELL DONE!” Flitwick shouts. 

Mirabel opens her eyes in surprise. Her little feather is happily floating mid-air. Hers is the only feather in the sky, although one Huffelpuff’s feather is twitching a bit. A brilliant smile spreads across her face.

“On your first try, too! Can you move it around, do you think?”

Mirabel furrows her brow and moves her wand slightly, causing the feather to make lazy spirals as it floats. 

Flitwick grins and claps his hands. “Ten points to Gryffindor! Congratulations, Miss Madrigal.” 

By the end of class, three students in addition to Mirabel manage to get their feathers to float but none stay in the air with the unwavering endurance of Mirabel’s charm. 

Flitwick actually gets her to levitate some other things, like books and even his desk. Mirabel keeps expecting to fail and her magic to stop but it just…doesn’t. 

Dumbledore is her teacher in Transfiguration and she relaxes at his familiar face. When she first attempts to turn her match into a needle, she’s fairly confident. She’s done it many times before wandless. 

She utters the spell and envisions matches turning into needles. Her match turns into a needle. So does everyone else’s needles.

Dumbledore’s eyes sparkle with mirth. “While I appreciate your energy, it may be best to stick to your own needle only in the future Miss Madrigal.”

Mirabel blushes. “I did that?”

“Indeed you did. Can you turn them back?”

“Think so.” So Mirabel focuses on turning them all back. She doesn’t know the spell so she just holds the vision of matches in her mind. They all turn back except hers. She looks up at Dumbledore and he gives her a wink.

“Five points to Gryffindor.” 

Greenrass asks Mirabel for help and Mirabel ignores her. Instead, she tries to help Lina. 

In Herbology with Beery, Mirabel discovers she has a bit of a green thumb even if she is no Isabela. By the end of the day, Mirabel has learned she’s quite magical and is starting to think of Hogwarts as home. She slips into sleep peacefully and grateful that for once, her only responsibility is to be good to herself. 

***

Antonio has not stopped crying for the last two days. From morning to sundown, he sobs and sniffles and screams. He says, “Mira,” over and over. If people bing up her name in conversation he becomes distraught anew. Dolores privately thinks the only reason he even sleeps at night is because he tires himself out so much by crying all day.

The morning Dolores awoke after Mirabel left for Hogwarts, the house was in chaos. Tia Julieta was screaming her baby was gone and Antonio was a mess. 

Abuela was badmouthing Mirabel for being irresponsible and not being there for her baby cousin in the morning. Dolores’ mother could not calm Antonio down and was raining down water on his cheek until her father took the baby.

Dolores cleared her throat and said, “Mirabel left for school. She told us Yesterday she was going. You know, the sun rises earlier across the ocean so she left at night. She reminded everyone over dinner.”

This caused Julieta to anxiously whisper, “Did I really forget to see her off?” 

Only Dolores could hear this, but she could still hear it. The whole day was a cacophony of people missing Mirabel and being angry at Mirabel and Antonio begging for his cousin.

Dolores sat on the steps of Casita and covered her ears. 

Even so, she could still hear the sharp sound of a crack forming somewhere deep in Casita.