A shield appeared out of thin air with one swift movement and the disarming spell was deflected. The next second, Margaret was thrown off her feet once more, landing on her back with an 'oof' and her wand clattered a few feet away. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a blue light forming at the tip of the Elder Wand.

Her hand swiped through the air upwards, palm glowing scarlet, and the jet of water aimed at her hit the ceiling, scattered and fell back down like raindrops. In the split second she had, she reached out towards her wand and it zoomed back into her hand.

"Confringo! Protego!"

Despite her quick thinking, having learnt from the past thirty-seven times this had happened to her, the shield she had produced was not strong enough in her haste. She barely had time to support herself on her knees before another non-verbal knock-back jinx tore through the blasting spell she had sent and then collided with her shield that caused a reverberation of clang across the small room; the force of it so much that Margaret was thrown back again, this time against the wall.

The occupants of the portraits above stopped their failed attempt at feigning sleep and scurried off to other frames on the side to stay out of the way.

Margaret groaned as she slipped down the wall, and decided to stay there for a moment. Sighing deeply, she shot a reproachful look at Headmaster Dumbledore who was very casually twirling the Elder Wand between his long fingers and smiling absently.

"Did I mention... that... this was a terrible idea, Professor?" Margaret asks sarcastically in between small puffs of breath.

"Hmm? Oh, no. See, you have learnt new defences and offences, have you not? I must say, that was a good deflecting technic" Dumbledore tells her kindly.

"Yes, but, sir... all I end up doing is bruising myself... and it's a little painful, y'know?"

Dumbledore chuckled, waving his wand swiftly to dry the water around the room, the result of his previous spell, then motioned towards his desk as he ascended the five uneven stairs up towards it narrowly missing the second slightly larger one. The number of times Margaret had crashed into those in the past two weeks, she was sure of their exact dimensions by now. Despite this, she hadn't, surprisingly, ended up in the hospital wing yet.

The circular office looked different from when she had first visited it. Space was cleared for duelling and the spindle-legged tables with small huffing and puffing silver instruments were gathered behind the large oaken desk. Fawkes the phoenix who usually perched on his sill next to the desk watched their duel with bright interest from the railing of the gallery to the far right.

"My intentions are not to physically injure you, Margaret," says the Headmaster as she stumbles up the stairs and takes a seat in front of him. He handed her a waterproof cloth with a fist-sized block of ice in it and she took it, holding it up behind her head and wincing slightly. "I only intend to help you direct your non-verbal, wandless magic more simply."

"I understand that Professor," Margaret answers, sighing, "but they won't show up if they know I'm not in immediate danger."

"They?" Dumbledore questions curiously.

"My powers."

"I'm sorry, Margaret, I assume I have misunderstood you. 'They' are a part of you. Our magic is not a separate entity from us," the Headmaster says but he did not sound too stern.

"Yes, I do know that," Margaret says, a hint of defence in her tone, "sir," she adds. Her head was feeling a bit lighter after that nasty blow against the wall and she wondered how she could explain this now with a probable concussion when she had always struggled to explain why she considered her powers separate from herself.

"It has come to my notice that you refer to your wandless set of magical powers as though it is not a part of you, Margaret," Dumbledore says, an air of relaxed conversing around him as if they were discussing the Quidditch match between Gryffindor and Slytherin later today.

"Because they are not!" Margaret blurts out, wincing when her head hurts. She leaned back on the chair before realising what she had just admitted.

"And why, may I ask, do you believe so?" Dumbledore queries.

"I- I don't know..."

Margaret thought back to when she had just turned 14, in fact, on the day itself, when she had received her powers after getting struck by the high voltage bolt of lightning.

That day was different, however; it was their birthday, and nearly all freshmen and sophomores from their new high school were invited to the Halloween-themed backyard and pool party. It was a ticket to popularity. To cap it all off, there were no uncle or aunt or cousins invited to the party, even though they lived on the other side of the mansion.

Safe to say, Margaret and Markus had both thrown caution to the wind. And it was worth it, for most of the party. But then the guests started to leave as the darker the night got.

As the rain drizzled upon the gated community of mansions in Westmount, Québec, Margaret and Markus continued to play volleyball in the pool even after the guests had left, still high with enthusiasm after incredible day they had had. Even when their mother called them inside in her hybrid Australian-Candian accent, the two paid no mind, reminding her that there was still fifteen minutes left before their birthday was over. Their father was stood on the balcony upstairs, having changed out of his formal wear and into his pyjamas yet still getting drenched to keep an eye on the two, a silent command for them to listen to their mother.

Margaret remembered this particularly well.

One moment she was on the other side of the pool from her brother, looking up at their father and the next moment, her vision was covered with bright white light. She would never forget that harsh tingling that had spread through her being like overlapping branches from the centre of her skull out to her limbs and to the tips of her fingers and toes. Only one scream had rung through the night, muffled by the terrifying crackle of thunder echoed above.

Margaret would later find out that it was her brother who had swam to her as she drowned in the pool. The scream was his, half in pain and half because he had just seen her get struck by lightning head-on and disappear underwater. Mark had taken a hit too since they were inside the pool at the same time, but he had escaped with merely a few ticks through the next few days.

On the other hand, Margaret had been bedridden for six weeks, barely able to speak without stuttering. Although she had surprisingly got no scars - not physically, at least - her powers still grew inside of her. They made her involuntarily hear other people's thoughts - at first, so loud she could not even hear her own screams - have a constant skull-splitting migraine, and wake up in the middle of the night crying because she could have sworn she had been levitating in the air. All of this only resulted in her shutting her family out entirely, including her twin.

Margaret realised where she was, no longer in the lavish mansion in Westmount, Québec but in Hogwarts and Dumbledore's office no less. She blinked rapidly to get her mind out of the daze and gave a sheepish smile to the patiently awaiting Headmaster.

"Sorry, sir... I got a bit lost, I suppose," she says apologetically.

"It is quite all right," Dumbledore smiles good-naturedly. "We were speaking about your second-person reference to your magic."

"Right, yes... Er, I dunno why I refer to them - uh, it - well, them, as 'they' but I think it's got something to do with the fact that I wasn't born with these abilities like a normal witch or wizard," Margaret says, making up an explanation that sounded more logical than anything else she had come up with in the past.

"Oh but you were, Margaret," Dumbledore says, looking at her meaningfully and leaning forward to entwined his slim fingers on the surface of the oaken desk.

Margaret blinks. "What? No... You said so yourself when I met you for the first time, sir. The magic needed to be triggered-"

"Precisely. The magic in your blood had to be prompted, in other words, given a little nudge, but you see it was in your blood since you were born. Both your parents had to be descended from magical bloodlines, hence why none of your relatives has had magic; I'm sure you remember that I spoke of this as well?" Margaret nods slowly and Dumbledore continues, "You had to be old enough for you to be able to handle the magnitude of it. You are also the older twin, am I correct?"

Dumbledore leaned back in his chair once more as though knowing that she had deduced the rest.

"But then why is my magic so... destructive? My powers, or whatever, I refer to them separately because they show up not when I want them to, but when they feel as though I'm in danger or when I'm feeling strong emotions... and they show up without verbal or non-verbal spells, especially when I'm not holding a wand. They usually put me under some sort of trance as if they are the ones controlling me..." Margaret rants on.

She finally had some hope for getting answers for the questions she had had since her blasted 14th birthday. However, Albus Dumbledore was famously known for speaking in riddles.

"Magic is so wonderfully complex, Margaret, that even wizards such as myself who have lived their entire prolonged life with it cannot explain it in minute detail," says the wise Headmaster. "It has come to the notice of several scholars throughout the ages that magic, like living beings, evolves due to several factors. Yes, indeed, your magic is different but so was your world. Your way of commanding your magic is different and so is how you designate it.

"Simple magical wards may not be enough to block or even restrain your magic, Margaret, and that in itself is greatly extraordinary... However, and you must understand this very well, as grand as your magic might come across and as many praises as it may coerce of your friends and foes alike, it is very difficult to control and channel through you. Dark forces that you know better than I do, linger merely past these walls; they would stop at nothing to take advantage of what you possess. That is why it is vital that you learn its abilities and consider it a part of you."

Dumbledore paused and picked up the Elder Wand that he had placed on the desk in front of him. "I suppose I am not wrong in assuming that you do know of the existence of this," says Dumbledore, examining his wand.

"The Elder Wand," Margaret mumbles in a very Luna Lovegood like fashion. She continues more attentively, "It's the most powerful wand in the world... one of the Deathly Hallows, isn't it? From the Tales of Beedle the Bard."

"Deathly Hallows," Dumbledore hums thoughtfully. "Makes it sound quite lethal, do you not think so? I personally prefer... death-stick."

Margaret chuckles, shaking her head and ignoring the slight pain at the back of it. As if referring to the Elder Wand as death-stick would make it sound any less lethal.

Tracing the knotted design on the ancient wood, the Headmaster continues, "The curious thing about magic, Margaret, is that it does not come from a wand, no matter how powerful the vessel. It comes from the witch or wizard holding it. Those who study wandlore, or find a fascinating interest in it, would say that a wand chooses a wizard, and is, more often than not, very loyal to them but is indeed known to change its allegiance.

"However, at the very least of my understanding, a wand is merely a means of transfer of magic - the spells we use, a way to command it to do our bidding. Many have tried, and failed, to master magic without a wand; and I am in no way saying that it is not dangerous. Momentarily, perhaps, a highly-trained witch or wizard may be capable of using wandless magic, but not to great offence or defence; only to acquire the element of surprise."

Once again, Margaret had predictably found herself in the middle of a web of words, the spider to weave them being none other than Albus Dumbledore. For trying to reassure her that this training would be able to help her use her powers - well, wandless magic - in a simpler manner, he was doing a bad job at explaining how it was practically impossible.

"Is it impossible, then?" Margaret voices her thoughts, unsure. "To learn how to use wandless magic and master it?"

"Difficult, perhaps. Impossible, not quite. Even known forms of magic... have known to evolve," says Dumbledore, looking at her meaningfully again as though trying to convey his message telepathically.

Telepathy.

She opened her mind. The very next second, a familiar gruff voice resonated in between her thoughts, forcing her to clear them away and leave her mind blank.

"Very well done, Miss Xenakis."

Dumbledore's eyes were unblinking and it did not take a genius to figure out that he was using Legilimency. Margaret dropped the icepack to hold her head in between her hands.

"Ow..."

"I was told you managed to block Professor Snape's attempt at Legilimency."

"Uh... yes. Is this not telepathy?"

"Not quite. Muggles have come up with the term, I presume?"

"Fictional term, but yes..."

"Fictional, you say? Interesting."

"They say it's not real but... they think magic isn't real either..."

"That, I would count, as an excellent achievement," Dumbledore says out loud, "and a practised evolution of magic."

Margaret only nodded in reply, wincing at how heavy her head felt. She wanted to go back to her dorm and fall asleep for the rest of the weekend, suddenly very exhausted.

Dumbledore pushed a bowl of a familiar candy towards her, "Take as many as you want."

She grabbed a few Sherbet Lemons and unwrapped one, plopping it into her mouth. As if like a little remedy, her head clears and Margaret wondered if there were magical properties to it.

"Citric acid," she mutters, then shakes her head. Looking back up at Dumbledore, she asks, "Evolution of magic?"

"Indeed," says Dumbledore. "You may have learnt by now that Legilimency is used to look into one's mind. Wizards such as Professor Snape use Occlumency to shield their memories from the cunning and prying intruders, or Legilimens as we call them, such as Lord Voldemort. However, it is that and that itself – seeing or shielding one's memories. A witch or wizard capable of speaking into another's mind with no conscious thoughts present is – forgive my lack of modesty – exceedingly powerful."

Margaret pondered over the words. It would be a blatant lie if she said that she was being completely honest with the old Headmaster. She had not yet made any mentions about a rather manipulative trait of her powers that she rarely used but was as easy as listening to someone's thoughts: putting images in or removing images from people's minds using telepathy; altering their memories, removing their memories like she had done to Madam Pince, albeit accidentally.

She simply had to penetrate one's mind and stabilize a connection to do so. How she knew how to do that, Margaret did not know.

A silence that had blanketed over the antique office of Headmaster Dumbeldore where both the occupants of the room thought of things the other knew not.

"Today is the Quidditch match between Gryffindor and Slytherin," says the Headmaster, breaking the quiet and changing the topic. "If I am not mistaken, you have never watched Quidditch before, have you?"

"No, sir," she replies.

"Very well then, let us end our lesson here. The match starts in half an hour. Quidditch is, very reasonably, a grand sporting event at Hogwarts. Especially when the match is between two long known rivals," Dumbledore tells her rather conspiringly.

"All right," Margaret says, taking this as her cue to leave, her mind still racing with all that Dumbledore had said. A sudden thought occurs to her and she turns around when she reaches the door, asking innocently, "Sir... do you think I will be expelled if I put full body-bind curses on all Slytherins just for this game?"

"I would be rather impressed if you manage to accomplish such a feat. Although as the Headmaster, I do not believe the Slytherin Head of House, Professor Snape, would be too kind towards you for such mischief," Dumbledore says, a hint of polite amusement on his tone.

As if Snape was very kind towards anyone who breathed oxygen, she wanted to say; although she only nodded before leaving the office.

The spiral staircases, however, seemed to have a different plan for her as they descended far more than what she was used to. Margaret looked around curiously as a Gargoyle similar to the one on the seventh floor leapt aside to let her pass, and she was surprised to find herself down in the Transfiguration Courtyard. She gave a breathless laugh; magic would never fail to amaze her.

The weekend was cheerful as all those in either house's colours made their way to the stands. Even Margaret was wearing a dark red and yellow hoodie under the denim jacket.

Nonetheless, she could not find the strength in herself to go watch the Quidditch match after the tiring two weeks she had had.

Sighing, she made her way towards the open grounds of the castle, unable to resist the urge to stay outside in the beautiful weather. The day was as fresh as it could be; with the sky white and grey, showing signs of early snow this year, and the breeze soft and humid. Margaret trudged down the hill towards a tall beech tree by the banks of the Black Lake and plopped down under its looming shadow, back rested against the trunk.

The past fortnight seemed to have flown by rather quickly, but she, Margaret, felt as though she had gained more knowledge not just about her abilities but also about magic in general in the past two weeks than the whole three months she had spent here in the Wizarding World. She was finally getting somewhere, she was finally figuring out the mysteries of her evolved magic.

Not only did Margaret have classes, but she also had detentions with the ever-pleasant Severus Snape on top of her training with Dumbledore. Right after classes, she came to Dumbeldore's office where he insisted on her learning basic duelling technics (which simply included in her giving her best shots and Dumbledore deflecting all her moves with a single swipe of the most powerful wand in the world) then she had a quick dinner before heading to the dungeons where Snape took great pleasure in setting her potions that took at least five hours to brew, where if she failed, she'd have to brew them again the next day.

So far, Margaret had learnt how to separate ingredients from potions to brew antidotes to various poisons (she wanted to smartly hand Snape a Bezoar, but that would kill her purpose of being there.) Then she had been able to brew three potions that would calm down the drinker, replenish the drinker's blood and provide necessary nutrients respectively.