My mouth drops open while the rest of my body freezes into place, air whooshing out of my chest. There is, undeniably, a baby dragon in my office, its head reaching up to my knees.
I sway in my seat, something I didn’t know could even happen before now. I rub my eyes and look again.
Still there, one small black dragon with leathery grey wings. I hide my face in my hands.
“I’m still asleep in my bed. All this is a sleeping pill-induced dream. There isn’t really a dragon attached to my leg.”
Warm breath huffs across my legs as the raspy voice harrumphs. “I ain’t a dragon, mate. I’m a wyvern. See tha wings? Wings equal wyvern. Plus, I ain’t got t-rex arms neither. Got a right bicep goin’ in this wing, iffen I do say so m’self.”
Slowly breathing in and out, I cast my eyes upward, making a silent prayer that yesterday’s shock hasn’t driven me around the bend. The sensation retreats from my leg. It was probably a blood clot.
The sound of a sneeze calls my attention back to the ground, where I find the baby dragon stomping out a small fire in my carpet. The shriek I’ve been holding in turns out to be more powerful than I am.
“Lor luv a duck, lady.” The beast tilts his head sideways as he digs a black talon into his ear. “Yer blowin’ out my eardrums down ‘ere. Guess yer gonna need something more than me jabberin’ away fer ya ta believe me. Now where did Lillian put that note?” He squints at me, rubbing his chin.
The banging sound of the wooden rolltop flying up snaps me out of my reverie. The little creature, dragon, wyvern, whatever it was, is shuffling around, sending papers cascading towards the ground.
“Ere it is. I knew she left ya a letter.” He waves a sheet of paper around in front of me. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I take the paper from the wyvern. His little hand brushes mine as I do so.
Still not real.
I read,
“Dear Natalie,
Welcome to the University of Oxford Department of Ceremonies. By now you’ve probably met our wyvern Humphrey and are wondering whether you’ve lost the plot entirely or perhaps fallen into an alternate universe. I assure you; you have done neither.
You are the Carimoniae Praefectus, one of a handful of individuals throughout history who holds responsibility for keeping alive the magic of Oxford. Yes, magic is real. For hundreds of years, Oxford has thrived because of its connection with the earth’s magical field, allowing ghostly scholars and curious creatures to continue walking the halls long after their demise.
As the ceremonial prefect, you must curate events which uphold and extend the traditions of the colleges, provide relief from studies, and foster lasting memories which feed into the magical system.
Why you? The ability to see the magic lies in your veins, handed down through the generations. Not everyone heeds the call, but those who do find a career beyond their wildest dreams.
Humphrey, or H as he prefers, will ensure you soon meet the other two prefects, working in the library and museum, respectively. They will give you more information and answer all your questions. I am sorry that I am not there to welcome and guide you in person. Last year I began showing signs of early dementia. Whilst the doctors reassure me that my slide will be gradual, it was clear I could no longer uphold the responsibilities of my role.
I wish you the absolute best of luck. The magic assures me you’re up to the task.
Kind regards,
Lillian
P.S. H prefers Lincolnshire Poacher to any other cheddar. And don’t let him convince you to pour him a stout. It won’t end well for either of you. Trust me.”
“Magic???” I blurt out.
Humphrey nods, sending wisps of steam curling into the air. “‘Ow else do ya think a gooseberry puddin’ like ya ends up wiff such a noble title? It’s tha magic.”
“Magic!” I repeat, dumbfounded. “I can do magic? Is that what the letter said?” I skim the page again, my eyes leaping from one paragraph to another. The words haven’t changed in the last few seconds; it’s right there in black and white.
Magic is in my veins.
❖
I look at Humphrey, something niggling in the back of my mind. “You’re the cat, right?” His nod confirms my suspicions. “I knew it! I knew something was weird about you.”
The little guy in question is having none of it, rolling his eyes and shaking his snout. “Yer full of porky pies iffen ya believe that. Ya had no idea, natterin’ away ta an ole cat.” He lets a little chuckle slip before straightening himself back up.
I pick Lillian’s letter up again to read it more closely. Poor woman, it must have devastated her to leave her job after so many years, not to mention dealing with a dementia diagnosis.
Unfortunately, though, that leaves me holding the bag with no one here but a wyvern to explain what it is exactly I’m supposed to do. How did I end up here?
I cough a few times to interrupt H’s battle with the ash floating in the air. “Lillian’s note says I inherited my magical abilities… but how did she know?”
H takes a last swipe at the ash before answering. “Yer grandda asked me a similar question.”
A lightning bolt strikes through my brain. “My grandfather?”
“Well, I did say it runs in families. Yer grandda was tha first ‘uman I met after I became a cat.”
All those stories my grandfather told me about magical Oxford. That’s why the little beast’s name is so familiar. Humphrey the mischievous wyvern was a favourite of mine. How could I have forgotten?
My grandfather died years ago, his stories fading into the depths of my memory. I fish a scene out at random, my grandfather mid-story, my dad interrupting to call us to dinner. My dad… “What about my dad? Does he know magic is real?”
H shakes his head, “Nah, tha wee
