The late morning sun bathed the yard of St. Mary's Orphanage in warm, golden light. Laughter rang through the air as children ran across the grass, their carefree shouts echoing against the old brick walls of the building. It was Saturday—freedom from school, from chores, from the ordinary.
Beyond the rustle of leaves and playful commotion, a tall, stern figure in emerald green robes entered the gate, her presence both dignified and commanding. Professor Minerva McGonagall stepped into the yard with the grace of someone who had long since mastered being noticed without trying.
Children barely glanced her way, too caught up in their games to sense that change had arrived. She walked briskly to the front steps of the orphanage, her boots clicking softly on the stone path, and raised her hand.
Three sharp knocks echoed against the thick wooden door.
It opened moments later to reveal a woman in her mid-thirties, dressed in a blue sundress under a cream apron smudged with flour. Her chestnut hair was tied in a loose bun, and her brown eyes, though tired, warmed with kindness when they met McGonagall's.
"Helen Rowe," the woman greeted, smiling politely, though curiosity flickered behind her calm expression. "Good morning. How can I help you?"
"Good morning," said McGonagall, her Scottish accent clipped yet polite. "My name is Professor Minerva McGonagall. I'm here to speak with you about one of your boys—Lucian Marcellus Devereux."
Helen's posture straightened at once, not with fear, but with a guarded sort of protectiveness.
"Lucian?" she repeated, voice softening. "Has he done something wrong?"
"On the contrary," McGonagall said with the faintest hint of a smile, "he has done something quite right."
Helen stepped aside. "Please, come in."
They walked through the modest hallway, sunlight pouring in through tall windows and the quiet chatter of children playing echoing faintly behind them. The scent of fresh bread and dried lavender filled the air—homey and warm.
As their footsteps fell in rhythm on the wooden floorboards, Helen glanced sideways at the sharply dressed woman in green robes.
"So… what do you want with Lucian?" she asked, her voice steady but curious.
McGonagall gave a composed smile. "I'm here to offer him a place at a school for particularly gifted children."
Helen slowed. "Gifted?"
"Yes," McGonagall replied, pausing ever so slightly. "Children who possess… rare talents. Who see the world in ways others often don't."
Helen gave her a cautious look. "Is this some kind of art school, then? Because Lucian is clever, yes—but his imagination is something else. I've seen him spend hours with a paintbrush or buried in some book no one else here would ever pick up. I've never met a child like him."
McGonagall's eyes twinkled. "That is precisely why I'm here."
They stepped into the sitting room—sun-drenched and filled with mismatched chairs, soft cushions, and the quiet ticking of an old clock. Helen gestured for her to sit and took the worn armchair opposite.
"You asked about his personality," Helen said, folding her hands in her lap. "Lucian's a quiet soul. Thoughtful. He doesn't shout or demand things like the other boys. He watches, listens… learns. Sometimes I think he's memorized every page of every book we own."
She smiled faintly, eyes soft. "He's always been a gentleman—he speaks so properly, I tease him that he's secretly a prince. That's how he carries himself too. Like he knows who he is… even if he doesn't know where he comes from."
McGonagall nodded with calm approval. "And what does he enjoy?"
"Painting, mostly," Helen said. "Drawing, reading. He's quiet, but when he does speak… it's thoughtful. Vivid. He describes things like he's painting with words."
McGonagall's expression remained unchanged, but something in her posture relaxed—reassured.
"He will thrive at our school," she said.
Helen gave her a searching look. "You're sure this place is right for him? He's… he's different, but he's not broken."
"He's not," McGonagall said firmly. "He is… rare. And rare children need rare opportunities."
Helen nodded slowly, her fingers tightening around the fabric of her apron. She looked toward the stairs, then back at McGonagall with a quiet breath.
"He's in his room. First door on the left, up the stairs," she said, gesturing gently with a flour-dusted hand.
McGonagall inclined her head in thanks and rose from her seat, smoothing her robes. As she walked toward the staircase, Helen watched her go, her brows slightly furrowed—not with worry, but with the weight of something unspoken.
At the base of the steps, McGonagall paused, her hand on the railing, and looked back.
"He may not know it yet," she said calmly, "but his life is about to change."
Helen gave a small, sad smile. "I hope… for the better."
McGonagall didn't reply. She simply turned and ascended the stairs.
The stairs creaked softly beneath Professor McGonagall's polished boots as she ascended, the sounds of children below growing distant with every step. She reached the landing and paused for a moment outside the first door on the left. The door was ajar, and from within came the faint scent of turpentine and old parchment.
She pushed the door open gently, and the sight that greeted her gave her pause.
The room was modest, but neat—shelves stacked with worn books, jars of brushes arranged with careful intention, a cracked easel resting near the window. Yet it was not the room itself that held her attention.
It was the boy.
Lucian Marcellus Devereux sat perched atop a wooden ladder, barefoot and focused, a white tank top streaked with faint dabs of color beneath a loose, unbuttoned blue shirt. His black wavy hair fell in gentle waves to his cheekbones, and his ice-blue eyes were narrowed in concentration as he worked with a brush in elegant, sweeping motions.
Above him, the ceiling was coming to life.
A Renaissance-style fresco bloomed overhead in strokes of rich ochres, muted blues, and softened golds. It depicted a scene of impossible beauty—figures draped in flowing robes, clouds parting to reveal a great sunlit tower, and a distant sea where ships unfurled like dreams. The detail was exquisite, far beyond what a boy his age should be capable of.
McGonagall stood still, not wishing to startle him. But Lucian, sensing her presence, spoke first—his voice calm, even courteous.
"You're not one of the nuns," he said without turning. "You didn't knock like Miss Helen, either."
McGonagall allowed herself the faintest smile. "No, Mr. Devereux. I did not."
Lucian finally turned his head, graceful even in that small movement. His eyes met hers—curious, sharp, and entirely unafraid.
"You know my name," he said, descending the ladder carefully, brush still in hand. He did not seem embarrassed to be caught in the middle of his art—on the contrary, he moved as though he had expected this moment.
"I am Professor Minerva McGonagall," she said, folding her hands in front of her. "And I've come to speak with you about your future."
Lucian stepped off the last rung and tilted his head slightly. "My future?"
"Yes," she said. "I represent a school that believes you may possess a very rare kind of talent. One that cannot be taught in ordinary classrooms."
Lucian studied her, then placed his brush in a glass jar with quiet care. His expression remained neutral, but the interest in his eyes was unmistakable.
Lucian's ice-blue eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he crossed his arms, leaning slightly against the window frame.
"You say your name is Minerva McGonagall? So you came from the school on the letter. Hogwart—was it? If it wasn't for the owl delivering the letter, I would have thought it a prank. A magic school."
He glanced back at the ceiling, where his half-finished fresco seemed to shimmer in the soft light.
"Magic... I never really believed in such things. Not the way stories tell them."
McGonagall's lips curved into a knowing smile, her gaze steady.
She stepped closer, her voice calm but firm.
"Hogwarts isn't a place for tricks or fantasies. It is a school where those with talents like yours learn to understand and control them. To protect themselves—and others."
Lucian considered her words for a long moment, then gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.
"I've always felt like I was meant for something more. Perhaps this is it."
McGonagall inclined her head respectfully.
"Then I would be honored to help guide you there."
Lucian stepped down and sat on the edge of his neatly made bed, elbows on his knees, his gaze steady on the professor.
McGonagall straightened slightly and clasped her hands before her. "Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry is located in Scotland, hidden from the Muggle world—non-magical people, that is—by powerful enchantments. It has stood for over a thousand years as the foremost institution for magical education in Britain."
She continued . "You would attend as a first-year student, though you'd be in the company of others your age. Hogwarts educates young witches and wizards from the age of eleven to seventeen. You will take classes in a range of magical subjects—some practical, others theoretical."
Lucian leaned back slightly. "Such as?"
"Charms," she began, ticking them off on her fingers. "Which involve spellwork for everyday use. Transfiguration—my own subject—in which we study the art of changing the form and nature of objects. Potions, taught by Professor Snape, involves the alchemical blending of ingredients for powerful results. Herbology, which covers magical plants and their uses. And Defense Against the Dark Arts, which prepares students to defend themselves against… more dangerous aspects of the magical world."
Lucian's eyes sharpened slightly. "Dangerous how?"
McGonagall's gaze met his without blinking. "There are dark spells, dark creatures, and dark intentions. Hogwarts does not teach the Dark Arts, but it ensures its students are not defenseless."
There was a pause. Lucian absorbed it all in silence, his mind already drifting toward the possibilities—spells, transformations, potions, enchantments. A world that had always felt just beyond the veil of ordinary life, now being offered to him as truth.
"And this is all… real?" he asked, but his voice was already filled more with wonder than disbelief.
McGonagall reached into her robes and withdrew her wand. With a flick, the brush in the jar rose into the air, dipped itself gently into a pool of blue paint on the palette nearby, and began softly touching up the corner of Lucian's ceiling mural—exactly where he had left off.
Lucian rose slowly, watching the brush work. A smile crept across his face—quiet, awed, full of reverence.
"I suppose that answers the question."
McGonagall smiled, just slightly. "Indeed."
She lowered the brush with another flick of her wand. "You have receive a list of books and supplies. There's a shopping district in London hidden from the Muggle world, called Diagon Alley. I will accompany you there, if you choose to accept your place."
"And if I say yes?"
"Then on the first of September, you'll board the Hogwarts Express from King's Cross Station—Platform Nine and Three-Quarters."
Lucian's smile deepened as the name lingered in the air. "Of course. A platform that doesn't exist."
"Not to most," McGonagall replied. "But to those who belong… it's waiting."
Lucian looked down at his paint-stained fingers, then back at the older woman. His voice was quiet, but filled with quiet determination.
"I accept."