A boy with black hair slicked back and sharp brown eyes ran briskly down the narrow street. "Mum, when is dinner?" he called over his shoulder without slowing.
"In two hours, Marcus! Don't dawdle!" his mother's voice floated after him.
He nodded to himself and pushed on, the familiar rhythm of his feet hitting cobblestones keeping his thoughts clear.
When he finally circled back home, the ivy-draped townhouse loomed with its usual sleepy hum. The Thark house never quite sat still — its old stones whispered with latent magic, the windows blinked if stared at too long, and the brass doorknob grumbled softly whenever turned too quickly.
Inside, the Thark townhouse breathed with quiet magic. The narrow front hall was dim and cool, its slate floor worn smooth by generations of footsteps. The walls were paneled in deep walnut, hung with framed maps — some of Muggle cities, others of places that shimmered faintly and shifted when not watched directly. A rack of umbrellas stood near the door, though none of them were ordinary and above them, a single strand of ivy had somehow crept in through a cracked windowpane, curling along the ceiling with quiet determination — no magic, just nature taking its time.
The dining room to the left was cluttered but warm, always smelling of candle wax and cinnamon.
Through a crooked archway, the sitting room slouched slightly to one side. Its shelves held everything from magical theory to cookbooks to absurd Muggle detective novels with overly dramatic titles. There was a grandfather clock that occasionally ticked backward and a mirror over the fireplace that preferred to show memories instead of reflections. Marcus bounded up the creaking staircase, his hand brushing the carved wood along the edge. The air grew cooler with each step, and the walls around him shimmered faintly. Family portraits hung in crooked frames, their painted eyes following him as he passed — some with mild interest, others with the weary look of ancestors long accustomed to hurried footsteps and forgotten hellos.
His room was at the very top, just beneath the steep gables. The door creaked in a familiar way as he pushed it open. The space was small but filled with presence. Books dominated every corner — thick volumes of magical creatures, spellwork primers, worn fairytale collections, and curious old encyclopedias with corners gnawed by something that had hopefully moved out. The ceiling sloped low enough to bump into if you weren't careful, and a small window, round like a ship's porthole, let in the afternoon sun.
On his desk were scraps of parchment, half-inked runes, a compass that spun on its own, and a glass jar containing what might have been a petrified frog or a failed potion experiment. A little wooden shelf near his bed held folded clothes and a brass-framed photo of him with his parents in front of a windmill — all grins, windswept hair, and Eustace's awkwardly floating hat.
Marcus dropped into his reading chair, he reached for a slim, weathered book titled Wand Lore for Young and Curious Minds. His fingers traced the embossed title before he cracked it open to a bookmarked chapter: "Wood, Core, and Character: Why the Wand Chooses." He read slowly, mouthing some of the longer words to himself.
"It is a common misconception," the text read in neat, serif print, "that a wand is merely a tool. In truth, it is a partner—an arcane echo of its wielder's strengths and hesitations. A wand of alder may bend to compassion, while rowan often favors clarity of purpose. Unicorn hair may respond best to the steady and kind, while dragon heartstring flares brightest in the grasp of those who dare."
He paused, thumb resting against the edge of the page, then continued reading.
"But beware: the wand does not always reflect who you are. Sometimes, it reveals who you might become."
Outside, the lilac branches swayed against the glass. Inside, all was still — save for the slow turning of a page and the quiet hum of magic asleep in the walls.
"Marcus! Dinner!"
The call echoed up the stairwell. Marcus closed his book — Wood, Core and Character: Why the Wand Chooses — and slid down from his chair, careful not to knock over the stack of other titles he'd pulled from the shelf. He left a bookmark between pages on wand temperament and trudged toward the scent of roast vegetables and warm bread.
Downstairs, the dining room flickered with candlelight, the air filled with the scent of herbs and peppered lamb. His mother was bustling between the kitchen and the table, wand held between her teeth as she levitated plates into place. Her robes were flour-dusted, and a strand of hair had slipped loose from her bun.
"Hands?"
"Clean," Marcus said, displaying them for inspection.
Just then, the front door creaked open.
Boots thudded across the threshold, followed by the low groan of someone unshouldering a heavy coat. A familiar cough. Marcus's father stepped into the hallway, brushing ash from his Ministry robes and setting his briefcase down with a quiet thud.
"Evening," Eustace said. "Did I miss the potatoes?"
"Just in time," his wife said, without turning.
Eustace kissed her cheek, ruffled Marcus's hair, and sat down heavily. He reached for the pitcher and poured himself something deep red and glinting with faint golden sparks.
"Something's stirring again," he muttered. "The air in the Atrium practically crackles with it. No one's saying it outright, but everyone's watching the fireplaces. Waiting."
His wife gave him a warning look.
"Don't worry," Eustace added, smiling at Marcus. "No nightmares. Just an old story."
Marcus, now seated, perked up instantly.
"This was back when I was still sorting files in Magical Records," his father said, "before Voldemort's name ever darkened a report. There was a child — younger than you, I think — who kept getting mentioned in odd places. Wand paperwork, scrolls from the Department of Mysteries, even Auror memos. Only thing was, he didn't exist. Not officially."
Marcus blinked. "What do you mean?"
"I mean the birth records said he'd died. But his name kept showing up. Attached to sightings, broken wands, and a mirror no one could move without it shattering."
His mother sighed. "Eustace—"
He raised a hand. "No nightmares, I promise."
"What was the name?" Marcus asked quietly.
Eustace leaned back, eyes flicking to the window as if he half-expected it to fog over.
"Devon Ritmol."
Silence followed. Even the candles flickered.
"Who?" Marcus whispered.
"Exactly," said Eustace, spearing a carrot. "No one knows. But his name's turning up again. Just this week — three times. In three departments."
Marcus sat still, his fork paused mid-air. The name Devon Ritmol echoed strangely in his head — not frightening exactly, but it made the room feel a little colder.
"Is he bad?" he asked quietly.
Eustace gave a shrug that was too casual. "No one knows. Maybe. Maybe just strange. Sometimes that's enough to vanish."
"Eustace," his wife said warningly.
He gave her a placating look, then turned back to Marcus. "Forget I said anything. It's old Ministry talk. You've got better things to think about. Tomorrow's the big day."
Marcus blinked. "My wand?"
His father smiled. "Your wand. Your first robes. Your first train ride. That's what matters."
His mother reached over and refilled his glass. "Eat, sweetheart. You'll need the energy. And don't stay up too late reading."
Marcus obeyed, chewing slowly. Later, in his room, he curled into the oversized armchair by the window, the book heavy in his lap. Wood Core and Character: Why the Wand Chooses. He wasn't sure if he understood everything, but it made his stomach flutter with excitement.
He flipped back to a page he'd dog-eared earlier — something about unicorn hair being steady, dragon heartstring fierce. He wondered what would choose him.
Marcus yawned, the book slipping lower on his chest. His eyes drifted toward the ceiling, where soft golden light pooled and faded between the beams.
Marcus woke before seven.
He didn't feel different, even though it was his eleventh birthday. He slid his feet into his slippers, picked up the book he'd left beside the bed, and opened it to the marked page. It was a chapter about wand cores — specifically phoenix feather — and he finished the last paragraph before closing it carefully. He liked starting the day with something predictable.
Downstairs, the smell of bacon and butter drifted up. He made his way down quietly, one hand on the wall. The house was still. There was a faint scent of chalk and dried herbs, the usual quiet hum of magic tucked into corners no one had bothered to clean in years.
His mother, Liora, stood by the stove in her worn green dressing gown, humming under her breath. She worked from home, running a private alchemy practice out of the back room — mostly small commissions: household brews, custom charms, the occasional potion for St. Mungo's when they were short on staff. Her hair was pinned up in a way that suggested it had not been brushed yet, and a streak of silver powder ran along one sleeve.
"Toast or bacon?" she asked, glancing at him over her shoulder.
"Both," Marcus said.
He took his usual seat at the end of the kitchen table. The plates were mismatched, the butter dish chipped, and a half-open notebook on alchemical storage temperatures lay next to the sugar bowl. It was the kind of morning he liked — quiet, familiar, and unchanging.
Just then, the front door creaked open earlier than usual. Marcus looked up to see his father, Eustace, stepping in, coat still damp from the morning mist. He moved with a measured calm, the kind that came from years spent navigating the unpredictable corridors of the Ministry.
"Morning," Eustace said, hanging his coat on the rack. "Thought I'd get in before the usual chaos."
Liora smiled faintly from the stove. "Good timing. Breakfast is almost ready."
Eustace settled into the chair beside Marcus, nodding at the cluttered table. "Looks like you're already at work."
Marcus shrugged. "Just reviewing some notes."
"Smart boy," Eustace said, reaching for the toast and bacon. "You'll need all the brains you've got soon enough."
They ate in comfortable silence, the kitchen filled with the quiet sounds of forks against plates and the distant ticking of a clock. Outside, the morning mist still clung to the windows, softening the edges of the world.
Eustace glanced at Marcus. "You know, your mother and I have been talking. Hogwarts will be... different. More crowded than this quiet house. But you're ready."
Marcus nodded, swallowing a bite of bacon. "I'm not worried about the crowds. Just... everything else."
Before Eustace could answer, a sudden flutter echoed from the window. Mallory, their owl, crashed beak-first into the glass with a dramatic thud, wings flapping wildly.
Liora stood quickly, her sharp eyes already scanning the kitchen. "Mallory's here."
Marcus's heart quickened as she opened the window, and Mallory tumbled inside, a heavy envelope clutched in her talons. The seal was unmistakable — scarlet wax pressed with the Hogwarts crest.
Marcus held the heavy parchment in his hands, the scarlet wax seal still warm from the pressing. He hesitated for a moment, fingers poised above the edge of the envelope. The room was quiet save for the faint ticking of the kitchen clock and the distant hum of magic in the walls.
He took a slow breath. This was the moment he'd been waiting for — the letter that would change everything.
Then, with steady hands, he broke the seal and unfolded the letter.
HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)
Dear Mr. Thark,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.
Term begins on September 1st. We await your owl by no later than July 31st.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress
"Dear Mr. Thark," he read aloud, voice low and steady despite the flutter in his chest. "We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of required books and equipment."
Eustace leaned in, a proud smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "It's official, then. Hogwarts awaits."
Liora set down her spoon, eyes shining. "You'll learn more there than we ever could teach you at home."
Marcus folded the letter and stared at the crest once more. A new chapter was about to begin.