They didn't Apparate in a crack of magic, nor vanish in a puff of smoke, nor step through a hidden portal behind a broom cupboard—though Cael had half-expected at least one of those. Instead, Professor McGonagall simply raised her wand, and from thin air emerged a sleek, black automobile so polished it gleamed like obsidian under the morning sun. A silent driver in a sharp grey uniform stood at attention by the door, which swung open automatically with a gentle click.
Cael stared. "That's… a car."
"A Ministry vehicle," McGonagall explained, catching the look on his face. "Used for official business. Such as collecting wayward eleven-year-olds who write alarming letters."
Cael's face flushed scarlet.
He didn't reply—just climbed in with an awkward grimace as the driver held the door open.
System: Ohhh even I felt that secondhand embarrassment. Pffffffffft—HA! HAHAHAHAHA!
Cael (in his head): Yeah, laugh it up, you smug glitch. Let's see how entertained you are when we get to the wand part and I accidentally blow up a shelf.
The inside of the car was… impossible. Spacious beyond reason. It felt more like a cozy lounge than a vehicle. The seats molded perfectly to his frame, and the air smelled of old books, warm tea, and something he could only describe as history.
As the car pulled away from the orphanage, Cael leaned against the window, watching the garden fade from view. The children were still inside, oblivious. But Mama Linda stood in the doorway, arms crossed and lips pressed into a thin line. When he turned to wave, she smiled—and that smile stayed with him longer than the house itself.
"So," he said, turning back to McGonagall as the city rolled by in silence, "what do I have to do to get the wand? I assume there's some kind of… process?"
"We begin with your school supplies," she said briskly, pulling a folded parchment from her robes. "Hogwarts provides a standard list to all first-years. Books, robes, equipment… and yes, a wand."
Cael took the parchment carefully, as though it might bite him. The ink was dark and handwritten, and at the top, it read:
HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY
First-Year Supplies
Uniform:
• Three sets of plain black work robes
• One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear
• One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)
• One winter cloak (black, silver fastenings)
(Please note that all clothing must carry name tags.)
Books:
• The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk
• A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot
• Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling
• Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration by Emeric Switch
• One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore
• Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger
• Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander
• The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin Trimble
Other Equipment:
• 1 wand
• 1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)
• 1 set of glass or crystal phials
• 1 telescope
• 1 set of brass scales
Students may also bring an owl OR a cat OR a toad.
"No brooms for the class?" Cael asked, raising an eyebrow.
"First-years aren't allowed their own brooms," McGonagall replied with practiced calm. "Flying lessons are part of the curriculum, however."
"Oh." He paused, then leaned in. "But… hypothetically… there is a way to get one early, right?"
She gave him a sidelong glance. "Only if someone is exceptionally talented in Quidditch. There have been a few exceptions."
"Right. Makes perfect sense. Not like I was already picturing myself as Hogwarts' youngest-ever Quidditch champion or anything."
To her credit, McGonagall didn't laugh. But the corners of her mouth twitched.
Diagon Alley was just as Cael remembered it—only this time, he didn't have to sneak in by clinging to the back of someone's robes like a tiny criminal.
This time, he entered through the front of the Leaky Cauldron, walking beside Professor McGonagall as the old wooden door shimmered open at her presence, as though the building itself dared not disobey her.
The pub was quiet in the morning. A few patrons sat nursing steaming mugs of something magical. A goblin read a newspaper in the corner. The barkeep gave McGonagall a respectful nod—and Cael, too, though his came with a knowing smirk.
"This way," McGonagall said, tapping a specific brick in the alley wall.
The bricks shifted and clicked into place like a living puzzle, revealing the sun-drenched chaos of Diagon Alley. Cael's jaw dropped.
"Still not over this," he muttered.
"Don't wander," she warned.
He didn't.
…Not much, anyway.
Their first stop was Gringotts.
Above the grand entrance was a plaque that read, in big bold letters:
"IF YOU COME TO INVEST YOUR OWN MONEY, YOU ARE FRIEND.
IF YOU COME TO STEAL, YOU ARE DEAD."
System: So cold. Honestly, these guys remind me of a certain group in the Muggle world—love money, hoard gold, extremely greedy—
Cael: Nope. Not touching that.
Inside, rows of goblins perched on high stools behind counters, counting piles of Galleons with sharp, clawed fingers. McGonagall approached the nearest one.
"I'm here to collect alimony for this boy—Cael Vale. Could you assist?"
The goblin didn't even blink. "Admission letter?"
She handed it over. After a few quiet scribbles and checks, the goblin said, "Cael Vale. One hundred twenty Galleons."
They took the pouch and left.
Madam Malkin's was their next stop. The shop smelled of fabric and pins and practicality.
"Oh, Minerva! Another new student?" Madam Malkin cooed as they entered. She was a round, pleasant witch with silver hair and spectacles perched on her nose.
"Yes, dear. First-year. Robes, if you would."
Madam Malkin turned to Cael and smiled. "Oh, what a cute little girl! I'll get her the finest—"
Cael stiffened.
System: I am ASCENDING—HAHAHAHAHAH—
McGonagall's lips twitched again. "He is a boy."
Madam Malkin gasped, then laughed heartily. "Oh my dear, forgive me! You're just so adorable, I mistook you. But worry not—you'll grow into a very handsome young man, I'm sure. Let's begin!"
A measuring tape immediately launched itself at Cael's limbs, wrapping around his arms and legs while the witch behind the counter muttered about supply delays and growth spurts.
They visited the bookstore next, Cael trying to carry more books than physically reasonable. Then came the cauldron shop—so messy it looked like a wizard had exploded inside—and finally, at long last, they arrived at Ollivanders.
Cael stopped short, staring up at the faded gold sign.
The bell above the door chimed softly as they entered.
The air inside smelled of dust, wood, and something ancient. Wand boxes were stacked to the ceiling in leaning towers, like a forest of forgotten destinies.
"Ah," came a soft, papery voice from the shadows, "I thought I'd be seeing you soon, Mr. Vale."
An old man with cloud-colored eyes stepped forward, his gaze piercing and kind all at once.
"Welcome to Ollivanders," he said. "Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C."
Cael swallowed.
This was it.