We were halfway back through the Leaky Cauldron when I stopped.
Not abruptly. Just enough for McGonagall to notice.
She turned. "Is something wrong, Mr. Ryan?"
I hesitated, glancing down at the pouch of supplies in my arms books, a wand, a set of freshly folded robes.
Everything I needed to be a student.
Except one thing.
"My body's not right," I said quietly. "I mean… I'm not dying. Not right now. But it's weak. Slow. Every morning it takes effort just to stand."
McGonagall's brow creased with immediate concern. "You should've said something sooner."
"I wasn't sure I could trust you."
She didn't seem offended. If anything, she nodded like that answer made sense.
"Do you need to lie down?"
"No," I said quickly. "I need a hospital. Or healer. Or whatever you people call your version of doctors."
"Then let's take care of it now," she said. "There's only one place we need to go—St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. Best healers in Britain."
"…And they won't ask questions?"
"Only what they need to help."
That was enough.
Ten minutes later, we were standing outside what looked like an abandoned department store. Faded mannequins stood behind cracked glass, draped in torn clothes and dust.
McGonagall didn't hesitate. She pressed a hand to the window, then gently ushered me forward.
The world shifted.
Like fog being peeled back.
Suddenly, we were standing in a clean, warmly lit lobby under a glowing golden sign that read:
ST. MUNGO'S HOSPITAL FOR MAGICAL MALADIES AND INJURIES
Reception was busy, but professional. Before long, a tall woman in mint-green robes approached, wand tucked behind her ear, eyes sharp behind rounded spectacles.
"Minerva," she greeted. "Another first year, I presume?"
"Yes. This is Ryan," McGonagall said. "He needs a full diagnostic—and anything else you recommend."
Healer Miriam turned her attention to me. Her gaze wasn't soft, but it wasn't cold either—clinical and efficient. I preferred it that way.
"How long have you been eating regularly?" she asked first.
"About… a week now," I said. "Before that, barely anything for a month."
She nodded, her tone shifting to business. "And your age?"
"Eleven."
"Any history of illness? High fever? Vomiting? Loss of consciousness?"
"Fever, maybe," I said. "Woke up sweating some nights. No vomiting. No blackouts."
"Pain?"
"Joints. Chest, sometimes. Knees. My back stiffens after sitting too long."
"Fatigue?"
"Constant."
She nodded again. "And what about accidental magic?"
I blinked. "What?"
McGonagall stepped forward. "It's common for young witches and wizards raised in Muggle environments," she explained. "Spontaneous, uncontrolled magical outbursts—especially during moments of stress or fear."
Miriam tilted her head slightly. "Think carefully, Ryan. Any strange events? Objects moving when you didn't touch them? Lights flickering? Cuts healing faster than expected?"
I hesitated.
Then nodded slowly.
"There were times I tripped or hit something, and the bruises faded the next day. And when I was starving, I always seemed to last longer than I should've. Like… something was slowing it down."
Healer Miriam hummed thoughtfully. "Your magic was likely keeping your body stable. Weak, yes—but still active. Untrained magic, especially in young children, will instinctively protect its host."
She made a circular motion with her wand over my chest. A pale blue glow hovered over my sternum, flickering like a dying flame.
"There it is," she murmured. "Your core is underdeveloped—but intact. Strained, but functional. Magic has been working overtime just to keep you from collapsing."
My throat tightened. I didn't know how to respond to that.
"Will it… get stronger?" I asked quietly.
"With care. And rest," Miriam said gently. "But if you hadn't come here when you did… it would've burned itself out. You were surviving on the edge of magical exhaustion."
I nodded stiffly.
Because of course I was.
She led me to a warm, clean examination room where I sat on a padded bed. She ran several magical scans silent, glowing spells that hovered near my skin, pulsed along my bones, and drifted through my chest like mist.
Each glow brought notes to floating scrolls beside her. A quill scribbled without pause.
Then came a bitter-tasting potion. Something she called a stabilizer and diagnostic enhancer. It made my chest tingle and my fingertips itch, but I drank it all.
When she finished her tests, she folded her arms and looked at me with an expression somewhere between impressed and disturbed.
"You're malnourished. Severely. Iron-deficient. Muscle mass is underdeveloped for your age. There's a partially healed fracture in your left wrist, probably from a fall that was never treated. Your immune system's running cold, and you're showing signs of long-term magical suppression."
I stayed quiet.
Not because I didn't care.
But because none of it surprised me.
"And yet," she added, "you're still walking. That's impressive. And worrying."
"So what now?" I asked.
"You'll stay here," she said without hesitation. "Until the term starts. That's two and a half weeks. You'll eat, rest, and let your magic stabilize. We'll start you on magical nutrient therapy and fatigue recovery potions."
"No spell practice?" I asked.
"None," she said. "Not until your core is strong enough to sustain it."
The next days blurred together but not in a bad way.
I slept longer than I ever had.
The beds were warm. The food brought in by strange, silent house-elves was rich and balanced, and there was always enough. I didn't have to hoard it. Didn't have to fight for it.
Healers checked in twice a day. Sometimes more.
Potions were strange some tasted like lemon and pepper, others like ash and moss but I drank them all.
And little by little, I felt different.
Not strong yet.
But better.
The bone-ache faded. My joints loosened. The tightness in my chest stopped waking me at night.
By the end of the first week, I could stand without bracing myself. By the end of the second, I could walk the halls without tiring.
My cheeks filled out. My hands stopped shaking.
Even my eyes, once sunken and wary, began to feel alert again.
McGonagall visited every few days. She brought updates from Diagon Alley, a new set of textbooks, and quiet reassurances that Hogwarts would be ready when I was.
"You're recovering quickly," she said during her latest visit, a rare note of approval in her voice. "Stronger color in your cheeks. And…" she raised an eyebrow, "reading ahead, I see."
I tried to hide the book tucked under my blanket—The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1. The corner of the page was dog-eared, and the cover already worn from how many times I'd flipped it open.
"I was just looking," I muttered.
Her eyes twinkled. "Looking is how learning begins."
I hesitated, then sat up a little straighter.
"What's Hogwarts like?" I asked, surprising even myself with how much I wanted to know.
McGonagall's gaze softened, just slightly. "It's a castle. Over a thousand years old. Full of magic, wonder, and mischief. Each corridor seems to have its own personality. The staircases move, the portraits talk, and the ceiling in the Great Hall mirrors the sky above."
I blinked. "Sounds like the building itself is alive."
"In some ways, it is," she said with a faint smile. "Magic leaves traces. Especially where it's been welcomed for centuries."
I nodded slowly. My fingers absentmindedly ran along the rough edge of the book. I imagined stone walls, torchlight, students in long robes, spells echoing through the halls like artillery fire but controlled, focused.
"…Is Hogwarts the only place?" I asked suddenly. "Like, is that the only school for people like me?"
Her smile didn't fade, but it did change—grew more careful.
"No," she said. "Hogwarts is the British school of witchcraft and wizardry, but there are others. Magical education is as vast as the world itself."
I leaned forward, intrigued despite myself. "Where?"
"Well, there's Beauxbatons Academy of Magic in France. Very elegant, formal. Then Durmstrang Institute, far in the north strict, secretive, known for focusing on the more… martial branches of magic. In the Americas, there's Ilvermorny, built on Mount Greylock in Massachusetts."
"Different styles?" I asked.
"Very much so," she nodded. "Each school reflects its culture. Hogwarts, for instance, values courage, intelligence, loyalty, and ambition qualities personified by our four Houses."
I raised an eyebrow. "Houses?"
She gave a knowing smile. "You'll be Sorted into one your first night. Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, or Slytherin. Each with its own common room, traditions, and legacy."
I processed that for a moment. "So… I'll live with strangers?"
"Soon to be your classmates," she corrected gently.
I wasn't sure if that was comforting or a warning.
"And if I don't fit?" I asked quietly.
Her gaze met mine direct, firm. "Then Hogwarts will fit itself around you."
I didn't respond right away.
Because deep down, I wasn't just thinking about a magical school.
I was wondering if a place like that could really accept someone like me someone who didn't laugh easily, who scanned every exit, who still flinched at loud noises even in his sleep.
But I didn't say any of that aloud.
Instead, I muttered, "As long as there's food and books, I'll manage."
McGonagall chuckled. "Both in abundance, I assure you."
Then, just before she stood to leave, she placed something beside my bed a small, leather-bound journal.
"For your thoughts," she said. "Or your spells. Or anything you're not ready to say out loud."
I stared at the journal.
It was blank. Untouched. Waiting.
And somehow, that was harder to look at than any spellbook.