The Burrow – Late Night, August 31st
The attic was breathing.
Not literally, of course—but the way the candlelight swelled and dimmed, the way the enchanted quill scratched faintly even when Rowan wasn't touching it—it all gave the room a pulse. As though the space had grown used to his presence, had learned the rhythm of his thoughts, and now moved with him.
He sat cross-legged in the center of his makeshift study, the rafters sloping low above his head, runes glowing softly in chalk and silver ink across the walls. On a raised box beside him, the strange envelope from Dumbledore rested under his fingertips like a secret waiting to be unlocked.
He had waited until the house slept—when the gnomes in the garden were dozing in their burrows, when the floorboards stopped creaking with Fred and George's last-minute pranks, and when the stars were high enough that even the clocks dared not tick too loudly.
Now was the time for truth.
Rowan peeled the envelope open with deliberate care. The parchment inside felt heavier than it should have—imbued, perhaps, with memory or intent.
He read:
To Mr. Rowan Ambrose Weasley
Behind the third stack of spellbooks, The Burrow
I trust this letter finds you alone. There are reasons I send it this way—quiet, unspoken reasons that have nothing to do with school policy or tradition.
Some students arrive at Hogwarts to learn. A rare few arrive having already begun. Rarer still are those who arrive ready to remember what has been forgotten.
You, Mr. Weasley, stand at a threshold.
There are doors in Hogwarts that open for no wand and no spell—but for a kind of mind that listens rather than commands. You may find one of these. Or one may find you.
The world you enter is vast. Be wise with your talent. Trust no certainty. And when in doubt—ask the question others are too afraid to form.
Especially about me.
We will speak when the castle decides you are ready.
—A.P.W.B. Dumbledore
Headmaster, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Rowan blinked once, slowly. The candle flickered in the moment of silence that followed, as if holding its breath.
Then, instinctively, he turned the parchment over.
It was blank.
But he knew better.
He drew his wand and whispered, "Revelare."
The ink didn't appear—it grew, like vines reaching out of the page: curling lines forming a spiral staircase that descended into the earth, a chamber shaped like a mirrored dome, and a single pedestal in its center. No symbols. No labels. Just silence and space and something waiting.
Then, as suddenly as it had formed, the ink dissolved into the parchment again—like mist rolling away from a cold glass.
Rowan touched the paper. Smooth. Cool. Empty.
A hinge in the door of things to come…
He leaned back, mind spinning. Not with panic—but with a rare and dangerous excitement. The kind that only came when he brushed close to something no one else had found yet.
Not Ron. Not Percy. Not even Bill.
He considered memorizing the map, copying it. But something inside warned against it. Some part of the magic was alive—and it didn't want to be duplicated.
So he did what felt right.
He held the letter over the candle flame.
It didn't burn. Not at first.
Then, with a quiet whoosh, blue fire licked the corners, spiraling inward like water draining from a sink. In moments, the parchment was ash, the air filled with a scent like cold metal and mint.
Rowan breathed it in. Filed it all away. He would remember.
He always remembered.
Morning – September 1st
The Burrow was louder than ever.
Fred and George had tried to charm the toast to walk across the table. Percy was frantically organizing his prefect badge collection for the hundredth time. Ron kept patting his robe pocket to make sure his wand hadn't run off. Ginny hovered nearby, pretending she wasn't about to cry from not going.
Rowan said very little.
He'd packed his trunk the night before—clothes, wand, ink, books, and his own spell journal, wrapped tightly in a length of cloth woven with protective charms. No one had seen the enchanted compass he kept inside his coat, nor the tiny vial of Ever-Glass he'd siphoned from one of Arthur's old spell-lanterns. These weren't standard school supplies. But then again, neither was he a standard student.
At the fireplace, Arthur gave them final instructions about the Muggle station, checking each child for socks, galleons, and sandwiches as if they were soldiers off to war.
Rowan didn't mind the fuss. But he noticed how Molly looked at him when she thought he wasn't paying attention—like someone watching a child read a book written in a language no one else could understand.
King's Cross Station – Platform Nine and Three-Quarters
Rowan passed through the barrier without hesitation.
The platform greeted him like a memory returning—a sudden whoosh of steam, the scent of iron and oil, the shrill call of an owl overhead. The scarlet train loomed like a beast from a fairytale, passengers swarming around it with trunks and cats and cauldrons.
Ron, face flushed with excitement, clutched his ticket like it might vanish. "Do you think we'll be in the same house?"
"Statistically unlikely," Rowan said simply.
Ron blinked. "Oh."
Fred clapped him on the back. "Don't mind him. He's been like that since he saw the stars align through a soup spoon."
George added, "Don't knock it. That spoon told us not to eat Mum's stew last week."
Rowan tuned them out. His eyes were scanning the crowd.
And then he saw him.
Harry Potter.
The boy's presence wasn't obvious. No lightning flash. No glowing aura. But Rowan felt something. Like pressure around a closed door. A tension in the magical current.
He didn't introduce himself. Not yet.
There would be time for that.
Instead, he made his way down the length of the train, bypassing the clumps of laughing students and compartments filled with sweets and noise, until he found an empty one near the back.
He charmed the door shut, muffled sound, and set his trunk in the corner. The moment he sat, he exhaled.
Not from exhaustion.
But from restraint.
Aboard the Hogwarts Express – Midway Through the Journey
Outside the window, the fields of England blurred into hills and forests, then gradually into fog. The clouds thickened. Rain dotted the glass. Rowan didn't mind. Storms calmed him.
His wand was out—not for practice, but for comfort. He held it in his left hand, fingers tracing the fine grain of the ash wood.
He opened his journal and began writing. Not spells today. Not diagrams.
Just thoughts.
Magic listens better in silence.
The rune on the seal was Eiwaz. Yew tree. Connection between worlds. Dumbledore meant something by that.
He said remember. What is there to remember?
The ink—living. It dissolved. A chamber. Spiral. Pedestal. What was on it?
Why send this to me? Why now?
He paused, pen hovering.
What is a hinge?
He underlined the question.
Then, with slow precision, he drew the chamber from memory: spiral stairs, mirrored walls, the pedestal. Below it, he wrote: No labels. No runes. Not yet.
The train whistle blew.
Rowan looked up, startled to realize the sky was dimming fast. Mountains rose in the distance. Trees thickened. The clouds dipped low, as if the world itself were bowing to what lay ahead.
Then—softly—the compartment door creaked open.
He hadn't heard footsteps.
A girl stood there, blinking calmly behind pale blue eyes. Her hair was pale straw, and her robes slightly crooked. She stared at him for a long time, and he stared back.
"Rowan Weasley," she said dreamily.
"You know my name."
"Of course. The castle told me."
He didn't speak for a moment. "That's not how most people learn things."
"I'm not most people."
She smiled, tilted her head, and added, "You already read your other letter, didn't you?"
Rowan's breath caught.
"…Which letter?"
"Exactly." And she was gone.
The door closed with a gentle click.
Rowan sat very still.
He'd never spoken to Luna Lovegood before. He didn't know how she knew his name, nor what she meant by the castle told me.
But he believed her.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the small, rune-marked stone he'd found on his pillow the day before. It pulsed faintly—like a heartbeat.
He closed his eyes and felt it hum.