McGonagall's tartan vanished past the gate; the latch clicked like a full stop. For a moment the cottage held its breath.
Margaret smoothed a doily that didn't need smoothing. "She's… formidable."
Richard exhaled. "And real, apparently."
Void set the Hogwarts letter on the mantel, flat and ordinary. "Luna and Mr. Lovegood will go with me," he said. "Professor McGonagall agreed to meet us there."
Margaret's brows lifted. "You're sure?"
"She agreed," Void said. "I won't be with a stranger."
Richard nodded once at that—relieved by a rule that sounded like theirs. "Right, then."
Void crossed to the hallway table, lifted the handset, and dialed the midnight number from memory. The line clicked; Red's voice came through, low and steady, as if he were already in the room.
"It's begun," Void said. "She came."
"At last," Red said. "Good. Listen—be careful not to be found out. They'll assume you know less than you do. Don't let the mask slip."
"I don't wear one with Luna or the twins," Void said. "No one else sees anything."
A beat; the faintest approval. "So it should be. You'll be going to Gringotts?"
"Yes. Will it be fine?"
"The ring you're wearing will ensure the goblins see only what is public—the Potter line," Red said. "For now, that's all any clerk will record."
"And if McGonagall asks about my vault?" Void's voice didn't change. "I don't trust them. Why should school staff have access to an inheritance vault the way they did with Harry? Or are mine and Harry's the same?"
"They are not," Red said. "James Potter was the true heir of the main line. Your father was a possible heir of an older branch. He and Amara established a separate inheritance vault for you. Unlike Harry's, yours cannot be opened unless you or one of your parents is present. The goblins agreed because of a reverter clause: if your line ends with no heir, the contents pass to the bank. Until then, it stays locked. No goblin, no wizard—no one—has entered it since your father."
Void was silent a moment. "All right."
"At the counter," Red went on, "handle exchanges only. If she inquires about keys or holdings, let her ask the goblins. If they ask whom to recognize as agent, you say no one. You can assert control if you must, but don't be the first to raise it."
"Understood."
"And Void—keep faith with the Lovegoods, but keep your counsel with everyone else."
"I do."
"Good. Call when you're home. I'll be listening."
The line went soft and then empty.
Margaret hovered in the doorway, trying not to. "Was that…?"
"Red," Void said.
"Is everything… safe?" Richard asked, which was what he meant whenever he asked anything these days.
"It is," Void said. "Tomorrow I'll meet Professor McGonagall with Mr. Lovegood and Luna. We'll get what's needed. I'll be back by tea."
Margaret reached for his sleeve, then let her hand fall. "We'll have shepherd's pie," she said—the sort of sentence that keeps a house standing.
Void's mouth moved; it might have been a smile. "All right."
He folded the letter back onto the mantel where the clock could keep an eye on it and went to wash his hands for lunch, as if the world hadn't just shifted on its hinge.
The Lovegoods' Door
Void took the footpath behind the hedges up toward the odd, round house on the hill. Wildflowers leaned into the path; a wind chime made from old keys ticked softly under the eaves. He knocked.
Xenophilius Lovegood opened the door in a faded waistcoat and an expression of pleasant surprise. "Ah! Void," he said, as if greeting a weather pattern he'd been tracking. "And how does the stream flow today?"
"True," Void said. "Professor McGonagall came to the Wiltons'. I'm to get my things in Diagon Alley. Will you and Luna come with me? I don't want to go with a stranger."
Xenophilius's eyes warmed. "Professor McGonagall is a kind woman," he offered. "A trifle strict about rules, but good. You might like her."
"She's still a stranger," Void said, even. "To me."
They regarded one another for a beat. Then Xenophilius inclined his head, the decision settling without fuss. "Very well. We needed a few items ourselves. We'll go with you."
"Thank you," Void said.
Luna appeared behind her father, barefoot, pockets heavy with things that clicked softly when she moved. "We'll meet her at the Leaky Cauldron tomorrow," she said, as if she had already marked it down. "At ten."
"Did the twins go home?" Void asked.
"They did," Luna said serenely. "But they'll be back this afternoon. They promised the rooks."
"Good," Void said. "I'll wait by the stream."
"Take a biscuit," Xenophilius added, pressing a paper-wrapped bundle into his hand as if it were necessary equipment. "Journeys are improved by small, certain comforts."
"See you tomorrow," Void said.
"See you," Luna echoed, and the door sighed shut.
The Stream, Again
He waited where the bank dipped in a clean shelf. Water ran bright and quick; a rook clattered once in the oak, announcing arrivals long before there were any. Willow branches shook; two redheads burst through, freckled and grinning and somehow already mid-conversation.
"There he is!" said one, flinging himself onto the grass.
"We come bearing rumours and ill-advised advice," said the other. "Also, Mum says if we're late for tea again she'll time-turn us back to yesterday."
"Not that she actually has one," the first confided. "We think."
"Do you want to come to Diagon Alley tomorrow?" Void asked.
They lit up in stereo. "Do we—"
"—ever!"
"Professor McGonagall is meeting us," Void said. "With Luna and Mr. Lovegood. If anything, I can make it… fun for you."
"Fun," repeated the first, reverent.
"As in prank the Deputy Head?" breathed the second.
"Something small," Void said, straight-faced. "Delaying tactics. Questions she'll be obliged to answer at length. Perhaps you 'lose' count of the steps to Gringotts and ask her to enumerate goblin treaties since 1709."
They clasped their hands to their hearts.
"Or," Void added, "you could solemnly debate which shop sells the most educational sweets and ask for her ruling."
"Zonko's is in Hogsmeade," one said mournfully.
"True," the other sighed. "But we can rehearse."
"Tomorrow, then," said Fred (probably), springing up. "We'll be on our best behaviour."
"By which he means," George clarified, "as well as we possibly can while still being ourselves."
"Tell Luna we'll bring the rooks a treat," Fred added. "They like shiny things."
"Not too shiny," George warned. "Dad will ask questions."
Void nodded once. The river slid on. Overhead, the rooks shifted, took attendance, and—finding the number right—settled for tomorrow.
Next Morning — The Leaky Cauldron
They'd barely taken three steps toward the back passage when Void said, mild as milk, "We've other guests coming with us."
Luna, studying the way light pooled on the floorboards, glanced up, puzzled. Void tipped her a quick wink. She laughed—bright and sudden—as the hearth flared green.
Two tall, freckled blurs whirled out of the Floo and skidded to a stop, coughing soot and grinning like they'd planned it that way.
"Speak of the devils," Void said.
"Morning, Tom!" one twin chirped, dusting his sleeves.
"Save us a table for celebratory ginger beer," said the other.
Tom the innkeeper shook his head, amused. "Mind the grate, lads."
Professor McGonagall's eyebrows climbed toward her hat. "Mr. Weasley… and Mr. Weasley." Her voice could have cut parchment. "Does your mother know you're here?"
"Yes, Professor," they answered perfectly together, then ruined it by talking over one another.
"She sent us to fetch our book lists—"
"—and to assist Mr. Lovegood with essential errands—"
"—and to behave impeccably—"
"—which we absolutely intend to do."
Xenophilius bowed as if accepting formal attendants. "Their help is, as ever, invaluable," he said gravely.
McGonagall pressed her lips to keep a smile from escaping. "Very well. Since you are here, you will remain under my eye. No detours to Knockturn Alley; no 'just popping in' anywhere I haven't named. Understood?"
"Crystal," they chorused, beaming.
"Shall we?" Xenophilius said, offering the door as if it were the entrance to a theatre.
McGonagall tapped the right brick; the wall folded in on itself like a clever paper trick. Diagon Alley unfurled beyond: owls and steam and voices; a broom gleaming like bottled lightning; a cauldron display polished to a black shine.
Gringotts First 🏦
"Bank first," McGonagall said. "You'll need Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts. Mr. Void, if you've brought Muggle notes for exchange—good. If not, the school maintains a small fund for Muggle-born—"
"We can cover his supplies," Xenophilius put in cheerfully. "No trouble at all."
"Thank you," Void said at once, before McGonagall could answer, "but I'm not taking money from my friend's father. I brought cash to exchange—" his look flicked to McGonagall, steady "—even though no one told me to, or what the rate is."
"The fund exists precisely for cases like—"
"I'm not going into debt," Void said, just as evenly, "before I even understand this world's economy."
The twins went luminous with delight. "He did say it'd be fun," one breathed.
Inside the marble hall, goblins bent over ledgers with quills that scratched like dry leaves. McGonagall addressed a clerk with iron-grey hair and ringed fingers. "Good morning. We require an exchange to Galleons and—" a fractional breath "—the Headmaster wondered whether there might already be a vault in this boy's name."
Xenophilius and the twins exchanged a look. "A vault?" Fred murmured. "For a Muggle-born?"
"How would he have one?" George whispered, baffled and thrilled.
Beside Void, the air cooled by a degree. Luna felt it; her gaze slid to his face. His eyes had gone a shade darker, like river water under cloud.
The goblin looked from McGonagall to Void with unhurried interest. "Name," he said.
"Void L. Emrys," McGonagall replied.
The goblin's mouth almost twitched. He turned back to Void. "Your name."
"Emrys L. Void," Void said.
"Key?" asked the goblin, palm lifted.
"We don't have one," McGonagall said crisply. "But if a key can be issued—"
The goblin looked at Void again, not her. "Key?"
"No," Void said.
"Then we conduct an identification rite to issue a new—"
"No," Void said once more, exactly the same way. He set a neat sheaf of Muggle notes on the counter. "Exchange only."
McGonagall primed herself for a lecture. "Mr. Void, the Headmaster indicated the rite is vital—"
"Exchange," Void repeated, eyes on the goblin.
The goblin held his gaze for a heartbeat, then inclined his head with cool courtesy. "As you wish. We do not force rites on the unwilling." He counted the notes with quick, clever fingers. "You will receive your sum in Galleons and small change."
A moment later, he pushed forward a weighty pouch and a tray of gleaming coins. "Galleons, Sickles, Knuts. Mind the denominations."
Void took the pouch. "Thank you."
McGonagall's voice, when it came, was level. "Very well. Robes, then books. Try to arrive at the robe-fitter's with the same number of limbs you leave with."
Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions 👗
Pins flashed; a lilac-robed witch measured Void from shoulder to wrist with a tape that moved like a tame snake.
"Hogwarts, dear?" she said, and didn't wait for the answer before summoning plain black work robes, a pointed hat, and a winter cloak. "First-years—no trims, no house colours till after Sorting. Stand on the stool, arms out."
"Growth allowance?" she asked.
"Reasonable," McGonagall said. "He'll be running corridors."
"You lot make them run more than Aurors," Madam Malkin sniffed, pleased, and pinned the last cuff.
Flourish and Blotts 📚
Dust motes danced in tall light; shelves leaned like friendly cliffs.
"Standard list first," McGonagall said, running a finger down the parchment: The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1); A History of Magic; Magical Drafts and Potions; A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration; Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them; The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection… and the rest.
Void gathered those—then kept going: Hogwarts: A Charter and By-Laws; An Introduction to Wizarding Law; Old Houses and Their Holdings; The Ministry and You; On Dark Lords: A Historical Survey; Regulations & Sanctions: A Student's Companion.
McGonagall paused. "Ambitious." The corner of her mouth almost softened. "Ravenclaw would be very happy with you."
"I'm buying what the school doesn't explain before term," Void said. "If there are rules, I want to know them—and the law outside school. I'd rather not break something by accident and find out there's a prison attached."
"Read your textbooks first," McGonagall said at last.
"I will," Void said, and meant it.
Xenophilius found quills "that favour truth," an ink called Mooncalf Midnight, and a pamphlet on runic type for the Quibbler. Luna picked a pocket atlas of ley lines because the cover hummed when she touched it.
Scribbulus ✍️, Potage's ⚗️, Wiseacre's 🔮
At Scribbulus, Void chose two serviceable eagle-feather quills, blue-black ink, and lined practice parchment. McGonagall steered everyone past Self-Scribers ("cheating waiting to happen").
At Potage's, steam puffed and metal gleamed. "Pewter, standard size two," McGonagall said. Void compared bases, chose a sturdy one, and left the self-stirring and collapsible models where they could tempt someone else.
At Wiseacre's, they stocked crystal phials, brass scales, and a small telescope that clicked open like a secret. Luna turned an hourglass and watched the sand behave as if it had opinions.
Magical Menagerie 🦉🐱🐸
Cages rustled and clicked; the air hummed with purrs, croaks, and chitters. A clerk slid back a curtain to the rear. "Mind the white one," she warned Luna. "Doesn't like—"
The pure-white cat sprang straight into Luna's arms, rumbling like a kettle. It blinked mismatched eyes—one pale grey, one darker—and head-butted her chin.
"Oh," Luna said happily. "Yue. She likes you," she told Void, as the cat stretched a paw toward him and tapped his sleeve like a claim.
Void offered two fingers. Yue curled around them, purring harder.
"She's never—well. If she's chosen, she's chosen," the clerk said, astonished.
Void nodded once. "All right." He chose a soft-lined carrier, dishes, brushes, and a plain collar. Luna threaded a tiny moon charm onto it from her pocket. Yue's purr deepened, as if approving the name she'd been born with.
"A cat is a sensible choice," McGonagall said.
"It's Yue," Luna corrected serenely.
Quality Quidditch Supplies (Window Only) 🧹
They paused at the glass. A broom gleamed on velvet; boys silently measured their lives against it.
"First-years do not bring brooms," McGonagall said, looking at the twins specifically.
"We know," they chorused, pressing their noses to the window anyway. "But we can dream."
Florean Fortescue's 🍨
They sat under a striped awning with cones—Void's chocolate with raspberry; Luna's tasted, she said gravely, "like remembering a song." McGonagall accepted blackcurrant and pretended it was medicinal.
"You're keeping us together, Professor," Fred said, hand over heart. "We've never behaved so well."
"That is demonstrably untrue," George told him. "We've never behaved at all."
"Eat," McGonagall advised, which was almost a smile.
Ollivanders ✨
The bell on the door sang its thin note as they filed in. Before he looked at Void, Mr. Ollivander's pale eyes moved, keen and courteous, to the others—like a librarian greeting well-loved books by their spines.
"Professor McGonagall," he said softly, inclining his head. "Fir, nine and a half inches, dragon heartstring—unyielding in lesser hands, admirably directed in yours."
His attention slid to the twins. "Mr. Weasley… and Mr. Weasley. You ordered on the same day, but you did not leave with twins. One of you carries a livelier temper—springier, quick to spark; the other prefers a shade more restraint. Two different woods, two different cores—each your own."
"And Mr. Lovegood," he continued, turning to Xenophilius with real fondness. "A supple wand, well-suited to an unorthodox mind. Still responsive, I trust?"
Only then did his gaze rest on Void. "And you, Mr. Void, are why the room has been listening since you stepped through the door. Let us see what listens back."
The measuring tape slithered, snapped back. "Wand arm?"
"Either," Void said. "I'm ambidextrous."
What followed became a trial. Ash with unicorn hair. Ebony with dragon heartstring. Blackthorn with phoenix feather. Wands didn't refuse him; they submitted—warmed, steadied, would work—but none resonated. It was unsettling: compliance without kinship.
"This is most irregular," Ollivander murmured. "You're getting a chorus of '…if I must.' Two equal channels—your hands—confuse them."
After many almosts, Void asked, "May I walk the shop?"
"Absolutely not," Ollivander said on reflex. Five more boxes later, pride squaring off with honesty, he relented. "Carefully. Don't touch without my say-so."
Void moved through the narrow aisles, listening. He felt it then: a pull, faint and certain, from the very back.
Ollivander's brows knit. "Those are my forebears'—inherited stock. Some have slept for centuries." He climbed, fingers hovering until they halted above a narrow, dust-cool box. He hesitated, then brought it down. "Older work. Not mine."
Inside lay a wand whose cherry wood held a quiet, dark sheen—no ornament, only patience.
"Take it," Ollivander said softly.
Void did. Warmth rose—not a showy flare but a sure current, like finding the true channel under a river's churn. Dust spiralled once and settled; a single lamp brightened and stayed. The wand balanced equally in either hand, as if his ambidexterity were a fact to accept, not a problem to solve.
Ollivander let out a breath that was half laugh, half sigh. "There you are. You are one of—if not the—hardest matches I've ever made." He turned the wand, listening to something beneath the grain. "Cherry. Disciplined wood—power held in check. Rare in Britain, rarer in my shop. It demands maturity and repays it with considerable authority." His fingers traced the length. "And the core—Thunderbird tail feather. Uncommon here. Cores like this have a way with storms, keen to danger, apt at transfiguration when intent is clear."
He wrapped the wand with unusual care. "This piece predates me—an heirloom of the craft. I can't say which ancestor fashioned it. I can say it's been waiting a long time, and it's very pleased to have been found. Treat it with respect. Cherry will not forgive frivolity, and Thunderbird does not like to be wasted. Mean what you do, and it will answer you fully."
Void inclined his head. "Thank you."
He turned to McGonagall. "Professor. My supplies are in order. Mr. Lovegood will see me home. Your role is finished; you can leave now."
The shop went very quiet.
McGonagall's chin lifted a fraction. Behind the counter, Ollivander murmured, almost fond, "Thunderbird and cherry… a fierce combination."
McGonagall found her voice, cool and precise. "Mr. Void, the school's responsibility includes your safe return as well as your purchases. I was instructed to escort you throughout."
"And you have," Void said evenly. "Thank you. The Lovegoods will take it from here."
She drew a measured breath, then reached into her cloak and produced a cream card sealed with the Hogwarts crest. "Very well. Your ticket for the Hogwarts Express." She placed it in his hand. "September first. The train leaves at eleven o'clock from Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. Arrive by ten forty-five. Luggage labelled. No magic outside school—" her eyes flicked to his book bundle "—which I see you've already read about."
"I have," Void said.
"If you require help before term," she added, tone easing by a degree, "send an owl to Hogwarts. The Leaky Cauldron will forward post."
She turned to the Lovegoods. "My thanks for accompanying us. Please see him home."
"Gladly," Xenophilius said, with a little bow.
"And you two," she said to the twins without looking, "no Dungbombs near a public thoroughfare."
"We've never—" began Fred.
"—been caught," finished George.
"Good day," McGonagall said, final as a gavel.
Home, and a Call
They Flooed from the Leaky; the fire set them down in the Lovegoods' round sitting room with only a little soot for souvenir. Outside, the hill lay warm and gold.
"Thank you," Void said to Xenophilius.
"Educational excursions suit you," Xenophilius replied. "Send word if the platform tries to hide."
Luna bent to the carrier. Yue head-butted the bars, purring like distant weather. "She likes the cottage," Luna told Void, as if reporting on a signed agreement. "And the rooks decided your ticket will not fly away."
Fred and George appeared just long enough in the lane to salute, solemn as soldiers and twice as mischievous. "See you on the first," one said.
"With pranks preloaded," the other promised.
Void nodded once. "We'll see."
He walked the hedgerow path down to Beech Lane. The Wiltons' cottage sat where it always sat, ivy breathing slowly on warm brick. He let himself in.
"You're back," Margaret said, cheeks pink from the oven.
"On time," Richard added, half relief, half wonder.
"Everything's done," Void said. He set parcels on the bench, ticket on the mantel, wand box on the dresser. Yue's eyes regarded the room with calm entitlement.
"Oh!" Margaret blinked. "We don't—well, we didn't—keep pets."
"For school," Void said. "She'll stay in my room. I'll keep her fed and tidy."
Yue purred like approval made audible. Richard surrendered with a short laugh. "Right. Ground rules: no claws on the dresser, no cats on the Sunday roast, and if she finds mice, she files a report."
"Understood," Void said.
They ate with the windows open to the evening. Void answered what he could and left out what he should. Margaret heard the shape of the day without its names: a bank, a bookshop, a tailor; a teacher strict but fair; a family who knew where to go; ice cream because all good journeys deserve one. She did not ask for the rest. That was part of the trust they had chosen.
Upstairs, books stacked themselves in neat piles: school texts first, then law and by-laws, then thin volumes on contracts and etiquette. The map of Diagon Alley slid into the top drawer. Robes hung straight. The wand, still wrapped, went on the bedside table where he could reach it without showing it. Yue explored, sprang to the foot of the bed, and curled as if she'd always slept there.
Night deepened. Downstairs quieted to the ticks of cooling pipes and the low, companionable murmur of washing-up. Void lifted the handset from the hallway table and dialed.
"Yes," Red said, already listening.
"She came," Void said. "We went with the Lovegoods. The twins joined us."
"Good. And?"
"Gringotts—exchange only. She asked about a vault. I declined the rite. The goblin respected it. The ring hid what it should. No questions beyond the public line."
"Keep it that way."
"Books: the list—and law, by-laws, contracts, etiquette, a survey on dark lords."
"Eyes open. Good."
"Ollivander: hard match. Many wands submitted; none resonated. He let me walk the shop. The pull was in the back. Older stock. Not his making."
"And the wand?"
"Cherry. Thunderbird tail feather." He did not say more.
"A rare marriage," Red said. "Exacting. It will suit you. Ollivander will tell no one more than he told you—but don't indulge demonstrations. In public, let it be nothing more than wood that answers its master."
"I will."
"And McGonagall?"
"I thanked her and told her she could leave. She gave me the ticket. She'll report to the Headmaster."
"She will. You drew a boundary—good. Expect eyes. Don't give them reasons to look harder."
"I won't." Void glanced toward the stair. Yue's purr reached him through the floorboards like a low thread. "Ticket's on the mantel. Eleven o'clock. Platform Nine and Three-Quarters."
"I know the drill," Red said, faintly amused. "I'll be nearby without being noticed. Let the Lovegoods set the pace; keep your counsel; mind the ring."
"Understood."
"Anything else?"
"Luna named the cat," Void said, as if that, too, belonged on the ledger.
"Of course she did," Red said, voice warming by a degree. "Sleep. Read your actual textbooks before the by-laws. We'll speak again before the first."
The line clicked off.
Void set the handset in its cradle, listened a moment to the cottage breathe, then went upstairs. Yue lifted her head, blinked once, and made room at the foot of the bed. He slid the wand box into the drawer, tucked the ticket under the clock, and lay back with A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration open on his chest.
He read until the words dipped and smoothed into the kind of dark that isn't empty. In the garden, the rooks counted the house and found the number right. In the lane, the night held its breath and then let it out again, slow and even, as if everything—at last—was where it meant to be.