I woke before the bell, as I usually did.
The dormitory was quiet in that particular way institutions get before the day begins — not peaceful, just paused. Beds lined up with military efficiency, blankets folded to regulation corners, the faint smell of disinfectant clinging to everything no matter how often the windows were opened.
I sat up, careful not to disturb the mattress springs. Old habit. Noise attracted attention, and attention was rarely a good thing.
The clock on the wall read six twenty-seven. The bell would ring at six thirty. These few tranquil moments in the morning were mine alone, so I enjoyed their silence.
I swung my feet onto the cold floor and dressed quickly, movements economical. Shirt, trousers, socks. I put the uniform jacket on my bed, not putting it on yet. Everything I owned fit into half a locker, folded precisely because wrinkled clothes invited comments, and comments invited conversations. Conversations invited scrutiny.
I had learned early that systems reward those who don't interfere with them.
The bell rang right on time.
Metallic. Impersonal. Final.
Around me, other boys stirred, groaned and complained softly. Someone cursed the day before it had properly started. Someone else threw a pillow. None of it registered. It never did. This was simply the shape of mornings.
We washed. We lined up. We filed into the dining hall. Two boys were dressed sloppily and got scolded and moved at the back of the line, one forgot his tie and the other his jacket.
Breakfast tasted the way it always did: filling, warm, and forgettable. Porridge, bread, weak tea. The kind of meal designed to sustain, not to delight. I ate without hurry, watching steam rise from my bowl, counting bites out of habit rather than hunger.
Across the table, a boy I'd shared rooms with for three years glanced at me, frowned, then looked away. He'd never liked my name. Said it sounded like I thought I was better than him.
Alexander.
I hadn't chosen it. But names, like circumstances, were often mistaken for intent, their own perception of things, colored everything like they wanted. Never consulting about the one being colored how he felt about it.
After breakfast came chores. Wiping tables. Carrying crates. Tasks that filled the hours until schooling began. I moved through them efficiently, a casual smile on my face, my mind elsewhere. A small smile was often enough to stay unnoticed and irrelevant. Sad children don't smile. Mad might but that's a different kind of smile.
That was when the matron called my name.
"Alexander Hawthorn."
I straightened slowly.
That, in itself, was unusual. Staff rarely called children individually unless something had gone wrong. Illness. Discipline. Transfers. I ran through possibilities automatically, found nothing alarming, and followed her without asking questions.
Her office smelled of paper and polish. Files were stacked neatly behind her desk, my life reduced to thin folders and stamped forms. There was someone else in the room.
An adult I did not recognize.
That, more than anything, made my stomach tighten.
He wore a dark coat, well-kept but old-fashioned, and stood a little too straight for the space. His eyes flicked to me, sharp and assessing, then softened deliberately, as if he'd practiced the expression.
"Alexander Hawthorn," he said, testing the name as though it mattered. "Thank you for coming."
The matron gestured for me to sit. I did.
"This gentleman," she said, "is here regarding your… schooling." She said before heading for the door" I will be waiting outside, so you two may talk in privacy" she said as she closed the door.
The man wordlessly reached into his coat's inner pocket and withdrew an envelope.
Not white paper envelope. Instead a thick parchment, cream-colored, heavy in a way paper wouldn't be. Red wax sealed the flap, stamped with a crest I recognized before I knew how I recognized it.
My breath caught.
Hogwarts.
The name bloomed in my mind like a memory I hadn't earned.
Stone corridors. Floating candles. A castle that breathed. Wonder, pure and sharp, rushed through me — joy so sudden it nearly hurt. I had loved that place once. Loved it deeply.
And then, just as quickly, something colder followed.
Apprehension.
The man began speaking, explaining things calmly, carefully, the way one explained difficult truths to children. Magic was real. I possessed it. A school existed to teach it safely. Secrecy mattered. Arrangements would be made.
He pulled out a stick, his wand and conjured a feather he then proceeded to levitate with a few flicks and mumbled words.
He gave me another letter guiding me to Diagon Alley, which is apparently where I would be able to get my supplies.
Also I would be needing to make a visit to a bank in there to get my stipend for orphan muggleborns to get all my equipment since I don't have any wizarding currency of my own.
He kept, prattling on and on. Telling me how there used to be teachers from Hogwarts, to do this kind of thing. Ten years back it was decided that Ministry obliviators were to inform muggleborns residing in orphanages or other such institutions for the safety of the wizarding world.
I heard him. I understood the words.
But my attention had turned inward.
There was a sense — faint but undeniable — that I was older than I should be. Not in body. Perspective, mind, soul. Something like that.
As though this wasn't the first time I'd been warned about the dangers of the world.
And then the voice came.
Not a hallucination. Not a sound. A remembered cadence, steady and patient, echoing from somewhere deep.
"Now master Merlin, there are three types of magic. Three stages of progression to full wizard status."
It was like a movie I watched thousands of times. The lines just stuck in my head to the point I hear the cadence of the actor and the words themselves in my mind instead of my normal narrative thought.
My fingers curled slightly against my knee.
I suppressed it all ruthlessly, focusing on what the man was telling me, forcefully pulling myself to this moment.
The man gestured as he spoke, his wand flicking minutely with each explanation as if absently toying with the floating feather was normal as breathing.
I swallowed.
The realization landed with brutal clarity.
If magic was real — and it was — then the world I was about to enter was not the one I remembered fondly. It was larger. Sharper.
This was not the story I loved so much in my previous life. It's real and dangerous.
Worst of all I was eleven years old, sitting in an orphanage office, with nothing but a framework in my head and no idea how close the storm truly was. Who I could trust who was the big bad guy and who was the hero..
"Harry Potter" hoarse sounding voice whispered in my mind another line I didn't ask for.
"He's someone in the center of all this" I thought, or remembered. Somehow knowing that much for sure. Like I knew where to look for my left hand.
I was hilariously, catastrophically underprepared.
The man finished speaking and looked at me expectantly. I nodded where appropriate. Asked no clever questions. Gave no indication that anything was amiss. Even though the enormity of the situation was threatening to crush me underneath itself.
He offered me congratulations and shook my hand. Apparently it would be better if I had my equipment bought sooner, rather than later. The man didn't even give me his name, just turned to the door and told Madam that I would be leaving tomorrow and she accepted it calmly with a nod.
"Oh Alexander, I took the liberty of housing you tomorrow night at the Leaky Cauldron,it's been a tradition to give orphans such as yourself a one night at least to study your newly acquired school supplies without causing a serious incident with other muggle children due to curiosity. Please enjoy the last month before school begins" he said smilingly before he left
I suspected that a slight wand waving on his part made Madam ignore our conversation topic and accept my leave of absence tomorrow night much more easily, which naturally gave me another reason to be scared out of my mind. Mind altering magics were terrifying after all.
When he left — after reassuring the matron, after paperwork and signatures and a mundane explanation involving scholarships — I remained seated for a moment longer, my head still buzzing but the impressions and scattered memory fragments I had were settling in my head, no longer as overwhelming as before.
The envelope sat on the desk.
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
I picked it up carefully, feeling its weight.
I did not smile, not anymore. Smiling took strength when you weren't actually feeling the emotion associated with the act. I felt utterly exhausted.
Wonder was a luxury. Preparation was necessity.
If old families treated magic as heritage, as something passed down with care and context, then I would learn it the same way—quietly, thoroughly, and without drawing attention to myself.
I picked up the acceptance letter and tucked it into my uniform jacket's inner pocket.
Whatever was coming, I refused to be standing too close when it arrived.
"Now master Merlin.." almost echoed in my head again but I clamped down on my thoughts focusing on the here and now.
The matron nodded and told me to go back to my chores a bit distracted like she wasn't all there either, probably something the ministry wizard did.
The rest of the day resumed its shape as though nothing had happened.
That, more than anything, unsettled me.
Lunch was stew and bread. The same thin broth, the same conversation fragments drifting through the hall. Someone laughed too loudly. Someone argued about chores. A spoon clattered to the floor and earned a sharp look from a supervisor. Life continued, indifferent to the fact that the axis of mine had shifted several degrees off true.
I ate slowly, deliberately, grounding myself in routine.
Panic wastes energy. Wonder distracts. I allowed neither.
What I did allow was assessment.
The man had used a wand for everything. Even the smallest demonstrations—sparks of light, a conjured feather—had been preceded by words spoken. No shortcuts. No silent shaping. No instinctive response.
Incantation.
The framework held.
That meant Hogwarts, for all the Ministry man reassurances of it to be the premier school of magic, was not a place of mastery.
It was a place of standardization. Safety rails. Curriculum. Controlled outcomes. Necessary, perhaps—but insufficient for anyone who wanted to survive more than examinations. It felt as if wizarding world was full of people who mistook training wheels for mastery.
The older sense within me stirred again, restless but incomplete. I did not remember battles. I did not remember names or dates or betrayals.
I remembered the pressure.
I remembered the feeling of being adjacent to history and knowing that proximity alone could be fatal.
That was enough.
After lunch, I was excused from chores. Official business, the matron said. I was sent back to the dormitory with instructions to remain there until supper.
I sat on my bed and stared at the opposite wall for a long time.
The envelope rested on my pillow, unopened since the office. I already knew what it said in broad strokes. Reading it now would not change reality—but delaying it would change me.
Eventually, I picked it up.
The seal broke with a soft crack.
The letter was formal. Polite. Efficient. It welcomed me, listed supplies, explained term dates, and assumed compliance as a matter of course. There was no flourish. No attempt to dazzle. Just expectation.
I appreciated that.
The supply list, however, gave me pause.
Wand.
Robes.
Books.
Tools.
Not foundations.
Wands were amplifiers. Robes were identifiers. Books were interpretations. Useful—but none of them were magic itself.
Old families, I knew—somehow—treated magic differently. Less like a subject and more like a language spoken at home. Children grew up surrounded by it, absorbing patterns long before they learned names.
I would not have that.
Which meant I would have to compensate.
I read the list twice, then folded the letter neatly and placed it back into the envelope. After a moment's thought, I slid it beneath the thin mattress, alongside the few personal items I kept hidden there: spare buttons, a length of twine, a notebook with no words in it yet.
That notebook would change soon.
The afternoon dragged. Lessons blurred. I answered questions correctly when called upon, neither eager nor slow. I did not tell anyone what had happened. News travels poorly through institutions, but rumors move fast—and attention was already a liability.
By evening, I had settled on a simple truth.
I could not afford to be impressive. The nail that sticks out gets hammered down.
Dinner came and went. Chess was played by most kids then the bell rang again. Lights dimmed. The dormitory filled with the rustle of sheets and low murmurs.
I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling, listening to breathing settle around me.
Hogwarts.
The word no longer felt warm.
It felt like a threshold.
I began planning—not grand strategies, not fantasies of power—but questions.
What could be practiced without tools?
What could be observed without acting?
What could be learned without being too obvious about it?
The storm was still distant. I could feel that much. But distance was not safety, only time—and time was the one resource I intended to spend wisely.
I closed my eyes intending to drift off.
The voice came back to me with hazy images of an older man speaking to a younger man.
"Now master Merlin, there are three types of magic. Three stages of progression to full wizard status. The first and lowest stage is a wizard by incantation.
The second stage wizards are called hand wizards. Who perform magic by gestures of hands and fingers.
The third and highest stage of wizardry—these supreme exponents—are wizards of pure thought. Who need no word or gestures but by their will alone manipulate and manifest magic as they wish."
I felt like this conversation was part of a television show, the image in my mind seemed to have edges like I was watching it from a TV. It isn't directly connected to Hogwarts but in my past life I had always strongly connected it to this world and Hogwarts.
Yes I could feel a thought, associated with the memory about it" most of them are stuck at the lowest stage one way or another. Barely anyone is able to do one or two spells from a second stage, and none has reached the third. Well perhaps similarly named Merlin might've, but who knows"
I thought it needed more observation and thought on my part whether it's true or not. I felt exhausted and finally started to count down from ten in hopes of getting to shut down my brain that was going overdrive.
Ten.
Nine.
Eight..
I woke up, refreshed and yet again, a couple of minutes before the bell.
Since the orphanage was located in the middle of London, and the Ministry wizard had given me the directions of how to get to a bar called Leaky Cauldron. Apparently it is the gateway to Diagon Alley where I will be able to obtain all my schooling equipment.
The directions were written in a neat, impersonal hand.
Turn left at the corner.
Walk two blocks.
Do not stop.
Look for the pub.
I read them three times before leaving.
Not because I didn't understand them, but because repetition steadied me. The orphanage had taught me that clarity came from structure, and panic came from gaps. I made sure there were none.
The door closed behind me with a soft click.
No one watched me go.
London was louder than I remembered. Or maybe I was just listening harder. Traffic hissed over wet pavement, voices overlapped, footsteps passed too close. I kept my pace measured, eyes forward, hands in my pockets, posture unremarkable.
Normal. I needed to look normal.
The letter stayed folded in my jacket's inner pocket, a constant pressure against my ribs. Every few steps I checked its position without touching it, the way one checked a wound without wanting to see blood.
Left turn.
Two blocks.
I counted them.
One.
Two.
The pub was exactly where the directions said it would be—and that unsettled me more than if it hadn't been. That meant it was all real, not some fever dream of my overly ambitious mind.
The Leaky Cauldron did not announce itself. No sign worth noting, just a metal cauldron that had a hole on it, hanging above the door. It was a narrow, slightly grimy building, wedged between places that pretended it wasn't there. People passed it without glancing twice, or even once. More like it wasn't even there.
I stopped across the street. There was a convenient bench for me to sit and watch the door to the pub.
Nothing happened.
No shimmer. No distortion. No sense of something supernatural.
Perhaps that was the point, maybe magic that wanted to survive did not draw attention even from magicals.
I crossed the street and pushed the door open.
Inside, the air felt heavier. Hot too, since a sizable fireplace was roaring on the right wall.
The smell of old wood and something bitter settled into my lungs. Conversations continued uninterrupted. No one looked at me twice.
Good.
I stood just inside the doorway for a moment longer than necessary, letting my breathing slow. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Counted, not timed. The technique had no name. It didn't need one.
A man behind the bar glanced at me.
"You lost?" he asked, not unkindly.
I shook my head once. " New student,I'm supposed to be here."
He studied me for a moment, then nodded toward the door. "Alright, follow me then. My name is Tom by the way,I am the owner of this establishment. I believe you have a room here for the night paid by the Ministry? You are Alexander aren't you?" He said with a friendly tone as we walked to the door
All I managed was mute nod to his smile as he opened the door and pulled his wand out of his sleeve. He then proceeded to tap a few bricks in sequence with it, then stepped aside for me as the bricks shifted forming an arch for me to walk through.
Diagon Alley lay beyond.
I did not step through.
Not yet.
I stood there, heart hammering, thoughts threatening to scatter, and did something very deliberate.
I organized them.
One breath.
One decision. I gave the man a thankful nod then I stepped through.
Diagon Alley hit me all at once—not with wonder, but with density. Too many signs. Too many people who moved like they belonged. Too many assumptions I didn't share.
I resisted the urge to stare.
Looking lost was dangerous.
I saw the huge white building looming in the distance and walked straight towards it to get money to buy my school supplies.
Gringotts Bank.
That came first.
The building announced itself without pretense. White stone, sharp angles, doors that suggested permanence rather than welcome. I slowed despite myself. Institutions recognized institutions, and this one spoke a language I understood.
Inside, the air was colder.
Goblins sat behind tall counters, their eyes sharp, movements economical. Nothing here was decorative. Everything existed to serve a function, and that function was not comfort.
A goblin looked up as I approached.
"Business?" it asked.
"I was told to come here," I said, keeping my voice level. "I'm muggleborn. Orphaned. I was informed there is a stipend for school supplies."
"Name?" it asked.
"Alexander Hawthorn."
The goblin's eyes flicked to my face, then to the letter when I produced it. It read quickly, long fingers tapping once against the parchment.
"Hm," it said. "Yes. Ministry fund. Minimal allocation."
I nodded. Minimal was fine. Minimal was expected.
The goblin repeated it, then gestured sharply. "This way."
I followed.
The room beyond was smaller, more private. A ledger was produced. A box unlocked. Coins clinked as they were counted with precise indifference.
The goblin slid a small leather pouch across the counter.
"Enough for basic supplies," it said. "Not indulgences."
"I understand," I replied.
It watched me for a moment longer than necessary. "You may convert excess funds back upon departure." It said in a voice that made it clear nobody had ever done so.
I nodded again.
Transaction complete. No congratulations. No reassurance.
Perfect.
I tied the pouch carefully and tucked it into my inner pocket, weight settling against my ribs in a way that was grounding rather than reassuring. Money was not safety, but it reduced variables.
I left Gringotts without looking back.
Only once I was outside did I pause, breathing evenly, cataloging what had changed internally.
Finally I moved on, eyes scanning the street with renewed purpose.
Diagon Alley did not overwhelm me so much as it demanded attention.
Every shopfront competed for it. Every voice assumed familiarity I did not possess. I kept moving, not toward anything in particular, but away from crowds, also to keep moving to not stand out by staying still and staring around like a country bumpkin.
I walked until I saw a shop I already knew I needed, its narrow front older than everything around it.
Ollivanders.
The bell chimed when I entered.
The shop was quiet in a way that felt intentional. Boxes lined the walls from floor to ceiling, stacked like memories no one had sorted in centuries. The air smelled faintly of dust and something sharp, almost metallic.
The man behind the counter looked up.
"Yes?" he said softly.
"I need a wand," I replied.
He smiled—not warmly, but with interest.
"Of course you do."
The process was… faster than I expected.
Wands passed through my hands, each one wrong in a slightly different way. Too heavy. Too light. Unresponsive. Almost right, but not quite. I said nothing, simply returned them when they failed.
Then he handed me another one.
Hawthorn wood.
The moment my fingers closed around it, something aligned. Not power. Not heat. Just fit. Like a joint settling back into place.
The air shifted. Barely.
The man's eyes sharpened.
"Well," he murmured. "That's that, then."
I nodded, carefully steadying my breathing.
"How much?" I asked.
"Seven galleons," He told me.
I paid. The wand was wrapped and handed over with no further commentary.
I did not test it.
Not here. Not now.
I left the shop and decided to return to the Leaky Cauldron, the noise of the Alley muffled behind brick and wood.
Only then did I let myself sit, and relax slightly.
The wand lay across my palms, inert and unassuming. Resting in its box, it gave me some reassurance.
I had not bought books.
I had not bought robes.
I had not bought ingredients.
All of that could wait.
This could not.
A wand was not mastery. It was not safety. But it was access—and access was the first thing you secured when entering hostile territory.
I closed my eyes and finally felt the panic ebb just enough to think more normally.
Books could be found second-hand.
Knowledge could be overheard.
Magic could be observed before it was practiced.
But the wand?
The wand was non-negotiable.
I stood, tucking it carefully into my jacket inner pocket next to the letter.
One decision made.
Many more to come.
And for the first time since the letter arrived, I felt—not calm exactly—but oriented. More like myself than I had felt since yesterday.
Which, under the circumstances, would have to be enough.
————————————————————-
I returned to Gringotts less than an hour later.
I had decided to inquire if there were options for someone like me to get more additional funds or at least cheaper equipment.
The weight in my pocket was different now — not heavier or lighter in any meaningful way, but final. The wand rested in my pocket in its box still, its presence undeniable even through layers of cloth.
I did not rush.
People who rushed in banks were either desperate or foolish. I was neither.
The goblin at the counter was not the same one from earlier, but that didn't matter. Institutions remembered even when individuals didn't.
"Business?" it asked, eyes flicking briefly to my face.
"Yes," I said. "I was here earlier regarding a Ministry stipend."
Its fingers paused. Just for a moment.
"And now?"
"I've spent it," I said calmly.
Informing not justifying. It is an important difference.
The goblin's gaze sharpened, drifting — not to my pockets, not to my hands, but to me. As if it were assessing weight without scales.
"On?" it asked.
"School expenses," I replied.
Which was true.
Silence stretched.
I had learned, growing up, that silence was not a void. It was a tool. Children lied to fill it. Adults used it to measure others.
The goblin tapped a claw once against the counter.
"You have returned quickly for someone finished with their funds," it observed.
"Yes," I agreed.
No elaboration.
Another pause. Longer this time. There was no accusation in it, just… acknowledgment.
"State your business," the goblin said at last.
I nodded once. "I wanted to ask what options exist for a wizard in my position to earn additional funds."
Its eyes narrowed slightly. "Your position."
"Muggleborn," I said. "Orphaned. Newly registered. Limited time. Minimal training."
I didn't add alone. It was implied though.
The goblin leaned back, fingers steepled.
"You seek employment," it said.
"I seek information," I corrected. "Employment may follow later."
That seemed to please it.
"Then listen," it said. "And do not mistake explanation for opportunity."
I inclined my head.
"Wizards without skill do not earn," the goblin continued. "Wizards with skill earn slowly. Wizards with trust earn well."
It watched my face as it spoke. I kept it neutral.
"You possess none of these in sufficient quantity," it went on. "Not yet."
"I understand," I said.
"However," it added, "knowledge is not currency, but it is leverage."
I felt something settle at that.
"If you insist on inquiry," the goblin said, "there are secondhand book dealers who trade in surplus, estate clearances, and outdated curricula. Reputable ones."
It reached beneath the counter and produced a narrow slip of parchment, sliding it toward me.
"Flourish & Blotts maintains a consignment shelf," it said. "Overpriced, but reliable.
More useful to you would be—"
It paused, then wrote two names with precise strokes.
"Twilfit & Tattings—books occasionally, robes more often for more affluent families.
And Scribner's Exchange, Knockturn-adjacent but not of it. Watch your hands there."
I memorized the names before the parchment even reached me.
"Do not expect annotations," the goblin added. "Do not expect completeness. Do not expect mercy on condition."
"I wouldn't," I said calmly, letting him know with that one sentence that such fallacy has never entered my mind.
Its mouth twitched. Not quite a smile.
"One more thing," it said. "Time is your real deficit. Not money."
I nodded, remembering it like a nugget of wisdom it was.
It slid the parchment back. "This conversation did not occur."
"What conversation?" I asked politely confused, also slightly giddy inside,apparently I had always wanted to say something like that.
I turned to leave.
"Oh," the goblin added, almost idly. "Should you return again today, you will be charged for consultation."
I stopped, then inclined my head again.
"That seems fair. Time is, after all, money."
I left Gringotts without looking back. Had I done so I would have perhaps seen a weird sight of a happy goblin who just found his new favorite saying.
Wand box felt warm through the cloth of my jacket at my side and the list of names burned into my mind.
I had not gained money.
But I had gained orientation.
And for now, that was enough.
————————————————————
I found the trunk shop by accident.
The shopfront was narrow and unassuming, tucked between a robe seller loudly advertising "authentic continental stitching" and a place that smelled faintly of polish and ozone. The sign was hand-painted, the letters faded but precise. No animated display. No shouting.
Just trunks.
Inside, the air was dry and smelled of treated wood and old spells. Trunks of every size were stacked neatly, some open to show compartments, others sealed with clasps that looked older than the street outside.
A witch stood behind the counter, flipping through a ledger. She looked up when the bell chimed.
"Looking for something specific?" she asked.
"Yes," I said. "A trunk."
She blinked, then smiled faintly. "Most are."
"I need it to carry books," I added. "And clothes. Preferably without making me look like I'm hauling a coffin through King's Cross."
That earned a quiet huff of amusement.
"Budget?" she asked.
"Tight," I said honestly.
That, at least, needed no framing.
She gestured me toward the shelves. "Browse."
I did.
Most of the cheaper trunks were exactly what I expected: solid, heavy, honest. No charms beyond basic reinforcement. They would last. They would also break my back.
The better ones were… obvious. Expanded interiors, weight-reduction charms, elegant clasps. And prices that made my stomach tighten.
Then I noticed the odd one.
It sat half-hidden near the back, medium-sized, dark oak with iron bindings. Clean. Well-made. No scratches, no warping. The kind of trunk that should have been gone already.
I reached for it.
"Ah," the witch said, noticing where I was standing. "That one."
"What about it?" I asked.
She grimaced. "Perfectly good trunk. Expansion charm, weight reduction, reinforced seams. But the shrinking charm is… fussy."
"How so?"
"It doesn't respond to a wand tap," she said. "Needs a phrase. Specific one. People don't like muttering passwords to their luggage."
I crouched slightly, examining the silver clasp with interest.
"What's the phrase?" I asked.
"Well it can be anything really I just put the latin word for small Parvus"
She told me, a bit embarrassed
It wasn't elegant, so it didn't sell" same word for getting it bigger or will the wand tap work?" I asked
" wand tap works that way it's just the shrinking charm came out fussy" she confirmed smilingly
"How much?" I asked.
"Marked down to eleven galleons," she said. "It's been sitting here for months."
I did the math instantly.
Worth far more than that. Discounted because it offended wizarding aesthetics, not because it failed.
I nodded. "I'll take it."
Her eyebrows rose. "You're sure?"
"Yes."
She rang it up quickly, as though afraid I might reconsider. I paid, careful and precise, and she slid the receipt across the counter.
As she checked the trunk one last time, I hesitated.
Then I spoke.
"You know," I said, keeping my tone light, almost casual, "if you marketed it as a security feature instead of a flaw—perhaps informing how wand-triggered shrinking being unreliable around thieves, anyone might just tap on it and take it away—it might sell better."
She paused, hands still.
I continued, a little more animated now that the panic had eased its grip. "A keyed phrase means no one else can shrink it but the owner. Even someone tried to steal the trunk. They'd have to levitate it as is, or just carry it full sized.That's… not nothing." I said hesitantly towards the end.
She stared at me for a moment.
Then she laughed. Not loudly. Not theatrically. Just a genuine sound of surprise.
"Well," she said, shaking her head, "that's a thought I hadn't had."
I shrugged, suddenly very aware of my age. "People don't usually consider things like that"
She slid the trunk toward me and leaned in slightly.
"Come back in a few years," she said. "I might owe you a discount."
I smiled — a real one, this time. Small, brief, and carefully placed.
"I'll remember that."
Outside, the trunk's handle rested easily in my hand,the whole thing, feeling lighter than it had any right to be.
I murmured the phrase under my breath" parvus".
The trunk shrank obediently, settling into a size of a briefcase, I could easily be carrying it around even in muggle London without anyone noticing anything wrong. Well perhaps a child carrying a briefcase might draw some looks but that's not the briefcase's fault.
Unsightly or not, it worked.
Suddenly I had to step aside as crowds surged like waves through the street—voices rising, heads turning.
A huge man shouldered his way through the crowd with gentle inevitability, beard like a tangle of iron filings, an owl cage swinging carefully from one massive hand snowy white owl sitting in it, almost royally glaring around.
He angled toward the brighter end of the street, where laughter and sugar-sweet smells gathered. I could just see the sign saying Fortescue icecream parlor.
People stared. Then the moment passed.
I adjusted my grip on my trunk and kept walking.
And as I walked away, I felt something unfamiliar but welcome settle into place.
Not confidence, but something like the feeling when you almost slip on a slippery surface but at the last minute get your balance back.
—————————————————————
Twilfit & Tattings was exactly what the goblin had said it would be.
Bright windows. Tasteful signage. A shop that wanted to be seen. Robes dominated the space, fabrics displayed with care, mannequins posed mid-twirl as though frozen in approval. Books occupied one wall near the back — neat, orderly, and expensive-looking despite the "consignment" placard.
I waited until the witch behind the counter finished with another customer before approaching.
"Excuse me," I said.
She turned with a professional smile already in place. "Yes?"
"I was told you occasionally carry secondhand books," I said. "Older editions. Estate surplus."
"We do," she replied. "That section is over there."
I glanced where she pointed. "I was also told," I added carefully, "that a portion of your proceeds goes toward charitable causes."
Her smile sharpened. Just slightly.
"We support several initiatives," she said. "Yes."
I nodded. "I'm an orphan. Newly registered. I was wondering if—"
Her expression softened, but her posture did not.
"—whether," I continued, "there might be a way to reduce that charitable contribution this once, and instead allocate a few surplus books directly. Ones outside the standard curriculum."
I stopped there. No plea. No elaboration.
The witch studied me.
Not with suspicion — with calculation.
"That's… not something we usually do," she said at last. "Charity is handled quarterly. Through established channels."
"I understand," I replied immediately. "This was only an inquiry."
She hesitated, then sighed. "Even if I wanted to, those decisions aren't mine to make."
"I assumed as much," I said, and meant it.
She relaxed slightly, realizing I wasn't going to push.
"I appreciate you asking politely," she added. "Most don't."
"Thank you for your time," I said.
I left with nothing but confirmation.
Twilfit & Tattings was generous—only when they could be seen being generous
Scribner's Exchange did not pretend to be generous at all.
The shop sat just far enough from Knockturn Alley that one could plausibly deny proximity. The windows were dusty, the sign uneven, the interior dim in a way that suggested intention rather than neglect.
A bell chimed when I entered.
Books were everywhere.
Stacks on tables. Shelves bowing under weight. Crates half-sorted, half-forgotten. The smell of old paper and binding glue hung thick in the air.
A man looked up from behind a counter cluttered with ledgers and loose parchment.
"Don't touch anything you don't intend to buy," he said.
I nodded. "Understood."
I browsed slowly. Carefully. Hands behind my back. Eyes only.
There were books here I had never seen referenced. Titles half-worn, margins dense with handwritten notes I did not touch. This was not a shop for browsing casually.
After a few minutes, I approached the counter.
"You sell surplus," I said. "From estates."
"Yes," he replied. "What of it?"
"I'm an orphan," I said plainly. "Newly registered. Limited funds."
He grunted. Noncommittal.
"I noticed," I continued, "your sign mentions charitable contributions."
He snorted. "Tax reasons."
"I thought so," I said. "I'm not asking for charity."
That got his attention.
"I'm asking if you'd consider lowering that contribution slightly this month, and instead parting with a few books you'd otherwise struggle to move."
I paused, then added, "Outside the standard curriculum."
He leaned back in his chair, studying me openly now.
"You're a bold one," he said.
"I had to learn to ask the question that might give me the edge I would never achieve on my own" I said politely
Silence.
Then he stood and disappeared into the back without a word.
I waited.
When he returned, he placed three books on the counter.
Worn. Old. Unassuming.
"Those," he said. "No one buys them. Too dry. Too old. Too niche."
I looked at the titles and felt my pulse quicken — just slightly.
Foundational theory. Pre-standardized magical practices. A slim volume on magical intent and structure, clearly written before incantations became dominant.
"How much?" I asked.
"Nothing," he said. "Consider it charity, if you like. Or inventory management."
I inclined my head. "Thank you"
He waved a hand dismissively. "Don't thank me yet. If you come back thinking this is a habit, I'll charge you double."
"I wouldn't, if anything I might return to charitably leave books once I am done with them. Not these—they're mine now but something " I said.
That earned a crooked smile.
As I tucked the books into my trunk, shrinking it carefully afterward, I felt something unfamiliar settle in my chest.
Not relief, more close to glee of a successful scheme at chess. It was the only decent, working game the orphanage still had. One that wasn't ruined by time or other kids.
As such most everyone played it. Somehow it had become a game that determined the hierarchy of kids in the orphanage. The staff leaned into it. Since it kept things going smoothly.
I was somewhat in the middle of the list, somewhat by design. Actually I just wasn't that good at chess. not as good as others were, I loved to try complex tactics to a simple solution that more often than not backfired spectacularly, but I enjoyed the game nevertheless.
And that, I suspected, was a skill worth cultivating. Along with asking questions.
——————————————————————
The Leaky Cauldron looked smaller in the late afternoon, filled with people eating and drinking
Dinnertime apparently got the house full. A handful of patrons lingered over drinks they had no intention of finishing soon. Someone argued quietly with a newspaper. Someone else fed crumbs to a toad under the table with the air of a long-standing truce.
A few ate hastily, clearly famished from work and popped in for dinner. I silently deduced since they had robes on, with insignia that reminded me of work uniforms.
I paused just inside the door, lowering down my trunk that looked like a briefcase in its shrunken shape.
Tom was behind the bar, wiping down the same section of wood he had earlier. He glanced up, then back down again, registering me without interest.
That, I was learning, was a good sign.
I approached and waited until he looked at me again.
"Yes?" he asked.
"I need to ask about my room," I said.
That got his attention — not sharply, but fully.
"You already have one," he replied.
"For tonight," I agreed. "And I appreciate it. But I'll be here until September."
He leaned his weight back slightly, studying me now in the way of someone deciding whether a conversation was worth the effort.
"And?"
"And I don't have the money to pay for a month here," I said plainly. "Not if I also want to afford my school supplies."
No apology. No explanation beyond what was necessary.
Silence stretched — but not uncomfortably. Tom had mastered silence the way some people mastered smiles.
"You planning on sleeping in the alley, then?" he asked dryly.
"No," I said. "I was hoping to work."
That earned a snort.
"You?" he said, eyeing me. "You look like you'd snap in half if I asked you to lift a keg."
"I wouldn't volunteer for that," I replied calmly. "But I can clean. Carry messages. Wash dishes. Do inventory. I can read and write well, follow instructions, and keep my mouth shut."
That last one made him pause.
I added, carefully, "I don't need wages. Just room and board until term starts. Perhaps tips if anyone is willing to give them or if it's even a custom in wizarding world"
He stared at me for a long moment.
Then he sighed.
"Merlin's beard," he muttered. "They really are sending them younger every year."
He set the cloth aside and folded his arms.
"You any trouble?" he asked.
"No," I said. "And I don't intend to be."
"That's what they all say."
"I know," I replied.
Another beat.
Finally, he nodded once.
"I'll put you on mornings," he said. "Sweep, wipe, carry trays, keep out from underfoot. You break anything, you pay for it. You bring attention down on this place, you're gone."
"That's fair," I said.
"And you're not to talk about what you hear here," he added.
"I wasn't planning to," I said truthfully.
He eyed me once more, then jerked his chin toward the stairs.
"The room's yours till September," he said. "Meals included. Don't make me regret it."
"I won't," I said.
He waved me off. "Go unpack."
Upstairs, the room felt different now.
Not safer — earned.
I set the briefcase sized trunk on the desk and pulled out my wand box from my jacket pocket where I held my wand close by, afraid of losing it.
I pulled it out and tapped my trunk so it grew to its normal size, settling into place without complaint.I returned my wand to the box and opened my trunk , laid out the books I'd gathered, then placed the wand box beside them, the wand still inside.
For a long moment, I just looked at them in slight daze. Then I sat down, for a closer inspection.
The wand rested inside, dark hawthorn polished smooth by time rather than ornament. Beneath it, tucked into the fitted lining, was a simple leather wand holster—forearm length, undecorated, already softened with use.
I paused, he didn't mention it but of course he'd included one to my first wand purchase.
A wand was not something you shoved into a pocket and hoped for the best. Even someone who sold two wands a year would understand that-Let alone someone like Ollivander who sold hundreds.
I lifted the wand, noting its balance—just under twelve inches, dragon heartstring, responsive without being eager. When I adjusted my grip, it yielded slightly, supple where it mattered. Exactly as Ollivander had said.
The holster fit easily beneath my sleeve. No enchantments I could feel, no clever mechanisms. Just leather, stitching, and intent. The wand rested against my arm, accessible without being visible.
I rolled my sleeve down,the wand handle was in my inner arm, just hidden by the sleeve. Probably would be better hidden once I get my school robes.
Those who wanted attention would buy something finer.
This was enough. I would hold it in my non-dominant hand so it's easier to pull with my dominant one. I need to practice that, also wearing it all the time from now on would take some getting used to.
Probably later, when I can afford a more expensive one. I would need to learn another way to draw it but for now this is important to get used to this holster and having access to my wand constantly.
Maybe my next holster would come with auto-draw and concealment charms if I have the gold for it.
The man from the Ministry had levitated a feather earlier, made a show of it.I had heard a word he used when he conjured light to read the parchment more clearly. Lumos, and later Nox to extinguish the light.
I think he actually deliberately said it clearly and out loud for me, so I have something harmless to try later, like now.
I slowly pulled my wand from my holster.
I placed my elbow on the desk, aligned my wrist, and took a slow breath. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Counted, not timed.
I raised the wand.
"Lumos."
Light bloomed at the tip — steady, controlled, exactly as described. No flare. No flicker. Just illumination.
I watched it pool across the desk, soften the corners of the room, catch the worn spines of my books and make them look almost kind.
I felt no rush.
No triumph.
Just a quiet click inside my chest, like something settling into the place it was meant to occupy.
"Nox."
Darkness returned immediately.
I leaned back in the chair, exhaling slowly.
Magic listened to me.
Downstairs, a glass clinked. Someone laughed softly. Life continued.
And for the first time since the letter arrived, I allowed myself a small, private certainty:
This wasn't going to break me, I can do this. Something cold in my chest began to thaw, and the all-consuming panic finally started to let go.