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Childhood - Part 4
🕑 Added 2025-06-12 08:21:27 +0000 UTCSacred Morgan Children’s Home, Bath, England. July 13, 1989. Like dominos, everything fell into place as I stared into the serious eyes of t
Sacred Morgan Children’s Home, Bath, England. July 13, 1989.
Like dominos, everything fell into place as I stared into the serious eyes of the woman sitting across from me.
Professor McGonagall.
The year, the country, the magic—there was no denying it: I’d been reborn into the world of Harry Potter.
Harry Potter… Harry Potter… Harry Potter…
For a while, those were the only words I could think about. Honestly, such a long time had passed since I awakened the memories of my previous life; so much so that I barely even thought about my life from the 21st century unless I needed catalysts for my spells. But how could I ever forget about Harry Potter?!
Taking deep breaths, I hurriedly began to calm myself down. I was awfully close to another accidental feat of magic.
“I must say, Mr. Morgan, you are not at all like what I had expected.” Professor McGonagall added after a short pause, sipping from the tea Sister White had produced for her. Until now, all Professor McGonagall had said was that she was a teacher from a very special school called Hogwarts. Her identity as a teacher from some big private school had seemingly been sufficient to placate the Matron enough to allow a meeting.
“O-Oh?” I said, my voice quivering like a candle in the wind. “W-What did you expect?”
Professor McGonagall gently put down her teacup on the tray.
“Many Muggle-born wizards…” Professor McGonagall began, stirring her tea with her finger, the spoon moving effortlessly on its own. “Especially orphans, I’ve found, are often isolated before being introduced into our society.”
“You, on the other hand—despite being well-liked by both your peers and custodians—chose to have this conversation in private, without a guardian or representative present.” The elderly woman paused, looking me in the eyes. “And while I’m curious about your reason, Mr. Morgan, it would be remiss of me not to explain why I’m here first.”
“The reason I’m here today, Mr. Morgan, is to give you this.” Professor McGonagall produced a neat letter made of parchment. “And to answer any question that might arise after you’ve read it.”
On the letter, my name and address were listed in tidy handwriting. Turning it over, I saw the stamp of Hogwarts, the School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, imprinted in fine ink. For longer than I cared to admit, I just stared at the seal, too shell-shocked to move. But after a while, I remembered I wasn’t alone.
Looking up at Professor McGonagall, I found her nodding, gesturing for me to open it.
So that’s exactly what I did.
HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHRAFT and WIZARDRY
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)
Dear Mr. Morgan,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.
Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress
“In your case,” Professor McGonagall added once I’d finished skimming through the first page of the letter, “either myself or another member of our faculty will return on July 31st to hear your answer. You may inform us of your decision earlier, if you prefer—but know that selecting your school of magic is not a decision to be taken lightly.”
I nodded slowly to show I’d understood. My mind was still too dumbfounded to risk a verbal response at the moment.
“Good. You may continue reading.”
HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHRAFT and WIZARDRY
UNIFORM
First-year students will require:
Three sets of plain work robes (black)
One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear
One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)
One winter cloak (black, with silver fastenings)
Please note that all pupil’s clothes should carry name tags.
COURSE BOOKS
All students should have a copy of each of the following:
The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk
A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot
Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling
A 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 glass of crystal phials
1 telescope
1 set brass scales
Students may also bring, if they desire, an owl OR a cat OR a toad.
PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICK
Yours sincerely,
Lucinda Thomsonicle-Pocus
Chief Attendant of Witchcraft Provisions
“What…” I whispered, my voice barely louder than a mosquito. “Do I do?”
The question hadn’t been intended for Professor McGonagall—yet she answered it nonetheless.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Morgan. You may take a moment to think. Remember that I'm here to answer your questions.” Her calm demeanour was contagious, and I nodded at her in appreciation.
Surprisingly, my decision had already been made the moment I first heard the professor’s name.
A school of magic—nevertheless freaking Hogwarts—was the perfect solution to many of my current predicaments. I wasn’t hesitant whether to accept. No, I was so happy I could almost feel my wrung-out soul crying in relief.
Even though researching magic by myself had been incredibly engaging and rewarding in its own way, I often felt like I was wandering blindly through a dark swamp whenever I experimented with magic. Every step was carefully and meticulously planned, yet the muddy water only continued to rise higher and higher.
Moreover, the chance to finally talk to someone about what I loved would prove invaluable moving forward.
Still, the fact that Hogwarts existed raised several important questions.
Discovering magic had been shocking enough. But now? I come home from school only to find out I’ve been living in a fictional world for seven years?
“No, that’s not right.” I decided immediately. If I’d received this letter seven—or even six—years ago, I might’ve questioned the authenticity of the world around me. But now, after everything I’ve experienced and learned? After all the people I’ve met?
There was no doubt in my mind that the world I lived in was real.
Which begged the question: Where exactly am I?
Is J.K. Rowling God?
Or is this some kind of alternate dimension?
Up until now, I’ve lived under the assumption that my soul had travelled back in time—but that idea was now firmly thrown out the window and then run over by a freight-train.
Still, this probably meant that my previous life’s parents weren’t out there somewhere, living their lives as young adults like I’d presumed.
The thought made my stomach clench and my eyes water. I hadn’t realized that a part of me had, all this time, hoped I’d one day meet them again. Even if it would have to be as strangers.
If this really was a fictional world, however, the odds of them being out there somewhere suddenly dropped drastically.
“This doesn’t change anything.” I realized. My original goal remained the same: I had to learn magic in order to figure out where I was and what had happened to me.
“No… it changes some things.”
If this world—fictional or not—was indeed based on Harry Potter, I currently had a massive advantage.
I knew the story. And not the general future like, but actual, in-depth information about people and events. With this knowledge, I could potentially change things for the better.
“Shit.” My eyes widened in sudden realization. Voldemort was coming back.
Suddenly, the prospect of going to Hogwarts didn’t seem quite as appealing.
“Wait a minute—if this is the world of Harry Potter…” I started counting the years inside my head. “I’m ahead by… one… no, two years!”
If my math was correct, at this moment, Harry Potter was still only nine years old. Voldemort wouldn’t possess Professor Quirrell and infiltrate Hogwarts for another two years!
“And maybe if I can set up the pieces…” Steeling my resolve, I looked up to meet Professor McGonagall’s reserved gaze.
“I’ll go.” I said. “I’ll attend Hogwarts.”
For a few seconds, Professor McGonagall just stared at me and said nothing. When she finished scrutinizing me, however, she gave a curt nod, as if she’d found what she'd been looking for.
“Perfect.” With a faint—almost indiscernible—smile of approval, Professor McGonagall continued, “in that case, we have several matters to attend to.”
Before informing the Matron and Sisters of my decision, Professor McGonagall proceeded to explain several things I already knew about the school and the magical world of Harry Potter.
She spoke briefly but respectfully about the headmaster, Albus Dumbledore, and the four houses: Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. She emphasised the importance of upholding the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy and the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery and—without going into detail—warned me of the dire consequences for any witch of wizard who broke those particular laws.
Any other 10-year-old kid would’ve been scared out of their wits by Professor McGonagall’s curt way of saying I’d been edging dangerously close to committing the wizarding equivalent of a felony.
And I definitely wasn’t an exception. In fact, since I already knew about Azkaban, one could arguably claim that I was even more concerned than most would be in my situation.
Heck, I was in possession of not one but several journals upstairs, painstakingly documenting all the manifestations of magic I’d conjured over the last several years in great, rigorous detail. Many of those had been spontaneous feats of magic done in public—but thankfully, hadn’t been linked back to me.
“Maybe that’s how they found out about me?”
Professor McGonagall also revealed that, as a Muggle-born orphan wizard, my situation was rare but not unheard of. Fortunately, the Ministry of Magic weren’t entirely dismissive of muggle-born wizards with financial difficulties; as there existed a subsidy one could apply for. The sum wasn’t large, and the application process was far from smooth, but Professor McGonagall assured me it would suffice—so long one budgeted properly and didn’t splurge on unnecessary non-essentials.
I did not want to know what Professor McGonagall considered “non-essentials.”
Generously, she also promised to help expedite the process to ensure I received the funds in time for the start of term.
The more I spoke with the professor, the more convinced I became that she was a good person beneath all that stoicism. In several ways, she reminded me of the Matron—strict but fair.
Finally, Professor McGonagall divulged that—if all parties agreed—we’d be spending tomorrow morning in a place called Diagon Alley, where I’d obtain all the necessary provisions for a year at Hogwarts.
To say I was jittery with excitement would be an understatement. I’d often speculated whether it was possible to imbue magic into objects. And now I knew for certain that it was possible.
Surprisingly, the Matron hadn’t reacted the way I thought she would when Professor McGonagall announced my admittance to Hogwarts. Apparently, she had already assumed that I would end up attending some special school, given how quickly and rigorously I was advancing in my studies. The idea of some representative arriving to invite me to a prestigious private institution didn’t strike her as unusual.
Nevertheless, despite her polite demeanour, everyone in the lounge could tell the Matron was fishing for information—about the school, its faculty, and most importantly, its stance on faith and Christianity.
At some point during the conversation, Professor McGonagall had even produced a pamphlet from somewhere and handed it to her.
Reading it over the Matron’s shoulder, I saw that it was—while not exactly dishonest—a heavily curated description of Hogwarts, its history, and background.
Still, the pamphlet did much to assuage the Matron’s more pressing concerns.
Thus, after another hour of interrogation, Professor McGonagall parted with the orphanage on good—if not great—terms. From what I observed, the Matron and Sister White clearly admired the older professor for her aloof and refined demeanour.
The rest of the afternoon was spent explaining to Alex and the others that I wasn’t leaving the orphanage permanently—I’d still be coming home for holidays and longer breaks. Nonetheless, Alex and Beatrice remained uncomfortably subdued throughout the conversation.
I wanted to console the two children by showing off another one of my many “magic” tricks, but given what I had just learned, I reckoned I should be more careful with public displays of magic.
Instead, I used a portion of my savings to buy the children some ice cream. Before long, my forthcoming absence was either forgotten—or intentionally ignored.
For the rest of the day, I made the rare decision to spend time with the orphans instead of practicing magic. It was a choice that was warmly welcomed, as the children had plenty they wanted to show me or talk about.
…
Laying my bed, I stared up at the ceiling, a blue 10-pence coin resting in my hand.
“Hogwarts, huh.”
The fact that I was living in the mysterious world of Harry Potter would require some time to get used to.
Still, I found that I wasn’t necessarily averse to the idea of studying at Hogwarts. Up until now, I had been speed-running school as fast as I could, just hoping it would end sooner. But if I could learn magic at an institute of learning…?
Let’s just say that the thought appealed to me.
“I will still have to study with children, however…” Worse, the professor had clearly said I would not start my eleventh year as I was supposed to, but Year 7 instead. Meaning, I would be studying with a bunch of eleven-year-old brats again.
“Is it even possible to skip grades at Hogwarts?” If it was, I never heard about it.
Not that I was intending to speed-run Hogwarts. No—I would take all the time I needed to develop my magic proficiency until I was beyond all reproach. Until I could find out what truly happened to me.
“I wonder what using a wand will be like…” I rubbed my tired eyes. “I already use… memories as catalysts, I wonder if the wand… will…”
I fell asleep, dreaming about the magical world that lay ahead of me.
…
The next morning, Professor McGonagall showed up at dawn. And since I was on breakfast duty, I was already ready for her.
After saying goodbye to the Matron, the sisters, and the children who’d decided to see me off, I scurried after the professor.
Shockingly, we didn’t Apparate like I thought we would, instead, Professor McGonagall took me to an old antique store on the other side of the city.
“Our destination, Diagon Alley, I regret to say, is in London.” Professor McGonagall explained when she could no longer endure my inquisitive gaze. “And while we could certainly go by train, I am not keen on spending the next two hours stuck in a cabin.”
“Besides,” she added, glancing at me. “I dare say you’re going to spend a lot of time on trains moving forward, Mr. Morgan.”
“Then how are we going to get to London?” I asked, though I was starting to suspect the answer.
Opening the door to the quaint antique store, a bell rang above us. Professor McGonagall gave a curt nod to the disinterested clerk before she answered me.
“We’ll be using the Floo Network,” she said, leading me to a cackling fireplace tucked in the back of the shop. Before I could ask what, exactly, the Floo Network was, Professor McGonagall tossed a pinch of green-tinged powder into the flames.
They immediately flared emerald-green—an ethereal colour that matched the professor’s cloak, though I suspected that was just a coincidence.
“Now, Mr. Morgan,” Professor McGonagall said. “This next part is very important, so listen closely.”
I nodded attentively.
“Though a handy form of travel, the Floo Network requires its travellers to clearly enunciate the name of their destination. Repeat after me: The Leaky Cauldron.”
“The Leaky Cauldron.” I repeated, as clearly as I could.
“Good.” Professor McGonagall nodded, handing me a fistful of green powder. “Now step into the hearth, say your destination very clearly, and then drop the powder.”
To my credit, I only hesitated a little before stepping into the smouldering fireplace. Turning around, I caught Professor McGonagall nodding at me in approval.
Before I lost my nerve, I said it—a mixture of fear and excitement swelling inside of me.
“The Leaky Cauldron.”
A gentle tickle and a flash of green later, I was no longer in Bath.
The room I appeared in was large, dimly lit and sparsely populated.
“Step out of the fireplace son!” A gruff voice barked, and I obeyed instinctively. The owner of the voice—the barkeeper whose name I couldn’t recall—gave me a satisfied nod before returning to his duties.
A few seconds later, Professor McGonagall appeared in a burst of green flame behind me.
“Well, if it isn’t Professor McGonagall!” The barkeeper exclaimed, his voice rousing the attention of the few drunkards and vagabonds scattered throughout the otherwise empty establishment.
His eyes widened as he turned to look at me.
“I reckon this is one of your new protégées, then?”
“Good morning, Tom,” Professor McGonagall greeted politely. “Mr. Morgan is indeed a new student.”
“Ah! Then you must be heading to Diagon Alley for your school supplies, of course.” Tom the barkeeper said, stating the obvious. “Allow me to open the gateway for you, Professor McGonagall, ma’am.”
Before Professor McGonagall could respond, the barkeeper vanished.
“This is the Leaky Cauldron,” Professor McGonagall explained instead, turning to me. “A gateway between Diagon Alley and Charing Cross Road in London. It’s exceptionally popular among Muggle-born wizards such as yourself.”
“If you ever need help getting to Diagon Alley,” Professor McGonagall added as we began walking toward the courtyard that hid the gateway, “the barkeeper, Tom, will assist you.”
“Yes, Professor.”
“Of course, you can use the Floo Network to get directly to Diagon Alley as well.” Professor McGonagall went on. “But since it’s your first time here, I wanted you to see the true passage to the Diagon Alley.”
“There you go ma’am.” Tom said as we walked into the cobblestoned courtyard, where the bricks were just finishing rearranging themselves—revealing a passageway to a bustling street.
“Thank you, Tom, that will be all.”
Needless to say, I nodded politely at the smiling barkeeper as well. Satisfied, Tom returned through the door we’d just entered—presumably to tend to the bar.
Diagon Alley was just as bustling as I’d imagined it would be, despite the early hour. Everywhere I looked, witches and wizards strolled around, chatting and window-shopping. On a bench, two older wizards were reading today’s newspaper, which was magically enchanted—its images animated like gifs.
I even spotted some children around my age scampering along the street, which was flanked by bookstalls, apothecaries, and other storefronts, each one inviting my attention.
“Let’s go Mr. Morgan.” Professor McGonagall’s voice pulled me back to reality.
Our first stop turned out to be a massive building made out of white marble, adorned with grand Corinthian columns. Like many buildings in Bath, it was a sight to behold. Above the entrance, the name of the establishment was embellished in archaic lettering:
Gringotts Wizarding Bank.
“This is the Gringotts Wizarding Bank,” Professor McGonagall explained. “It’s where your stipend will be allocated on the fifth of each month.”
“First, we must open a personal vault for you. It won’t be a large one, but it will serve your needs adequately during your years at Hogwarts. Don’t worry—the cost of the vault will be subtracted from your stipend automatically.”
“Thank you.” I said honestly. Even though I might’ve been capable of doing all of this by myself—granted I had access to Diagon Alley—Professor McGonagall’s influence and experience made the ordeal a thousand times easier.
Opening up a vault took nearly an hour, most of which was spent filling out various forms that the frustratingly condescending goblin clerk insisted I complete. Moreover—and this was purely a conjecture on my part—if Professor McGonagall hadn’t been overseeing the entire interaction with her aloof and inscrutable demeanour, I was certain that the infuriating goblin would’ve given me even more forms to fill out, just to spite me.
Honestly, the whole fiasco doused the excitement I’d initially felt about meeting my first goblin. But who knows? Maybe that was exactly what the goblin had wanted.
Nevertheless, with the key to the vault in my possession, I could finally say that the whole ordeal was over.
“Good,” was all Professor McGonagall said when I was finished. “Our next appointment is at Olivander’s. Follow me.”
Re-entering the winding cobblestone street of Diagon Alley, I was surprised to discover that it was even more crammed than before our business at Gringotts.
Based on their attire, gawking expressions, and age, many of the pedestrians were presumably prospective students, much like myself. The majority, however, appeared to be returning students.
When the parents of those students noticed the person who I was walking alongside, they basically scrambled over one another to pester us with questions and introductions.
At first, it wasn’t so bad. I got to meet many of my future seniors—and a few I reckoned would be my peers at Hogwarts. And while the parents were clearly focused on Professor McGonagall, many of their children were far more interested in me.
Even so, I refused to shy away from any of their questioning gazes. Over the years, I’d made it a point to conquer my fear of strangers.
Yet not everyone was merely curious about me. After realizing who I was—presumably based on my Muggle attire, which stood out in contrast to everyone else’s in Diagon Alley—many of the students, and even some parents, frowned at my presence.
It was as if I’d done something to offend them, simply by existing.
After a while of this, even Professor McGonagall’s expression visibly soured, and soon thereafter, the pestering parents stopped approaching us all together.
It seemed even adults were wary of offending Professor McGonagall.
“Here we are,” Professor McGonagall said, her tone cold and stiff. “I’ll give you some privacy. Come out when you’re finished.” Without another word, she turned and strode off.
“What a day…” I sighed, then turning my attention to the quaint little building squeezed between two larger shops. A wooden sign revealed the name of the ancient establishment:
Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.
Stepping through the door, the bustling noise of the street outside suddenly vanished, leaving me with a strange sense of solitude.
The interior was dim, lined from floor to ceiling with a myriad of thin boxes. It was only thanks to the sliver of natural sunlight filtering in through the small window above that I could see anything at all.
Behind a table cluttered with ink pots sat a very old man, observing me with surprisingly keen eyes.
“Mr. Morgan, I presume?” Mr. Ollivander asked, beckoning me closer.
As I stepped further into the shop, the scent of aged wood and ink overwhelmed my senses. But it was more than that. As I walked, I felt something faintly familiar—something that reminded me of the spark inside me.
Magic.
I recognized it almost immediately.
For some reason, I hadn’t felt it with Professor McGonagall, or when I travelled through the Floo Network, or even at Gringotts—but here, the air was positively steeped in it.
Looking at the white-haired old man, I suddeny found it difficult to say who was older: Ollivander or the shop itself.
“You know who I am?” I asked, feeling only slightly unsettled by his prying gaze.
“Oh, I make an effort to remember everyone who steps into my store, Mr. Morgan,” Mr. Ollivander replied, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “But in this case, I know who you are because Minerva made the appointment.”
He sighed. “Now, if only everyone had such foresight—but alas.”
I shifted uncomfortably as his gaze lingered on me.
“But that’s enough dilly-dallying, you’re here for your wand, yes?”
Suddenly Mr. Ollivander stood with more vigour than I expected from someone his age. Without hesitation, the old man walked purposefully to one of shelves lining the walls—as if he already knew which wand was mine.
Withdrawing a specific box, he blew the dust off its lid.
“Here, try this one,” he said, handing me a wand twelve inches long. It looked slim and refined. “Its core is made of unicorn hair.”
Holding it, I focused inward, toward the feeling I associated with my spark. Like always, the sensation was vague at best, but over the years I had learned how to tune into it—how to read it. I had to, in order to gauge how much spark energy I had left.
“No, this isn’t it.” I thought. The feeling was clearly off somehow.
So I handed the wand back to Mr. Ollivander, whose bushy eyebrows rose almost all the way to his receding hairline in surprise.
“I see,” he said, slowly returning the wand to its box. “You didn’t like it?”
“It’s not that I didn’t like it…” I said carefully, trying to find the right words. “It’s a beautiful wand no doubt—clearly masterfully made.” I didn’t want to insult its creator, especially not to his face. “It just wasn’t… resonating with me.”
“I see…” Mr. Ollivander nodded as if he understood exactly what I meant. “Yes, indeed. Right you are.”
After a moment of deliberation, he moved over to another shelf and withdrew yet another dusty box.
“Try this one instead,” Mr. Ollivander offered, his voice soft and gentle as he handed me a fourteen-inch-long wand. “Its core is a phoenix feather.”
Immediately, the feeling I got was better than before. I could tell I’d be able to use it without any negative repercussions. But even then, it was clear—my spark preferred something else entirely.
Thus, without hesitation, I returned the wand to its creator.
“How peculiar,” Mr. Ollivander muttered, before scurrying off deeper into the shop.
Three more wands were summoned—one with dragon heartstring and two more with phoenix feathers—yet all three wands were returned to their shelves.
By now, Mr. Ollivander no longer looked as composed as he had when I first arrived. Each time I handed a wand back, he muttered imperceptibly to himself, frowning, before hurrying off again.
Finally, after taking a long hard look at me, the man disappeared even further into the back of the store. He remained missing for quite some time before eventually reemerging.
In his hand, he cradled a very old wooden box with noticeable care. Whatever want it held, it was clearly something precious to the old wandmaker.
“It is said, Mr. Morgan.” The old man began, sounding lucid again as he opened the box in his hand. “That the wand chooses the wizard, Mr. Morgan, and we never quite know why.” (Author’s note: sorry, I couldn’t help myself)
He withdrew a burnished chestnut-coloured wand that almost shimmered red under the flickering candlelight. A flowing, wave-like pattern ran along its surface, making it striking despite the small knots and irregularities that dotted its length.
“The first time I heard that saying,” Mr. Ollivander spoke slowly, wistfully, “was when I was a child—not much older than you—learning the craft of wandmaking from my grandfather.”
Mr. Ollivander sighed.
“You must understand Mr. Morgan, I fancy myself an extraordinary wandmaker,” he added, straightening his back with a flicker of pride. But the moment passed, and his slouched form returned as he sighed. “Still, compared to my grandfather, I believe I have much left to learn.”
“12 inches long,” he continued. “Yew wood, with a single strand of Thestral tail hair for its core.”
He paused, then sighed again.
“It was made by my grandfather in an effort to… well, it’s not really important anymore.” He gently extended it to me. “Try it out.”
This time, when my slender fingers wrapped around the surprisingly weighty object, I instinctively felt a connection between the wand and my spark. A wave of resonance shivered through me, raising goosebumps along my arms.
Shockingly, without feeling even a fraction of energy drain from my spark, a gentle—strangely familiar—breeze manifested around me, whispering indistinct promises in my ears.
“How peculiar indeed.” Mr. Ollivander murmured, followed the breeze with his eyes, as if he could see the invisible manifestation of magic. Before long, his eyes returned to me.
“It seems your wand has finally found you, Mr. Morgan.”
…
“I’m sorry for the wait.” I said, approaching Professor McGonagall.
If the professor was bothered by the time it’d taken to find my wand, she didn’t show it.
“I trust everything is in order?” She asked, her eyes flicking toward the old box I held close to my chest.
“Yes, Professor.”
“Good.” She checked her watch. “We still have two more appointments to make—try to keep up.”
After Ollivander’s, Professor McGonagall and I procured the books and attire I’d need for my first year at Hogwarts. More adults tried to strike up a conversation with the professor, but she batted them aside expertly.
Needless to say, the sun was already descending by the time we finished our business in Diagon Alley, and my arms were laden with shopping bags filled with everything from phials to a hand-me-down wizard hat.
I looked very silly wearing it, but Professor McGonagall assured me it was necessary.
But if the professors seriously thought I was going to use ink and quills instead of ballpoint pens, then they were clearly delirious.
For now, Professor McGonagall lent me the money I needed for my provisions and school supplies. The plan was for her to be reimbursed when my stipend eventually arrived on the 5th of next month—we’d set up a scheduled transfer at Gringotts.
Instead of using the Floo-serviced hearth at the Leaky Cauldron, we departed from the one inside Flourish and Blotts, the bookstore.
Before leaving, Professor McGonagall had me repeat back to her the time and place of the Hogwarts Express departure: September 1st at 11 a.m., from Platform Nine-and-Three-Quarters at King’s Cross Station in London. The trip was supposed to continue until nightfall, so she emphasized the importance of packing accordingly.
To make it to the station on time, I’d need to catch the train departing from Bath at 8 a.m.
It might sound odd, but I was actually looking forward to the nearly twelve-hour journey to Hogsmeade—and the subsequent boat voyage to the castle.
When we weren’t browsing second-hand aisles for books or chatting with shopkeepers, I often badgered Professor McGonagall with seemingly innocuous questions about magic.
I couldn’t help myself.
Though she refrained from answering many of them, she still seemed pleased by my curiosity. The things she did say made me realize just how incredibly rare it was for someone—especially someone my age—to be capable of utilizing wandless magic, especially in the UK.
So, at least I had that going for me.
Needless to say, I was looking forward to burying my nose into the second-hand books I’d procured. There was no way I was waiting until September to start studying their contents.
After dropping me off back at the orphanage, Professor McGonagall left similarly to how she arrived, without much fanfare.
…
“So…” Alex mumbled, watching me as I finished stashing my drawer with all the stuff I’d brought back from Diagon Alley. “How was it?”
“How was what?” I asked back; Alex had a bad habit of being vague when he was upset or nervous. “You mean my trip to London?”
Alex nodded silently, in an uncharacteristic display of timidness.
“It was pretty fun, actually,” I answered honestly. “Professor McGonagall might seem a bit scary at first, but is really a big softie on the inside.”
“Really? I’m glad you had fun.” Alex tsked, looking away.
“Oh, come on. Don’t be like that.” I sighed, studying the boy who was—biologically at least—only a year younger than me. Still, the differences in our height and dispositions set us apart. “You know I don’t like it when you act all petulant with me.”
“But you said you’d help me with my homework!” Alex burst out, referring to something I’d said months ago. “And without you around, I’ll have to hang out with Anton, Gabe, and Charlie!”
“Charlie isn’t that bad.” I pointed out, much to Alex’s apparent displeasure. “Neither is Gabe, really.”
“Yeah, and Anton and Tom are super nice too,” he replied with acidic sarcasm.
“Well…” I placed a hand on his shoulder—a rare gesture from me. “We don’t have to go that far, do we?”
Alex stayed quiet for a few seconds, before he snorted with laughter.
“That’s true.”
“Besides,” I added, “what’s wrong with hanging out with Rose and Bea?”
Alex’s nose wrinkled.
“But… they are girls.” He answered, as if that alone explained everything sufficiently.
Sighing, I dropped my hand from his shoulder and flopped onto my bed.
“They’re not that bad.” I said, defending the two younger girls. Rose could be a bit loud, sure, but her heart was in the right place. And whilst Beatrice might be a bit of a scaredy-cat, she was fiercely loyal. “I think you you’d actually get on pretty well, if you stop annoying Rose now and then.”
For a few of seconds, our room fell silent. When Alex didn’t respond, I turned to look at him.
“But what if I get adopted while you’re gone…” Alex whispered, so softly I almost didn’t hear it.
Across the room, Alex was sitting on his bed, fidgeting with one of his car toys.
“There is nothing wrong with being adopted, Alex,” I replied slowly, watching his reaction carefully as I spoke.
“But there are a bunch of people who wanna adopt you!” Alex burst out. “And you always say no to them!”
My stomach clenched as the realization hit me.
The reason why Alex—who was social, sweet, and cute—hadn’t been adopted yet… was because of me.
“Alexander.” My voice lowered, all trace of teasing gone. The sudden shift made Alex flinch a little. “Is that why you said no to the Reeves?”
The fact that my roommate refused to look at me was answer enough.
“You do not have to say no to adoption just because that’s what I do, you know?” When Alex looked like he was about to protest, I continued. “Our situations are different. If a family comes along who you think is kind, and they want to adopt you, I think you should say yes.”
“But…” Alex whispered, eyes glistening, his knuckles white from gripping the toy too tightly.
“Alex...” I got off my bed and pulled the poor boy into a hug. He trembled slightly in my arms. “I told you before, didn’t I? Not everyone is like them.”
When Alex started sniffling into my shoulder, I pretended not to notice.
“Shit man.” I thought to myself. “So much for being the perceptive adult…”
Looking out the window, my thoughts drifted to something Mrs. Brown had said yesterday.
“Maybe she’s right after all. Maybe I do need to figure out who I am.”
I’d been so focused on growing up physically—thinking that I was already an adult mentally—and mastering magic, that I hadn’t stopped to consider how my actions were affecting the people around me. The people who cherished me. Who looked up to me.
Hugging my little brother, night fell quietly around us.
…
The next day was Sunday, which meant I had to attend church service with Father Beverley.
Alex and I didn’t talk about yesterday, but I felt like we’d reached an understanding all the same.
If another potential family showed up that he liked, Alex would go home with them. As orphans, we had the Matron and the Sisters—but even though they cared for us, it was abundantly clear to even the youngest children that we weren’t family.
Without me around, Alex would either grow withdrawn or depressed, or worse—turn into another version of Anton or the boys who never got adopted.
Bitter, cynical, and filled with hatred.
Like my own father, Anton’s had never come back from the Falklands. And since that fateful day seven years ago, I’d had plenty of time to reflect on the things said and done.
The conclusion I came to was that Anton’s words were never truly meant for me. They were just projections of his own grief and insecurity.
Still, even though I felt like I had better things to do, attending church service felt both grounding and oddly cathartic. Naturally, the Matron informed Father Beverley about my admittance to “a prestigious boarding school.” The man proceeded to shower me with so much praise that I became hyper-aware of the hateful glares coming from Tom, Anton, and Gabe.
To many of us, Father Beverley was the father figure we never had. So when one of us received more attention or praise than the others, that person inevitably became the target of envy and spite.
After the service concluded, I stayed behind to speak with a few of the adults active in our community. They were all eager to hear more about the school that had managed to snatch away the so-called “Orphan Prodigy of Bath.”
Naturally, I kept my answers vague.
And so, for the next six and a half weeks, I spent the days playing with Alex and the girls, and the nights reading the textbooks I’d brought back from Diagon Alley. Little research was conducted, aside from periodically depleting my spark at regular intervals.
If it weren’t for the books—and the parchment sitting on the nightstand beside my bed—the days were so ordinary that everything with Professor McGonagall almost felt like a dream in comparison.
But when summer came to an end, and a new semester glimmered on the horizon, I knew that my life was about to change drastically.
…
