For the first few days, the hardest part was having the wand so close.
I knew where the box was.
I didn’t even have to look at the drawer.
All I had to do was reach out.
One spell.
Something small.
Then I remembered Greaves’s voice and the world squeezing me during Apparition.
I stuck to the book.
I didn’t try to convince myself that it didn’t count without a wand either.
Dumbledore had asked me not to perform magic in the orphanage.
He hadn’t made a special exception for fingers.
Very reasonable.
And terribly inconvenient.
By the end of August, I knew the descriptions of more than a dozen spells I couldn’t try.
I knew how my wrist should move, which syllable to stress, and the mistakes beginners most often made.
I didn’t know whether I would make them myself.
That changed the way I read a little.
Before, every new page had seemed like another skill I was about to acquire.
Now, some passages prompted me to write down questions.
Why did the same movement appear in two different spells?
What exactly did “maintain a steady flow” mean?
And how did the author expect a pupil to understand “the natural response of the core” when he hadn’t explained it once?
I soon ran out of room in the margins.
I bought a notebook.
Then another.
Autumn arrived as usual.
I had to go back to Muggle school.
After visiting Hogwarts, a desk, a blackboard, and maths exercises seemed a particularly modest selection of attractions.
Even so, I paid a little more attention than before.
Mostly because someone now noticed when I didn’t.
“Oliver, if you’ve finished reading under your desk, perhaps you’d answer the question?”
I looked up.
The rest of the class was already turning round.
Fortunately, the book on my lap was ordinary.
I didn’t bring magical ones.
Even without enchantments on the cover, a textbook describing how to levitate objects properly would have been difficult to explain.
“Could you repeat it?”
The teacher sighed.
A few people laughed.
A year earlier, she would probably have let me sit until the end of the lesson without noticing what I was doing.
Now I received questions, reprimands, and extra work.
Occasionally, I missed some of the advantages of my previous situation.
Not all of them.
After lessons, someone sometimes called me over to the playing field.
At the table, I had to ask for the bread, but at least someone passed it.
If I disappeared for too long, the carers asked where I’d been.
I hadn’t suddenly become the most sociable person in the orphanage.
It was simply easier to join a conversation when it didn’t instinctively pass me by.
People took longer to get used to my eyes.
New arrivals almost always stared.
Those who saw me every day mostly stopped.
One of the younger boys once asked whether I could see in the dark.
I said I didn’t know.
He wanted to check by shutting me in a cupboard.
I declined.
I kept running.
Not with equal enthusiasm every day, although I very much wanted to consider myself consistent.
I had less enthusiasm in the rain.
Even less in the cold.
But over time, I noticed I could run the route that once left me needing a rest and still have enough energy to return.
I also stopped getting out of breath after running upstairs.
That was enough to get me outside the next morning.
Sometimes one of the boys joined me.
It usually ended in a race to the gate or a change from running to football.
A few times, I returned so thoroughly covered in mud that a carer stopped me before I even entered the building.
On those occasions, I couldn’t convincingly explain why there was mud on the back of my head too.
My eyes also gradually stopped interfering with ordinary things.
During the first few weeks, magic appeared in my vision when I least needed it.
Instead of reading, I followed a pale strand along the edge of my bag.
Instead of falling asleep, I saw the lingering impression of having stared at the signet for too long.
I didn’t discover a convenient switch.
What I learned was not to focus on everything.
Looking at ordinary details helped.
Letters on a page.
The grain of wood.
The edge of a window.
Over time, I did it without thinking.
When I wanted to examine magic, I still could.
When I wanted to read a sentence, I could usually finish without my gaze catching on something beside it.
Diagon Alley was harder.
Even a short visit could leave me with a headache if I forgot that I didn’t need to examine every enchanted sign.
And I forgot regularly.
I returned to magical London from time to time.
The first return trip was supposed to be brief.
I needed one book.
I came back with three.
In my defence, one explained things I hadn’t understood in the previous book.
The second looked useful.
The third was about alchemy.
There was no excuse for the third.
I simply wanted it.
To enter Diagon Alley, I waited for an adult to open the passage.
Sometimes I asked Tom.
It wasn’t particularly difficult, although once I had to listen to an observation that young people might at least remember “good morning” before needing something.
He was right.
On my next visit, I greeted him so distinctly that he looked at me with suspicion.
They began to recognise me at the bookshop.
The witch who had sold me my first textbooks no longer commented on every purchase.
Sometimes she simply took a book from my pile and offered another.
“This one first.”
Usually, after a few pages, I understood why.
Once, I tried buying something much harder because the title sounded excellent.
A week later, I returned for the introduction she’d recommended.
She didn’t say “I told you so.”
Her expression did it for her.
The basics of alchemy turned out to have much less to do with making gold than I’d expected.
There was more weighing, observation, the properties of substances, and patiently recording changes.
Some passages resembled chemistry.
Others ended with a note that, without the proper magical preparation, the entire process described would not occur.
At those points, all I could do was underline the sentence.
I didn’t buy a cauldron yet.
After reading the warnings about fumes, I decided that a shared bedroom or an empty cupboard wasn’t the place to test whether the author was exaggerating.
That disappointed me a little.
But when one chapter advised immediately leaving the room at the first sign of purple smoke, the disappointment eased somewhat.
I had time.
I’d rather arrive at Hogwarts with both eyebrows.
Money stopped being something I had to think about before every purchase.
Things were still different at the orphanage.
In autumn, the cooker broke.
For several days, we ate things that didn’t need cooking, while the carers discussed repairs in lowered voices.
I didn’t try to enchant it.
I didn’t even know how I would do that.
The books didn’t have a chapter entitled “Repair a Device Whose Workings You Don’t Understand.”
I did, however, have something simpler than magic.
Money of my own.
On my next visit to the bank, I exchanged some Galleons for pounds.
Real banknotes, legally obtained.
I no longer needed a stone, a twig, or another trip to a Muggle bank with my heart hammering nervously.
I left the envelope where the carers would find it.
Not outside my own bedroom door.
I wasn’t that careless.
For several days, I wondered whether anyone would come asking questions.
No one did.
The cooker started working again. New chapters come out on novelping.com first.
Later, I helped a few more times, carefully, without leaving an amount that ought to bring the police straight to the door.
It didn’t turn the orphanage into a pleasant guesthouse.
There still wasn’t enough space, the wardrobe in my room still wouldn’t close properly, and lunch sometimes tasted as though it had been made out of resentment.
But at least it was hot.
In winter, I thought about September more and more often.
In spring, I began counting the months.
In June, I decided that counting months was no longer precise enough.
I wasn’t afraid the school had forgotten me.
Dumbledore knew who I was and where I lived.
Even so, whenever a large bird appeared near the window, I looked up.
Usually, it was a pigeon.
I was beginning to take it personally.
Towards the end of July, I woke before breakfast with stinging eyes.
For a moment, I lay still.
I knew the feeling.
It wasn’t as strong as it had been before my magic awakened, but it was enough to make me sit up and look towards the mirror.
My eyes looked as they always did.
Black, with tiny points of light.
I blinked a few times.
The stinging slowly faded.
Then I remembered the dream.
A woman in dark robes sat opposite me.
Her back was straight, her hair pinned up, and she held an envelope.
Then we were in Diagon Alley.
I remembered no words.
Only the feeling of trying to keep up as she moved from one shop to the next without hesitation.
McGonagall.
I smiled.
It was entirely possible I’d dreamed about the letter because, for weeks, the letter had been almost all I could think about.
Even so, before going for my morning run, I tidied the desk.
Just in case.
After breakfast, I tried to read.
It didn’t go particularly well.
Twice, I went to the window.
Once, I checked the corridor for no reason at all.
Eventually, I sat down again and found my place.
I read half a page.
Then something drew my attention.
I raised my head.
Beyond the door, somewhere further away in the building, I noticed a more distinct movement of magic.
I couldn’t see a person or a face.
Only a presence that stood out against the faint background I’d grown used to at the orphanage.
Someone magical.
My heart quickened.
I put down the book.
After a moment, I stood.
Then I decided that standing in the middle of the room looked foolish and sat down again.
The knock came a few minutes later.
“Come in!”
I answered a little too loudly.
A carer looked inside.
“Oliver, a lady from your school is here to see you.”
Over her shoulder, I saw dark robe fabric.
“All right.”
That was all.
I was quite pleased with myself.
The carer admitted the visitor, reminded me that lunch would be at the usual time, and left.
Professor McGonagall closed the door.
She looked exactly as she should.
Not her face or her clothes.
It was the way she stood in the room.
In an instant, I felt I ought to straighten my back and put away anything that shouldn’t be on the desk.
Fortunately, I’d tidied it.
“Oliver Peverell?”
I stood again.
“Yes. Good morning.”
“Good morning. Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts.”
She held an envelope.
Thick, slightly yellowish.
I could see green ink.
I stared at it for far too long to pretend I was calmly waiting for further explanation.
The corner of the professor’s mouth twitched.
“I gather you have some idea of the purpose of my visit.”
“I hope so.”
She handed me the letter.
I took it carefully.
My name.
The orphanage’s address.
My exact room.
I turned the envelope over and studied the seal for a moment.
“You may open it,” McGonagall said.
“Yes. I know.”
I didn’t open it immediately.
I’d waited three years for this.
And before that, in my previous life, much longer, although back then I hadn’t had any sensible reason to.
I slipped a finger beneath the flap, trying not to tear the envelope more than necessary.
I took out the parchment.
Read the first sentence.
Then read it again.
I’d been accepted.
Of course I’d been accepted.
Dumbledore had practically told me that almost a year earlier.
But now I had the letter.
“Is everything all right?” the professor asked.
I looked up.
“Yes.”
A smile spread across my face.
“Very.”
McGonagall sat in the chair by the desk.
I took the edge of the bed, still holding the parchment.
“Professor Dumbledore tells me you’re already familiar with Diagon Alley and have a wand,” she said.
I nodded.
“I have some books too.”
She looked at the shelf.
Some volumes stood in a second row, while a notebook stuffed with loose sheets sat on top of the first.
“I see.”
For a moment, she read the titles.
Then she glanced at me.
“How are you finding the theory?”
That was a much harder question than I’d expected.
“It depends on the book.”
“A sensible answer.”
I indicated one of the thicker volumes.
“In that one, the author seems to assume I already understand what I’m trying to learn from him.”
McGonagall looked at the spine.
“He does have that habit.”
I gave a short laugh.
I hadn’t expected that.
“And practical work?” she asked.
“I haven’t performed magic here since speaking to the Headmaster.”
I said it without preparation.
It was good to finally answer a question like that truthfully.
She studied me for a moment, then nodded.
“Good.”
“I’ve read the instructions. Made notes. But I don’t know how much I can actually do, since I couldn’t test any of it.”
“That is precisely why you’re coming to school.”
I looked at the letter.
“I don’t need to know how to do anything before the first lesson?”
Her eyebrows rose slightly.
“Mr Peverell, if we admitted only children who could already perform magic, we would have rather little left to teach.”
I felt a little foolish.
Only a little.
“It looks easier in books.”
“It usually does.”
I lowered the parchment to my lap.
“The theory will be useful,” she added.
“Such as everything?”
“Let us hope not.”
This time, I was certain she smiled.
The equipment list turned out to be longer than I remembered.
Robes.
A hat.
Gloves.
A cloak.
A cauldron, scales, phials, a telescope.
Textbooks.
I worked down the list, mentally comparing it with what I owned.
Very little matched.
“I’ll need to buy some of the books,” I said.
“We’ll check the editions before shopping. There’s no reason to buy another copy of something you already own.”
McGonagall placed her bag beside the chair.
“We also need to discuss expenses. The school has a fund for pupils who cannot afford their equipment—”
“I have money.”
I’d interrupted her.
I realised immediately.
“Sorry. I mean, I don’t need help from the fund. I have access to my family’s vault.”
“I see.”
She didn’t look offended.
“Can you cover the cost of your school supplies yourself?”
I thought of the piles of gold.
“Yes.”
There was no need to elaborate.
The professor nodded.
“Then you’ll use your own funds.”
That was it.
No attempt to convince me I should accept help because the money was available.
No questions about exactly how much was in the vault.
I felt relieved.
I had enough gold to buy books.
The fund could help someone who hadn’t returned from their first visit to the bank with a magical pouch full of coins.
“You’ll also need a trunk,” McGonagall added.
I touched the strap of the bag hanging by the bed.
“I have an expanded bag.”
“Very useful for everyday shopping. A trunk will be more convenient for a year’s worth of clothing and equipment.”
A whole year.
It still sounded wonderful.
I looked further down the list.
An owl, a cat, or a toad.
I read that part again.
“A pet isn’t compulsory,” the professor said, noticing where my gaze had stopped.
“I know.”
Apparently, I didn’t sound particularly convincing.
McGonagall explained when the train left and how to reach the platform.
I listened carefully, although I already knew most of it.
Knowing from a book that you had to walk through a barrier was one thing.
Hearing your future teacher tell you to do it on the first of September, with a trunk and a ticket in your pocket, was something else entirely.
“It’s best not to leave it until the last minute,” she stressed.
“I’ll come early.”
“Good. I’ll also arrange your departure and the details of your stay at school with your carer.”
I glanced at the door.
“Does she know what kind of school it is?”
“She has the information she needs to prepare you for leaving.”
The answer was polite and very clearly closed the subject.
I didn’t press.
McGonagall looked at the list once more.
“I’ll come at noon in a week’s time. We’ll go together to buy what you’re missing.”
“I already know where the shops are.”
It was more an automatic response than an objection.
The professor looked at me over the parchment.
“Good. Then we won’t have to search for the bookshop. That will leave us to see to the fit of your robes, the correct cauldron, and a few other details.”
I thought of the shelf of cauldrons I’d seen on one of my trips.
They all looked like cauldrons.
That was probably the problem.
“All right,” I said.
“Prepare a list of what you already have.”
“I can do that now.”
She looked at me.
Only after a moment did I notice my own impatience.
“Next week will be quite sufficient,” she replied.
When she stood, I sprang up from the bed too.
I didn’t want the visit to be over already.
For almost a year, school had been something that would happen later.
Now its Deputy Headmistress was in my room, talking about buying robes.
I had countless questions.
None would come to mind at the right moment.
McGonagall paused by the shelf.
“The Basics of Alchemy?”
“I was curious.”
“And?”
I considered.
“I still am. Only now I know having a cauldron isn’t enough.”
“A good start.”
Her eyes passed over the remaining titles.
“You don’t have to read the entire bookshop before September.”
“I won’t have time.”
I meant it quite seriously.
Only her look made me smile.
“I leave my room too,” I added.
“I run in the mornings.”
“Then please don’t consider my visit a reason to abandon that habit. You are still on holiday.”
Her hand paused on the handle.
“I’ll see you in a week, Oliver.”
“Goodbye, Professor.”
She left, and for a few seconds I stood in the middle of the room.
Then I looked at the bed.
The letter was still there.
I picked it up and read the beginning again.
Only then did I remember the dream.
Dark robes.
An envelope.
McGonagall.
For a moment, an unpleasant stab of uncertainty ran through me.
I touched the skin beneath my eye.
It didn’t sting.
I could have dreamed about her because I knew who usually visited children before they came to Hogwarts.
Or I could be fitting a vague memory to what had just happened.
I didn’t want to decide on the basis of one visit.
Dumbledore had asked me to tell him if similar things happened again.
If the dream returned, I would have something to discuss with him.
For now, I put the envelope on the desk and took out a clean notebook.
At the top of the page, I wrote:
School supplies.
Beneath it, I began listing what I already owned.
Wand.
Bag.
Pouch.
Books.
For the textbooks, I had to get up several times to check the exact titles.
I crossed one out.
Put a question mark beside another.
Then I returned to the letter.
An owl, a cat, or a toad.
At the bottom of the page, I added:
Look at owls.
I studied the words.
Crossed out “Look at”.
After a moment, I decided I shouldn’t make every decision at once.
I wrote it back in.
In smaller letters.