The Thestrals’ wings beat almost silently, their breathing lost under the rush of wind.
The carriage glided through the afternoon sky like a ghost.
Through the window Lucas watched Hogsmeade shrink behind them while the Scottish Highlands raced past below.
Ride-wise, nothing he’d ever taken came close.
He also felt an odd connection with the Thestrals—like some quiet understanding passed between them.
Professor Sprout sat across from them, trying to lighten the mood with a few jokes.
Finlay never said a word.
He gripped the window frame the whole way, staring outside like he was battling some invisible enemy.
Lucas looped an arm through his grandfather’s and gently coaxed him to relax, then asked Professor Sprout about Hogwarts classes.
He was relieved to hear that most young witches and wizards didn’t get stable magic until around age eleven.
That was why acceptance letters only went out after their eleventh birthday.
Even kids from wizard families didn’t have much of a head start.
“I heard about your adventure,” Professor Sprout said with a smile.
“From what Ellie managed with that Levitation Charm, she’s already one of the stronger first-years.
Plenty of students—even from magical homes—show up knowing almost nothing.
So don’t worry, Lucas.
If you’re willing to work hard, you’ll catch up fast.”
The Thestral carriage was quick.
In what felt like less than two hours the familiar outline of the McGregor farm appeared.
The carriage settled silently on the open ground beside the barn, not even waking the shaggy Highland cows dozing nearby.
So Hogwarts is actually in the Scottish Highlands too, Lucas thought.
Straight-line distance isn’t even that far.
Professor Sprout said, “Lucas, I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning at eight.
We’ll head to Diagon Alley and get everything on your school list.”
…
That night Lucas lay in bed, wide awake.
He read the acceptance letter and supply list over and over, fingertips tracing the Hogwarts crest at the top—the lion, eagle, badger, and snake.
The door to the magical world stood wide open, but it still felt like a dream that might vanish any second.
He finally drifted off late, still clutching the letter.
The next morning, just as the sky began to lighten, Lucas slipped out of bed.
He crept downstairs and found his grandfather already up.
Finlay McGregor sat motionless at the kitchen table, hair wild, eyes bloodshot.
He clearly hadn’t slept.
Lucas’s chest tightened.
He didn’t say anything, just went into the kitchen.
Soon the sizzle of bacon and the warm smell of toast filled the room.
He set a mug of honey-sweetened milk topped with thick foam in front of his grandfather.
After they finished breakfast Lucas cleared the dishes and reached for the pitchfork by the back door.
“Leave it, lad,” Finlay’s hoarse voice said.
“I’ll handle the chores today.
Your head’s already off at that… Diagon Alley place anyway, right?”
He stood, pulled a small cloth bag from his pocket, and slapped it onto the table in front of Lucas.
“Take it.
For the books… and all the other nonsense on that list.
If it’s not enough…” Finlay paused.
“I’ll figure something out.”
They already knew from yesterday that Hogwarts charged no tuition or room-and-board fees.
But when Lucas had spread out the long supply list—robes, pointed hat, dragon-hide gloves, wand, textbooks, cauldron, brass scales, crystal phials—they had no idea how much it would all cost.
Wizards could make serious money with magic, so they figured prices in the wizarding world had to be terrifying.
Finlay pushed open the door and stepped out into the early-morning mist, shoulders heavy with exhaustion.
Lucas picked up the money bag, untied the string, and poured everything onto the table.
Several crumpled, well-worn pound notes, neatly bundled with rubber bands.
A small pile of shillings and pennies, some of them dull with age.
He counted it once.
Then again.
Eight hundred and five pounds, eighteen shillings, and ten pence.
Lucas’s throat closed up.
He knew exactly what this money was.
The farm was small.
Just an old man and a boy running it.
After expenses, they didn’t save much.
This was every penny from selling eggs, milk, and wool—money set aside for harsh winters, roof repairs, broken tools, or doctor bills if anyone got sick.
If it wasn’t enough, they’d have to sell livestock.
Or borrow.
He bit his lip hard, eyes stinging.
Lucas stood in the living room a long time until he heard his grandfather calling to the sheep outside.
He turned back to the kitchen.
At least he could make lunch for Grandpa before he left.
The old man hadn’t slept all night—he had to be exhausted.
A simple tonic soup first to calm and nourish him.
Maybe stew a chicken tonight when he got back…
Lucas took down an earthenware jar, lifted the lid, and the rich herbal scent of angelica root drifted out.
It was one of the few herbs he’d managed to grow successfully here.
Next he pulled out dried longan, lotus seeds, plump red dates, and big white fungus.
These ingredients were rare in the Scottish Highlands, but Lucas handled them with practiced ease.
He soaked everything except the angelica in warm water.
By the time he had the rest of lunch ready, the dried goods had plumped up, glossy and full.
He set a deep stew pot on the stove, filled it with clear well water, and added the lotus seeds (hearts removed), pitted longan, torn silver-ear fungus, and thin slices of angelica.
He brought it to a boil, then lowered the heat, dropped in golden rock sugar, and let it simmer gently until the sugar melted into a honey-colored sweetness.
The broth bubbled softly.
The deep, earthy aroma of angelica blended with the warm sweetness of longan and the delicate fragrance of lotus seeds, all wrapped in the silky gelatin from the white fungus.
Only then did Lucas add the round red dates, giving the soup a final gentle stir and a touch of warm color.
The scent grew richer and richer—until a sharp knock sounded at the front door.