1991, London, England.
Living up to its reputation as the City of Fog, the capital was draped in a persistent chill and mist, with scarcely a glimmer of sun breaking through the dull grey sky.
Professor Filius Flitwick stood on the pavement before a modest brick house, double-checking the address inscribed on the parchment in his hand.
As Hogwarts’ Charms Master and Head of Ravenclaw House, personally visiting prospective Muggle-born students was part of his annual routine—a duty that could be quite pleasant, or an utter headache.
“Will Behrens,” Professor Flitwick murmured to himself before rapping the knocker against the door.
No answer.
He knocked three more times, but the house remained quiet.
Flitwick frowned.
Before he could raise his hand again, a soft click came from the lock, and the front door swung gently inward.
There was no one standing in the entryway.
“Come in,” called a calm, youthful voice from deeper inside.
Flitwick stepped across the threshold.
The house was compact but exceptionally tidy.
The furniture was somewhat worn, yet kept spotless.
Several framed photographs hung in the hallway, depicting an attractive woman alongside a young boy who bore a distant, almost detached expression.
On the coffee table in the front room, a thick, leather-bound volume lay open beside a stack of a dozen well-thumbed books.
Flitwick’s eyes drifted over the titles on the spines—*Herbology Analysis*, *An Introduction to Potions and Pharmacology*, *Principles of Transfiguration*—and his eyebrows climbed steadily higher.
*Prime material for Ravenclaw!*
“Hello, Professor,” the voice called again, this time from the kitchen.
Flitwick followed the sound and found the boy from the photographs.
He was lean, noticeably pale, with neat black hair, standing beside the cooker.
“Pardon me, my hands are full at the moment. You’ll only have to wait a minute.”
The boy’s eyes were an unusual silver-grey, striking yet curiously cool and guarded.
From the pan rose a rich, mouth-watering aroma that immediately caught the professor’s attention.
Flitwick’s stomach gave a quiet rumble—he hadn’t managed a proper lunch between appointments.
*Orderly, self-sufficient…
he’d do well in Hufflepuff, too,* Flitwick mused as he watched the boy work with practiced efficiency.
“Mr. Behrens?” Flitwick asked gently.
“Yes, sir.” The boy turned off the burner, wiped his hands on a clean tea towel, his composure remarkably steady for a Muggle-raised child.
“Please have a seat, Professor. The food and tea are ready.”
Flitwick sat at the table, his mind working quickly.
The Hogwarts records had this child down as Muggle-born, yet nothing about this home suggested a family unacquainted with magic.
Those volumes on the table were genuine wizarding texts, some covering advanced theory.
Had someone breached the Statute of Secrecy and provided an unregistered minor with restricted material?
Moments later, Will returned carrying two plates.
“My boy,” Flitwick began, choosing his words carefully, “do you happen to have any relatives in the wizarding world?”
“As far as I know, no one in my family is a wizard.” Will set a plate before the professor.
“Please, help yourself.”
Flitwick looked down at a steaming, appetizing plate of pasta.
He missed the subtle flicker across Will’s face.
The boy hadn’t lied outright, but he had omitted a key detail: while his mother had been a Muggle, he had discovered an old wand hidden away in the house.
As for his father, having never known him, he simply had no way of knowing his background.
Flitwick took a tentative bite.
“This is delicious. Truly remarkable for a child your age.”
“Thank you, Professor,” Will replied, returning to the kitchen counter.
“I learned to cook quite young.”
Feeling a pang of sympathy, Flitwick gently steered the conversation back to the matter at hand.
“And those books in the other room… where did you come across them?”
Will placed a cup of black tea before him and pulled out a chair opposite.
“I bought them,” Will said plainly.
“In Diagon Alley.”
Flitwick nearly choked on his tea.
“Diagon Alley?!” His voice jumped an octave.
“How on earth did you—”
“I found my way through the Leaky Cauldron.”
Flitwick sat with his mouth slightly open, momentarily at a loss for words.
An eleven-year-old Muggle-born child, completely unguided, finding the Leaky Cauldron, slipping past the entrance, and wandering into Diagon Alley alone—it bordered on sheer recklessness.
*Perhaps Gryffindor is where he belongs after all,* Flitwick thought, trying to collect himself.
“How did you even discover that magic was real?” Flitwick asked, lowering his voice.
Will took a measured sip of tea.
“Two and a half years ago, while my mother was still alive. She struggled with severe alcoholism. When things got bad, she would lock me in the storage cupboard. Once, while I was crying inside, every light bulb in the house burst at once, and the main fuse box blew completely.”
Flitwick’s expression turned somber.
Accidental magic brought on by severe emotional distress.
“After that, I realized things around me weren’t normal,” Will continued evenly.
“Whenever I felt extreme anger or distress, odd things occurred. Eventually, while walking through central London, I noticed a pub that everyone else seemed to pass by without ever looking at.”
“The Leaky Cauldron,” Flitwick said softly.
“Yes. I went inside, watched the patrons, listened to what they were discussing, and pieced together that magic was real.”
Flitwick sat in stunned silence.
Over decades of teaching, he had guided all types of young witches and wizards—reckless daredevils, brilliant minds, and irrepressible troublemakers.
He thought little could surprise him anymore.
Yet he had never met an eleven-year-old Muggle-born who had deduced the existence of the wizarding world and navigated his way into it entirely on his own.
Recalling Will’s earlier words, Flitwick asked gently, “And your mother…?”
“She passed away two years ago,” Will said, his tone entirely flat.
“She drove through a red light while intoxicated.”
The lack of emotion only tugged harder at Flitwick’s heartstrings.
To the professor, it looked like grief so profound that the boy had simply shut down to cope.
Clearing his throat to move away from the painful subject, Flitwick adjusted his tone.
“Well… concerning your enrollment at Hogwarts. We’ll need to visit Diagon Alley properly to gather your supplies: your wand, school robes, cauldron, course books—”
“I’ve already purchased my wand,” Will interrupted quietly.
Flitwick’s eyebrows shot up once more.
Will reached inside his jacket, drew out a dark brown wand, and laid it on the table.
“Acacia, phoenix feather core, twelve and a quarter inches. From Ollivanders.”
“Ollivander sold you a wand?” Flitwick asked, bewildered.
“Without a member of the Hogwarts staff present?”
“He told me I was one of the most curious customers he’d ever served,” Will answered.
Flitwick looked at the slender boy, feeling entirely off-balance.
His usual role—delivering the acceptance letter, explaining owls and brooms to an astonished Muggle household—had been completely preempted.
“And your school books? Your robes?” Flitwick asked.
“I have everything,” Will said.
“Standard first-year books from Flourish and Blotts, and robes fitted at Madam Malkin’s last week.”
“…A cauldron? Brass scales? A telescope?”
“All sorted.”
Flitwick realized his standard duties had been rendered entirely redundant.
“Well, my boy,” he sighed with a faint smile, “it seems there’s very little left for me to do.”
Will looked across the table, a sudden spark appearing in his silver-grey eyes.
“Actually, Professor, there is one thing.”
“Oh? What’s that?”
“I have questions regarding spellcasting. The introductory texts detail the incantations and wand movements, but they never explain the foundational theory. Why does a specific wand motion channel magic in that precise way? What connects the pronunciation to the magical effect?”
Flitwick’s eyes brightened.
For the next two hours, the Head of Ravenclaw found himself sitting in a Muggle dining room, thoroughly engrossed in explaining foundational spellcraft to a boy who hadn’t even boarded the Hogwarts Express yet.
Will listened with rapt attention, soaking up every concept.
Flitwick was astonished by his eagerness, unaware of what the boy was actually experiencing:
[New magical theory comprehended: Charms Experience +1]
[New magical theory comprehended: Charms Experience +1]
[New magical theory comprehended: Charms Experience +1]
…
“My boy, earlier I considered Gryffindor or Hufflepuff, but there’s no doubt in my mind now—you belong in Ravenclaw.” Flitwick was beamed with approval.
The boy possessed a razor-sharp intellect, deep curiosity, and an extraordinary drive to learn.
Will had already absorbed the core theory behind first- and second-year Charms, and his comprehension was remarkably sound.
Flitwick recognized that the boy’s aptitude was far beyond the norm for his age; he certainly hadn’t possessed such clarity at eleven.
Above all, he was relieved to see no hint of the Dark Arts in the boy’s inquiries.
In his experience, minds with this sort of hunger for understanding belonged in Ravenclaw, and they rarely failed to accomplish great things.
Though Will clearly had more questions, the afternoon was slipping away.
As Head of House, Flitwick had responsibilities to attend to.
“My boy, once term begins at Hogwarts, my door will always be open to you. Come to me whenever you need guidance.”
“Thank you, Professor Flitwick. I look forward to the start of term.” Will saw him to the door, a touch reluctant—the steady gain in experience had been immensely productive.
Watching the small professor depart, Flitwick resolved to ask Minerva and Severus to keep a watchful eye on the boy once term started.
A child living entirely alone, carrying that much quiet grief, needed to be guided carefully so he wouldn’t lose his way.
[Identity Note: Half-blood Wizard; Continental/German wizarding lineage]