On the quiet streets of Barnet in north London, pedestrians were sparse.
Still, every passerby slowed down to stare at the boy’s stall by the curb.
He looked eleven or twelve, platinum blonde hair catching the light, dressed like a miniature gentleman.
The clothes alone would have earned polite nods.
What really stopped people was the stall itself.
British law is clear: the Children and Young Persons Act bans kids from street trading.
The 1963 rules raised the solo age to seventeen.
Fourteen- to sixteen-year-olds can only work limited hours with parents, a permit, and strict local approval.
Lemonade stands at home?
Harmless.
A real stall on the pavement?
Illegal.
The law says one thing.
Britain does another.
Other neighborhoods might look the other way when a child hustles to survive.
Not Barnet.
This is old money territory.
The residents here do not tolerate beggars or street kids in their postcode.
Most days the boy would have been moved along or arrested on the spot.
Today the sight was rare enough that people stared.
Two Scotland Yard officers finally approached.
“What are you doing?” one asked.
His tone stayed civil—probably because of the tailored jacket and perfect posture.
“Street performance, sir.” The boy didn’t flinch.
He simply handed over a folded document.
“Barnet Council permit.
It lets me offer fortune-telling and prophecy experiences right here.
Would either of you like to try?” The officers checked the paper, exchanged a glance, and declined.
Their wallets were thin.
London street readings usually ran ten pounds.
Tourist spots bumped it to fifteen.
This boy’s sign read thirty pounds per person.
A constable’s monthly take-home before tax barely cleared a thousand.
Thirty pounds each for a rich kid’s parlor trick?
Not happening.
They left.
The boy settled back into his folding chair and waited.
His customer arrived minutes later.
“May I have your name, little prophet?” A young woman in a deep blue coat stood at the stall, one hand holding her daughter’s.
The girl had the wildest, bushiest brown hair anyone had ever seen, oversized front teeth, and warm brown eyes.
Isaac let his gaze linger on the top of the girl’s head for half a second.
A flicker of envy crossed his face before he smoothed it away.
“Of course, ma’am.
Isaac Waldore, at your service.
Would you care for a pleasant prophecy?” Mrs.
Granger finally noticed the boy’s eyes—two different colors, one pale, one darker.
The oddity made her fingers tighten around her daughter’s hand.
Hermione felt the squeeze but said nothing.
She just pressed her lips together and waited.
“So… this actually tells the future?
Like what’s going to happen?
Thirty pounds and that’s it?” Mrs.
Granger’s voice wobbled.
Even Hermione could hear the nerves.
Hermione understood.
An owl-delivered letter from a magic school had landed on their doorstep days ago.
When your entire world cracks open, excitement and terror arrive together.
She was the one living it, so she stayed calmer than her mother.
She took over.
“Mom means, is thirty pounds really all it costs to see the future?
No bigger price?” The Grangers ran a private dental practice.
Thirty pounds was nothing to them.
To most people it was serious money.
Cheap usually meant you got exactly what you paid for.
Isaac smiled like he understood everything.
“No bigger price.
I can only show you one possible future.
Nothing is fixed.” “Anything can change it.
You two stopping here might already have shifted things.
I simply pick the most likely path and share it.” Eleven-year-old Hermione got lost in the words.
Mrs.
Granger heard the disclaimer loud and clear.
Classic escape clause.
If he’s wrong, blame the future for changing.
Not a real seer after all.
She had hoped for something more magical.
Oh well.
She wasn’t going to expose him.
The police had walked away without a word, which meant the boy belonged here.
People who could afford Barnet didn’t blink at thirty pounds for a charming young gentleman’s blessing.
Call it a generous tip.
She opened her mouth to ask about her daughter’s future, but Isaac spoke first.
“Your daughter will achieve something remarkable in a niche field one day.
As for the near future… you might want to practice patience.
After all, you’ve already replied, haven’t you?” Hermione’s mouth twisted at the first sentence.
She spun to stare at her mother.
Mrs.
Granger’s eyes widened.
Had the boy guessed, or was it just clever talk?
Days earlier an owl had delivered Hermione’s Hogwarts acceptance letter.
The Grangers had dismissed it as a prank at first.
After every test they could think of, it felt real.
They had written back exactly as instructed.
Now they were waiting, hearts hammering, for whatever came next.