Hylan left the Grangers’ house.
The evening breeze was cool.
He unwrapped the sandwich and took a bite as he walked.
Ham and cheese.
Simple, but it filled his stomach.
He ate slowly, thinking.
Professor McGonagall had been watching him.
Not casually.
Studying him.
She’d recognized the name Prewett.
That was fine.
It was part of the plan.
He’d chosen the surname deliberately when he woke up in this orphanage six years ago.
A name with weight in the wizarding world.
A name that would open doors.
Fabian Prewett’s features, the matron had said when he was dropped off.
A resemblance she’d noted in his file.
He’d made sure of it.
The system had helped.
Small adjustments over the years.
Nothing dramatic.
Just enough.
Now McGonagall had seen him.
She’d made the connection.
The first seed was planted.
He finished the sandwich and wiped his hands on his trousers.
The street was quiet.
London in August emptied out after dark.
Back at the orphanage, he climbed the creaking stairs to his room.
A narrow bed.
A desk.
A window that didn’t close all the way.
He sat on the bed and pulled up the system screen.
[Silver Tongue: Level 1 (35/100)]
One point from the conversation with McGonagall.
He hadn’t even spoken to her directly.
Just the impression he’d left.
The system rewarded influence.
Words, presence, reputation.
Every interaction was a chance to level.
He closed the screen and lay back.
Tomorrow he’d return to the stall.
More readings.
More proficiency.
And he’d wait.
McGonagall would check the records.
She’d find the orphanage.
She’d find his file.
Fabian Prewett’s son.
Left at the orphanage during the war.
No known mother.
A war orphan from a hero family.
The story wrote itself.
Three days later, Hylan was at his stall when the owl came.
It dropped the letter on his Tarot deck and perched on the edge of the table, waiting.
He knew what it was before he opened it.
The parchment was thick.
The ink was green.
The seal was pressed with a crest he recognized.
HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore
He broke the seal and read.
Dear Mr.
Prewett,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
The rest was standard.
Term began September 1.
A list of required books and equipment.
The owl hooted softly.
Hylan folded the letter and tucked it into his pocket.
“Thank you,” he told the owl.
It tilted its head, then took off.
He watched it go, a dark shape against the grey sky.
The second seed had sprouted.
McGonagall had done her research.
She’d found the orphanage.
She’d found his name on the Hogwarts registry, every magical child in Britain was recorded at birth.
And she’d acted.
He packed up his stall.
No more readings today.
He had preparations to make.
The required equipment list was long.
Robes.
A wand.
A cauldron.
Books.
He had money saved.
Not much, but enough for secondhand supplies.
The orphanage would contribute nothing.
That was fine.
He’d managed worse.
As he walked home, he passed the Grangers’ house.
The lights were on in Hermione’s room.
She’d have her letter too.
Or McGonagall had delivered it in person.
Either way, she’d be going to Hogwarts.
He smiled slightly.
Hermione Granger.
The brightest witch of her age.
Loyal.
Fierce.
Invaluable.
And she already trusted him.
The next morning, a knock came at the orphanage door.
Hylan was in the common room, reading a borrowed newspaper.
The matron answered.
A woman’s voice.
Crisp.
Scottish accent.
“I’m here to see Hylan Prewett.”
He set down the paper and stood.
Professor McGonagall stood in the doorway, her emerald cloak damp from the morning mist.
Her eyes found him immediately.
“Mr.
Prewett,” she said.
“May we speak privately?”
The matron showed them to a small sitting room and left the door ajar.
McGonagall sat stiffly on the edge of a worn armchair.
Hylan took the wooden chair across from her.
“You received your letter,” she said.
It wasn’t a question.
“Yes, Professor.”
“You know what it means.”
“I’ve read the books,” Hylan said.
“I know about Hogwarts.
About magic.”
She studied him.
“You don’t seem surprised.”
“I’ve always known I was different.”
That was true enough.
The system had made sure of it.
McGonagall’s expression softened, just slightly.
“Mr.
Prewett, I must ask you something.
It concerns your family.”
“I don’t have a family,” Hylan said.
“I grew up here.”
“Your parents.
Do you know anything about them?”
“Nothing.
The matron said I was left here as a baby.
No name.
No records.
Just a note with my surname.”
The lie came easily.
The orphanage records had been adjusted years ago.
McGonagall was quiet for a moment.
“Your surname,” she said finally.
“Prewett.
It is a very old wizarding name.
A family of great courage and loyalty.”
Hylan kept his face neutral.
Curious, but not eager.
“I didn’t know.”
“The Prewett brothers, Fabian and Gideon, were members of the Order of the Phoenix.
They fought against the Dark Lord.
They gave their lives in that fight.”
She paused, watching him.
“You bear a striking resemblance to Fabian Prewett.”
Hylan let the silence stretch.
“I see,” he said quietly.
“It is possible,” McGonagall said carefully, “that you are his son.
The timing would fit.
You would have been born during the war, hidden away for your safety.”
“Then they’re dead,” Hylan said.
“My parents.”
“I am sorry.”
He looked down at his hands.
Let the moment hold.
“It doesn’t change anything,” he said.
“I’ve been alone my whole life.
Knowing their names doesn’t make them real.”
McGonagall’s lips pressed together.
She looked at him with something close to pity.
“You are not alone, Mr.
Prewett.
You are a wizard.
You have a place at Hogwarts.”
She stood.
“I will escort you to Diagon Alley myself.
To purchase your supplies.”
“That’s not necessary, Professor.
I have money saved.”
“It is necessary.” Her tone left no room for argument.
“The Prewett family vault at Gringotts has been sealed for years.
If you are indeed Fabian’s son, that inheritance is yours.”
Hylan looked up at her.
An inheritance.
He hadn’t planned for that.
“Thank you,” he said.
McGonagall nodded.
“I will return tomorrow morning.
Be ready.”
She left.
Hylan sat in the quiet room, turning the new information over in his mind.
The Prewett vault.
Money.
Possibly other assets.
He’d chosen the name for access.
For legitimacy.
For the story it told.
But he hadn’t expected it to pay so quickly.
[You have influenced a key figure]
[Silver Tongue: Level 1 (42/100): Proficiency +7]
[Reputation gained: Prewett Heir]
He closed the screen.
Tomorrow, Diagon Alley.
A wand.
A future.
The game was beginning.