In the rugged reaches of the Scottish Highlands, at the wind-lashed northwestern fringe of the United Kingdom, stands what appears to be the weather-beaten ruin of an ancient castle. Moss creeps along its crumbling stones, and its towering silhouette looms like a forgotten sentinel amidst the mist. To the average passerby, assuming any ever stumbled into such a remote and near-uninhabited part of Scotland, it was nothing more than a decaying relic of the past, whispering tales of faded glory. But to magical eyes, the illusion unravels. The ruin was no ruin at all, but a magnificently preserved stronghold, hidden and protected by layers of powerful enchantments, designed to repel the curious and confound the mundane. No non-magical being who arrived here does so by accident and none who tried to linger remained undeterred for long.
Inside the castle, deep within its majestic main hall adorned with floating chandeliers and enchanted tapestries that subtly shifted with the seasons, a handful of witches and wizards sat around a long, polished oak table, savoring a leisurely breakfast. The clinking of cutlery mingled with the low murmur of conversation, and the warm scent of toasted bread, sizzling sausages, and freshly brewed tea filled the air, wrapping the scene in a rare and cozy sense of calm.
“It’s only been a few days and I already miss the students.”
A high-pitched, slightly squeaky voice echoed through the grand hall, unmistakably belonging to a man of exceptionally short stature whose presence nonetheless demanded attention. Clad in a dark blue robe embroidered with fine silver thread, he cut into his eggs with meticulous precision, clearly savoring both his meal and the brief respite from a bustling school year. His voice, though delicate in tone, carried a surprising clarity, bouncing off the enchanted stone walls like a cheerful bell.
“You must be the only one among us, Fillius. Merlin knows that I’m glad for their absence. Finally a bit of peace. Not that I dislike our students but I’m glad for this little break. Plenty of time to work in the greenhouses without any accidents happening.”
“I agree with Pomona. A bit of time without any explosion in my classroom would do me some good. A shame that potion brewing needs to be done in dark and closed space. The weather is so nice outside, I’m glad I’m able to enjoy it for more than a couple hours. What say you, Minerva?”
“I think you’re all right, Horace. While I already miss the students, I will enjoy this summer with less paperwork to…”
Minerva’s sentence was abruptly cut off as a brown barn owl swept through the open window with impeccable timing and silent grace. The creature flared its wings, dropped a sealed envelope onto the table with practiced precision, and vanished just as swiftly back into the morning sky. Startled, the woman caught the letter, her fingers instinctively breaking the seal. Her eyes scanned the page, and with each passing line, her brow furrowed deeper, faint irritation giving way to a concerned, almost alarmed grimace.
“A problem, Minerva?”
Immediately to her left, seated on an ornate golden high-backed chair, was an old man robed in a cascade of vibrant colors, each hue flowing into the next like melted jewels. His long, braided silver beard brushed the front of his robe, and his signature half-moon glasses perched precariously on his crooked nose, twinkling with quiet mirth. Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts for over two decades, regarded his former student and now Deputy Headmistress with knowing curiosity. He had long since learned that a furrowed brow on Minerva McGonagall's face signaled more than simple irritation. It meant a problem of real weight, or worse, an injustice brewing beneath the surface.
“It’s from a young man recently accepted to Hogwarts,” the woman said, her voice clipped and sharp. There was a distinct edge beneath her words, annoyance, yes, but also something hotter simmering underneath. Albus caught the flash of it immediately: not just irritation, but genuine indignation, like someone who had just witnessed something unjust and was now forced to sit still about it.
“So soon? They only left earlier in the week!” Horace exclaimed in surprise from her right.
“He’s just been admitted to the school, Horace. He will be a first year student in September, or would be if he hadn’t declined.”
With deliberate care, she passed the letter to her mentor seated beside her, her fingers brushing the parchment as if reluctant to let it go. Her eyes met his, sharp and searching, conveying not just curiosity but a weightier message. A plea for shared understanding, perhaps even for action. Around them, the hall rippled with soft gasps, the faculty collectively stunned by the revelation, their morning tranquility now pierced by the gravity of what had just been read.
“Who wouldn’t want to study at Hogwarts?”
“A Muggle-born orphan with no money, unaware that Hogwarts covers tuition entirely and that scholarships exist for students in such circumstances,” Albus murmured, his voice carrying a wistful edge. His eyes had drifted somewhere far off, caught in the haze of memory.
“Oh, then that would explain it.” said Pomona.
“Not exactly,” Minerva replied, her voice sharper now, laced with a professionalism barely masking her growing frustration. “It is standard protocol that I personally visit every Muggle-born or Muggle-raised student to deliver their acceptance letters and explain the magical world to them in person. Under no circumstances should a student like this young man have received his letter by owl.” Her frown deepened, the corners of her mouth pulled tight in disapproval as the breach of process gnawed at her sense of order.
“Curious.” noted Dumbledore.
“A mistake from one of the students you requested the help for the letters?” Horace venture.
“Perhaps.”
Minerva dabbed her mouth with the napkin in a slow, deliberate motion before rising from her chair. There was a steel in her gaze now, the unmistakable resolve of someone who had made a decision. Something about the letter’s phrasing unsettled her deeply. Every line laden with unspoken pain and a desperate yearning. The boy’s desire to learn, to belong, was evident in every carefully written sentence. He wasn’t simply curious about Hogwarts; he was clinging to it like a lifeline. Yet, tangled in that hope was something darker. A simmering resentment, barely veiled, and heartbreakingly justified. The way he described himself, the venom in his words.
‘Freak of nature… bloody muggles. I swear if they hurt a defenseless child…’ It wasn’t just anger. It was fear and Minerva could no longer sit idly and hope someone else would fix it.
“I’m sure it’s not as dire as your imagination makes it out to be,” Albus said gently, his voice calm but laced with a cautious optimism.
Startled by the sudden voice of Albus coming from just behind her shoulder, Minerva masked her reaction with the practiced grace of a seasoned professor. The old Headmaster had risen from the table the moment she did and shadowed her through the castle's winding corridors, silent as a ghost, speaking only when he judged it necessary. His uncanny ability to read her emotions, despite her famously stoic exterior, never failed to unsettle her. It was as though he saw past her every defense with maddening ease, plucking her thoughts from thin air with nothing more than a twinkle of his eyes and a quiet hum.
“Albus, he’s an orphan. Alone, powerless in their eyes, and without the protection of someone who understands what he is. We’ve seen it before. Ignorance breeds cruelty. Even Muggle-borns with both parents sometimes suffer, but a magical child without family? That’s a spark in a dry forest.”
“I’m well aware, Minerva, but we must be careful not to take a handful of tragic cases and presume they speak for every circumstance. Exceptions, however painful, do not rewrite the rule.”
“You read the letter, I doubt he’s treated well.”
“Sadly, like every child in an orphanage. A few name calling is part of everyone’s life I’m afraid.”
“I’m continuing this investigation, if only to give the boy a sliver of hope. The knowledge that he belongs somewhere, that he’s not alone. It’s a small miracle the owl lingered long enough to receive his reply rather than vanishing the moment the letter was delivered. Perhaps it understood how important it was.”
“Owls are more than mere messengers. They’re creatures of insight. I’ve always believed they see more than they let on, and perhaps, in their own quiet way, they understand far more than we assume. They are the birds representing wisdom.”
Minerva offered no response, her silence sharper than words, and swept purposefully toward her office, robes billowing behind her with every determined stride. Once there, she seated herself at her desk and immediately began rifling through stacks of parchment, her fingers brisk but precise. Each document she passed was another frustration, until at last she unearthed the one she needed—the master list of first-year admissions. Dumbledore, still holding the boy’s letter delicately as if it were a relic, gently reminded her of the name. Her eyes scanned the parchment swiftly, narrowing as she reached the bottom of the list. There he was, exactly where she suspected.
“Here he is. Rick Wald, Last bedroom on the third floor, 26 Covent Garden, Wool’s Orphanage, London.”
“Wool’s Orphanage?”
“You know of it?” she asked softly, noting how her mentor’s gaze had drifted, his features momentarily shadowed by memory. Something about the name had struck a chord in him, drawing him inward. Far from the room, and deep into a past he rarely revisited.
“Hmm? Yes. I once went there during my own tenure as deputy headmaster.”
“You know the way then, good. Let’s go.”
Minerva rose swiftly from her seat and swept toward the door with purpose. The pointed look she shot Albus on her way out was enough to silence even his most diplomatic retorts. He could have told her no. He was, after all, the Headmaster of Hogwarts and her superior but the truth was, he didn’t want to. Curiosity had already taken hold of him, as it often did, and this coincidence was too uncanny to ignore. The only other time he had set foot in Wool’s Orphanage, he had walked away with a child of prodigious magical talent—one who later became a monster.
‘What were the odds? Another orphan boy with raw power and no guidance, growing up in the same place. It’s probably nothing. Hopefully. But what if it isn’t? What if I missed something back then… should I watch more closely this time?’
Shaking his head, Albus dismissed the notion of monitoring an eleven-year-old boy simply because his circumstances echoed those of a student who had walked a darker path. The very idea felt unjust. Guilt by proximity rather than action. To judge a child not for his own deeds, but for those of another entirely unrelated individual, was not only unfair, it was antithetical to everything Albus had come to believe about second chances and individual choice.
As they exited the castle, the warm morning sun cast long golden rays over the dew-kissed grass. They passed by Hagrid’s hut nestled at the edge of the forest, where the half-giant was already tending to some peculiar creature humming contentedly in a crate.
“Mornin’!” he boomed, waving a hand the size of a shovel.
They returned the greeting with brief smiles and a few kind words, but didn’t linger. Their strides were purposeful, their minds preoccupied, and in no time at all they had passed beyond the enchanted boundary of the school grounds, the castle shrinking behind them like a dream fading into daylight.
“I could have used my privilege as headmaster to apparate us there.”
“This is not an emergency, Albus. One should not abuse their privileges.”
“Of course, of course,” he conceded hastily, eager to sidestep the inevitable miniature lecture on the proper use of authority that Minerva could deliver with surgical precision and an arched brow alone.
Both witch and wizard drew their wands with the ease of long habit and, with a soft murmured incantation, transformed their flowing robes into appropriate Muggle attire. Albus’s new outfit was a rich brown three-piece suit with a hint of old-fashioned charm, the fabric soft and slightly shimmering, as though it had been conjured from memory rather than thread. Minerva, ever the image of composed elegance, transfigured her ensemble into a well-fitted burgundy dress with subtle pleats and a tailored waist, accompanied by a modest hat perched at a graceful angle atop her head. She looked every inch the respectable Muggle schoolteacher. Stern but not unkind, and perfectly inconspicuous.
“Albus,” she said with exasperated patience, the kind of tone worn thin by years of tolerating his eccentricities and now hanging by a fraying thread.
“Yes?”
“Your outfit is a bit outdated for the muggles.”
“Oh? It seemed perfectly fine the last time I-”
“When was that?”
“Hm… 1937?”
“That was thirty-four years ago,” she replied with a dryness that could dehydrate a cactus, her patience clearly thinning. With a sharp flick of her wand, one that suggested she’d rather be transfiguring him into a turnip, his outdated outfit shimmered into something more in line with modern Muggle fashion. “There. Now you won’t stick out like a sore thumb at a history museum exhibit.”
The new suit Albus now wore a rich brown with just a hint of orange undertone. A dramatic departure from his previous ensemble. The fabric clung more closely to his frame than he was likely used to, particularly around the thighs, before flaring out dramatically below the knees in a fashion that Minerva would have privately deemed ‘outrageously modern.’ The material itself had a slick, tailored sheen, thinner and more precise, giving the entire outfit a distinctly sharp, contemporary flair that made him look more like an eccentric jazz musician than a headmaster.
“Oooh! I quite like this fashion. A bit snug, perhaps, but the colors are delightfully dashing,” he chuckled, clearly more amused by Minerva’s eye-roll than by the outfit itself, and entirely unbothered by how ridiculous he looked to anyone else.
“Of course you do.”
“Muggles; always reinventing themselves every decade. It’s exhausting just to observe, but admittedly, quite fascinating.”
“You’ll have plenty of time to admire Muggle fashion later, Albus,” Minerva said, the weariness in her voice unmistakable. It wasn’t the first time she’d had to herd the whimsical headmaster back to the matter at hand, and from the exasperated glance she threw at him, it wouldn’t be the last.
“Yes, yes. Let us go.”
He offered her his arm, which she accepted with a resigned sigh, and with a loud crack, they vanished from the Hogwarts grounds. A moment later, they reappeared on a quiet London street, directly across from the grim silhouette of Wool’s Orphanage. Apparating nearly 900 kilometers in a single jump would have left most witches and wizards reeling if not splinched but Albus didn’t even blink. His composure remained annoyingly untouched, as though he’d merely strolled across a hallway rather than traversed the breadth of Britain. Minerva, who could never manage such a distance herself, gave him a look halfway between grudging admiration and mild exasperation.
“Just as I remember,” he murmured, gazing at the grim, timeworn edifice before them. The building loomed with the same oppressive stillness it had all those years ago. Its stone walls stained by weather and neglect, its very silhouette steeped in memories better left buried. There was no nostalgia in his voice, only a quiet, grim confirmation that nothing had changed.
“What a dreary place. To think children would be raised here.”
“I’m afraid Muggles often lack the same institutional care or concern for the younger generations’ wellbeing that we’ve cultivated in the magical world. It’s a shame and a tragedy that’s far too common.”
They crossed the street and passed through the rusted iron gates, their hinges groaning faintly in protest. Inside, the orphanage was as drab and institutional as Minerva had expected. Dimly lit, with peeling wallpaper and a faint smell of disinfectant lingering in the air. Behind the reception desk sat a middle-aged woman, her head bowed over a well-worn paperback, entirely unaware of their arrival. Albus, taking the lead, approached with his signature warmth, his voice slipping into the soothing cadence of a benevolent grandfather. A tone that had the uncanny ability to disarm even the most guarded of strangers.
“Good Morning, Miss.”
“Good Mor—” The woman froze mid-greeting, her words catching in her throat the instant her eyes landed on Albus. For a brief second, her face registered open shock—wide eyes, parted lips—before she visibly composed herself, forcing her features back into something more neutral. The shift in her demeanor was stark; what had been casual professionalism moments ago now became tense apprehension. “I knew when he received that letter you’d come for him,” she said, her voice low and guarded, as if bracing herself for something long-anticipated.
While Minerva raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the woman’s sudden shift in demeanor, a flicker of suspicion tightening the corners of her mouth, Dumbledore stood puzzled beside her. Despite the familiarity the woman seemed to display, he found no trace of recognition in his memory. No name, no face, not even a vague impression to cling to.
“I’m sorry, I’m quite old and with my advanced age I can’t quite remember-”
“You wouldn’t, sir. I was fourteen the last time you came here. For Tom.”
“Ah… that would explain it,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else, his eyes momentarily clouded with the weight of memory now stirred into sharp focus.
“You seem remarkably well-informed about who we’re here to see and why,” Minerva said crisply, her tone betraying just a hint of irritation as she sought to keep the conversation focused and brisk.
“Yes. Young Rick. Just like Tom he’s… whatever he is.”
“Just like him?” Albus asked quietly, the concern in his voice cutting through the air like a blade.
“In what he can do, perhaps, but otherwise he’s nothing like him. Tom was wicked, arrogant, manipulative and cold. He knew how to smile while twisting the knife. Charismatic, yes, but in a way that was unsettling. Rick is none of that. He’s… well, yes, he’s a handsome boy, but quiet, withdrawn, more inclined to observe than speak. He’s kind. Sensitive, even. We’ve rarely had any trouble from him except, of course, for the strange things he does… much like Tom used to. But the intent behind it feels different. With Rick, there’s no malice.”
“You speak kindly of him, yet your nerves betray you. Why the contradiction?”
“It’s unnatural. I saw what Tom could do. How he hurt people and smiled through it. That memory never left me. And while I don’t believe Rick would ever do the same…”
“You’re afraid he’ll might.” Albus’s voice was quiet but pointed. The woman gave a slow, reluctant nod, her expression tight with conflicted emotion. It wasn’t hatred, not even close. But there was fear, and it ran deep. Not of the boy himself, but of what he could become. His magic unsettled her, reminded her of things she’d witnessed once before, and despite her reason telling her otherwise, her instincts whispered caution.
“Can you… can you take him away?”
“I assure you, he’s not a danger to anyone should he…” Minerva began to say with anger in her voice.
“No, Miss, that’s not what I’m afraid of,” the woman said quickly, her voice tinged with urgency and guilt. “It’s not him. It's what he can do. It unsettles me, yes, but he’s a good child. Exceptionally bright, easily the sharpest of all the children here. But that brilliance isolates him. He’s so alone, truly alone. The other children, even the matrons, keep their distance. He’s treated like an anomaly, like something to be avoided. He doesn’t deserve that. He deserves kindness, connection. Something we’ve all failed to give him. I don’t know if you’re like him… like Tom, or if you’re something else entirely, but whatever you are, if you can help him, please do. I don’t want to watch another boy like that go without guidance. I don’t want him to become what Tom became.”
“I’m Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts, and this is my Deputy Headmistress, Professor Minerva McGonagall. Hogwarts is a special and secret boarding school for children born with abilities, like young Mister Wald. He would be with us for ten months of the year, learning to harness and understand his gift. However, I must inform you that during the summer months, July and August, students are required to return to their guardians or designated caretakers. Unfortunately, the school cannot house students year-round until they are of age, which in our world is seventeen.”
“I see.”
She invited them to follow her and they took the stairs. Reaching the third floor they went through the long corridor and stopped at the last room where the door was opened. She knocked on it and Rick, who was sitting at his desk reading a book from the library, raised his head from it and turned it. Noticing he had guests, he rose from his seat and stood straight.
“Good Morning, Miss Willson. What may I help you with?” He greeted her politely.
“Good Morning Rick. This is Minerva McGonagall and Albus Dumbledore. They… came to talk to you about… that letter you received the other day.”
Rick’s eyes widened at the mention of the letter, surprise flickering across his face before he gave a quick, unsure nod. Miss Willson offered a brief, awkward farewell and slipped from the room, leaving the boy alone with the two professors. Without hesitation, Rick stood, dragged his only chair forward, and offered it to Minerva with the quiet grace of someone used to making the most of very little. She accepted it silently, appraising him with sharp, curious eyes. Children were rarely polite without being taught to be. Certainly not children raised in institutions like this one. That a young orphan had the presence of mind and courtesy to make such a gesture, unprompted, earned him more than a few points in her mental ledger. And when he apologized, genuinely and without embarrassment, for having only the one chair and offered to fetch another, she found herself faintly impressed despite herself.
“Ah, that won’t be necessary,” Albus said with a jovial twinkle in his voice, drawing his wand with an effortless flourish. With a flick and a spark, two chairs materialized out of thin air, polished and elegant as though they'd always belonged there. Minerva nearly allowed herself a grin at the expression on Rick’s face. First startled awe, then the wide-eyed curiosity of someone realizing they were seeing the impossible made casual. That look alone, she thought, was worth the trip.
‘A Ravenclaw or maybe a Gryffindor,’ Minerva mused, studying her future student as he settled into his chair with quiet composure.
There was a sharpness in his gaze, restrained yet curious, like someone accustomed to watching the world from a safe distance but yearning to understand it. He clearly had questions, dozens of them, maybe more, but chose to stay silent, listening intently as Albus began asking gentle, leading questions about any unusual incidents in his past. Rick’s answers were calm and precise, recounting moments of accidental magic: objects levitating or flying toward him, people pushed away without a touch, colors shifting with no explanation. All typical signs for a young wizard. But then came a revelation that made Minerva nearly drop her teacup. Apparition. That was not typical. Not by a long shot. Her eyes widened so sharply they nearly popped out of her skull.
“That’s called Apparition,” Albus explained, his tone a careful blend of admiration and concern. “It’s a highly advanced magical method of transportation. Instantaneous travel from one location to another. Normally, witches and wizards must be of age and pass a test to obtain a license for it. Doing it without training is extremely rare… and not without risk.”
“Am I in trouble, then?” Rick asked, his voice small and laced with uncertainty, the words spilling out before he could stop them. His eyes darted between the two adults, searching for reassurance or preparing for punishment.
“No, not at all,” Albus replied warmly. “What you experienced is known as accidental magic A natural and uncontrollable expression of magical ability in young witches and wizards. No one is punished for it, no more than they would be for changing your classmate’s hair from black to white.”
After Albus’s thorough explanation, Minerva fielded any remaining questions Rick had, though it was clear he held back more than he voiced. His curiosity was intense, bordering on feverish, but it seemed to stem more from wonder than expectation. When he finally narrowed his focus to the matter of finances, Minerva found herself studying him more closely. The questions weren’t just practical, they were hopeful, cautious, like a boy daring to believe in something better but afraid to be wrong. She realized then that he wasn’t planning for a future. He was dreaming one, and every answer they gave was either stoking the flame or guarding it from going out.
“You don’t have to worry about tuition. It’s fully covered by the Ministry. Completely free,” the old Headmaster assured him gently. For the briefest moment, Minerva saw a flicker of light ignite in the boy’s eyes. A raw, startled hope. But just as quickly, it faded, swallowed by years of disappointment and learned restraint. She understood at once. Of course he would doubt it. And so, before that hope could fully retreat, she leaned in and spoke quickly, firmly, as if to anchor it in place.
“There are funds set aside specifically for scholarships. Students in your situation are never left behind,” she said, her voice steady and reassuring. “You won’t need to worry about school supplies either. Everything you need will be provided.” Just as she hoped, the flicker of hope in Rick’s eyes didn’t just return, it surged back, brighter and more alive than before.
“That… should really be explained in the letter,” he said cautiously, a flicker of boldness in his voice as he ventured to critique the school’s communication, even if it came wrapped in deference.
“You weren’t supposed to receive your letter by owl,” she explained gently. “Standard protocol is that I personally visit every Muggle-born or Muggle-raised child to deliver their Hogwarts letter and introduce them properly to the magical world. Unfortunately, a mistake was made and your letter was sent by post owl instead. That shouldn’t have happened, and I’m truly sorry for the confusion it caused.”
“Oh! That’s alright. I suppose if you're visiting students in person, it makes sense the letter wouldn't cover everything. Still, that leaves the question of…”
“Where to buy the supplies. Worry not, that too, I take care of. Normally I give a tour of Diagon Alley to all students and their families unfamiliar with the magical world but since I’m already here and it's not far away, I think we can go right now.”
She nearly snorted at how fast Rick nodded, practically vibrating with eagerness. But she caught herself. Minerva McGonagall did not snort, especially not in front of prospective students. She had a reputation to uphold, and it did not include visible amusement. Albus, of course, had no such burden and chuckled openly, unfazed by the glare she sent him that could’ve turned a Basilisk to stone. With an inward sigh of long-suffering patience, she rose from her chair, composed and dignified, and motioned for Rick to follow.