The morning sun filtered softly through the treetops as Myrddin Wyllt crouched barefoot near a patch of ferns, eyes narrowed in curiosity. A small, lithe shadow moved through the underbrush ahead of him. A cat.
It was a mottled creature—brown, gray, with streaks of black—and it moved like water through leaves. Silent. Precise. Dangerous in a way that only something deeply in tune with the world around it could be.
Myrddin held his breath, watching as the feline's muscles tensed. A twitch of its haunches. Then—leap. It pounced, and a squeal from the brush signaled its success. The cat emerged with a mouse dangling from its jaws, eyes gleaming with satisfaction.
He should have felt disturbed. But he didn't. Instead, something inside him hummed with recognition.
"I see you," he whispered under his breath.
The cat froze mid-step, one paw raised.
Myrddin didn't move.
The animal turned to look at him. Their eyes locked—deep amber on one side, green-flecked gold on the other. For a moment, he thought he felt something pass between them. A wordless understanding. Then, with a flick of its tail, the cat vanished into the trees.
Myrddin exhaled.
He'd felt that same tug in his blood again—the strange warmth that had awakened when he touched the earth, when the leaves had seemed to listen.
He glanced down at his hands.
"Is this magic?" he muttered. "Or something else entirely?"
He wasn't sure. But there was something about that cat… something he wanted to understand.
He spent the rest of the morning experimenting—focusing on the strange feeling in his veins. He crouched in the glade and mimicked the cat's movements, trying to feel what it had felt. He closed his eyes and imagined its senses, its instincts.
But nothing happened.
Not yet.
Still, it felt close.
By the time the sun reached its highest point in the sky, Myrddin had returned to the cabin and washed the forest's dust from his hands. He changed into the plain clothes folded neatly at the end of his bed—a linen shirt and earth-toned trousers—and waited.
The letter had said someone would come. A guide for Muggle-born students. He supposed that included him, even if he wasn't quite sure what he was anymore.
He stood outside the cabin, glancing up at the sun, then toward the narrow path that wound through the trees.
No one came.
He waited.
Birds chirped lazily in the canopy above. A squirrel darted along a branch. But the path remained empty.
He was about to go back inside when he heard it—a sharp crack, like a twig snapping in reverse.
A tall, stern figure in emerald-green robes appeared at the edge of the clearing, brushing a few leaves from her shoulder. She looked slightly winded and more than a little vexed.
Professor Minerva McGonagall.
She stepped forward, scanning the glade until her eyes landed on him.
"Mr. Wyllt?" she called out, her voice carrying a crisp Scottish edge.
Myrddin stepped forward. "Yes. That's me."
She looked him over with a frown. "You're... taller than I expected. Are you certain you're only turning eleven?"
Myrddin shrugged.
"Hmm. Broad shoulders too. Unusual bone structure." She stepped a little closer, studying him with a keen, appraising eye. "And your eyes... green, but not quite. Gold around the edges. Fascinating."
He met her gaze without flinching. "Is that bad?"
She blinked, then her lips twitched into something that might have been the ghost of a smile. "Not bad. Just... uncommon."
She extended a hand. "Professor Minerva McGonagall. Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts. I've come to escort you to Diagon Alley. I apologize for the delay. Your location was... unusually difficult to trace. The Book gave only the vaguest of hints."
Myrddin stepped forward and extended a hand. She took it, shaking it once.
"The forest doesn't like giving away secrets," Myrddin said before he could stop himself.
That made her pause again, eyes narrowing. "Yes, well. I'll take that under advisement. Come along. We have much to do."
They set off together down the winding trail. As they walked, McGonagall began to explain the basics of the wizarding world: Hogwarts' founding, the different Houses, and what Myrddin could expect in the coming term.
"I'm here to escort you to Diagon Alley," she said. "Have you had any... exposure to magic before this?"
He hesitated. "A bit. The forest sort of... responds to me. And I saw a cat hunting. It felt important."
She frowned faintly. "Important how?"
He shrugged. "Like I understood it. Like I could almost be it."
She gave him a long, thoughtful look. "We'll discuss that later. Come."
Instead, she stopped at a small clearing with a moss-covered rock in its center and withdrew her wand.
"We'll be using a Portkey. Magical transportation—slightly unpleasant, but efficient."
She muttered an incantation, and the rock began to shimmer.
"Place your hand on it."
He did so, and at once the world spun sideways. He felt himself being yanked through space—colors blurring, air howling in his ears.
Then—
With a dizzying lurch, Myrddin landed on solid cobblestone. The sky was gray overhead, and the air smelled of smoke and rain. Before them stood a crooked old pub nestled between a record shop and a bookstore.
The Leaky Cauldron.
He blinked. It was exactly how he remembered it—not from a memory, but from a movie. A scene.
McGonagall straightened her hat. "Come, Mr. Wyllt. Inside."
They stepped through the doorway, and at once, the world changed.
Warmth. Laughter. Firelight flickering across low ceilings. Wizards and witches in robes, sipping drinks, reading parchments, playing cards. The Leaky Cauldron was alive with magic.
Myrddin stood still in the entryway, taking it all in.
Tom, the barkeep, looked up. "Professor McGonagall. Another first year?"
"Yes. Muggle-born," she replied.
Tom nodded at Myrddin. "You'll love Diagon Alley, lad. First trip's always the best."
They passed through the main room and stepped out into a small brick courtyard behind the pub. McGonagall tapped a certain sequence on the wall—three up, two across—and the bricks began to move.
Stone folded inward like a blooming flower, revealing the bustling heart of magical London.
Diagon Alley.
Myrddin gasped.
The street twisted and stretched ahead of them, alive with color and motion. Owls hooted from cages, cauldrons bubbled in shopfronts, children raced past holding bags of sweets, and robed figures moved with purpose between ancient storefronts.
"Welcome to Diagon Alley," McGonagall said softly.
He didn't answer. He just stared, his heart thundering in his chest.
Everything here felt impossible.
And yet—
He had seen it all before.
Not like this. Not with these eyes. Not in this life.
But it was familiar, like a half-remembered dream that had finally come true.
And it was only the beginning.