With the swift departure of the enigmatic owl—a creature of pure, focused efficiency—Anduin stood alone in his small room, the faint scent of parchment and old dust filling the void it left behind. He had sealed his fate, packaging his request for aid with the same methodical precision he applied to his daily training schedule.
He watched the last shadow of the owl disappear beyond the rooftops of London. "Quite the aloof messenger. I suppose they don't do chitchat in the 'Wizarding World,'" he muttered, turning his attention back to the overwhelming mystery that now defined his existence.
The vast chasm of his ignorance yawned before him. What is the state of the magical world in 1980? His fleeting, pop-culture fragments suggested a timeline centered on the fate of Harry Potter—a child who, according to rumor, somehow survived a death curse, thereby destroying the dark lord Voldemort in the process.
But that was the aftermath. He was in the prelude.
"Has the prophecy even been delivered? Is Voldemort still active and murdering? Or has the key conflict already passed, leaving the world stable?" Anduin pinched the bridge of his nose. The lack of reliable intelligence was a grating weakness. In his past life, a mission without proper intel was a suicide pact. Here, it was simply his reality.
He shoved the existential questions aside. They were distractions, and he did not tolerate distractions.
"I won't dwell on hypotheticals. The principles of power remain constant," he concluded, his voice ringing with renewed conviction. "In any world—technological, magical, or physical—strength is fundamental. Mastering the self is the only true constant."
He resumed his intense summer program without missing a beat. His self-imposed schedule was punishing, a soldier's routine disguised in an orphan's quiet life:
Warm-ups: Calisthenics designed to maintain maximum flexibility and joint health.
Boxing and Striking Drills: Focusing on the muscle memory of Tongbei Quan, ensuring his strikes remained long, sharp, and explosive.
Posture Training and Meditation: Hours dedicated to achieving the 'mental emptiness' required to access his Strength.
Aerobic Training: Running and endurance exercises to maintain peak physical resilience.
Magic Training: Now understood as the disciplined control of the Levitation Charm, or what he called time-lapse endurance.
Days bled into one another in this rigorous cycle. The hours he spent forcing the porcelain mug to perform complex figure-eights or keeping the heavy textbook suspended while reading were exhausting, but they were working. The mental ache was gradually receding, replaced by a subtle, cold burn—the sensation of mental muscle growth.
Two days after his reply, the monotonous rhythm of Anduin's disciplined life was dramatically shattered.
A crisp, decisive rap sounded on his door, a sound entirely unlike William's frantic hammering or the tired knocks of the nuns. It was the sound of authority and purpose.
Anduin opened the door to find a woman who instantly commanded the air in the narrow hallway. She was the very image of stern, exacting academia: perfectly straight posture, a tightly coiled bun of black hair, and intimidating square-rimmed spectacles perched above a firm, thin mouth. Her attire was not a dress or a suit, but a voluminous, flowing dark-green robe made of heavy, fine-quality material.
"Mr. Wilson?" the woman inquired, her voice clipped, intelligent, and carrying a distinct Scottish burr.
"And you are, I presume, Professor McGonagall of Hogwarts," Anduin responded, his own posture instinctively straightening to match hers. He felt a rare, genuine spark of excitement—this was not a muggle social worker; this was a glimpse into the hidden world.
"Indeed. I am Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress," she confirmed, her gaze sharp as she took in the boy—his unnerving maturity, his lack of surprise. "I received your reply, Mr. Wilson. When dealing with students newly introduced to the magical world, we prioritize a personal visit." She paused, a small, subtle flicker of acknowledgment in her eyes. "And, of course, the same courtesy is extended to exceptional, independent young gentlemen such as yourself."
She waited, her expectant gaze making it clear he was delaying the process.
"Ah, my apologies, Professor. Please, come in. I'm still attempting to grasp the appropriate decorum for hosting a witch," Anduin stepped aside, managing a polite, slightly sheepish expression.
Professor McGonagall swept into the small room. Her dark green robes seemed to absorb the meager light. Anduin watched her eyes take a detailed inventory of his surroundings.
The room was spartan, but impeccably maintained. The bed was military-neat, the wooden desk pristine. The only splashes of personality were the small, heavy dumbbells neatly stacked in the corner—an odd sight for a boy his age—and a pot on the windowsill. McGonagall's gaze lingered on the pot. It wasn't a flower; it was a flourishing cluster of spring onions, meticulously cultivated for culinary use.
The sheer discipline radiating from the space elicited a powerful, positive response from the Deputy Headmistress. She was looking for signs of potential, and here was evidence of fierce self-reliance and order.
"I apologize for the lack of space, Professor. It's quite humble," Anduin offered, moving to clear a spot for her.
"Nonsense, Anduin. You won't object to me using your first name, will you? This room speaks volumes of your character, and all of it positive," she stated firmly, cutting off his apology. "Don't trouble yourself with the chair; I've already provided for my comfort."
Before Anduin could process her words, McGonagall reached into the inner folds of her voluminous robes and withdrew a long, thin piece of wood—her wand. She pointed the wand not at the air, but directly at the stack of twenty-pound dumbbells.
WHOOSH.
In a flash of bright, emerald light, the crude iron weights instantly warped, stretching, and transforming into a sturdy, well-polished wooden armchair. McGonagall sat down smoothly, a slight, almost imperceptible air of triumph around her.
Anduin, who had seen his hard-earned training equipment transmuted into furniture, merely blinked. He pulled his desk chair around to face her, his expression controlled.
"That is quite a trick, Professor. Very efficient," he complimented, the internal realization hitting him: My current 'Strength' can only levitate. Their magic can rewrite reality.
McGonagall adjusted her spectacles, clearly prepared for a more panicked, perhaps even disbelieving reaction. His calm assessment was unsettling.
"I confess, I expected your visit later. Perhaps in August. The letter mentioned a July 31st deadline for a reply."
McGonagall's expression became serious, the playful triumph fading. "That deadline applies primarily to students from established magical families. For children without prior exposure, we make exceptions. But your swift response, Mr. Wilson, accelerated my schedule. And candidly, the magical world is currently experiencing a period of considerable sensitivity."
She paused, the word "sensitivity" hanging ominously in the air, a clear euphemism for political turmoil and danger. She decided not to elaborate on the threat of the Dark Lord's followers and quickly redirected the conversation.
"In any case, we notify those with latent ability when they reach the appropriate age. Hogwarts teaches underage wizards how to properly control and use their power. I assume you have experienced certain… anomalies in the years leading up to now?"
Anduin saw his opening. This was the moment to establish his advantage.
He nodded slowly. "Indeed. After certain meditative practices, I found myself capable of influencing objects with my mind. I thought it was simply a unique physical gift."
He lifted his hand, palm upwards, his concentration visible only as a slight tightening around his eyes. He performed no incantation, and certainly used no wand. From the nearby bookcase, a china teacup—chipped and institution-issue—silently lifted off the shelf. It glided through the air, performing a quick, graceful loop before settling perfectly on the corner of his desk.
Professor McGonagall's composure broke. Her dark eyes widened behind her glasses, and her jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. Wandless and Silent. The Levitation Charm was third-year material, and performing it without a wand was an achievement for the most talented seventh-years.
"Mr. Wilson," she said, her voice dropping to a low, intense register. "Are you absolutely certain you have received no previous training, no instruction, in any form of magic, spellcasting, or discipline?"
"Absolutely certain, Professor McGonagall," Anduin replied, meeting her gaze steadily. "Through sustained meditation and disciplined mental conditioning, I discovered this 'Strength.' As you can see, I am effective, but wildly crude. I cannot Transfigure objects like you did, nor can I even move things without significant mental effort. I can lift a cup, but a true wizard can create a chair from nothing. That is why I need the structured learning of Hogwarts."
His explanation—that his power was a raw talent requiring guidance, not a perfected skill—was precisely calculated to appeal to her academic sensibilities.
Professor McGonagall visibly relaxed, though the spark of shock remained. "Remarkable, Mr. Wilson. Truly remarkable. Your self-discipline and latent ability are exceptional. You are precisely the kind of promising young wizard we need." A slight hint of apprehension returned, however. Talent like this, in dangerous times, was a magnet for the wrong attention.
"Very well, let's get on with the details. Time is indeed short. We need to formalize your departure with the orphanage's administration and then acquire your necessary supplies."
Professor McGonagall moved with dizzying speed. Within twenty minutes, she had secured Anduin's official release for schooling, and the process had been astonishingly smooth.
"Did you use magic on Sister Triss and the others? They seemed remarkably agreeable to a complete stranger taking me away to an unknown boarding school," Anduin asked, now standing by the door, ready to leave.
McGonagall gave him a rare, almost mischievous smile—a genuine curve of her lips. "A minor Confusion Charm, Anduin. A simple tweak to enhance compliance and speed up bureaucratic efficiency. They won't forget you, and they'll expect your return for holidays. No harm done. Now, come along."
As they stepped out into the streets, away from the orphanage, McGonagall began the practical discussion.
"Considering your unique circumstances, I have already applied to the school board, and you have been awarded financial aid. This amounts to Twelve Galleons per year to cover all your basic equipment, robes, and books."
Anduin frowned slightly. "Twelve Galleons. That sounds rather vague, Professor. What is the actual valuation?"
She held up her hand, beginning the complex explanation. "Ah, yes. The currency. It operates on a precise, if confusing, scale. The Wizarding currency consists of three metals: the bronze Knut, the silver Sickle, and the gold Galleon."
"One Galleon can be exchanged for precisely Seventeen Silver Sickles."
"And one Silver Sickle, in turn, is exchanged for precisely Twenty-Nine Knuts."
Anduin, the analytical former soldier who was used to decimal systems and straightforward, modern exchange rates, felt a sharp, internal spike of frustration. He could feel a dull headache beginning.
Seventeen Sickles to a Galleon, twenty-nine Knuts to a Sickle? That's 493 Knuts to a single Galleon!
"Wait," Anduin interrupted, his brow furrowed. "The conversion rate is seventeen and twenty-nine? Not ten and ten? Or ten and twenty? Professor, who designed this baffling, prime-number system? It's extraordinarily inefficient for basic calculation."
McGonagall smiled thinly, clearly used to this reaction from Muggles. "The founders were perhaps more concerned with the purity of the metal and less with ease of commerce, Mr. Wilson. You will adapt. The important thing is that the twelve Galleons should provide you with everything necessary to begin your studies. Now, our first stop is a place you will find... quite different from Shaftesbury Street."
With that, she gestured, and the world began to change.