Chapter Two: An Unexpected Visitor
Elian's heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The house was supposed to be empty. Who would be breaking in now, in the dead of night? The news was full of warnings about rising crime, but he never thought it would happen to him. If this was a burglar, he reasoned with a cold, sharp clarity, defending himself wouldn't be a crime. He had no family, no friends who would visit unannounced.
He swallowed hard, his eyes locked on the door, his outstretched hand keeping the floating knife steady. The magic thrummed through him, a strange, warm current that was both terrifying and empowering. Thank goodness for the… understanding that had awoken in him recently. Without it, he'd be utterly defenseless.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Footsteps, steady and unhurried, ascended the stairs. They were coming straight for his room.
Click.
The doorknob turned.
Creeeak.
The door swung inward, revealing a tall, shadowed figure in the dim hallway light.
Act now, think later. His fear spiked, and his right hand slashed downward. The kitchen knife shot forward like a silver dart, straight for the intruder's chest.
But in that same fraction of a second, his eyes fully registered the man in the doorway. A long, silver beard. Half-moon spectacles. Twinkling blue eyes peering over them.
Albus Dumbledore? A cosplayer?
The thought was absurd and fleeting. Burglars didn't dress like storybook wizards. And striking first, whether it was Dumbledore or not, felt like a catastrophic mistake.
He tried to pull the magic back, but it was too late.
The old man didn't flinch. He simply drew a wand from his robes—long, oddly carved, and radiating a quiet power—and gave it a casual flick.
Pop!
A puff of white smoke erupted where the knife had been. Instead of clattering to the floor, a small, slightly lumpy rag doll plopped softly onto the carpet.
Elian stared, his jaw slack.
Dumbledore looked from the doll to the stunned teenager, a flicker of profound surprise in his own eyes. For a long moment, the only sound was the distant hum of London traffic.
Finally, Dumbledore broke the silence. "Well," he said, his voice warm and slightly amused. "That was a decidedly sharp greeting, Mister Throne." He bent and picked up the rag doll, turning it over in his hands. "My name is Albus Dumbledore. I am the headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. You may call me Professor Dumbledore. I am here because you, Elian Throne, have been invited to attend our school to study magic."
Transfiguration. Real, actual transfiguration.
This wasn't a cosplayer. This was the Albus Dumbledore. The wand in his hand… it looked exactly as the stories described. A thrill, wild and electric, shot through Elian, but he forced it down, burying it under a mask of confusion.
"Hogwarts School of… Witchcraft and Wizardry?" Elian echoed, letting his voice sound appropriately dazed.
Inside, his mind was reeling. It all made a terrible, wonderful kind of sense now. The sudden, lonely shift in his life, the strange new awareness of energy humming in everything… he wasn't just in a new country. He was in a new world.
"Indeed," Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling. "I imagine you've been wondering about incidents like the one with the cutlery. That, my boy, was magic. You possess it. Hogwarts has known of your potential since you were born, though it seems our records were… delayed in reaching you." He gestured to the now-harmless doll. "Though I must advise, untrained wandless magic is rather perilous. I do not recommend it."
Elian simply nodded, playing the part of a bewildered Muggle-born.
"There appears to have been a rare error in the school's ancient admittance magic," Dumbledore continued, watching him closely. "While you are sixteen, your formal magical education must begin at the beginning. You will join our first-year students. I trust you have no objection?"
First year? Elian's internal monologue stuttered. He'd be in classes with eleven-year-olds? He studied Dumbledore's kind but inscrutable face, trying to gauge the situation. He desperately wanted to ask what year it was, if a boy named Harry Potter was at the school, but he bit his tongue. Revealing knowledge he shouldn't have felt like a one-way ticket to having his mind examined. He had too many secrets to keep.
Seeing Elian's thoughtful silence, Dumbledore gestured to a chair by the desk. Elian nodded, and the headmaster sat, launching into a gentle explanation of the wizarding world, Hogwarts, and the four houses. Elian listened, feigning awe and surprise where it seemed appropriate.
"This is your official letter," Dumbledore said finally, producing a thick envelope of yellowish parchment from within his robes. "I hope you will find friendship and purpose at Hogwarts. Term begins in a few days. A member of our staff will escort you to Diagon Alley to procure your school supplies."
Satisfied that the young man had grasped the essentials, Dumbledore stood. He had other, more pressing matters—a certain hearing at the Ministry of Magic loomed large in his mind. His primary objective here was achieved: Elian Throne was real, sixteen, and unquestionably magical. If there was anything peculiar, it was the notable control he exhibited for someone with no training. Wandless, wordless levitation was no small feat for any wizard, let alone an untrained one. The boy had a rare instinct.
Before leaving, Dumbledore fixed Elian with a look that seemed to peer right through him, not unkindly, but with deep perception. "Enjoy your remaining days here, Mister Throne. And welcome. Hogwarts has waited for you."
He didn't wait for a reply. With a faint crack, the headmaster twisted into nothingness and vanished, as if sucked away by the air itself.
Elian stared at the empty space where the greatest wizard of the age had just stood. Then, his eyes fell on the thick parchment letter in his hand, his name written in emerald-green ink. A slow, incredulous grin spread across his face.
"Wow."
(End of Chapter)
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