Alastair's POV
Blake shook me awake before sunrise.
"Get up! Get up! Today's the day!"
I barely had time to process before she shoved a shirt at me and raced off to comb her hair with all the intensity of a warrior preparing for battle.
We dressed in the nicest clothes we owned—which wasn't saying much. My shirt was a bit too large, Blake's dress slightly worn at the hem, but we tried.
By 8 AM, we were sitting on the front steps of St. Mary's, legs bouncing, eyes glued to the gate.
Any moment now…
Meanwhile – McGonagall's POV
Minerva McGonagall sifted through a stack of first-year files on her desk, quill tapping softly against a cup of tea. She had done this every year for more than three decades.
But one file made her hand still.
Alastair C. S–P
St. Mary's Home for Children
Power surge noted. Ministry-equivalent classification: High.
S–P.
Her breath hitched.
There had been exactly one student she'd taught who insisted on using only the initial P for her surname.
Evelyn P.
Bright.
Brilliant.
A protective lion-hearted Gryffindor.
Top 5 in dueling.
Always surrounded by younger students who adored her.
Vanished during the height of the war with You-Know-Who.
Minerva's chest tightened.
The child's initials…His age…The timing…
Could it be? No—
But what if—
She stood abruptly.
She had to see the boy herself.
Minerva dressed in her tartan cloak, stepped into her fireplace, and with a swirl of green flames, Floo-traveled to leaky cauldron and then apparated to a discreet point near the orphanage.
Arrival at St. Mary's – MC POV
The front gate clicked.
Blake jolted to her feet.
I followed, heart thudding.
A tall woman in green robes stepped inside.
Hair in a tight bun.
Sharp, intelligent eyes.
Presence of authority wrapped in quiet kindness.
Professor Minerva McGonagall.
My breath caught the way it did when I first saw Dumbledore.
She looked almost exactly as I remembered from the books.
Her gaze swept the yard—and landed directly on me.
Her eyes widened.
Just for a second.
A flicker of recognition.
Shock.
Disbelief.
Then the strict-professor expression dropped neatly back into place.
"Good morning," she said warmly. "I am Professor McGonagall of Hogwarts. I presume you are Alastair and Miss Blake Smith?"
Blake nodded so hard I thought her neck would snap.
I bowed my head slightly. "Yes, Professor."
Seeing me bowing my head Blake remembered etiquettes we had learned and also bowed.
She studied me closely—too closely. Her expression softened with something like nostalgia.
"You resemble someone I once taught," she murmured.
Before I could react, she masked the sentiment with a polite cough.
"Shall we speak inside?"
Inside the Lounge
We sat on the same sofa as yesterday. McGonagall took the armchair.
Her eyes stayed on me longer than Blake—measuring, searching, remembering.
Then, in a carefully casual tone, she asked:
"Alastair… do you know anything of your mother?"
My grip on the locket tightened.
"She died giving birth to me."
McGonagall stiffened.
A flicker of confusion—quick, sharp—crossed her face.
"That is… odd," she murmured.
Blake frowned. "Odd?"
McGonagall's lips pressed together.
Evelyn she knew wouldn't have died in childbirth. She was a trained healer in St. Mungo's.
But she couldn't tell this to the boy.
She would not risk giving me false hope.
Not about a mother who might—or might not—have been her student.
Not about a woman who disappeared in the dark years of the war.
Not until she knew the truth.
McGonagall rose smoothly from her chair, her expression once again serene and unreadable.
"Nothing," she repeated gently. "Come, both of you. We should be on our way to gather your school supplies."
Blake practically launched herself off the sofa.
I followed, pulse quickening as we trailed behind McGonagall through the orphanage hall and out into the sunlight.
She looked at us fondly—just for a moment—before lifting her wand.
"Now then… both of you take my hands."
Blake grabbed her left immediately.
I took her right.
She gave us a reassuring nod.
"You may feel a slight pull. Do not be alarmed."
A slight pull was an understatement.
The world yanked itself inside out.
Colors twisted—air roared—my stomach lunged—and then—
CRACK.
I stumbled.
Blake stumbled harder.
We were no longer in London.
We stood in a narrow, dim alley behind an old pub with a peeling sign that read:
The Leaky Cauldron
My breath caught.
We were here.
We were actually here.
The Leaky Cauldron
McGonagall pushed open the door and guided us inside.
The pub was small, dusty, and packed with strange-looking patrons. A witch stirred something that hissed violently in her mug. A wizard in dragonhide gloves read the Daily Prophet upside down. Tom the barkeep nodded politely at McGonagall.
"New students, Professor?"
"Yes," she replied.
People smiled at us—warm, knowing smiles.
Some nodded approvingly.
For the first time, I felt… welcome.
Then McGonagall led us toward a brick wall at the back of the pub.
"This way."
She tapped a specific sequence of bricks with her wand.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Stone shifted.
Bricks folded.
And then—
The wall expanded, swirling outward like enchanted origami.
A vast, bustling street emerged, full of color and smoke and life.
Blake gasped loudly.
My chest tightened.
Diagon Alley.
Magic. Real magic. Everywhere.
Gringotts
McGonagall led us through the crowds until we reached a white marble building perched on a steep incline.
Gringotts Wizarding Bank
Goblin guards stood at the entrance, sharp-eyed and armed. Their presence radiated danger even without magic.
Blake squeezed my hand.
Inside, rows of goblins worked at counters, quills scratching feverishly. Some glared. Some didn't bother to look up at all.
McGonagall approached a teller.
"These two are Hogwarts-bound. Muggleborn and Muggle-raised. They will require the standard school stipend."
The goblin didn't blink.
"Names?"
"Blake Smith and Alastair C. S–P."
His gaze flicked to me for a fraction longer than necessary—sharp, probing—but he said nothing.
A parchment was stamped.
A chest was summoned.
The goblin pushed two small leather purses across the counter.
"Fifty Galleons each. Standard first-year funding."
Blake picked hers up like it was made of diamonds.
I bowed slightly. "Thank you."
The goblin snorted but didn't object.
Gringotts was overwhelming, but receiving that small leather purse of 50 Galleons felt like holding the world.
Still, 50 Galleons wasn't much—not for a full year's supplies.
McGonagall knew it too.
"These funds are meant for necessities," she said gently, "not luxuries. We will buy what can be reused."
Blake and I nodded. We didn't know any different.
The Second-Hand Robe Shop
We did pass Madam Malkin's.
Rows of brand-new robes gleamed inside the window.
Blake's eyes sparkled longingly—
—but McGonagall steered us past the entrance.
"We're shopping here."
The shop next door was cramped, older, and crammed with racks of school robes that had clearly survived multiple generations of students.
A faded sign read:
"Twilfitt's & Tatting's Second-Hand Exchange – Quality Pre-Owned Wear."
A plump witch with a warm smile sized us up.
"For Hogwarts? Plenty o' first-year sets in the back. Still got the hems from the last students!"
She found two sets of robes that fit decently after some pinning and wand-taps.
They smelled faintly of lavender and old parchment.
Blake twirled in hers anyway.
"They're perfect," she announced.
Instead of Flourish & Blotts, McGonagall led us down a narrower alley to a tiny storefront stacked with leaning shelves.
"Scrivenshaft's Second Scroll & Book Shed."
A hunched wizard waved us in.
"Cheap sets! Slightly chewed! Only two pages missing from the Transfiguration text!"
Blake gasped in excitement; I felt my inner perfectionist die a little.
But the books were intact enough, the pages readable, and the price fair.
McGonagall paid the extra few Sickles to ensure we got copies without too many scribbles inside.
I hugged "Magical Theory: A Beginner's Guide" like it was made of gold.
Used Equipment Shop
Our next stop was a cluttered corner shop that looked like a junkyard with a sign:
"Pippin's Practical Potions & Used Equipment."
Inside we found:
A second-hand pewter cauldron with only minor dents
A set of brass scales that squeaked but worked
A collection of potions vials, all mismatched but serviceable
A slightly crooked stirring rod, which Blake declared "full of character"
McGonagall transfigured the cauldron bottom to make sure it didn't leak and said, "Good as new."
Blake grinned.
I nodded gratefully.
Basic Supplies
We bought:
Second-hand quills
Cheap inkpots
Basic parchment rolls
A battered but reliable school trunk
Blake picked a trunk with faded star stickers.
Mine was simple and sturdy.
The One Thing That Must Be New
Finally, McGonagall brought us to Ollivanders.
Even she didn't try for second-hand wands.
When Blake asked, the professor smiled kindly.
"A wand forms a connection with its first owner. It must be new, and it must choose you."
Blake nodded seriously, as if receiving sacred wisdom.
My heart beat faster.
This—this moment—was the one thing I had dreamed of since my past life.
Wand.
Magic.
Identity.
McGonagall pushed open the dusty shop door.
A bell chimed.
And from the shadows, Ollivander emerged.
"Ah… yes. New students. I wondered when I'd see you."
His pale eyes gleamed.
"Let us find the wand that chooses you."