Mending of souls

by dARsHI99

Estelle starts her new life, while still trying to leave behind the previous one.

4. Chapter 4

The doorbell rings, and Ana calls from the kitchen, "Elle, can you check the door? I'm a bit busy at the moment."

Standing from the couch, I sigh, "Sure, Ana." As I approach the door, I wonder who it could be this early in the morning.

When I open the door, I freeze. Standing before me is a woman who looks like she's stepped straight out of a medieval fair—or a really committed Halloween party. She's got on a pointed hat, for crying out loud. Not to mention her floor-length robes and glasses that are balanced precariously on the bridge of her nose, like they might fall off if she blinks too hard. Her hair is pulled back into an impressively tight bun, and her expression? Well, let's just say she looks like she could turn a mountain into dust with that glare.

"Are you Estelle Stark?" she asks, her tone stern enough to make a drill sergeant proud.

"And you are?" I ask, deliberately ignoring her question because, well, who just walks around dressed like that? I already have a suspicion about who this old woman might be.

"I am Minerva McGonagall, Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," she replies, with the kind of tone that says she's used to people listening to her without question. Like that introduction isn't completely bizarre.

"Right..." I drawl, fighting the urge to laugh. "Why don't you wait here for a sec?" I say, flashing a smile that's more patronizing than polite. Then, without giving her a chance to reply, I shut the door in her face. I can practically feel her disapproval radiating through the wood.

Sighing, I head to the kitchen. Well, that answered one of my questions— Now to talk to Ana. I decide to take the direct approach—it's probably the best way to handle this. Grabbing her inhaler off the counter (better safe than sorry), I prepare myself for the conversation ahead.

I watch her washing the dishes with the kind of intensity that suggests she's trying to scrub away her worries. I take a deep breath, leaning on the wall. "Hey, Ana," I say.

She doesn't even turn around. "Who was it?" Her voice is light but the dish in her hand held a little too tightly.

"Remember that letter we got three days ago?"

She freezes, her back going ramrod straight. Slowly, she turns to face me, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. "What about it?" she asks, although her voice is resigned, as though she's been waiting for this moment like a soldier preparing for battle.

I wonder if she's been bracing herself for this moment. "Yeah, so there's a woman outside in a Halloween costume calling herself the Headmistress of some magical school," I say, trying to keep things light. Sure enough, a small smile cracks through her tension.

Taking a deep breath, Ana asks me to let her in. I head to the door, wondering just how pissed off she's going to be after having it slammed in her face. I'm about to find out, I guess.

Opening the door, I plaster on my most innocent smile. "Here, come inside," I say sweetly. She doesn't look too pleased about the whole situation, and honestly, I can't blame her. But what's she going to do? She follows me inside, her expression stiff, like she's silently counting the ways I've offended her.

Sitting on the sofa, Ana asks if she'd like some tea. McGonagall accepts. I watch her as she sips, her posture straight and unyielding, looking exactly like her counterpart from the movies. Wait, do those actors even exist in this world? That's a rabbit hole I don't have the energy to go down right now.

McGonagall... Yeah, that name's way too long. I need to shorten it. What should I call her? Minerva? Minnie? Hmm, Minnie sounds good—kind of ironic, actually, considering she's about as far from cute as you can get.

Just as I settle on the nickname, Minnie lowers her cup and fixes me with that piercing gaze again. "I am Minerva McGonagall," she repeats firmly, "Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I'm sure this may come as quite a surprise to you, Miss Stark."

"You don't say," I mutter under my breath. She ignores the comment and continues in that stern, no-nonsense tone that makes me feel like I should be taking notes.

"As I mentioned, Hogwarts is a school where young witches and wizards are trained in the magical arts. It is one of the most prestigious magical schools in the world, and I am here because you, Miss Stark, are what we call a Muggle-born witch."

Ana, who has been silent this whole time, tightens her grip on her tea cup so hard I'm genuinely concerned it might shatter. I glance over at her, but she's staring straight ahead, her expression tense as if bracing herself for the inevitable. I'm tempted to tell her to relax, but now's probably not the time for that.

Meanwhile, I'm doing my best to keep a straight face, because, well... I already know all of this. Every word, every detail about the wizarding world, Hogwarts, all of it. Of course, dear Minnie here doesn't know that, and I'm not about to ruin her grand speech by telling her that she's essentially repeating the plot of a book series I devoured as a kid.

So, I nod along, wide-eyed and oh-so-attentive, pretending like this is all brand new information. "A Muggle-born witch? What's that?" I say, doing my best to confused.

She doesn't seem to notice my lack of genuine surprise, which is either a testament to her professionalism or maybe I'm just better at acting than I thought. She gives a brief nod, clearly satisfied that I'm absorbing the information.

"Yes," she continues, her tone slightly softer, "a Muggle-born witch. That means that, though you were born to non-magical parents, you possess the natural ability to perform magic, and that's why you've been invited to attend Hogwarts."

I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from smirking. If only she knew. "So... you're saying I'm a witch?" I ask, trying to sound as awestruck as possible. "Like, spells, potions, pointy hats, and flying broomsticks witch?"

For a brief moment, I think I see her lips twitch, like she's trying not to show her amusement. "Yes, Miss Stark, though I would refrain from using such... simplistic terms," she says, her voice as crisp as ever. She leans forward slightly, her piercing gaze still locked onto me, as if she's waiting for me to faint from shock or something.

"Right," I say, nodding slowly. "That's... a lot to take in."

Beside me, Ana hasn't moved an inch. Her knuckles are practically white from how tightly she's holding onto that cup, and I can hear her breathing a little heavier than normal. I pat myself inwardly for grabbing the inhaler earlier.

"And what can you do?" I ask, deciding to push this little act further. "You know, to prove it?"

McGonagall raises an eyebrow at me, as if already knowing l would ask her. Without a word, she pulls out her wand from the folds of her robes, and with a graceful flick of her wrist, the empty tea cup in front of her transforms. In the blink of an eye, a small, sleek black cat is sitting on the table, staring up at me with wide green eyes.

Ana gasps, making a startled sound somewhere between a yelp and a squeak. Her already tight grip on her tea cup tightens even further, and for a second, I think she might drop it. Meanwhile, I stare at the cat, a bit amased despite myself.

The cat meows softly, and before I can react, she waves her wand again. The cat disappears in a shimmer of light, and the tea cup reappears in its place, looking as though nothing had happened at all.

"That," she says, with a hint of pride in her voice, "was a simple demonstration of Transfiguration, one of the core subjects you will study at Hogwarts."

I arch an eyebrow. "Transfiguration? So, you can just change anything into... anything?"

"Not quite," Minnie says, clearly in her element now as she launches into teacher mode. "Transfiguration is the art of changing the form or appearance of an object or a living being. However, it is far more complex than simply turning one thing into another. The magic involved requires precision and control, especially when working with living creatures. In this case, I transformed an inanimate object—your tea cup—into a living being, a cat. Reversing the process is just as delicate, and it requires focus to return the object to its original state without any lingering effects."

She pauses, her eyes flicking to Ana, who looks like she's still trying to process the fact that she just saw her tea cup turn into a cat and back again. "Transfiguration is one of the most difficult magical disciplines, and while you will learn the basics at Hogwarts, mastery requires years of practice and study."

I nod along, while Ana sits there, gripping her cup like it's the only thing keeping her grounded in reality. "Right," I say, giving her my best 'impressed student' look. "That's... pretty amazing."

She gives a small, satisfied nod, clearly pleased with my reaction. "You will, of course, learn this and much more once you begin your studies at Hogwarts, Miss Stark."

"And Hogwarts is a... boarding school?" I ask, humoring her further. This is going too well.

"Yes," McGonagall replies, her tone softening ever so slightly. "A school where you will learn not only magic but also how to live in the magical world. We take students from all over, and each is sorted into one of four houses, where they will spend their time studying and learning alongside others."

"Right, houses," I murmur, as if the concept of Gryffindor and Slytherin is brand new to me. "Sounds... fun?"

Minnie finally sets down her tea cup and straightens up, her eyes now shifting toward Ana, who has been sitting in silence this whole time. "Miss Stark, I understand this may be overwhelming for both you and your family. You will have time to discuss this and decide. However, it is important that you know, the magical world is real, and it is a part of you."

So.. she thinks Ana's related to me? Since she's calling her stark too.

Ana blinks, finally releasing the death grip on her tea cup. "Right. Of course," she says quietly, her voice strained but controlled. "This... this is a lot to process."

I glance at her, concerned she might be on the verge of hyperventilating. Maybe now's the time for that inhaler.

McGonagall, however, remains composed, though her expression softens just a fraction as she regards Ana. "I understand," she says gently. "I realize this news may be overwhelming, but Miss Stark has a gift, and Hogwarts is the safest place for her to develop that gift."

I nod along, but currently l am more worried about An she hasn't said much since we sat.

After a moment of silence, Ana finally speaks up, her voice shaky. "And the fees?"

McGonagall turns her attention to Ana, her expression softening slightly. "Hogwarts does not charge tuition fees, Mrs. Stark. The education is free for all students who are accepted," she says in a matter-of-fact tone. "However," she continues, "there are certain costs associated with attending, such as the purchase of schoolbooks, uniforms, potion ingredients, and other necessary supplies. You would need to buy these items yourself."

I decide to jump in, not wanting Ana to be forced to continue the conversation. Plus, I'm eager to get things moving.

"Where do we buy all the stuff?" I ask, directing Minnie's attention back to me, hoping to take some of the pressure off Ana.

She turns to me, her sharp eyes meeting mine. "You will find everything you need at Diagon Alley, a hidden shopping district for the magical community. I will escort you there to ensure you have access to everything required. Of course, before making any purchases, you'll need to exchange your Muggle money for wizarding currency at Gringotts, the wizarding bank."

I nod, taking it all in, though my mind is already racing. I give McGonagall a wide smile. "Great. I'll meet you in front of the door in five minutes."

McGonagall glances toward Ana, as if waiting for her to speak or perhaps to get her approval. Ana, however, stays silent, her face strained but composed. She doesn't say anything, just gives a small nod. Satisfied, McGonagall stands and heads for the door, her robes swishing behind her.

As the door closes, I exhale a breath I didn't even realize I was holding. Kneeling beside Ana, I keep my voice soft but still don't dare to touch her, not wanting to startle her. "Hey, Ana. You okay?"

She looks at me, her hard exterior finally cracking. Her face softens, and she exhales shakily, trying to find her words. "I'm sorry, Elle. I just.." She gives a wet sniff, her eyes glossy with unshed tears.

I gently pull her into a hug. She flinches at first, her body tense, but she doesn't pull away. After a moment, she relaxes into the embrace. "It's alright, Ana. You don't need to apologize to me for anything." I pat her back a few times, offering her what comfort I can before pulling away and standing up.

"I should go. I don't want to keep her waiting," I say, smiling down at her.

Ana gives me a small, tired smile and nods. "Go on, then."

I hurry upstairs to my room, grabbing my sling bag and some cash. I stop for a moment, wondering how much I'll need. With a shrug, I grab about £500 and stuff it into my bag. As I head downstairs, Ana meets me at the door and presses an extra £200 into my hand.

"Just in case," she says quietly, her voice still fragile.

"Thanks," I reply, giving her a quick two-finger salute before stepping out the door.

---

When I open the front door, McGonagall is standing outside, her hands clasped in front of her, looking as composed as ever. She glances at me, then shifts her gaze behind me toward the house, her expression unreadable. Her lips purse slightly, as though she's considering asking about Ana, but she doesn't say anything.

Before she can voice whatever question is brewing in her mind, I cut in. "So, how do we get there?"

She stares at me for a long moment, as if weighing whether or not she should question further, but I hold her gaze, giving her my best innocent smile.

Minnie presses her lips into a thin line and sighs, clearly not fooled by my act. She extends her hand toward me. "Please hold my hand, Miss Stark. We will be traveling via Apparition—a form of magical transportation. It will be... quite unlike anything you've experienced before."

I glance at her hand, then back at her face. Apparition. This is either going to be fun or l am going to regret it, I place my hand in hers. "Alright, let's go."

When McGonagall offers her hand, I take it, feeling a strange sense of anticipation. Apparition. I know what's coming, but no amount of book knowledge can prepare you for the real thing.

"Hold on tightly," McGonagall instructs, her grip firm.

And then, without warning, it begins.

The world compresses around me—tight, suffocating, as if I'm being squeezed through a straw. Every part of my body feels like it's being crushed, twisted, and pulled all at once. I try to breathe, but the air seems to vanish, and my stomach lurches violently. Just when I think I can't take it anymore, it stops, and the world snaps back into focus.

I stumble, dizzy and disoriented, barely registering that we've landed. The ground beneath my feet is solid, but it feels like the world is still spinning. My stomach rebels, and before I can stop it, I double over and vomit onto the cobblestones, emptying my stomach with all the grace of a cat hacking up a hairball.

"Ugh," I groan, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. "That was… fucking fantastic." I curse under my breath, still shaky from the experience.

McGonagall raises an eyebrow at me, her expression stern. "Miss Stark, mind your language," she says sharply. "Such behavior will not be tolerated at Hogwarts." But despite the reprimand, I catch the slightest twitch at the corner of her mouth, like she's secretly amused by my reaction.

I huff, dripping sarcasm inwardly. Oh, she's enjoying this, alright. There's no way she isn't. Her face may be all business, but that tiny almost-smile says it all.

"I'll try to contain my enthusiasm next time," I mutter, sarcasm coating my words, though I make sure to keep my tone respectful enough.

She purses her lips, her expression returning to its usual composed severity. "I suggest you do," she says, though I can still see the faintest hint of amusement in her eyes. "Apparition can be quite disorienting for first-timers, but you'll adjust in time."

"Great," I reply, taking a deep breath and standing upright, trying to shake off the nausea. "Can't wait."

I steady myself after the Apparition, but as we step into Diagon Alley, the sight in front of me is overwhelming.

The narrow cobbled street twists and winds, lined with crooked, colorful buildings. Some lean at impossible angles, their upper stories jutting out over the road, while shop signs swing overhead, advertising everything from cauldrons to magical pets. The air is alive with chatter, magic humming around me as witches and wizards bustle from shop to shop, their robes swishing.

Shops line both sides of the alley, their windows filled with everything from sparkling potion ingredients to elaborate displays of wands, broomsticks, and enchanted items. Above the shop doors, signs hang and sway gently in the breeze—some made of wood, others brass or iron, all inscribed with swirling, golden letters announcing their magical wares. There's a faint buzz in the air, the sound of magic at work, as cauldrons bubble and faint wisps of smoke rise from certain shops, adding an extra layer of mystique to the atmosphere.

Directly to my right, Flourish and Blotts, the wizarding bookstore, boasts shelves upon shelves of thick, dusty tomes stacked almost to the ceiling. Through the window, I can see a crowd of witches and wizards perusing the aisles.

Next door, the apothecary catches my eye with its peculiar display: jars filled with strange ingredients, like eyeballs suspended in thick, green liquid and bundles of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling. The shopfront is dark, with the occasional flash of colorful potion fumes leaking from cracks in the windowsill. The entire place looks like it's barely holding back its magical chaos.

People are everywhere. Witches and wizards of all ages bustle around, robes swishing as they hurry from shop to shop. Parents shepherd excited children, bags in hand, while older teenagers huddle together, talking animatedly. Near the Quality Quidditch Supplies shop, a group of them stands in awe at the window display of the latest broomstick model—a sleek, shining Nimbus 2001.

"Did you see the Nimbus 2001?" a boy exclaims.

A girl adds, her eyes wide with excitement. "Imagine flying that around the pitch!"

The buzz of conversations blends with the clinking of coins, the distant fizz of spellwork, and the sounds of street vendors calling out to advertise their wares. A witch walking past me levitates a stack of books with ease, guiding them gently through the air as she makes her way down the street.

Everywhere I look, magic is happening—casually, effortlessly. The street feels alive, humming with enchantment. It's impossible to take it all in at once, and before I can stop myself, a small "Woah" escapes my lips.

McGonagall notices, her face as composed as ever, though I catch a faint twitch of amusement at the corner of her mouth. "This way, Miss Stark," she says, gesturing down the street toward a towering, white marble building at the far end—Gringotts, the wizarding bank. The polished stone gleams in the sunlight, its grandeur contrasting sharply with the quirky, mismatched buildings around it. "We'll need to exchange your money at Gringotts before we begin shopping for your supplies."

I nod, taking a deep breath and calming myself as I follow her through the middle of Diagon Alley. The excitement of the place still buzzes around me, but I try to focus. As we walk, something catches my attention—a family of redheads just a little way ahead, causing quite the scene.

A young boy, his face scrunched up in frustration, is whining loudly. "But Mom, I don't want Scabbers! I want my own owl! Like Percy."

The woman, clearly his mother, whips around and admonishes him sharply. "Ronald Weasley, I don't want to hear it! You'll take Scabbers and be grateful, now shut it."

A much older boy, tall and slender, steps in, trying to ease the tension. "Mum, please don't shout—people are staring," he says, his voice calm, though you can tell he's used to this kind of chaos.

She turns to snap something at him but pauses, realizing people are indeed watching. Her face flushes slightly before her eyes dart around looking for something, finally landing on a redheaded man a few feet away, holding a young girl in his arms.

"Arthur!" she shouts, clearly exasperated. "Where are Fred and George? I swear to Merlin, if they've blasted something in flourish and Blotts again, they'll be grounded for a month!"

I can't help but smirk at the chaotic energy of the family. Even in the middle of this magical street, they manage to stand out

McGonagall's sharp voice cuts through my thoughts, pulling me away from the redheaded chaos in front of me. "Miss Stark, you can't just stop walking in the middle of the street. Now come along, and follow me."

I nod lazily, still watching the Weasleys as we move forward. "Sure, Is it always this lively around here?"

She stops for a moment, clearly sensing my lack of urgency. Her eyes narrow slightly as she glances at me. "You are to refer to me as 'Professor,' Miss Stark," she says, correcting me in that clipped tone of hers. "And yes, I believe you're talking about the Weasley family. They are purebloods—five boys and one girl. Most of them have been sorted into Gryffindor." She pauses, a hint of pride in her voice. "Their youngest boy, Ronald, will be starting at Hogwarts this year. Perhaps you'll become friends with him."

I shrug, not exactly committing to the idea. "Maybe," I say, my voice casual. "Guess we'll see."

As we continue walking, I throw one last glance over my shoulder at the Weasley family. Their loud chatter still echoes down the street, and I smirk to myself.

Minnie's lips press into a thin line, and I catch that familiar stern stare she's perfected. "Gringotts is just up ahead," she says, her tone shifting into lecture mode. "It's run by goblins. Be sure not to disrespect them. They are prideful creatures and not overly fond of wizards, but their intelligence is beyond question. They regulate the entire wizarding world's currency. Keep that in mind, Miss Stark."

"Understood, Professor," I reply, with an overly serious tone that I'm sure doesn't fool her one bit.

She narrows her eyes ever so slightly, but she doesn't bite at the sarcasm. "You would do well to heed my advice," she says curtly, though I swear I see the faintest flicker of amusement in her eyes.

We arrive at the steps of the bank, Gringotts towering above us in all its gleaming marble glory. I glance at the goblins standing guard outside, their sharp, calculating eyes flicking over me. My attention shifts to the sign posted nearby, It's a poem, or more like a warning, carved with the kind of seriousness that tells you they mean business.

I stop for a second to read it:

Enter, stranger, but take heed

Of what awaits the sin of greed,

For those who take, but do not earn,

Must pay most dearly in their turn.

So if you seek beneath our floors

A treasure that was never yours,

Thief, you have been warned, beware

Of finding more than treasure there.

I stare at the words for a moment, my lips twitching into a dry smile. Well, this is awkward, I think to myself. They sure will be surprised by Voldy robbing this place in a few months? Or is it weeks? Either way, it's almost laughable imagining him waltzing past this little poetic threat on his way to breaking into one of the most secure vaults in the wizarding world.

"Miss Stark?" McGonagall's voice snaps me out of my thoughts. She's waiting, her sharp gaze watching me carefully.

"Right, sorry," I say, giving the sign one last glance before heading inside. Good luck with that security breach, Gringotts.

I shrug and head toward the door, giving the goblins a polite nod as I pass. They pause for a moment, clearly not expecting that, before one of them gives a curt nod back. Well, at least I haven't offended them yet.

Minnie—sorry, Professor McGonagall—shoots me an approving look.

As we step into Gringotts, the grandeur of the place almost slaps me in the face. It's like stepping into a marble palace—gleaming floors, towering columns, and massive chandeliers that light up the hall like something straight out of a royal castle. But the goblins... now they're something else.

Everywhere I look, goblins are hunched behind long counters, their sharp eyes scanning gold, counting coins, and scribbling in thick, ancient-looking ledgers. They move with the kind of efficiency that says they've been doing this for centuries, but judging by the scowls plastered on their faces, they're clearly not fans of wizards. It's almost comical how deeply they seem to resent each customer who dares approach them. I mean, if I had to deal with entitled wizards all day, I'd probably be permanently grumpy too.

Wizards stand at counters, some clearly trying to stay in the goblins' good graces, while others seem oblivious to the deep frowns and scowls aimed in their direction. One witch tries to ask a question, and the goblin helping her sighs so deeply you'd think she'd asked him to write a novel instead of clarify an amount. The overall mood seems to be: Wizards are annoying, but necessary for business.

Minnie—gives me a nudge to keep moving, and we approach the main counter where a particularly scowly goblin awaits. His face is all angles—sharp nose, sharper eyes—and the look he gives us is one of deep disdain, like we've interrupted the best part of his day. Charming.

"Good afternoon," she says in that crisp, no-nonsense tone. "We'd like to exchange Muggle money for wizarding currency."

The goblin pauses, as if she's just asked him to do something beneath his station. He glances up at her, then at me, before sighing in obvious irritation. With a grunt, he reaches under the counter and pulls out a small tin, setting it down with a clatter. "Place the Muggle currency in here," he says gruffly, his voice dripping with boredom.

She motions for me to step forward. I reach into my sling bag, pulling out the stack of pounds I'd brought. As I'm about to drop the money in, a thought strikes me, and I glance up at the goblin. "What's the exchange rate?"

The goblin pauses, clearly unimpressed by my question. He leans forward slightly, his sharp eyes narrowing as he looks down at me, probably expecting me to flinch or back down. I meet his gaze, unflinchingly, and for a moment, we just stare at each other.

Then, to my surprise, the corner of his mouth twitches into something resembling a smirk. "Twenty-five sickles per pound," he replies smoothly, clearly amused by my nerve.

I nod and drop the money into the tin, watching as he snatches it back with the same bored efficiency. "Wait here," he grumbles, before disappearing behind the counter with the tin.

hand over the £600, doing the mental math with ease. If the exchange rate is 25 sickles per pound, I'm getting 15,000 sickles, which is... a lot. But before I can calculate anything further, I turn to McGonagall.

"Professor, what's the wizarding currency system like?"

Minnisse gives me an pleased look on the question "The wizarding currency is simple once you understand it. One Galleon is worth 17 Sickles, and one Sickle is 29 Knuts. It's an old system, and it can take some getting used to."

I nod, already calculating in my head. So, 15,000 Sickles... that's about 882 Galleons and 8 sickles.

I can't help but roll my eyes internally. Wizards and their outdated systems. I swear, they just love making things unnecessarily complicated. What was wrong with the decimal system? Honestly, who thought this was a good idea? I mean, Really? Why does it take 17 Sickles to make 1 Galleon and 29 Knuts to make 1 Sickle? Did no one ever consider just simplifying things? Well can't really blame them as its mostly rowling's fault.

Before I can dwell too much on it, the goblin returns, carrying a small leather pouch and slamming it down on the counter with his usual lack of charm. His name badge catches my eye—"Griphook"—etched in neat silver lettering.

"Six hundred pounds exchanged for 15,000 sickles," he says gruffly. He pauses for a second, then adds, almost as an afterthought, "That's 882 Galleons and 8 Sickles."

I nod along, pleased to see my mental math checked out. At least the math in this world still adds up, even if the system is bonkers.

As I reach for the pouch, I decide to try something. "Thank you, Mr. Griphook," I say, making sure to use his name.

He looks up sharply, clearly not expecting that. For a moment, his sharp eyes narrow as if he's trying to figure me out, but then a crooked grin spreads across his face, showing a few pointed teeth. "A pleasure doing business with you, Miss Stark," he replies, his tone slightly smoother this time, like he's a little amused.

I return his smirk with one of my own and tuck the pouch into my sling bag. "Likewise," I say, slipping into my best business like tone.

As we turn to leave, McGonagall gives me an approving look, though her expression stays as serious as ever. Still, I can't help but feel a small sense of victory. Not every day you get a goblin to smile—well, smirk. Same thing, really.

step outside the bank, the weight of the coin pouch tucked securely into my inner pocket. The bustling energy of Diagon Alley hits me again, a stark contrast to the cool, intimidating interior of Gringotts. I turn to McGonagall with a casual smile. "So, where to first?" I pause briefly, then add with a smirk, "Prof."

McGonagall gives me one of those classic disapproving looks, the kind that could freeze any normal first-year in place. Her lips press into a thin line, but she moves on without addressing my little slip.

"We'll begin with your school books from Flourish and Blotts," she says in that firm, no-nonsense tone of hers. "After that, we'll go to Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions to get your school robes. Then, we'll visit the apothecary for your potions ingredients. And finally, you'll get your wand from Ollivanders."

I nod as she lays out the plan, mentally ticking off the list. Books, robes, potions ingredients, and the big one—my wand. I can't help the small thrill that runs through me at the thought of holding a real wand for the first time. This is about to get interesting.

Trying to keep my sarcasm in check, I give a small, exaggerated bow, motioning for her to lead the way. "After you, Professor," I say, layering just enough politeness to keep it from sounding like outright mockery.

McGonagall eyes me, clearly debating whether to reprimand me again, but instead, she simply turns with her usual composed grace and begins walking down the cobbled street. I fall in step beside her, the soft jingle of the coins in my pocket matching the steady rhythm of the bustling crowd around us.

Entering Flourish and Blotts, I take in the tall, crammed shelves, each one sagging under the weight of countless books. The smell of fresh parchment and old paper fills the air, and the store is buzzing with activity—students chattering excitedly, parents shuffling through booklists. Off to the side, I notice a separate counter dedicated to Hogwarts books, where a line of parents are haggling with shopkeepers, ensuring their kids are prepared for the upcoming school year.

I glance at Minnie, as she eyes the scene with her usual sternness. Seizing my moment, I slip into my most innocent voice, putting on wide, puppy-dog eyes for good measure. "Professor, can I look around while you get my books?"

She turns, meeting my gaze with her signature sharp stare. For a second, I think she's going to say no, but after a beat, the severity in her expression softens, just a fraction. "You may, Miss Stark," she relents, clearly against her better judgment. "But be sure to be back in 30 minutes."

I flash her a grin. "You got it, Professor."

She sighs, the kind that says she knows she's letting me off the hook. As soon as she turns toward the Hogwarts book counter, I waste no time slipping off into the rows of bookshelves, feeling the thrill of temporary freedom.

As I drift down an aisle, my eyes land on a book titled Duels and the Winning Match. The cover shows two wizards mid-battle, their wands flashing with sparks. Intrigued, I reach for it—just as someone crashes into me from behind.

I yelp, falling to the floor and landing on my elbow with a thud. Wincing, I glance up, my gaze locking onto a freckle-faced redhead. He's staring down at me, wide-eyed, like I'm some rare creature he's just run into.

"Uh… you gonna stare all day or help me up?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

The boy flushes instantly, scrambling to his feet and offering a hand. Ignoring it, I dust off my pants and give him a once-over. He's still gawking at me, which makes me quirk a brow again.

Before I can say anything, he clamps a hand over my mouth and presses a finger to his lips. "Shhh!" he whispers, eyes wide with urgency.

I blink, stunned for a moment. Did he seriously just cover my mouth? But before I can push him off, I hear footsteps and a low, irritated muttering.

"Where have those rascals gone now?" an older man grumbles from somewhere nearby.

I frown, but the moment the footsteps fade, the redhead removes his hand from my face, looking sheepish. "Right, sorry about that."

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, giving him a look. "Care to explain why I just had your hand in my face?"

He grins, his embarrassment fading quickly, replaced by a mischievous glint. "That was just old Mr. Todd, the shopkeeper. He's, uh, a bit fussy when it comes to me and my brother."

"Fussy?" I repeat, raising an eyebrow. "You mean hunting you down."

He flashes a lazy smile, not even bothering to deny it. "Let's just say he's not a fan of us."

I shake my head, amused but skeptical. Just as I turn back to the shelf to grab the book, I hear him again behind me.

"What's that you've got?" he asks, leaning over my shoulder. "Duels and the Winning Match?" He whistles, clearly impressed. "A bit ambitious, aren't we?"

"Just browsing," I reply with a shrug, flipping through the pages, but I can feel him hovering behind me, curiosity radiating off him.

"So… first year?" he asks, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

Without looking up, I respond, "What makes you think that?"

"Well," he says, and I can hear the grin in his voice, "it's right before the start of term, and you look older than most first years, but I haven't seen you around Hogwarts before. That makes you a first year. Plus," he pause dramitically "I saw you with McGonagall, so… you're Muggle-born, yeah?"

I pause, then turn to face him, smiling with exaggerated admiration. "Wow, Sherlock, that was some incredible detective work. What should I call you? The Great detective?"

He grins, looking pleased with himself. "The name's Fred Weasley, at your service." He gives an exaggerated bow, full of drama.

Playing along, I give a small, mock curtsy. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Weasley."

Fred laughs, straightening up. "Mr. Weasley's my father. Just call me Fred. So, I was right, wasn't I?"

I nod, giving him that. "You were. I'm a first year."

He grins wider, clearly enjoying himself. "And I'm a third year. You'll hear plenty about me once you're at Hogwarts. Just make sure not to confuse me with my twin—he's the ugly one."

I smirk, pretending to look him over. "If you're the better-looking one, I'm genuinely terrified to meet him."

Fred clutches his chest dramatically, staggering back like I'd just dealt him a fatal blow. "Oh! How you wound me, Miss…?"

I give a playful sigh, pretending to check an imaginary watch on my wrist. "Oh, look at the time!" I say, deliberately avoiding the question. Then, suddenly, I freeze, my eyes going wide as I stare at something over his shoulder.

Fred's grin falters. "What? What is it?" He spins around, his gaze darting across the shelves behind him.

The second he turns, I slip away silently, darting into another aisle, suppressing a laugh. A prank on a prankster.

After a few minutes, I find McGonagall at the counter, already holding my stack of required books. Her gaze lands on me, narrowing slightly. "You're cutting it close," she says, her tone sharp but not unkind.

"Sorry, Professor. Got a little distracted." I hold up the dueling book, grinning. "Think we could add this to the pile?"

McGonagall eyes the book warily but, after a sigh, nods. "Very well. But don't let it distract you from your actual studies."

I place the book on the counter. With everything sorted and paid for, we step out of the shop, leaving behind the hum of Flourish and Blotts. I can't help but glance back, wondering if Fred's still standing there, wondering where I went.

The moment we step into Madam Malkin's, I know this is going to be a battle. Not because of the measuring—no, that's just part of the deal—but because I have very specific opinions about what I want. As soon as Madam Malkin ushers me onto the small stool for measurements, I can already sense the impending conflict.

She wraps the measuring tape around my waist and hums thoughtfully, starting with her usual spiel about the Hogwarts uniform. "Robes, of course. Skirt length to the knee—"

"Actually," I cut in, "I'd prefer trousers."

Madam Malkin freezes for a moment, her tape measure hovering mid-air, before she gives me a tight, polite smile. "I'm afraid that's not the traditional uniform for girls, dear."

I grin, undeterred. "Yeah, but pants are way more practical. I mean, can you imagine flying in a skirt? I'll pass, thanks."

Madam Malkin looks at me like I've just asked her to rearrange the stars. McGonagall doesn't even step in—she's just watching from the sidelines, probably entertained by the whole thing. After a solid back-and-forth, I finally win the trousers argument, but then, of course, I notice there are no pockets.

"How am I supposed to carry anything without pockets?" I demand, exasperated. Madam Malkin's smile is practically glued on by this point, but after another round of negotiations.

"Pockets?" she repeats, as though I've just said something ridiculous.

"Yeah, you know, those things that help you carry stuff? You'd be amazed how useful they are," I say, glancing down as the tape measure circles my arm. "Because I'm definitely not hauling around a bag everywhere I go. I need at least some pockets."

Madam Malkin sighs again—this time, deeper, like she's reconsidering her life choices. But after a bit more banter and negotiation, I finally win. The ultimate victory.

By the time the measurements are done, I'm feeling pretty satisfied with myself. McGonagall still hasn't said a word, though I'm pretty sure I saw her raise an eyebrow a couple of times during the exchange. Victory secured, we head out, with me feeling like I just won a small but significant battle in the war of practical fashion.

The apothecary's a breeze in comparison—no fights there. The ingredients are pre-packed, and it's just a quick stop before we finally make our way to the real highlight of the day: Ollivanders.

As we approach the wand shop, something inside me seems to hum with anticipation. My magic, which has been a quiet thrum these past few days, feels like it's waking up, excited. This is what I've been waiting for.

I step forward, eager, but pause when I realize McGonagall isn't following me. She gives me a small nod. "The wand-choosing moment is special, Miss Stark. It's a personal experience. I'll be here when you're done."

The bell chimes softly as I step into Ollivanders, the air inside thick with dust and the weight of magic. The towering shelves, filled with endless rows of wand boxes, stretch up to the ceiling, making the shop feel more like a labyrinth than a store. My magic hums under my skin, buzzing with anticipation, almost like it knows what's coming. It feels alive, eager, maybe even a little impatient.

I take a few cautious steps in, and almost immediately, a man with wild silver hair appears from behind a stack of shelves, moving so quietly I didn't hear him coming. His sharp, silver eyes seem to pierce right through me. He looks at me for a long moment, as looking signs of recognition.

"Muggle-born?" he asks suddenly, his voice soft but direct.

I shrug, a half-smile tugging at my lips. "Maybe," I say.

Ollivander hums thoughtfully, clearly intrigued by my vague answer. "Estelle Stark," I say, introducing myself.

"Miss Stark," he repeats, nodding slightly.

"I see," he mutters, almost to himself, his sharp eyes still studying me with deep curiosity. After another beat, he gestures toward a stool by the counter. "Take a seat. We'll see which wand chooses you."

I sit down, my magic still buzzing underneath my skin, thrumming in sync with the energy of the shop. As he circles me, Ollivander pauses for a moment, his gaze flicking to my hand. "Which is your wand hand?"

I extend my right hand toward him. He takes it carefully, inspecting it like he can read my entire magical potential through my palm.

"Yes, yes..." he mutters, his gaze far away now, as if he's already thinking of the perfect wand. "Let's see..."

Without another word, he turns and disappears into the labyrinth of shelves, mumbling to himself as he goes. "Beechwood? No… perhaps ebony… dragon heartstring, yes, but maybe unicorn hair..."

I sit there, waiting, trying not to tap my fingers or look too impatient. My magic, on the other hand, is practically bouncing. Calm down, I think sarcastically, we'll get you your toy soon enough. But of course, it only hums louder, like it can already feel the wand waiting for it

I watch as he vanishes behind the shelves, and before long, he returns with a slim, long box. "Try this," he says, handing me the wand inside. "Willow. Unicorn hair. 12 inches. Swishy"

The moment I take the wand in my hand, my magic flares. I feel the energy rush through me, almost surging uncontrollably, like it's too much for the wand to handle. Before I can even attempt a proper swish, the window near the front of the shop shatters with a loud crack. Glass flies everywhere, scattering across the floor.

Ollivander raises his eyebrows, but he doesn't seem startled, just intrigued. "Hmm… not quite," he says, quickly whisking the wand out of my hand. "Your magic is... powerful, no doubt."

I frown, more frustrated than surprised. My magic feels agitated now, like it's pushing against the surface, demanding to be matched with the right wand. Ollivander doesn't seem fazed. He simply mutters to himself, disappearing into the shelves once more.

"Sturdy... but flexible... something more durable..." His voice fades as he rummages through the boxes.

He returns with another wand—this one shorter, a pale wood. "Birch. Vella hair. 10 inches. Pilable Try this one."

I take it, but before I can even get a proper grip on it, my magic lashes out. There's a sudden burst of energy, and the shelf behind the counter explodes in a shower of splinters and flying wand boxes. I barely flinch as the wood flies toward me, but it doesn't reach me. My magic seems to react on its own, creating a sort of invisible barrier around me, deflecting the debris before it can touch me.

Ollivander's eyes widen for a moment, clearly impressed, but he says nothing about it. Instead, he calmly waves his wand, muttering a quick spell to repair the shelf. "No, no... certainly not that one," he says, sounding more intrigued than ever. "Most curious..."

I let out a sigh, half frustrated, half resigned. "This isn't going to be easy, is it?" I mutter under my breath, handing him the wand.

Ollivander doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he studies me for another long moment before nodding. "Your magic is... quite unusual. Volatile, yes, but not in a way that's uncontrolled. It's protecting you," he says thoughtfully, more to himself than to me. "I've never seen a reaction quite like this."

I blink, at his words. My magic protecting me? I mean it is normal for me. My magic had acted on its own quite many times before i started controling it better, but it still instinctively shields me from the blast.

"Not normal?" I ask, already knowing the answer.

Ollivander chuckles softly, shaking his head. "No, Miss Stark. Not normal at all. But that's what makes it special." He pauses, his sharp eyes twinkling. "We will find the right wand for you. It will take time, but your wand... will be extraordinary."

I sigh again, leaning back on the stool. "I just hope the shop's still standing by the time we find it."

Ollivander smiles faintly, clearly unbothered by the destruction. "Worry not, Miss Stark. We've plenty of wands left to try."

With that, he disappears into the shelves again, still muttering to himself, while I sit there, trying to reign in my restless magic. We try many more wands and each time something explodes and he snaches the wand away going back to pick new on, leaving me sitting here. I think the number of wands l'ave tried is more than twenty, each leaving destruction behind.

This time he returns with a small, dust-covered box. He opens it with the same kind of reverence someone would use when unearthing treasure. "Yew, known for its deep connection to the cycle of life and death, the yew wand is used in magic involving reincarnation, legacy, and longevity. Dragon heartstring. Cores used to produce the most powerful wands, and they tend to learn quickly and bond strongly with their user. However, they can be more temperamental and prone to accidents if mishandled. They are especially suited to those who require aggressive or combative magic. Eleven inches and rigid."

He watches me carefully as he hands over the wand, his gaze sharper than before. I take the wand, and the moment my fingers curl around it, warmth rushes through me. My magic surges into the wood, and for the first time, it doesn't feel like it's fighting back. Instead, it rushes in like water filling an empty glass. The warmth spreads through my hand and up my arm, and suddenly, everything in the shop shifts.

The shelves tremble, the counters rise off the ground, and the entire room seems to be holding its breath. The wand glows faintly in my hand, a soft, golden light wrapping around me. My magic is everywhere, expanding outward, but not in its usual destructive way. No, this time, it feels right. Balanced. Like it fits.

Okay, calm down, I think, pulling my magic back before I end up accidentally turning the whole shop upside down. Slowly, the shelves and counters settle back into place, and the warm glow fades. The room seems to breathe again.

Ollivander is staring at me, eyes wide, a slow, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Ah, yes," he murmurs softly, almost reverently. "Precise to say that is your wand, Miss Stark. There's no doubt."

I nod, feeling the connection with the wand like it's an extension of me. "Yeah, this one's it," I say quietly, still a little awed by how… right it feels.

But Ollivander doesn't move to box it up just yet. Instead, he steps closer, his gaze unnervingly intense now. "This wand is special, Miss Stark. It will serve you well in battle, for dueling, defense… and for much more. It is a powerful tool, but it is only as powerful as the witch who wields it." His voice drops lower, and suddenly, the air around us feels heavier.

"You possess great power," he continues, his gaze locking onto mine, making me squirm slightly in my seat. "More than most witches or wizards at your age. This wand will amplify that power, focus it. But…" he pauses, and for a moment, the space between us feels cold, like a shadow has fallen over the shop, "power like yours does not come without choice. You must decide, Miss Stark, what you will become."

I shift slightly under his gaze, a strange feeling creeping up my spine. "What do you mean?" I ask, though part of me already knows.

"You will choose, in time, whether you become a protector… or a destructor," he says, his voice quieter now, almost foreboding. "With great power comes the potential for great good… or great harm."

I swallow, feeling the weight of his words settling heavily on me. Protector or destructor. It feels melodramatic, but the way he says it makes it sound like a prophecy or a curse. His eyes are still locked onto mine, and for the first time, I feel uncomfortable under his gaze, like he can see something in me that even I haven't figured out yet.

After a long, silent moment, he adds, almost as an afterthought, "There was another young wizard, years ago, who came into this very shop. His magic… was much like yours. Destructive, wild, hard to control. He, too, left a… lasting impression."

I stiffen. I know exactly who he's talking about, even though he doesn't say the name. Tom Riddle. The warning in his words is clear.

"His path," Ollivander continues, his voice barely a whisper now, "was one of destruction. His power consumed him… as it consumed the world around him."

I grip the wand tightly, the warmth still pulsing gently in my hand. My stomach churns slightly, a nervous flutter settling there. Is he saying I could be like that? I wonder, I won't make the same mistakes. I won't let my magic control me. It may be wild, but I'm the one in control.

Ollivander watches me closely, as if waiting to see how I'll respond. Then, after a long pause, he says, "Remember, Miss Stark, it is not the wand that decides who you will become. It is you."

I nod slowly, his words sinking in deeper than I'd like to admit. "I understand," I say.

Ollivander's gaze softens slightly, his intensity fading just enough for me to breathe again. "Then you're ready," he says quietly.

He boxes the wand up carefully and hands it to me, but the connection between us doesn't fade. The wand feels like it's part of me now, like it always was, waiting for the right moment.

I stand, taking 7 galleons out for the wand. I leave still feeling his words echoing in my mind—protector or destructor. But I already know my path.

Stepping out of Ollivanders, I pocket my wand, The thing feels like it's buzzing with energy even in my pocket and l am getting a headache from the amount of excitment my magic is shoving at me. Ollivander's last words linger in my head. Protector or destructor. Yeah, no pressure there. I shrug it off, forcing myself not to think too deeply about the whole great power, great responsibility lecture. The wand works, that's all that matters right now.

I scan the street, looking for Minnie—Professor McGonagall—but she's nowhere in sight. Just great. With a sigh, I lean against the wall of Ollivanders, watching the chaotic flow of witches, wizards, and floating shopping bags in the street. No point standing here like an awkward tourist, so I let my mind drift to what I still need to get done.

First off, books. Definitely need more books. Sure, I've got the basic Hogwarts stuff, but I need extra reading material. Charms, Defense Against the Dark Arts, maybe even something on Dark Arts themselves. I mean, it's not like I plan on going all dark wizard, but Knowledge is power—or at least, it's a good way to avoid getting cursed in the back by someone.

Then there's Gringotts. Need to open an account. Can't always exchange money only when l need it. I've already had enough of that today, thank you very much.

And then… the clothes. Yeah, about that. The number of people staring at my Muggle outfit today? Ridiculous. It's not like I'm wearing anything weird—jeans, t-shirt, basic stuff—but apparently, in wizard world, it's an instant look at the clueless newcomer signal. I could feel the judgment from their robes. I guess I should pick up something that says "I belong here" instead of "I am a muggleborn and a easy target." Don't want to get robbed or, worse kidnapped by some dark witch.

And those trunks I saw earlier? Definitely need to check those out. The sign said something about trunks with rooms inside. Rooms. How cool is that? Imagine just carrying around a little house in your trunk. That's some next-level practicality. Forget packing light—why not just carry everything? I could shove half a library in there if I wanted to. That's going on the list.

Then there's travel. Now that I've got a wand, maybe I could try calling the Knight Bus. It could be useful if I need to get around. Plus, how hard could it be to flag down a magical bus? I'll figure it out.

I glance back at Ollivanders, letting out a small sigh. I wonder if all this magical responsibility stuff ever gets easier. Honestly l feel like a main character, handling a constant migraine of expectations. Either way, no time to dwell on that now. I've got too much to do.

I push off the wall, eyeing the shops and people moving around. There's so much more to explore here, and so much more I need to figure out. I've barely scratched the surface of this world, and there's no way I'm leaving until I've made the most of it. If today's taught me anything, it's that l have so much to learn.

I see McGonagall approaching me out of the corner of my eye and straighten up, pocketing the thoughts about Ollivander's cryptic warnings. As she reaches me, I nod.

"Miss Stark," she begins, her voice as steady and composed as ever. "I believe you have your wand? Was the experience… special?" There's a flicker of genuine interest in her tone, though she keeps her usual calm exterior.

"Oh, yeah, the experience was quite special," I reply, trying not to roll my eyes. I scoff inwardly—special enough to nearly destroy the shop, apparently. But I don't elaborate. Let her imagine whatever heartwarming, magical bonding moment she expects.

McGonagall doesn't comment on my tone, just gives a small nod as if she understands. Without another word, she extends her hand toward me. "Please hold tight."

I grab her arm, and before I can brace myself, we apparate. This time, I manage not to vomit, though my stomach churns violently. I wobble a bit but stay upright. Progress, I think, trying to focus on not looking like I'm about to collapse.

We land at the entrance of my house, and McGonagall unshrinks my things with a flick of her wand. The cauldron, books, and the rest of my shopping haul pop back to their original size, almost comically large compared to her graceful movements. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a small, crisp piece of paper.

"This, Miss Stark," she says, handing it to me, "is your ticket to the Hogwarts Express. It will depart from King's Cross Station on the date written." She tips her hat slightly, a formality that feels oddly old-fashioned, but it suits her. "Until we meet again."

And just like that, with the sharp crack of disapparition, she's gone.

I glance down at the ticket in my hand. Hogwarts Express. Did she explain how to get to Platform 9 , or not? I don't think she did. The ticket just says "Platform 9 ." As if that's normal.

"Whatever," I mutter, shrugging it off for now. I turn to the mountain of supplies McGonagall just dumped back in front of my door. The cauldron gleams, books stacked awkwardly on top of it.

"Alright," I sigh, eyeing the mess. Time to drag this all inside.

Grabbing the cauldron's handle, I haul the load in through the door, glancing back at the ticket once more. Platform 9 , I think, still bemused. Was she trying to make it harder for me or did she just forgot?

---

Stepping outside the house, I let out a long sigh, feeling the weight of everything settle in. I pull my wand out of my pocket, the smooth wood warm against my hand. It feels strangely comforting, even though it's caused more chaos than I'd like to admit. I glance back at the house, wondering—not for the first time—if things with Ana will ever go back to how they were. Ever since that darn letter arrived, there's been this unspoken tension between us. Neither of us really addresses it, just circling around the topic, pretending like nothing's changed. But it has.

When I came back from Diagon Alley, she'd finally stopped avoiding the subject long enough to ask, "When are you leaving for that place?" That was about as close as we've come to having a real conversation about Hogwarts.

I twirl the wand between my fingers, thinking about how things have shifted. On one hand, I have this—magic. Real, tangible magic. The moment I got home from Diagon Alley, I couldn't resist trying out a spell. Lumos was the first thing I tried, just to see if it would actually work. And it did. It worked a little too well. The wand flared so bright I practically blinded myself. I spent the next ten minutes rubbing the spots out of my eyes, waiting for the inevitable Ministry owl to swoop in and scold me for underage magic.

But it never came. No owl, no reprimand. Which is weird, right? Maybe they don't track magic use before Hogwarts? Or maybe they do, but only once you officially start school. I don't know, but so far, it's working in my favor.

I've tried most of the simple spells since then. Lumos, Nox, Wingardium Leviosa—the basics. And they all work, but there's this… overwhelming power behind them. My wand doesn't just cast a spell—it seems to overdo it. Every time I use it, the spell feels like it's bursting out of me, too strong for what I intended. Like that first Lumos—what was supposed to be a soft glow practically turned into a mini sun in my hand.

And it's not just the power that's the issue. My magic seems too eager, almost like it's been waiting forever to be let loose, which l guess it was in a way. Every time I hold the wand, it's like my magic wants to run wild, it's been locked up for too long. There's a strange connection between the wand and my magic—it's strong, maybe too strong, like they're drawn to each other, feeding off one another.

I pocket my wand, l told An I'll get some stuff for school and be back around at 6. The Knight Bus—lt's my ride to diagon, all you need to do is stick out your wand hand, and it'll show up. Simple, right?

So, standing by the side of the road, I extend my wand hand, feeling slightly ridiculous. For a minute, nothing happens, and just as I'm about to give up, there's a deafening BANG. I stumble back as a triple-decker bus screeches into existence right in front of me, towering over everything around it. Its windows rattle, and gold lettering across the windshield spells out: The Knight Bus.

A lanky teenager in a too-large conductor's uniform jumps down from the steps and grins at me. "Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard. Stick out yer wand hand, step aboard, and we'll take yer anywhere yeh want to go." He pauses for dramatic effect, looking me up and down. "Name's Stan Shunpike, and I'll be yer conductor this evenin'."

He leans down, peering around me like he's searching for someone. "You alone, pipsqueak?"

I give him a flat look. "Looks that way."

Stan straightens, still looking around comically, then shrugs. "Right then, hop on."

I step up onto the bus, giving it a quick glance inside. "How much to Diagon Alley?"

"Eleven Sickles," Stan says, still eyeing me curiously. His accent is thick, the kind that swallows half the words and stretches out the rest. He's not much older than me, maybe 15, but there's something about him that screams friendly.

I pull out the coins and hand them over. "Here."

Stan accepts them, eyeing me again. "How old are ya, anyway?" He pockets the Sickles, not dropping the question.

"Old enough to pay," I reply, with a smirk.

Stan mutters something under his breath that sounds like, "Not me business," before nodding toward the inside of the bus. "Right, come on in."

Inside, there aren't any seats. Instead, there are half a dozen brass bedsteads scattered across the floor, each with thick curtains around them. Candles flicker on small stands beside the beds, casting a soft, eerie glow over everything. It's not exactly what I expected, but then again, nothing in the wizarding world is.

Stan motions to one of the beds. "That one's yers. What did ya say yer name was?"

"Elle" I say sitting down on the edge of the bed, eyeing him warily. Stan grins, turning toward the front of the bus, where an old man with large, thick glasses sits slouched in an armchair behind the wheel. "Right, Elle that's our driver, Ernie Prang. 'E's a bit hard o' hearin', but don't worry, 'e'll get yeh there in one piece... most o' the time."

I glance at Ernie, who nods lazily in my direction without even looking up from the steering wheel. Before I can fully process what's happening, there's another BANG, and the bus lurches forward with such force that I'm thrown back onto the bed. I scramble for balance, grabbing the brass frame as the bus rockets down the street.

Stan lets out a snort of laughter at my expense, leaning against a nearby bedpost. "Better hold on, lass, or ye'll be tumblin' 'round the bus like a Quaffle!"

I shoot him a glare. "Thanks for the warning."

He smirks and gives me a cheeky wink. "Anytime."

I look out the window, and my eyes widen as I see the bus hurtling down the road at breakneck speed. It keeps hopping up onto pavements and zipping through impossibly tight spaces, narrowly avoiding lamp posts, bins, and even mailboxes. But despite the chaos, the bus doesn't hit a single thing. Everything just jumps out of its way—houses, cars, even trees seem to move as we pass by.

"How is it not hitting anything?" I mutter, more to myself than anyone else.

"Magic, innit?" Stan answers, clearly overhearing. He grins again, clearly loving every second of the chaos.

The bus gives another jolt, and I grip the bed tighter, holding on for dear life. As the candles flicker beside me, I realize one thing for sure: this ride is going to be unforgettable, and I'm probably going to hate every second of it.

But, on the bright side, at least I figured out how to summon the Knight Bus.

As the Knight Bus continued its wild journey, it made more than a few stops, picking up witches and wizards along the way. Each time, with a deafening BANG, the bus would screech to a halt, nearly throwing me off my bed. Stan would hop down to help them with their trunks while I stayed seated, gripping the brass bedframe, watching the people settle down.

At one point, with another jarring BANG, the bus squeezed impossibly through two narrow buildings. I sat up, watching as the bus seemed to defy logic, bending and shifting as it zoomed past obstacles. When Ernie suddenly slammed on the brakes, I was ready this time, clutching my bed tightly and avoiding another embarrassing tumble.

The bus halted in front of a small, shabby-looking pub, and I recognized it immediately: The Leaky Cauldron. Its brick façade looked worn and unassuming, like it was hiding something much more significant behind its crumbling exterior. Probably because it was.

Stan appeared beside me, giving a crooked grin. "There ya go, Diagon Alley."

Hopping down from the bed, I made my way toward the door. Stepping off the bus, I called over my shoulder, "See you in a few hours."

Stan's voice echoed behind me. "What?" But before I could reply, there was a loud BANG, and the bus vanished just as quickly as it had arrived, leaving me standing alone on the quiet street.

Getting into the alley wasn't hard—Tom, the friendly bartender at the Leaky Cauldron, was more than happy to tap the bricks and open the entrance for me. The wall shifted and moved, revealing the bustling street of Diagon Alley behind it. I took a deep breath, feeling that familiar hum of magic in the air.

First stop: Gringotts. I needed to get my finances sorted, most of the money's coming from the educational acount maria opened from me before her death.

The familiar towering, white structure of Gringotts loomed ahead of me, guarded by sharp-eyed goblins.

Finding gringotts wan't hard since it was already big and catchy enought to see. Stepping through the grand marble entrance, I feel the familiar chill of the goblins' sharp eyes on me as I make my way inside. I give a polite nod to the guards standing at the door, and walk straight into the main hall.

I walk straight up to the same counter where I handled my last money exchange. Sharplaw, the goblin from before, is seated there, his narrow eyes scanning a large, ornate book in front of him. He looks up, his gaze sharp as always, but this time, there's a flicker of surprise.

"Miss Stark," he greets, his tone clipped and formal, "I didn't expect to see you again so soon. Are you here unaccompanied today?"

I nod and step closer. "Yes, I'm here alone. I'd like to open a bank account."

Sharplaw's eyes narrow, and he leans forward slightly, folding his long, clawed hands on the counter. "You understand, of course, that without a magical guardian, opening a vault can be... more complicated?"

"I was hoping that I could open one regardless," I say, trying not to sound uncertain.

"Indeed," he replies, watching me closely. "Ordinarily, a young witch or wizard requires a magical guardian to oversee their finances until they come of age. However," his eyes gleam slightly, "since your legal guardian is a Muggle, those restrictions do not apply. You may proceed with opening an account independently. The vault will be entirely yours, and only you will have access."

I let out a small breath, grateful that it's not going to be a bureaucratic nightmare. "Perfect. I'd like to open one."

Sharplaw nods, his fingers tapping lightly on the marble counter. "We will require some initial formalities, Miss Stark. Setting up a vault involves verifying magical identity, along with proof of funds."

"Right," I say, mentally preparing for whatever strange procedure is about to come.

He pulls out a long ledger from beneath the counter, flipping through the pages as he explains. "First, we will register your wand. As a magical object tied directly to you, your wand serves as proof of identity and will allow you access to your vault. Place your wand here, please."

He motions to a silver tray that glows faintly, and I carefully take out my wand and lay it down. As soon as it touches the tray, the wand glows softly, and strange runes light up around it, as if measuring its magical signature. After a few moments, the light dims, and Sharplaw retrieves a long quill from a drawer, scribbling down some notes in his ledger.

"Your wand is now officially registered under your name. This ensures that only you can access your vault using your wand as proof," he says, his tone smooth and efficient.

I nod, as I pick my wand back up.

Next, he pulls out a small silver dagger from a drawer, its blade gleaming under the dim light. "To verify your magical identity and tie the vault to your bloodline, we require a drop of your blood."

I raise an eyebrow but nod. "Alright," I say, taking the knife from him.

I prick the tip of my finger with the blade, and a small drop of blood wells up. He gestures me toward a piece of enchanted parchment that lies beside the ledger. "Place your blood here."

I press my finger to the parchment, and the drop of blood sinks into the paper like it's been absorbed. For a moment, the parchment glows, runes flickering across it before it settles back to normal. Sharplaw watches the process with a keen eye, then writes something down beside the now enchanted document.

I wipe the blood from the knife and return it to him, he gives me a crocked smile when he sees me wiping it clean."Your vault is now officially tied to your bloodline. No one else will be able to access it. In case of your death, or if you pass on your vault, we will require additional verification."

"Good to know," l say rumaging through my bag.

He continues smoothly, retrieving a stack of coins from behind the counter. "Do you wish to exchange any Muggle currency today?"

I nod, pulling out the stack of cash I brought with me. "Yes, I'd like to exchange this and deposit it into my vault."

Sharplaw inspects the notes briefly before counting them up. "They will exchange according to exchange rate and deposited to your vault." He then motions for someone behind him, l don't hear him as he talks with another goblin. After some time the goblin comes back talks again with sharpclaw. Who then turns to me and pulls out a small bronze key, handing it over. The key gleams faintly in the light, and I take it.

"This is your vault key," Sharplaw says, his tone serious. "Guard it well, as it is the only way to physically access your vault. Should it be lost or stolen, we will require significant proof to issue a replacement."

I nod, slipping the key into my inner pocket. "Understood."

He scribbles one last note into his ledger and hands me a small card with my vault number inscribed on it. "Your vault is now ready, Miss Stark. You may deposit and withdraw at your discretion. If you require further assistance, you may return at any time."

"Thank you," I say, slipping the card into my pocket

Stepping out of Gringotts, I wander through the busy streets of Diagon Alley, the magical buzz around me starting to feel oddly familiar. My gaze bounces from one shop window to the next—broomsticks, cauldrons, enchanted quills. Each store more tempting than the last, but I need to stay focused. First stop the trunk.

I step into the trunk shop, and the moment I walk in, I know I'm about to spend a small fortune. Trunks with rooms inside? Yeah, I'm sure those won't cost an arm and a leg. The displays are wild—trunks that open up to reveal whole furnished apartments, others that look deceptively small but have full libraries and bedrooms tucked inside. One even had a magical garden. Overkill much?

I skim past the fancier ones, keeping an eye out for something a little more practical. I finally settle on a trunk that has a few basic rooms—one for storage, a small study, and a basic living space. No magical garden, but it'll do. The idea of storing most of my books in there is more than enough to convince me.

Before I finalize the purchase, I spot a pouch with an extension charm sitting on the counter. It's nothing too fancy, but it's perfect for all the shopping I've yet to do. One of those endless bags that doesn't bulge no matter how much you stuff in it? Yes, please. I strike up a bit of haggling with the shopkeeper—because let's be real, I'm not leaving this place broke—and manage to get both the trunk and the pouch for a reasonable price. Not cheap, but not highway robbery either. Win.

Next stop: clothes. I skip Madam Malkin's this time around—I really don't feel like fighting for clothes today. Instead, I head to a smaller shop tucked into the corner of the alley. Inside, the place smells faintly of wool and dust, but at least the selection is less stuffy.

The shopkeeper eyes me when I enter, but he dosen't say much. Probably mistaking me for a boy. I end up with a few sets of robes, some simpe knit jumpers, trousers, short jacket. I also spot this old 90s-style flat hat and, on impulse, throw it in with the pile. Why not? It's quirky and looks like something straight out of an old fashion magazine.

When I step out of the shop, I catch my reflection in a nearby window. Between the , the hat, and the general magical aesthetic, I look like someone time-warped out of the 90s and landed in the middle of Diagon Alley. Great. But at least I blend in now—no more weird looks for wearing cargo pants and a t-shirt. I give myself a quick once-over and shrug. Not the worst look I've had.

Despite being eleven, I look older than I am—thanks to my exercise routine and the way I've grown. I'm taller than most kids my age, lean, with a bit of muscle from all the running and strength training I've been doing. My hair cut short and with the clothes, l look like a young boy. Not really my intention, but it good enough.

Now, for the most important thing: books. Last time, I was under Minne's watchful eye, which meant sticking to the first year books. But today? No restrictions. No one to tell me I don't really need that extra book on obscure spells or magical theory. I step into Flourish and Blotts and immediately inhale the scent of old parchment and ink. There's something comforting about it, the smell of knowledge just waiting to be unlocked.

Looking around, I see that most of the other customers are still busy grabbing their school books, parents frantically crossing off lists. I weave through them, eyes already scanning the shelves for more interesting material. Time to get to work.

I dive headfirst into the aisles, and for the next few hours, I'm completely absorbed. No rushing this. I pick up the book Standard book of spells for 2 and 3 year. Since i already read the first one quite many times already. Flipping through the pages, l put it in my collection.

I pile the books in my arms and keep going, adding a few books on Defense against dark arts, since the classes of it aren't exactly going to be remotely good in the upcoming years and even a couple on Magical Creatures just as reading material.

Then I find a book tucked away in the back of the shelf at history section The Dark Lords of Magical History. I flip through it, reading about famous dark wizards, including—Grindellwall, voldy shorts . Maybe should check if there was a difference in the wizarding war cause of captain america, and with grindellwall controlling people and all.

By the time I'm done, I've spent hours browsing, carefully selecting each book. My arms are full of books on charms, defensive spells, magical creatures, history. I've got enough to keep me busy for months, but it still feels like barely scratching the surface.

I smirk to myself, realizing I'll probably be busy for the rest of the time left before hogwarts. Until l get to see hogwarts' library. But for now, this haul will definitely keep me busy. As I head to the counter, the employ stares at the stack and then at me.

With my money pouch nearly empty, I leave Flourish and Blotts, feeling the satisfyied. I'm almost ready to head back, but my stomach growls loudly, reminding me I haven't eaten all day. Time to find some food.

I wander down a different street, the atmosphere shifting as I go. This part of Diagon Alley is more lively, less refined. Gone are the fancy witches and wizards in expensive robes—instead, there are food stalls, street vendors, and fruit sellers. The smells of roasted meats and fresh bread drift in the air, making my stomach growl even louder. I pass a girl selling flowers and instinctively check my pockets, just in case. Tucking my extension pouch deep into my shirt pocket, I keep walking. I've definitely strayed from Diagon Alley. Judging by the rougher look of the shops and the energy of the street, I've wandered into one of the lower alleys.

No one's paying me much attention, but I do get a few side glances—probably because my clothes are too clean, too new. I manage to blend in, though. I buy a stuffed bread roll from a vendor for three Sickles and lean against a wall, eating while watching the crowd pass by. I'm cutting it close on time—spent too long in the bookstore, but how could I resist?

Just as I savor the final bite of my meal, something slams into me with force, knocking me off balance. I crash to the ground, my elbows scraping the cobblestones. Dazed, I look up to see a scrawny kid sprawled on the ground beside me, wide-eyed and panting. "What the hell?" I mutter, reaching out to help him.

"You alright?" I ask, but before the words are fully out of my mouth, his gaze flicks to my pocket—sharp and fast. I barely register the movement before his hand darts out, quick as a viper. In a blur, he yanks my extension pouch from my robes and bolts down the street.

"Hey!" I yell, springing to my feet, heart pounding. "You little thief!"

Without thinking, I take off after him, adrenaline surging through me. The street is crowded, and the boy moves like a shadow, weaving through the throngs of people with ease. I'm right behind him, dodging and shoving as I go, my eyes locked on the back of his scruffy brown hair. He ducks under a cart, slipping between the legs of a vendor, and nearly bowls over an old man who staggers, arms flailing.

"Sorry!" I shout, pushing past the confused bystanders, my feet slamming against the cobblestones. The boy shoots around a corner, and I skid after him, barely keeping my footing as I race into a narrow alley.

"Get back here, you little bastard!" I snarl, the words leaving my mouth in a growl of frustration. My lungs burn as I struggle to keep up. He's faster than I thought—too fast. He twists and turns through the alley like he's been running it all his life, dodging crates and barrels that I crash into, knocking them aside with every stumble.

Suddenly, the boy leaps onto a cart piled high with cauldrons, his small frame vanishing behind the towering metal pots. The clang of a falling cauldron echoes through the alley as he sends one tumbling to the ground in his wake.

I charge after him but slam straight into the cart, the cauldrons toppling onto me in a metallic avalanche. Pain shoots through my side as I hit the ground hard. "Bloody hell!" I groan, shoving the cauldrons off with a grunt. The old man pulling the cart yells something unintelligible, shaking his fists at me.

"Yeah, yeah, I get it!" I snap, waving my wand to levitate the scattered cauldrons back onto the cart. "Sorry!" I call out, not noticing the man's surprised expression. Ignoring him, I take off again, the boy still in my sights.

He's just ahead, his jacket whipping in the wind as he darts between two market stalls. I push through a crowd of startled vendors, sending apples and oranges rolling across the ground. "Sorry! Sorry!" I shout again, but my focus is entirely on the kid.

The chase feels like it's never going to end. My legs are burning, my side hurts from coliding into the cauldrons. Just when I think he's lost me for good, I spot a flash of brown disappearing around yet another corner. I grit my teeth and force my legs to keep moving, rounding the corner in time to see him skidding to a stop in front of a solid stone wall. It's a dead end.

The boy whirls around, eyes wide with panic, searching for another way out. There isn't one.

"I swear, if you try to run again, I'll skin you alive!" I growl through gritted teeth, my wand at the ready. But of course, he doesn't listen. He turns on his heel, ready to make another desperate sprint.

"Not this time," I mutter, flicking my wand. In an instant, he's yanked into the air, legs kicking helplessly as he hovers a few feet above the ground.

"Let me down!" he screams, squirming in midair.

"Not until you give me my pouch back," I say, finally catching my breath. I step forward, wiping sweat from my brow as I look around the narrow alley, making sure we're alone. "Bloody menace," I hiss under my breath, shaking my head.

The boy glares at me, his hands still clutching my pouch. "I—I wasn't gonna keep it," he mutters, his voice suddenly small, his bravado fading now that he's dangling several feet above the ground.

"Right. And I'm a bloody unicorn," I say dryly.

I look up at the boy, still hovering mid-air, his face pale as he sputters out an apology. His legs kick feebly, as if trying to find solid ground. I take a step forward, ready to deal with him, when I hear the sound of footsteps approaching from behind. My wand is still aimed at the floating thief as I turn around.

A much older boy stands there, dirty blond hair falling into his eyes, a wand already trained on me. He glances between the boy suspended in the air and the wand in my hand, his expression unreadable. As he steps closer, he speaks, his tone measured but firm. "Why don't you put the boy down and walk away, yeah?"

I glance at him, then at the boy flailing in mid-air. The thief tries to shout something, but the older boy shakes his head, silencing him with a sharp look. I narrow my eyes, steading my wand on him instead. "And why would I do that?"

The older boy blinks, his eyes widening for a moment as he realizes the boy is still floating. He looks taken aback, his steps faltering before he composes himself. "What do you want with him?"

I snarl back, my patience thinning. "What do I want with him? He stole my pouch, and I was just taking back what's mine. Then you came along and interrupted."

His brow furrows, and for a second, he looks confused, as if expecting something more sinister. His posture loosens slightly. "That's it? Just your pouch?"

"That's it. What did you think I was going to do? Curse him into oblivion?" I snap, exasperated. Without waiting for his answer, I lower the boy slowly to the ground, keeping my wand pointed at him as I approach. The kid's eyes are wide, and he instinctively takes a step back, but I grab him by the shoulder before he can bolt.

I rip the pouch from his hand, glaring down at him. "Try picking on someone who' fat enough to not chase you next time, alright?" My voice is cold, but the warning is clear. The boy nods frantically, his face drained of color. I release him, and he dashes past me down the alley without a second glance.

As I pocket my pouch and grumble about nuisances, I notice the older boy still standing there, his wand lowered, but his gaze fixed on me with a curious glint. "What?" I ask, irritated.

He gives me a lazy grin and strolls over. "You've got something..." He lifts a hand toward my head. My wand hand twitches instinctively, but before I can react, he plucks a couple of leaves from my hair. I swat his hand away, scowling as I notice the dust and grime covering my clothes. So much for new clothes.

I swat his hand away, frowning. "Thanks for the grooming tips, but I think I'm good."

His grin widens, and he looks me up and down, eyes lingering on the dirt and dust covering my new clothes. "You know, you really don't blend in down here. So, what's someone like you doing in the lower alleys?"

I brush off my sleeves, glaring at the grime. "Define 'someone like me.'"

He leans back, studying me. "You've got delicate, aristocratic features, those fancy clothes... and you're walking around like you've never seen a back alley in your life."

I huff, feeling the heat rise to my face. "I was minding my own business, eating a stuffed bread, when your little thief made me chase him halfway across the city." I shoot him a look that says I'm done with this conversation.

He chuckles, clearly finding my frustration amusing. "Sounds rough. Want me to help you find your way back to Diagon Alley?"

I narrow my eyes at him, suspicious. "And why exactly would I need your help?"

He glances around at the maze of narrow streets, the shady vendors, and the dingy buildings that all look the same. "Because you're clearly lost, and these alleys can get a bit... tricky."

I open my mouth to argue, but then I glance around and realize he's right. I have no idea where I am, and it's starting to dawn on me that I might've wandered a bit too far. As much as I hate to admit it, I'm completely turned around.

I sigh heavily, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Fine. Lead the way."

He grins, clearly enjoying himself as he gestures for me to follow. "Good choice. Name's Alex, by the way."

"Elle," I reply, not exactly feeling chatty as we walk. I keep an eye on him, wary of getting into another mess.

He repeats my name thoughtfully. "Elle, huh? Not what I expected." He looks down at me as if seeing something new.

I glance at him, raising an eyebrow. "And what exactly were you expecting?"

He shrugs. "Nothing. Elle works."

I roll my eyes. "Glad you approve."

As we walk, he nods to a few of the vendors we pass, clearly more familiar with this part of the alley than I am. I keep my head down, trying to ignore the stares of a few unsavory-looking characters along the way.

After a few twists and turns, we finally emerge from the narrow alleys and into the bustling heart of Diagon Alley. The change is instant—bright storefronts, the chatter of shoppers, and the familiar sights of shops. I exhale in relief.

"Well, here we are," Alex says, smirking.

I nod my thanks, ready to be rid of him and this whole ordeal. "Thanks. I'm off."

Without waiting for a response, I turn on my heel and head straight for the Leaky Cauldron. By the time I reach the familiarHh wooden doors, I'm practically jogging. Pushing through, the warmth and noise of the pub envelop me, but I'm too irritated to enjoy it. I make a beeline for the exit that leads to the street, eager to put the chaos of the day behind me.

Once I'm outside, I pull out my wand and extend my arm, just like I had earlier. And sure enough there comes a deafening BANG.

The Knight Bus screeches into existence in front of me, towering and rattling, with its bright gold lettering gleaming on the windshield. Stan Shunpike, the conductor, jumps down from the bus, grinning at me.

Stan Shunpike, grinning as usual, hops down from the steps. "'Ello again! Elle!"

"Yeah, can you just take me from where you picked me up earlier?" I ask, a little out of breath.

He raises an eyebrow but nods. "No problem. Hop on."

I step onto the bus, bracing myself as the chaos of the Knight Bus hits me again—bedsteads sliding across the floor, candles flickering beside each bed. I collapse onto one of the beds, gripping the frame as the bus lurches forward with another deafening BANG.

Stan tips his cap. "'Old on tight, we'll get you there in no time."

The bus shoots off like a rocket, swerving between streets and dodging invisible obstacles. I cling to the edge of the bed, watching the scenery blur past. After what feels like only a few minutes of dizzying turns and jolts and more stops, the bus screeches to a halt with another loud BANG.

"Here ya go!" Stan says cheerfully. "Back where we started."

I nod, standing up carefully, still feeling a bit shaken. "Thanks," I mutter, as l toss him elleven sickles and stepping off the bus.

With a final BANG, the Knight Bus vanishes into the night. I jog to to my house and open the gate, worried about being late for dinner.

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A/N: to the diagon alley. Thanks for reading and fell free to comment on what you liked and if you have suggestions for me. Next chapter starting hogwarts.