Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Vivere est militare to live is to fight

The ringing in my ears is so loud I could swear a fire alarm’s gone off right inside my skull. I groan or at least, I try to groan. It comes out more like a squeaky hiccup. Great.

God, I just want to sleep. That’s all. One more hour. One more minute. One more second without all this damn noise and
What the hell is that muffled talking? It’s all echoes and underwater tones. Are they arguing? Whispering? Chanting? Whatever it is, can’t they just shut up?
I force my eyes open or maybe I squint them halfway. Big mistake. The lights hit me like a truck. Way too bright. Like someone turned the sun up to 1000 watts just to spite me.

My nose twitches. Why does everything smell so strong? Soap, fabric softener, flowers, milk? Is that baby powder? Why is that so… sharp?
Tears suddenly well up in the corners of my eyes. Out of nowhere. I don’t even feel sad, but my body decides to weep anyway.

What the hell is going on with me?

I’m twenty-five years old. I pay taxes. I have a gym membership I never use. I’ve had heartbreak and hangovers and adult responsibilities. I’m not a baby.

…So why do I feel like one?

No. Seriously. Why do my limbs feel so weird and short and clumsy? Why is everything around me huge?

I squint again, looking around, trying to push through the blinding light and watery vision. The ceiling is miles away. The walls seem to breathe with pastel colors. And then figures. Two giant, fuzzy shapes lean over me.

Who… who are they?

Panic creeps up my spine. I try to sit up, maybe roll away, do something. But my body isn’t responding the way it should. My arms wave around like noodles. My legs kick helplessly. My muscles feel like marshmallows.
Oh God. Am I paralyzed?
A shadow moves closer. Before I can scream or flail again, I’m lifted. Off the soft surface I was lying on. Into the air.

Wait. Wait. WAIT.

NOO.
I’m being abducted by giants.

Please don’t eat me. Is this a dream? No. this is a full-on nightmare.

The man holding me smiles down with soft eyes and a too-wide grin. His hair is dirty blonde and slightly messy, and he has the audacity to coo at me.
COO.

Are you kidding me?!

I want to punch him. But my tiny fingers curl around his thumb instead.

From the side, a woman with curly black hair and kind, tired eyes steps into view. She makes a soft sound one of those universal “awwww” noises that mothers must learn instinctively. She’s looking at me like I’m the best thing to happen to her since… ever.

What is going on?

Am I dying? Am I dead already? Is this some kind of twisted, infantile afterlife?

The man shifts me into the crook of his arm, holding me like I’m made of glass. Then, with a warm chuckle, he says words that rock my already shattered world:

“Honey, our son is so cute. Ain’t that right, little Sébastien?”

…Who the f* is Sébastien?

I am NOT Sébastien.

My name is…was… Eli. Eli Matthison. I had a job. I had friends. I had a favorite pizza place and a Netflix backlog and a cat named Chairman Meow. I was not some infant with a Shakespearean name.

I look between the man and woman again. They’re not strangers anymore. Not to this tiny, helpless body. No, this body knows them. Loves them, even. I can feel it somewhere beneath the fog of my adult mind.

But me? I don’t know who they are. And that terrifies me more than anything.
I want to go home. I want my apartment. I want my adult voice and limbs and cat and

“Say hi to Daddy, Sébastien!”

I burble something unintelligible.

Oh god. That came from me.

Turns out, I’m Sébastien Dimitri Granger. Yeah. Like, Granger. I didn’t know that at first. I mean, who would?

At the time, I thought maybe I was just a baby genius. A prodigy. A miracle child with extra neurons. I started noticing weird stuff early on objects moving when I really, really wanted them to. Books floating off shelves. My toy dragon lighting on actual fire when I threw a tantrum.

I figured I was special. Like, X-Men special. I even thought maybe this was a world with superheroes and I’d get cool powers once I hit puberty again. Cool, right?

Nope.

It wasn’t until my baby sister was born that everything clicked into place.

She came out pink and wailing, with a mess of dark hair and a surprisingly loud set of lungs. My parents beamed at her like she was made of stars and hope. I peeked over the crib rail (with great effort, mind you I was still two and had the coordination of a Jell-O salad).

Then I heard it. Crystal clear.
“Hermione Jean Granger,” my mother whispered.
And that was it.
That was the moment my soul left my body (again).
I had been reborn into the Harry Potter universe.
Not as Harry. Not even as Ron or Neville or some cool OC destined to change the world.Nope.

was Sebastian Dimitri Granger, Hermione’s older brother.

Chapter Text

Hermione is the cutest baby sister in the world. I say that not just as her brother, but as someone who has lived a full life without siblings and now finds himself utterly, helplessly wrapped around the chubby little finger of a three-year-old. And I’m helpless to cute things…

In my previous life, I had no siblings. Just two parents tired, kind, and always working. They didn’t have much, but what they gave me was love, sacrifice, and a belief that I could claw my way toward something better. I loved them fiercely, even if I never said it enough. And maybe… maybe that’s why I still can’t fully accept these new parents, no matter how warm or brilliant they are.

They’re dentists. Both of them. Very hardworking, very proper, very determined dentists. They believe teeth are the window to the soul or at least to a successful life. And apparently, that discipline spills over into parenting.

It’s been a few years. I’m four now, Hermione is three, and we’ve somehow become their personal prodigy project. Or rather, I have. They say I’m “gifted.” “Highly intelligent.” “Precociously logical.” What that means in practice is:

At this point, I’m a full year ahead in school, and everyone treat me like I’m some kind of tiny wizard trapped in a child’s body.

Which… okay, fair.

But because of that, I have no friends. Not real ones, anyway. Just older kids who either resent me or see me as a weird little anomaly. The teachers love me, the parents praise me, and the other kids avoid me like I’m a sentient test score.

I don’t mind being alone, not really. But I know better. I’ve been an adult. I’ve been in boardrooms and conference calls and networking brunches where everyone smiled with their teeth and hunted with their eyes. Connections matter. Money matters. People matter even if you hate talking to them.

In my last life, I was called a shark. A magnet. A fox. Demon. Devil. Or even a monster ,Ruthless but efficient. Cold but reliable. I didn’t chase yachts or show off wealth, I chased security. I grew up without it, and I swore I’d never feel that vulnerable again.

So I chased money. Not to hoard it, but to shield the people I loved. I donated. I spoiled my parents. I covered rent for my friends when they were in trouble. I never flaunted, never bragged. I just worked. That was my purpose.

But more then anything I LOVED to WIN

But this life?

Winning is still in the back of my mind it’s a mindset but i can put it away for now…. For now….

I kind of wanted it to be different. A little slower. A little softer.

But my new parents… they have other plans.

So I go along with it. I let them push me from one activity to another like I’m a miniature résumé. I nod when they suggest Latin lessons, I smile during music recitals, I even tolerate piano scales. Because I know something they don’t:

This won’t last.

Soon, I’ll be gone. Off to a school hidden from the Muggle world. To magic. To Hogwarts.

And Hogwarts… oh, how I dreamed of that place.

In my old life, I loved the Harry Potter series. Not just for the spells and monsters and castles but for the mystery of it. The friendships. The danger. The courage that bloomed in dark corridors. I used to spend hours on forums writing fan theories and alternate endings. Sometimes I imagined I was Harry. Other times, I imagined I was someone else entirely someone who didn’t just witness the magic, but shaped it.

Now?

Now I get to live it. But I still try because I know how important it is to master everything.

I don’t know if the events will play out the same. I don’t know if Voldemort exists in this timeline or if Harry’s even been born yet. But I’ll be ready when the time comes.
And until then, I’ll take the small comforts.
Like now.
“Baba…”

The tiny voice tugs me gently out of my thoughts. I look down to see my baby sister standing in front of me. Her dark curls are wild with sleep, her oversized pajamas dragging across the carpet. She’s holding a book in one hand barely gripping it with her tiny fingers—and using the other to tug on my shirt for attention.

Her eyes are big and pleading.
“Let’s read?”
She holds the book up to me. The Chronicles of Narnia. My breath catches for a moment.

That was my favorite book, once. Maybe it still is.

I smile, warmth blooming in my chest. “Of course, Mione. Come here.”

She clambers up onto my lap, wriggling to get comfortable before settling with her cheek against my shoulder. She smells like milk and baby shampoo and crayon wax. I wrap an arm around her and open the book with the other.

The world is quiet.

For a while, there are no decathlons, no pressure, no expectations. Just a brother and his sister, reading about magic doors and talking lions.
For a while, it’s perfect.

Chapter Text

Living a double life is harder when you’re four years old and your legs barely reach the floor. But I'll manage.
Barely.

By day, I’m Sébastien Dimitri Granger, the painfully gifted, painfully quiet son of two over-achieving dentists. I go to school ahead of my year, attend Latin classes in the mornings with kids much older than me, and spend my afternoons being shuffled between piano, chess, and logic puzzles.

By night or rather, in the rare minutes when no one’s looking I am something else entirely.
A wizard because Magic is real.

It’s not some fantasy trapped in pages anymore. It hums in my blood like static under my skin. It’s slippery and invisible, a thing I can feel but not quite name. At first, I thought I was imagining it. That it was wishful thinking.

But the signs kept stacking.

The time I wished for the ball I dropped to roll back and it did, uphill.The time the lightbulb above me flickered and cracked when I was angry.
The time I sneezed and accidentally knocked over every cup in the kitchen with a sudden gust of wind.

Not coincidence. Not imagination.
Magic.

And I was going to master it. No matter what it takes. ( I guess I still have my competitive streak in me)😅
It began with small things.

Late at night, once Hermione was asleep in her crib and my parents were downstairs watching reruns of Foyle’s War I’d sneak into the walk-in closet in my room and shut the door. My wandless training sanctuary. It wasn’t Hogwarts, but it would do. I know how important it is to learn wandless magic.

Weirdly enough I always thought that wands were a hindrance. All the fanfics and all the theories always said that wands just inhance your magic and that's how you loss your wandless magic.
I’d sit on a pile of blankets, close my eyes, and concentrate.

I started simple. Moving things. Pulling a book toward me without touching it. Making a crumpled paper twitch or spin in place. Lighting a match with just my will.
It didn’t work at first. Not really.

But I wanted it too. That wanting it was like stretching a muscle I’d never used before. A strange strain in my chest, a headache blooming behind my eyes, my breath growing tight.
Then one night, the pencil moved.

Only a little. It rolled a few inches toward me across the floor.

But I laughed. A giddy, breathless kind of laugh. Quiet, so no one would hear me.
Victory.
Every night after that, I practiced. Every night, I improved. I started controlling the pull. Then the direction. Then I moved on to heavier things—a small toy, a sock, my Latin textbook. Then chair and after table. I started doing multiple things at once spinning.

I also summon object from the other side of the room as well as transfiguration as i turn some objects turning a sock into a mouse (which was an accident) because it started squeaking in my dark room when everyone was asleep and I panicked and not controlling my magic, I squeezed with my magic and the mouse went pop…. I killed it.. blood everywhere… lucky I got my bearings back and used my magic to clean it… sorry little mouse.. (in memory of little spike… I didn't know what to name a mouse thats dead but oh well 🤷‍♀️) (but why did the blood not effect me?…)

Next I started producing light or little light orbs in my closet using the spell lumos or something like that 🤔

It was pretty. I made a lot and they all looked like stars.. I love stars.. in both lives I loved astronomy and science…. Good old days..
All this, while pretending, by day, to be normal.

“seb , don’t you want to play with the other children?”

That was my teacher’s voice during recess one day. I blinked up at her from my spot under the tree, where I was happily reading Plato (again). I gave her my best innocent smile.
“No thank you,” I said sweetly. “I already know how to play tag.”

She frowned. “But social skills are-”

I turned back to my book. She sighs and walks away.

They didn’t understand. They couldn’t. I wasn’t just a precocious little weirdo. I had to prepare. The magical world wouldn’t wait. And because they're little kids…. And all a bit stupid.. I swear I saw a kid eat a worm and he was a year older then me!!! Ew.
That night, I focused on a new skill.

Occlumency.

I remembered the word from the books. Harry had a hard time with it. It was supposed to protect your mind from being read or manipulated. From what I could recall, it involved clearing the mind and reinforcing mental walls.
Easy, right?

No. Not even close.
It was like trying to bottle smoke. I’d close my eyes and try to empty my thoughts and instead, my brain would *explode* with memories. Old ones, new ones. My parents’ smiles from this life. My mom’s calloused hands from the old one. My first paycheck. Hermione laughed. Losing my cat. A burning candle. The pencil rolling.

Too much.

But I didn’t give up. Every night, before I fell asleep, I practiced. I imagined bricks, stacking one by one. I built a wall in my head, stone by stone. Sometimes it crumbled. Sometimes it held.
Either way, I kept going.

And then there was Latin class.

My parents thought it would “stimulate my vocabulary” and “broaden my linguistic precision.” Honestly? It was a breeze. Latin was a dead language, and I already knew the roots from years of legal documents and corporate terms in my past life. And to be honest I know the importance of learning different languages in my old life I did learn several languages to talk to my clients and business partners such as Chinese and mandarin (which was a pain I think I cried several time but no one needs to know that..) and some Indian and of course my most fluent language Russian. ( the people I meet that spoke it were the most funny people I've met..)

I sat quietly in the front, tiny legs dangling off the chair. The other kids stared at me like I was some kind of lab experiment.

Our instructor, Mr. Crosswell, was the kind of man who wore sweater vests and had a personal vendetta against joy. He hated me from the start. Probably couldn’t stand the idea of a four-year-old outperforming his teenage students.
“Mr. Granger,” he said with a thin smile, “perhaps you can translate this sentence for us, since you seem to be quite the expert.”

He scribbled something on the whiteboard.

Gallia est omnis divisa in partes tres.

My classmates snickered.

I didn’t hesitate. “Gaul is, in its entirety, divided into three parts.”
His eyebrow twitched.

“Very well,” he said, tone sharpening. “What case is ‘partes’ and why?”

“Accusative plural,” I replied calmly. “It’s the direct object of the sentence.”

A few kids actually gasped. One of them choked on their gum.

Mr. Crosswell’s face turned the color of an overripe tomato.

I smiled politely, folding my hands. “Would you like me to decline it?”

He cleared his throat and moved on without answering.
Victory: Me. Again.

But Latin victories and floating pencils aside, I knew my time was running short.

Hogwarts would come. Magic would come.

And I couldn’t afford to waste a single moment.
So I practiced.

I built my mental walls.

I read every book in the house

I watched Hermione grow, wondering when her magic would appear and how I could protect her when it did.
And I waited.

Quietly. Carefully.

A secret spark waiting to become flame.

Chapter Text

By the time I turned ten, the magic had become harder to hide and so had the loneliness.

Hermione’s magic came in quiet little bursts at first. A flickering light bulb when she was scared. A toy floating down instead of crashing. One time, she got so mad at a riddle she couldn’t solve that the book quite literally *shook itself apart* in her lap.
I’d been waiting for it.

Watching.
And when it finally came, I smiled like a proud big brother… then panicked like a criminal hiding a body.

We were still just kids. Our parents clever as they were didn’t believe in things they couldn’t measure, drill, or file on a dental chart. Magic? That was nonsense. Fiction. Ridiculous.
So I made a choice.
I didn’t tell them.

Instead, I turned it into a game.

“It’s called the Great Game of Secrets,” I told Hermione one afternoon, crouching in our shared closet-turned-hideout. “We’re undercover magicians. Born with special powers. But if anyone finds out… they’ll make us disappear.”
Her eyes widened, sparkling with excitement and the seriousness only a nine-year-old could summon. “Disappear like poof gone? Or disappear like being taken away to a scary tower?”

I gasped dramatically. “Worse. Like… turned into goats.”

She clutched my arm. “Noooo.” tears in the corners of her eyes.
“Exactly,” I said solemnly. “That’s why we have to train in secret. Practice our powers. Get better. But above all hide it. No one must know.”

To her, it became a game of imagination. Pretending to levitate her blocks, learning to “charm” her pencils to bounce, or whispering spells to help the flowers in the backyard bloom faster. I gently guided her, nudging her instincts, making each act of accidental magic feel like a victory in a game instead of a dangerous anomaly.
She was brilliant.

She just didn’t know it yet.
But while Hermione’s magic grew quietly, something else began to shrink: our parents’ presence.

They were always busy before, sure. But now… they were *absent*.
Birthdays were missed. Calls from the office came during dinner. One Christmas, we opened presents alone mine was a book on international business ethics; Hermione’s, a self-assembled dentist anatomy model.

They tried. In the way overworked professionals try when they still believe success can substitute affection. But the warmth had faded.
The house became quieter. Colder.

Hermione didn’t notice it as much still too young, too distracted by her books and daydreams. But I did. And I knew what would happen when I left for Hogwarts.
They’d forget.

Not because they were cruel. Just… distracted. They’d smile at holidays. Ask about grades. But they wouldn’t really be there.
So I planned ahead.

I needed money.
It started small.

Our parents, in an attempt to “foster responsibility,” gave us monthly allowances. Nothing major—but enough for a child. Hermione, being Hermione, used hers to buy books. Not even *for herself*. She bought books for *me*.

“I read this one already,” she said one day, proudly handing me a copy of Advanced Logic Puzzles for Children. “It’s perfect for your game strategies.”
I wanted to cry and hug her. Instead, I ruffled her hair and told her she was my favorite co-conspirator.

I spent my money differently.
Snacks.
Specifically, the kinds of snacks our school cafeteria never stocked. I bought it in bulk. Stored them under my bed. Then sold them at school like some pint-sized black-market dealer.
One chocolate bar: £1.
Crisps? 75p.
Bubblegum packs? £2, especially if exams were near and nerves were high.

My classmates were *obsessed*. One even tried to trade me his dad’s rare football card for a bag of jelly beans.

That wasn’t all.
I noticed something early on: smart kids were lazy. Or busy. Or both.

So I started offering “study help.” Then “homework assistance.” Then full-on “custom essay guidance.”
For a price, of course.

They paid in lunch money. Pocket change. Gift cards. Sometimes even IOUs.
I helped them ace spelling bees. I designed their science fair layouts. I even ghostwrote a Valentine’s poem for a boy too nervous to speak in full sentences. He got a kiss on the cheek. I got five quid.

It wasn’t much individually, but it added up fast.
I kept the money hidden in places even Hermione wouldn’t look—inside old math books, behind the bottom drawer of my desk, under a loose floorboard in the hallway closet.

By ten years old, I had saved over £250. It was the beginning.
I wasn’t sure what I’d need money for once Hogwarts started. But I knew I didn’t want to rely on *them*—the Ministry, the school, or even our parents.

I needed autonomy.
Security.
A cushion of power, soft and silent.

And so, while other kids were building pillow forts or arguing over football, I was building an empire—small, secret, and steadily growing.
At home, Hermione would tug my sleeve while we read together, whispering, “Did you see? The pencil moved!”
I’d nod, eyes warm. “You’re getting stronger. Just remember the rules.”
She’d recite them like gospel:
“Rule One: Hide the power.
Rule Two: Never do magic when anyone’s watching.
Rule Three: If caught, pretend it was the wind.”

“And Rule Four?” I’d ask, raising an eyebrow.
She’d grin. “We never tell *adults*.”

Smart girl.
We were just children two ordinary siblings in a quiet suburban home.
But behind every bedtime story, every Latin worksheet, every snack sold in secret and spell practiced in hiding, we were preparing.

For the world that waited.
For the letters that would one day arrive.
For magic.

Real magic.
And no matter how distant our parents became… no matter how cold the house felt some days… I had Hermione.
And she had me.
That was enough.
For now.

Chapter Text

I woke up on the morning of my eleventh birthday before the sun even rose.

Not because I was excited for cake or balloons or a surprise party—please. My parents had been “called into surgery” for a last-minute appointment again. The best I could expect was a voicemail singing “Happy Birthday” off-key and maybe a generic gift card tossed on the kitchen counter.

They’d tried harder when Hermione and I were smaller baking cakes, planning scavenger hunts. But somewhere between more clients, bigger offices, and endless “urgent” calls, they’d swapped quality time for quality toothpaste brands.

No. I wasn’t awake because of them.

I was awake because today was the day.

The day.

The day I’d been counting down to since the moment I realized I wasn’t just some random British kid with a good memory.

If the books were right—and they usually were—then Hogwarts letters arrived on your eleventh birthday.

I lay there in the dim light, staring at the ceiling, rehearsing the moment in my head. The knock at the door. The owl. The parchment envelope with my name written in curling green ink, sealed with red wax.

I checked the front step twice before six in the morning. Twice more before breakfast.

Nothing.

Maybe I’d gotten it wrong. Maybe this wasn’t the Harry Potter world. Maybe all the magic, all the training… had been me playing a very elaborate, very stupid game.

By the time I walked back inside, my excitement had drained into a slow, heavy dread.

The smell of burnt toast and coffee greeted me in the kitchen. My parents were leaning against the counter, both dressed for work, mugs in hand, already in the middle of a heated debate about some client who was “too stubborn to follow proper dental hygiene.”

I sat down at the kitchen table, sulking into my chair.

The sound of soft footsteps on the tile made me glance right.

“Good morning, my little bookworm,” I said, and my voice softened without me meaning to. Hermione stumbled in, hair sticking up in half a dozen curls, eyes still halfway shut. She looked like she’d just escaped from the pages of a bedtime story.

“Mor’in,” she mumbled, climbing onto the chair beside me.

I grabbed the hairbrush from the counter and began working gently through her curls, the way she liked. Brown ringlets slid between my fingers like silk. I’d always loved her hair. Mine was similar wavy brown, with a few stubborn curls at my neck I have wispy layers blended into face framing pieces, soft wispy bangs that can be both curtain and regular if possible, Bellow ears above shoulders, and whatever dark drown hair I have it looks shaggy. And to be honest I might grow it out. but hers was… *it was hers*.

Our parents didn’t look up. Didn’t say “good morning.” They’d switched topics, now discussing lunch plans between sips of coffee.

Hermione leaned into my arm, eyes fluttering shut as I finished detangling her hair.

It was so ordinary. So painfully normal.

Maybe too normal.

I was halfway through convincing myself I’d been wrong halfway through imagining the rest of my life as a very smart, very bored dentist’s son – when it happened.

*BANG!*

The noise hit like a gunshot, rattling the kitchen window.

My mother yelped, nearly spilling her coffee. My dad froze mid-sentence.

On the other side of the glass, an owl stared at us—massive, with feathers the color of storm clouds and eyes like molten gold. The intensity of its gaze made the room feel smaller.

My mother instinctively reached for the nearest “weapon”—a wooden spoon—like she was about to duel the bird to the death.

The owl tilted its head slowly, unblinking. Then, with deliberate grace, it lifted one claw.

Clutched in it was a heavy, cream-colored envelope.

The seal glimmered red in the morning light.

My name—my name—was written across the front in curling green ink:

**Sébastien Dimitri Granger**
The Second Bedroom, Upstairs
19 Maple Crescent
Oxford, England

My heart slammed against my ribs.

This was it.

YES!! Finally!!!

Chapter Text

The letter arrived.

Not just any letter—thick parchment, his name written in emerald green ink. He knew instantly what it was. His pulse hammered. He tore it open before Hermione could reach for it, reading the words that confirmed everything he had secretly prepared for.

Hogwarts.

He tucked the letter under his arm when his parents entered the room. They noticed immediately. His mother’s eyes narrowed, his father’s jaw tightened. “What’s that?”

He handed it over silently.

Hermione, curious, peeked over their shoulders, but they shooed her away. Their faces darkened as they read.

“A school for—magic?” his father scoffed. “Ridiculous.”
His mother’s lips pressed thin. “This is absurd. Some prank, clearly. You’ll not be entertaining this foolishness.”

His chest tightened. “It’s not a prank. You’ve seen it—you’ve both seen it.” I know they have I've seen it, I remember when I was just a baby.

Silence. A silence thicker than air, one that made Hermione frown in confusion.

Finally, his mother spoke, cold and clipped. “You will not speak of this in front of your sister.”

That was the moment the wedge drove deeper. Hermione still smiled at him, still believed in their “game,” but their parents had already decided—they would deny it, bury it, cut him off from Hermione if they had to.

But then the knock came. Sharp, purposeful.

When the door opened, a tall woman stood framed in the evening light, her dark hair pulled into a severe bun, her robes unmistakable. She looked out of place in their neat suburban neighborhood, yet she stood with a presence that demanded silence.

“Mr. and Mrs. Granger,” she said with the faintest Scottish lilt. “My name is Professor McGonagall. I am here regarding your son.”.

Professor Minerva McGonagall.

Her gaze swept across the small family, lingering on Hermione for a moment—bright-eyed, nervous, practically bouncing in place—and then on me, calmer, sharper, watching. I didn’t trust easily. Not anymore.

“Good evening,” she said, her Scottish lilt clear. “My name is Professor McGonagall. I teach at a very particular school for gifted children. I am here because both of your children have been accepted.”

Hermione gasped, practically vibrating with glee. I stayed quiet, weighing her words.

Our parents, however, stiffened. Father’s lips thinned. Mother forced a polite smile, though I saw the confusion in her eyes. “Accepted? I don’t recall applying to any such school,” she said.

McGonagall gave a faint smile, patient but firm. “That is because it is not an ordinary school. It is… well, perhaps it is best if I show you.”

She lifted her wand, smooth and graceful, and with a flick, the vase on the table sprouted long, blooming lilies. Hermione gasped again, clapping her hands over her mouth, while our parents both took a startled step back.

“This,” McGonagall said calmly, “is magic.”

The silence stretched, broken only by Hermione’s barely contained squeal of joy. “I knew it! I knew it wasn’t just us imagining things! When I made my teddy bear float and—and when you, you—” She turned to me, eyes shining, but I subtly shook my head, reminding her of our little “secret game.”

McGonagall continued, her voice measured, as though she’d given this speech a thousand times. “You see, some children are born with the gift of magic. It cannot be taught to those without it, nor can it be denied to those who do. When they reach the age of eleven, they are invited to attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, where they will learn to control and refine their abilities.”

Hermione’s hand shot up instinctively, as if she were already in class. “Professor, does this mean there are whole libraries of books about magic? Do we get to read all of them? And learn spells, and potions, and charms?”

McGonagall’s stern expression softened, ever so slightly. “Yes, Miss Granger. There are many libraries, and you will indeed study all those subjects. And more.”

Hermione practically glowed, her grin so wide it threatened to split her face.

Mother, however, spoke up, voice tight. “Magic? This… this seems impossible. And dangerous.” She cast me a brief look—was that worry? Fear?—before turning back to McGonagall. “Why should I believe this… this world exists?”

McGonagall did not flinch. She conjured a small silver cat from her wand; it leapt gracefully onto the table and began pacing, its fur shimmering with ethereal light. “Because the evidence is before you,” she said. “And because your children have already shown signs of it, I am certain.”

I felt the weight of her gaze flicker over me, sharp and knowing. She could see it—how careful I’d been to hide my own control, how deliberate my practice had become. My throat tightened, but I forced myself to hold her gaze, expression neutral.

Father folded his arms. “And what if we refuse? What if we don’t allow them to go?”

The silver cat vanished, and McGonagall’s voice, though still polite, took on an edge of iron. “Then you would deny your children the chance to learn how to master a power they already possess. Untrained magic is unstable. It could harm them—or those around them—if left unchecked. Hogwarts is not merely an opportunity. It is a necessity.”

That silenced the room.

I spoke at last, my voice quieter, steadier than Hermione’s bubbling enthusiasm. “So… there are others. Like us.”

McGonagall inclined her head. “Yes. Many. Though each witch or wizard is unique in their talent, you will find others who share your gift. You will not be alone.”

Hermione beamed at me, clearly thrilled, but I only nodded slowly. Not alone. That sounded comforting. But also… complicated.

Mother glanced at Father. They exchanged one of those silent conversations adults thought children never noticed. Something unspoken passed between them—hesitation, maybe even fear—but when they looked back at McGonagall, their faces were carefully composed.

“We will… think on this,” Mother said at last.

“You will have time,” McGonagall agreed, rising to her feet. “But know this—their letters are not invitations that may be declined forever. They are summons. Hogwarts is where they belong.”

Hermione bounced on her toes. “So we really get to go? Both of us?”

McGonagall gave a curt nod. “Yes. Both of you.” Her gaze softened, just slightly, when it landed on me again. “Though I suspect one of you has already begun to walk the path of magic on his own. Caution, Mr. Granger. Power is a responsibility as much as it is a gift.”

The words settled into me like a stone sinking into water, sending ripples through thoughts I had long kept private. She knew. She saw more than she said.

And I realized, for the first time, that the real test wasn’t just whether I could master my magic in secret—it was whether I could master myself.

The next day my parents were giving me the cold shoulder but to be honest I already knew this would be coming.

Luckily I was able to talk to McGonagall before she left and convince her that I’m responsible enough that I can do the shopping myself. I got the address and I already got some money from my parents begrudgingly.

So 250 from what I have plus 300 my parents gave me. To be honest they just want to get me out of the house for a while so they gave me more than usual which surprises me and my sister. So oh well. But I must not waste it. 550 is my maximum but I’ll only need to spend 200 minimum. I started calculating everything in my head.

The trip was actually shorter than I thought it would be. But getting past the bar tender Tom was alright he was quite nice.

—

First stop the bank

The marble steps of Gringotts Wizarding Bank loomed ahead, tall and white, gleaming against the crooked cobblestones of Diagon Alley. For a place hidden away from the normal world, it had an intimidating grandeur. The goblin guards at the front doors, armored and sharp-eyed, looked more like something out of a war than a bank.

I swallowed.

Inside, the place was worse — or maybe better, depending on how much you liked the sight of polished floors, chandeliers glittering with magic, and rows of long counters manned by goblins scribbling away with quills faster than my eyes could follow. I clutched my bag, feeling the coins heavy inside. This wasn’t a place where mistakes were forgiven easily.

I cleared my throat and stepped forward to one of the free counters. The goblin barely looked up, just gave me a sharp-eyed glance that made me feel as though he was measuring my entire worth in one blink.

“State your business,” the goblin rasped.

“I—uh—” I fumbled, then straightened, remembering Professor McGonagall’s advice: Goblins respect confidence.
“I’ve come to make a withdrawal. And… I was told there might be some records about family inheritance I could check?”

That got his attention. The goblin’s eyes gleamed, though his mouth barely moved. “Name?”

I gave it. He scratched something down on parchment, then slid off his stool with a surprising swiftness. “Follow me.”

—-

The cart ride was everything people said it would be fast, cold, and slightly terrifying. I gripped the edges until my knuckles turned white and a grin appeared on my face as I tried not to giggle, the goblin grinning faintly as we plunged deeper into the twisting caverns. But before long, the rattling cart stopped before a vault door.

“Your key,” the goblin said simply.

I handed it over, and the vault opened with a groan of ancient metal. Inside… well, I hadn’t expected much. But the stacks of gleaming coins, neatly arranged and higher than my knees, made me freeze. I counted automatically in my head — definitely more than enough to cover books, robes, and even a few luxuries.

Still, what had caught my interest wasn’t the money. It was the goblin’s next words.

“There is, however, something unusual in your family file.” He produced another parchment from the cart. “Records indicate a potential link to an older line. Bloodline magic requires you to be of age sixteen to perform the full inheritance ritual. Until then, the connection cannot be confirmed.”

I frowned. “An older line? What do you mean?”

The goblin gave me a long look, clearly debating how much to say. “The name Ambrosius appears. A wizard of considerable fame… long dead. It seems… some of his blood flows in your veins. You will need to return when you are older. Until then, your vault has been adjusted to reflect a… preliminary inheritance.”

The goblin gestured, and at once, coins shifted from a smaller drawer to the larger pile in my vault, the sound echoing sharply in the cavern.

I blinked, stunned. Ambrosius. The name tickled something in the back of my mind, a figure from one of those half-forgotten legends, someone spoken of in passing like Merlin or Morgana.

“Why… why give me more now, if the test isn’t complete?” I asked cautiously.

The goblin’s expression didn’t change, though there was something sharp in his eyes. “Because even half a truth has power. The bank honors bloodlines, no matter how faint. Be grateful.”

And I was.

“Thank you,” I said, and I meant it slightly bowing .

The goblin froze. His quill, midway to scratching something on parchment, hovered in the air. His eyes snapped to me, cold and unreadable and yet, behind that, I swore I saw a flicker of… confusion. Gratitude wasn’t something goblins often heard, apparently.

After a long, tense silence, he grunted and waved for me to leave.

I didn’t argue. Clutching the pouch of coins, heavier than when I came in, I hurried back toward the surface.

As I stepped out into the warm air of Diagon Alley, the thought echoed in my mind:

Ambrosius. Huh, I should remember that.

Chapter Text

I stepped out of Gringotts with my pouch a little heavier and my mind buzzing with possibilities. The goblins had been efficient almost unnervingly so but polite in their own sharp-toothed way. I had bowed my head in gratitude before leaving, which seemed to startle them. Maybe wizards didn’t thank goblins often. A strange thought.

Still, I had no time to dwell on it. McGonagall’s words echoed in my mind: “You’ll need robes, Mr. Granger. Hogwarts has a strict uniform policy, and the Muggle attire will not do for classes.”

So, clothes it was. As I look down at my list.

The sign above the next shop read in golden lettering: Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions. The windows were filled with mannequins turning slowly to show off shimmering cloaks, pointed hats, and robes that shifted color depending on the light. My sister would have squealed at the sight of it.

Inside, the shop smelled faintly of fresh fabric, chalk, and a hint of something magical—like lightning caught in cloth.

“Welcome, dear!” Madam Malkin bustled over, a plump witch with sharp eyes that missed nothing. “First-year, are we? Hogwarts, no doubt.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, keeping my voice polite. “I’ll need the full set. And… a bit more.”

Her eyebrows rose at that. “Oh? Not every student thinks ahead.”

I did the math quickly in my head. “I’ll need at least three school robes. Two sets of everyday robes. A cloak for winter, boots that actually last, and—” I hesitated, scanning the rows of robes embroidered with silver and gold threads. “—something for formal occasions.”

“Ambitious,” Madam Malkin said with a chuckle, though she already had her wand out to start measuring me. The tape measure leapt from her hand and wound itself around my shoulders, legs, and arms while she clucked in approval.

As the enchanted measuring tape darted around me, I studied the racks. Some robes were plain black, perfect for Hogwarts. Others were deep forest green, midnight blue, or rich crimson. Some shimmered faintly, hinting at enchantments—self-repairing, weatherproof, even stain-resistant. Practicality appealed to me far more than style.

“Any preferences, dear?” she asked, jotting notes on her parchment as the tape slithered back into her pocket.

“Durability,” I said immediately. “Something I won’t have to replace after a week. And pockets.”

That earned me a surprised laugh. “Pockets! You’re the first to ever say that. Sensible boy.”

Within an hour, I had a wardrobe that would have made any wizard envious:

-Three sets of crisp black Hogwarts robes.
-Two everyday robes—one a deep green that almost looked black until it caught the light, the other navy blue with a subtle silver lining.
-A heavy winter cloak lined with enchanted wool to keep out the cold.
-Sturdy dragonhide boots that fit like they had been made for me.
-A formal set of robes in dark gray with understated embroidery that hinted at elegance without being flashy.

When Madam Malkin handed me the final total, I winced but nodded. It was more than I had planned to spend, but the way the robes felt—comfortably heavy, protective, almost like armor—it felt worth it.

“You’ll grow into these,” Madam Malkin said approvingly, tucking the packages neatly into a single enchanted bag that was feather-light despite the load. “Most students come in and grab the bare minimum. You, young man, have an eye for what you’ll need.”

I gave her a small smile. “I don’t want to be unprepared.”

She paused, studying me for a moment longer than necessary, then gave a slow nod as though she understood something about me without me saying it aloud.

As I stepped out of the shop, I felt different. Not just dressed for school—but dressed for a *world.* For a moment, I even allowed myself the luxury of imagining what it would be like to belong here.

As I wait for all the clothes to be packed and shrunk I look into corner and see makeup and jewelry. My interest is peeked and I walk to the corner like a raven to shiny things.

I see a lot of cufflinks, watches, necklace, chains, rings,
As well some make up which I barely understand but know from watching my mom.

“Oh, dear will you like to try some on!” Malikins asks making me flinch not realizing how close someone got to me.

I look at the table and think about it..”sure what do you recommend?” I asked her curiously

She looks at me at the table then smiles. She starts picking up 4 silver men rings. As well as a silver chain necklace. But what surprised me was when she picked up a small bottle of makeup..

“Um… what is that?” I ask her unsure.

“Kohl, it will make your amber eyes pop more!” She said exited

I looked her then at the bottle the gave up and shrugged..

Few minutes after

‘Damn I look hot and so different ’ I think looking into the mirror thanks to ms. Malks. I learned how to put it on without smudging.

We pack everything up and I thanked her and told her I’ll be back with a smile.

I leave the store

Next stop: books.

If Madam Malkin’s had felt like stepping into a new life, Flourish and Blotts felt like stepping into heaven.

The little bell above the door rang as I pushed it open, and the sound of it—soft, cheerful—made my chest flutter in a way I hadn’t expected. A clerk at the counter barely looked up, used to the steady trickle of Hogwarts-bound students. But I froze right there on the threshold, because the smell—oh, the smell.

Leather. Ink. Parchment. Dust. The faint, almost citrus-like tang of fresh-printed runes. It was the scent of every library I had ever loved multiplied by ten and then steeped in something richer. I wanted to bottle it.

Books weren’t just lined on shelves. They were stacked in towers on the floor. They filled crates by the door. Some even floated just overhead, rearranging themselves without a single hand touching them. The walls groaned under the weight of volumes that looked like they could swallow me whole.

If Ravenclaw were my House, I thought, this would be my sanctuary.

I remembered a quote I had clung to once, from a film Hermione and I had watched together late at night. “We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race… Medicine, law, business, engineering—these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love—these are what we stay alive for.”

Standing there, surrounded by the pulse of thousands of voices trapped in parchment, I finally understood what that actor had meant.

I could almost hear Hermione’s squeal of delight if she had been with me. The way she’d dart down the aisles, pulling book after book with that greedy sparkle in her eyes. I smiled faintly. If she were here, we’d already be arguing about who got to read which book first.

But she wasn’t. And maybe that was for the best. Because I had a mission.

He looks down at the book list:

COURSE BOOKS

All students should have a copy of each of the following
The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk
A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling
A Beginners' Guide to Transfiguration by Emeric Switch One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore
Magical Draughts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger

Well… it is not against the rules to get more books… my poor wallet

I start to pick a book cover and name that looks interesting. (who says we can't judge by it covers)

Shadows and Shields: Defensive Magic for Beginners — by Aurelius Grimm
The Fundamentals of Rune Craft — by Callidora Vane.
Introduction to Magical Theory — by Adalbert Waffling
Alchemy Simplified: From Lead to Gold, and Why It Matters — by Thaddeus Blunt.
Secrets of the Silent Mind (a beginner’s book hinting at Occlumency) — by Cassian Crowe.
A Child’s Guide to the Dark Arts (And Why Not to Use Them) — by Euphemia Blackthorn.
Magizoology for the Young Explorer — by Rhiannon Scamander (a relative of Newt).
Bloodlines and Power: A Study of Magical Families — by Vespera Selwyn.
Stars, Stones, and Spells: An Astrological Guide to Magic — by Celestina Mirabilis.

I kept walking trying to find more books, unconsciously all the heavy books that kept grabbing started floating behind me as i continued walking not noticing the eyes on me by the clerk and some employes and costumers.

I was reaching for Moste Potente Potions (Beginner’s Copy) when someone brushed past me. My books wobbled, nearly toppling.
“Watch it,” a low voice muttered.

I turned, annoyed, and found myself staring into the face of a boy about my age. Black hair hung over sharp, pale features, and his dark eyes glittered with suspicion. His robes were a little too long for him, clearly second-hand, but kept in careful condition.
“Sorry,” I said quickly, steadying my stack.

His gaze flicked to the book on top of my pile. Not seeing the other books floating behind me.

“Moste Potente Potions? That’s… advanced.” His tone wasn’t mocking, just curious.

I shrugged. “Better to start early, right? Besides, it’s not like I’m planning on brewing them tomorrow. Knowledge is knowledge.”

Something shifted in his expression—just a fraction, but enough. His lips twitched, almost into a smile. “Most people my age wouldn’t even bother.”
“Most people my age think long division is difficult,” I said dryly.

That did it. He gave a quiet, short laugh, almost as if he hadn’t expected it. “Fair point.” He adjusted his own stack of books, and I caught the titles: Curses and Counter-Curses, Magical Drafts and Potions, and a thick tome on Advanced Potion-Making.
“You’re into potions?” I asked, genuinely curious.
His eyes lit up, just a little. “They’re… predictable. Everything else about magic feels like chaos, but potions—potions make sense. If you respect the rules, they work.”

I nodded slowly. “Sounds like business, then.”

He frowned. “Business?”

“Business has structure” I say with the shrug of my shoulders not assembling to move my full hands.
He tilts his head trying to keep his face neutral but I with two lives can see child curiosity. He tilts his head to the side. Like a bird trying not to ask a million questions.
“Are you into business?” he asks, not sure.

I give him a sly smile “ who knows” I say still looking at the boy. The boy eyes me even more but i dont show anything on my face.(many years of climbing the social ladder of my career with make your face stone cold to not show your cards but i LOVE using my emotions as a game especially those who play with me.)

I turn to go to the front done browsing all the isles for now as walk i see a couple books the peek my interest

“Wand, Robes, and Respect: A Guide to Proper Wizarding Etiquette”by Euphemia Selwyn
“Etiquette for Young Lords and Ladies of Magic” by Artemisia Nott
And
“Magical Governance: A Beginner’s Guide to the Ministry of Magic” by Hector Spindlewit
Bloodlines and Power: The Families That Shaped Wizarding Britain” by Cassius Malfoy

I quickly grab them and continue walking. As I walk I notice a small inhale of breath, I turn back and see the boy staring at me I raise an eyebrow. I think maybe I did something wrong then shrug “ would you like to join me? I still need to get some supplies?”
The kid got his bearings and stared at me like I was some species that's not from this world. But he shook his head then nodded at me “ sure why not” he mutter lowly

He fell into step beside me, clutching his books tightly against his chest like a shield. We wove through the crowded aisles toward the counter. I could feel his eyes flick toward me every few seconds, quick glances he thought I wouldn’t notice.
At the counter, the clerk’s eyebrows rose when he saw my stack. “That’s… quite the haul, young man. Most don’t even look past their course list.”

The clerk blinked, then just shrugged and began to total it up. I caught Severus watching me again out of the corner of his eye, something unreadable flickering in his expression. Admiration? Wariness? A mix of both.
As the clear wraps all the books and shrinks them i look over to the kid ( which i still dont know the name of..)

“Yes?” i look at the kid which looks to familiar but i cant pin point it.

Once the books were wrapped in brown paper and tied with string, I stacked them carefully in my arms. Severus still hadn’t moved, like he was weighing a decision. Finally, he asked, “Why etiquette books? And… politics?”
I smirked faintly. “Because if I’m walking into a world I don’t know, I’d rather not trip over its rules. Knowledge is power, but presentation…” I shrugged. “Presentation gets you through doors.”
He tilted his head again, sharp and curious as a crow. “Most wizards don’t think like that.”

“Most people don’t think at all,” I countered.

That earned me another flicker of a smile, but this one almost looked… reluctant.

We stepped outside into the bustling street, the noise of Diagon Alley wrapping around us. I adjusted my packages and glanced at him. “Do you always shop alone?”
Severus stiffened. His eyes darted away. “It’s easier that way.”

Something in his tone told me not to press. I just nodded and shifted the subject. “I’ve still got a few more stops. Wand, cauldron, scales. And animals you can tag along if you want.”
For a moment, he looked like he’d say no. Like he always said no. Then, surprising even himself, he muttered, “Fine. For a bit.”

Chapter Text

The streets of Diagon Alley bustled with life, noise, and color. Cauldrons rattled in front of shops, owls hooted indignantly from their cages, and every so often a firework-like burst of magic crackled overhead.

Walking beside me, Severus Snape stuck out like a crow among sparrows—dark, quiet, watchful. Where other children pressed their noses against glass displays or tugged their parents’ robes for sweets, he held his stack of books tight to his chest and scanned the crowd like someone expecting to be shoved aside.

“Wand next?” I asked.

He gave a small shrug. “Most first-years leave it for last.”

“Why?”

His lips twitched. “Dramatic effect, I suppose.”

I huffed a laugh. “Well, I’m not here for drama. I just want to get everything done.”

We passed a cart selling sugar quills, and for a fleeting second, his gaze lingered on them. But he quickly looked away, as if catching himself. I pretended not to notice.

Our first stop was Potage’s Cauldron Shop. The place reeked of metal and coal, the shelves lined with pewter, brass, copper, and even a black iron model that looked like it could withstand a dragon’s breath.

The shopkeeper droned off the options in a bored tone: “Standard pewter, size two—school requirement. Collapsible models. Self-stirring, though you’ll not be allowed to use those at Hogwarts. Copper for advanced work…”

I picked up the standard cauldron—it felt sturdy enough but plain. Then my eyes snagged on a slightly pricier pewter one with reinforced sides and a charm to resist warping from heat. Practical. Worth the extra few sickles.

“I’ll take this one,” I said.

Severus raised a brow. “Most just grab the cheapest.”

“Most don’t think ahead,” I replied easily.

He gave me one of those sideways looks again, the kind that weighed and measured every word I said.

From there, we went to buy a set of brass scales and glass phials. Severus lingered over the shelves longer than I did, fingertips grazing the higher-quality sets with a longing he didn’t voice. When I finally said, “Pick one,” he blinked like I’d slapped him.

“I—what?”

“Pick one. I’ll cover it. Call it an early ‘thank you’ for keeping me company.”

Suspicion flared instantly in his eyes. “Why?”

“Because no one should have to compromise on their tools.” I said it simply, without pity.

For a long moment, he stared at me, his mouth tightening. Then, almost reluctantly, he chose a sturdier set of phials. When the shopkeeper wrapped them, Severus muttered something I almost didn’t catch: “Thanks.”

We stepped back out into the sunlit chaos of the Alley. I adjusted my packages, feeling the weight shift. “Next is the wand,” I said, and even I felt a flutter of anticipation at that.

Severus’s expression flickered for a moment—something between envy and longing—but he smoothed it away so quickly I almost doubted I’d seen it.

Ollivanders loomed ahead, tall and crooked, the windows stacked with narrow wand boxes. The sign creaked faintly in the breeze, and something about the air here felt… alive.

“After you,” I said, gesturing toward the door.

Severus hesitated, then followed me inside.

The shop was quiet as a tomb, dust motes swirling lazily in shafts of light. Shelves stretched impossibly high, each box neat but humming with something invisible. My skin prickled.

“Good afternoon.”

The voice slid through the air like silk. Mr. Ollivander stepped from the shadows, his pale eyes gleaming as they darted from me to Severus and back again. “Ah… new customers. How curious. Yes, yes… I wondered when I’d be seeing you.”

I swallowed. “Me, or—?”

“Both.” His smile was faint, knowing. “But one at a time.”

He beckoned me forward, and my pulse leapt. This was it.

The moment I had been waiting for.

Mr. Ollivander’s pale eyes glittered as he circled me. “Curious… very curious. I see it already—you will not be an easy one to fit. Let us begin.”

He pulled a long tape measure from his sleeve, and it immediately sprang to life, snapping around my arms, neck, even my temple, all while he muttered to himself. “Yes… promising build, strong hands, a mind not easily swayed… fascinating, fascinating.”

Severus shifted uncomfortably beside me, hugging his books tighter.

The first wand placed in my hand was too light, too brittle. A flick, and the tip sputtered sparks like a dying firecracker. Ollivander plucked it away before I could blink.

The second hummed faintly, but when I swished it, a stack of boxes tumbled from a shelf, scattering across the floor. “No, no,” Ollivander tutted. “That will never do.”

One wand after another—ash, willow, hawthorn—they all resisted me, either limp in my hand or violent in their rejection. I was beginning to sweat.

Then, Ollivander stopped before a tall, narrow cabinet, fingers brushing the handle as though unlocking a memory. He drew out a box with surprising reverence, his voice lowering.

“Now here… here is something very rare. Thunderbird feather and dragon heartstring. A dual core unpredictable, yes, but powerful. Fire and storm. Untamed forces bound together. The wood is blackthorn, traditionally a wand of warriors… though this one has been… altered.”

He opened the box.

The wand lay nestled in velvet: twelve and three-quarter inches of sleek blackthorn wood, the grain so dark it seemed to drink in the light. Along the handle, faint carvings shimmered like constellations, tiny stars inlaid with silver dust, glowing faintly as though lit by moonlight.

I reached out and wrapped my fingers around it.

The air shifted.

Heat and electricity coiled up my arm, making the hairs on my skin stand on end. My chest filled with something vast and alive, like breathing in thunderclouds just before a storm broke. I gave it a cautious flick, and the room burst into brilliant golden sparks that rained down like falling stars before fading into nothing.

Ollivander’s pale eyes gleamed. “Yes. Yes! That is the one. A wand for one who stands between two worlds, carrying both destruction and creation. Thunderbird feather and dragon heartstring—how curious indeed…” He tilted his head sharply, his gaze piercing. “You will shape great storms in your lifetime, I think. But whether you calm them or unleash them…” His thin smile curved. “…ah, that is the question.”

I swallowed, still feeling the echo of thunder in my veins. “How much?”

“Seven galleons,” Ollivander murmured, almost distracted. “ 10 if you want to buy a wand holder?”

“Okay, ill take one black wand holder please” i said while giving him the coins.

I wait for the kid to finish as well when done. We both leave the store winded and tired but it's done now. 

We look at each other and I say “ so that's why people leave it for last…” I said with a dramatic sigh.

The kid huffs trying not to laugh but he continues walking as we continue walking he stops “ damn..” i look at him curiously with one eye brow up

“I need to go, I told my mother I'll be back before lunch” he said hesitantly, slightly shifting like he's ready to book it.

I nod and smile “ alright then lets meet at the train station when we go to Hogwarts and if you want we can still stay in touch?” i said giving my hand as a handshake “ by the way im Sebastian Granger.. And you are”

The kid gives me a look of surprise like i dint yell at him for leaving and still wants to talk to him. He shakes away his awe and shakes my hand “Severus snape… thanks again i-ill just see you at the Hogwarts express no need to send letters.” he said as he waved back

I waved back as well trying not to scream. I watch him disappear as my hands fly up to my hair as panic starts to rise.

F**KF**K

F**K

F**K

DAMN IT IM IN A FANFIC!!! 

Ughhhhhh there are so many!!!! 

Which fanfic, which AU, which one!!!!

People walking by look at him like he just came a psych ward. Okay Sebastian we need to calm down.