The week passed surprisingly quickly. The days blurred together, though deep down, I felt a growing sense of excitement. I had read my Hogwarts letter so many times I knew it by heart. The shopping list was long: books, robes, various supplies, a cauldron, potion ingredients, a brass scale, a telescope… and — what pleased me the most — the wand was already mine.
At exactly noon, just as she had promised, Professor McGonagall knocked on the orphanage door. This time, the caretaker seemed entirely normal, which suggested that no magic had been used on her — not like last time.
McGonagall didn't waste time on small talk. After a brief exchange of pleasantries, she took me straight to the Leaky Cauldron. The trip was quick — we Apparated from one of the side alleys. A sharp pop, the familiar spinning sensation, and suddenly — the scent of old wood, smoke, and pumpkin ale, mingling with the quiet hum of conversation.
"Come along, Oliver," she said firmly, making her way toward the back courtyard.
She raised her wand and tapped a brick three times. The stones shifted with a soft rustle, revealing the entrance to Diagon Alley.
It took my breath away — again.
Crowds of people, colorful shop windows, stores packed with magical goods, robes fluttering in displays, cauldrons of every shape and size... and that faint scent of magic in the air, as if everything around us was quietly alive.
"First, your robes," said McGonagall, and led me into Madam Malkin's.
The shop was full of children trying on school uniforms. Among them, I spotted a slightly round-faced, dark-haired boy. If I remembered correctly, that had to be Neville Longbottom. He was standing stiffly on a fitting stool while his grandmother anxiously rummaged through the pockets of his coat.
I stepped inside calmly. When it was my turn, Madam Malkin gave me a professional glance and began the fitting.
"Standard school robes for a first-year… and a winter cloak. It'll be ready in a few minutes," she said once McGonagall handed her a pouch of coins.
As I waited, my eyes landed on a pale-faced boy with sleek blond hair. Draco Malfoy — I recognized him instantly. He stood proudly, chin slightly raised, while the assistant tended to him with visible deference, clearly well acquainted with the family.
Once I had my robes, we continued on. In the cauldron shop — next to a stout wizard arguing loudly about wall thickness — we bought a standard pewter cauldron, model number two.
Next came the supplies store. There, I got a brass scale, a telescope, and a glass phial for potions. As we passed shelves lined with potion kits and miniature vials, a spark of excitement flickered in me. Alchemy was more than just a subject to me. McGonagall noticed the look on my face and raised an eyebrow.
"Interested in Potions, Oliver?" she asked calmly, watching me.
"Yes, Professor. I find it fascinating," I said without hesitation.
"Then I hope you'll pay close attention to Professor Snape. He's a demanding teacher — but if you're diligent, you'll learn a great deal from him."
I nodded, completely certain.
When we stepped into Flourish and Blotts, my heart beat faster. I loved this place. The smell of old parchment, the creaking wooden shelves, the walls lined with books filled with knowledge. Professor McGonagall helped me gather everything on the list: A History of Magic, Magical Theory, Magical Drafts and Potions, The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1), Beginner's Transfiguration, and several others.
We lingered for a while in the quill and ink shop. I picked out several everlasting quills, smudge-resistant ink, and parchment rolls. McGonagall glanced at my purchases and said simply:
"Ambitious. That's good."
I also chose a small calligraphy set. McGonagall gave a subtle smile when she saw the way I looked at it.
"It'll come in handy. Presentation matters at Hogwarts too."
Finally, with everything else bought… one last thing remained. I wanted to buy an owl.
We headed to the Magical Menagerie.
Toads croaked, cats prowled their cages like tiny lions. In the corner stood a large wooden cage filled with owls. And that's when I saw her.
Snow-white. Calm. Majestic.Hedwig — in the original story, she belonged to Harry.But here, I had found her first.
Her amber eyes met mine. No fear. Just… curiosity.
"That one," I said quietly.
The shopkeeper raised an eyebrow but said nothing. I paid 25 Galleons — which included food and a cage. Moments later, we left the shop.
Hedwig — I couldn't bring myself to change her name — sat quietly in her cage, which I carried in one hand.
As we neared the end of Diagon Alley, we passed a narrow alleyway tucked between a charm shop and an antique store.
I paused. Just me.
Something was there.
Not a ghost.Ghosts in the wizarding world were known, almost mundane. Pale, translucent, often talkative.This… was something else.
It stood in the shadows, completely still.Surrounded by a web of magical threads — but they didn't connect to anything. They were frayed.Dead.
There was no life in its eyes. No death either.Only… existence.
Before McGonagall noticed I'd fallen behind, the figure disappeared.Maybe it had never been there at all.
But I knew better.
That thing… it wasn't meant to remain in this world.And yet it did.
And I was the only one who could see it.
Soon after, McGonagall called me back. At the very end of Diagon Alley, we stopped.
"You're ready," said McGonagall. "Don't forget: first of September, Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. King's Cross Station. The train leaves at eleven. Be on time."
"I will," I replied — perhaps a little too calmly.
I knew now — there was no going back.
The next few days passed quickly.It was the evening before my departure.August had slipped away quietly, without saying goodbye.The air was heavy and a little damp.
I left the orphanage the usual way, through the back. I carried a copper cauldron and a few vials wrapped in fabric to muffle the clinking.
The shed I usually used was occupied. Someone had left tools there — probably city workers. I needed a new place.
The cemetery.
I had thought of it before. Quiet, abandoned, at the edge of the district. Ideal.In a way, eerie. In another — peaceful.Maybe… too peaceful.
I found a spot behind an old, ivy-covered tombstone. I unpacked my things, pulled out my notes. I began mixing a simple strengthening potion — a basic brew, but one that required precision. Perfect for staying focused.
And then I felt it.
Not cold. Not fear.
Presence.
Not like a ghost — ghosts are loud. They want to be seen.This was… quiet. Sad. Like the echo of a thought that couldn't move on.
I looked up.Between the gravestones stood a figure.Faint. Like mist taking form.Man? Woman? I couldn't tell.But something in it… called for attention.
My eyes saw it clearly. A web of broken magical threads wrapped around it in chaos.As if its life had been severed — and now it was stuck, unable to leave.
I wanted to say something.
I couldn't.
The figure looked at me. Expecting nothing. No anger. Just… pain.As if its very existence was a question without an answer.
"Who… are you?" I whispered.More to myself than to it.
And then — it was gone.
Just like that. Dissolving into the night air like smoke.But the magic stayed.
I didn't know if it was a coincidence.Or a sign of something far greater.
That night, I gave up on playing the alchemist.
And walked quickly back to the orphanage.
AN:Are you afraid of ghosts?