On the last day of August, Harry Potter had no choice but to discuss with his loathsome uncle Vernon Dursley how he was going to get to King's Cross Station the next day. Ever since the half-giant Hagrid had frightened the Dursleys out of their wits, Mr and Mrs Dursley had completely accepted that Harry was a wizard—or rather, "given up" was closer to the truth than "accepted".
The whole family—especially Mr and Mrs Dursley—were utterly terrified of anything to do with magic or wizards. They didn't even need to see it; just mentioning the subject was enough to send them into a rage. But we all know that Muggles' anger toward wizards mostly comes from fear and jealousy.
All through July, Mr and Mrs Dursley had tried their best to stop Harry receiving his letter from Hogwarts. To escape the endless flood of envelopes brought by owls, Vernon had even dragged the entire family off to a hut on a rock out at sea, convinced that hiding on a storm-lashed little island would be enough to keep any wizard from finding their "saviour".
What actually happened was that Hagrid, Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts, turned up in the middle of the night, explained everything, and gave the Dursley family a much-needed lesson.
Even now, Vernon Dursley still hated Harry, but he did agree to give him a lift the next day.
"Seeing as we're going up to London tomorrow anyway," he grunted, "otherwise I wouldn't bother."
Harry was already quite pleased with this answer. In that household, their coldness and bullying were the norm; any tiny scrap of kindness was enough to make happiness bubble up in him. He added a friendly question—only for it to put his uncle in a temper again.
Harry had asked, "What are you going to London for?"
Vernon roared, "Taking Dudley to the hospital! They're going to get that ruddy tail cut off before he starts at Smeltings!"
Hagrid had once used magic to stick a pig's tail onto Dudley, Harry's cousin. It was so shameful and horrifying that the bully of Privet Drive now bolted at the mere sight of Harry. Chased out by his uncle's shouting, Harry pelted back to his bedroom, buried his face in his pillow, shivering—and then couldn't help it and burst out laughing.
…
On the first day of Midyear (June), Skyl told the people of Riverwood that he was going to Winterhold.
"What are you going there for?" the young guard asked, reluctant to see him go.
"What kind of stupid question is that, Kliman?" the captain of the guard shrugged. "Winterhold's crawling with mysterious types like Skyl. He's going there to meet his own kind."
"Tch, listen to you. That sounds awful. 'His own kind'? Skyl's not a bandit," several regulars in the tavern spoke up on Skyl's behalf.
Kliman clapped his hands. "All right then, Skyl, when are you leaving? I'll go with you."
"You've taken on a guard's duty. You shouldn't abandon your post," Skyl tried to talk him into staying.
"Skyl, you're a stranger here, you don't understand. Skyrim's not safe these days. A mage travelling alone is asking for trouble. I'll be your sword and shield and escort you to Winterhold."
"Count me in," said the Wood Elf Faendal, raising his hand.
"Me too!" bard Sven refused to be left out.
"Me as well!" "I'll come!" "Skyl, they're no use to you. You need someone well-travelled and knowledgeable—like me."
You had to admit these folks were hot-blooded enough; within a few minutes it sounded like half the village wanted to form an escort company to see Skyl to Winterhold. It was a bit much, even for Nord enthusiasm. Skyl told them he really didn't need that many helpers.
"Kliman, Faendal, Sven—just the four of us. Once I'm safely at Winterhold, the three of you can head back together. It'll be safer that way."
Skyl was a wizard who, in a low-magic world, would count among the elite of spellcasters. Kliman was a classic sword-and-shield man; no one became a town guard by being incompetent—what he lacked was only the tempering of blood and fire. Faendal was a ranger of middling skill, but as a Wood Elf at least his archery was decent. As for Sven, he knew a few scraps of combat technique; he could just about double as a rogue in a pinch. Most importantly, he could sing and play for everyone on the road.
Just like that, a textbook four-person adventuring party came together—the sort of group that, in a D&D campaign, would create countless legends.
The blacksmith prepared iron armor, swords, and arrows for them. Alvor, the middle-aged Nord smith, clearly felt bad about it. "My work's nothing compared to a true master. If you make it to Whiterun, you can get yourselves something better there."
The farmers gave them provisions. The innkeeper handed over fur bedrolls and tents. The merchant provided mead for the road. The people of Riverwood did everything they could to kit the party out properly.
At dawn on the second day of Midyear, they set out. The route was planned like this: first they would walk to Whiterun. Then they would hire a carriage at the city stables and ride to Windhelm. Finally, they'd go the rest of the way on foot to Winterhold. All told, the journey was expected to take most of a month.
…
After a long trek, Skyl finally stood at the entrance to the great bridge leading up to the College of Winterhold. There, a High Elf woman barred his path.
"The College of Winterhold is the most dedicated magical institution in all of Skyrim," she said. "Its doors are open only to those who truly practice the arcane. If you seek to enter, you must prove yourself."
Faralda was a tall, slender Altmer woman, with the race's characteristic pale golden skin, honey-colored eyes, pointed ears, and a sharp jawline. She wore her hair in two short ponytails and had a stern expression, though her tone was unfailingly polite.
"I'm willing to demonstrate my spellcasting ability," Skyl said. He'd been expecting this.
"Very well. But before we begin, there is an important question. What kind of desire has driven you here? Do you seek destructive power to annihilate those who oppose you, or gentle, holy magic to heal wounds and sickness? Do you long to make others bow to your will… or do you yearn for knowledge and mystery?"
Bard Sven chimed in on his behalf. "Oh, my good lady mage, we all know Skyl can pass any test you give him. There's no need for all the extra questions."
His silver tongue clearly didn't work on Faralda. Her bright golden eyes stayed fixed on Skyl.
"Part of it is a thirst for knowledge," Skyl said, "but mostly I came for an adventure."
"An interesting answer. Very well, we can begin the test. Do you see the College seal on the ground? Cast a Healing Hands spell on it."
"I don't know that spell. But I can learn it. I pick things up quickly."
Faralda nodded. "You can purchase the spell tome from me, or from the court wizard in town. When you've learned it, return and I'll test you."
"I'll take one copy of 'Healing Hands', please."
One minute later, Skyl was back.
Faralda looked slightly taken aback. "Was there something else?"
Skyl said nothing. He simply aimed at the College seal on the ground and released an apprentice-level spell from the Restoration school: Healing Hands.
"You just learned that?" Faralda's face went slack.
"So, when can you process my admission?" Skyl asked calmly. He thought this entrance exam was actually pretty fun. If he ever went back to World I and happened to run into the saviour Harry Potter on the way to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, he could always use the same trick to tease the kid a little. And if they didn't meet—well, that was fine too.