The Aurora Curtain tore itself shut behind us, the air hissing as the last threads of energy faded away. When it passed, we stood in the heart of a city alive with light and sound — cars rolling past with headlights cutting through the evening drizzle, neon signs glowing against the gray skies, and the unmistakable weight of London in the year 1994.
For a moment, we simply stood there, four strangers in a foreign century. Wednesday's sharp eyes scanned the crowd; Enid's stretched her arms to the bustling streets; Nitocris tilted her head toward the sky.
"Modern enough," I said, and the girls nodded. There would be time to unravel this world's secrets later. For now, looking for a place to stay is a start.
The hotel we chose was one of the tallest in the city, its golden lights gleaming like a beacon. The moment we entered, the staff greeted us with warm smiles and professional bows. When one has no shortage of wealth, even the finest service bends easily. Our request for a week-long suite was met with no hesitation — in fact, they seemed delighted to cater to us.
The suite itself was nothing short of magnificent: high ceilings, velvet drapes, polished floors, and windows that opened out to the endless sprawl of the London skyline. A suite were prepared — one for me, the other for the girls. The staff moved quickly, making sure everything was perfect down to the smallest detail.
We were pampered from head to toe. Attendants guided us to plush chairs and soft beds, their hands skilled in the art of relaxation. Muscles loosened under soothing massages, the weariness of interdimensional travel melting away into ease. They spoke little, letting silence and comfort do the work.
Later that evening, we were escorted to the rooftop dining hall. The view was breathtaking — London stretched out like a sea of stars, glinting faintly in the moonlight. Dishes arrived in elegant succession: rich, savory meats, delicate seafood, wines that warmed the blood.
The days after our arrival in London passed in a strange rhythm of indulgence and adjustment. We had grown used to the luxury of the hotel — soft beds, city views, the kind of pampering one could get addicted to. But on the fourth morning, as we gathered for breakfast in the suite, a sudden tap-tap-tap at the window drew our attention.
Four owls, regal and patient, waited outside the glass, each bearing a heavy envelope sealed with scarlet wax.
We exchanged looks. Wednesday arched an eyebrow. Enid nearly squealed. Nitocris regarded the owls as though they were sacred messengers.
I opened the window, and the birds swooped in gracefully, dropping the letters onto the table before taking off again into the gray London sky.
The envelopes were identical: thick parchment, addressed in elegant emerald script.
Y/N Ashborn
The Grand Royal Suite, 14th Floor
The Imperial Hotel, London
And similar for the others. Inside was the unmistakable Hogwarts crest, and the letter that had not changed in centuries:
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry...
But what wasn't normal was our ages.
In the Headmaster's office, Dumbledore sat with his usual calm, though his twinkling eyes had dimmed slightly in thought. Standing around him were McGonagall, Snape, Flitwick, and Sprout. The letters had been sent only hours earlier, but already the implications had shaken them.
"The Book of Admittance does not make mistakes," McGonagall said sharply.
"Four names appeared overnight, all aged seventeen, none of whom were recorded at birth. This has not happened in—" She continued.
"A hundred and twelve years," Flitwick squeaked, his voice cutting in.
"Last time was a boy in fifth year who had a late awakening. But four at once? At the cusp of adulthood?" Flitwick continued.
Snape's expression was darken than usual, "It reeks of manipulation. Magic does not simply... produce seventeen-year-old wizards out of nowhere. If anything, I suspect—"
Dumbledore raised a hand, silencing the speculation.
His voice was calm, but grave, "The Quill of Acceptance recorded their names. The Book acknowledged them. By every magical law we recognize, they are Hogwarts students."
McGonagall pressed her lips thin, "Headmaster, how are we to integrate them? They cannot possibly begin as first-years. Their magical resonance is too advanced."
"Indeed," Dumbledore said softly.
"The Book placed them in the sixth year. It will... cause a stir. But we must honor it. I would ask you, Minerva, to escort them to Diagon Alley. Help them acquire their wands, robes, and text books. They will need a steady hand for guidance," He continued.
McGonagall inhaled deeply, squaring her shoulders, "Very well. But I must confess, Albus... I've never seen the school react to something like this without chaos."
Two days later, there was another knock at the suite door. When opened, it revealed Professor McGonagall — a prim hat perched atop her head, tartan robes, lips pursed into the faintest line of disapproval.
Her eyes swept over you and the girls in a single glance that was both appraising and disbelieving.
"Mr. Ashborn. Miss Addams. Miss Sinclair. Miss Nitocris."
She inclined her head stiffly, "I am Professor Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts. I am here to escort you to Diagon Alley for your school supplies."
Wednesday gave her a long, unblinking stare. Enid waved enthusiastically. Nitocris inclined her chin with acknowledgment.
McGonagall cleared her throat, "Yes... well. If you would follow me, I trust you've not yet had the pleasure of traveling by Apparition."
The way she said "pleasure" made it sound more like a warning.
We followed her out of the hotel and into the bustling streets of London. For all her sternness, McGonagall kept us close, her wand flicking subtly to guide us past wandering eyes. She led us at a brisk pace until we stood before what looked like nothing more than a shabby pub.
"The Leaky Cauldron," she announced. "From here, you will enter the wizarding world proper."
She pushed the door open, and we stepped into a pub humming with quiet magic — cloaked figures, the smell of herbs, the sound of fire crackling in the hearth. Eyes followed us immediately, four strangers walking behind the Deputy Headmistress.
McGonagall ignored the stares and guided us through the pub, out into a small courtyard. She tapped her wand briskly against the brick wall.
Click, click, click.
The bricks shifted, twisting and curling back until a grand archway revealed itself — Diagon Alley, sprawling with life and wonder.
"Welcome," McGonagall said, stepping aside with the faintest edge of pride. "To the wizarding world."
The moment we stepped through the archway, the wizarding world revealed itself in full splendor. Cobbled streets buzzed with chatter, the air thick with the scent of roasted nuts and parchment.
Shop signs bobbed and shimmered in the air: Flourish & Blotts with books piled high in enchanted displays, Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions, Quality Quidditch Supplies with broomsticks gleaming proudly in the window.
Owls hooted from the rafters of Eeylops Owl Emporium, and cauldrons clanged outside a shop that boasted: All Sizes – Copper, Brass, and Pewter!
Enid spun in a circle, eyes wide and sparkling, "It's like Disneyland but with actual magic!"
Wednesday looked less impressed, murmuring, "I've seen cemeteries with more charm."
Nitocris walked as though the crowd parted for her. Wizards and witches stole glances at her regal bearings, keeping their distance.
McGonagall gave a single pointed cough, "First things first. Gringotts."
The white marble bank towered over the other buildings. Two goblin guards opened the great bronze doors the moment we approached — their sharp eyes narrowing before widening in curiosity. They bowed stiffly as McGonagall led us inside.
The interior was cavernous, glittering chandeliers reflecting off marble floors. Goblins perched on high stools behind polished desks, quills scratching against parchment as gold clinked in scales. The air reeked of wealth, ambition, and secrets.
One goblin clerk paused mid-sentence as we approached with a chest that clinked far heavier than ordinary coin. His beady eyes widened when I placed bars and nuggets of high-purity gold on the desk. The sound alone silenced the hall; nearby goblins leaned closer, ears twitching.
"We'd like to exchange this into galleons," I said calmly. "A large amount."
The clerk nearly toppled from his stool, fumbling for a ledger. "Th-th-this is... extraordinary purity... near perfect grade..." His tone shifted instantly from suspicion to reverence. "May I suggest, sir, that with wealth of this magnitude, you would be best served by a private vault?"
I leaned over the list he presented. Vault numbers scrolled past — until my eyes caught on one in particular. Vault 12.
Hogwarts Legacy, I recalled. The secret passage. Was it still there?
"Vault 12," I said firmly.
Soon after, we were introduced to the goblin who would handle the transaction. His name was Gricko Grimgrin, and he was unlike the others.
Where most goblins were dour and stiff, Gricko wore a wide, toothy smile, his eyes twinkling with mischief. He hummed a little tune as he led us to his office. The room was cluttered with scrolls, odd knickknacks, and—most surprisingly—an owlbear curled up beside the desk, snoring softly.
Enid gasped. "Oh. My. God. She's so fluffy!" She dropped to her knees instantly, scratching behind the owlbear's ears. The beast gave a happy grumble, leaning into her touch.
"That's Hootsie," Gricko said proudly, puffing his chest. "Best friend I ever had. Don't mind the feathers everywhere, she's house-trained."
I placed the gold chest on the desk. Gricko's eyes went wide as he calculated, lips moving silently until he nearly toppled over in his chair.
"This is... millions of Galleons worth," he whispered. "Millions! More gold than I've ever seen outside the High Vaults."
I leaned forward. "Since you'll be managing our vault, you'll be paid one percent of the Galleons inside for your service."
For a moment, Gricko froze. Then his face crumpled, and tears streamed down his cheeks. He rushed forward, grabbing my hand and shaking it frantically.
"Bless you, sir! Bless you! Hootsie—we're moving out of that rotten flat! A real house! With windows! And plumbing that doesn't squeal like a banshee!"
The owlbear gave a sleepy hoot, as if approving.
Gricko wiped his eyes with the edge of his sleeve, then broke into a grin. "I'll take good care of Vault 12, Lord Ashborn. Gricko Grimgrin never forgets a kindness! You need jokes to lighten the mood, a tune on the ocarina, or a fable from goblin lore—I've got plenty. And Hootsie here makes for an excellent bodyguard. Don't let the cuddles fool you."
Enid squealed again as Hootsie licked her cheek, while Wednesday muttered, "That's disgusting."
McGonagall, arms crossed, looked as though she wasn't sure if this was brilliance or madness. Still, she said nothing, her lips twitching ever so slightly at the goblin's antics.
Gricko stamped the paperwork with a flourish. "Vault 12 is yours, Lord Ashborn. A vault fit for legends. And with me and Hootsie keeping watch, not a single Knut will go missing!"
The paperwork was sealed, the exchange complete. The weight of millions of Galleons — and the claim of Vault 12 — now rested under my name.
I clasped Gricko's clawed hand one last time.
"I'll be back later to discuss some business," I said, lowering my voice so only he could hear. "Without Professor McGonagall's watchful eye."
Gricko's grin widened, toothy and sly. "Say no more, Mr. Ashborn. My lips are sealed tighter than a dragon's hoard. We'll talk when the lady in green is none the wiser."
He winked and ushered us out.
Enid lingered, crouching beside Hootsie, "Bye, Hootsie! Don't forget me!"
The owlbear gave a soft, mournful hoot and nuzzled against her cheek before plopping back down in a feathered heap. Enid sighed but followed us out, her hands clasped behind her back as though restraining herself from running back in.
From Gringotts, McGonagall led us deeper into the winding streets. First was Madam Malkin's, where enchanted measuring tapes fluttered about us, snipping and stitching rich Hogwarts uniforms to our sizes.
Wednesday requested her robes be "as black as the void, please," while Enid begged for color-coded accessories until McGonagall pinched the bridge of her nose. Nitocris barely moved as she worked around her.
Then came Flourish and Blotts, where stacks of spellbooks nearly buried Enid in her excitement. Wednesday gravitated toward the Darkest Arts Legally Permissible for Research section, while McGonagall quickly ushered her away with a warning glare.
Wednesday thought, "Hmph, you can't stop me later."
Potage's Cauldron Shop, the Apothecary, and the Magical Menagerie followed in quick succession — our arms filling with supplies, McGonagall ticking items off her list with brisk precision.
It was in Eeylops Owl Emporium that I found her. Among the rows of sleek barn owls, a single brown owl perched higher than the rest, head cocked, eyes sharp. Two feathers stuck up on her head like playful horns.
She didn't wait for me to approach. She spread her wings, swooped gracefully across the shop, and landed neatly on my shoulder, talons careful not to pierce.
"Forward, bold, and restless," the shopkeeper murmured with approval.
I stroked her feathers gently. "Mumei," I said softly. "Your name will be Mumei."
The owl blinked, then gave a satisfied hoot, as if acknowledging the bond. True to her nature, she leapt off to circle the rafters before swooping back down, repeating the routine until she finally nestled comfortably against me.
As we left the shop, I motioned subtly, summoning the veil of shadows. Mumei tilted her head curiously, but did not resist as I guided her into the Shadow World. Within that vast domain, she would have space to soar endlessly — yet with the freedom to come and go as easily as any of my generals.
Her presence echoed faintly within me, content and secure.
The last errand loomed before us: a crooked shop tucked between taller buildings, its sign reading Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.
The windows were dusty, the shelves within stacked high with narrow boxes. As the door creaked open under my hand, the little brass bell above jingled softly.
Inside, a pale-eyed man stepped from the shadows, gaze darting between the four of us. His thin lips curved in a curious smile.
"Ahh... visitors," Garrick Ollivander murmured. "I expect you are here for... wands?"
We exchanged a single look — four flat, unamused stares that said plainly: Why else would we be here?
And thus began the ritual of choosing.
The shop smelled faintly of dust and polished wood, its shelves towering precariously above. Thousands of narrow boxes lined every wall, the weight of centuries pressing down with the silence.
From the shadows stepped Ollivander, silver-haired, eyes pale and unblinking. His voice slithered through the air, "Ahhh... yes. Four strangers. Four fates. Curious. Very curious indeed."
McGonagall stood at the door, hands clasped tightly in front of her robes. She'd seen countless students sorted for wands here, but something about the way Ollivander's gaze sharpened on us unsettled her.
Ollivander tilted his head, "Now then, which hand is dominant? Right? Left? Ah, don't lie — the wand will know."
The enchanted measuring tape sprang to life again, snapping around wrists, stretching across shoulders, even tugging at Wednesday's braid before she slapped it away.
Ollivander muttered to himself in delight, "Now, now... let's see what fate has in store."
The first wand Ollivander placed in my hand was ash with unicorn hair. The wood creaked the moment I touched it, and a pitiful spark fizzled before the wand cracked in two.
"No, no, no, that won't do at all," Ollivander said, snatching it back. His eyes flicked to me, narrowing. "You've seen death. Commanded it. You require something... rare. Dangerous."
He vanished among the shelves, muttering.
When he returned, he carried a long, black wand., "Ebony, thirteen and a half inches, thestral tail hair core. Unyielding."
The moment I took it, the shop darkened. Shadows curled from the corners, bending low like servants. Even Mumei, peeking through the Shadow World tether, gave a distant approving hoot.
Ollivander's pale eyes gleamed, "Yes... this is a king's wand. A ruler's wand. The wand of one who does not follow death, but commands it."
McGonagall stiffened, lips tightening, "Thestral hair...? Good heavens. What sort of wizards are we inviting into Hogwarts?"
Ollivander handed her a maple wand with unicorn hair. Wednesday flicked it once; pink confetti exploded. Enid clapped. Wednesday did not.
Her deadpan stare could have curdled milk.
Ollivander ripped it from her hand, "No, no, far too cheerful. You need something... sharper. I recall my trip to Greece... ah yes..."
From a box bound in faded leather, he withdrew a wand of rough, gnarled blackthorn, "Eleven inches. Basilisk horn core."
McGonagall gasped softly, "You still have that? I thought—"
Ollivander silenced her with a gesture, "The horn was harvested long ago. Rare. Dangerous. Fitting for... a warrior."
Wednesday's fingers curled around the wand. Black sparks hissed into the air, sharp and venomous. Her lips curved in the faintest smirk.
"Yes," Ollivander whispered. "A perfect match. Curses will leap to your tongue like poetry."
McGonagall's frown deepened, "A basilisk core? This child is going to hex the entire Slytherin table by supper."
Enid practically bounced as the first wand was pressed into her hand. A walnut wand with dragon heartstring spat flames and singed a drapery.
"No, no," Ollivander said hastily. "That one would eat you alive."
He hurried back, rummaging, until he produced a gleaming cherry wood wand, "Ten and three-quarter inches, unicorn hair, slightly springy."
The moment Enid grasped it, golden sparks burst forth, scattering rainbows across the dusty shop. The wand hummed with joy, almost purring in her hand.
Enid squealed, "Oh, it likes me!"
McGonagall's expression softened for the first time that day, "At least one of them will be harmless."
Ollivander smiled faintly, "Cherry and unicorn... a loyal, protective wand. Rarely do they choose anyone without a bright heart. You'll bring light where the others cast shadow."
The first wand offered to Nitocris was yew with dragon heartstring. It snapped in half in her grip with a sound like a breaking bone.
Ollivander flinched, "Ah. Yes. Something... else."
He disappeared longer this time, returning with a box older than the rest. He opened it reverently, revealing a pale golden wand, "Acacia, twelve and a half inches, rigid. Its core... a mummified scarab blessed by a Pharaoh. Acquired many years ago in Cairo. Dangerous. Waiting for its master."
McGonagall's jaw tightened.
Nitocris closed her fingers around the wand. A rush of ancient power filled the room — whispers of forgotten worship, jackal-headed shadows flickering against the walls. The scarab core pulsed once, confirming its choice.
Ollivander exhaled shakily, "Yes... judgment, divine. The wand has waited centuries for you."
All four of us now stood with our wands. Shadows curled around mine, Wednesday's hissed with venom, Enid's glittered with radiant warmth, and Nitocris' echoed with the weight of gods.
Ollivander clasped his long fingers together, looking both awed and faintly horrified, "Four wands, four fates. I have never seen such a gathering in one day. Hogwarts will never be the same."
McGonagall's face was unreadable, but her eyes betrayed her turmoil. She turned sharply, her robes swishing as she strode to the door.
"I must speak with Albus at once," she thought grimly. "The Heads of House will need to know. We are not admitting ordinary students."
The brass bell jingled as the door shut behind her.
And with that, Hogwarts' future began to tremble.