London's weather, as usual, couldn't make up its mind.
The sky overhead was a canvas of grey with patches of sun peeking through, like a painter unsure of whether to go warm or moody. Lucian Marcellus Devereux stood neatly outside a rather unimpressive-looking pub tucked between a bookshop and a record store—the sign above read The Leaky Cauldron, though half the letters had faded as if even the wood had grown embarrassed to be seen.
Lucian, dressed in a crisp sky-blue shirt with pearl buttons and white trousers that would've better suited a gallery than a back alley, stood with his hands in his pockets, his expression somewhere between polite interest and quiet disdain.
Helen had dropped him off only ten minutes ago, but it felt much longer.
Ten minutes in a muggle street with peeling walls and no decent coffee.
Tragic.
He cast a look at the warped windows of the pub. The Leaky Cauldron. Honestly. It sounded like something out of a fever dream. If someone had told him a week ago that he'd be standing outside a place with a name like that, waiting to enter a hidden magical shopping street for wand-buying purposes, he might've smiled and called it imaginative. Now, he was simply wondering if he'd have to disinfect his shoes afterward.
He checked his watch again. McGonagall was late.
"Of course," Lucian muttered under his breath, crossing his arms. "A secret magical society operating for over a thousand years and not one of them knows how to keep time."
A voice behind him made him straighten slightly.
"I see you're already working on your patience, Mr. Devereux."
Lucian turned to see Professor McGonagall striding toward him from the corner, still clad in her emerald green robes, her pointed hat in place despite the muggle surroundings. She moved with purpose, as though the world was simply meant to part for her—which, in Lucian's opinion, it mostly did.
He gave her a shallow, polite bow. "Professor. I was beginning to think the owl delivered my letter to the wrong century."
She quirked an eyebrow. "A charming start to your magical education."
Lucian smiled innocently. "I do try."
McGonagall gave him a long, unreadable look—somewhere between appraisal and mild amusement—before turning toward the pub.
"Come. Diagon Alley awaits."
Lucian followed, casting one more look at the sign.
"I'm going to pretend this isn't the entrance to a cursed meat market."
McGonagall pushed open the door without replying.
The interior of the Leaky Cauldron was dim and smoky, filled with the low murmur of voices and the occasional clatter of crockery. A few heads turned as they entered—old witches in patched cloaks, a man with a monocle stirring something green in his teacup, and a girl with a miniature broom sticking out of her satchel.
Lucian took it in with wide but composed eyes, nodding faintly to himself.
"Charming. In a haunted-soup-kitchen sort of way."
"This," McGonagall said patiently, "is one of the oldest establishments in magical Britain. Mind your tongue."
"Of course, Professor. My tongue is always well-mannered. My thoughts, however, are another story entirely."
She did not smile, but there was a flicker in her eye that suggested she didn't entirely disapprove.
They passed through the pub and stepped into a small courtyard behind it—surrounded by old brick walls and an air of mystery. McGonagall drew her wand.
"Now, watch closely."
Lucian tilted his head slightly. "The first spell I ever see better not be one for opening garden gates."
McGonagall ignored the remark and tapped her wand briskly against a set of bricks: three up, two across.
The wall rumbled. The bricks began to shift and pull back, folding inward like puzzle pieces until a wide archway opened before them.
Lucian's sarcasm died on his lips.
Beyond the archway lay a street that defied explanation—twisting and vibrant, alive with colors and movement. Shops towered at odd angles, signs hung in midair, and people in robes bustled about, chatting, haggling, laughing. Owls hooted from wooden cages, cauldrons steamed in shop windows, and the air smelled of parchment, smoke, and sweets.
Lucian took one step forward, eyes wide as saucers.
"…Okay," he breathed. "That's more like it."
The moment Lucian stepped onto the cobbled street, it was as if the world had tilted slightly off its axis—in the best possible way.
Children darted past in miniature wizard robes, dragging reluctant parents behind them. A man in violet was enthusiastically arguing with a bewitched hat that kept trying to fly off his head. There was a window display featuring self-stirring cauldrons bubbling cheerfully and another full of fluttering notebooks that flipped their own pages.
Lucian took it all in like a museum come to life.
He turned to McGonagall. "I must admit, Professor… this is substantially more impressive than the pub."
She gave him a sidelong look. "I should hope so. We'll start with robes."
Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions was a quaint little shop nestled between a second-hand broom supplier and a shop selling enchanted quills. Inside, rows of black robes hung from floating racks, gently drifting like slow-moving ghosts.
A squat, cheerful witch bustled over. "Hogwarts, dear? First year?"
Lucian gave her a graceful nod. "Lucian Marcellus Devereux. Yes, I am to begin my education at Hogwarts. I trust your measurements are as precise as your signage claims?"
Madam Malkin blinked. "Oh! Well—yes, of course! Onto the stool, dear."
He stepped up without complaint, though when a pin tried to float toward him on its own, he gave it a wary glance. "If that tries to stab me, I'm leaving with the robe half-made."
McGonagall suppressed a smile.
As she spoke quietly with Madam Malkin about school regulation robes, Lucian stood still, letting the tape measure float and dance around him. His eyes wandered to a mirror, where the reflection flickered between his current self and what he imagined he might look like in a full wizard's uniform—robes trailing like a noble from an old portrait, wand in hand, eyes sharper than ever.
Maybe… just maybe… he looked like he belonged.
Once fitted, Lucian stepped back into the sunlight carrying his first-ever parcel of wizarding goods, arms folded behind his back, eyes sharp.
"Next?" he asked.
"Books," McGonagall answered. "Flourish and Blotts."
Lucian lit up a little at that. "Now you're speaking my language."
The bookshop smelled like dust and ideas. High shelves nearly scraped the ceiling, ladders glided along rails with enchanted ease, and books leapt off shelves to entice passersby. Lucian wandered toward the Defense section, trailing his fingers along the spines.
One book snapped open in front of him, shouting, "Ten Ways to Hex a Hooligan!"
He blinked. "Charming. I'll save that for a rainy day."
They gathered his required reading list—The Standard Book of Spells, A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration, and a few others—but Lucian also quietly slipped a copy of A Compendium of Magical Symbolism in Art into the stack. McGonagall noticed. She didn't comment, but her eyes glinted with approval.
Later
The door to Ollivanders closed behind them with a gentle click, and the noise of Diagon Alley melted away like mist.
Inside, it was hushed—eerily so. The shop smelled of old wood, dust, and something faintly electric, like a storm that had just passed. Boxes of wands towered from floor to ceiling, stacked with no visible order, their contents slumbering in silence.
Lucian stood perfectly still, his eyes scanning the rows. "This place feels like it's breathing."
McGonagall said nothing, but there was a rare softness to her gaze.
A rustle echoed from the far aisle, and then, gliding with a grace that belied his age, emerged Garrick Ollivander, his pale eyes glowing faintly in the dim light.
He regarded Lucian with polite curiosity. "And who, may I ask, do I have the pleasure of fitting today?"
Lucian, ever proper despite the thick air, straightened slightly and replied, "Lucian Marcellus Devereux, sir."
Ollivander froze.
Then: "Oh my. A Devereux… in England?" His voice held a quiet, almost reverent surprise. "Interesting."
Lucian blinked. "You know the name?"
"I've heard it," Ollivander said slowly, stepping closer, examining him as if he were a particularly rare wand core. "The Devereux are one of the oldest pure-blood families in France. Very old blood. Very… particular lineage."
Lucian's voice lowered just a touch, though it remained calm. "I wouldn't know. I never met them. I'm an orphan, sir."
There was a pause. Then Ollivander gave a quiet nod, his eyes not unkind. "I'm sorry to hear that. I don't know much more, I'm afraid. Only that your name carries history… and weight."
He smiled faintly, almost sadly. "But rejoice, young man. For you shall be the first Devereux to wield one of my wands."
Lucian tilted his head. "I take it that's uncommon?"
Ollivander gave a soft chuckle, turning toward the shelves. "Most French wizards prefer to buy their wands from Vincent Lencasterre—a fine wandmaker, I must say. Very traditional. Dragon heartstrings in almost everything, rather fond of blackthorn wood… a bit dramatic for my taste."
He began pulling down boxes with practiced ease. "But this? This is something new. English wand. French blood. Let's see what the wand thinks."
Ollivander moved through the stacks like a man in conversation with the shelves themselves.
He returned with three boxes and opened the first. "Let's try ebony, eleven inches, unicorn hair. Firm but flexible."
Lucian took the wand delicately in his fingers—like a brush pulled from crystal glass—and gave it a light flick.
A vase in the corner exploded.
McGonagall arched a brow. Ollivander snatched the wand back with a calm sigh. "No, no. Not at all."
The next was vine wood with dragon heartstring. It sent out a gust of wind so strong it knocked every wand box on the nearest shelf onto the floor.
Lucian cleared his throat. "I do hope that's not considered enthusiasm."
"Certainly not compatibility," Ollivander muttered.
He continued bringing wand after wand: maple, chestnut, even one of yew—each rejecting Lucian more dramatically than the last. One wand caused a shelf to tremble. Another let off an ear-splitting shriek like a kettle being boiled alive.
Lucian, maintaining an almost admirable level of grace through it all, turned to McGonagall after the eighth wand. "I must confess, Professor, this is beginning to feel like speed dating with explosive furniture."
McGonagall's mouth twitched.
Finally, Ollivander stopped mid-motion—his hand hesitating in front of a narrow, pale box high on a shelf.
"…Curious," he murmured. "I'd nearly forgotten I had this one."
He brought it down with great care and opened the lid slowly.
Inside lay a wand of striking, pale-brown wood, polished smooth and perfectly balanced. It looked… simple, almost austere, and yet Lucian felt something in the air shift the moment the box opened. Like distant thunder.
"Cypress," Ollivander said quietly. "Fourteen and a half inches. Remarkably resilient. An unusual length—requires a strong will. Core is… quite rare."
He looked directly at Lucian. "Thunderbird feather."
Lucian's fingers touched the wand, and before he could even close them fully around it, the shop lit up.
A low hum filled the air—neither threatening nor loud, but charged. A soft breeze rippled through Lucian's shirt. His black hair lifted slightly at the tips. Sparks, golden and blue, danced from the tip of the wand in spirals and then vanished like fireworks held under breath.
Ollivander's eyes lit up.
"Well… well."
Lucian stood still, the wand now fully in hand, eyes wide but calm.
"It feels… alive," he whispered.
"Thunderbird wands are temperamental," Ollivander said, almost reverently. "They sense storms in the heart of the bearer. They choose those who are destined to travel great paths—those who may face danger, but never without purpose. And cypress… a wand for the noble of spirit. Those who will risk everything for the right cause."
Lucian turned the wand in his hand like an extension of his own thoughts.
"I suppose it was worth the carnage."
Ollivander chuckled. "Indeed. I don't believe I'll ever forget the Devereux who chose an English wand."
Lucian gave him a graceful nod. "Or perhaps, the wand that chose a Devereux."
After purchasing his robes, books, potions kit, and wand, Lucian's arms were full—but his composure never wavered.
Their final stop brought them to a narrow, slightly crooked shop with a faded sign that read: Magical Menagerie.
The moment they stepped inside, a cacophony of hisses, hoots, and growls rose to greet them. The scent was a strange blend of straw, ink, and something vaguely reptilian. Cages and perches lined every wall—creatures both bizarre and beautiful blinked, chirped, or shimmered as they passed.
Lucian paused just past the threshold, looking around with raised brows. "A pet shop? Fascinating. This is either the last place I expected to find a soul connection, or precisely the right one."
McGonagall, walking ahead with the air of someone used to animal chaos, replied, "Students are permitted to bring an owl, a cat, or a toad."
Lucian eyed a particularly obese toad making unsettling squelching noises in the corner.
"I'm going to pretend you didn't say 'toad.'"
He wandered slowly down the rows, politely dodging the feathery lunges of a blood-red parrot and the slow, suspicious blinking of a one-eyed tabby. Then, he saw it.
In the far corner of the shop, perched on a high iron stand apart from the rest, was a raven—not a common black bird, but one of rare, glossy beauty. Its feathers shimmered with hints of violet and midnight blue in the light, and its eyes—sharp, intelligent, and silver-ringed—met Lucian's gaze with eerie precision.
The raven gave a single caw. Not loud. Not demanding. More like a question.
Lucian stepped forward, slower now. "Well," he murmured, "aren't you stunning."
The shopkeeper—a round, balding wizard with a missing eyebrow—looked over. "Ah, that one. Bit of a peculiar bird, that. Doesn't like most folk. Refuses to eat if it doesn't like the person feeding it. Been here months."
The raven fluffed its feathers ever so slightly… then bowed its head to Lucian.
Lucian blinked. "Oh. Well. That settles it."
McGonagall had come up behind him. "A raven is not a common choice."
Lucian glanced at her, his expression quiet, then back at the creature. "I'm not a common boy."
The shopkeeper sighed. "Well, if it lets you hold it, you've likely got yourself a familiar. Try it."
Lucian raised a gloved hand.
The raven—regal and fluid—glided from the perch and landed softly on his forearm. Its talons gripped just firmly enough to be felt, but not enough to hurt. It tilted its head, peering at him.
Lucian smiled, truly smiled, for the first time all day.
"I suppose this is fate, then."
"What'll you call it?" the shopkeeper asked.
Lucian thought for a moment. "Artemis," he said at last. "A goddess of the hunt. Quiet, watchful. She never misses."
The raven gave an approving caw, as if agreeing to the name.
McGonagall nodded once. "A fitting choice."
Laterthat evening
The quiet hum of twilight filtered in through the window as the sun dipped behind the buildings of the city, casting long golden streaks across the wooden floor of Lucian's room.
The walls, once bare and cracked with age, now bloomed with color.
Lucian stood barefoot on a stool, sleeves rolled up, a brush in one hand and a palette in the other, dabbing a particularly rich shade of violet onto the curved wing of the figure he was painting.
It was Artemis, his raven—not the goddess this time, but the bird herself, caught mid-flight in a swirling burst of moonlight, her feathers catching streaks of indigo, amethyst, and black. The detailing was intricate, feather by feather, but Lucian was never one to settle for half-perfection.
Artemis, the real one, perched atop his headboard, watching him with quiet judgment.
"You are, without question, the most annoying muse I've ever had," Lucian muttered, stepping back to assess the brushwork. "Black isn't supposed to shimmer, and yet here we are. What exactly are you made of? Starlight and lies?"
The raven gave a short caw.
"Yes, I know. I'm being dramatic. But you try mixing five different shades of blue just to match your ridiculous neck feathers and see how you feel about it."
Artemis ruffled her wings proudly.
Lucian sighed, though there was no real frustration in it. He glanced toward the corner of the room, where his Hogwarts supplies sat neatly packed—robes folded, books stacked, wand nestled in its case.
His eyes lingered on the trunk for a moment.
"…Nine days," he muttered. "Nine days until I leave this place behind."
He dabbed his brush again. "Not that I'm ungrateful. Helen is wonderful, the walls don't bleed, and the food only occasionally tastes like prison. But still…"
Another stroke. Another mutter.
"…I am slowly being crushed under the weight of my own anticipation."
He looked over at Artemis, who tilted her head.
"Oh yes, laugh it up. You get to fly whenever you want. I, on the other hand, have to wait to be shoved onto a train and hope I don't end up sitting next to someone named Nigel with a fart problem."
Artemis gave a low trill, something between amusement and approval.
Lucian stepped off the stool and looked up at the half-finished painting of her in flight, the night sky forming behind her in shades of dream and shadow.
For just a moment, the sarcasm faded.
He whispered, "It's really happening."
Then he wiped his brush clean, arched a brow at his raven, and added dryly, "If I end up sorted into a house where the curtains clash with my soul, I'm coming back here and repainting the whole wall out of spite."
The raven flapped once in what might've been agreement.
And somewhere far beyond the room, beyond the orphanage, the magical world Lucian had only just begun to glimpse waited—strange, brilliant, and brimming with stories yet unwritten.