The country road stretched quiet and long on the weekend.
The Scott family's car moved steadily forward, fields flowing past outside the window. Inside the car, however, as Alan prepared to step into an entirely new world, the atmosphere was sharply divided.
Grandmother's hands were clenched tightly—just like his mother, Clara's. That worry of theirs seemed so heavy it had almost taken physical form.
Grandfather, though, was entirely different.
After listening to his son Robert's full account, he had fallen into a long silence. In his clouded eyes, something faint had begun to burn.
His rough palms rubbed against his knees over and over, his breathing growing heavy.
Suddenly, he slapped his thigh, muscles taut, the motion so forceful the car itself gave a slight jolt.
"Wait!" His voice was hoarse, but carried an undeniable strength. The entire family froze.
The car came to a slow stop outside their house. Without a word, Grandfather jumped out and strode toward the front door, leaving the family behind. A moment later came the sound of rummaging from the attic, followed by heavy, dragging footsteps.
Each step landed on the wooden stairs with a protesting creak, as though they might splinter under the weight of memory.
Grandfather reappeared, sweat beading on his brow, chest rising and falling violently. In his arms was a wooden box, thick with dust.
He set it down heavily on the dining table with a muffled thud.
Leaning over, he puffed his cheeks and blew out a long breath.
A swirl of age-old dust, mixed with the scent of dry wood, spread instantly through the air, forcing everyone to cough. As the grey shroud lifted, the rich grain of the wood beneath was revealed.
His trembling fingers fumbled for the old brass clasp, moving slowly and deliberately, as though unlocking a time long sealed away.
Click.
The lid opened.
Every eye turned toward it.
Inside lay a few long-faded women's ornaments—some silver hairpins, a necklace with a broken chain. Beside them rested a wooden wand, snapped in half, its jagged break a silent testament to the violence it had endured.
At the bottom lay a bundle of letters tied tightly with hemp cord. The parchment had yellowed and grown brittle, its curled edges threatening to crumble into powder at the slightest touch.
"These are the belongings of your distant great-aunt, Liliana."
Grandfather's voice no longer boomed. It was roughened, steeped in years, and tinged with a tremor.
"My father placed them into my hands before he died. He said Liliana… was the pride of our family—and also his life's greatest regret."
A name forgotten in the river of time. A relative never before spoken of, suddenly breaking into Alan's world.
That Liliana, it turned out, had been a witch of extraordinary talent.
In those days, for an ordinary Muggle family, the birth of a witch brought not honor but fear and rejection. To protect her loved ones from being entangled with the wizarding world, and to obey the Ministry's strict Secrecy laws, she had made a final, decisive choice after marrying a pure-blood wizard.
She had almost completely severed ties with her family of birth.
Grandfather carefully undid the fragile cord and lifted the first letter.
His fingertips brushed the parchment, as though he were touching something still warm with life.
"This one… was sent back in her later years, through many hands. By then, my father was already near the end."
He unfolded the letter. In the dim glow of the lamp, each delicate stroke of her handwriting overflowed with unspeakable longing—and a deep, helpless sorrow. She wrote of her yearning for her family, of the pain of being unable to share the wonders and grandeur of the wizarding world with them.
"We all thought… our family's connection to that world had been cut off—completely, irreversibly severed."
Grandfather lifted his head. His bloodshot eyes locked on Alan, tears pooling until one burning drop finally slid down the deep grooves of his face.
"Never thought… I never thought…"
His hand fell heavily on Alan's shoulder.
"In you, that bond is alive again. Child—you've healed my father's regret. And you've healed mine."
The air in the dining room grew heavy, tinged with sorrow. Yet beneath it, something else took root—an ineffable sense of inheritance and continuity.
Alan's existence had once more woven this ordinary Muggle family into the distant, mysterious world of magic, warming it with real, living connection.
Wanting his grandparents to understand more clearly, Alan decided to show them.
He rose, eyes sweeping the room until they settled on a plate his grandmother had dropped earlier.
"Reparo."
His voice was soft.
The broken shards scattered on the floor leapt into the air as if pulled by invisible strings, whirling and fitting together in a swift dance. With faint, crisp clicks, the cracks sealed themselves shut.
A second later, a flawless plate landed firmly back on the table.
Grandmother clapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide as saucers.
Then Alan pointed toward a baguette on the table, one sturdy enough to be used as a club.
"Spongify."
Before their very eyes, the hard crust slackened, its inner structure swelling and loosening. Though its size remained the same, its very essence was transformed, until the bread collapsed into a fluffy, spongy mass that yielded at the lightest touch.
Finally, facing the dimly lit dining room—its curtains drawn—Alan stretched out his hand.
"Lumos."
A soft orb of light bloomed in his palm, warm and gentle, not harsh to the eyes. It illuminated every face clearly, tiny reflections of brilliance glowing within their pupils.
Grandfather and Grandmother's breaths seemed to stop. They gazed at the light as if witnessing a miracle.
"Brother! I want to learn too!"
Lilia could no longer restrain herself. She leapt down from her chair and ran to Alan's side, her wide eyes brimming with admiration and longing.
This time, Alan did not dismiss her request outright as he often had before.
He looked into his little sister's expectant face and was silent for a moment.
"It's dangerous," he cautioned first.
"Safety must come before all else."
After carefully repeating the necessary warnings and making sure everyone stepped well back, he finally passed his wand to her.
The thirteen-inch wand of Ash wood looked far too long in Lilia's small hands.
"The incantation is Lumos. The gesture is like this."
Alan demonstrated it once.
Lilia's face shone with a joy she had never felt before. Clutching the wand tightly, she mimicked her brother's every move, pouring all her strength into her voice.
"Lumos!"
But nothing happened.
The wand's tip remained lifeless, without the faintest spark.
"Lumos!"
She tried again, louder, with more force.
Still nothing.
Refusing to believe it, she swung the wand again and again, her little face flushed with effort and frustration as she shouted the spell over and over. Yet no matter how hard she tried, the wand that had seemed omnipotent in her brother's hand was, for her, nothing more than an ordinary stick.
The room fell silent.
Lilia looked at Alan, bewildered, then down at her own empty hands.
The wand was still there, but the magic was not.
For the first time, an unbridgeable gulf stood clear before her—her brother was capable of anything, and she was… nothing.
Her eyes reddened at once, and tears welled uncontrollably, spilling in heavy drops down her cheeks.
"Waaah—!"
She let out a wail, dropped the wand, and bolted.
"Lilia!"
Grandfather's aged figure rushed after her, sweeping the weeping child into his arms. His broad hand patted her back gently, his voice low and tender as he soothed her.
Alan remained standing in place, watching the distant pair, grandfather and granddaughter locked in a consoling embrace.
His gaze was calm, his heart entirely still.
Within his mental palace, the conclusion had already been drawn with clarity: this was necessary. It was a lesson his sister would have to face—and overcome—alone on the path of her own growth.