Oliver had imagined dozens of ways the letter might change his life.
He had not imagined her.
Two mornings after the owl's visit, Mrs. Reed called Oliver to her office. He entered nervously, manuscript clutched under one arm. Sitting opposite Mrs. Reed was a stern woman in a dark green cloak and a pointed hat that seemed far too real to be a costume.
She looked at him the way a hawk looks at a sparrow — sharp, assessing, but not unkind.
"Mr. Night," she said crisply. "I am Professor McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."
Oliver's mouth went dry. "So it's… it's all true?"
Her expression softened slightly. "Indeed. You are a wizard, Mr. Night. And Hogwarts is where you will learn to harness that gift."
She spoke with such authority that every doubt he had crumbled.
Leaving was harder than Oliver expected.
Mrs. Reed hugged him fiercely, pressing a small notebook into his hand. "For your songs," she whispered. "Don't stop writing them, no matter what that school teaches you."
Even Thomas lingered by the doorway, scowling but silent. Oliver half expected another shove, but none came. Perhaps the boy had finally realized that picking on Oliver was no longer safe.
With his single battered suitcase, his guitar case, and his manuscript bound in twine, Oliver followed McGonagall into the London streets.
For the first time, the world felt larger than the orphanage walls.
The Leaky Cauldron
They stopped before what looked like a crumbling pub squeezed between a bookshop and a record store. People streamed past without glancing at it, eyes sliding away as though it were invisible.
McGonagall led him through the door.
Inside, the air was thick with pipe smoke and the smell of roasted meat. Cloaked figures filled the tables, some chatting, others hunched over books or tankards.
Oliver's eyes widened. This was not like any pub he had ever seen.
"Welcome to the Leaky Cauldron," McGonagall said.
The barman nodded at her, then bent low to Oliver. "First year, eh? You'll do fine, lad."
Oliver flushed. He clutched his manuscript tighter, suddenly aware of the eyes on him.
McGonagall tapped her wand against a brick in the courtyard wall. Stones shifted, folding back until an archway yawned open, revealing a street that blazed with color.
Shops lined the cobblestones — broomsticks gleaming in windows, owls hooting from cages, cauldrons stacked like iron drums. Children darted past, clutching bags of sweets and new robes.
Oliver stood frozen. "It's beautiful."
McGonagall's lips curved faintly. "It is. Come along."
The bank was carved from white stone, towering and grand. At the doors stood goblins — smaller than men, sharp-eyed and long-fingered. Their gaze made Oliver clutch his suitcase tighter.
Inside, McGonagall spoke to a teller in hushed tones. The goblin produced a parchment and a heavy pouch of coins.
"No vault?" Oliver asked nervously.
McGonagall shook her head. "Wizards without magical lineage are offered assistance. Consider this a loan from Hogwarts itself — enough to cover your supplies until you establish yourself."
Oliver nodded slowly. He had never owned more than a few coins at a time. The pouch felt heavy, dangerous, alive.
The wand shop smelled of dust and cedar. Stacks of long, thin boxes reached the ceiling. A pale man with wide eyes emerged from the shadows.
"Oliver Night," Ollivander murmured, as though tasting the name. "Yes… yes, I wondered when I'd see you."
He handed Oliver one wand, then another. Each fizzled in his grip, unresponsive.
At last Ollivander presented a long, elegant wand: dark wood that shimmered faintly when it caught the light. "Twelve inches, phoenix feather core. Flexible. A wand attuned to artistry."
Oliver wrapped his fingers around it.
A warmth spread up his arm. The air in the shop hummed. Then — faintly, impossibly — the delicate plucking of guitar strings filled the silence.
Oliver's eyes widened.
"Curious," Ollivander whispered. "Most curious."
By the time they returned through the Leaky Cauldron, Oliver's head spun with images — spellbooks, robes, the feel of magic alive in his hand.
But beneath it all, a new certainty settled in his chest.
For the first time, he wasn't simply surviving. He was beginning.
McGonagall walked a step ahead, her cloak billowing. "Term begins September first," she said. "I expect you'll be ready."
Oliver clutched his guitar case, his manuscript, and his new wand. "I will be."
And for once, he believed it.