Professor McGonagall arrived precisely at nine.
My father is scrambling to the door, welcoming her in. Meanwhile, I remained seated.
I noticed that the professor's eyes paused briefly on the empty bottle by the sink. She glanced at my father before asking him to accompany me to Diagon Alley.
We drove to a random pub in London. It was filthy and dirty: the kind of dream pub for any criminal. The professor guided us into a narrow brick courtyard behind the pub, tapping the wall with her wand. The bricks rearranged themselves.
My father was awestruck by the dancing wall rearranging itself.
But I felt nothing. Only further confirmation that reality could bend.
As we entered the brand-new magical world, I noticed that the streets were busy.
People moved in these oversized robes and pointed hats that were cartoonish. They reminded me of the cheap Halloween costume stores that struggled to make any sales. Honestly, the magical world felt backwards; the costumes were in stark contrast to the comfortable clothing in the normal world.
They referred to us as muggles: people with nonmagical abilities. The term did not sound very polite to me. I felt like people like us were unwanted in this magical world.
Our first stop was a bank.
It was named Gringotts, rising sharply from the street, its white stone gleaming. Goblins stood at the entrance, their eyes sharp, with a crooked nose. I could feel the greed emanating from them.
One of them looked at us.
"Muggle," it said flatly.
My father stiffened. "Excuse me?"
"Your kind conduct limited transactions here," the goblin continued, turning to McGonagall. "You will be signing on Hogwarts' behalf."
Once inside, we went to a goblin who was slacking off. It was weird seeing him stammering as soon as he saw us.
"He is Muggle-born," McGonagall said.
As soon as the professor said that, the goblin lost all interest.
He took out a tiny and shabby piece of parchment from the drawer and gave it to us.
This is the account," the goblin said.
It was a flimsy sum of 100 coins. Upon reading the parchment, my father inquired whether or not it was possible to convert more money.
"Muggle-borns cannot convert beyond 100 galleons," the goblin replied. "We do it only for the school."
The professor told us to move on as we headed to various stores. Due to the limited exchange money, everything that had to be purchased was secondhand. The textbooks were a little worn out, but otherwise, I did not really care.
Soon we arrived at the wand shop, which was nearly empty.
Until an old man that looked like a typical English teacher walked in with an excited smile on his face. He rummaged through every shelf in his store before finally returning with a wand.
As soon as I took the wand from his hand, a violent spark shot through it, scattering all the boxes in the store.
"Merlin's beard," he muttered before handing me another.
This process repeated again and again until I finally found a perfect match. A soothing sensation crept within me as I fell in love with the wand that I had found.
"Hawthorn wood with unicorn hair." Interesting indeed. The old man named Ollivander went on rambling about the history of each material. It was fascinating, but it had nothing to do with me.
Then we left and returned home. As I was opening the main door, I noticed that the acacia tree was blooming again, the wilting trees starting to rejuvenate.
At home, my father sat at the table without taking off his coat. He insisted that the magical world was not a good place for me and that they discriminate. "They limited where you can store money. What you're given." I want my child to have the best resources possible.
I said nothing.
I went to my room and shut the door before placing the wand on my desk. I sat on the bed and looked at it for a long time. Meaning was something I had spent an entire lifetime chasing. Now, I faced magic. Was magic an illusion, or is the truth to why I am here, I wondered?
Part of me wanted to believe this was different. That a world capable of bending reality might contain something philosophy never did. Another part of me rejected that instinct immediately. Wanting meaning did not create it. I was too childish.
I lay down without changing clothes. Sleep came quickly.
Days went by like this until one morning my father's call woke me up.
My trunk stood by the door, already packed. My father avoided my eyes as he carried it outside. I guess I appreciated him packing it for me.
We did not speak much on the way. Once we arrived at the designated King's Cross platform, I noticed it was really crowded. People rushed past us, unaware of the platform hidden between numbers. It was impossible to find the platform. I guess it was fortunate that a red-haired woman who was obese and loud helped us. She barked instructions at her children nonstop, making even a moment around her feel intolerable. I looked at the wall.
As I stepped onto the train, I expected nothing.