The parchment trembled faintly in Jon's hands, shimmering softly in the morning light.
His father cleared his throat, already leaning closer, as though the letter were addressed to him instead.
"Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," Henry began, adopting a grand, formal tone. "Albus Dumbledore. President of the International Confederation of Magic, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, First-Class Order of Merlin…"
He stopped, eyebrows lifting. "Quite the résumé."
Jon's lips twitched. "You should see his retirement package."
Henry snorted and continued reading. "Dear Mr Jon Smith, we are pleased to inform you…"
He worked his way through the formalities until reaching the book list. "Merlin's beard. Do they really expect children to carry all these? Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Defence? What kind of school—"
"The best kind," Lynn said from the kitchen doorway.
She had traded her apron for a smart dark coat, her hair neatly tied back. Her voice was amused, but her eyes shone with quiet pride.
Jon blinked.
She looked like someone from another world. Graceful. Certain. Untouched by kettles and frying pans.
"Let me see that, love."
Henry passed her the letter, still muttering about "militarised schooling." Lynn scanned the parchment with a thoughtful hum.
"Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling. New edition. And Dark Forces has been updated again." She nodded. "Everything else looks familiar."
She looked up and smiled. "Well, Jon, looks like we're going to Diagon Alley."
"Today?" Jon blinked. "Already?"
"Unless you want to start the term without a wand."
Henry folded his newspaper with a sigh. "Can I come this time? I promise not to press any glowing buttons."
Lynn arched her brow. "You have that conference, remember?"
"Ah. Yes. The conference. On Saturday."
"Exactly." She handed him his coat with a smile that allowed no argument. "Being late sets a dreadful example for your students."
Henry looked from wife to son, mock-betrayed. "You two plot these things."
Jon raised his teacup. "Only when necessary."
His father groaned good-naturedly and retreated, still muttering about broom-based discrimination. The door clicked shut behind him.
Lynn lifted her wand and flicked it once. Her clothes shimmered, reshaping into a sleek travelling cloak.
"Shoes on, darling."
Jon hesitated by the hearth. "We're not Apparating, are we?"
"Of course not. The Floo is cleaner."
"Cleaner?" he echoed, eyeing the green powder like poison.
"Relatively speaking." She smiled, that same calm smile that had carried him through every childhood scrape. "Come on, Jon. Chin up."
He followed her into the fireplace. The smell of ash and pine stung his nose. Lynn tossed the powder and called, "Diagon Alley!"
The world erupted in emerald fire.
As ordinary life vanished behind them, Jon realised this was it. The bridge between his two worlds.
They landed in a swirl of soot and light. Jon stumbled, coughing, while Lynn emerged immaculate. She flicked her wand, and the ashes vanished.
Diagon Alley stretched before them, alive and impossibly real. Cobblestones glimmered beneath ward-lit lamps. The air buzzed with parchment, sweets, metal, and magic.
"Welcome back," Lynn said.
For the first time, Jon saw her as she must have been years ago. A young witch walking these streets, certain of her place in a world he had only imagined.
His heart thudded. "It's… beautiful."
"Busy," she corrected, though her voice softened.
A witch brushed past, clutching a cage of singing candles. "Sorry, dear!"
"No harm done," Lynn replied, then turned to Jon. "Stay close. It's safe here, but it's easy to lose your bearings."
He nodded, eyes roaming. Flourish, and Blotts gleamed in brass and glass. Violet smoke curled from Slug and Jiggers. White steps led up to Gringotts, coins flashing in the sun.
"Little friend, could you please not block the fireplace?"
An older witch smiled kindly behind them. Jon stepped aside, cheeks warming. "Sorry, ma'am."
"Polite one," she chuckled, before vanishing into green flame.
Lynn was already greeting another witch, her floral hat practically alive. "Lynn Yewell! As I live and breathe!"
Jon waited awkwardly amid the bustle until his mother remembered him.
"Oh. Right. My son, Jon."
The woman clasped her hands. "Handsome boy. You'll break hearts at Hogwarts."
Jon offered a careful smile. "I'll try not to."
They laughed, and Lynn steered him away before he could expire of embarrassment.
At Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions, a measuring tape darted around his shoulders like a mischievous snake.
"Hold still, dear," Madam Malkin scolded. "Tall for eleven. Hufflepuff, perhaps?"
His mother smirked. "Runs in the family."
From there, they wound through the alley's glittering veins. Cauldron shops. Apothecaries. Quills that wrote by themselves.
Lynn handled the errands with practised ease. Jon mostly observed. How wizards bargained. How crowds flowed. How small, everyday spells stitched the world together.
When they stopped before the wand shop, he drew a quiet breath.
The sign read, in curling gold script:
OllivandersOllivanders
Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.
The shop was narrow but dignified, its windows packed with boxes that seemed to hum with memory.
Lynn placed a hand on his shoulder. "Ready?"
"Not even remotely."
Her smile was proud, soft, and faintly wistful. "That's the right answer."
Her touch steadied him. The kind that promised he could fall a hundred times and still be caught.
She pushed the door open. The bell chimed. Cedar and dust filled the air.
And as Jon stepped inside, every wand in the shop seemed to hold its breath.
(End of Chapter 2)