Nearly a year had passed since that night — the night I first used a wand, and the night I stood face-to-face with the Ministry of Magic.
A lot had changed.And yet, on the surface, nothing had changed at all.
I still lived in the same orphanage. In the same stuffy room, with peeling walls and a creaky bed. I still heard the same voices of children in the hallway.The same silence after dark.
But I… I was different.
I didn't do magic not really.Yes, I had made a promise to Dumbledore, and I intended to keep it. The wand lay locked in a box, hidden deep beneath the floorboards. Sometimes I took it out only to touch it, to remind myself it was still there. Never to cast spells. At least not with the wand.
The magic… it was still within me. And sometimes, it asked to be let out.
A few times — only a few — I let it slip through.
Always when no one was looking. When the dishwasher broke.When the stove in the kitchen stopped working, and the children were about to eat cold food again. When the need was greater than the fear.
And every time I used magic, I left something behind. An anonymous envelope with a few pounds inside. Small change — just enough to buy more bread. Sometimes new shoes for the littlest ones. Warm jackets before winter.
I never asked for gratitude. I never told anyone. And yet I saw the children laugh more often. I saw the caretaker worry less. And that was enough.
I wasn't a hero. I just… wanted to do something good.
My physical training didn't stop. Every day — just like before. Push-ups, squats, running laps in the yard. The other kids laughed, called me "little soldier." They stopped when I outran them. When they realized I wasn't running for fun.
I knew magic wouldn't be the answer to everything. My body had to be as strong as my will.
But what is strength without knowledge?
Sometimes I read the books I still had. Sometimes I reviewed the notes I'd made on spells. I tried not to cast anything — but in my mind, I constructed spells as if they were puzzles. I arranged them in my head, testing the theory.
And one more thing...
My eyes.
Once… they were a torment.
The threads of magic were everywhere. Woven between people, cutting through walls, curling through the air. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't focus. It felt like the entire world was a web I couldn't shake off. Every object, every person — pulsing like a heartbeat, glowing like a knot of light. And I couldn't turn it off.
But over time, I learned how to look. How to blur out the unnecessary.To focus my gaze. To separate chaos from meaning.
Now, my eyes worked differently. They were learning with me. They showed me the threads only when it mattered. When something was truly powerful.When someone was truly magical. As if my sight had learned to choose what was worth noticing. What I needed to prepare for.
For a time, they were a curse.But now… they were a gift.
Some days were different.
Several times. I'd sneak through the back door, weave my way through alleys, until I reached a familiar place. The Leaky Cauldron. I already knew the entrance to Diagon Alley well. The spell to open the passage? Even better.
No one paid attention to a child hanging around near the bookstore. Maybe only once did someone ask where my guardians were. I'd answer quietly that I was waiting for my father — and then disappear into the crowd.
At Flourish and Blotts, I bought a few new books.. Nothing too advanced. Intermediate Spellwork, The Theory of Spells in Practice, Magic and Intention: A Beginner's Guide. Sometimes they asked if I wasn't too young for that kind of reading. I'd smile and say it was for my older sister.
I read in the evenings, at night, by flashlight. And when I had read everything I could find about spells… I wanted more.
Alchemy.
A word I used to know only from myths. Here — it was real.A science, an art, a mystery. I found a small handbook: Foundations of Alchemy: An Introduction for Young Wizards. And I fell headlong into it.
I started experimenting.
I'd sneak out of the orphanage late at night, carrying a small potion kit — a handful of vials, a few ingredients, a copper cauldron I'd bought for pennies. I'd find an abandoned place — an old shed near the cemetery, a forgotten yard far from the lights.
I laid everything out carefully. I recalled every paragraph. Mixed the ingredients, controlled the temperature, observed the reactions.
Sometimes the results were surprising. Sometimes, it stank. Once, I nearly burned my sleeve off.
But that was magic.
My magic.
I was learning patience. Precision.And above all — respect for the process.
I knew it wasn't yet time for great things.No love potions.No transmuting metals into gold.But isn't every journey made of a few humble steps?
July 1991
I woke up at dawn — it had become routine for me during the holidays. I had slept well, but my eyes were stinging in a strange way. The feeling was similar to when you wash your hair and shampoo gets into your eyes — only this time, the stinging was more intense.
The stinging in my eyes stopped just as I was about to leave the orphanage for a run. And as the pain faded, my mind became much clearer. I remembered my dream. A slender witch had come to the orphanage to get me and handed me a letter, and then she showed me around Diagon Alley.
It was a truly pleasant dream.
That day, I was in an exceptionally good mood.
"I should be getting my letter from Hogwarts soon," I thought and stepped outside to begin my morning training.
My training went the same as every other day — I did a bit of running. I preferred to train in the morning. I really liked the feeling of fresh morning air — it was refreshing.
After about an hour, I returned to the orphanage, freshened up, and ate breakfast. The portion was a bit more generous than before. When the orphanage runs out of money again, I'll do what I always do — turn a stone or a twig into a banknote and go to a bank or a shop to exchange it. It's not legal, that's true, but let's be honest. A large bank or store won't notice such a small loss in their accounting.
After breakfast, I went back to my room to read some books. I'm slowly turning into a bookworm — but that's not a bad thing.
A few hours after dawn had passed, I sensed it. I saw it from afar, through the wall. The presence was definitely magical. The lines of magic swirled within it powerfully, but not chaotically. Someone magical had entered the orphanage. I was curious who it was — for a moment, I wondered whether to go downstairs and check, but I didn't. I waited.
A few minutes later, there was a knock at my room and the door opened.
"Oliver, there's a lady here to see you," said the caretaker as she stepped inside. Her eyes were strange, as if absent. Lines of magic were wrapped around her mind. "Confundus?" I wondered.
The caretaker left the room, and the witch entered. How did I know? Minerva McGonagall — who wouldn't recognize her. A stern face, almost evaluative, together with a sharp gaze gave the impression of a very strict, demanding woman. But that was only appearances — in reality, Minerva was a very caring person. I liked her.
Minerva McGonagall closed the door behind her with a soft click and stood silently for a moment. Her gaze moved across the room — the modest interior, the bookshelf, the neatly made bed, the scent of old wood and paper. And me, sitting calmly, with my hand still resting on the spine of a book.
She didn't speak right away. Her eyes finally settled on me — observant, cool, but not unfriendly. In her other hand, she held an envelope — thick, with the Hogwarts seal.
"Oliver Peverell, yes?" she asked.
I nodded.
"My name is Minerva McGonagall. I'm the Deputy Headmistress of the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I've come to give you this," she extended the envelope, "your letter."
I took it without a word.
"It's an invitation," she continued — "but also a reminder. Of who you are. And where you belong."
She opened her mouth as if she was about to say something more, then sighed quietly, sitting down in the chair across from me.
"I know you're not an ordinary child, Oliver." Her voice was quiet but firm. "Not just because of your surname. I also know that you're… different. And that doesn't have to be a bad thing. But others will notice. And not everyone will understand."
I looked at her — carefully, but without fear.
"I'm not afraid," I replied briefly.
She smiled slightly, with a hint of relief.
"I know. That's why I'll say this openly: you'll have to learn two things. Magic — of course. But also… people. You'll be a curiosity to them. Sometimes a threat."
She fell silent, as if she was considering whether she should go on.
"Dumbledore didn't tell me much about you. That's just like him. But one look was enough for me to understand that you're not here by accident."
She lifted her gaze. In her eyes, there was something warm, protective — but hidden beneath layers of years of discipline.
"The letter contains all the information about your supplies, the platform, the books. I'll help you with that personally. A young wizard shouldn't be walking around Diagon Alley alone."
"I can manage," I said calmly. "I've been there before."
Raising an eyebrow, she said in a voice that didn't allow refusal:
"That's not an option. As I mentioned earlier — Diagon Alley is no place for unattended children."
After a moment, she stood up.
"I'll come for you in a week, at noon, and we'll go buy what you need together. Don't even think about doing it on your own." She moved toward the door, but just before reaching it, she stopped once more.
"Oh, and by the way," she added, glancing over her shoulder. "If I were you… I'd put the books down from time to time and go out into the sun. Even the most talented wizards need more than theory."
Before I could reply, she disappeared through the door.
I was left alone, with the letter in my hands and a strange feeling that something had just truly begun.
AN:
bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb tylko jedno w głowie mam koksu pięć gram. Tak naprawdę nie ćpam. Co tu robisz? Czemu to tłumaczysz, czy naprawdę nie masz nic innego do roboty? Mi osobiście nie chciałoby się tego tłumaczyć, z tej strony nawet nie można skopiować tekstu. Ale jeśli już tu jesteś to powiem ci jedno. Mam nadzieję że miałeś dobry dzień i pamiętaj nic nie jest stracone nawet jeśli sądzisz że jest. Świat to dziwne miejsce i brutalne, dlatego go nie lubię.