August 20st, 1991
He sat cross-legged on the cold cement floor, watching the fire flicker under the dented pan. The pigeon inside sizzled faintly, its skin darkening as it cooked over the circle of stones he had arranged. The flames licked hungrily at the meat, but there was no wood, no fuel, no source. Just fire. His fire.
He barely blinked as he watched it. The first time it had happened, he had been terrified. Then, thrilled. Now? Now it was just survival. He had long since stopped questioning how or why. The world had abandoned him, so he had made his own rules.
A sound—a sharp crack—broke the silence.
Rowan's head snapped up. He wasn't alone.
His fingers twitched, the fire dimming as he stood slowly. He reached for the rusted pipe he kept nearby, his heart pounding. Footsteps echoed through the warehouse, steady, deliberate. Not a vagrant. Not a cop. Someone else.
A figure stepped into the dim light, tall and rigid, her deep emerald cloak billowing slightly. Rowan took in the sharp lines of her face, the severe bun, the way her hand hovered near something tucked inside her robes. A weapon? A gun?
He tensed, raising the pipe slightly. "Who the hell are you?"
The woman's eyes flicked past him to the fire, the cooking pigeon, then back to his face. There was no disgust, no anger—just calculation, curiosity, and something else he couldn't place.
"You are Rowan, I presume?" Her voice was crisp, authoritative. Not a question. A statement.
Rowan narrowed his eyes. "Maybe."
Her lips pressed together, but she didn't look angry. Instead, she reached into her cloak, and Rowan tensed, gripping the pipe tighter. But instead of a gun, she withdrew an envelope.
It was old-fashioned, thick parchment, with an elaborate wax seal pressed into the fold. She extended it toward him.
"For you."
He hesitated before snatching it from her hand. His name was scrawled in deep, black ink:
Rowan—Warehouse District, London
No last name. No address. Just him. Just here.
His heart pounded as he turned it over, fingers brushing over the crest in the wax. A lion, a badger, a serpent, and a raven. He had never seen anything like it before, but something about it made his skin prickle.
"What is this?" His voice was hoarse, wary.
"A letter."
"No shit."
The woman sighed. "An acceptance letter. For Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."
Rowan stared at her. Then laughed. A sharp, bitter sound. "You know I don't appreciate jokes at me. And no, I'm not going to your mental asylum unless you have free food."
She didn't flinch. In fact, the corners of her lips twitched ever so slightly, as if she were expecting this kind of response. Rowan's grip on the pipe tightened, his eyes scanning her with suspicion, but she remained calm, unbothered.
"I assure you, this is not a joke, Rowan. And while food is not typically part of the offer, I can assure you that a full stomach would be the least of your concerns once you see what we have to offer."
"I've been through a lot of shit in the past year," Rowan muttered, "So forgive me if I don't trust some stranger handing me a letter about school for magic. I'm not stupid. If you are a 'witch' " Rowan narrowed his eyes, his skepticism clear. "Then put out my fire without touching it."
"Very well," she said coolly, her tone unwavering.
Rowan's breath hitched as she raised her wand. The fire—his fire—was instantly smothered, the dancing flames flickering out in a blink, leaving only the remnants of warmth in the cold warehouse.
Rowan stood frozen for a moment, unable to move, his heart hammering. The fire had obeyed her command, just like that.
A cold chill crept down his spine as the reality of the situation began to settle in. This wasn't a joke. This wasn't some elaborate trick.
He wanted to run, to bolt out of the warehouse and never look back, but something held him in place. Perhaps it was fear, perhaps it was intrigue he didn't know.
"Does that prove I'm a witch? McGonagall smiled at Rowan. Rowan grimaced and looked at the place where the fire was. " Well I'll be damned you really are like me." Snapping his hands the small fire was lit back into existence.
Mcgonagall looked around the place and said "In the meantime you're not staying here I could get you enrolled into an orphanage at the time being before you're sent off to school."
Grabbing the hot pigeon with his bare hands he ripped off the wing and started chewing when he thought about what she said. After that he looked up at her.
"No"
"Excuse me?"
"No i'm not going anywhere"
"Why?" Mcgonagall had a confused expression on her face. Who would want to stay here?
Rowan leaned back against the wall, his posture defensive. He crossed his arms and glanced away, trying to ignore the tension in the air. "I don't really like people, if you can't tell." His voice was rough, bitter, as though the words themselves were a shield.
McGonagall seemed to take a step back, processing his response. "Okay… but I still can't leave you here." Her tone softened slightly, though it held an unyielding edge. "I'm legally obligated to make sure students aren't harmed. So either you go with me, or some child worker will take you instead."
Rowan recoiled at the thought, his fists clenching once more. "You think I'm some kind of charity case?"
"No," McGonagall said sharply, though her voice remained measured. "But I don't think you belong here, either. And I can't let you stay in a place like this, alone. The streets—this warehouse—it's not safe. It's not right."
"I'm not a kid," Rowan snapped, pushing himself up from the floor, his tone hardening. "I can take care of myself."
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