Jonathan Doyle as he was called here has already become used to being the "weird" one.
He didn't cause trouble. He didn't pick fights or break rules. But still—things around him broke on their own. Lights flickered when he got angry. The mirror in the hallway refused to show his reflection one morning. And last week, a book had flown across the room to hit Callum Davis squarely in the face after the boy called him a freak.
No one sat beside him anymore at lunch.
So when a tall, stern woman in a dark green cloak appeared at the front gates—not arrived, but appeared, like something from a story—Jonathan knew she was here for him.
She introduced herself as Professor McGonagall and had a paper sealed with red wax. The head caretaker barely read it before calling Jonathan down.
He obeyed quietly. He'd learned not to argue.
The woman gave him a long, unreadable look. "You are Jonathan Doyle?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"I'd like to speak with you. Privately."
They walked into the front office. She shut the door behind them with a wave of her stick—no, wand—and the handle clicked shut without touching it.
Jonathan blinked, pretending to be astonished. "How did you do that?"
Her eyes sharpened. "Mr. Doyle, has anything… unusual happened around you lately?"
He hesitated. "I guess? The other kids say I'm weird. That I make things happen."
She nodded. "You do. You're a wizard, Jonathan."
He stared at her, looking stunned. "A what?"
"A wizard," she said patiently. "Magic is real. You were born with it. Most children with magical blood begin showing signs around your age. In fact…" She pulled out a long roll of parchment. "Your name recently appeared in a very old, very special book. It records the names of magical children who are eligible to attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."
"Hog… warts?" Jonathan repeated, wide-eyed. "That's a school?"
She smiled thinly. "A rather excellent one, I assure you."
He frowned. "But… I've never heard of it. I don't even know who my parents were."
"No," she said slowly. "But the name written in the Book of Admittance wasn't Jonathan Doyle. It was…" She looked at him carefully. "Hadrian James Potter."
He blinked again, carefully feigning ignorance. "That's… not me. My name's Jonathan."
"I understand," McGonagall said gently. "Your name was changed at some point, most likely due to those finding you not knowing your real name. Some magical elements can't be ruled out too."
He looked lost. "So… who is Hadrian Potter?"
She exhaled. "To the very view knowing of his existence, he was likely believed to have died as a baby during the last wizarding war. But now… it appears he survived. And if you truly are him, you have a legacy waiting in the magical world."
Jonathan looked overwhelmed. "But I don't remember anything."
"That's all right. We'll take things slowly."
She noticed is features changing ever so slightly. She flicked her wand and a shimmer passed over him—magic dancing like mist.
Suddenly, Jonathan's hair flickered from black to auburn, then back. His eyes momentarily glowed gold. His features rippled.
McGonagall gasped softly. "A Metamorphmagus."
He made himself look panicked, even trying to shift his hair color. "Am I… cursed?"
"No, child. It's a gift. Rare. Most magical folk can't change their appearance at all—only a handful are born with the gift to shift at will."
"Oh," Jonathan said. "It… it just sort of happens sometimes. I don't know how to stop it."
"I imagine not." She rose. "You'll need guidance. And safety. This orphanage is clearly no longer a good place for you. Too many magical surges."
That was exactly what he wanted to hear. He glanced at the window behind her. It had cracked the day before and sealed itself again before anyone could notice.
She continued, "There's a kind family I may ask to take you in. Their daughter shares your rare gift. But until arrangements are made, you'll stay with me in Hogsmeade, near Hogwarts. It's peaceful. And magical."
Jonathan swallowed hard. "All right… I guess."
She softened slightly. "You're handling this remarkably well."
"I don't know what else to do," he said honestly this time.
That seemed to please her.
That night, in Hogsmeade
The warmth of the fire in the guest cottage helped calm the tight knot in his stomach. The walls didn't creak. The lights didn't flicker. There was no shouting, no whispers. Just calm.
McGonagall had left him alone for the night after a simple supper and a stack of old books she said he could skim through.
He stared at the fire.
He'd played his part well.
No knowledge. No guessing. No warning bells.
And now he was inside the world he remembered from dreams, books, and instinct. The wonderful Book—his silent companion—rested in the back of his mind like a second soul.