"Before we go anywhere," McGonagall said, rising from the chair and brushing imaginary dust from her robes, "you are in no condition to be seen in public."
I glanced down at myself. Tattered shirt, mismatched shoes held together with frayed string, soot stains on my arms, and blood from a half-healed scrape on my elbow.
"Fair," I muttered.
With a soft flick of her wand, she muttered, "Tergeo."
Warmth passed over me in a shimmer, like stepping through a curtain of heat. I flinched instinctively—old reflexes—but it didn't burn. Instead, it swept over my skin like a breath of clean air.
The grime vanished.
My skin—still pale and underfed—was scrubbed clean. My clothes, though still patched and threadbare, no longer stank of smoke and sweat. My hair, once matted, now sat in some semblance of a neat cut, short and manageable.
I stared down at myself, blinking in disbelief. "You… washed me with air."
"No, with magic," she corrected.
"That's not normal."
"You'll find that word loses meaning rather quickly in the magical world."
I flexed my fingers, rubbing my forearm and catching the faint scent of mint and parchment from the spell. I hated how good it felt.
"All right," I muttered, "what now?"
McGonagall smiled faintly and reached into her robes, withdrawing a silver whistle.
She blew it.
No sound came out.
But a moment later, the air outside exploded with a loud BANG!, followed by the screech of tires.
I rushed to the boarded-up window, yanking the curtain aside just enough to see—
A bus.
No—The bus.
Triple-decker. Purple. Glowing lamps in the windows. The words THE KNIGHT BUS emblazoned in curling gold letters across the front.
It appeared out of thin air.
I opened the door cautiously. McGonagall stepped past me and gave a small wave. The bus door creaked open, and a conductor stepped out—a wiry young man in a moth-eaten uniform and a cap three sizes too big.
"Professor McGonagall!" he beamed. "Blimey, haven't seen you in ages."
"Stan Shunpike," she replied crisply. "This is Ryan. First-year. We're heading to Diagon Alley."
Stan turned to me. "Oi, welcome to the Knight Bus, kid! Emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard. Step aboard, yeah?"
I eyed the bus like it might bite me. "It's... glowing."
"Don't worry," Stan said with a grin. "It only occasionally explodes. Usually when someone sneezes."
"That's supposed to be comforting?"
"No, but it is honest."
I sighed and climbed aboard.
Inside was somehow bigger than the outside. Rows of brass beds bolted to the floor, curtains swaying gently. Floating candles lined the ceiling. The whole thing rattled with wild energy like a horse straining at its reins.
McGonagall took a seat at one of the beds and gestured for me to sit. I perched awkwardly on the edge, still tense.
Stan raised a gloved hand. "Hold on!"
BANG!
The bus lurched forward with enough force to send my stomach hurtling into my throat. The city blurred outside—buildings distorting, lampposts dodging out of the way, pedestrians vanishing from view as if reality bent around us.
"WHAT THE HELL?!" I shouted, gripping the bedpost as we hurtled through a red light that ducked.
"Knight Bus," McGonagall said, as if this were a casual Sunday ride. "Perfectly safe. Mostly."
We sped through London in a kaleidoscope of twisted time and bent space. I saw a dog walker vanish into a trash can. A statue of Churchill saluted us. At one point, I was fairly certain we passed the same building five times in a row—once upside down.
Eventually, the bus skidded to a stop in a cobblestone courtyard surrounded by brick buildings.
"DIAGON ALLEY!" Stan bellowed cheerfully.
McGonagall rose. "Thank you, Stan."
She stepped off, and I followed—legs wobbling, stomach unsettled, dignity somewhere back near Piccadilly.
The bus vanished behind us with a thunderous crack, leaving only faint tire marks and a dazed pigeon.
"Here we are," she said as we stepped into a side alley behind an old pub, tucked between a bookshop and a shop selling dusty records. The pub's name: The Leaky Cauldron.
I stared at it.
"Looks like a condemned shack."
"Exactly," she said with a small smile. "Muggles don't see what they're not meant to."
"Muggles?"
"Non-magical folk."
I nodded. Noted the term. Another layer to this world I'd need to learn.
We stepped through.
Inside, the pub was dimly lit, with creaky floorboards, mismatched chairs, and a scattering of wizards nursing drinks and talking quietly. Several heads turned at the sight of us. One old man blinked at me, then turned back to his butterbeer.
McGonagall didn't stop. She marched straight through to the brick wall in the back courtyard.
"Watch closely," she said.
She tapped specific bricks with her wand in a set pattern—three up, two across, and then—
Click.
The bricks rippled like water. The wall folded open, revealing a bustling street beyond, bright with shop signs and movement.
Magic poured out in waves.
Welcome to Diagon Alley.
The air buzzed with noise—children shouting in excitement, parents haggling, owls hooting from perches, cauldrons clanging as merchants unpacked stock. Signs swung above each storefront:
Flourish and Blotts – Books for All Occasions
Eeylops Owl Emporium
Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions
Quality Quidditch Supplies
My mouth hung open.
It was chaos. Glorious, sparkling, magical chaos.
And I was standing in the middle of it.
"You'll need robes," McGonagall said, walking ahead. "A wand. Books. Basic potion ingredients. A cauldron. Pewter, size two."
I blinked. "That's a lot."
She glanced over her shoulder. "You'll manage."
We began with currency.
Gringotts—the wizard bank—was a towering marble fortress guarded by creatures McGonagall called goblins. They didn't look friendly. I watched their eyes follow every customer like hawks.
Security. Trained. Dangerous.
I respected that.
Apparently, a vault had been arranged in my name under special Hogwarts protocol. "For war-displaced magicals and unknown parentage cases," she explained. "It's not much, but enough to cover your school needs."
I didn't ask who funded it. I wasn't used to people giving me things I didn't fight for. But I took the pouch of gold coins anyway, feeling their unnatural weight in my hand.
"Wizarding currency works in Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts," McGonagall said. "Don't ask why. It's just how it is."
I didn't. I'd figure it out. That's what I did.
Next stop: robes.
I hated them.
Madam Malkin tried to measure my arms while I kept flinching and repositioning to avoid giving her a clean angle on my ribs.
"You're very jumpy," she muttered.
"I'm very prepared," I replied.
In the end, I let her fit me for three sets, only because I saw other students coming in with worse taste than mine. Still, I made sure mine had deeper inner pockets and looser sleeves—easier to hide tools, or a blade.
Then came books.
Flourish and Blotts smelled like paper and history. I liked it. I drifted toward the more advanced texts before McGonagall steered me back.
"You'll get there," she said. "Start with first-year materials."
I made a mental note to return.
Wands.
That was the moment I truly believed I'd stepped out of the world I knew.
Ollivander's shop was narrow and dim, filled wall to ceiling with boxes. The man himself appeared like a ghost—pale, strange, eyes too sharp to be harmless.
"The wand chooses the wizard," he said the moment he saw me.
"That's not creepy at all," I muttered.
He handed me wand after wand.
Nothing.
Flick. Nothing.
Wave. Crack. Explosion. Wrong.
But then—
He passed me a simple wand. Dark, almost black, with a twisted grain like scorched wood. Eleven inches. Ebony. Phoenix feather core.
The moment I touched it, the air pulsed. A warmth climbed up my arm, not hot—just… alive.
Power. Controlled.
"Interesting," Ollivander murmured, eyes narrowing. "Very rare. Ebony wands favor strong-willed masters. Those unyielding in purpose. Often misunderstood. Dangerous, but not without conviction."
I stared at the wand in my hand, then at my reflection in the cracked mirror.
Dangerous.
Yeah.
That sounded about right.
"Last stop," McGonagall said as we stepped out. "Cauldron and supplies."
"Good," I muttered. "This place is exhausting."
She smirked. "You'll get used to it."
I doubted it.
But as I looked back at the alley—colorful, chaotic, alive—I realized something strange.
For the first time since waking in this tiny body…
I didn't feel like I was surviving.
I felt like I was preparing.
A normal life without killing and shooting.
Even its something weird and magical.