"I've had enough trouble for a lifetime" - Harry Potter.
(Not touching that)
30 YEARS LATER
Jacob’s stationery shop was not built to hold this many people.
The space was narrow, almost claustrophobic, with shelves pressed tightly against each wall and books stacked far beyond what seemed structurally safe. Old parchment, fresh ink, and dust hung in the air, forming a scent that clung to everything. Towers of second-hand books leaned dangerously, as though the entire place might collapse if someone reached too carelessly.
No one seemed concerned.
Students crowded every inch—arguing over titles, stretching across one another, competing with a quiet desperation that came from knowing there wouldn’t be enough for everyone. It wasn’t chaos exactly.
It was controlled scarcity.
And at the center of it all was Jacob.
He moved through the shop with practiced ease, slipping between bodies without touching them, pulling books from impossible stacks, catching falling piles before they tipped. There was nothing rushed about him, nothing uncertain. If anything, he looked like the only stable thing in the room.
“Alright—The Power of Potions—last copy. And I mean last.”
The effect was immediate.
“Mine—!” A boy lunged forward, nearly colliding with someone else as he snatched the book. “Finally. Thought I’d never get this.”
Jacob was already moving.
“The Lawmaker’s Dilemma. One copy. Don’t make me regret announcing it.”
A second student forced his way through. “Here—give it—!”
Jacob raised a brow. “You do realise you won’t need that till your NEWTs?”
“Please,” the boy shot back. “In this shop, you’re the Muggle. Not us.”
Jacob didn’t even pause. “Chapter 11. Page 344. Right to Knowledge Act. You’re allowed to learn ahead. You’re just not required to understand it.”
A few students nearby laughed.
“Jacob!” someone called. “I asked for Fantastic Beasts ages ago! You said you’d keep one aside!”
“And I did,” Jacob replied, reaching behind a leaning stack without looking. He pulled out the book and handed it over. “I just didn’t say where. Try not to lose this one.”
The boy grinned—but then his attention shifted toward the door.
“Oh look—Potty Harrow’s here. No mummy today?”
The laughter that followed was light. Thoughtless.
At the entrance stood Peter Harrow.
He hesitated just inside, as though unsure whether he belonged in a place like this at all. He was thin, slightly hunched, his clothes hanging loosely on him, sleeves a little too long. He looked like someone who had learned to take up less space than he was given.
For a moment, he didn’t move.
Jacob’s voice cut through the noise.
“Oi. Not in my shop, Billy. Out.”
It wasn’t loud, but it ended the moment. Billy lingered just long enough to smirk, then left, still amused with himself. Jacob turned, and the sharpness in his expression softened.
“Hey, Pete.”
Peter stepped forward.
“Big day, isn’t it? New school. New start. You excited?”
Peter shrugged, avoiding eye contact. “Not really. Mum’s already decided.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“Slithers School.”
There was a flicker of something in Jacob’s eyes.
“And you don’t want that.”
Peter looked up, the answer escaping before he could stop it. “Hogwarts.” The word hung there—bright, unguarded.
From behind, Billy’s voice drifted again. “Yeah? You know your kind’s not getting in, right?” Jacob didn’t even turn. “The door’s still open, Billy. Use it.” Footsteps faded.
The shop seemed to settle, just slightly.
Peter shifted. “He’s not wrong. Everyone’s been saying it.” He hesitated. “It’s not for people like me.” Jacob studied him. “People love deciding what things aren’t for,” he said. “Saves them from trying.” Peter exhaled quietly. “Mum says it’s better this way. Safer.”
“She might be right,” Jacob replied. “Doesn’t mean it won’t feel like you’re giving something up before you even had it.” That landed, Peter didn’t respond.
Jacob held out his hand. “Go on. Let’s see the damage.” Peter handed over the list; the parchment creased from being folded too tightly. “You think you’ll have most of these?” Peter asked.
Jacob glanced through it. “For you? I’ll make it work. Might not be pretty. Might not match. But it’ll do the job.”
Peter gave a faint smile. “That’s kind of how I’m feeling about everything right now.” “Then you’ll fit right in,” Jacob said dryly. A brief silence passed as Jacob scanned the list.
Peter hesitated, then asked, “Hey… who’s winning duelling this year?”
Jacob didn’t look up. “Ah. So that’s where your mind is.”
“I just want to know.”
Jacob glanced at him. “No, you don’t. You want to imagine.”
Peter didn’t deny it.
“There’s a new one,” Jacob continued. “Durmstrang transfer.”
“What’s special about him?”
“He’s thirteen.”
Peter blinked. “…Thirteen?”
“And already dismantling students twice his size. Calm. Clean. No wasted movement.”
Peter leaned forward slightly. “What’s his name?”
“Ivan Karkaroff.”
The name settled into him.
“Big family,” Jacob added. “History, influence… expectations.”
Peter absorbed that, then said quietly, but firmly, “One day… I’ll be there.” Jacob looked at him, not dismissive, not indulgent, just measuring.
“Then you’d better learn to stand your ground here first,” he said. “Start with your mum.”
Jacob had already turned back to his work by the time Peter gathered his books. The stack was heavier than it looked—awkward, uneven, pressing into his arms as he tried to hold it all together. He adjusted his grip twice before even reaching the door.
Behind him, the noise of the shop continued without pause. Ahead, the street waited.
The moment he stepped outside, the sound changed—less contained, more scattered. Voices overlapped with the hum of movement, footsteps, and distant calls. The open space felt larger, but no easier to navigate.
Peter moved carefully at first, trying to keep the books steady, but the crowd didn’t adjust for him. People brushed past without slowing, forcing him to shift, rebalance, tighten his hold.
The stack slipped.
He tried to correct it, and walked straight into someone; the books fell.
“Peter!”
He froze.
Matilda Harrow was already kneeling, gathering the scattered books with quick, efficient movements.
“Why didn’t you call me?” she said, stacking them neatly. “I told you to call me once you were done.”
“I was managing—”
“Clearly.”
She didn’t look up.
Within moments, the books were restacked. She lifted most of them herself, redistributing the weight without asking.
“You don’t prove anything by struggling when you don’t have to.” Then she handed him something cold.
“Here.”
Peter blinked. A large fudge ice cream. “At least hold something you won’t drop.” Despite everything, he smiled.
“You went to Diagon Alley?”
“No. Florean’s opened branches all along this street now.”
“Muggles?”
“They love it,” she said. “Turns out magic is more appealing when you can buy it with a receipt.”
Peter frowned slightly. “Why did we tell them? About all of this. It was better before.”
Matilda glanced at him. “Better for whom? For us? Or for the people who had no idea what existed around them?” A small pause. “Secrets don’t keep people safe, Peter. Understanding does.” He didn’t fully agree, but he didn’t argue.
“So… we’re going to Diagon Alley now? For my wand?”
“Yes,” she said. “That’s one thing you won’t find second-hand on a London street.”
They turned into a quieter side street, the noise of the market fading behind them. It looked ordinary. Too ordinary. “Watch closely,” Matilda said. She stepped forward.
“Diagon Alley!”
The bricks began to shift. Peter watched, barely breathing, as the wall folded and rearranged itself, opening into something far larger than it had any right to contain, a hidden world.
Diagon Alley was alive, not just busy, layered. Magic didn’t simply exist here. It evolved.
WizTech mobiles hovered in midair, their surfaces flickering with shifting enchanted interfaces. Teenagers streaked overhead on sleek Nimbus 2027s, cutting across the sky with reckless confidence while a guard shouted after them, half-serious at best.
Nearby, a small puppy floated lazily beside its owners, drifting as though gravity had become optional.
Newspapers projected full three-dimensional scenes into the air, headlines unfolding into moving images.
Peter turned slowly, overwhelmed, “Mum, look at those! The new WizTechs, when can I get one?”
“When your grades say you deserve one.”
“They’ll be outdated by then.”
“Then you’ll learn not to chase things that expire.”
They continued walking.
Matilda’s gaze moved across the alley, something quieter settling into her expression, “It’s changed…” she murmured. “But it hasn’t lost itself.”
Peter answered without thinking. “How would you know? You never went to school.” The silence that followed was immediate. Matilda didn’t stop walking, but Peter felt it the moment the words left him, but it was too late to take them back.
Ollivanders felt wrong the moment they stepped inside.
Not empty, no, the shelves were still there, lined with long, narrow boxes. The air still carried that faint, dry scent of polished wood and old magic. But the precision—the near-sacred order the shop was known for—had been disturbed.
Boxes lay open where they should have been sealed. Some were stacked carelessly, others left half-slid out as if abandoned mid-selection. Papers were scattered across the counter, curling at the edges. A ledger lay open, ink smeared across a page that had never been finished.
A single lamp flickered overhead, its light uneven, stuttering between brightness and shadow. It didn’t feel abandoned, but interrupted.
Peter slowed as he stepped in, his eyes moving across the disorder, instinctively trying to make sense of it. Even without having seen the shop before, he could tell this wasn’t how it was meant to be.
“Apologies,” a voice called from the back, followed by the sound of something being hastily moved aside. “Shop’s… between identities at the moment.”
A young man emerged through a curtain, pushing it aside with his shoulder. Marcus Ollivander didn’t look like what Peter had imagined.
He looked… unfinished.
His sleeves were rolled unevenly, ink smudged across one wrist. His hair hadn’t quite decided whether it had been arranged or abandoned. And yet—his eyes were sharp. Alert in a way that didn’t match the rest of him.
“What can I do for you?” he asked, brushing his hands together, as though clearing dust that didn’t bother him enough to actually remove.
Matilda didn’t answer immediately. Her gaze moved past him, across the shelves, the open boxes, the scattered papers.
“Mr. Ollivander?” she asked finally.
“Grandson. Marcus,” he replied, with a small, easy grin. “Got the training. Less… discipline.”
“I can see that.” Her tone wasn’t insulting.
It was observational.
Marcus followed her gaze, then gave a slight shrug. “Depends who you ask.”
There was a pause—long enough that the flickering lamp became noticeable again.
“Did something happen here?” Matilda asked.
Marcus tilted his head slightly, as though weighing the question rather than answering it. “Define ‘happen.’”
“Something bad.”
For a moment, he said nothing. Then, with a quiet exhale, “Then no.”
“Just… bad decisions.”
The answer lingered in the space between them—not quite reassuring, not quite dismissive. Matilda didn’t press further. Marcus shifted, as though deciding not to stay in that line of conversation.
“So,” he said, turning toward Peter now, his attention sharpening almost imperceptibly, “wand?”
His eyes scanned Peter—not superficially, but deliberately, as if measuring something that wasn’t visible.
“Hogwarts this year?”
“No,” Matilda said, too quickly.
Marcus blinked, caught off guard, not by the answer, but by the certainty behind it. “No?” he repeated.
“We’re Slytherins,” Matilda said, her voice calm but firm. “We stay where we belong.”
That hung there. Marcus didn’t respond immediately this time. His gaze moved between them, Matilda, then Peter, then back again.
“…Right,” he said slowly. “That explains a lot.” Peter wasn’t sure what it meant. But it didn’t feel like agreement.
Marcus shifted his weight slightly. “Your father’s wand?”
“He’s not with us.”
Marcus gave a reflexive shrug. “His loss.”
“He died.”
This time, Marcus didn’t recover immediately. The words didn’t just interrupt; they recalibrated something. “…Right,” he said, quieter now. “Sorry.” The ease didn’t fully return.
“Yours?” he asked, glancing at Matilda.
“I don’t use one. I’m a Squib.”
That changed the room, not dramatically, but unmistakably.
Marcus’s posture straightened just slightly. His eyes lingered on her now, not dismissive, not surprised, but… attentive.
“Any wand will do,” Matilda added, her tone controlled, almost deliberately so. “He won’t need much.”
That was the first statement Marcus didn’t let pass. He didn’t argue immediately. But he didn’t look away either. Instead, he studied her—really studied her—as if trying to understand whether she believed what she had just said, then his gaze shifted to Peter. “Can I talk to him?” he asked.
Matilda didn’t respond. Not right away. Her eyes narrowed slightly, not in anger, but in recognition. She understood the question. Understood what he was trying to do. And she didn’t like it. But after a moment, she stepped aside.
“Go on.”
Marcus moved closer, not abruptly, not forcefully, but with a kind of quiet intention. Something in him had changed. The casual ease was still there, but underneath it now was focus.
“What do you want to be?” he asked.
The question felt heavier than it should have. Peter’s first instinct was immediate; he looked at his mother.
“Not what she wants,” Marcus said, softer now, but firmer. “You.”
Peter hesitated. The answer that came to him first was familiar. Safe. Practiced.
“Something stable,” he said. “Ministry job.”
Marcus shook his head slowly.
“That’s not an answer.”
He took a small step closer, not enough to intimidate, but enough to close the space.
“That’s a plan. Try again.”
Peter swallowed. The shop felt quieter now. Even the flickering lamp seemed to have settled into a slower rhythm. He could feel his mother behind him.
For a moment, he almost repeated himself. Almost chose the safer answer again. But something held him there.
“…I don’t know,” he said, quieter this time.
“Good,” he replied. “That means we’re getting closer.”
Peter frowned slightly, thrown off. Marcus’s voice dropped just enough to pull his focus in completely. “What do you see when you imagine yourself there?” That question landed differently.
Peter didn’t answer immediately. Because this time, he wasn’t searching for something acceptable. He was remembering.
A flash of movement.
A wand raised.
Precision.
Control.
Victory—not loud, not celebrated—but earned.
He exhaled slowly. “…A duelling champion.” The words came out softer than before.But this time, they stayed.
Behind him, Matilda stiffened while Marcus smiled. Not broadly.
“There it is.”
He turned without another word, moving through the disordered shelves. This time, Peter noticed something he hadn’t before. Marcus didn’t hesitate. Not once. His hand moved across boxes, pausing briefly—just briefly—before selecting one. When he returned, the wand in his hand didn’t look remarkable. Dark wood, simple and almost unassuming.
“This one,” he said. He didn’t explain and placed it in Peter’s hand.
For a fraction of a second—nothing happened. Then, something shifted. There was no light, no sound, no dramatic reaction, but Peter felt it. A subtle alignment, like something inside him, something he hadn’t fully acknowledged—had just… settled into place. His grip tightened slightly.
Marcus watched him, his expression no longer casual.
“The wand chooses what you won’t admit out loud,” he said quietly.
That was when Matilda moved.
“I know what you’re doing,” she said, stepping forward, her voice cutting through the stillness. “This isn’t selling—it’s manipulation.”
Marcus didn’t look away from Peter. “It’s alignment.”
“It’s dangerous.”
Now he looked at her.
“So is burying what he is.”
Matilda’s jaw tightened. “You don’t know what he is.”
Marcus held her gaze.
“No,” he said calmly. “But this does, wands don’t lie.” Silence stretched, and then, Matilda reached into her bag, pulled out the money, and slammed it onto the counter with more force than necessary.
“We’re done here.”
She didn’t wait; her hand closed firmly around Peter’s arm, pulling him toward the door. Peter moved, but not fully, not willingly; his attention hadn’t left. It remained fixed on the wand in his hand.
SCENE 2 - An Oath
Hogwarts – The Great Hall
The Great Hall stands grand… and neglected. Banners hang slightly uneven. The stone walls are stained, scratched, defaced with scribbles and stickers. Under long dining tables—chewing gum, carelessly stuck.
A formal ceremony is underway.
On the dais stand: MINISTER HOWARD BROOKES, stern and watchful; PROFESSOR MARY RICHARD, the retiring headmistress; and the incoming headmaster—ALEXANDER FLAMEL.
Flamel is composed. Sixty. Grey suit, bow tie. Neat hair. A measured presence. The kind that fills a room without raising its voice.
The senior staff stand in honour: MR HARRINGTON, PROFESSOR FELINE, THE SNOWMAN, PROFESSOR WILLIAM LINCOLN, and MISS JANUARY.
Flamel steps forward.
Alexander Flamel:
I, Professor Alexander Arthur Joseph Nicolas Flamel, take upon myself the full charge of responsibilities and duties as the Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
I vow to protect its honour and its legacy for the duration of my term… and to provide an education that is wise, disciplined, and rooted in humanity.
During my tenure, it shall be my responsibility to ensure that every student who walks through these halls leaves not merely accomplished—but capable. Capable of contributing meaningfully to both the wizarding and the Muggle worlds.
As Headmaster, I shall not discriminate. I shall not be biased. And I shall not allow favouritism to cloud my judgment.
I will be fair in all my decisions—academic or moral—especially in the moments when fairness is most difficult.
(a measured pause)
Thank you, Minister Brookes, for entrusting me with this responsibility. And to my friend and fellow philosopher, Professor Mary Richard—my respect, and my gratitude.
Once again… thank you.
Applause fills the hall. Polite at first—then growing.
Flamel steps down.
Minister Brookes (low, controlled): Welcome, Flamel. I hope this marks a change—for the better. Hogwarts was once a standard of excellence. Now… it’s closer to a holiday resort.
Flamel doesn’t respond immediately. He looks around.
He sees everything.
—Graffiti carved into stone
—Stickers plastered across centuries-old walls
—A crude message: “I LOVE YOU, MISS JANUARY”
—Students’ neglect etched into every surface
His expression doesn’t change—but something sharpens behind the eyes.
Alexander Flamel (quietly): Yes… this place is in need of a new life.
Professor Mary Richard: I truly am sorry, Professor… for the condition in which I’m handing things over. I don’t know what gets into them towards the end of term—they behave as though the castle belongs to them. As though it were their bedroom. And… the message for Miss January—(awkwardly)—we’re not certain who wrote it, but it can be removed rather easily.
Alexander Flamel (a faint smile):
It’s quite alright, Professor. Nothing here is beyond repair.
(then, firmer)
I would like the house-elves to have the Great Hall restored before the new term begins. And Minister Brookes—if you would—I’d like a word with you… and the senior staff.
Brookes nods. The five teachers gather. A tighter circle now. Private.
Alexander Flamel: What I’m about to say may come as a surprise to some of you.
(measured pause)
I intend to make a change. We will be reinstating Slytherin House at Hogwarts.
Silence. Not disbelief—shock.
Minister Brookes: Flamel… tell me you’re not serious.
Alexander Flamel (steady): I am entirely serious. Slytherin House will return.
Minister Brookes (sharper now): Have you forgotten why it was shut down? Have you forgotten what that house produced? Dark witches. Dark wizards. Death Eaters. Voldemort himself. Every time history turned against us—it came from there. We tolerated it after the war. You know that.
(a beat—he chooses not to elaborate)
And fifteen years ago, we ended it. For good reason.
Alexander Flamel: I have forgotten nothing, Brookes. I was not merely present at that decision—I helped make it.
(steps closer, voice calm but firm)
But today, I took an oath. An oath that I would not discriminate. That I would not judge entire generations by the failures of the past. And I intend to honour that oath.
Minister Brookes: You call this honour? You’re reopening the very house that nearly destroyed us—and you expect what? Gratitude?
Alexander Flamel: No. I expect resistance.
(beat)
But I also expect better. Everyone deserves the chance to choose who they become. Not be told, in advance, who they are. Slytherin does not create darkness. It reveals it… or it disciplines it. That is what we failed to do. That is what I intend to correct.
Minister Brookes: And the parents? How do you plan to explain this to them? Because I assure you—they will not see philosophy. They will see risk. No one wants their child near that legacy.
Alexander Flamel: I am a parent, Brookes.
Silence. This lands differently.
Alexander Flamel (quieter, but heavier): And I know exactly what I am choosing.
Brookes studies him. Long. Measuring whether this is conviction—or recklessness.
Minister Brookes: Very well. Do as you wish. But when this begins to fall apart—and it will— do not come to me asking for rescue.
Alexander Flamel (a faint, controlled smile): Thank you, Minister. And I assure you, nothing will fall apart.
He turns. The staff remain frozen between doubt and inevitability.
Behind them, the words on the wall still read:
“I LOVE YOU, MISS JANUARY.”
Lights fade.
SCENE 3 - A Mother, A Son, And a Letter
Harrow Residence, London
A modest home. Worn, but cared for.
The television flickers—bright, fast, alive.
A DUELLING ARENA. Crowds roaring. Spells colliding in bursts of light.
On screen: IVAN KARKAROFF—young, precise, terrifyingly composed.
PETER sits forward, completely absorbed. Eyes wide. Breathing shallow. Every movement on screen mirrored in his imagination.
On the table beside him—a wand.
He picks it up. Turns it slowly. Studies it like it’s a promise.
Then—
Click.
The screen goes black.
Peter: Mom! I was watching that!
MATILDA stands near the switch. Firm. Unmoving.
Matilda: You are not going to watch duelling. You are not going to turn yourself into some performer for strangers—risking your life so they can clap. You will do as I say.
Peter (frustration rising): It’s not “performing”—it’s skill! It’s my dream, Mom! Don’t dreams matter? Doesn’t it feel awful when they just… sit there and rot?
Matilda (controlled, but strained): Yes. I had dreams. I had ambitions. And sometimes… you give those up. For something that matters more.
Peter: I don’t get it. Why are you doing this to me? You never let me play with other kids—they laugh at me! You never let me try magic—you’re always scared I’ll get hurt! I’m eleven, Mom. Not a child.
Matilda (sharp): Not a child? Alright then. Tell me, grown man— how are you planning to pay for all this? Your training? Your school? Your… dream?
Peter (without thinking): Dad left money. Plenty of it. I don’t get why you don’t use it. Why do you work all day when we could just—live?
That lands. Hard.
Matilda (low, dangerous): You do not tell me how to live my life.
Peter (pushing further): Of course. I’m not allowed to question anything, right? You decide everything— my school, my life, what I can and can’t want—
Matilda: Stop repeating that nonsense that idiot shopkeeper filled your head with!
Peter: It wasn’t nonsense! He actually cared what I wanted! Something you’ve never done!
Silence.
Not empty—broken.
Matilda just looks at him.
Not angry.
Wounded.
Peter sees it. Instantly. But pride holds his mouth shut.
Matilda’s eyes fill. She turns away before the tear fully falls. When it does—she’s already walking out.
The room is suddenly too quiet.
NIGHT
No words. No movement.
Two people in the same house—separated by something neither knows how to cross.
Peter lies awake. Replaying every word. Rewriting them. Failing each time.
NEXT MORNING – BREAKFAST TABLE
Silence again. Colder now.
Peter (carefully): Good morning.
No response. Matilda doesn’t look at him.
Matilda (after a beat, flat): You can help yourself with breakfast…grown man.
Peter flinches. Just slightly. He had spent the whole night preparing to apologise. She hasn’t spent a second meeting him halfway.
Doorbell rings.
Peter (quickly, almost relieved):
I’ll get it.
INT. FRONT DOOR
He opens it. No one there.
A small bundle of letters lies on the floor.
He picks them up. Flips through them absentmindedly.
Letter 1: Electricity Board — Final Notice
Letter 2: Landlord — Payment Due
Peter barely registers them.
Then—
A third envelope.
Addressed To:
Mr. Peter Harrow,
Room above the stairs,
14 Green Street, Alberta Town, Surrey
His fingers slow.
The seal catches his eye.
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Everything else drops.
The other letters fall to the floor.
Peter stares at it.
Confusion. Disbelief. Hope—dangerous, immediate.
Behind him, Matilda notices.
She freezes.
Peter tears the envelope open—hands trembling, breath uneven—
Hogwarts School Of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Headmaster: Alexander Flamel - Grand Alchemist, Master of Transmutation, Order of Flamel first class, Supreme Mugwump, Chief Alchemical advisor to Wizengamot.
We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.
Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31.
Yours sincerely,
William Linclon
Head of department- Defence against the dark arts
A quiet light spread across Peter’s face, like something long lost had finally found its place.
A new journey had begun.
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