Three

The morning air was crisp when Professor McGonagall arrived at the Thorne household. When the doorbell rang, Atlas was already there, his hand on the handle. He opened it to find the Deputy Headmistress looking as sharp and stern as her reputation suggested.

"Are you prepared, Mr. Thorne?" she asked, her eyes sweeping over him. "We shall make our way toward the Leaky Cauldron immediately."

"How are we getting there?" Lyra asked, her voice laced with a mix of excitement and nerves.

In response, McGonagall drew her wand and pointed it toward the sky. BANG. A triple-decker, violently purple bus materialized out of thin air, tires screeching to a halt inches from the curb. "Welcome to the Knight Bus," McGonagall said dryly.

The ride was less of a commute and more of a battle for survival. Stan Shunpike, the conductor, barely looked up as he collected their eleven sickles. Atlas watched out the window as the bus jumped hundreds of miles in seconds, the world outside blurring into a dizzying smear of colors. By the time they stepped off in front of a grimy-looking pub, his parents looked slightly green.

Inside the Leaky Cauldron, the atmosphere shifted. It smelled of old wood and pipe smoke.

"Good morning, Tom," McGonagall nodded to the barman. "First-year student passing through."

They reached the brick wall in the back. Atlas watched intently as McGonagall tapped the bricks—three up, two sideways. The wall didn't just move; it breathed, the bricks quivering and folding away to reveal a bustling cobblestone street that defied every law of physics Atlas knew.

"Welcome," she said, "to Diagon Alley."

Their first stop was the snowy-white marble fortress of Gringotts. The poem engraved on the silver doors felt like a cold warning. Atlas read the lines about greed and theft, a small smirk playing on his lips.

"In other words," Atlas whispered to his father, "don't rob the people who keep dragons in their basement."

Inside, the goblin behind the counter looked at them with profound boredom. "Five pounds to one Galleon," he rasped.

"Ten thousand pounds, please," Atlas said clearly.

The goblin paused, his quill hovering. He looked Atlas in the eye, his gaze sharpening. "That will be two thousand Galleons." The weight of the gold was significant, but it felt like more than money—it was the currency of his new life.

The rest of the afternoon was a whirlwind of sensory overload. At Madam Malkin's, the pins moved by themselves, hemmed his robes with surgical precision.

"Come back in an hour, dear," the shopkeeper chirped.

They moved through the apothecary, where the air smelled of rotten eggs and dried herbs, and then to the bookstore, where Atlas felt a true pull of gravity. He bought the required texts, but his eyes wandered to the restricted sections, the law books, and the complex charts of Arithmancy.

At the pet shop, a Black Owl caught his eye. It didn't hoot or flutter; it simply watched him with amber eyes that seemed to see right through his skin.

"Nyx," he murmured, touching the cage. The owl nipped his finger affectionately.

Finally, they reached the narrow, peeling shop of Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.

The shop was silent, smelling of dust and ancient magic. Then, a soft rustle—and Mr. Ollivander appeared on a rolling ladder. "And you are? Atlas Thorne, Mister Ollivander."

After dozens of boxes were pulled and rejected, Ollivander grew quiet. He pulled a dark, slender box from the very back. "A tricky customer… try this. Blackthorn, twelve and a half inches. Phoenix feather core. Unyielding."

As Atlas took it, a surge of warmth shot up his arm. A brilliant, golden light erupted from the tip, illuminating the dusty shelves like a sunrise.

"Blackthorn," Ollivander mused, "is the wand of a warrior. It needs to pass through danger to truly bond with its owner. Seven Galleons, please."

The return home was quieter. The magic was in his trunk, but the reality of leaving was in the air. That evening, Atlas found his mother standing by the window, her silhouette framed by the setting sun.

"Mom?"

She turned, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "Atlas... I'm just worried. You're entering a world we can't follow you into. A world that doesn't know how special you are."

Atlas walked over and took her hand. "Don't be sad. Your son is a genius, remember? I can take care of myself."

"That's why I'm worried," she whispered. "You're too good, Atlas. People will try to use that. They'll try to dim your light."

Atlas looked at her with a fierce, quiet intensity. "Then I'll change that world, Mom. Just like I changed things here. I'll make it a place where you and Dad can walk beside me. I'll make sure the vultures stay away."

September 1st arrived with a frantic energy. At King's Cross, Atlas pushed his trolley toward the solid barrier between platforms nine and ten. With a final look at his parents and a promise to write once a week, he leaned forward and vanished through the stone.

The Hogwarts Express sat there, a scarlet steam engine breathing clouds of white smoke.

Atlas found an empty compartment and began the struggle of lifting his heavy trunk. Suddenly, the door slid open. A girl stood there, her dark hair perfectly styled, her expression a mix of guarded curiosity and aristocratic grace.

"Hello," she said. "I'm Isabel Stephanie Black."

"Atlas Thorne," he replied, giving her a polite nod.

"Can you help me with my trunk, Mr. Thorne?"

"Of course." Atlas didn't reach for the handle. Instead, he drew the Blackthorn wand. With a precise flick, he muttered, "Wingardium Leviosa."

The trunk rose smoothly into the air and settled into the overhead rack. Isabel's eyes widened.

"You used magic?" she breathed. "The train hasn't even left. And... I don't recognize the name Thorne. You're Muggle-born?"

"I'm just special, Miss Black," Atlas said with a small, knowing smile. "Please, have a seat. Unless you prefer standing for the whole journey?"

Embarrassed, she sat down. As the train lurched forward, Atlas pulled a sleek, glass-faced device from his pocket and plugged in a pair of white earphones.

Isabel stared at the glowing screen. "What... what is that? Muggle things don't work around magic."

Atlas leaned back, the music muffled in his ears. "This is something I made. I call it a 'mobile.' As for how it works..." He looked at her, his amber eyes dancing with a hint of mischief. "That's a secret. I only tell my close friends. Do you still want to know?"

Isabel hesitated, the weight of her ancient family name clashing with an irresistible curiosity. Slowly, she nodded.