[July 21, 1991, England]

Today was a terrible day for weather.

The sky was cloaked in mist and cloud, with rain pouring down like a silver river from above.

Looking up at the endlessly drizzling sky, Minerva McGonagall genuinely felt that this was the strangest child she had encountered in all her years of student recruitment.

With a sigh, she lowered her gaze, staring again at the child’s soft, crimson eyes that shimmered through the rain, her thoughts drifting away.

Everything that happened had to be told from the very beginning.

1991 was a particularly special year.

Ten years after Voldemort’s fall, the child hailed as the savior of the wizarding world — the boy who defeated the Dark Lord — Harry Potter, had finally turned eleven and was about to begin his first year at Hogwarts.

Though it was Hagrid who had been entrusted by Dumbledore with the task of guiding Harry to school.

As Deputy Headmistress and Transfiguration Professor, Minerva McGonagall still had to, as she did every year, visit the Muggle-born students to guide them through the preparations before starting school.

Until now, everything had gone relatively smoothly.

Even though a certain Miss Granger had relentlessly peppered her with endless questions — in a way some might find impolite — McGonagall, in truth, did not mind such curiosity and thirst for knowledge.

In fact, amid her exhausting travels, the Gryffindor Head of House had managed to console herself with the thought that perhaps Gryffindor would soon welcome another studious student.

Pinching the bridge of her nose, McGonagall swore to herself that next year, when new students arrived, she would be sure to bring several bottles of energy-restoring potions with her.

The constant explaining and convincing had drained her significantly, especially with this year’s intake being larger than usual.

Still, at last—

“It’s almost over,” she murmured.

At Diagon Alley, after helping the second-to-last student on her list gather their school supplies and sending them home, McGonagall pressed her dry lips together and looked down at the last name on the parchment:

[Dawn Richter]

[13 Kings Road, Dover District, Kent County]

°Disapparation°

With a flick of her wand and a crack, her figure vanished from Shropshire and reappeared in Kent.

The first thing that greeted her was the cold, heavy rain pouring from the sky.

Being so close to the North Sea and under the influence of the North Atlantic Drift and westerly winds, Kent was no stranger to dreary, rainy days.

“Oh—” McGonagall grimaced as she wiped her face, quickly casting a Water-Repelling Charm and a Drying Charm on herself before hurrying along the cobbled path lined with grass.

The streets were empty, the townsfolk choosing to stay indoors on such a rainy day, leaving her free from worrying about attracting attention with her robes and pointed hat.

Before long, she arrived in front of Number 13, Kings Road.

However—

Before she could even raise her wand to cast the unlocking charm, McGonagall caught sight of something through the iron gate.

There, lying on the lawn of the courtyard, was a small child, arms folded behind his head, stretched out amidst the green.

He wore a crimson coat and loose, cropped trousers. His skin was pale, his features blurred by the rain. A yellow umbrella was planted into the ground above him.

Rain pattered steadily against the umbrella’s surface.

Yet the slanting winds had drenched most of his body, his hair plastered to his skin.

McGonagall’s brow furrowed deeply.

Driven by her sense of duty as an educator, she instinctively moved to stop such reckless behavior that would surely lead to sickness.

“Child, what are you doing here!” she called out sharply, opening the iron gate with a flick of her wand.

The sudden voice startled the boy.

McGonagall watched as he flinched and shrank his neck down, glancing at her, his gaze lingering on her wizard’s robes and pointed hat for a long moment, an expression of mild surprise.

But what truly surprised McGonagall was—

Facing a stranger who had barged into his home dressed in such strange attire, the boy did not seem shocked or frightened.

Instead, he sat up, lifted his face toward her, and gave a clear, bright smile.

“Ah, sorry… I just love this rain too much,” he said. “Even in Kent, it’s rare to see something like this.”

His voice was soft, blurred slightly by the rain.

Loving this kind of rain?

McGonagall glanced up at the dark sky, filled with rolling thunderclouds, its gloominess enough to dampen anyone’s spirit.

She certainly didn’t like this weather — just as any cat hated getting wet.

McGonagall couldn’t help but sigh at how children often had such baffling ideas, and her mind wandered naturally to the mischievous young witches and wizards at school.

“Alright, child, alright… but I think, before anything else, it’s important to make sure you stay healthy.”

She waved her wand, and a large mist of water rose from the boy’s clothing, leaving him dry and warm in an instant.

“Wow.”

The boy stretched his hand out from under the umbrella, his red eyes gleaming like candlelight in the dark.

Rain fell into his palm and shattered apart without leaving a trace, as if an invisible barrier separated him from the outside world.

Feeling the magic, the boy kept his gaze fixed firmly on his hand, nodding casually in response to McGonagall’s warning: “Understood, Professor. I’ll be more careful.”

McGonagall sensed the perfunctory tone.

She eyed the boy — so strange, so oddly familiar with magic — feeling a mounting sense of confusion, just as she was about to question him further, she froze.

“Child, what did you just call me?”

“Professor,” the boy answered easily.

He stood up, brushing the grass and dirt from his clothes. “I’m guessing… you’re Professor McGonagall, who teaches Transfiguration at Hogwarts, right?”

“Oh?”

McGonagall’s eyes widened slightly as she glanced down at the parchment.

“Forgive me, perhaps I’m mistaken, but… your name is Dawn Richter, correct? And, are there any wizards among your family?”

“No, of course not,” the boy said with a smile.

His expression remained warm and composed as he added, “By wizarding standards, my family are all pure Muggles… In fact, all I know about the magical world, I learned from Diagon Alley. Including your appearance and name.”

“Diagon Alley?”

McGonagall’s astonishment grew. “But if your family is entirely Muggle, how do you know about that place?”

“Just a stroke of luck,” the boy said, scratching his now-dry hair a little awkwardly.

“Once, during a trip to London, I noticed a shabby old pub that looked terribly out of place compared to the nearby shops. No one else seemed to notice it, though. Curious, I went inside… and that’s when I discovered the wizarding world.”

“You—”

McGonagall opened her mouth, struggling for words.

In all her years guiding new students, she had never encountered anything like this.

Truth be told, it was entirely possible.

The charms placed on the Leaky Cauldron only caused Muggles to overlook it, but for a child with latent magical talent, the effect would be minimal.

Still, the odds of something like this happening were incredibly low.

There were only so many Muggle-borns in London, and even fewer who would happen to stumble upon the pub, notice its oddities, and dare to enter.

McGonagall thought this sort of behavior was unmistakably Gryffindor.

She felt a headache coming on.

The boy paused, glancing at the silently frowning McGonagall before continuing:

“As for the location of Diagon Alley and how to enter it, I overheard it while lingering in the pub… Although I didn’t have a wand, I was able to slip through the passage when other wizards opened it.”

“Mr. Richter, that was reckless!” McGonagall said, pressing a hand to her forehead.

This situation felt far too much like catching students sneaking around at night.

She couldn’t help but scold, “When faced with the unknown, you should act cautiously, first ensuring your own safety! You can’t just throw yourself into things without thinking!”

The magical world was not always a safe place.

A child unfamiliar with the basics could have easily wandered into Knockturn Alley — and the consequences would have been unimaginable.

“I understand, Professor,” the boy said, nodding obediently.

McGonagall exhaled slowly, glancing at the time. She decided to postpone the safety lecture and instead said:

“Well then, Mr. Richter, we must go to Diagon Alley to buy your school supplies… Please give me your hand.”

She drew her wand, ready to Apparate with him.

But the boy waved her off. “No need, Professor. After I received my acceptance letter two days ago, I already went and bought everything.”

“You already bought everything?”

McGonagall blinked in surprise, realizing this boy had been visiting Diagon Alley far more often than she thought.

Holding onto a sliver of hope, she asked, “Who accompanied you? Your parents?”

“I went alone,” the boy said as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

McGonagall was at a loss for words.

She looked once more at the boy’s innocent, well-behaved face, inwardly confirming that this child was anything but.

She had a strong feeling that this little fellow would end up in Gryffindor too.

Thinking of those mischievous twins who delighted in breaking school rules, McGonagall gloomily predicted that Gryffindor’s struggle at the bottom of the House Cup standings would likely continue for some time yet.

After a brief silence, she steadied herself and glanced at the boy’s sleeve.

“Very well, Mr. Richter. Then, where is your wand?”

“Oh, it’s in my bedroom.”

The boy pointed upstairs to a lit room and, seeing the serious look on McGonagall’s face, hesitated. “Uh, would you like to check it?”

“Of course,” McGonagall replied firmly.

“Alright then. Please follow me,” the boy said.

He closed his umbrella, leaned it against the wall under the eaves, then pushed open the door.

McGonagall followed him inside.

The wooden door creaked open. Soft light from the living room spilled out into the darkness, pushing it back.

The boy changed out of his muddy shoes.

Leading the way up the wooden staircase, his gaze swept toward the nearby wall. Photographs lined the wall, framed in deep brown wood, climbing higher with the slope of the stairs.

In the pictures, the boy grew up, frame by frame.

Thinking of the very different future awaiting him, he briefly lost himself in memories of the eleven years he had lived so far.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep