"Regarding the overseas publication, I trust Aunt Theresa will handle the details for me as she sees fit."
Arthur's voice was soft, and the rare, small smile that touched his lips was enough to warm Theresa's heart. Yet, beneath that warmth, she felt a sharp pang of sympathy. She had known Father Hughes for over a decade and was intimately familiar with the cast of characters that lived within the crumbling walls of St. Mary's.
Years ago, when she was still a tenacious young journalist looking to make her mark, she had written a series of reports on Arthur's arrival. It hadn't been for the sake of cheap clicks or momentary fame; she had been moved by the plight of the frail, feverish infant found in a damp alleyway. She had wanted to find the biological parents of this poor, troubled child, hoping to offer him a bridge back to a real family. But the trail had been cold, the leads nonexistent, and eventually, her reports had vanished from the public consciousness without a trace.
Now, that same child had grown into a rising star of the literary world, a phenomenon in his own right. Theresa sighed softly, her hand reaching into her red leather handbag for a pack of cigarettes. Just as her fingers brushed the cardboard, she paused, realizing how inappropriate it would be to smoke in the presence of an eleven-year-old—especially one who seemed to possess the gravity of an old soul.
Instead, she pulled out a crisp white envelope and handed it across the desk to Arthur.
"This is the recommendation letter you asked for," she said, her voice tinged with a mentor's concern. "But Arthur, you are still so young. You don't need to make Cambridge your only goal. I truly believe Oxford might suit your temperament better. They value the kind of creative depth you possess."
In the rigid social hierarchy of Great Britain, it was notoriously difficult for an orphan from a struggling institution to secure a place at a top-tier university. But Theresa saw in Arthur a rare, focused potential that defied the odds of his birth. She believed that if he set his mind to a goal, the world would eventually have to move out of his way.
"Thank you, Aunt Theresa," Arthur said, bowing his head in a gesture of profound gratitude. "However, I'm afraid I won't be needing it now."
He didn't reach for the envelope. He let it remain on the desk, a ghost of a plan he had nurtured for years.
"Oh?" Theresa's brow furrowed, and she stared at him with a puzzled expression. She wasn't angry—she had long ago learned that Arthur was not a typical child—but she was deeply confused. "Do you have a new goal, Arthur? Or is it the tuition? If you are worried about the high fees, you shouldn't be. Your royalties from the first printing alone are more than enough to cover the cost of the most prestigious schools in the country."
"I am going to a different school," Arthur explained, choosing his words with care. "The Headmaster of that institution personally sought me out. He has promised me a generous scholarship every year I attend. Furthermore, he has committed to recommending me to any university in the world once I am ready for higher education."
"I see," Theresa replied, a slow smile of relief spreading across her face. "Well, congratulations, little Arthur. I had no doubt you would be scouted. You will surely become the pride of St. Mary's."
She didn't press for the name of the school. In their time working together on the novel, she had learned that Arthur was a child of fierce independence. Though he was often quiet, moving through the orphanage like an invisible ghost, he was never someone who could be ignored. If he had found a path that satisfied his pragmatic mind, she was happy for him.
"Besides those matters," Theresa continued, her professional instincts resurfacing, "I have to ask the question on everyone's mind: is there a sequel to Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone in the works?"
The book had exploded overnight, transforming from a debut novel into a mandatory bedtime story for children across the nation. As an editor, she knew they needed to strike while the iron was hot. A sequel released within the year would solidify his place as a literary giant.
"Hmm... I plan to pause that series for a while," Arthur said.
Theresa's face fell instantly. If any of her other authors—grown men and women with mortgage payments—had said such a thing, she would have given them a blistering dressing-down about market trends and lost momentum. But Arthur was a child, and she had to respect his creative boundaries.
"However," Arthur added, seeing her disappointment, "I will be writing other stories. I'll need to trouble you with a new manuscript soon, Aunt Theresa. I don't intend to stop writing entirely."
"That's a relief," she laughed, patting his hand. "I look forward to seeing what else is in that head of yours. Just... don't neglect your studies, Arthur. Fame is a fickle thing, but an education lasts a lifetime."
"I will study very hard," Arthur promised.
"I'll be going now," Theresa said, checking the old grandfather clock on the wall. "But there is one more thing I need to ask of you. A personal favor."
She reached into her bag one last time, pulling out a hardcover copy of his book and a fountain pen. "A little girl named Yumi has been nagging me for days. she's a huge fan, but she's been in the hospital and couldn't come to meet you today."
"It's no trouble at all," Arthur said softly. "It is an honor to have such an angelic fan."
He took the book, turned to the second page, and signed his name beneath the title: Arthur Silas. He paused for a few seconds, his pen hovering over the paper, before adding a heartfelt message wishing Yumi a speedy recovery and a bright future.
__________
"Aren't you worried about letting goblins manage the wealth of the wizarding world?"
Inside the magnificent, marble-pillared lobby of Gringotts, Arthur Silas looked down at the heavy pouch of gold coins in his hand. The weight of the Galleons was satisfying, but the sight of the sharp-toothed creatures behind the high counters made his pragmatic mind uneasy. He turned to look up at the tall, exceptionally poised woman standing beside him.
Professor Minerva McGonagall looked down at the boy with a sharp, discerning eye. She had been tasked with escorting him to Diagon Alley after the "complications" with Dumbledore's first meeting. She found Arthur to be exactly what she admired in a student: quiet, composed, and impeccably polite.
"Heh, that matter is rather complicated, Mr. Silas," McGonagall replied, her Scottish accent crisp. "But wizards generally trust goblins more with their gold than they trust their own kind. Goblins have a singular focus on leafing through ledgers. If you are curious about the history of our financial treaties, I suggest you read A History of Magic very carefully."
She felt a slight pang of disappointment as she watched him. He had the sharp mind of a Ravenclaw and the steady patience of a Hufflepuff. She doubted he would end up in her own house, Gryffindor; he seemed far too sensible for the reckless bravery her house usually attracted.
"I see. In that case, I will follow your suggestion, Professor," Arthur said. He paused, his mind already calculating. "The Hogwarts library should have a copy of that book, shouldn't it?"
McGonagall's eyes narrowed slightly. She suddenly recalled Dumbledore's parting words: 'Arthur is a very pure and kind child, Minerva, but due to his background, he is perhaps a little... fond of money.'
She finally understood what the Headmaster meant.
"A History of Magic is a required textbook for all first-year students, Arthur," she said firmly. "You are expected to own your own copy."
"That's a shame," Arthur muttered, a look of genuine regret crossing his face. "I was hoping to save that money for other resources."
"Did you not receive your formal acceptance letter?" McGonagall asked as she led him out of the cool marble bank and back into the sun-drenched chaos of Diagon Alley. "It includes a very detailed list of all required equipment and books."
"No," Arthur shook his head. His attention was briefly caught by a paper crane made of enchanted parchment flying above a candy stall, but he quickly returned his focus to the Professor. "Headmaster Dumbledore told me that someone would take me to buy my supplies. I haven't received a formal letter yet. He seemed... quite busy when we last spoke."
"He is indeed very busy," McGonagall sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly. "And largely thanks to you, I might add. Our Defense Against the Dark Arts professor has vanished into thin air. School starts in a week, and Albus still hasn't found a suitable replacement."
Arthur blinked. "Vanished? Because of me?"
"Indeed. Professor Quirrell was a fine Ravenclaw in his day, and he had been teaching Muggle Studies for years. Albus had persuaded him to take the Defense position this year. But after your novel became common knowledge among the staff... after we read about the 'stuttering man with the turban' and what he was hiding... well, Quirinus never returned from his summer travels. He simply disappeared."
McGonagall felt a sense of loss. She still had a letter from him in her office, detailing his travels in Albania. Now, that seat at the high table was empty, and the curriculum was in shambles.
"Still no professor? That sounds like a significant administrative trouble," Arthur said, perfectly mimicking McGonagall's own tone of concern.
"It is a headache we do not need," she replied, steering him toward Madam Malkin's. "Come along, Arthur. We still have a long list of things to buy, and I don't intend to spend all day debating the economics of textbooks."
Arthur followed her, his mind already spinning. A vacancy in the faculty meant a change in the narrative. If the "plot" of his first book was already falling apart, he would have to be even more careful. He looked at the bustling wizards around him, realizing that in this world, the pen was indeed mightier than the sword—but it also drew the most blood.