"All right, Anduin, let's pick up the pace," Professor McGonagall said, glancing up at the sky. The afternoon sun was beginning its slow descent, casting long, dramatic shadows across the cobblestones of Diagon Alley. "We spent a good deal of time on the wand, and now we must secure the other necessities before the day entirely gets away from us."
"Understood, Professor. Logistics first," Anduin replied, tucking the cold, smooth Ebony Wand securely into his sleeve. The wand felt less like a tool and more like a contained, humming power source, ready to be deployed.
With McGonagall's stern efficiency, the remaining tasks became a blur of purchases.
They visited the Transforming Ink and Stationary Shop for stacks of crisp parchment, several bottles of midnight-black ink, and a dozen self-inking quills. Next was Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions, where Anduin was measured for his mandatory plain black work robes and the pointed hat—garments that felt decidedly archaic compared to 1980s London fashion.
At Flourish and Blotts, the massive bookstore, the sight of countless arcane tomes finally sparked genuine, intellectual excitement in Anduin's eyes. He secured the required first-year texts, feeling the weight of the magic knowledge he was finally about to access. He also made a point of exchanging a few extra Sickles for a larger, sturdier brass cauldron at Partridge's Cauldron Shop.
Finally, they stopped at the Magical Menagerie. Anduin, observing the common practice among students, purchased a magnificent, dark brown Tawny Owl.
"I've always found them to be surprisingly mischievous creatures," Anduin remarked, paying for the bird and a generous supply of pet treats. The owl looked at him with large, intelligent, yet faintly disdainful eyes, confirming his assessment.
The time dedicated to these errands had chewed through the afternoon. The sunlight streaming into the Alley was now a deepening orange-red, signaling the inevitable end of the day.
"That is sufficient, Anduin," McGonagall stated firmly, adjusting her robes. "You have everything required for September 1st. It is getting late, and while the Alley is protected, it is always best for underage wizards to be off the streets after dark."
"Professor McGonagall, if you wouldn't mind indulging me for a few more minutes," Anduin interjected, offering his most sincere, persuasive smile. "You have sacrificed a substantial portion of your day for me. Before we part, please allow me to buy you a cold beverage as a sincere expression of my gratitude. I am rather tired from the sensory overload of this world, and I still have a handful of practical questions."
McGonagall considered the request. His exhaustion was understandable, and his maturity was unusual. A brief moment of relaxed conversation might actually be beneficial for the boy's integration.
"Very well, Mr. Wilson. But let us keep it brief."
They settled into the brightly lit, slightly too pink interior of Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour, ordering two tall, elaborate sundaes. The cold, sweet treat was a welcome anchor back to something recognizably normal.
"Professor McGonagall," Anduin began, after the first refreshing spoonful, leaning forward slightly. "Now that I possess a conductor—this wand—am I permitted to begin practicing the magic I've read about in the initial textbook?"
McGonagall set her spoon down, her expression instantly becoming severe. "Absolutely not, Anduin. You must extinguish that impulse immediately. Magic is infinitely more complex than you comprehend, and its reckless casting—especially in the Muggle world—can have devastating consequences."
She lowered her voice. "We are in a sensitive political period. The Ministry of Magic is currently hyper-vigilant. They employ a specialized charm called The Trace to monitor magical activity around all wizards under the age of seventeen."
Anduin's eyes narrowed. This was critical intelligence.
"The Trace detects the location of the magic, not necessarily the caster's identity. When you cast a spell in the densely magical air of Diagon Alley, the Ministry's detection system is flooded with magical noise, making it difficult to pinpoint your individual action. However," she fixed him with a sharp look, "when you cast a spell in the Muggle world—a region devoid of endemic magic—your action is detected instantly, clear as a glowworm in the dark."
"So, to use your military parlance, attempting to practice magic at the orphanage would be akin to firing a flare in the middle of enemy territory?" Anduin synthesized the information instantly.
"A perfectly accurate analogy," McGonagall confirmed, grudgingly impressed. "The Ministry would send an immediate warning, or worse. While I know your thirst for knowledge is immense, I strongly advise you to confine your curiosity and practice within the supervised boundaries of the school when term begins."
"I understand," Anduin responded easily, though internally he was already processing the limitation. The Trace is a geographical constraint, not an absolute one. I must find a way to manipulate the environment or the system.
He shifted the focus, adopting the persona of an overly curious student. "Are there many professors like you at Hogwarts? You seem tremendously capable. What are your specific duties? And what is the Headmaster, Professor Dumbledore, like?"
McGonagall smiled, a genuine, warm expression that momentarily softened her stern features. "I think you belong in Ravenclaw, young Mr. Wilson, given your relentless line of inquiry." She paused, then obliged him. "Hogwarts has staff dedicated to every discipline. My primary role, aside from teaching Transfiguration, is that of Deputy Headmistress, which means managing the school's daily operations."
"As for Albus Dumbledore... he is, quite simply, the most formidable wizard currently alive. You will get to know him soon enough. He is currently occupied in the nearby wizarding village of Hogsmeade. He is meeting with a prospective new staff member for Divination—a discipline I personally find to be mostly unreliable guesswork, but the Headmaster is insistent it remains a fixture."
They were deep in conversation, the atmosphere relaxed by the ice cream and the sharing of secrets, when a woman's voice, bright and familiar, cut across the parlor.
"Professor McGonagall! I never expected to find you here!"
Anduin turned his head. Standing in the doorway were a young couple. The man was handsome, wearing spectacles, with perpetually messy, dark hair and bright, light-brown eyes full of restless energy. The woman was beautiful, with striking long, dark-red hair, warm almond-shaped eyes, and a distinct, pronounced bulge beneath her maternity dress.
McGonagall's expression shifted instantly from professional calm to surprised affection. She rose quickly. "Lily! James! What in Merlin's name are you doing so far from home?"
The Potters walked over, the man, James, speaking first, his tone easy and familiar. "We're making final preparations, Professor. The little one is due any day now. We just needed a few last-minute items. But who is this? A new first-year? Muggle-born, judging by your being escorted by Minerva? Where is your family, young man? You seem to be here all alone."
Lily shot James a subtle, sharp glance and a tiny, warning pinch to his arm.
James looked confused for a moment, then recognized his own thoughtless social misstep.
Anduin, who had already confirmed their identity the moment he heard the surname 'Potter,' merely offered a small, disarming shrug.
"A sharp eye, sir. I am indeed Muggle-born. As for my family, I regret to say I never had the opportunity to know them." Anduin kept his expression neutral. He was too disciplined to allow true hurt to show, but the slight edge of truthfulness in his voice was undeniable.
"Ah! My profound apologies, kid. I spoke out of turn. Truly sorry," James backtracked immediately, genuinely chagrined.
McGonagall quickly settled the awkwardness. "This is Anduin Wilson, a very promising first-year. And these two, Anduin, are James and Lily Potter, two of my brightest graduates. Now, sit down before you put Lily into premature labor. You two shouldn't be traveling so carelessly right now. Aren't you worried about the instability?"
The Potters sat, James wrapping a protective arm around Lily.
"We aren't afraid, Professor, but we can't put everything off until the last minute. Lily needs comfort, and we need our supplies," James said, his usual bravado mixed with profound, protective affection.
Anduin, now certain he was sitting across from the future, fated parents, seized the moment.
"It sounds like a very exciting time. May I ask when the baby is due? And have you chosen a name?" Anduin asked Lily directly, his curiosity about his place in the timeline overriding any sense of social inhibition.
Lily's eyes lit up, the nervousness fading entirely, replaced by maternal joy. "Thank you for asking! The baby is due right at the end of the month. As for the name," she paused, smiling lovingly at James, "we've already decided. If it's a boy, we'll name him Harry. Harry Potter."
The name landed in the quiet parlor with the force of an actual spell.
Harry Potter. The name that symbolized the entire narrative he was tangentially familiar with. Anduin looked at the pregnant Lily, then at the nervous, protective James.
He was in July 1980. The parents were alive, the baby had not yet been born. This confirmed his earlier analysis: Voldemort was currently active.
The pieces of the puzzle slammed together: the sparse crowds, the patrolling Aurors, Tom's fears, McGonagall's hesitations—all of it was driven by the current, terrifying reign of the Dark Lord. He wasn't just joining a school; he was entering a civil war at its deadly climax.
The realization did not bring fear, but a cold, intellectual surge of excitement. The true stakes of his new life had just been clearly defined. He was not merely a student; he was a potential factor in the greatest conflict of this generation.
The setup is complete! Anduin is fully aware of the timeline and the high stakes.