Sunlight streamed through the gaps in the old brown curtains, washing away a bit of the stuffiness lingering in the small attic. Perhaps it was the seaside humidity, always stubbornly high, that allowed moss to flourish even here—climbing and spreading across the corners with a strange kind of vitality.
While the men of London were likely still curled up in bed with their wives—or perhaps their mistresses; who could say for sure—the people of Topoint were already hard at work. That's just how it was in this port town: even before the indulgences of the previous night had fully faded, the city had already plunged into another round of noise and chaos, as if sleep were a mere suggestion.
Of course, none of this vibrant life had anything to do with the residents of Tymo Alley.
Maca, a local of this shadowy alley in eastern Topoint, was born in Plymouth—but what did that matter? The poor had their own way of life, and in this alley full of "ideals" and "promises," things were far more stable than in the tangled web of powers back in Plymouth. Here, there were fewer eyes from the authorities, and certainly no heavy presence from corporate behemoths. All of those were over there. In this overlooked corner of a port city, only the currents beneath the surface moved, quietly but purposefully.
Maca, though young, had carved out a life for himself through innate cleverness and an extraordinary sense of street smarts. Just two hours ago, he'd returned from the dazzling nightlife and now lay fast asleep in his worn-out bed. A few more cargo ships docked? That had nothing to do with him.
But as he drifted deeper into a dreamscape of color and chaos, a sudden flurry of wings stirred the morning calm. Something had landed on the narrow windowsill outside.
Tap tap tap.
It sounded like a bird pecking at the frame, the dull thuds muffled through the curtain.
Still half-asleep, Maca furrowed his brows but didn't wake. He rolled over, pulling the blanket over his head.
Tap tap tap.
Three more pecks, like someone knocking, oddly persistent.
Tap tap—CRASH!
The third peck must have been too hard. The old windowpane gave in with a loud crack, shattering into a cascade of glass. Were it not for the curtain, his bed would have been littered with shards.
The blanket was flung back as Maca sat up groggily. He blinked around in confusion, clearly still caught between sleep and wakefulness.
Suddenly, with a frown of irritation, he yanked open the curtain—and froze.
Outside, perched on the broken sill, was a pale gray owl. Its large eyes locked with his, unblinking. Then, to his astonishment, the owl tilted its head and let out a dry little hoot, almost as if… embarrassed?
Maca blinked. He wasn't sure what expression to wear. Because somehow, in the owl's eyes, he saw a spark of intelligence—the kind usually reserved for people.
"Are owls supposed to be that smart?" he muttered, starting to question reality itself.
Hoo.
The owl gave a soft call, then extended its left talon, where a letter rested at the edge of the windowsill.
Maca hesitated before taking it. The envelope was thick parchment, the address written in emerald green ink, and curiously, without a stamp. A bright red wax seal closed it shut, bearing a crest with a large letter "H" surrounded by a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake—each claiming a quadrant of the shield.
At the top of the crest, one word stood out to Maca—familiar and yet unfamiliar.
"Hog-warts?" he read aloud, confusion and awe coloring his tone.
He didn't open the envelope right away. Instead, he stared at the crest in silence, thoughts drifting further and further. Only after a long pause did he finally snap out of it.
Without a word, he tossed the envelope onto the bed and curled up, hugging his knees tightly, pale and thin arms pulling his head into the shadows. His dull black hair slipped between his fingers, whispering of the bitter, gray years he'd lived through.
"So… it comes now, after all this time..." A hoarse voice scratched out from his throat. "Hah… how laughable."
A sudden sea breeze blew in through the shattered window—bitingly cold.
Of course, in June, Topoint had nothing to do with heat.
…
As the sun slowly rose, its rays added a touch of warmth to the coastal town. Maca now sat on the slanted rooftop outside his attic, leaning against the wall and gazing out over the shimmering surface of the River Tamar. The morning sun gilded the water in golden light—a rare, breathtaking sight for someone like Maca, who usually roamed the streets by night.
He stared blankly into the distance, but his hand gripped the still-unopened letter tightly. It was so light, yet the weight in his chest told a different story.
Rrrip.
The envelope finally opened. Two sheets of high-quality parchment were folded neatly inside. Maca shook them open with a flick, scanning the elegant handwriting in disbelief.
---
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore
(Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, Supreme Mugwump, Grand Sorcerer of the Order of Merlin, First Class)
Dear Mr. Maca McLean,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.
Term begins on September 1st. We await your owl no later than July 31st.
P.S. If the owl needs to stay for a while, do remember to feed the little fellow.
---
Maca read the letter over and over before flipping to the second page. But before he could fully digest it, he stuffed the parchment back into the envelope, lips pursed.
"Of course… there's still money involved." He grumbled. "Tuition may be free, but supplies aren't. I should've guessed."
He sighed heavily and returned to the attic, face dark with frustration. He rummaged through the little cabinet beside his bed and pulled out a few crumpled pieces of paper, tossing them onto the desk. Then, from under the bed, he dragged out a dust-covered, beat-up suitcase and popped it open. Inside, he found a narrow box and withdrew a simple fountain pen—not a fancy brand, but the only birthday gift his now-deceased mother had ever given him.
It was his most cherished possession—second only to money.
"Oh right… ink! I need ink too!" he mumbled, preparing to write a reply.
Nearby, the pale gray owl stood on the bed frame, head tilted, watching him with curious eyes.
Although his writing hand was a little rusty, Maca hadn't forgotten how to spell. His memory had always been sharp—something made obvious by his ability to mentally juggle countless fragments of British pound amounts without ever getting them wrong. Still, it was inevitable that the letters he wrote came out uneven and slanted.
Because of that, he ended up wasting quite a few sheets of paper.
Only after watching the owl flap its wings and soar into the sky—vanishing quickly around the corner—did Maca feel a trace of calm settle in his chest.
He truly hadn't expected it. In the depths of despair, having resigned himself to a future swallowed by Britain's shadowy underworld, he never imagined he'd glimpse something like hope.
And even more surprising—this flicker of hope had something to do with that place he'd long since buried in the recesses of his memory: Hogwarts.
"Hogwarts, huh…" Maca repeated the word under his breath, a rare, genuine smile breaking across his face. It was the kind of smile that had been buried along with his late mother beneath the old cemetery grounds of Plymouth—pure, and long gone.
As Maca lost himself in thoughts of the not-so-distant future awaiting him, far away in Little Whinging, Surrey, at Number 4 Privet Drive, a boy known as The Boy Who Lived was just waking up in the cupboard under the stairs—unaware that his life was about to be thrown into chaos by a most unexpected visitor.
---
Two months might've once been an unremarkable stretch of time in Maca's life.
But now, everything had changed.
He left behind the attic that had sheltered him through three long, bleak years. He also said goodbye to Uncle Angru, the bartender who gave him his first real job. Everything he could sell, he sold—to a black-market fence he'd dealt with more times than he could count. With every last pound he'd ever saved—and a newly rekindled sense of purpose—he boarded the ferry to Plymouth.
Only from Plymouth could he catch the train to London and begin his new life.
"But first, I should visit my mother," Maca murmured, leaning against the ferry's railing, gazing toward the far bank of the River Tamar.
The ride down the Tamar wasn't long—the riverbanks weren't that far apart to begin with. Before long, Maca found himself standing amidst a slightly overgrown graveyard.
Years ago, at just nine years old, Maca had spent the last of the money left by his father to buy his mother a tombstone—an extravagant gesture for a boy his age. But he hadn't done it out of guilt.
He did it because, for the first time—the very first time—he had truly acknowledged the woman who had spent her life chasing after money.
"…Mother," Maca whispered, gently brushing the dust from the tombstone. Though it was already noon, the air remained biting cold.
"This might only be the second time I've ever called you that."
He paused, then added,
"To be honest, I still can't say it naturally. I don't know if I should call you that—or even if I deserve to. But regardless… you are my mother. My… mom."
He gave a soft, awkward chuckle.
"Heh. I know—I still sound hesitant. But I said it, didn't I? Just… bear with me for now, alright?"
Whether it was the atmosphere, or the weight of the past three years, Maca stood there for a long while, speaking in halting fragments.
Only as the sky began to darken did he finally stand, brush off his trousers, and let out a deep sigh. It was time to find a cheap inn to spend the night—tomorrow, he'd head to the city center to catch the train to London.
Just as he turned to leave, a flicker of pale gold flashed at the edge of his vision.
Under the light of the setting sun, it shimmered with an almost otherworldly glow…