Diagon Alley was a whirlwind of motion and magic, and Myrddin Wyllt walked its cobbled street like a man moving through a memory made real. He said nothing, but every shopfront, every flicker of wandlight, every cawing owl and whirring contraption seemed to tug at something buried in his mind.
Memories.
He had seen this place before—on a screen, in a world where it had been fiction. The Harry Potter movies. That's where he knew this street from. Diagon Alley. And yet, being here, walking its twisting path, the colors and sounds real around him, the scent of parchment and potion hanging in the air—it was like something inside him clicked.
More began to return. Small things at first. Flashes of a life before. The glow of a monitor. The crackle of old pages. His room filled with books. Fanfiction. Games. Hogwarts Legacy.
That one surfaced stronger than the others. He remembered the ancient magic—smilar to his magic. It had felt powerful. Elemental.
Was that what this was?
No. Not quite.
His magic felt older somehow. Wilder. Not refined or channeled like spells from a wand, but alive and instinctual—like the forest, like the cat. It whispered rather than roared. When he'd touched the earth, the leaves had moved for him, not because of a command, but because they'd recognized something in him.
Ancient? Maybe.
But it didn't feel like the magic in the game. Not exactly.
Beside him, Professor McGonagall carried on speaking, explaining the alley's layout and some of the stores they'd be visiting. Her voice was steady, but she kept glancing at him, brow occasionally furrowed.
He didn't ask why. He had his own thoughts to untangle.
[Map]
They passed Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions, Flourish and Blotts, the Apothecary with its stained-glass windows—and then something else caught him. A smell.
Savory. Rich. Slow-roasted meats, spices warm and earthy, bread just out of the oven. His stomach growled before he realized it.
He turned his head sharply.
There it was.
A small restaurant nestled between two apothecaries. Its sign swung gently overhead, a painted wooden fox curled around the words: The Fox Hole.
He slowed to a stop, drawn by it.
"Professor?"
McGonagall turned, eyebrows raised.
But before he could say anything else, a witch pushing a floating crate passed in front of him. Myrddin stepped aside, the smell vanishing with the breeze.
When he looked back—
It was gone.
Not closed.
Gone.
The building that had stood there now appeared to be a blank brick wall.
He blinked. Rubbed his eyes.
"Magic being magic," he muttered under his breath.
McGonagall raised an eyebrow. "Something wrong?"
"No. Just... thought I saw something."
She didn't press. Instead, she led him toward Gringotts.
The bank loomed ahead, pale marble and iron-barred. Its doors gleamed under the light, flanked by goblins in deep crimson livery. Their eyes followed him sharply as he approached.
Myrddin couldn't help but notice how they straightened when he passed. Their expressions didn't change—still stony and impassive—but their posture did, they didn't glare or sneer at him—instead, they watched him with quiet curiosity and a surprising flicker of respect. Slight inclines of heads. Subtle movements. Not fear. Not greed. Not suspicion.
Respect.
Or something close to it.
It unsettled him.
They entered the massive hall, echoing and grand. Goblins sat behind polished desks, quills scratching, scales clinking, ledgers flipping. Professor McGonagall spoke briefly with one near the front, who nodded and disappeared into the back.
While they waited, Myrddin kept his voice low.
"Do all students get starting funds like this?"
"Yes," McGonagall replied crisply. "There's a small grant provided by Hogwarts for Muggle-borns, enough for basic supplies. It ensures no one arrives unprepared."
He nodded.
His gaze slid toward the goblins again.
He remembered something else—something not from the movies, but from fanfiction. Inheritance tests. Hidden vaults. Lost bloodlines.
He'd read stories where characters, often reincarnated like himself, had gone to Gringotts and demanded such tests. They had pricked their fingers, spoken formal words, and goblins had given them ancient titles or fortunes. But there was always a line in those fics:
"I do not consent for my blood to be used for any other purpose."
That had always seemed important.
But that was fiction.
This was real.
And he wasn't about to trust goblins with his blood, not yet. Not when he'd seen how they looked at him. Not when he had no idea what he might be giving away.
Maybe later. When he understood more. When he had control.
But not now.
He kept his hands at his sides.
The goblin returned with a key and led them to a cart. Myrddin said nothing as they sped through the underground tunnels, wind whipping past. The vault they stopped at was small but stocked—a modest pile of Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts.
Enough.
He took what McGonagall advised and didn't linger.
As they left, he could still feel goblin eyes on his back.
Once outside, McGonagall handed him a small pouch. "This will be charmed to only open for you. Use it wisely. We'll visit the wand shop first. It's across the street."
He nodded, slipping the pouch into his pocket.
This wasn't just a story anymore.
It was his life now.