"Are you Deputy Headmistress McGonagall from Hogwarts?" Cain asked, looking at the middle-aged woman standing before the orphanage gate. She wore square glasses, her dark hair was pulled into a neat bun, and she was dressed in a dark green robe.
"That is correct. I'm Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I am also your Transfiguration teacher, so you may address me as Professor McGonagall—or simply Professor," she explained. "I am curious, Mr. Riven… why are your clothes wet?"
Cain glanced down at himself, rubbing the back of his head.
"I stayed out here all night. I don't actually live at this orphanage. The letter had this address, so… I just stayed here after roaming around a bit."
McGonagall's expression softened with pity. She seemed to assume he had no home of his own and was simply drifting. Raising her wand, she said, "Don't move, Mr. Riven. This will dry you instantly."
She muttered a spell, and Cain's clothes dried at once. From her robe she produced a small potion vial.
"Drink this. Best not to catch a cold before school starts."
Cain eyed the vial with curiosity. How was he supposed to tell her that rain wouldn't affect him? Even without his equipment, he still retained his powers. But he drank the potion in one gulp.
"Good. Now, let's not waste any more time chattering here, Mr. Riven. Hold my hand tightly—we need to get you ready for Hogwarts." McGonagall extended her hand.
Cain wrapped his fingers around hers. Instantly, his stomach lurched. It felt as though he were being squeezed through a narrow pipe and spat out the other side. McGonagall said something about getting used to it, but his mind was too dizzy to register her words.
When he finally caught his breath and looked around, he found himself standing in what seemed to be a tavern.
The taven was old, dimlyit with lanterns, the wooden boards of the floor were sweaky. Behind the bar a stood a slightly old man, cleaning a glass with a piece of cloth.
"Hurry up, Mr. Riven. No time for sightseeing," McGonagall called.
---
McGonagall stood in the small courtyard behind the tavern. "This enchanted wall serves as the entrance to Diagon Alley," she explained. "You'll be coming here on your own after today, so pay close attention."
She tapped a brick three times with her wand. "Just remember: three bricks up and two across from the dustbin. Tap it three times to open the archway."
The familiar sounds of the Leaky Cauldron faded, replaced by a grinding, wet scrape—stone shifting against stone as if waking reluctantly. When the gap widened, the damp cold melted away. Cain's eyes widened as he stepped through.
A cobbled, bustling street stretched ahead, lined with crooked shops that leaned toward the path as if eager to whisper secrets to passersby.
"Stick closely, Mr. Riven," McGonagall instructed. Her voice was crisp, but beneath it lay a quiet undercurrent of protection. Even though her green robes didn't make her stand out, patrons and shoppers greeted her with respectful nods as they passed.
"Education at Hogwarts is free," she continued. "It is funded by the Ministry of Magic, and no student is required to pay tuition. For books and supplies, Hogwarts provides assistance to students who cannot afford them." She handed him a small pouch. "You are being allotted twelve Galleons for the year, provided through the Ministry's Education Fund for Orphans. Your wand will be funded directly by Hogwarts."
Cain nodded gratefully as he examined the coin-filled pouch in his hands. He had wondered how he would manage to pay for tuition and supplies. Even though he knew he was in the world of Harry Potter, his memories of the books and films were faint. He recognized many things, but to predict events outright? He wasn't confident—he'd watched the final movie decades ago.
McGonagall seemed pleased by how attentively he listened. "Galleons are the currency used in the wizarding world," she went on. "One Galleon is worth seventeen Sickles, and one Sickle is worth twenty-nine Knuts."
Cain nodded as McGonagall led him past a window displaying floating quills, then ducked swiftly into the grand, imposing entrance of Flourish and Blotts.
The bookstore was enormous. Towers of leather-bound tomes stretched all the way to the ceiling. The air smelled of parchment, ink, and the comforting dryness of old paper. The space was filled with the soft rustle of turning pages and the occasional aggressive snap of a book closing itself.
"First things first—your books for the year," McGonagall said as she marched past the new-releases display and headed straight toward the back. "Most of your first-year texts are simple enough: Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1; A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration, and so on. Buying them new would consume nearly six of your twelve Galleons immediately. We will look for acceptable second-hand copies."
Cain watched, fascinated, as McGonagall flicked her wand, pulling books from high shelves. Some floated obediently toward her—faded covers, frayed corners, and margins filled with old handwritten notes.
"One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi," she announced, flipping open a heavily stained copy. "Remarkably well-preserved, all things considered. Only two Galleons, eight Sickles. The new price is three Galleons, fifteen Sickles. A saving of seven Sickles. Excellent."
She continued her methodical selection, rejecting a potions book because too many brewing instructions were hidden beneath dried purplish residue. Cain felt relieved—yet slightly disappointed. He wanted the crisp, beautiful new books, but he couldn't deny the practical, street-smart appeal of finding bargains.
She selected two final books—a Charms text and a Potions text—both brand new, and handed everything to the cashier. The clerk, a wizard with a monocle perched precariously on his nose, tapped the register.
"That comes to eight Galleons, three Sickles, and seven Knuts altogether," he announced.
Cain's heart pounded. He counted out the coins carefully. Eight Galleons gone—only four left—and they still needed a cauldron, telescope, vials, ingredients, and the school uniform.
"Thank you, Mr. Riven," McGonagall said, collecting the stack of books before shrinking them into a matchbox-sized packet with a neat wave of her wand. "Next stop: Potage's Cauldron Shop. We will acquire a used pewter cauldron—size two—and only the most essential starting ingredients. Remember: choose not for luxury, but for utility."
Cain nodded, trying to appear appreciative. As they stepped outside, the noise of Diagon Alley washed over him again—no longer awe-inspiring, but suddenly overwhelming with its demands.
He followed the Professor, tightening his grip on the money pouch, silently resolving to treat every single Sickle as if it were made of solid gold.
By the end of their small journey through the alley, Cain was left with 12 Sickles and 23 Knuts. McGonagall glanced at his books-and-equipment list and gave a satisfied nod.
"Everything has been accounted for. It's time for you to get your wand."
Cain nodded eagerly as they approached Ollivander's, the famous wand shop. The interior was small and dim, but thick with an unmistakable sense of magic. Shelves rose to the ceiling, stacked haphazardly with narrow, dusty boxes. Behind the counter, an old man wearing spectacles was sifting through a stack of them. He spoke without looking up.
"Good afternoon, Minerva."
"Good afternoon, Mr. Ollivander. We're here to buy a wand," McGonagall said warmly.
Ollivander lifted his pale eyes, studying Cain with immediate interest. "Ah, a new student! Ready for your first wand?"
"Good afternoon, Mr. Ollivander. My name is Cain Riven," Cain replied politely.
Ollivander gave a small, approving smile. "A polite young man. Very good. Now—why don't you try a few wands and see which one chooses you? Remember, the wand chooses the wizard."
He selected a wand from a nearby box—freshly cleaned and polished—and handed it to Cain.
"Hornbeam. Dragon heartstring core. Thirteen inches. Pliant."
Cain took the wand. A faint golden glow shimmered at the tip, and a warm sensation spread through his hand as a clear connection formed.
Ollivander brightened immediately. "A perfect match! And on your very first try. It seems luck—or fate—favours you, Mr. Riven."
Cain smiled wryly. He knew the real reason. Back in Elden Ring, he could pick up any weapon and wield it like a master, thanks to the game's mechanic. It appeared the same principle applied here but to what extent it was to be found out later.
He thanked Ollivander as McGonagall paid for the wand.
They stepped out back in the alley as McGonagall turned towards him and said. "Now that everything has been bought, I suggest you spend the night at the Leaky Cauldron and arrive at Kings Cross Station in the morning. Ask Tom the owner he will help you with floo powder."
Cain nodded and replied with a slight bow. "Thank you Professor, for everything."
"Your Welcome, Mr. Riven. See you at Hogwarts." Said McGonagall as she apparated away.