"A year behind isn’t the end of the world," Rowan thought as he folded the Daily Prophet. "Learning magic matters more than timing."
He’d been wondering which House the Sorting Hat would give him. Gryffindor seed the most likely. Courage was its currency, and killing a dark wizard less than a day after waking in this body probably qualified. Still, anything was possible.
The shop door swung open.
"Morning, Dola—no, that’s not right anymore. Morning, Rowan!" Tonks strode in with her usual bright energy.
"Good morning, Miss Tonks," Rowan said, setting aside his breakfast.
She plopped into the chair across from him and ruffled his hair again. "None of this ’Miss Tonks’ business. Treat like your big sister."
She hadn’t stopped touching his head since yesterday. Rowan smoothed his hair back into place with resigned patience, then brought over a second plate.
"I made extra. Thought you might want so."
Tonks blinked. "How did you know I skipped breakfast? And—oh rlin—what is this? It’s brilliant."
She took a bite, and her entire face lit up. Her cooking skills were apparently disastrous, and breakfast was usually either purchased in haste or skipped altogether. Magic could speed up cooking, but not fix incompetence; the spell only mirrored the caster’s skill.
"It’s an egg wrap," Rowan explained. "Eggs, flour, peppers, carrots, sausage."
Tonks didn’t understand half the terms, but she lifted her thumb anyway. "If this is what you make at eleven, you’re headed straight for Hufflepuff."
That comnt made Rowan pause. "I really hope not."
It wouldn’t be the worst fate, but he didn’t exactly embody Hufflepuff virtues. Loyalty, honesty, tirelessness... he couldn’t claim more than one of those on a good day.
After breakfast, Tonks guided him through the inheritance paperwork. Their first stop: the Ministry of Magic.
"Hold my arm. Apparition can be rough the first ti," she warned, making sure he had a good grip before she cast.
"Apparate!"
Darkness collapsed around him. A crushing force squeezed his chest, his eyes, his ears. It felt like his body was being shoved through a tube narrower than his bones.
Then light returned.
"Awful at first, isn’t it?" Tonks laughed. "You’ll get used to it."
Rowan steadied himself and let her lead him toward the reception hall. His gaze swept the vast chamber.
The Ministry was ostentatious to a fault.
Polished wood floors glead like still water.High above, a peacock-blue ceiling shimred with golden runes that drifted and reshaped themselves like celestial announcents.Walls lined with gilded fireplaces shuttled witches and wizards in and out in bursts of green fla.
At the center stood a grand fountain. A wizard with his wand raised. A witch posed beside him. Surrounding them, a centaur, a goblin, and a house-elf gazed up at the pair with adoration.
The whole structure—massive, towering—was made of solid gold.
Nearby, a wizard called out, "Daily Prophet! Latest edition!"
Hours passed. Four, to be exact. It took that long to complete all the signatures, magical certifications, Gringotts confirmations, and ownership transfers.
When they finally returned to Knockturn Alley, Rowan could barely stand upright.
"The Ministry is all shine and no steel," he muttered. "No wonder Voldemort knocked it over like a cardboard prop."
Behind the glamour was a sluggish, complacent bureaucracy. Most of the staff barely lifted a wand unless forced. Without Tonks escorting him, Rowan doubted he would’ve navigated the process in a single day.
Still, it hadn’t been a waste. He’d glimpsed enchanted devices born from alchemical craft, saw minor spells used for office work, and observed how magic perated everyday wizarding life.
Power in this world wasn’t about the size of an explosion. It wasn’t a contest of raw force.It was stranger, subtler—dangerous precisely because it obeyed rules that bent toward imagination.
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