The bell above the door gave a bright, musical chime as Arthur stepped in—and the smell hit him like a hug.
Roasted meat, warm butter, baked apples, and something else—nutmeg? A hint of cinnamon? It wrapped around him, thick and inviting, like he'd just stepped into the heart of a memory he didn't know he had.
The Golden Crust was full. Not packed like a pub on game night, but full in the way that every seat was taken, every table busy. A gentle clatter of cutlery and plates filled the air, layered with the soft hum of conversation and the occasional laugh that rang like a chime in the cozy space.
A mother in magenta robes sat near the window with her two children—one licking the lid of a butterscotch tart while the other tried to charm a cherry off their fork. An elderly wizard with a long moustache was arguing with the floating pages of his own newspaper while eating a shepherd's pie one deliberate bite at a time. The newspaper ignored him and flipped smugly to the crossword.
Near the center, a pair of Hogwarts-age teens in Ravenclaw scarves debated loudly over whether the "Pie of the Day" was enchanted to improve memory. One of them took another bite, then immediately forgot what she was saying.
In the back corner, a bearded man used his pinky to stir his tea while levitating his pastry just above the plate, slowly rotating it like a planet before taking tiny, reverent bites.
The clink of glasses, the scrape of chairs, the occasional gust of laughter—it all wove together into a tapestry of sound and scent. The lanterns lining the walls glowed softly, no candles or floating lights, just a steady golden warmth that filled the wooden walls and floor with life.
Arthur stood by the door for a moment, the wave of comfort and noise washing over him.
Nobody stopped to gawk. Nobody questioned why a boy was here alone. But a few glanced his way—quick, curious looks—before returning to their food or conversation. One man even gave him a polite nod before turning back to butter his third slice of pie.
Behind the long wooden counter, a young man with messy dark hair and flour on his elbows passed out plates with practiced ease. He moved quickly but never rushed, always with a small smile, occasionally cracking a joke that made someone near the front chuckle.
Arthur spotted a small sign hanging above the register, written in curvy chalk script:
"The Golden Rule of The Golden Crust: Eat Well. Ask Gently. Sit Long."
He stepped forward, the wooden floor creaking softly beneath his shoes. His stomach gave a quiet rumble, drawn by the rows of pies under the glass.
Classic Meat. Roasted Parsnip & Sausage. Stew in a Shell. Rabbit & Sage. Pie of the Day: Spiced Pumpkin & Roast Onion.
This was it. This was the address. 84 Bracken Way. The Golden Crust.
The letter in his pocket felt suddenly warm again, as if nudging him forward. The magic that brought him here… it had been right.
And now he was here.
Alone, hungry, and on the edge of something big.
Arthur took a breath—just as a pie on the counter let out a little puff of steam, like it was sighing in relief.
He smiled.
Then stepped toward the counter.
"Afternoon," came a voice from behind the counter, smooth and relaxed like it belonged in a jazz tune. "You look like someone who's traveled far… or skipped breakfast. Could be both."
Arthur looked up.
The young man standing behind the counter wasn't what he expected. He wore a plain apron over a dark green jumper, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, flour dusting the side of his cheek like he'd forgotten it was there. His dark hair looked like he'd tried to comb it with his fingers and then given up halfway through. But his eyes—sharp grey, observant—held a knowing look that made Arthur straighten slightly.
"I, um…" Arthur hesitated, glancing at the menu again. "I'm looking for someone."
"Most people here are," the man said, already reaching beneath the counter to grab a fresh plate. "Sometimes it's pie, sometimes it's peace. Either way, you've got the right place."
Arthur opened his mouth to reply, but the words tangled somewhere between his throat and the sudden weight of memory pressing on his chest. He glanced down at the pies again—rows of them, glowing gently in their golden display, as though each one held a story.
Something about this place felt old. Not aged, but… steeped. Like every corner had absorbed years of laughter, whispers, questions asked and answered over crumbs and cocoa. It smelled not just of food, but of trust.
The flour-dusted man behind the counter didn't press. He simply stood there, wiping his hands on a cloth, letting the silence settle in like warm steam. Behind him, a copper kettle hissed softly as someone laughed at a joke Arthur hadn't heard.
"I'm Arthur," he said suddenly, almost surprising himself. "I got… something. A letter."
Oliver raised an eyebrow but didn't look surprised. "Letters have a way of knowing who needs them. And where they ought to lead."
Arthur reached into his pocket, fingers brushing the worn parchment—but he didn't take it out. Not yet.
"I think I'm supposed to be here," he said, quieter now. "But I don't know why."
Oliver leaned in slightly, resting his elbows on the counter. His smile was easy, unbothered. "Sometimes knowing the where comes before the why. Happens more often than you'd think."
Arthur wasn't sure if that was comforting or frustrating. Maybe both.
The bell above the door chimed again, and a girl in dragonhide boots, muttering about misfiring portkeys. A pie floated gently toward her on a plate without anyone lifting a hand.
Arthur blinked at that.
Magic here didn't demand attention—it didn't shout. It simply… was. Like breath. Like heartbeat.
And for the first time in days, he felt his shoulders dip just a little.
Oliver leaned on the counter, wiping his hands on a dishcloth as he glanced around the room.
"Alright. You don't strike me as a treacle tart sort of person," he said with a playful squint. "Too obvious. Meat and mash? Or maybe a surprise? Something that punches back?"
Arthur hesitated. He was still wary, still tense—but Oliver's easy tone made it hard to stay locked up in his shell completely.
"Something savory," Arthur mumbled. "And warm. I don't want any pink-sprinkled nonsense."
Oliver laughed. "A man of substance. Got it. I'll surprise you."
In minutes, Arthur was settling into a small round table near the wide bakery window. Someone had just vacated it—a mother and her son who left behind an empty plate and a ring of crumbs. Arthur barely sat before Oliver arrived with a steaming plate: a spiced chicken and vegetable pie with buttery crust and a golden finish.
Arthur mumbled thanks, dug in cautiously, and… okay, it was perfect. Rich and balanced, just enough heat, the pastry crisp on the outside and melting inside. He didn't smile—but his shoulders relaxed.
The bakery bustled around him: a witch stirring her tea with her finger while reading a floating paper, a group of teenagers chatting animatedly over pasties, and a toddler chasing a charmed cupcake that kept dancing out of reach. Magic was present, but subtle. Comforting.
And then the chair across from him shifted.
Arthur looked up.
The man standing there was dressed in black from collar to sole. Sharp suit. Crisp tie. Not a wrinkle in sight. His hair was as dark as ink, slicked back, and his eyes—blue, ice-clear—were fixed on Arthur.
"Mind if I join you?" the man asked politely, gesturing to the seat.
Arthur said nothing. He didn't nod, but he didn't say no either.
The man sat.
"You're quite young to be out here by yourself." He reached into his coat and pulled out a sugar stick, unwrapped it, and popped it between his teeth. "What are you looking for?"
Arthur stiffened. "What's it to you?"
The man chuckled. "Just curious. Not many boys wander into Northleigh on accident."
Arthur stared at his plate. "Maybe I'm not just 'some boy.'"
"No," the man said, tapping the table softly. "You're not."
Something about the way he said it made Arthur's skin prickle. He didn't sound threatening. But the air around him bent. Shifted.
"You from around here?" Arthur asked, biting back his unease with defiance.
The man smiled. "Not quite. But I make it my business to know things. To notice things. Like how you don't seem like the type to make friends easily, yet you had a whole back-and-forth with that lad at the counter."
Arthur frowned. "I didn't ask you to watch me."
"No," the man agreed. "You didn't."
The words tasted wrong in Arthur's mouth before he even spoke them. His tone turned sharper. His next question came like a blade. "What do you want? You lot always want something."
You lot? That wasn't like him. Not exactly. Arthur was used to being sassy and insufferable. Used to being difficult. But now he sounded like a stranger to himself—guarded, cruel, and oddly reckless.
And then came the thought.
Leave.
Go back to where you came from.
All of this… will amount to nothing.
Arthur blinked. The noise of the bakery dulled.
You're a mistake. You don't belong here. You'll never find what you're looking for.
He clutched the edge of the table, knuckles whitening. Across from him, the man merely watched, sugar stick now resting on the saucer of an untouched cup of tea. His eyes didn't blink.
Arthur clenched his jaw. "No," he thought.
The voice pressed harder. Stop this foolishness. You think you're important? You're just a footnote waiting to be erased.
"No."
He looked up—and for a second, the man's eyes weren't blue. They shimmered… green. Deep, unnatural green.
Give up.
Then something snapped.
The thought tried to root itself deeper, to take hold. But Arthur slammed it out with sheer will.
His hair shimmered—just the tips—turning silver like mist kissing moonlight. The plate on his table rattled. The glass windows shook. The lightbulbs above flickered once, twice.
The entire bakery held its breath.
Then—warm fingers gripped his hand. The man had reached across and clasped Arthur's free hand gently but firmly.
And just like that—the chaos ebbed. The shaking stopped. Arthur's hair dulled to its usual hue. The pressure in his head vanished, replaced by quiet.
The man leaned back, as if satisfied.
He smiled again. This time, it wasn't entirely warm.
"Hm. As expected of my nephew."
Arthur froze.
The man tilted his head. "Although," he mused, brushing imaginary lint off his sleeve, "all those ominous whispers and brooding tension… a bit cliché, don't you think?"
Arthur just stared.
"Yes, yes," the man added, rising from his seat with a faint smirk. "I'm your uncle. Now, come along before I change my mind."
He strode toward the counter, his gait unhurried but decisive.
Arthur didn't need telling twice. He grabbed his bag and followed. Oliver, still at the counter, caught his eye and offered a small smile, the kind that said good luck, you'll need it. Arthur gave a nod in return, his mind already racing.
They passed through a narrow hallway into the bakery's kitchen. It smelled of yeast, steel, and lemon soap. Cassian—if that really was his name—was rummaging through a drawer of cutlery.
"Before we go," he said, plucking out a butter knife and examining it like a jeweler might a rare gem, "I have to affirm that you're Arthur."
Arthur's response came without hesitation. "And I have to affirm that you're Cassian."
For the briefest moment, a smile danced across the man's lips. "You've got your mother's temper. Good. You'll need it."
With that, he turned and walked to the back door, the butter knife still in hand.
Arthur followed.
As they reached the door, the air around the knife shimmered—and the blade morphed into something sleek and narrow. Not a knife anymore but...
"A wand?" Arthur asked, trying not to sound too impressed. "Or was the wand a knife?"
Cassian didn't look back. "Don't know. When you figure that out, let me know."
Then, with practiced ease, he began tracing lines onto the door's wooden surface. Each stroke glowed faintly gold, like embers caught in moonlight. The lines twisted and curled until they formed a radiant emblem:
A bare black tree with five limbs, a raven beneath a crescent moon, and a coiled ouroboros at its roots.
As the last line faded into place, the entire door gave a soft chime—and then swung open.
Arthur blinked.
Gone was the alley behind the bakery. In its place sprawled an estate that looked like it had been stolen from the dreams of emperors.
Rolling green lawns, trimmed hedges in the shape of griffins, and a mansion that glowed faintly under the early evening sun. Gold-framed windows, towering chimneys, marble lions at the gate. Every detail screamed old money—and old power.
Cassian stepped out onto the cobbled path, boots crunching softly. "Welcome to America, nephew. More specifically…"
He turned, eyes narrowing with something that might have been amusement—or warning.
"…the Reeves Manor. You're in for a lot of pain. But you might survive…"
Arthur stood at the threshold, heart thudding, hair white.
"…if," Cassian added, "you do exactly as I say."