Chapter 34 – Ink and Iron
The scent of old parchment was strangely comforting.
Inside Flourish and Blotts, shelves stretched higher than they had any right to, filled to bursting with books of every size, binding, and subject imaginable. Some floated lazily near the ceiling. Others wriggled slightly, as if offended by being stacked with books of lesser intelligence.
Thomas stood motionless in the center aisle, wide-eyed. It felt like standing inside a thought—chaotic, curious, and limitless.
A world made of knowledge.
He exhaled slowly and took a step forward.
Each section was marked with neat brass plaques: Transfiguration, Charms, Potions, History of Magic, Ancient Runes. One particularly alluring shelf near the back was labeled Theoretical Foundations of Spell Theory. His fingers itched to reach for the thickest volume.
But he turned instead to the smaller shelf closer to the entrance: Hogwarts Year One Essentials.
Practicality first.
His hands moved with a sort of reverence, brushing along worn spines and crinkled corners. The books here were secondhand—some with faded covers, others annotated in messy handwriting. He smiled. Someone else's thoughts lived in these pages too.
A soft voice interrupted him. "You don't want new ones?"
He turned. Sister Mary was standing beside him, holding her coin pouch tightly in her palm.
"These are perfectly fine," Thomas said.
"But they're… used," she replied gently. "We could get you fresh ones. Just say the word."
Thomas smiled up at her. "It's not the cover I'm after, Sister. It's the knowledge."
She softened. "Of course it is."
He picked up a copy of Magical Drafts and Potions with a torn corner but intact contents. Then another: A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration. Slightly yellowed pages. Still legible.
"This one has notes inside," he said, flipping through. "Someone named 'Hollis' underlined all the key passages. Could save me some time."
Sister Mary gave a reluctant chuckle. "Still… if there's one you really want new—"
"I'll have access to a library, won't I?" Thomas asked, turning to Professor McGonagall, who had just finished examining a display on defensive spells.
McGonagall nodded approvingly. "The Hogwarts Library is one of the largest magical archives in Europe. You'll find it more than sufficient."
Thomas's eyes lit up.
"Then I won't need anything else," he said with finality.
Sister Mary looked like she wanted to protest again, but didn't.
Their next stop was a short walk down the cobbled path: Potage's Cauldron Shop. The storefront was cluttered with models—pewter, brass, collapsible, self-stirring, copper-bottomed.
A bell jingled overhead as they stepped in.
The air was heavy with metal and charcoal. Cauldrons of every size hung from ceiling hooks or lined the shelves like oversized kettles.
"Standard size 2 pewter," McGonagall said crisply. "That's the school requirement."
Thomas examined one of the used models on a lower shelf. It was scratched but sturdy.
"Would this one work?" he asked, turning to the professor.
McGonagall gave it a quick glance. "Technically. But used cauldrons may retain residue. Brewing errors often occur with secondhand equipment. It's safer to use a new one, especially for beginners."
Before Thomas could reply, Sister Mary had already reached into her pouch.
"I'll take a new one," she said. "Safety first."
Thomas opened his mouth, but she raised a hand before he could argue.
"You can fight me about robes," she said, "but not safety. Non-negotiable."
He smiled sheepishly. "Understood."
At Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions, Thomas was fitted for his school uniform. The measuring tape darted around him like a curious snake, occasionally pausing to twitch disapprovingly at his shoulders.
Madam Malkin herself tutted once. "He'll grow tall, this one. Mark my words."
Thomas rolled his eyes playfully.
Sister Mary chuckled. "He's been stretching every month since he turned ten. At this rate, I'll have to sew extensions into his sleeves every week."
Per agreement, only one set of robes was purchased new—a sharp, neatly-pressed black set with a subtle inner lining.
The rest—standard trousers, a second pair of robes, gloves, pointed hat—were selected from the secondhand rack. Still serviceable, if slightly faded.
Thomas ran his fingers over the sleeve of a used winter cloak.
"I like this one," he said. "Smells like cinnamon."
Sister Mary raised a brow. "You're sure?"
Thomas nodded. "It's lived before. Maybe it'll bring me luck."
Their last stop before the wand shop was Slug and Jiggers Apothecary.
The smell hit them instantly—acrid and earthy, full of crushed roots, fermented leaves, and something distinctly sulfuric. Bins of powdered moonstone, bundles of dried herbs, and vials of glittering liquid lined the walls like a mad alchemist's dream.
The shopkeeper squinted at Thomas as they entered. "First year?"
"Yes," McGonagall said.
"Starter kit. One moment."
He shuffled off and returned moments later with a modest box containing phials, a small brass scale, a collapsible telescope, and ingredients—beetle eyes, powdered root of asphodel, some desiccated something that looked suspiciously like spider legs.
Thomas stared into the kit with equal parts fascination and caution.
"I'll label everything later," Sister Mary whispered. "Just in case you forget what part of the toad goes where."
Thomas smirked. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."
McGonagall stepped forward to confirm the contents. "This will do."
Sister Mary paid without hesitation, and the apothecary quickly packed the box with brown paper and twine.
Back outside, the alley had grown livelier.
Children rushed past with pets in tow—cats, owls, even a toad or two. A cart rolled by selling self-writing quills. Somewhere in the distance, someone was shouting about exploding snap cards.
Thomas stood quietly beside Sister Mary, arms full of packages. He exhaled.
"That's everything?" he asked.
"Except one thing," McGonagall said, her eyes glinting.
Thomas followed her gaze down the street. At the very end, almost glowing in the late afternoon sun, stood a modest little shop with a sign that read: Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.
Thomas felt his heartbeat pick up.
But that, he knew, would be a moment of its own.