Chapter 36 – Between Worlds
The taxi ride home was anything but silent.
Professor McGonagall, seated in the front, occasionally joined the conversation, though it was mostly Thomas and Sister Mary chatting about everything from the taste of pumpkin pasties to how odd it was to see an entire alley filled with floating brooms and owls in cages.
"I still can't believe they sell bat spleen in open jars," Sister Mary said, half amused, half horrified.
Thomas laughed. "At least it wasn't still twitching."
"Don't remind me," she groaned, covering her face.
Even McGonagall smiled faintly at their banter.
When they arrived at the orphanage gates, the evening sun was already dipping behind the buildings. McGonagall stepped out first and held the car door open for Thomas. From within her robes, she pulled out a long, thick envelope.
"This is your Hogwarts Express ticket," she said, handing it over. "It departs on September first from King's Cross Station, Platform Nine and Three-Quarters."
Thomas blinked. "Platform... what?"
"You'll see," she replied, a mysterious twinkle in her eyes. "Until the Sorting Ceremony, Mr. Thomas."
He opened his mouth to ask more, but with a sharp Crack, she vanished.
Thomas stared at the empty space she'd left behind.
Sister Mary, still holding the gate open, raised an eyebrow. "So... is that how you've been teleporting around?"
"Not exactly," Thomas said thoughtfully. He paused, then reached out with his Echo, feeling the space around him.
"Apparition feels like being squeezed through a tiny hole," he explained. "Forced, unnatural. Makes your stomach twist."
"And yours?"
Thomas moved his hands slowly, as if folding an invisible sheet. "Mine's like… two distant points on paper. Then the paper folds so the points touch. I don't pass through the space—I fold it."
Sister Mary stared at him for a long moment, then gave a tired but affectionate sigh. "You scare me sometimes."
Thomas smiled. "I scare myself too."
That night, after the younger children had gone to bed, Sister Mary found him sitting on their favorite bench in the back garden.
The air was warm, but a soft breeze hinted that summer wouldn't last forever.
She sat beside him, not speaking at first. Then she asked quietly, "Are you really sure about this, Thomas?"
He didn't answer immediately. He looked up at the night sky—at the faint glimmer of stars, the same stars he'd watched as a child in a different life, in a different world.
"Yes," he said at last. "Like Professor McGonagall said... I need to understand this part of me. I can't ignore it."
She nodded slowly, visibly holding back emotion. "I don't want to lose you."
"You won't," he promised. "Even if I become a wizard... I'll still be me. Still your Thomas."
Her voice was soft, almost fragile. "Then just promise me one thing. Don't let them turn you into someone else. Don't lose your heart trying to master your mind."
He met her gaze. "I promise."
In the days that followed, Thomas didn't isolate himself. He remained active around the orphanage—helping with chores, tutoring the younger children, laughing with Johnny and Daisy.
But once the sun dipped low and everyone else went to sleep, his nights were filled with study.
He sat in his room, candlelight flickering over pages of worn, secondhand books.
Magical Theory. An Introduction to Transfiguration. The History of Magic.
He devoured every word.
What fascinated him most wasn't the spells themselves, but the structure behind them—the logic, the limitations, the consequences. He began to see the wizarding world not as a dream, but as a dangerous reality. A history marked by power struggles, betrayals, rebellions, and bloodshed.
It wasn't so different from the world he once knew.
The only difference?
Everyone carried a weapon.
His gaze often drifted toward the wand resting on his desk—blackthorn wood, phoenix feather. He hadn't used it. Not once.
He wanted to.
Desperately.
But something held him back.
Magic was a blade. And in the hands of a child, a blade could do more harm than good.
He needed to understand it—really understand it—before using it.
Not in secret. Not recklessly.
But under the watch of those who knew what they were doing.
Even a kitchen knife can be deadly when held by a child.
And so, Thomas waited.
Waited to learn.
Waited to grow.
Waited for the moment he could finally lift that wand and know—with certainty—that he was ready.