On the third day after his visit to Diagon Alley, Rowan made a decision.
He needed to test something, even if it risked detection.
He waited until well past midnight, when the dormitory was silent save for snores and the occasional sleeping mutter. Then he retrieved his wand from the trunk's secure compartment, feeling the familiar warmth as yew wood met flesh.
The Ministry's Trace, the charm that detected underage magic, he'd read about in Magical Theory. It was keyed to magical signatures, designed to alert the Ministry when spells were cast in predominantly Muggle areas. But Waffling's book had included a footnote suggesting the Trace was far from perfect, particularly in locations with ambient magical interference.
Rowan had a theory. Professor Weasley had cast magic here. The compulsion that sent the boys from the room, the levitation charm on his trunk. That magic might have left residual traces, might have created enough magical "noise" to obscure a single simple spell.
It was a gamble. But he needed to know if his wand would actually work, if the connection he'd felt in Ollivander's shop was real.
He pointed his wand at a small pebble he'd collected from the street. Nothing valuable. Nothing that would be missed if something went wrong.
"Lumos," he whispered.
Light erupted from his wand tip. Brilliant silver-white that banished the darkness. Rowan stared at the glow, heart pounding with exhilaration and fear.
He'd done it. Cast his first spell.
The light seemed unusually bright for a first attempt. Rowan concentrated, trying to dim it, and the glow obediently decreased until it was soft luminescence barely illuminating his hand.
"Nox," he whispered.
Darkness.
He waited, barely daring to breathe. Minutes passed. No angry Ministry officials appeared. No alarms sounded.
Either the Trace hadn't detected his spell, or the Ministry didn't respond to simple practice magic cast in the middle of the night.
Emboldened, Rowan tried again. "Lumos." Light. "Nox." Darkness. He repeated the sequence a dozen times, each casting smoother than the last, until he could produce light with barely a thought.
Then he turned his attention to the pebble.
"WingardiumLeviosa." Swish-and-flick, exactly as Simpkins described.
Nothing happened.
He tried again, focusing harder on the pebble, on his desire to see it rise.
Still nothing.
Six more attempts yielded the same result. Rowan frowned, reviewing the theory. Levitation required visualizing the object becoming lighter, overcoming gravity through will and magic combined. Perhaps he was focusing too much on words, not enough on intent?
He tried once more, this time closing his eyes and truly feeling his magic flowing down the wand, imagining it wrapping around the pebble like invisible hands, lifting...
"WingardiumLeviosa!"
The pebble wobbled, rose an inch, then clattered back to the floor.
Progress.
Rowan practiced until the eastern sky began to lighten, until he could levitate the pebble reliably for several seconds before his concentration wavered. His arm ached from repeated wand movements. His magical core, wherever it resided, felt strangely depleted, like a muscle after hard exercise.
Waffling's words echoed in his mind: Regular depletion and recovery allows the core to expand.
The days fell into routine. Mornings: Occlumency meditation. Afternoons: reading and memorizing theory. Nights: careful practice with Lumos and Wingardium Leviosa, pushing himself until magical exhaustion forced him to stop.
By the end of the first week, he could levitate objects as large as his journal with reasonable precision. By the end of the second week, he'd added Alohomora to his practiced spells, successfully unlocking his trunk's mundane lock dozens of times.
The other boys noticed his late-night activities occasionally, but Rowan's reputation as the strange Ashcroft boy who stared at things and muttered to himself had been established long before he'd acquired a wand. They had learned years ago that asking him questions produced answers they didn't understand, and eventually they'd stopped asking. His oddness was old news. One more peculiarity barely registered.
Mrs. Patterson noticed nothing. She never did.
August faded toward September. Rowan's magical stamina improved noticeably. Where he'd once managed only a dozen Lumos castings before exhaustion, he could now perform fifty or more before feeling drained. His control sharpened. His understanding deepened.
He also noticed something else: his Occlumency practice was affecting his daily life. The emotional numbness he'd cultivated to survive the orphanage had shifted into something different. He could acknowledge anger or fear or excitement without being controlled by it.
Useful, for someone planning to navigate a society that would hate him for his blood.
On the morning of September fifth, Rowan woke before dawn for the last time in the Foundling Hospital.
He dressed in his new robes, the basic black school robes, not his finer fitted ones, and performed one final check. Everything was ready. Trunk packed, Athena fed and content in her cage, wand secure in its holster.
He performed one last Occlumency meditation. The mental stillness came easily now, a calm center he could access within seconds.
He descended to the entrance hall where Mrs. Patterson waited, her expression unreadable.
"Well," she said after a long moment. "Off to your school, then."
"Yes, ma'am."
"You'll be back for Christmas, I suppose?"
"The school allows students to remain during holidays. I plan to stay."
Mrs. Patterson's lips thinned. "Then I suppose this is goodbye." She paused, then added grudgingly, "You've always been a peculiar boy, Ashcroft. But you've never caused trouble. Try not to get yourself killed with all this funny business."
It was perhaps the closest thing to well-wishing she'd ever offered him.
"Thank you, Mrs. Patterson. For everything."
The words were hollow. She'd given him nothing but cold efficiency and occasional cruelty. But social convention demanded them.
Rowan glanced at the clock. Quarter past ten. The Hogwarts Express departed at eleven from King's Cross. Professor Weasley had said it was a fifteen-minute walk.
He hefted his trunk, heavy despite the expensive construction, and picked up Athena's cage. The owl hooted softly, settling on her perch.
"I can manage," he said when Mrs. Patterson made a half-hearted gesture toward helping.
The streets of London were busy with morning traffic. Rowan navigated the crowds, his trunk growing heavier with each block. His arms ached by the time King's Cross station came into view, its grand Victorian facade looming over the street.
Inside, the station was chaos. Travelers rushed between platforms, porters shouted, steam whistles shrieked. Rowan made his way past platforms eight and nine, looking for the barrier Professor Weasley had described.
There. Between platforms nine and ten, a solid brick barrier.
Rowan took a breath and walked straight toward it, not slowing, not hesitating.
The world shimmered.
He stumbled through onto a different platform entirely.
Platform Nine and Three-Quarters was packed with families. But these weren't ordinary Londoners. Witches and wizards in robes of every color stood beside their children, helping with trunks, giving last-minute advice. Owls hooted from cages. Cats wound between legs. And dominating the platform, gleaming crimson and gold, sat the Hogwarts Express.
The scarlet steam engine was magnificent, its brass fittings polished to a mirror shine, smoke rising lazily from its chimney. Students were already boarding, hauling trunks up the steps, leaning out windows to wave at parents.
Rowan found a porter, a young wizard with a levitation charm already at work on three other trunks, and paid two Sickles to have his trunk loaded. He kept Athena's cage with him as he moved through the crowd.
Near a pillar, two elderly wizards stood talking in low voices. Their conversation carried just far enough for Rowan to overhear.
"...that Ranrok fellow has been making quite the stir," one said, his long white beard tucked into his belt. "Giving speeches in the hidden settlements about goblin rights and wizard oppression."
The other wizard, shorter and rounder, shifted his weight uneasily. "Goblins always have grievances. Been that way since the rebellions in the 1600s."
"Aye, but this Ranrok is different. Not just talk. He's organizing. Getting the younger goblins riled up about ancient history. Goblin-wrought weapons, rights to magical artifacts, the whole business." The bearded wizard's tone grew serious. "Problem is, some of what he says isn't entirely wrong. Makes it harder to dismiss him as just another rabble-rouser."
"Think it'll come to violence?"
"Goblins are too clever for open rebellion. They learned that lesson. But stirring up trouble with Gringotts and the Ministry? Creating friction?" He shook his head. "Mark my words, this Ranrok business won't just fade away."
A whistle shrieked. Ten minutes to departure.
Rowan filed the conversation away. Ranrok, goblins, ancient grievances about goblin-forged artifacts. He made his way toward the train.
The Hogwarts Express gleamed before him, steam rising, students calling out from windows. He climbed the steps, Athena's cage in hand, and stepped into the corridor.
The adventure was beginning.