The door opened with a wet, heavy click.
Sarah Flower wiped her hands on her apron, peering through the slight gap. "Can I help you?"
Standing on the narrow front porch was a man who looked like he’d been pulled backward through a thrift shop bargain bin. He wore a long, charcoal-grey trench coat despite the July heat, paired with bright orange velvet trousers tucked into scuffed leather boots. He had a severe jaw, thin silver-framed glasses perched crookedly on his nose, and carried a thick brass-bound leather binder under his arm.
"Sarah Flower? Arthur Flower?" the man asked. His voice was raspy, sounding like gravel being shifted in a bucket. "I am Registrar Wilkins. Ministry of Magic, Department of Magical Education and Population Control."
Sarah blinked. She looked down at his boots, then up at his hatless head, then out toward the quiet suburban street of Elm Street. "I’m sorry, what? Is this a joke from the council?"
"It is not a joke, Mrs. Flower," Wilkins said. He didn't wait for an invitation. He stepped right past her into the small hallway, his heavy boots making a dull thud against the wooden floorboards. He shook off a few drops of water from his coat, though it hadn't rained all morning. "Where is the boy? Magnus?"
Upstairs, Magnus stood frozen near the top of the staircase, his hand resting lightly against the wallpaper.
His future-sight flashed. Two seconds ahead: he saw himself taking a step forward, a loose floorboard letting out a loud, high-pitched squeak, and Wilkins instantly snapping his head up to glare directly at him.
Magnus shifted his weight instantly, putting his foot on the solid wood beam instead. Silence.
"Arthur!" Sarah called out, her voice tight with confusion. "Arthur, come out here please!"
Arthur Flower stepped out of the living room holding his blue ballpoint pen and a half-solved crossword puzzle. "What’s going on? Who’s this?"
Wilkins didn't waste time on greetings. He unclasped his brass binder and laid it flat on the small hall table, right next to Sarah’s porcelain bowl of spare keys. He pulled a thick feather quill from his inner coat pocket. It didn't have an ink bottle, but the tip was already glistening with a thick, purple liquid.
"Your son has demonstrated inherent magical capability," Wilkins said, his eyes scanning a sheet of thick parchment inside the binder. "Under the Wizarding Education Act, all Muggle-born children residing within the Greater London and Surrey sectors must undergo mandatory physical evaluation and lineage verification prior to school enrollment."
Arthur let out a nervous laugh. "Magic? Look, mate, if this is some promotional stunt for a new television channel, we really aren't interested—"
"I assure you, Mr. Flower, my department does not engage in 'television,'" Wilkins cut in cleanly. He turned a page. "Magnus Flower. Born October 14th, 1979. Correct?"
"Well... yes, but—"
"Has the child shown unusual physical strength, unpredictable bursts of fortune, or the ability to manipulate small household objects without contact?"
Arthur and Sarah exchanged a quick look.
Magnus felt a cold drop of sweat slide down the back of his neck. Physical strength. He looked down at his right hand. The broken wooden spoon was still lying on the kitchen table behind him. Had someone been watching him? How did they know?
"He’s... he’s a strong boy for his age," Arthur said cautiously, rubbing the back of his neck. "Moves the heavy coal buckets for us sometimes. But that’s just muscle, isn't it?"
Wilkins made a sharp mark on the parchment with his self-inking quill. "Unusually high density. Noted. Now, where is he?"
"I’m here," Magnus said, stepping down the stairs one by one, keeping his movements deliberate and slow.
Wilkins turned his sharp gaze toward the boy. He pulled a small, silver looking-glass from his pocket—something that resembled an old pocket watch, but instead of clock hands, it had three tiny spinning needles made of dark glass.
"Approach, boy," Wilkins commanded.
Magnus hesitated. He took three steps down until he was standing on the bottom runner of the staircase, roughly eye-level with the tall wizard.
Wilkins held up the silver device. The three glass needles began to spin rapidly, making a sound like a trapped bumblebee.
Click. Click. Clack.
The needles stopped instantly, pointing straight at Magnus’s chest.
Wilkins frowned. The harsh line of his mouth grew tighter. He tapped the glass twice with his thumb. The needles didn't move. They remained locked in place, trembling slightly.
"Fascinating," Wilkins muttered under his breath. He wasn't looking at Magnus with warmth or welcoming friendliness; he was looking at him the way an inspector looks at an anomaly on an assembly line. "Unregistered pre-cognitive trace. High kinetic retention."
"What does that mean?" Magnus asked, keeping his voice as neutral as possible. "Am I going to Hogwarts or not?"
Wilkins snapped the silver device shut with a loud metallic click. He looked down at Magnus with cold, grey eyes.
"That depends entirely on the outcome of your registration assessment," Wilkins said smoothly. "Which brings us to the core reason for my visit."
He turned back to the leather binder and pulled out a long, narrow slip of grey paper with red wax seals along both edges.
"Normally, Muggle-born students receive a standard welcome visit from a member of staff—a teacher, usually—who demonstrates simple charms, takes the family to Diagon Alley, and assists with purchasing supplies," Wilkins explained, his tone completely lacking any magic or wonder. "However, your file bears a red flag."
"Red flag?" Sarah echoed, taking a step closer to Arthur. "What kind of red flag? He’s eleven years old!"
"A red flag indicating an unregistered anomaly prior to letter issuance," Wilkins corrected calmly. "Under Ministry Decree 114, any Muggle-born displaying specialized magical traits—such as physical enhancement or localized foresight—must submit to a secondary registration screening at the Ministry of Magic before a school trunk can be packed."
Magnus gripped the wooden banister. His mind raced back to what little he knew of Harry Potter lore. He didn't remember any 'Ministry Decree 114'. He didn't remember registration red flags or inspectors in orange velvet trousers. Was this normal for kids who weren't Harry Potter? Or had his presence—his weird 2026 brain combined with this bizarre 2-second vision power—triggered something in the Ministry’s monitoring systems?
"So what happens now?" Magnus asked.
Wilkins reached into his coat and pulled out a small, heavy iron coin with a square hole cut through the center. He placed it on the hall table beside the key bowl.
"Tomorrow morning at precisely eight o'clock, an official escort will arrive to collect Mr. Magnus Flower," Wilkins said, closing his binder with a heavy thud that caused the key bowl to rattle. "He will be transported to the Ministry’s Department of Magical Education for an official evaluation. If his magic is deemed stable and controllable, his Hogwarts admittance will be authorized on the spot. If it is deemed unstable..."
Wilkins paused, staring directly into Magnus's eyes.
"...he will be placed under home-bound restriction until an appropriate tutor can be assigned. School entry will be deferred."
Arthur stepped forward, his face turning red. "Hold on just a second! You can't just barge into my house, tell me my son is some kind of magician, and then threaten to lock him up if he fails your little test!"
"It is not a threat, Mr. Flower. It is the law," Wilkins said coldly. He tipped his hat slightly—a brief, meaningless gesture—and turned toward the front door. "Do not touch the iron coin until eight o'clock tomorrow. It is keyed to your front doorstep."
Without another word, Wilkins pulled open the front door, stepped out onto the porch, and walked down the short concrete path toward the gate.
Magnus watched him go.
Just as Wilkins reached the garden gate, Magnus’s vision flickered again.
The two-second future vision.
In his mind, he saw Wilkins pause at the latch, turn his head slightly to the left, and drop a small, folded piece of parchment directly into Sarah’s flowerpot near the hedge before walking away.
Real life caught up two seconds later.
Wilkins reached the gate. He paused at the latch. His hand moved toward his pocket—
Magnus didn't say a word. He didn't shout. He just watched intently as Wilkins secretly flicked the folded slip of paper into the dirt of the flowerpot, unlatched the gate, and vanished around the corner of Elm Street with a faint pop.
"Absolute rubbish," Arthur muttered, pacing up and down the hallway. "Crazy bloke in a funny coat. Sarah, call the police."
"Arthur... the key bowl," Sarah whispered, her voice shaking.
Arthur stopped pacing and looked at the hall table.
The small brass key bowl was slowly hovering two inches above the wood, spinning silently in mid-air.
Magnus walked past his stunned parents, opened the front door, and stepped out onto the porch. He walked over to the flowerpot near the hedge, reached into the damp soil, and pulled out the folded piece of parchment Wilkins had dropped.
He unfolded it quickly.
It wasn't an official Ministry document. It was written in quick, hurried handwriting:
If your vision saw me drop this, do not bring the iron coin inside. They are measuring your latency, not your strength. Tell no one.
Magnus stared at the note, his thumb rubbing over the rough paper.
He had no idea who Wilkins really was, what the Ministry actually wanted, or whether he was going to get on the train to Hogwarts in September. But one thing was clear: his life in 1991 was already completely off the script he thought he knew.
Comments (0)