The black van stopped moving with a sharp, heavy shudder that made the brass coat hooks rattle against the wood paneling.
"We have arrived," Wilkins said, standing up and adjusting his pinstripe coat. He pulled a small wooden pass from his pocket—a flat piece of ash wood stamped with a purple Ministry seal—and handed it to Magnus. "Keep this in your pocket. If you lose it while inside the building, the security wards will flag you as an intruder."
Magnus took the wooden pass, slipping it into his jumper pocket. "What kind of security wards?"
"The unpleasant kind," Wilkins replied dryly.
He slid the heavy side door open.
Magnus stepped out, expecting to see a busy London street or a dark alleyway. Instead, he stepped out onto a polished stone balcony overlooking a massive, cavernous hall.
The air smelled strange—a mix of old paper, damp stone, polished copper, and something sharp that smelled like ozone after a lightning storm.
High above them, the ceiling was painted a deep, shimmering navy blue, covered in glowing golden symbols that slowly shifted and rotated like stars in a night sky. Dozens of fireplaces lined the dark tile walls below, flickering with bright green flames as men and women in various styles of long robes stepped out of the fires, shaking soot from their sleeves, holding leather briefcases and stacks of parchment.
"Welcome to the Ministry of Magic," Wilkins said, stepping out onto the balcony beside him. "Try not to gawk. It makes you look like a tourist."
"I am a tourist," Magnus muttered, looking down over the balcony railing.
Far below in the main atrium, a massive golden fountain stood in the center of the hall, depicting a tall wizard, a witch, a goblin, a centaur, and a house-elf spouting water into a circular pool. Hundreds of people were moving in every direction, their boots clicking loudly against the dark wooden floorboards.
"This way," Wilkins said, turning left down a narrow corridor lined with dark oak doors.
Magnus followed him, keeping his hands in his pockets. Every few yards, they passed small bronze plaques fixed to the doors: Office of Misuse of Muggle Artifacts, Department of Magical Transportation, Registry of Wand Permit Applications.
As they walked, Magnus noticed that people in robes kept glancing at them. Not at Wilkins, but at Magnus. A kid in denim jeans and a navy blue wool jumper stood out like a sore thumb among the flowing black and plum-colored cloaks.
"Where are we going?" Magnus asked, keeping pace with Wilkins' long strides.
"Level Seven. Department of Magical Education," Wilkins said without turning around. "Specifically, the Office of Anomalous Admittance."
They reached a set of heavy golden elevator doors at the end of the corridor. A small, brass bell chimed above the frame, and the doors slid open with a metallic rattle.
Inside the elevator was a short wizard wearing bright green robes covered in silver buttons. He was holding a stack of flying paper memos—memos folded into the shape of paper airplanes that hovered lazily around his head, snapping their wings like birds.
"Level Seven," Wilkins told the lift operator.
The wizard nodded, pulled a small lever on the wall, and the elevator plunged downward with a sudden drop that made Magnus's stomach jump into his throat.
Unlike a normal elevator, this one didn't just move up and down. It slammed sideways, jerked forward, and plummeted again with loud clangs of iron chains against stone.
Magnus tightened his stance, shifting his weight to his back foot to balance himself against the erratic movements.
Wilkins looked sideways at him through his glasses, noting how Magnus instinctively adjusted his balance before the elevator even shifted direction.
He feels the motion before it happens, Wilkins thought, but said nothing aloud.
The elevator slammed to a halt with a deafening CLANG.
A cool, mechanical female voice echoed from the ceiling: "Level Seven, Department of Magical Education, incorporating the Educational Standards Authority and the Muggle-Born Integration Unit."
The golden doors slid open.
The hallway outside was much quieter than the atrium above. The floor was covered in dark green carpet that muffled their footsteps, and the walls were lined with tall wooden filing cabinets that stretched all the way to the high ceiling. Dozens of quill pens were hovering in the air by themselves, scribbling frantic notes onto floating sheets of parchment.
At the end of the long hall sat a single, massive desk made of dark mahogany. Behind it sat a woman with sharp, bird-like features, her gray hair pulled back into a tight, neat bun. She wore thick round spectacles and a dark purple dress with a high lace collar.
She didn't look up from her paperwork as they approached.
"Registrar Wilkins," she said, her voice sharp and dry like snapping twigs. "You are seventeen minutes behind schedule."
"The Muggle-born's family was... uncooperative, Madam Vance," Wilkins said, stopping three feet from the desk.
Madam Vance finally lifted her head. Her sharp eyes behind the round glasses locked onto Magnus, scanning him from his messy dark hair down to his worn trainers.
"So this is the Flower boy," she said, dipping her quill into a dark blue inkwell. "The one with the irregular magic signature from Surrey."
"Yes, Madam," Wilkins replied.
Madam Vance pulled a thick brown folder from the stack on her left. She flipped it open, her thin fingers moving with practiced speed.
"Magnus Flower," she read aloud. "No known magical ancestry on either side. Father operates a commercial paper shop. Mother is a homemaker. Magic first detected by the Spindle of Admittance on July 4th, displaying localized physical density and pre-cognitive energy spikes."
She looked back up at Magnus, her expression completely unreadable.
"Tell me, boy," Madam Vance said softly, leaning her elbows on the desk. "When you broke your mother's oak dining chair two weeks ago... did you lose your temper, or did you do it on purpose?"
Magnus blinked. Chair? What chair?
Then he remembered. A week after waking up in 1991, he had tried to pull a heavy wooden chair out from the kitchen table and accidentally snapped the top backrest right off the frame because he hadn't learned how to control his new physical strength yet. He’d blamed it on loose glue and old wood.
"It was an accident," Magnus said plainly. "The chair was old."
"Oak doesn't rot in forty years, Mr. Flower," Madam Vance said coolly. She turned a page in the file. "And what about yesterday? The wooden spoon in your kitchen?"
Magnus felt a cold prickle at the base of his neck. They really were watching. Or at least, their magic monitoring system picked up every little display of unnatural force.
"Also an accident," Magnus said.
"Accidents happen when magic is wild and unguided," Madam Vance said, standing up from her mahogany desk. She was tall, thin, and moved with a stiff, precise grace. "Which is precisely why you are here today. Follow me."
She walked past the desk toward a heavy iron door at the back of the room.
Wilkins gave Magnus a subtle nudge on his shoulder. "Move."
Magnus followed her through the iron door and stepped into a large, circular testing chamber.
The walls were made of dark, smooth basalt stone, completely devoid of windows or decorations. In the center of the room stood a single stone pedestal, about waist-high, holding a large, clear crystal sphere the size of a football. Surrounding the pedestal were dozens of glowing silver runes carved directly into the stone floor.
"This is the Evaluation Sphere," Madam Vance said, stopping at the edge of the runic circle. "It measures magical stability, intent, and output. You will walk to the pedestal, place both hands on the glass, and hold them there until I tell you to stop."
Magnus looked at the crystal sphere. Inside it, a faint, swirling silver mist was moving slowly, like smoke trapped in a jar.
"What happens if I fail?" Magnus asked, looking back at her.
Madam Vance didn't smile. "If the sphere turns red, your magic is classified as unstable. You will be bound by Ministry Decree, your memories of this morning will be modified, and you will return to your Muggle school under permanent monitoring."
"And if it doesn't turn red?"
"Then Registrar Wilkins will take you to Diagon Alley to buy your school books," she said dryly. "Step into the circle, Mr. Flower."
Magnus took a deep breath. He looked at Wilkins, who stood near the iron door with his arms crossed, watching intently through his silver glasses.
Magnus stepped over the glowing silver runes on the floor and walked up to the stone pedestal.
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