Outside Ollivander's, the late-afternoon sun slanted low, painting the Diagon Alley cobbles in stripes of gold, turning the dust in the air to drifting specks of light. Marcus clutched his wand box under one arm, the smooth wood still humming gently in his palm.
"Books next," said Liora, already scanning the list with a furrowed brow. "Then cauldron, scales, telescope, and robes. Merlin help us if the wand was the easy part."
The Alley had thickened, a sluggish river of wool and velvet, leather and silk. Accents clashed and mingled – excited shouts about broomstick torque, worried mutters over dwindling stores of powdered moonstone, the sharp, rhythmic cries of vendors hawking their glittering trash. Ministry posters, curling like dead leaves on the gas lamps, bleated their warnings: "CONSTANT VIGILANCE! REPORT SUSPICIOUS ACTIVITY!" Their ink seemed to bleed into the ancient, grimy stone. Life, stubborn and sweaty, pressed on. Especially on a Hogwarts provisioning day. As they neared Flourish and Blotts, a loud squeal cut through the crowd.
"Careful, Maisy!" a woman with kind eyes magnified by slightly smudged spectacles lunged, catching the sleeve of a wide-eyed little girl whose dark pigtails bounced with her momentum. The woman, Elara Hastings, wore robes faded to a soft grey, neatly patched at the elbows and stained with what looked like ink or potion residue. She offered Marcus an apologetic smile.
"Merlin's beard, I swear she thinks Diagon Alley is her personal Quidditch pitch! Sorry, dear."
Behind her stood a boy Marcus's age — Silas Hastings. Lanky and a shade too thin, his intelligent dark eyes took Marcus in with quiet curiosity. His robes, clean but clearly second-hand, were slightly short at the wrists and ankles, revealing scuffed shoes. He held a well-worn copy of Magical Theory protectively against his chest.
"She gets excited in bookshops," he said, a little sheepishly.
Marcus nodded. "There's something to be said for people who run toward books."
That made Silas smile — a small, honest one. "I'm Silas. First year?"
"Marcus. Yeah."
Inside, Flourish & Blotts was less a shop, more a ossuary of knowledge. The air hung thick, saturated with the musk of decaying parchment, the acrid bite of fresh ink, and the faint, electric tang of magically bound leather. Enchanted ladders slid soundlessly between the towering shelves, their movements precise and unhurried, drifting through the thick library gloom beneath a vaulted ceiling that seemed to rise forever. Tomes pulsed on the shelves, heavy with contained power. Illuminated manuscripts floated in glass cases, their pages turning with the sigh of unseen scholars. Liora vanished into the Arithmancy stacks without a word. She knew where she was going. Eustace Thark, meanwhile, had already cornered a harried young clerk, dissecting the tensile strength and ink-retention properties of vellum versus rag parchment with the fervor of a siege engineer, hands sketching absorption rates in the dusty air.
Marcus drifted toward Silas, who was standing in front of a display shimmering with defensive texts. One cover showed animated duelists firing spells that fizzled harmlessly against a shifting shield charm. Another pulsed with faint runes along its spine.
Silas picked up a book bristling with magical symbols. "Do you think we'll actually need this kind of stuff? In first year?"
Marcus ran a thumb along the edge of Basic Shielding: Theories and Applications. The runes warmed under his touch.
"I don't know," he said. "But... things feel different lately. Not in a good way."
Silas's expression sobered. "Yeah. My mum says the world started cracking a while ago — and now it's just waiting for the rest to split."
Marcus nodded slowly. "Then maybe we should learn how to fix the cracks. Or at least not get caught in them."
Silas gave a crooked grin. "And if I make it through the year without Maisy charming my quills to waltz again, I'll count that as a win."
That earned a laugh from Marcus — his first of the day.
They paid for their books at a floating till that clicked as it counted their coins, while a quill logged their names in glowing script that faded as the transaction completed.
Stepping back onto the cobbles, Marcus felt the late sun warm his skin after the vaulted chill of the bookshop. He adjusted the weight of his new books in the charmed carry-sack Liora had conjured — a bottomless pit disguised as shabby dragonweave.
As they moved along the lane, their path was abruptly blocked by a wall of cloying cologne and obscenely expensive fabric.
Inside, the air held the faint scent of lavender and warm wool. Enchanted mannequins floated in and out of alcoves, displaying robes in shifting hues — some embroidered with phoenix-feather threading, others lined with heat-sensitive charms for cold dungeons or rainy Quidditch matches.
Marcus sat stiffly on a cushioned stool as a tape measure coiled itself around his legs like a curious snake. He tried not to flinch.
Across the room, a voice that could slice silk said, "If you measure me wrong again, I'll hex the lot of you."
Cassius Vance stood elevated on a dais, arms raised, while two seamstress-wands buzzed around his form. His robes shimmered faintly with a silver crest embroidered into the breast — a coiled serpent biting its own tail.
Cassius glanced over at Marcus, eyes narrowing slightly.
"You're one of the Thark boys," he said, as though unearthing something from a library catalogue. "The quiet one. The one who always looks like he's studying people."
"I prefer 'observing,'" Marcus replied evenly.
Cassius gave a soft, amused scoff. "You've got the look of a Ravenclaw."
He held Marcus's gaze a moment too long — not quite a challenge, but close. Then he turned back to the mirror.
Lady Anthea Vance, tall and silver-haired, observed silently from the corner, dressed in dove-grey robes that whispered wealth with every fold. She barely blinked as her son berated the seamstresses.
Eustace returned from the accessories wall and leaned in toward Marcus with a conspiratorial air.
"Making friends among the aristocracy?" he said, deadpan. "You've mastered the Thark 'politely unimpressed' face. That's pure bloodline excellence."
Marcus smirked slightly. "They seem very… invested in presentation."
"Presentation," Eustace murmured, "is just paint on an empty shell."
He handed Marcus a simple, finely woven school cloak. "Here. No embroidery, no glamour charms, but it's solid—keeps you warm and unburnt when someone inevitably botches a Fire-Making Charm."
As Marcus stood for the final hem adjustments, he caught Cassius watching him again through the mirror — not exactly with hostility, but with a thin-lipped curiosity tinged with rivalry.
Next on the list was Wiseacre's Wizarding Equipment, a tall, slightly wonky shop with brass-framed windows that glittered under enchantment. Above the door, a sign shimmered between languages — Latin, Greek, and runes Marcus couldn't yet decipher.
Inside, the air buzzed faintly, like the shop itself was holding its breath. Crystal spheres floated behind anti-theft charms, brass compasses spun erratically on velvet cushions, whispering incantations under their breath. Wall-mounted telescopes winked with polished lenses, and behind the counter, an enchanted armillary sphere rotated with unsettling precision.
Marcus wandered toward a glass case of ornate magical scales. One model gleamed with decorative silver vines and a plaque that read:
"Weighs Truth, Gold, or Both — Use with Caution."
"Don't trust that one," came a voice from his right. A boy stood beside him, arms crossed. He was Marcus's age, with broad shoulders, soot-dark curls, and an intensity that didn't seem to blink.
"It lies if you breathe too hard," he added flatly.
Marcus arched a brow. "Really."
"My dad's a cursebreaker," the boy went on. "Half the gear here's more flair than function. That one?" He pointed to a plain, sturdy brass model tucked into the corner. "Goblin-weighted. You could drop it from a broom and it'd still stay balanced."
"Good to know," Marcus said. "Thanks."
The boy offered his hand. "Tobias."
"Marcus."
Tobias's grip was firm — the kind of firm that said he'd learned early that strength wasn't given freely, so it had to be proven.
They moved through the store together for a few minutes, exchanging sparse but easy conversation. Tobias had opinions on everything — telescopes that couldn't hold calibration, quills with attitude, a ridiculous device that promised to "recalibrate minor atmospheric distortions."
"Total rot," Tobias muttered. "If that thing actually worked, the Ministry would have them nailed to every Auror post from here to the Azores."
Marcus snorted. "So, no love for gadgets?"
"I like things that do what they say on the tin."
Practical. Grounded. Marcus respected that — then moved on, leaving Tobias behind.
They arrived at Potage's Cauldron Shop, which felt like stepping into a forge. The air was thick with the sharp tang of metal polish, warm brass, and the earthy scent of raw ore. A low, steady hum pulsed beneath the noise — enchantments in the walls, or maybe the cauldrons themselves.
Displays of every imaginable size and material crowded the floor. Humble pewter, sturdy brass, gleaming silver, and one massive iron cauldron etched with battle runes that looked like it belonged in a fortress, not a school.
Eustace headed straight for the standard models. "Size 2. Pewter. Look for thick walls and seamless welds. You want a cauldron, not a sieve."
Marcus nodded, running a hand along the rim of one. It felt… solid. Safe.
Nearby, he spotted the Hastings family again. Mrs. Hastings was comparing two slightly battered cauldrons of the same size, lips pursed.
"This one's cheaper," she said, "but the lip's a bit bent…"
Silas bent down, inspecting them both. He tapped the side of one. It gave a satisfying, even thunk.
"This one. Cleaner weld. Less likely to leak or warp under sustained heat."
Maisy, meanwhile, was transfixed by a display of miniature jeweled cauldrons that bubbled with harmless, rainbow-colored steam. One giggled when she poked it.
Marcus drifted toward the counter where a customer — a wiry young man in scorched robes — was arguing with the shopkeeper.
"…but the Argentum Series promised temperature consistency!" the man hissed. "My Augurey egg incubation potion crystallized because it dropped twenty degrees overnight. It ruined the whole batch!"
The shopkeeper, a burly wizard with soot-smudged arms and a voice like gravel, sighed. "Argentum's got sensitive enchantments, lad. You get too close to a ward flare or a lazy apparition and it'll pick up a pulse. Seen it plenty. Unstable magical environment lately."
He rapped his knuckles on the very cauldron Eustace had handed Marcus earlier. "This? Won't let you down. Doesn't care what wards are crackling five blocks over. When the world shakes, you want something that holds steady."
Marcus nodded absently, tucking that phrase away.
When the world shakes…
Something about that settled deep in his chest.
Outside again, the afternoon sun was lowering, casting a warm amber light over the cobblestones. Streetlamps flickered to life, one by one, humming softly as their glow deepened.
Just as Marcus stepped aside to let Liora pass, someone collided with him at full speed.
"Whoa! Sorry! Nearly toppled the cauldron mountain!"
The girl bounced back, clutching a crooked stack of shrunken packages. She had an untamable mane of brown curls, cheeks flushed with excitement, and bright pink sneakers that blinked with enchanted lights.
"Hi! I'm Anya! First year? Me too! Just met a goblin near Gringotts who tried to sell me a lucky knucklebone! Said it came from a three-headed Kelpie! Probably made it up, but how brilliant is that?"
Marcus blinked. "I… appreciate thorough analysis," he said carefully, not sure whether he was amused or caught off guard.
"Exactly!" she grinned. "Kelpie knucklebones are totally statistically improbable — but just imagine if it was real! What house d'you reckon you'll be in? Not Slytherin, I hope? No offense, but that Cassius Vance kid just swanned past like he owns the Alley, and he practically has 'Slytherin' tattooed on his forehead."
Marcus, despite himself, let out a laugh. "None taken."
"Anyway, see you at the Express if not before! "Still need a telescope, phials, quills... and probably a backup wand case. But seriously, where do people even fit all this stuff? How do they manage to carry it all around?"
And just like that, she was gone, trailing energy behind her like a comet tail.
Marcus stood there for a moment longer, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.