Chapter 2: The Leaky Cauldron

Bent by the stream with his book, Hasan pondered where he should go from here. The orphanage wasn't too far off from civilization though it was pretty much isolated. Hasan knew that his best chance of survival would probably be blending in and finding a small job in London. The city couldn't be too far, he surmised, for Mrs. Haydn went to London nearly every other Saturday and came back by dinner time. With that in mind, Hasan began his own adventure, his book clasped between his fingers.

He walked past the little farmer's market, down the road, across the bridge, and further until he hit actual asphalt. By this time, however, Hasan was exhausted. He had seriously underestimated just how far off the beaten path the orphanage was! On the bright side, the weather was nicer today,...yet he was in desperate need of a tissue and possibly a cup of hot chocolate. But he had to go on!

Looking about him, he realized he was in a small neighborhood and was overjoyed that he had made it so far as civilized society. A few more minutes of walking and he found himself on the edges of a small shopping street. Not quite London, but he was sure he was close. Following his gut, Hasan continued on his path, when he saw the most peculiar sight: a man with an owl. The man wore black robes, like a dress, and he was reading a letter on, hang on, a scroll of parchment? Hasan rubbed at his eyes. Heaven knew his eyesight was terrible- he was probably hallucinating again. Stopped by a red light, Hasan turned to a pleasantly plump woman beside him and asked which way to London. She fairly laughed in delight.

"Oh, just past this street and you'll be in the very heart of it, dear." she answered very helpfully.

The woman had a sweet face, slightly frizzled red hair, and a baggy, moss green pea coat. Hasan thanked the lady, and was just about to step into the street when she grabbed his arm. Oh dear, this was not supposed to happen.

"Where are your parents, dear?" the woman asked, face drawn in concern. "Are you here alone?"

Well, not like it was any of her business but-

"Oh, they're just down the street Misses..."

"Mrs. Weasley." she supplied kindly, letting go of his arm. Hasan managed to smile back.

"Well, thank you, Mrs. Weasley." And he scampered off before she could even process he was lying.

"Oh, the poor kid." Molly thought to herself. "Probably some runaway..."

.oOo.

Hasan, meanwhile, was leaping with joy. He had made it! He was in London! So it was only half past five, and he had set out at eleven am, but a victory was a victory, was it not? He wondered if the man Mrs. Haydn mentioned had already come to the orphanage. Was the man very disappointed? He shouldn't be. After all, there were twenty-six other wonderful kids to choose from- most of whom were abandoned at birth. Who would willingly want Harry-no- Hasan. Especially if he learned of Hasan's issues.

Sighing, Hasan tore his eyes away from the large clock tower to focus on his environment. People were bustling about in all sorts of styles, holding briefcases, handbags, suitcases, dog leashes... It seemed everyone was going somewhere, and no one paid any mind to Hasan. Could this day get any better?

He picked up the pace, wondering if a kind baker would throw him some scraps or if he'd just starve the first night. This idea didn't bother him too much- for the people in his book starved relatively often- but reality was a whole different matter. He needed food, or so help him, he was going to die from something as ordinary as starvation. And wouldn't that just be a sad adventure?

His first attempt at soliciting food was a complete and utter failure. The baker screeched for him to get out or he'd call the cops. His second attempt was much the same...Hasan looked sadly at his worn book with detached fondness. Must he make his first sacrifice so soon? Figuring it was for the best and gathering his courage, he sold his treasured novel to a used book store for ten pounds. Half of which, Harry was sure he only got because the shop owner took pity on him. But money was money, and Hasan continued merrily on his way until he came to a pub with delicious smells wafting from the windows. He noticed that none of the other passerby's so much as glanced at the pub. But surely they could smell those heavenly scents! He didn't think too much of it and curiously glanced upwards.

The Leaky Cauldron.

What a funny name for a pub! Hasan thought, pushing open the door, money clutched firmly in his little hand. The minute the door was open, he was met with thunderous chatter. He took an abrupt step back, and the noise instantly muted, a step forward, and he could hear the chinking glasses and lively conversation as clear as day. It was like his appearance. Magic! A warmth spread over him as he acknowledged that this was where he belonged. Plus, it was really warm in there! Hasan quickly slipped inside.

"Hey there, kid." a tall man with an apron smiled down at him. "Looking for your parents?"

Hasan began to panic though the waiter could only detect his deepening breaths.

"Uh, no, no sir." Hasan mumbled out, ready to slide past him.

"No?" the employee asked, side stepping Hasan's escape route. Damn! Hasan was forced to look up at him to keep his cute little boy cover. "Are they somewhere else perhaps? I could help you look?"

"They're dead." Hasan said flatly, really not in the mood to play the game anymore. He was so hungry. He couldn't even think straight.

The man in front of him apparently couldn't either. Was this kid lying? He searched his jaded orbs but found nothing but weariness. Perhaps he just got into a fight and ran away? Yes, that was a much better alternative.

"Y-you hungry, kid?" the waiter finally asked, attempting to stall him long enough to contact his parents and get them over here.

"No, just let me-"

And then his stomach released a loud growl.

"Well, come on then, out of the doorway." the waiter said briskly. He grabbed Hasan's hand despite the fact it was balled into a fist, and led him quickly to the bar. "I'm Marcus, by the way." he said as they walked. Hasan found himself not caring.

Honestly! He had money! He could just buy a loaf of bread and be done with it, forget about the questions that would arise. But...the lure of food did sound good. He decided to play nice for just a bit longer.

"Hasan."

"Hasan? That's...nice. Very nice." Marcus nodded slowly, calling over the bar a second later, "Tom!"

In no time, an older man with a striped black and white apron came peering over the ledge.

"What is it Marcus? Oh! I see you have a friend here." He used light tones, but his arched eyebrows told another story.

"He needs to eat." Marcus said, and the man nodded cryptically like they had exchanged a million words with those four.

"Bring him to the back." Tom said, and flew off to get what Hasan hoped was his food. Marcus led Hasan to the back room as instructed, taking in his shabby appearance with a frown: withering sweatshirt, ripped jeans. He looked homeless but for his clean brown hair and clear face.

"This is where the employees eat." Marcus explained, indicating that Hasan should take a seat on the bench while he sat across from him. "Tom's the owner. He's fixing you a plate right nw."

Hasan nodded, jade-green eyes taking in everything around him. The floor, walls, and ceiling were worn wood, and the light overhead was a tiny iron chandelier. And, wait a minute, was it floating? Hasan rubbed his eyes and blinked. I must be dreaming, he thought.

"So...where do you live?" Marcus asked uneasily, praying for Tom's swift arrival.

Hasan folded his hands in his lap and looked somewhere to Marcus' left.

"I don't live there anymore."

Ah! So the boy had gotten into a fight, maybe with his parents? Marcus was so relieved he nearly sighed.

"Look, kid, you can tell me. It's okay, I promise they won't be mad at you, that is, assuming you didn't do-"

"I didn't do anything!" Hasan protested. God, was this man hard of hearing? "I just don't live there anymore."

He could hear how bratty he sounded, but it was like someone else was speaking. Besides this man deserved it. What part of: My parents are dead and I don't live there anywhere, did this man not understand?

"Ah, I see." Though he clearly didn't. "Where is there? It could help us to locate your parents."

'I told you!' Hasan wanted to shout, but instead it came out in a deadly whisper: "They aren't here. They died."

Before Marcus could protest that he shouldn't joke about things like that, Tom came in with a plate of fish and chips, and a tall glass of water.

"How you making out?" Tom asked Marcus, taking a seat beside his employee.

Marcus gave a histrionically audible sigh.

"He keeps saying his parents are dead!" Marcus said, throwing his hands in the air.

"Because they are." Hasan mumbled. "Why would I lie about that?"

"Because you clearly ran away from somewhere!" Marcus shouted.

"Hey! Hey!" Tom yelled. "Everybody, just! Marcus, shhh. We'll get to the bottom of this." Turning back to Hasan he gave a tired, fatherly smile.

"What's your name, kid? How old are you?"

Hasan tried to determine if there was an ulterior motive, but wasn't as pro as Gandalf. He ended up with the truth, or at least, his truth.

"Hasan. I'm eight."

"Ah, Hasan. Hasan what?" Tom pried. Hasan shrugged. Goodness gracious! They hadn't given him time to construct a surname! What did they think he was? A name generator? Tom seemed to understand that Hasan was unwilling to divulge such information because he quickly moved on.

"Alright, Hasan. Marcus here seems to believe you ran away from home. Did you?"

Home? Was Penelope's House considered a home? Technically a house was a home, unless you were one of those sentimental people that believed a home was so much better. The orphanage was a hole where they shoved freaks without parents. Was that considered a home? Perhaps he should have asked himself: did he feel at home there?

Urgh! This time of circuitous thinking was starting to give him a real headache.

"I ran." Hasan finally said in an even tone. That was fairly obvious.

The two adults shared a look as Hasan began to devour his meal. It was actually quite tasty.

"Slow down, you'll get sick," Marcus chided in concern, "You'd think you haven't eaten in-" he stopped himself, finally seeing the error in his ways. He looked to Tom for support, but the older man just raised an eyebrow. You dug your own grave, he seemed to say.

"I haven't eaten since breakfast." Hasan told them, and they instantly relaxed. That wasn't so bad, right? It wasn't like they had a full blown street rat on their hands. Plus, the kid seemed nice enough, polite enough anyway.

"Hasan...look at me." Tom asked softly from across the table. The tone was so low and gentle that Hasan complied without much thought. "I'm willing to believe you." he said firmly, "Now do you have anywhere to stay?"

Hasan shook his head. They weren't possibly-? Could they-? His heart fluttered with hope. This was an inn after all!

"You can stay here. For one night!" Tom announced, his strictness giving way with a warm smile. He didn't exactly condone running away from home, but there wasn't much else he could do. If the kid wouldn't talk, assuming he was lying, then there wasn't anything he could do that wouldn't have him running to the hills- or worse- Knockturn Alley. Yes, best to keep him safe at the inn and hope his parents followed him.

"Thank you." Hasan whispered genuinely. Once Hasan was finished eating his fill, which included a hot chocolate with whipped cream as dessert, Marcus led him upstairs to his room at the far end of the hallway.

"This is where you'll stay the night. Just touch the knob and it'll unlock for you."

Seemingly satisfied, Marcus walked away; Hasan touched it and it opened.

Magic.

Giddy with joy, Hasan entered the little room, shut the door, and fell fast asleep on the bed. He couldn't help himself, it was so incredibly soft, that he felt his eyelids shutting as he touched it.

He only wished that his dream wouldn't end when he woke up.

.oOo.

Down the hall, Marcus was shaking his head at Tom, wondering how on earth they were going to pull this off.

"Hopefully his parents will come in the morning." Marcus murmured. Tom, however, stayed silent. "You don't- You don't actually think-?"

"Marcus, I'm not sure. He seems genuine enough, and he is only eight. I'm prepared to take his word for it."

"And if he is, by some miraculous stretch of the imagination, telling the truth?"

Tom sighed, "Then we'll just have to see what we can do. Won't we?"

They each cheered to that, butterbeer overflowing in large mugs, as the last customers emptied out. Tom plunged the pub into total darkness with a wave of his wand, and Marcus began to bolt up the door, when a lone figure seemed to materialize right outside of it.

"It's closing time." Marcus called out, but opened the door anyway.

"What is it?" Tom asked, turning from his ascent up the stairs.

"I'm terribly sorry, Tom." the man outside said, taking down his hood, "But I seem to have lost my son."

Why that little urchin! Marcus thought with a strike of triumph. He turned to the supposed father and gave him an extremely warm smile.

"I can show you upstairs," Marcus offered gleefully.

"The poor fellow's asleep, Marcus. We can't just-"

"Oh, no matter," the mysterious man said in a pleasant baritone. "I can simply apparate the two of us back home without any disturbance."

Marcus nodded happily. He knew that boy had been lying! Tom, however, didn't seem so sure. The man in front of them was tall, dressed in a heavy black cloak, with thick brown hair that fell just past his shoulders. His eyes were a pale blue, and his eyebrows were heavy on top of them. Despite his informal shout of 'Tom,' Tom was positive he had never seen this man before in his life. Granted, the Leaky Cauldron was extremely busy and there was a chance he hadn't met someone before, but that chance was slim.

"Well right this way Mister!" Marcus was saying.

Tom just shook his head. It was getting late; he was tired. He allowed Marcus to show the man upstairs to Hasan's room, while Tom continued on to his own chambers above his business.

"So what did he do?" Marcus asked conversationally.

"Do?" the man repeated absently.

"Yeah, to run away like that."

The man paused.

"I'm not sure."

They had reached the boy's door by now, and Marcus was mumbling the incantation to allow them entry.

"He said you were dead, you know. You and your wife! I couldn't believe it!" Marcus continued, getting carried away by his own delight.

"Is that so?" the man asked.

"Yes, I'd give 'im a talking to if I were you."

A grim smile came over the man's face. "Indeed."

The father entered the room, while Marcus left to give them privacy. The bedroom was dark, nearly pitch black but for the lone candle flickering in the bathroom.

"What a small body to contain so much magic." he whispered, approaching the bed.

The boy was peaceful looking while asleep, brown hair tangled around his shoulders and the gentle rise and fall of his chest.

The man had been tracking his trail for a while now: since noon to be exact, when the little cretin decided to make a break for it. You see, this mysterious man was highly sensitive to magic ever since he had ingested some fairly dark potions that didn't react well in his system. His new ability didn't bother him much, but it certainly gave him a shock when a highly powerful source was radiating from a barely populated town near London. He made an investigation of it, finally reaching a little known orphanage called Penelope's House.

How the woman- Mrs. Haydn, was it?- thought kids could even be found, let alone adopted, was beyond him. But he was thankful for it nonetheless, for the boy hadn't been adopted yet. At first, he hadn't known what or who was radiating the powerful magical aura, but after asking a few strategic questions, he had a pretty good idea.

Only one child was known to be...strange. Only one child that was set apart from the others and treated with respect despite lack of any reason. It was his aura. The man told Mrs. Haydn he would very much like to meet this little boy, and the woman practically cried with happiness. "Noon, then?" she had asked, and he had nodded. And now, here he was, after blindly following his more bothersome-than-useful power, kneeling at the bedside of a child he didn't know. But if he trusted anything in the world, it was his gut.

He reached out to touch the boy's arm, and with a faint pop, they both vanished into the night.

.oOo.

Altair Castell was a quiet man of forty-something years, who kept mostly to himself at the Castell Estate, located within some unplottable territory in France. He was quiet for two reasons:

1) He was not on speaking terms with his family and wanted no part in the war.

2) He was supposed to be dead.

The first was fairly easy to explain. Altair was the last of the British branch of Castell's, meaning that he was distantly related to the House of Black. And with this came the Malfoys, the Lestranges, and the rest of the bloody Dark Lord's escort. Which simply begged the question: why wasn't he with them?

The second point answers this. In the time of the Dark Lord's reign, Altair had been hunted down as mercilessly as Slughorn, except that he had a dark family that pressured him into the dark as well. He had a knack for what some liked to call 'getting into trouble' and often, Altair found his nose where it didn't belong.

This being said, he was the ideal spy, stealthy, amiable, easy-going, but very smart. Well, mostly. While pursued by the Dark Lord, he was running out of options. He had to get away, and well, desperate times did call for desperate measures, and so- in his desperation- he decided to down the closest few potions on Snape's desk. (Snape had his own mastermind space at Riddle Manor.) Back then, Severus was fighting for the Dark Lord's favor, much like everybody else- and he did so with inventions, whether it was spells or potions. It just so happened that the particular few he chose to ingest did not kill him, but instead, gave him a little known condition Snape decided to creatively call: "Magical Sight." It was a nuisance to be honest, but he had his out, and who was he to complain?

Thus, the next few years were spent in hiding, and while hiding, Altair began to invest in defensive training to prepare for the inevitable. His instructors were always obliviated afterwards, but he was a patient man, and eventually built up a repertoire of different battle styles.

When news of the Dark Lord's demise reached Altair's ears, he had already achieved a level of expertise in martial arts, as well as sword fighting, your basic hand-to-hand, and of course, spells both dark and light.

But he wasn't entirely cut off from the world. Due to his condition, he needed to take a potion known as "Muted Sights" twice a month, formulated specifically for him (and most creatively named) by Severus Snape. Usually, Snape would apparate to a meeting point where they would exchange a few words, but yesterday had been particularly hectic. Unable to take the time off, it seemed, Altair had volunteered to go himself, personally, to London. It would be like a vacation, he told himself, except that he would have to be on high alert everywhere he went- which wasn't a change at all.

Altair took the three Galleon portkey to London at 5 in the afternoon, and apparated to Hogsmeade where he waited patiently for the Snape there. As he waited however, he kept feeling a certain prickling in his mind, which meant a particularly loud, or bright, (he was never really quite sure how to describe it) magical source was nearby. He shook his head, trying to shove it down as he recognized the black robes billowing in the distance.

.oOo.

Snape was his usual acidulous self, but he honestly did like Altair, if like was such a thing possible for a man like Severus. Altair suspected it was because that he could see, all too clearly, himself in Altair's shoes. He didn't treat Altair like a coward for finding an Out of the Dark Lord's service, but he did suspect Snape envied him from time to time. Even with the Dark Lord gone, Snape was still on edge, always preparing for the next course of action. Altair almost pitied him.

"I'm going to be late with the headmaster now because of you." Snape sneered, tossing him the potions. The two vials clanked in the paper bag as Altair swiped it from the air.

"Is the Light Lord still into lemon drops?"

"Don't be absurd!" Snape snapped with zeal. "Of course, he is!"

The two friendly acquaintances looked at each other and smiled fractionally. Snape still had greasy hair due to the potion fumes, obsidian eyes that could probably set someone on fire, and a tongue that could lash someone quite brutally. He hadn't changed in, in...well, he hadn't changed. Altair, however, was under a simple glamor that made him look much older than he really was.

"You should really take those right away." Snape insisted, indicating to the bag. "You've waited too long, we're already into November."

"Yes, I know." Altair sighed. But he didn't want to yet, even as those obsidian eyes watched him acutely, he couldn't bring himself to mute the powerful tug leading god knew where.

Snape was still staring. "You know the effects of too much exposure. Especially so near Hogwarts, I suggest you do it now."

"I will..." Altair paused. Should he tell him or ignore it? Drink the potion and pretend it was never there. Snape was never one to draw the answer out of someone- he just waited rather impatiently for Altair to come to an answer. "There's a powerful magical energy near here." Altair finally bit put.

Snape raised a supercilious eyebrow. "Indeed. And the castle is not-?"

"Severus, it's...it's not the castle. The castle's aura is gold; I'm sensing a pulsating emerald. Somewhere...somewhere near here."

"And it's not Hogwarts?" Snape asked again, looking at him like he grew another head.

"No." Altair said definitely.

Snape leaned back in his seat. "Then by all means, sate your curiosity, Altair. But the castle's most likely interfering with your already hyperactive senses. Why you didn't contact me until the beginning of November..."

Altair felt himself grow angry. How dare this man not believe him! But he was a gentle bull by nature, so he just shook his head.

"Thanks, Severus. Go run along to Gandalf now." Altair made a shooing motion with his hand earning a glare from the other.

"You're just lucky I haven't told Gandalf of your existence." he said lowly, "But if you do find something..." he left it at that, before striding briskly back to the castle.

But Altair knew better- Severus would never rat out a potential ally. Plus, Altair was too excited to be scared by an old school friend. What was this wild green energy? Who was it? How did it form? Was it real?

He pocketed the potions in his cloak and apparated to Diagon Alley. From there, he continued on foot until he reached a little suburb. The glow was brighter now, the tugging more adamant, and he joyfully followed his senses past a small family-owned farm, a red large mill, a hill, and finally, he stood before the most pitiful orphanage he had ever seen in his entire life.

Penelope's House.

.oOo.

Present.

Hasan awoke to a soft hissing coming from somewhere to his right. Yet, he made no move to declare his return to consciousness, for what if it were more advantageous to remain immobile? He sent his senses out, hearing the hissing, but also smelling coffee, and feeling the soft covers and mattress of his bed. Thinking back to last night, the covers of the Leaky Cauldron had been of average quality, mediocre at best (not that Hasan knew much about quality), with an extremely fluffy pillow that his head kept sinking into. Now, it felt just right and extremely luxurious. Either he wasn't remembering correctly or he wasn't there at all.

"I know you're not asleep." a low voice intoned from across the room. "You can get up now."

Hasan, determining that he had discovered all of importance from just his senses, reluctantly opened his eyes. The man knew he was awake anyway, right? Hasan sat up gingerly, blinking into the bright room with a false air of ignorance. His gaze swept left and right, but his eyesight was never really good.

"How are you?" the voice asked again.

Hasan's eyes narrowed on the speaker who was busy stroking a small black snake. What an odd animal for a pet, Hasan thought, but otherwise had no opinion. It wasn't nice to judge. The room was richly furnished with old mahogany desks and drawers, a table, two couches, and a large mantled fireplace.

"Well enough..." Hasan answered slowly. The man simply nodded.

"That's good. My name's Altair, by the way, Altair Castell. This is my pet, Tina."

:Hello: Tina hissed.

Hasan appeared unfazed- he had talked to snakes before. But when he had told Mrs. Haydn she had called him a rather imaginative young man, and looked at him a little more oddly ever since. So Hasan remained quiet about his ability.

It wasn't nice to judge, but people did it anyway.

"Where am I?" Hasan asked, not needing to feign his curiosity and growing panic.

"France." Altair answered nonchalantly. It was that one word which jolted Hasan from his thoughts. France? Wait, who the Hell was this guy? Why was he here? How did he get here, for how long had he been unconscious?

Hasan bit his lower lip. "You kidnapped me." It was a statement.

Altair was struck at the apathy. "No, I've got the paperwork right here."

That's when Hasan noticed the small manila folder in the man's hand. Hasan made two realizations at once. One, this was the man who had wanted to see him yesterday. Two, this Altair guy knew his real name- it had to be on the folder, and Hasan's dream was over.

He was just Harry.

To any other, this news would elicit sobs that would rack one's small body. To any other, they would scrunch their eyes tight and pray for a hug. Harry did no such thing.

"What's my name?" he asked slowly. Anything to keep the dream going... He so desperately wanted to be Hasan the wizard, but if the man knew his real name was Harry Potter then there was nothing he could do about it. "What does the folder say? Why did you come? How did you find me?" His persona was falling apart as he spoke, but his voice remained eerily calm- a trait from some mental disorder, he recalled Mrs. Haydn saying.

But surprisingly, the man simply chuckled in front of him. They were little sounds escaping at first, but soon grew into full-bellied laughs. Harry was frozen on the bed.

"Sly thing." Altair was chuckling. His icy eyes met Harry's jaded ones and he stood up to approach him. "You will make a great Slytherin yet, or perhaps a Ravenclaw."

Harry frowned.

"A-a, excuse me, a what-?" he tried not to look offended. Had he just been insulted?

Altair ignored him, "I'm sorry,"-he struggled to get his laughter under control,-"The paperwork doesn't exist."

Something slid from his sleeve into his hand, something like a stick, and a swish of his arm brought the manila folder to flames.

"You don't know my name?" Harry breathed out, relieved, hardly registering the fire in the background in his delight. "Mrs. Haydn didn't tell you my name?" His was getting suspicious now, but also hopeful, as all children will want to be when the best case scenario first presents itself as possible.

Altair shrugged. He remembered the conversation vaguely, but he was never one for details. Also, the Magic Sight had been wreaking havoc with his mind, and if the woman told him he could meet the boy the next day, then how was he to know he should have kept the information firmly in his brain? Yes, Altair was a lucky man, but sorely blinded to some obvious things.

"No. I don't believe so." Altair said with a frown, "But I have adopted you, and I would really like to know your name."

Hasan relaxed slightly: his identity was still his secret.

"I call myself Hasan."

A pause.

"Hasan Castell. I like it."

Hasan still felt incredibly awkward in bed, so he made to get up. Altair didn't stop him, so he continued on until he reached the snake. It rose up to greet him, though that wasn't saying much because he was short, even for an eight year old due to the orphanage food, tongue sticking out in flashes.

:Hassssan:

Hasan blinked. Suddenly, the snake was green with bright yellow diamonds. What? The snake was a color changer?

:It isss my ability, little one:

The snake turned fiery red then deep sapphire blue, all within a few seconds, as if to prove its point.

"Altair?" Hasan asked suddenly, his back turned to his new father and eyes entranced by Tina, "Do you believe in magic?"

This puzzled Altair, for the boy nearly spilled over with pure magical energy!

"What? Of course I-" and then it struck him. It struck him hard. "You didn't know- you don't know... you're a wizard." he stated ineloquently.

He felt his mouth grow dry as he stared at this little boy, head tilted slightly, so oblivious of the power he contained. How could he have overlooked this detail in his curiosity, determination, and then frustration?

"I dreamed I was a wizard." Hasan said loftily, reaching out to pet Tina. "I fear I must still be dreaming."

Her scales were smooth emerald now, glittering with an iridescent sheen.

"No, Hasan. Look at me." Altair said.

He did so, dull jade eyes gazing up skeptical at icy blue. "You're a wizard... I'm a wizard. Magic is real."

Hasan was petrified, turned to a marble statue as the emerald snake climbed onto his arm.

:It isss true:

"Hasan? Hasan, are you alright? I'm not lying to you: Magic is real."

Tina slithered up around his neck and tasted his cheek with her tongue.

"You better not lie to me." he said eventually, pointing to the pile of ash that was the folder. "I might just burn."

Just then, Tina returned to bright carmine, looking like a bloodied noose around his head. Altair nodded sadly, staring at his hands, knowing now that his display of fire probably didn't do much to ease the boy's concerns. When he looked up, Tina was already back on the table.

"Will you teach me?" Hasan's voice enquired, hands tangling in his old, tattered sweatshirt. Altair made a mental note to go shopping later. "Magic, I mean." Hasan elaborated.

Altair felt a smile grow over his face.

"I'd like nothing more, Hasan, my son."