A Foot in Two Worlds

I skipped school again. For the second day in a row, although under normal circumstances someone would have been around to scold or send a letter home, these weren't normal times. School wasn't compulsory, not yet. 

They said Parliament would settle that after the war. For now, most teachers were either off in uniform, buried under paperwork for ration boards, or trying to stretch too few lessons across half-empty classrooms because boys were on work schemes and girls had been pulled home to mind younger siblings.

So it was almost too easy to slip away at dawn. A heel of bread wrapped in crinkled brown paper, stuffed into my satchel, Grandad's cap pulled low on my brow, the knife tucked snug at my hip. The blade was a cold promise against my ribs. I found comfort in that.

The streets still yawned quietly, only just beginning to stir. Milk carts trundled over cobbles that glittered with thin frost, leaving little tracks of damp in their wake. Shopkeepers bent to tug up iron grilles, muttering to themselves as locks rattled. 

My eyes never settled for long. I scanned faces, doorways, the thin alleys that sliced between houses like veins. My hand hovered near my waist more often than not, thumb grazing the worn wood of the knife's handle beneath my coat.

It wasn't only yesterday's attack that left me so taut and watchful. London itself felt like a creature crouched low on its haunches, full of dark cellars and whispers behind closed curtains. A city stuffed with secrets.

I wound my way roughly toward the place the old paper seller had described yesterday. Now and then, I stopped outright, pivoting to check behind me, heart ticking faster. Once, a man with a newspaper under his arm gave me too long a look by a chemist's window. I shot off quick, shoulders bunched, breath sharp.

And then, purely by accident, I found it.

Or found the proof I'd been chasing.

I'd been shuffling down a side street cluttered with scraps of old ration posters, thinking more of the cold biting through my shoes than anything else. My feet slowed without me having to tell them to do so. Something about this place felt... wrong. Or perhaps too right, in a way only I noticed.

A narrow, dingy shop crouched low between two brighter facades. Its windows were fogged with soot and grime, thick enough to paint with a fingertip. Above the door, a faded sign wavered like a half-caught breath. For a heartbeat, the letters tangled, then smoothed into something unmistakable.

"Leaky Cauldron."

My chest gave a quick, painful squeeze. I might have chalked it up to hunger or nerves if not for what happened next.

A man strode past me, not draped in dreary wool or rationed grey, but in robes that swished about his ankles, dark as midnight ink. No one else spared him a glance. I watched, eyes wide, as he walked right up to that battered door and slipped through it, like water through a crack.

Something inside me went loose. The world I'd half-doubted, half-hoped for, the one whispered in my memories in books and films, snapped into stark certainty. The Wizarding World was real.

For a moment, my legs actually twitched toward that door. I wanted to see. Needed to see what lay beyond that threshold.

But the memory of rough hands on my shoulders, of breath hot and foul against my ear, of my own muffled scream and how near I'd come to disappearing forever, that memory clamped cold around my ribs. 

I wasn't ready. Not yet. I needed more than wonder. I needed caution. A plan.

So I swallowed the ache and turned away, brushing the knife at my side to steady myself. Then I walked on, deeper into the maze.

It took me another hour to find Wool's. By then, the sun had clawed high enough to splash rooftops with pale gold, though the streets here seemed determined to keep their chill. It was a quieter part of the city, like even the war couldn't be bothered to shout here.

And there it was.

Wool's Orphanage. Squat, tired, it's brick darkened by decades of smog and coal smoke. A rust-bitten fence curled around it like a protective scowl. It looked like the sort of place that might swallow small voices whole. But the windows were scrubbed clean, and a few mismatched flower pots crowded the sills. 

Someone, at least, still fought to make it homely.

I stood by the gate, thumb worrying circles into my palm, eyes dragging over each window and dark lintel. I was working through possibilities, how easily I could be sent here, what stories I'd tell if they tried, when a voice cut clean through my thoughts.

"Looking for something, young man?"

I jerked my head up. A woman stood near the gatepost, broad-shouldered in a sensible grey coat, hair pinned so tight it probably ached. Her mouth wore the shape of kindness, though it was the sort that came from habit more than softness.

I let my shoulders hunch and dropped my chin. It wasn't challenging to look small and fragile. Too-thin frame, eyes sunken from worry and skipped meals. I hated pity most days, but sometimes it was a weapon sharper than any blade.

"Might be my new home," I said, voice thin, letting it catch like a thread pulled too tight. "They... said they might send me somewhere. Thought I'd see what sort of place it was."

Her face creased just a touch. Enough.

"Oh, love. Well, it's no palace, that's sure, but it's warm. You'll get meals on time, a proper bed, and lessons when we can spare a teacher. If it comes to it... we'll take good care. That's more than many get these days."

I nodded, forcing my eyes wide and solemn. Inside, every word sank deep, catalogued. She hadn't blinked at the idea of the state sending me along. This place was ready for boys like me. Too ready, maybe.

"Thank you, ma'am," I breathed. "Just wanted to see."

Then I turned, my hand drifting automatically back to the knife beneath my jacket. She watched me go with a gaze that felt like it might chase me down the street, more curious than suspicious, but enough to keep my pace brisk.

The walk back stretched long. I cut down new roads, eyes jumping from shadows to passing faces, every clatter making my shoulders twitch. London felt larger, stranger than ever, a city full of half-glimpsed dangers and even stranger promises.

When I finally pushed through my own gate and barred the door behind me, I slumped for just a second. But the thought of that wizard stepping through a door no one else could see lit my mind up all over again. And Wool's, the woman's careful eyes, the neat iron fence, waiting to close around me if I wasn't clever enough.

I thought the day was over. I even managed to heat a little broth and finish it just before it went lukewarm. But near dusk, a knock sounded at the door. Sharp. Official. The sort of sound that left the hair on my neck standing.

I cracked it open just enough to see a man on the stoop in a smart wool coat, collar turned up against the chill. He held a slim stack of papers and wore a dark cap tucked under one elbow. A billeting officer. I knew they'd come; it was just a matter of time.

"Richard Russo?" he asked, peering down at me. His breath fogged in the cold.

"Yes, sir."

He cleared his throat, eyes flicking past my shoulder into the dim hall. "Mind if I come in? This won't take long."

I hesitated, then stepped back. He ducked under the lintel and moved into the kitchen with that quiet, officious air grown men have when they feel a boy's house isn't rightly his.

"Right," he said, drawing out a pencil. 

"We'll keep it straightforward. Given your mother's recent passing, the council has begun reviewing placements. You understand, I hope." His voice was unhurried and calm.

"Yes, sir."

He pulled a form from the sheaf and flattened it on the table. The pencil hovered. "Full name."

"Richard Russo."

"Age?"

"Nine."

"Date of birth?"

"The second of September, 1934."

He scribbled it down. "Any siblings? Cousins living under this roof? Other immediate kin?"

I shook my head. "No, sir. They're all... gone."

His mouth twitched, not quite sympathy, more an acknowledgement of a simple fact. "Religion?"

"Catholic." My voice was steady.

I was never particularly religious, but being reincarnated makes you more open to the infinite possibilities, and it matters a great deal to my Nonna.

"That could affect placement options. Some of the homes are run by church charities, staffed by priests and nuns." 

He paused, letting it sink in before continuing.

"Health next. Any lingering illness? Tuberculosis in the family? Bad lungs, weak joints, chronic ailments?"

"No, sir." The answers came quickly. "I've always been strong enough."

He squinted at me, pencil tapping his chin. "Can you read? Write? Basic sums?"

"Yes."

"And you've been attending school regularly?"

I hesitated before deciding to tell the truth. "Yes, sir. Most of the time, I did miss the past 2 days, but that's because I had to sort out the house."

His eyes narrowed, but he didn't chastise me. "That's reasonable."

"Any...troublesome behaviours I ought to note? Fighting, theft, running off?"

I swallowed and let my hand stroke the knife hidden at my waist. "No, sir."

"All right." He glanced at another sheet, lips moving slightly. 

"Right then, let's see... we've got St. Vincent's over by the cathedral, that's the Catholics, mind you. Mostly younger boys, bit heavy on the morning prayers, but they keep 'em clean and fed.

Then there's a charity home on Greys Lane, Barnardo's lot run that one, though it's bursting at the seams, sponsors popping in all the time to see their pennies at work. Might be you'd end up shuffled out to a foster family if they can't fit you.

There's Bromley House as well, council-run, rougher round the edges, but a bed's a bed. Heard the matron's got a sharp tongue, likes things spit-spot."

And if you were a bit smaller, say six or seven, the Sisters at Our Lady of Mercy would take you in a heartbeat, they're fond of the little ones, teach 'em hymns, make 'em scrub floors.

Last on my list for now... Wool's Orphanage. Not too far from here, decent enough place by reputation. They keep fair order, meals on time, older lads help keep the younger ones in line. Might suit you best, all things considered."

My pulse jumped. I tried to keep my face carefully open, earnest. "If it's all the same, sir... I'd be alright with Wool's. Heard it's... not so bad."

He studied me for a long moment, pencil still. Then he nodded and made a brisk tick on the form. "Simple enough. I'll file this. Someone will come round in a few days with the final papers. Expect to move within the week, provided space holds."

He tucked the pencil in his shirt's breast pocket and gathered up his forms. As he stepped back into the hall, his eyes swept the small kitchen, the tidy table, the scoured pots on the shelf, the broom propped neat by the door.

"You've done well enough looking after yourself, lad," he said, almost offhand. Then his boots tapped down the path and faded into the street.

That night, I laid the knife beneath my pillow again, hand curled around the hilt until my pulse slowed. The memory of that trafficker trying to sneak in, of how my breath had choked in my throat. I crushed it down, forced it aside with the image of the wizard vanishing through the impossible door.

Tomorrow, I'd plan. The world was wider, sharper now that my suspicions had been confirmed. It was real. The Wizarding World. 

But that didn't make all I had been through over the past few years fake. They were both real. The Wizarding World and the Muggle. 

And I was determined to learn how to slip through both, learn how to survive and thrive.

================================================================

Hey, dear reader! If you enjoyed this chapter, please consider dropping a power stone to show your support; it helps keep the story going strong! Also, I'd love to hear your thoughts, so leave a comment or write a review.

================================================================

Hey readers. I have ideas of what I want things to be for his second task. Obvious, given the title, but I'm including this here in case any of you have ideas that you think would be well-suited. Again, just comment here.