Stepping out of Ollivanders' dim shop, Stephen still held his pouch of gold, feeling its unfamiliar weight. His mind, accustomed to precise formulas and measurable data, was now processing an entirely new type of information. The wand. It had chosen him. This thought, though seemingly unscientific, evoked a strange, not yet fully comprehended feeling.
McGonagall, seeing his thoughtfulness, didn't rush him.
"Next stop, Mr. Strange," she announced, pointing to a battered two-story shop overflowing with books, "is Flourish and Blotts. You'll buy your textbooks there."
Stephen nodded, his gaze already scanning the sign and the stacks of books. He loved books. They offered order, structure, and knowledge. This was something he understood.
Inside the shop, it smelled of old paper and ink. Books were piled to the ceiling on tall shelves. Some seemed to be trying to escape from behind their grates, while others quietly growled or whined.
"They're... alive?" Stephen blurted out involuntarily. He approached one such book that was gently trembling on its shelf.
"Some of them are," McGonagall replied concisely. "You'll need the first-year set."
The shopkeeper, an elderly man with hair sticking out in all directions, handed Stephen a list and directed him to the appropriate shelves. Stephen, though inwardly indignant that books needed to be caught or subdued, quickly gathered everything on the list. He quickly scanned the titles: "The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1," "A History of Magic," "Magical Theory," "One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi." He already anticipated studying them, dissecting every formula and concept.
After Flourish and Blotts, they headed to "Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions." The shop was dimly lit, and the floors were covered with fabric scraps. Madam Malkin, a plump, smiling woman, greeted them at the door.
"Hogwarts, dear?" she trilled, spotting McGonagall. "First year, is it?"
She immediately positioned Stephen on a low stool.
"Arms up, dear," she said, and before Stephen could say anything, began quickly measuring him from all sides using a tape measure that seemed to have a life of its own, wriggling around him.
Stephen felt awkward. He disliked being touched by strangers, especially so unceremoniously.
"Is this... necessary? Don't you have standard sizes? This is... inefficient."
Madam Malkin merely giggled.
"Everything here is tailored to you, darling. Robes must fit perfectly."
A few minutes later, with the help of another tape measure that wrapped itself around his neck, Stephen received his new robes—heavy, black fabric that, to his surprise, truly fit perfectly.
The final destination, to Stephen's relief, was the Magical Menagerie. Stephen didn't like animals; they were unpredictable and noisy. But McGonagall explained that every student could bring an animal: an owl, a cat, or a toad.
"I'll choose an owl," Stephen said, making an immediate decision. "They are, at least, functional. For sending letters. And, hopefully, they're silent and don't produce unnecessary mess."
He chose a large, majestic snowy owl that gazed at him with a certain wisdom in its yellow eyes. Stephen already began to ponder how he could use it for his research. Perhaps he could track its routes, study its navigational abilities.
By the end of the day, Stephen was exhausted. Not physically, but mentally. His mind, accustomed to logic and order, was overloaded by the abundance of inexplicable phenomena. He carried a bag full of books, a bundle with his robes, and a cage with the snowy owl, which watched him intently.
Returning to the Strange estate via the same fireplace, Stephen felt relieved to be back in familiar, ordered surroundings.
"Well, Mr. Strange," McGonagall said once they were in his living room. "Now you have everything you need. In one month, on September 1st, you must be at King's Cross Station, Platform 9¾. All information will be in your letter."
Stephen nodded, his thoughts already drifting far away.
"Platform 9¾? That... doesn't exist. Is it some kind of portal? Or a spatial anomaly? How does one get there?"
McGonagall simply looked at him.
"You'll find out when the time comes, Mr. Strange. Goodbye."
With those words, she vanished again into the green flames of the fireplace, leaving Stephen alone in his luxurious, but now seemingly ordinary, living room. He set the bag on the floor, took out his textbooks and his new wand. He ran his finger over its surface. It was warm.
"Platform 9¾..." Stephen whispered, looking at the books. "This world... it's illogical. But perhaps that's precisely why it's so interesting." He already anticipated dissecting every mystery, every oddity. His analytical mind had received a new challenge, and it was captivating.