"Three months. A full three months! Did you rush me over here just to show me the King's new manuscript?!"
Andrew's beard trembled with frustration. He clutched a blank scroll of paper, looking as if he might strike something with it. The child in front of him, however, remained calm, head bowed, fiddling with a small glass bottle, watching the sand drift from one end to the other.
"Slynt Page!"
Andrew stared at the furry brown head in front of him, forced down his irritation, and took a long gulp of tea.
"Professor… I need inspiration…"
Slytherin shook his head. He hadn't meant to delay the manuscript. But any words written without genuine inspiration wouldn't meet his own standards. All his failed attempts now lay in the wastepaper basket.
"Then why did you call me over? You couldn't have been messing with me, could you?"
Andrew's temper flared again. Just earlier, Slytherin had summoned him, his voice excited. Andrew had assumed the manuscript was finally complete. Instead, he arrived to find… nothing.
"Professor, do you know Magic?"
"Of course. Are you wondering where to find Magic like in fairy tales? I can go to the bookstore, see if there are any fairy tale collections I haven't given you yet…"
"Not Magic from books."
"Ah? Are you talking about—"
Andrew trailed off, eyes widening as he watched the glass bottle in Slytherin's hand transform into a sealed letter. He flinched, nearly dropping his teacup.
"Did you learn Magic from some circus? Your technique is… quite subtle…"
Seeing Andrew still incredulous, Slytherin tossed the envelope upward. It shimmered and transformed into a bright blue butterfly, which fluttered gently to Andrew's shoulder.
"This is it. Real Magic."
"Ah… yes, yes, of course. It could only be this kind of Magic…"
Andrew slumped into the sofa, overwhelmed. He closed his eyes and let out a long, slow breath.
"So… you received an acceptance letter from Hogwarts?"
Slytherin nodded slowly, eyes glowing with curiosity. Andrew knew that look well—it meant Slytherin's imagination had already taken flight.
"Are you… also a Wizard, Professor? Why have I never seen you conjure rabbits or pigeons with Magic?"
"I… cannot be considered a Wizard…"
Andrew chose his words carefully. How could he explain what a Squib was to a Young Wizard who knew nothing of the Magical world?
Truth be told, he didn't know much about it anymore either. After it was confirmed he was a Squib, his magical family had sent him to live with his Muggle relatives. He had been distant from the Magical world for decades—so long, in fact, he thought he had forgotten it entirely.
But when Slytherin performed that transformation spell, something deep within Andrew stirred. He realized he had never truly forgotten Magic. A longing for it still lived quietly in his heart.
Andrew swallowed hard. He didn't want to reveal his identity—it was a scar he preferred hidden.
"Professor, do you know what Hogwarts is like?"
Slytherin's sensitive nature picked up on Andrew's silence and tactfully changed the subject. Thankfully, this question lay within Andrew's comfort zone.
"Hogwarts… That's the only Magic school in England, and widely considered the finest in the world. Each year, it sends acceptance letters to Young Wizards who are eligible—typically, those around eleven years old who have experienced magical outbursts…"
Slytherin tilted his head, listening intently. A faint trace of regret flickered in his expression. He seemed to believe he'd missed his chance to attend such a place.
"By the way, Slytherin, how did you know I was… connected to the Magic world?"
Andrew only just realized how odd it was. He himself had been detached from Magic for so long. Why had Slytherin assumed he knew about it?
"Magic?" Slytherin's tone was uncertain. "There's something different in your body compared to others… like me… and like some people I've seen on Charing Cross Road."
"Magic… You must be a very gifted Young Wizard."
At least, based on Andrew's limited knowledge, there were no known people who could sense Magic simply by looking. Certainly not in his family. Yet here was Slytherin, seeing through things even seasoned Wizards might miss.
The butterfly fluttered back to Slytherin's hand and transformed back into a letter.
"Then I'll write a reply to… Professor McGonagall. Professor, can you take me to buy these things?"
Andrew shook his head with a sigh. "I'm afraid not. As I said, I can't be considered a Wizard. My knowledge of the Magical world is outdated—by decades. If I were to lead you… it might not be the wisest idea."
"But I do remember this: Young Wizards from Muggle families are typically guided by a Professor when they purchase their school supplies. You'll certainly receive that kind of help."
"Oh! And remember to bring more money. Magic doesn't use pounds. You'll need to exchange your money for Galleons… or Sickles? I hope I haven't forgotten the names of the currencies…"
"Oh, alright," Slytherin said, his voice tinged with disappointment. He had hoped Andrew could accompany him. After all, they'd spent a long time together—not just as writer and mentor, but something closer to family.
Technically, Andrew was Slytherin's legal guardian now, although they lived separately for personal reasons.
"Oh, I've got another meeting at noon—"
Andrew checked his watch and suddenly sprang from the chair, hastily gathering his belongings. Slytherin helped pack his briefcase.
Andrew wasn't actually in such a rush. Slytherin knew he just needed time—time to process the extraordinary events that had just unfolded.
Andrew was truly bewildered. He hadn't even acknowledged Slytherin's ability to transform a letter into a butterfly—something he hadn't even learned at school yet.
Thump!
The door shut behind Andrew, leaving Slytherin alone in the quiet, book-lined room. He stared down at the acceptance letter, reading it over and over.
"Galleon… Sickle… Galleon?"
Slytherin clenched his fist, then slowly opened it. A soft mist drifted through the air, and a weathered gold coin appeared in his palm.
It was a Galleon.
A treasure from a dream—a souvenir from a magical realm. A gift from Maleficent, the Witch who became a dragon.
Ding-a-ling-a-ling—ding-a-ling-a-ling—
The telephone rang suddenly, nearly causing Slytherin to drop the Galleon. He quickly clasped his hands, and with a puff of silvery mist, the coin vanished once more.
"Slynt Page, I hope you won't abandon writing fairy tales just because you're starting Hogwarts?"
Andrew's voice crackled through the receiver. Slytherin smiled warmly.
"Of course not. As long as I'm still dreaming, I'll keep writing fairy tales…"
"In fact, I'm really looking forward to what kind of inspiration the Magical world's stories might give me—and what new things I'll dream of."
Andrew sighed in relief. The thought of London's brightest young author quitting was unsettling—he was one of Slytherin's most loyal fans.
"That's good to hear… The Tales of Beedle the Bard—I remember that was the most famous fairy tale collection in the Magical world. My parents used to read it to me at bedtime."
"Okay, when a Professor takes me to get supplies, I'll buy a copy."
Slytherin put down the phone and began rummaging through the stacks of manuscript paper on the desk, creating a new mess.
"Found it."
An oil painting—featuring a giant green dragon, a towering spire piercing the clouds, and a forest of dark green thorns.
This was it. No—this was her story.
Slytherin stared at the coiled dragon wrapped around the tower, with its elegant, curved horns and serpentine body.
It was Maleficent.
She had given him the Galleon—a treasure from a dragon's hoard. Even if she was a Witch transformed into a dragon, that made her gift no less valuable.
He carefully removed the painting and smiled.
He'd sleep with it tonight.
He was going to see his good friend again—and ask if she knew anything about the Magical world.