Chapter Text
Invocation: The call to the unseen, the first breach between the mortal and the divine—or the damned.
It was Matt’s birthday when it happened. He hadn’t wanted to celebrate it. Stick always said birthdays were pointless distractions, and Matt took that seriously. He had told Father Lantom and Sister Maggie he didn’t want anything special—no cake, no singing, no decorations. But they hadn’t listened. They insisted on a “small gathering,” whatever that was supposed to mean. Matt didn’t even have any friends. Not real ones. And that was fine. Friends would just get in the way of the mission.
The mission—he still didn’t know exactly what it was. Stick talked about it like it was obvious, like Matt should already understand. Matt didn’t. But he trusted Stick. That was enough.
Matt let out a quiet sigh, just before the knock came on his door. He knew it was Father Lantom’s. He always gave himself away with his scent—something clean and sharp, like cologne with a trace of spice. Matt had been trying to focus more on heartbeats lately, like Stick wanted, but it was harder than it sounded. People’s heartbeats weren’t all that different, and when they sped up or slowed down, it threw him off. Stick made it sound simple. It wasn’t.
“Matt?” came Father Lantom’s voice through the door.
“You can come in,” Matt said.
The door opened with a soft creak, and Father Lantom stepped inside, his shoes muffled by the rug. He stopped a few steps away from Matt, standing in that way adults do when they think they’re about to give important news. “There’s someone here to see you,” he said.
Matt sat up a little straighter on the edge of his bed. “Stick?” he asked, hope creeping into his voice. Stick had said he couldn’t come today, but people changed their minds all the time.
There was a pause before Father Langtom answered. “No. Not Stick.” His voice was tighter than usual. “It’s a professor. From a boarding school. Apparently… you’ve been accepted.”
Matt’s brow furrowed. He turned his head slightly toward the sound of Father Langtom’s voice. “I don’t remember signing up for any boarding school.”
“Neither do I,” Langtom admitted. “But your name was on a list. I’m not sure how or why. The professor asked to speak with you directly.”
Matt tapped his index finger against the blanket, once, then again. He didn’t like surprises. Especially ones that showed up uninvited. But sitting here guessing wouldn’t get him any answers.
“Well,” he muttered, grabbing his cane from where it rested against the nightstand. “Might as well find out what this guy wants.”
He stood, steady and calm, even though his mind was working fast. People lied all the time—he’d gotten good at picking it out. If this professor was one of them, Matt would know.
Matt angled his cane toward the doorway. "Let’s go meet him."
He stepped into the hallway, letting his senses stretch out ahead of him. The air was cool and still, humming faintly with the buzz of distant lights. He picked up on small details first—the soft scuff of shoes against tile, the faint creak of an old door, and the warm scent of dust and candle wax. Then, outside the church, he caught a familiar sharpness: cigarette smoke.
Sister Maggie. She thought she was being discreet, but she never was. Matt always knew. She stood just beyond the archway, trying to hide her habit like it was a secret only God could see. But Matt could always smell the smoke on her robes for weeks.
He pulled his focus back and turned it toward the waiting room. Three doors down. The man was there—still, quiet, alone. But something was wrong.
The moment Matt honed in on him, it hit. A pressure. Thick and strange. It filled the space around the man like a film, something Matt couldn’t name. Not sound, not heat, not movement. It wasn’t anything he’d been trained to notice, and that unsettled him. It dragged at his awareness, making his skin prickle. It didn’t belong in the air.
By the time he reached the doorway, Matt’s steps had slowed. He gripped his cane tighter. Something brushed against him as he crossed into the room. Not physically. It was more like a reaction, like something inside the space had turned its attention toward him.
It wasn’t separate from the man—it was him. Not a presence hovering beside or behind, but something buried deep inside, part of his core. Matt couldn’t see it. He couldn’t hear it. But he felt it. Like pressure in the air that had nothing to do with sound, something strange brushing the edges of his awareness.
“Mr. Murdock, I presume,” the man said. His voice was smooth, clipped. “You’re…” He paused. Matt could tell he was being studied. “You’re blind.”
No shit, Matt thought. But he’d been raised in a Catholic orphanage, and that meant keeping certain thoughts to himself. At least most of the time.
“Yeah,” he said, keeping his voice steady. “I’m Matt. And you are, sir?”
Whatever surprise the man had felt was already gone—if it had even been real. His response was calm, almost mechanical, like he’d said it a hundred times before.
“I am Professor Severus Snape. From Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. And you, Mr. Murdock, are a wizard."
Matt blinked. “You’re kidding."
“I do not ‘kid,’” Snape said, the word edged with disdain. “Especially not about this.”
Matt focused on the man’s heartbeat—usually a reliable tell. But it was hard. The strange thing inside Snape, whatever it was, disrupted the usual rhythm of the space around him. Still, he caught it. No change. No spike. No hesitation.
Which meant either this man was completely insane and believed every word—or he was telling the truth.
“Prove it,” Matt said.
Snape let out a breath that sounded halfway between amused and annoyed. “And how, exactly, would I do that? You’re blind. I could wave a wand around and say anything.”
Matt’s grip on his cane tightened. “Be creative. If you’re really a wizard, you can come up with something.”
He felt it before anything actually changed—something inside Snape moved. It wasn’t physical, exactly, but Matt sensed it clearly, like the air around the man had stretched or reached out. His body reacted before his mind could catch up; he flinched and his fingers slipped off the cane.
A soft, smooth sound brushed close to his shoe. A movement, low to the ground. He took a step back.
“You turned my cane into a snake,” Matt said flatly, doing his best to sound bored even though his heart was beating faster now.
“How do you know it’s a snake?” Snape asked.
“I’m blind, not stupid,” Matt muttered.
“Are you satisfied now?”
Satisfied? His whole understanding of reality had just been flipped. Magic was real. Actually real. And apparently standing right in front of him. “Can I get my cane back?”
There was another shift—like whatever strange force inside Snape had pulled back. Magic, Matt guessed. It had to be. He didn’t know what else to call it. Magic. That sounded ridiculous, but here it was.
“Your cane is back,” Snape said.
Matt crouched and felt along the floor. The familiar weight and shape met his hand. He picked it up slowly.
“Okay,” he said, straightening. “So you’re magic. That doesn’t mean I am.”
Snape sighed, like he’d had this conversation a hundred times and hated every single one. “Have you ever experienced something you couldn’t explain? Something unusual, maybe even dangerous?”
Matt thought about it. There was that one time.
He’d been cornered in the alley behind the orphanage. Older boys from the next building over. Bigger, meaner, and bored. He’d only just started learning how to fight back then—basic stuff. Not enough. They’d grabbed him, knocked him down, and started hitting. He could still remember the cold cement and the taste of blood in his mouth.
Then everything changed. The air had felt different, thick and sharp all at once. And the next thing he knew, the boys were on the ground groaning, crying. One of them had a broken nose. Another couldn’t stop shaking.
Matt never really figured out what had happened that day. At first, he thought maybe they'd just slipped away—maybe someone got spooked and ran, or maybe it was nothing at all. But now...
Now, it felt like something else. Something he hadn’t considered before.
Magic
His stomach tightened. Magic wasn’t supposed to be good. It was supposed to be wrong—witchcraft, temptation, sin. That’s what he’d always been told.
His thoughts came to an abrupt stop at the sound of a voice—dry, sharp, and unimpressed.
“Well?”
Matt turned slightly toward the source and gave a small nod. “Yes. I think so.”
“Wonderful,” Snape replied flatly, drawing the word out like it tasted bad. Then there was a pause, followed by the faint rustle of parchment. “I have a letter for you. Your acceptance letter. It includes everything you’ll need.”
Matt waited, but the letter never touched his hand. His eyebrows furrowed.
“Let me guess,” Matt said, tilting his head slightly toward the rustle of parchment. “Not in braille, right?” His voice carried a bite, but curiosity edged in. “Do magic people not have blind people? Or is it just something you can—fix?”
“No, it’s not in braille,” Snape replied, his tone clipped. “Yes, there are blind witches and wizards, though I’ve never encountered one at Hogwarts.” A short pause. “It depends.”
Matt’s brow furrowed. “Depends on what?”
“Cease your inane questioning,” Snape snapped, irritation flaring sharp in his voice. “Now—tell me, is there a Muggle you trust not to run off and scream about magic?”
“Muggle?” Matt repeated.
“A person without magic,” Snape said, his voice tight with impatience. “Now answer the question.”
Matt ran through the list in his head. It wasn’t a long one. He didn’t trust many people—hardly anyone, really. But if someone had to be told, if someone had to be in the room with whatever this was…
“Father Lantom,” Matt said at last, voice steady. He was calmer than Sister Maggie. Less likely to panic. Probably.
“The priest?” Snape repeated, like the word left a bad taste in his mouth.
Matt lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “This is a Catholic orphanage. Not a lot of choices.”
Snape exhaled—quiet but unmistakably irritated. “Very well. Go and get him.”
Matt didn’t have to go far. He’d already picked out the faint creak of leather shoes just outside the door, the soft rasp of familiar breathing. Father Lantom had stayed close. That was deliberate. Probably standing guard, listening in. Making sure nothing got out of hand. Matt opened the door. “Father Lantom?”
“I’m here,” the priest said, voice low and composed. “Everything alright?”
“Snape wants to talk to you.” Matt tilted his head toward the room.
There was a pause, then a brief nod—the kind Matt felt more than saw. Together, they stepped back into the office. The door creaked on its hinges, then clicked shut behind them.
Silence settled over the room. Matt stood still, listening. He could hear the faint shift of Snape’s robes, the controlled rhythm of Father Lantom’s breathing. Both men were watching each other. Waiting.
Snape broke the silence. “I understand this will be difficult to believe.”
His voice was smooth, measured. Almost detached. Not warm. But not threatening, either.
Father Lantom didn’t move. “Go on.”
“There is a world hidden from you,” Snape said. “A world of magic. It has existed beside your own for centuries. Most people never see it.” A pause. “Your ward is part of it.”
Matt stiffened. He said nothing, but he could feel both of them turn their attention toward him.
“Magic?” Lantom said, skeptical but not dismissive. “You mean illusions? Stage tricks?
“No,” Snape said. “Not tricks. Not sleight of hand. Real magic. The kind that shapes the world. That can heal… or destroy. The kind the boy was born with."
Matt stayed still, listening. His ears caught the faint movement of cloth as Father Lantom shifted, folding his hands in front of him.
“And you know this how?” the priest asked.
“I work at a school,” Snape said. “For witches and wizards.”
Matt found his voice. “And you want me to go there?”
“If you want to learn control, you’ll need to,” Snape said. “Magic doesn’t go away if you ignore it. It builds. And when it breaks through, it doesn’t do so gently.”
“So what?” Matt asked. “I show up at your school, and I can start casting spells?”
“You’ll learn control,” Snape repeated, voice sharpening just slightly. “Discipline. The power is already in you. The school teaches you how to use it.”
Father Lantom was quiet for a long moment. Then he asked, “And what happens if we say no?”
There was a pause—short, but pointed. When Snape answered, his tone was the same as before. Even. Cold.
“Then the boy stays untrained. And when something happens—and it will—he or someone else will get hurt.”
Matt’s fingers curled slightly at his sides. The room went still again. He could hear Lantom’s pulse—calm, but slower now. Focused. He could hear the rustle of Snape’s robes as he shifted his weight, waiting.
Then Lantom spoke,“It’s your decision, Matt.”
Matt hesitated. “Isn’t magic... evil?”
Snape’s voice cut through the air, sharp and cold. “Ignore whatever you've been taught. I will only say this once—do not make me repeat it. There are no official categories for magic based on morality. Yes, some spells can harm, and those might be called ‘evil,’ but you will not be learning them."
Matt didn’t answer. He stayed still, his fingers curled slightly against his knee. He was listening—closely. Snape’s voice didn’t shake. That made him harder to read. Too controlled. Matt couldn’t trust someone like that, not yet. So he turned his attention to Father Lantom.
“Matthew,” Lantom said, slower now, like he was choosing his words carefully. “I admit this comes as a bit of a shock. Magic... that's not something I understand. But I do know this: you’re a good kid.” Matt felt the priest’s hand settle gently on his shoulder. “And I believe God has a plan for you—even if this is part of it.
Matt bit his lip. Stick always told him not to do that—called it a useless habit. But Stick wasn’t here. What would he say about this? Probably something blunt and angry. Probably something like:
“I—I’ll have to think about it,” Matt said finally.
“Very well,” Snape replied.
There was a sound of paper sliding against cloth, then Snape’s voice again. “Read.”
Matt heard the letter crinkle slightly as Father Lantom took it. “Headmaster, Albus Brain—”
“You can skip ahead,” Snape snapped.
Matt was pretty sure Father Lantom rolled his eyes. He couldn’t see it, obviously, but something in the shift of the priest’s breath, the faint huff under his words, made Matt think so. The idea made him feel just a little better.
“Dear Mr. Murdock,” Lantom read, “We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.”
“You have until 31 July to ‘think about it,’” Snape said flatly.
Matt frowned. “Wait, but where do I buy the books?”
Snape let out a sharp breath—more like a hiss,really. “I suppose I’ll have to take you to Diagon Alley. Bring Muggle money. It can be exchanged at Gringotts. If you choose to attend, I will collect you outside this building on the 5th of August to purchase your supplies.” then turned around and strode off.
Father Lantom's voice cut through the silence. “Piece of work, that man, eh?” he said with a small chuckle. “Could use a confessional?”
Matt almost laughed, but the thought of it stuck in his throat. Instead, he gave a small shake of his head. “I don’t think he’d fit in a confessional,” Matt muttered.
Snape
Severus Snape hurried away from Saint Agnes Orphanage as quickly as he could and apparated to the outskirts of Hogwarts. Once there, he allowed himself a brief moment to process the events of the day.
Dumbledore had given him the task of informing the week’s Muggleborns about the magical world and delivering their letters. Albus called it an honour, a responsibility as a professor. Severus knew better—his true "duty" lay in the damn promises he’d made. Babysitting young, unsuspecting children was certainly not part of the bargain. It was clear to him now that he must have done something to irk Dumbledore, and this tedious assignment was the man’s way of getting back at him. Maybe he should have attended that staff holiday gathering—though, on second thought, it would have been a far worse fate than this.
Speaking of which, one of the children in question—the so-called "Muggleborn," though Severus suspected he might be a half-blood—was Matthew Murdock. The name was ordinary enough, but the boy was not. Blind. Orphaned. Raised Catholic. And now a wizard. It was a precarious foundation for any child to stand on, let alone one entering a world as chaotic and unforgiving as theirs.
Severus felt a flicker of something—pity, perhaps—but it was dulled and distant. He couldn’t say why the boy's circumstances unsettled him more than usual. Perhaps it was the way the child had carried himself. Quiet. Attentive. As if he were seeing with something deeper than eyes. Severus disliked mysteries, especially in children. They complicated things.
He might have wished the boy luck if he'd believed in it. But luck, in Severus’s experience, came in only one variety. And it was rarely kind.
He strode toward the castle, boots striking the stone path with deliberate force. The grounds were quiet, emptied of students for the summer. Only the ghosts remained, drifting through walls and archways like afterthoughts. He passed a few without acknowledging them.
“Salt water taffy,” he muttered outside the grotesque statue of the phoenix.
Ridiculous. Albus’s fondness for Muggle confections as passwords was more than a security flaw—it was an insult to protocol. Any half-witted intruder with a sweet tooth could waltz in. The man treated the castle like it was his private parlor.
The spiral staircase groaned as Severus ascended, robes snapping with each step.
He found Albus exactly where he expected him—seated at his desk, surrounded by the usual clutter, sucking noisily on some lurid bit of sugar.
“Ah, Severus. You're back.” Albus smiled without looking up. “Do come in. Sit, if you like.”
Severus did not sit.
Unbothered, Albus plucked another sweet from a bowl and popped it into his mouth. “Judging by the expression, I take it something noteworthy happened. You're radiating displeasure.”
Severus folded his arms. “The Murdock boy.”
Albus raised an eyebrow. “You learned his name? That’s rare.”
“I always learn their names,” Severus snapped. “I simply choose not to use them.”
“Ah.” Albus leaned back in his chair, unruffled as ever. “Go on, then.”
Severus exhaled sharply through his nose, arms folded. “The Murdock boy is blind.”
There was a brief pause. Albus’s hand stilled just above the bowl of sweets on his desk. “That is... unusual,” he murmured. “In all my years at Hogwarts, I don’t believe I’ve seen a single blind student. The last one might have attended shortly before I arrived as a student myself.” He reached up, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “Hogwarts was never designed with such students in mind. Then again, blindness is quite rare in the wizarding world—unless caused by an irreversible curse or present from birth.”
“Facts I’m already aware of,” Severus said, clipped and impatient.
Albus tilted his head slightly. “Do you know if he was cursed, or if he was born blind?”
“I did not ask. Nor do I particularly care,” Severus said. “The point is this: how exactly is a blind child meant to function in a castle filled with moving staircases, shifting corridors, and potion ingredients that can kill if handled incorrectly?”
Albus gave him a look that was far too amused for Severus’s liking. “Severus, it almost sounds as though you’re concerned for the boy’s well-being.”
“I am not,” Severus said sharply. “I am concerned about being held responsible when he inevitably injures himself or others because no one thought to plan ahead. I will not spend my time chasing after a first-year who might walk straight into a suit of armor or handle dangerous ingredients because he cannot distinguish one plant from another. If there’s a problem, it falls to you to resolve it. I’m only informing you so that when something goes wrong—as it likely will—no one can claim I failed to raise the issue.”
Albus raised both hands in a calming gesture, his expression still frustratingly mild. “Do not worry, Severus. I’ll see to it that proper accommodations are made. Thank you for bringing it to my attention.”
Severus gave a curt nod and turned on his heel, his cloak sweeping behind him as he moved toward the door. He was nearly through when Albus spoke again.
“Oh, and Severus—don’t forget. Harry Potter is starting at Hogwarts this year. Be prepared.”
He stopped. For a brief moment, something inside him locked up. He could feel his jaw tighten.
Forget? As if he ever could.
Matt, July 30th
Matt had made up his mind.
It had taken him a month of thinking, testing, and trying not to get caught doing things he probably shouldn’t be doing. Mostly, he’d been trying to make a rock float. It wasn’t exactly explosive magic, but it was magic—barely. Just yesterday, after hours of focus and more than a few nosebleeds, the rock had lifted a whole centimeter off the ground. It had dropped almost immediately, but that didn’t matter. It had been enough.
That tiny movement proved something to him. He was a wizard. Not just in theory. For real.
The past month had been exhausting. Not because of the magic—though that was hard enough—but because of the lying. Or technically, the not-telling. He hadn’t told Stick that he’d been approached about going to a magical school. He hadn’t even told him he could do magic. Stick probably knew something was up. He wasn’t stupid. Lately, he’d started hitting harder during sparring sessions. Not enough to injure, but enough to notice. It felt like a warning.
Matt had just started thinking about how to break the news when he felt the baton connect with the side of his head.
Pain shot through his skull, and he hit the ground fast, landing hard on his shoulder.
“Seriously, Matty,” Stick said sharply, “why are you so distracted?”
Matt didn’t answer. He was already rolling sideways, ducking low and reaching out with his senses. The air shifted—a foot coming down where his chest had been a second earlier.
He scrambled to his feet, lungs tight, chest heaving. Stick wasn’t holding back anymore. Every strike had weight, and Matt could feel the warning in it: no more games.
But maybe that was fair. Maybe it was time to stop pretending.
“Can we talk?” Matt asked, wiping sweat from his face.
Stick stepped back. His shoes scraped lightly against the floor—Matt tracked the sound easily. “Fine,” he said flatly. “What is it?”
Matt hesitated, fingers tightening on his cane. “I got this letter. For a school. It’s called Hogwarts. It's a boarding school.”
Silence. Then, Stick’s tone was sharper. “What else?”
Matt chewed the inside of his cheek. He didn’t know if he was supposed to tell anyone—not yet. But this was Stick. If anyone deserved to know, it was him.
“It’s a school for people with magic,” Matt said quickly. “I—I have magic. I’m a wizard.”
The word felt strange in his mouth, clumsy and unreal. He half-expected Stick to laugh or tell him to cut the crap.
But Stick didn’t say anything.
Matt shifted his weight. “So… what do you think?”
Stick exhaled, low and measured. “That depends. What are you planning to do about it?”
“I want to go,” Matt said. “To Hogwarts. Learn magic. All of it.”
“You’re not going,” Stick said. No hesitation, no room for argument. “There’s no time for that kind of thing.”
Matt’s voice rose before he could stop it. “But I want to go. I think—I think it could be good for me.”
Stick stepped in closer, and though Matt couldn’t see the look on his face, he could feel it—sharp, disappointed, hard.
“You’re ready to walk away from everything?” Stick said. “All the training, everything I’ve done to keep you alive, to make sure you could fight—and you want to waste it sitting in a school with kids waving wands?”
Matt flinched. “It’s not like that. It’s not just-. It’s—look, they teach you how to help people, how to—how to matter. I could do something real there.”
Stick’s tone dropped, quieter but somehow colder. “Helping people isn’t what you think it is, Matt. You think it’s all choices and chances? You think you just decide to be a hero one day and the world lets you?”
Matt didn’t answer. He felt like something heavy and wet was dragging him down.
Stick kept going. “You’re not being trained to make friends or play savior. You’re being trained to survive. You either fight, or you die. That’s the truth.”
Matt’s throat felt tight. “But I—”
“You think any of this is about what you want?” Stick snapped. “You think the world cares if you want to be normal? If you want to go play wizard at a magic school? There’s a war coming. Bigger than anything those people are ready for. I trained you to survive that. Not to run away from it.”
“I’m not a soldier,” Matt said. His voice trembled, but he didn’t back down. “I never wanted to be.”
He almost said the rest. He almost said I wanted a father. You were supposed to be mine.
But the words caught. They burned in his throat and never came out.
Stick turned his back. “Then you’re useless to me.”
Matt took a step forward, heart hammering hard enough to echo in his ears. His mouth was dry. He swallowed and tried again. “Stick—”
“I said you’re done.”
That was it.
No hand on his shoulder. No goodbye. No hesitation in the footsteps that followed—calm, even, walking away without looking back.
Matt stayed frozen for a second, then dropped to the floor, knees hitting hard. His hands clutched at his arms, fingers digging into the fabric, into the skin underneath.
Something shifted. He could feel it—not in the air, but under his skin. Like a pressure rolling up from deep inside, pulling at the edges of him. His throat tightened. A metallic taste flooded his mouth, sharp like blood. The magic didn’t explode—it peeled. A slow, sick feeling, like something inside him was forcing its way out.
His breath hitched. Heat gathered in his chest, dense and heavy, pushing outward. The pressure spread through him, humming under his ribs, along his spine, down to the marrow in his bones. His teeth clenched. The whole room felt off, tilted, like it was vibrating with him.
Thum-thump.
Thum-thump.
No wind, but the air stirred anyway, twisting around his body. He smelled copper—strong and close. Candle smoke, even though there were none lit. And the sharp, bitter edge of something electric, something about to break.
The windows rattled.
Then came the sound of shattering glass.
He pressed his palms flat to the cold floor, trying to steady his breathing. His chest rose and fell too fast. The blood in his ears roared like drums. Every part of him shook.
And he could still feel it—his magic, his aura, whatever it was. It hovered close to the skin, raw and jagged. Wrong-shaped. It felt like it was reaching out.
He stayed there, curled tight, fingers twitching against the floor.
But that wasn’t the worst part.
The worst part was how right it had felt. How natural.
Like anger had teeth, and he just had to let it bite.
August 5th
Matt sat on the cold stone steps outside the church, hands tucked into the sleeves of his sweatshirt. The late afternoon air smelled faintly of rain and old incense. He could hear the faint creak of Father Lantom’s shoes as he settled beside him.
“Another fight, Matt?” the priest asked, his voice quiet but knowing.
Matt tilted his head slightly. “What makes you say that?”
“The bruise on your eye is hardly subtle. I can’t imagine you don’t at least feel it.”
Matt touched the side of his face. The skin was tender. He shrugged. “Hadn’t noticed.”
“You have no proof,” he added, not quite a denial, not quite a lie.
Father Lantom sighed, long and low. “No one wants to admit they got beaten up by a blind kid.”
Matt smirked faintly. “Well, if I did do it, they deserved it.”
“That’s not the point, Matt.” Lantom’s tone shifted—less patient now, more tired. “You need to stop getting into fights. What has it been, three? Four in the last five days?”
He paused. Matt could hear the hesitation in his breath before he continued. “Does this have something to do with... him?”
He didn’t say Stick’s name. He never did.
Matt didn’t respond right away. His hands tensed slightly on his knees, fingers pressing into the fabric of his jeans. He wanted to argue—to push back—but the words tangled in his chest. So instead, he shifted the conversation.
“Professor Snape will be here soon,” he said quietly.
Father Lantom gave a short, soft laugh, but Matt could tell it wasn’t genuine. There was no warmth in it, just weariness.
“Matthew… anger like this can’t last forever. Sooner or later, it eats through everything else. You need to find something to do with it. Control it. Before it turns on you.”
Matt’s throat tightened. “What if this is God’s plan for me?” he said. “I mean—I have magic now too. What if—”
He stopped.
A presence brushed the edge of his awareness. Not a sound or a scent—though there were faint traces of both—but a pressure, like the air had changed. Thickened. The magic that came with it was unmistakable. Heavy and layered. Not loud, not bright, just... dense. It moved like something slow and careful, cloaked in silence, but sharp underneath.
“Mr. Murdock. Priest,” came a voice—cool, clipped, and unmistakably Snape’s.
Matt stood up before Father Lantom could speak. He heard the low hum of a car driving past behind him, the uneven rhythm of footsteps slowing near the church entrance.
“Professor Snape,” Matt replied, stepping toward the sound of the voice.
Behind him, Matt heard Father Lantom rise from his seat. “See you later, Matthew,” he said softly, then the sound of the old wooden door creaked shut behind him.
“So, how do we get to...?” Matt began.
“Take my arm, it’s right in front of you. We’ll be apparating.”
“Apparating?” Matt asked, his fingers finding Snape’s arm. They began walking together.
“You ask a lot of questions, Murdock.” Snape’s voice lowered, his tone tight. “But if you really want to know, it’s a form of magical transportation. I suggest you prepare yourself. It isn’t pleasant.”
Snape’s grip tightened around Matt’s arm. Instinctively, Matt tightened his hold on his cane.
What followed was the most disorienting, painful experience Matt had ever endured. Every part of his being felt the shift, like the air around him was warping. The pressure around him fluctuated as if the world itself had momentarily twisted and stretched beyond recognition. His magic, his senses—everything he knew about his body—felt violently displaced. The air turned thick, and for a split second, everything seemed to pull away from him. His mind screamed as his perception of space shattered.
It felt like his atoms were being torn apart and violently forced back together, like a painful distortion of time and self. The world twisted around him in sharp, violent snaps, bending in ways that no human body should be able to feel. The overwhelming sensation of the world collapsing in on him made his thoughts dizzy and unfocused. It felt as though the entire universe had folded on itself and was crushing him under its weight.
The distortion around him snapped back into place, the silence that had felt so thick moments ago lifting like a weight from his chest. The world reformed, but it felt wrong. His grip on his cane loosened, and for a moment, he felt himself teetering, as if he were falling into the chaos that had surrounded him.
There was too much—too much noise, too much energy. Voices, movements, magic. The air itself vibrated with it. Magic of every kind pressed in on him: light-hearted, tense, anxious, excited. Each one pushed at him, clawing and pulling, until it was all he could feel, all he could hear. It was pulling him in all directions, each strand of magic like an invisible force shoving at him from every angle.
It reminded him of a time he’d rather forget—the hospital bed, the frantic noise of beeping machines, the water dripping somewhere in the distance. The noise had driven him close to madness then, to the point where he'd tried to tear his own ears out. But this was worse. This was far worse. It wasn’t just the ordinary sounds of the world that he had to sift through—it was the weight of things he couldn’t control, all at once.
Then, a sudden weight on his shoulder—solid, grounding. A voice, muffled but familiar. “M…”
He needed to focus. Fast. A quick, sharp breath. He drew his senses inward, trying to shut out the overwhelming noise. He reached for something familiar, something solid. Snape’s magic, like oil in water, distinct and unmistakable. “Murdock,” Snape’s voice cut through the noise. “Can you hear my voice?”
Matt nodded, though he wasn’t sure if Snape could tell.
“Good. Focus on it.”
He took a deep breath, trying to hold on to the one thing that felt steady—Snape's presence. "I'm... I'm okay," Matt whispered, though he didn’t quite believe it himself.
"You most certainly are not," Snape snapped. "What was that?"
Matt flinched at the sharpness in his voice. “It’s the magic… it’s too much. There’s too much of it. Too much noise.”
Snape paused, and Matt could tell he’d stepped closer—he heard the shift of fabric, the faint creak of boots. “What do you mean?” Snape asked, his voice lower now, more focused.
Matt turned his head slightly toward him. “Can’t you feel it?” he asked, struggling to put the feeling into words. “The magic—everyone has it, everything has it. It’s all different. It’s not just noise, it’s pressure, movement, heat. Yours feels like... like oil that won’t mix. Tight. Ready to snap.”
He reached down to the floor, hands sweeping across the cold stone in short, quick movements. He didn’t want to reach out with his senses again—everything was too loud, too bright in a way he couldn’t see, but still felt. His fingers finally closed around his cane, and he held onto it like it was the only solid thing in the world.
Snape didn’t speak right away. When he did, his voice was quieter, more deliberate. “Listen to me, Murdock. Tell no one about this. Most wizards can’t sense magic the way you’re describing—unless they’ve trained for years. This isn’t normal.”
Matt’s jaw clenched. “Great. Another thing that makes me a freak,” he muttered, not quite under his breath.
He heard the faintest exhale from Snape, but no reply to that.
“Are you able to continue,” Snape asked after a pause, “or should I expect another outburst?” His voice was flat and clipped, but not angry. More like he was watching carefully, waiting to see if Matt would fall apart again.
Matt stood up slowly, his hand tightening on the cane until his knuckles ached. He didn’t need to grip it that hard, but it helped. “I’ll be fine,” he said, his voice quiet but steady. “I’ll just focus on you.”
“Very well,” Snape replied. “We are in Diagon Alley. First, we’ll go to Gringotts—and by ‘we,’ I mean me. You will wait outside and not get into any trouble. Understood?”
Matt gave a small shrug. He was curious, of course. But he didn’t want to risk getting overwhelmed again. That had been... embarrassing. Maybe he could use the wait to calm down, keep control. Try meditating or something.
He kept close behind Snape, tuning out the chaotic background and locking onto the steady pull of the man’s magical presence. He didn’t need to see. He could hear Snape’s boots clicking against the stone, feel the way the air shifted around them. The magic in Snape’s aura was sharp and cold, but steady—easy to follow.
After a few minutes, Snape came to a stop.
“Stay here,” he said shortly, then walked away. Matt could hear a door open and shut, heavy and metallic. Gringotts, probably.
Matt stepped aside and found a spot near the wall. He folded up his cane, then lowered himself down to sit cross-legged on the ground. The stone beneath him was warm from the sun, rough under his hands. He took a deep breath and started going through his meditation exercises—slow, careful, deliberate.
He let his senses stretch out in small pieces. A spell went off nearby—light and quick, like a toy being activated. People moved all around him—some fast, some slow, some loud, others whispering or laughing. He could feel the shapes of buildings around him, tall and close together. Some of them had a strange energy to them—alive, or close to it. That part was weird, but not in a bad way. Just... new.
Everything here felt strange—off-balance in a way that made Matt’s nerves hum—but it was also fascinating. Even without sight, he could tell Diagon Alley was filled with magic. The air practically buzzed with it. Voices overlapped in unfamiliar accents, footsteps passed too close or too fast, and there was an endless stream of sounds he couldn’t place. It was overwhelming, but also kind of exciting. He just needed to stay steady long enough to take it all in.
Matt didn’t know how much time had passed before he felt the shift in the air again—the subtle way people moved differently around Snape, the scent of potions and cold stone that clung to the man’s robes.
“Ready to go, Murdock?” came Snape’s low voice.
Matt stood up quickly. “Yes.”
“Feeling better?” Snape drawled.
“Yes,” Matt said again, this time sharper, more sure of himself. He was feeling better now—more in control. But the moment was short-lived. A loud bang cracked nearby, sharp and close, like a spell misfiring or something collapsing. Matt jerked instinctively, his hand curling into a fist at his side.
He could feel Snape’s eyes on him, watching. Judging maybe, or just noting the reaction. But Snape said nothing and simply turned, guiding him forward.
Their first stop was a bookshop. The smells hit him first—paper, ink, wood polish, and dust. Quiet murmurs filled the space, the soft shuffling of pages being turned. Matt walked slowly through the aisles, letting his fingertips trail along the spines of the books. Some covers were rough with texture; others were smooth or ridged with gold leaf. He couldn’t read most of them, not like this. But if the words were printed in raised ink, he could trace the letters and make them out with time. It wasn’t ideal—braille was better, faster—but it was possible.
Nobody here knew that, though. Not Snape. Not the shopkeeper.
“Sorry, lad,” the man said after a moment. “We don’t have anything in… what do Muggles call it? Braille?”
Matt nodded once. “That’s okay. I’ll still take all the textbooks.”
“You have a plan?” Snape asked, his voice unreadable.
“There’s technology for it,” Matt said. “You know? Scanners, converters. Software that reads stuff aloud.” He paused, frowning slightly. “Do wizards not use any technology at all?”
“Magic and technology don’t mix very well,” Snape replied flatly.
Matt didn’t say anything to that. He just nodded again. It made sense, he guessed. He hadn’t used much tech before anyway, not beyond the basics. Still—sounded like he had a lot to catch up on before September.
After Diagon Alley, they went to get his robes fitted. Nothing interesting happened there. Just standing around while someone poked and measured him. Then Snape offered him a familiar—some kind of magical pet, apparently—but Matt turned it down. He didn’t need the extra responsibility, and animals made him nervous. Snape hadn’t pushed the issue. If anything, he’d sounded faintly relieved.
Their last stop was a narrow, oddly quiet shop Snape referred to as “Ollivander’s.” The name didn’t mean much to Matt, but Snape said it like it was important.
As they walked, Matt asked, “So what’s the deal with wands?”
Snape’s footsteps paused just slightly, then continued. “A possible Ravenclaw, are you? Since you ask so many questions?”
Matt frowned a little, not sure if that was a compliment or not. “What’s a Ravenclaw?”
Snape exhaled through his nose—just enough to signal mild irritation. Matt was starting to get used to the way the man breathed like that when he was annoyed. “Ravenclaw is one of the four Hogwarts houses. One of them you might be sorted into.”
“Is that like… a sports team or something?” Matt muttered. “Because I’m not really into sports.”
There was a beat of silence. Then, in a dry tone that made Matt picture a very tight-lipped expression, Snape replied, “Not exactly. Your house determines where you sleep, where you eat, and the students you’ll be spending most of your time with over the next seven years.”
“Oh. So it’s serious.”
“Yes.”
“Do I get to choose which one?”
“No.”
Matt made a face. He wasn’t a fan of people deciding things for him. “So… what are the four houses?”
There was a pause.
“Oh, would you look at that—we’re at Ollivander’s,” came the response instead.
The smell hit Matt first. Dust. Heavy and old. Layers of it, untouched. Underneath that, the scent of polished wood—oak, pine, and something sharper he couldn’t quite name. The room felt crowded with age. And his question had gone unanswered.
Figures.
“Hello, hello!” called a voice, warm and just a little too enthusiastic. Probably Ollivander. Unless someone else just happened to greet people in his shop like that. Matt decided to assume it was Ollivander for now.
“Ah, Professor Snape!” the man said brightly. “Yes, I remember your wand—Alder wood, phoenix feather core, eleven and three-quarter inches, inflexible. How’s it holding up?”
“As it should,” Snape replied, clipped and unamused. “I’m here to get this boy a wand.” With that, Snape stepped back, leaving Matt to step forward into the space.
“And you are?”
“Matt Murdock, Mr…?”
“Ollivander. Garrick Ollivander.” His magic signature was faint but strange—oddly light, like a breeze that shifted direction when you weren’t paying attention.
“Let’s see what we’ve got for you.” Ollivander moved around the shop, his steps light but confident, pausing briefly before pulling a box from a stack. He returned and handed it to Matt.
“Black walnut, unicorn hair core, eleven and a half inches. Slightly springy.”
Matt turned the wand over in his hand. The surface was smooth, finely sanded. Lighter than it sounded. He gave it a testing grip and flicked his wrist.
A fizz of something sputtered from the tip. Not dangerous, not painful—just… off. Like it was going through the motions.
It didn’t fit. The wand felt impersonal. Like it belonged to someone else.
Ollivander let out a quiet, polite sound of disappointment. “Hmm. Black walnut can be refined, but it’s particular. Doesn’t do well with contradictions.”
There was a pause, and Matt could feel the man’s gaze studying him.
“You are contradiction incarnate,” Ollivander said.
Matt handed it back. It was already losing warmth in his fingers.
More movement, more footsteps. Boxes shifted. Another one was opened.
“How about this—ash wood, dragon heartstring core, twelve inches, unyielding.”
There was more weight to this wand. A sharp presence, like it was paying attention. Matt barely wrapped his fingers around it before his pulse picked up. The wand felt like it had its own rules. Like it demanded something.
He raised it.
A line of light shot from the tip—too fast. Hot. Controlled, but barely. It reminded him of a gun going off. Not the sound—the intent.
He didn’t like it.
Ollivander was quiet as he took it gently from Matt’s hand. “Ash is stubborn. Dragon heartstring’s a demanding core. Answers strength with strength.”
Another pause. More thoughtful, this time.
“That’s not what you need. You burn hot enough already.”
Ollivander moved again, his footsteps light but quick as he returned to the shelves. Matt listened as he hummed to himself, shuffling through boxes.
“You are a difficult one, Mr. Murdock.”
Matt opened his mouth to respond—but stopped.
Something shifted. He felt it before he heard or smelled anything. Not from Ollivander. Not from the boxes. Something farther back in the room. Behind the cabinet near the rear wall. Quiet, but unmistakable. Like something waiting. Watching.
Matt turned toward it instinctively.
“Oh. No—those aren’t for sale,” Ollivander said, voice lower now.
Matt stayed still.
“They’re not mine. A wandmaker from Eastern Europe sent them to me for safekeeping years ago. I don’t stock them. They’ve never been matched.”
Matt stood still, listening. The air inside the shop was quiet, but he could hear the faint creak of wood, the low hum of magic in the walls, the way Ollivander’s breath caught slightly at the end of his sentence.
Matt kept his voice steady. “Can I try one?”
There was a pause. Not long. Just enough for Matt to know the man was thinking carefully.
Then: “…You may.”
Matt reached forward, letting his hand hover above the wands in the box.
There were several, but one of them pulled at him—not physically, but in a way he couldn’t explain. He could sense it. A quiet pull, not urgent, but sure. He moved toward it and wrapped his fingers around it.
It was long and slightly twisted. The wood felt different from the others. His fingertips traced the grooves—deep, deliberate. The moment his skin made contact, something in the air shifted.
The shop felt heavier. Like something had settled.
No sparks. No bursts of light. But the atmosphere changed, and Matt felt it down to his bones. A low vibration, not loud, not showy. Just there. Honest.
It felt like being known.
He didn’t say anything, but Ollivander did.
“Yew and thestral,” the wandmaker breathed. There was something in his voice now—uncertainty, maybe even awe. “Not a pairing I ever put together. In truth, I might not have dared.”
Matt turned his head slightly, listening more closely as Ollivander stepped forward.
“This is a wand for someone who chooses the fight,” he said, measured. “Not someone forced into it. Yew doesn’t serve the hesitant. It chooses those who shape the world, not those shaped by it. And thestral hair… that’s another thing entirely. It binds to those who have faced death. Touched it. And still kept going.”
He paused. Matt could hear the hesitation in his breathing. Then:
“This wand is loyal. Deeply. But it isn’t soft. It sees you for who you are. It already knows what you’ve done—and what you’re willing to do.”
Matt didn’t flinch, but he stood a little straighter.
Ollivander’s voice shifted—calmer now, but firmer, like a door clicking shut behind him.
“Wield it well, Mr. Murdock. Or one day, it may reflect something back at you that you don’t want to face.”
Matt held the wand a moment longer before placing it gently back into the box. The wood felt warm, still pulsing faintly in his hand. He stepped back, the floorboards creaking beneath his shoes. He could hear Snape counting out coins, the slow, deliberate sound of metal on wood as he paid. Ollivander said nothing else.
As they exited the shop, the cool outside air hit Matt’s face. He tilted his head slightly, listening to the flow of foot traffic and the rustle of robes, already mapping their location in his mind by sound and smell.
“What’s a thestral?” Matt asked, adjusting the strap of his book bag.
Snape answered without missing a step. “Thestrals are creatures that can only be seen by those who have seen death—and accepted its reality.”
There was a short pause, just long enough for Matt to register the shift in tone.
“Tell me, Murdock,” Snape continued, “who did you see die?”
Matt didn’t answer right away.
He hadn’t seen anything.
But he remembered the sound—the crack of the gunshot outside the apartment. The silence that followed. The way his father’s body had felt under his hands when he’d reached him, the sharp line of his jaw and the blood cooling too fast. He remembered the police radios, the voices trying to sound calm. The ambulance sirens. The neighbors crying through paper-thin walls. The sound of death was something Matt couldn’t forget, even when he wanted to. Couldn’t escape it ever.
He turned his head toward Snape. “Can you see thestrals, Professor?”
Snape said nothing.
That was answer enough.
Matt let the quiet settle between them. They weren’t going to share anything personal today. That was fine with him.
Snape stopped walking. “Time for you to head home, Murdock. There is a strict no-magic policy for underage wizards outside of Hogwarts. I trust you understand.”
“I understand,” Matt said, nodding once.
He gripped his cane a little tighter in one hand, the bag of books in the other. The leather strap dug into his shoulder. He took a breath and braced himself.
Apparition was coming.