The Prophecy of the Wizarchiken

“The day the Grand Wizarchiken ascended beyond the mortal coop, he was cackling.”

“The Feathered Council had not yet dissolved the final ward when he broadcast his last prophecy to the flock assembled at Roosting Point — three cackles, barely a breath — and those words changed the world.”

“He told them a successor would rise, that somewhere in the mundane world a chicken of limitless power had already been born, in a place no wand had ever touched.”

“By nightfall, every wizard worth his robes had already begun consulting his almanac.”

“That was eleven years ago, and the boy had been barely a year old, sleeping in a cupboard under the stairs in a house so unremarkable it appeared on no magical registry, unaware of the chicken-shaped destiny accumulating quietly around him.”

“He had a scar above his left eyebrow from a mysterious incident no one would explain, a name that felt like it belonged to someone more important, and he understood almost none of what was being whispered about him in the wizarding world, and it was all absolutely true.”

“That was the thing about the Grand Wizarchiken's final prophecy — it was not meant for archmages or council elders or the Feathered Court; it was meant precisely for boys like him, in cupboards like this, with nothing to their names and a chicken to find.”

“Now he was eleven, his invitation had finally arrived written in golden ink on a scroll that smelled faintly of grain, and the Bathroom for Witchcraft and Wizardry lay somewhere beyond the morning post, patient and enormous and waiting.”

“The chicken had died.”

“It had been a very loyal chicken, as far as poultry went, but it had turned out to be a much better companion than it was a navigator, and an even worse swimmer.”

“But then, we saw the chicken across the road...”