How utterly provincial. Tom himself had the option to awaken into a changeling; clearly the tween is one of those. Or something weird is going on, but Occam's Razor.

He approaches the suspiciously kinky-looking witch. "Hello – I'm terribly sorry, but are you affiliated to Hawthorne? I'm to apply for tuition but I don't know the procedures, really, I just awakened."

The obvious changeling turns to look at him. "Hail!" he says chipperly. "You've found the right place, this nice lady is a professor there."

The nice lady huffs. "Stand still."

"Oh, my apologies." He turns his head back into place, eliciting another, even more annoyed huff. "She's taking my particulars so I can get a wand!"

"I'll be free as soon as he can stop jittering for three seconds," she mutters.

Big smile. "Sorry! It's exciting!"

...the possibility that this is an actual twelve-year-old can no longer be discounted.

"We might be here a while then," he says conspiratorially.

Giggle!

"–there, I've got it," the witch crows. "If you'll hand over your rod I can make the adjustments."

"What kind of adjustments?" the boy asks, handing over his glaive.

"I just need to inscribe some runes on it."

"Oh! Well, um, there might be trouble with that?" he apologizes.

"Trouble like what?" The witch points her wand at the polearm and twiddles it magically, in such a way as to elicit a laser-like beam of blue light, which touches the haft and immediately melts into so much blue Gatorade.

"That," he apologizes further as ex-laser puddles around their feet.

"We should find somewhere to get dinner," the snake comments. "We've already got a show."

"It's immune to magic," the boy frets.

The witch starts making the laser juice disappear. "Then how do you cast through it?"

"Well, it's not immune to mine," he says. "That'd be silly. It's my rod. But if anyone else does magic to it, well." Broad downwards gesture.

"Can it be mundanely etched or carved?"

He rubs the back of his head. "Not... really. I'm the only one who can change it at all."

"Then it can't be a wand," the witch sighs. "Not unless you find some way to carve it to within a micron of precision yourself. And without a wand, you may find Hawthorne a difficult place to study."

"How much Witchery would it take to do that kind of carving himself?"

"Fourth, at least. And you do have the potential for that, but –"

"I'll do that then," he interrupts.

"You don't want to just enroll with Arcadia? They won't need you to do anything so onerous, and they're a fine second option."

The boy shakes his head. "Mistress Thistleheart, I don't know how much you know about my case, but – I'm an amnesiac. I don't know anything at all, except that I need to go to Hawthorne." He taps his skull. "There's nothing else in here, so nothing else matters."

...huh.

Tom idly hopes the boy isn't actually twelve, because honestly that's kind of hot. Not that he wouldn't go for it anyway, but he's dimly aware that it wouldn't be a great look.

The witch shrugs. "I cannot and certainly will not stop you. If and when you do reach the fourth rank, reach out to a staff member for a diagram of the runes to apply."

"Yay!"

"We love to see a happy ending."

"My turn, then?" Tom asks. "Do you start tapping me all over too, or do I have to render a formal application first?"