Forbidden Forest
One hour in the past
The gold dragon surged upward like a launched sun, its wings carving through the canopy with such force that the resulting shockwave flattened treetops in every direction. Concentric rings of displaced magic rippled outward from the clearing as though reality itself had been slapped.
Even from three kilometers away, the Ministry teams staggered.
Leaves trembled.
Air convulsed.
Visors rattled against armored hoods.
Nothing in recorded history—no Horntail, no Ironbelly, not even the legendary Hebridean Monarch—had ever produced a magical shockwave on this scale.
Elderberry hissed, pointing at the Spy-glass.
"Look at the wake—look at the wake!"
The Spy-glass projection showed the sky behind the ascending beast shimmering like molten glass. Thin spirals of raw magic twisted in its slipstream, forming a ghostly helix that wound upward like a second spectral tail.
Croaker went perfectly still.
"That is not mere propulsion," he said, voice low. "That's dimensional shear."
Amelia shot him a sharp look. "Meaning what, in plain English?"
"It means," Croaker replied, gaze locked on the streak of gold tearing up into the stratosphere, "this creature bends the fabric of space just by flapping its wings."
The dragon — glowing gold like a newborn star — climbed higher…
…and then dove.
A sleek, aerodynamic spear of molten sunlight.
Its wings folded tight, body cutting through the air with a sonic boom that made the Spy-glass tremble. It shot across the ridge so fast the image blurred.
Kingsley whispered in awe, "That speed…no broom could match that."
The creature soared across the Highland sky with terrifying, majestic ease — every wingbeat rippling the clouds like thunderclaps.
"Watch the wings," Croaker instructed, jaw set with analytical intensity.
They did.
With every colossal arc of the wings:
—magic warped in visible waves
—pressure ripples rippled out like shockfronts
—the Spy-glass runes flared in sequence
—birds reversed direction mid-flight, shrieking as they fled
"Note the pattern," Croaker murmured. "Magic is not simply radiating from the body. It's being drawn in."
Amelia's brow furrowed. "Drawn in? For what?"
Before Croaker could answer, the dragon inhaled deeply, chest expanding like a bellows forged in a star's heart.
Then—
FWOOOOOOOOSH
A torrent of golden fire blasted from its jaws, so bright it turned the clouds into immediate vapor.
Not melted. Not dispersed. Erased.
Shockwaves reverberated outward like the sky itself was flinching.
Down below, trees shivered.
The Spy-glass flickered, barely holding up.
The Aurors stared, slack-jawed.
The dragon angled downward, inhaled again—
FWOOOOOOOOSH—KRAAACK
A thin beam of concentrated, white-hot fire lanced through a distant cliff. Stone didn't explode. It didn't crumble.
It evaporated.
A perfect molten line carved through the rock face, vapor trailing behind it like ghostly steam.
Every Auror staggered back.
Bode whispered, "That wasn't destruction. That was molecular disintegration."
Andrew Carter stood utterly still.
His heart had stopped beating and was now writing apology letters to reality.
The dragon hovered in the air, wings spread wide, body glowing with the afterheat of stellar power. It inhaled once more.
"Oh Merlin," Dawlish choked, "it's building another—"
FWWWWWOOOOOOOM
A golden explosion of flame blazed outward in all directions from the dragon's maw— a radiant sphere of light and heat that turned the sky into a molten halo. A miniature sun blooming above the Highlands.
The forest below was untouched.
The angle had been deliberate. Controlled.
The Aurors' jaws collectively hit the forest floor.
Amelia whispered, "This… this thing could erase a battlefield."
Bode looked faintly ill. "It could erase entire countries."
The golden titan finally seemed satisfied with its celestial lightshow. It turned gracefully — impossibly gracefully for something so enormous — and glided back toward the clearing.
The Spy-glass followed, runes whirring as the view shifted.
They watched as the dragon descended, wings wide, body glowing faintly from residual heat.
THUD
The earth jolted as it landed, sending concentric ripples across the clearing — the exact ripples they had discovered an hour in the "future."
Then the creature lowered its head…
…and its form shimmered.
Light rippled across its scales.
Wings folded into nothingness.
Gold faded.
Bones shrank.
Features compressed inward.
With a final ripple of golden luminescence—
A tall, blurred-faced man stood barefoot in the clearing.
Smoke curled from his skin.
His chest heaved with exhilarated breaths.
His hair fluttered in the fading magical winds.
He stood alone at the epicenter of a miracle—or catastrophe—breathing hard in the aftermath of power that defied every known law of magic.
Then the man lifted one hand.
A portal blossomed into being—clean, silent, a perfect circle of folded space. It unfurled like a curtain caught in a gentle breeze.
The message was clear:
His… exercise was over.
He was leaving.
Dawlish blurted out the question every thick-skulled Auror eventually asks:
"Shouldn't we try to capture it?"
A silence fell so heavy the trees seemed to lean away from him.
Croaker turned his head slowly — very slowly — and stared at Dawlish like he'd just suggested wrestling a thunderstorm.
"Capture it?" Croaker repeated, voice dripping with cold contempt. "Auror Dawlish, based on the magical readings we have witnessed, that 'man' — even without transforming — possesses more raw magical power than any wizard alive."
Dawlish blinked. "More than—"
"Yes," Croaker snapped before he could finish. "More powerful than You-Know-Who in his prime. More powerful than Albus Dumbledore."
Dawlish fell mercifully silent.
Croaker returned his gaze to the Spy-glass just as the man stepped through the portal. Space folded shut behind him without so much as a ripple.
Croaker straightened.
"We wait for the hour to pass. Then we return to the site and collect samples."
Amelia stepped closer, voice low. "Croaker."
"Yes, Director Bones?"
"Could this man be an Animagus?"
Croaker shook his head immediately.
"No. Even the rarest Animagi conform to biological constraints. Historically, a handful of Dragon Animagi have been documented—"
Dawlish's head jerked up.
"—all of them two-legged draconian variants," Croaker continued sharply, raising two fingers. "Because every dragon in our world, from Ironbelly to Short-Snout, is a bipedal beast."
He lifted two more fingers.
"The creature we just witnessed had four legs. True quadrupedal morphology."
He didn't stop there.
"It was also far larger than any dragon in recorded magical history. More importantly—" he pointed to the scorched cliff in the projection— "its magical output was orders of magnitude beyond anything a standard draconian variant can muster."
Amelia swallowed. "Then what was it?"
Croaker's voice dropped, grim and certain.
"Either a man who can transform into a true dragon…"
His eyes narrowed.
"…or a true dragon that can shapeshift into a man."
A cold silence swept the clearing.
No one liked the implications.
A subtle shift in the air signaled the return to normal time. The hour had passed.
Croaker folded the Spy-glass. "Temporal observation complete."
They apparated to the original site. The clearing was exactly as they'd left it—massive footprints, scorched earth, rippled ground, the aftermath of something impossibly powerful.
Amelia and the Aurors moved like seasoned investigators. They collected splintered tree fragments, charred soil, melted stone, and anything else that might hold magical residue.
Croaker watched silently, arms behind his back.
Once the samples were secured, he stepped forward.
"Director Bones," he said sharply, "thank you for your assistance."
Amelia frowned. "Assistance? Croaker, what—"
"But the Department of Mysteries will take it from here."
Amelia went rigid.
"What do you mean take it from here?" she demanded.
Croaker clasped his hands behind him. "This case concerns a magical anomaly. Per departmental charter, all anomalies fall under exclusive purview of the Department of Mysteries."
"You can't do that," Amelia snapped, stepping forward.
Croaker didn't even blink.
"I can," he said calmly. "And I just did."
Amelia's face flushed with fury.
He raised a hand before she could argue. "Furthermore — this incident is now classified. Top secret. Level Omega. None of you will speak of what happened here."
Dawlish bristled. "On whose authority?"
Croaker leveled him with a look cold enough to freeze fiendfyre.
"On mine."
Elderberry added innocently, "Also on the law. The big one. The one written in red ink and locked behind six doors."
Croaker nodded.
"As far as the official story is concerned, a wild dragon flew over the Scottish Highlands, found nothing of interest, and departed."
Kingsley stared at him. "That's absurd."
"So is the truth," Croaker replied. "Wizarding Britain is barely recovering from the war with You-Know-Who. Announcing a shapeshifting magical titan capable of erasing landscapes with a breath would not be… conducive to stability."
He continued smoothly, "I will, of course, be submitting a full confidential report to Minister Fudge later."
Privately, Croaker knew he would be doing no such thing. Cornelius Fudge was not the kind of man that reacted gracefully to unwelcome surprises.
Croaker turned towards Amelia, gaze flat and final.
"Anyone who leaks information about this event will be charged with treason."
The word hit the clearing like a curse.
He gave a crisp bow.
"Good day, Director."
He turned away.
Amelia's hands trembled with barely-restrained fury. She looked ready to hex the Unspeakables on principle alone — but the law was on their side.
"Aurors. We're leaving."
She disapparated with a crack.
Kingsley and Dawlish followed.
Andrew lingered for a moment longer, eyes locked on the distant silhouette of Hogwarts rising above the trees.
Then he, too, disapparated.
Elderberry exhaled. "Anyone else notice Auror Carter looked a little extra… twitchy?"
Bode nodded slowly. "The man knows something. I'd stake a year's salary on it."
Croaker said nothing.
From the corner of his eye, he watched Hogwarts — ancient, proud, silent amidst the trees.
Bode turned to him. "The trail ends here. We have no way to determine where that portal led. What do we do now?"
Croaker's gaze hardened.
"We continue cataloguing every trace of magic here," he said.
Then he turned fully toward the distant castle.
"And I," he murmured, "am going to pay a visit to the greatest wizard of our time."
---
Afternoon
Headmaster's Office
Warm golden sunlight poured through the tall windows of Dumbledore's office, catching on ancient tomes, brass contraptions humming with quiet magic, and the calm, judging stare of a very unimpressed phoenix.
Fawkes perched regally on his golden stand, his bright eyes fixed unblinkingly on Benjamin Carter — a teenager who had, mere hours ago, upstaged every legend in the phoenix's family tree.
Ben, for his part, sat across from Dumbledore's desk with the innocent posture of someone who absolutely had not just turned into a twenty-meter dragon and done Mach 3 laps over the Scottish Highlands. His hair was tousled by windspeed physics, his shirt was dusted with crumbs from a recent kitchen raid, and his newly upgraded physique strained the seams of his sleeves.
Dumbledore noticed all of it, of course. And more.
The old wizard regarded him with that familiar twinkling curiosity, half-grandfatherly warmth, half-ancient scholar dissecting the mysteries of the universe.
"So," Dumbledore said lightly, hands folded atop his desk, "you are a dragon now?"
Ben rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks tinting faintly.
"Sometimes."
Fawkes let out a single, pointed chirp — the kind that translated roughly to: Show-off.
Dumbledore hid a smile behind his beard.
"When you first arrived at Hogwarts," he began, voice gentle, "I knew there was something… different about you. Your mind was older. Your magic sharper. Your talents far beyond your years." His eyes softened. "And yet, you remained kind. Humble. Compassionate."
Ben shifted in his seat, staring at his hands.
"But now," Dumbledore continued, "your powers are no longer subtle." His gaze swept the air as if feeling the lingering vibrations from Ben's aura. "The castle felt your transformation. The centaurs felt it. I felt it. And no doubt others much farther off felt it as well."
Ben winced.
"I'm sorry."
Dumbledore shook his head.
"No, no. Do not apologise. What you achieved is extraordinary. Reckless? Yes. Dangerous? Certainly. But extraordinary nonetheless." He leaned back, expression turning grave. "What matters now is what comes next."
Ben looked up. "Which is?"
"Power tests us, Benjamin."
The warmth faded from Dumbledore's voice, replaced by something older. Harder. "It tests us in ways small and profound."
He ticked off his fingers, one by one.
"The first temptation is pride."
A faint smile tugged at his lips. "A trap many powerful wizards fall into."
"The second temptation is fear. Fear of harming those you love. Fear of losing control. Fear of becoming something other than human."
Ben swallowed.
"The third," Dumbledore said softly, "is the temptation to hide your gifts out of shame… or to flaunt them out of loneliness."
Ben's eyes flickered. He understood all of them.
"You must find the narrow path between them," Dumbledore said.
The office fell quiet except for the faint ticking of a silver instrument shaped like an astrolabe.
At last, Dumbledore leaned forward.
"Ben, you are now one of the most powerful beings in this castle — and even beyond it."
His tone gained a weight that felt like centuries.
"That alone is not a burden. But the responsibility that comes with it… is."
He looked at Ben over his half-moon spectacles.
"Strength is rarely challenged by enemies. It is most often tested by the people we love. By the choices we make when frightened. When cornered. When desperate."
Ben listened, jaw tightening slightly.
"With powers like yours, you will be tempted," Dumbledore warned. "To fix everything. To save everyone. To control what cannot be controlled." His eyes softened. "Promise me that you will not isolate yourself. That you will not bear this alone. That you will trust your friends. That you will trust us."
Ben looked at him… and slowly smiled.
"I know. And I won't."
Relief warmed Dumbledore's gaze.
"Good. That is all I needed to hear."
A familiar twinkle returned to his eyes. "You will do great things, Benjamin. You already have. But greatness lies not in strength or magic. It lies in the choices you make with them."
Ben nodded, voice low but steady.
"I won't let you down."
Dumbledore chuckled softly.
"I never doubted that."
He straightened, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve.
"Now, I believe it is time you left the castle for the summer. Your family must be most concerned by now — and your friends equally so."
Ben rose, feeling oddly lighter despite the weight of the conversation. "That's an understatement if I ever heard one, sir."
He turned toward the door.
"Ben," Dumbledore called gently.
Ben stopped.
"Professor?"
"You are becoming something remarkable." Dumbledore's eyes held both pride and warning. "Do not forget to remain something good."
Ben smiled — a real, bright smile.
"I won't."
He took two more steps toward the door—
—and stopped at a sudden knock.
Dumbledore didn't look surprised.
"Come in."
The door swung open.
Professor McGonagall stood in the threshold, lips pressed into a thin worried line.
"Albus," she said briskly, "Saul Croaker from the Ministry is here to see you."
Ben stiffened.
McGonagall stepped aside.
Saul Croaker entered Dumbledore's office like a shadow wearing a bespoke suit. His steps made no sound on the stone floor, his expression was perfectly neutral, and his presence radiated the quiet danger of a man who kept national secrets where most people kept spare socks.
"Albus," Croaker greeted with a curt nod.
"Saul," Dumbledore replied warmly. "Thank you, Minerva."
McGonagall gave a tight, reluctant nod before leaving, closing the door with the air of a woman who desperately wanted to stay but had not yet reached the necessary level of disrespect for privacy.
Croaker's gaze swept the room.
And froze on Benjamin Carter.
Ben stood politely near the desk, hands clasped, face schooled into innocent neutrality.
Croaker's eyes narrowed.
"Afternoon," he said. "And who might you be?"
Dumbledore answered pleasantly. "May I introduce Benjamin Carter, one of our brightest students. Ben, this is Saul Croaker — Head Unspeakable of the Department of Mysteries."
Ben's brain briefly short-circuited.
Holy crap. He looks exactly like Agent Galahad from the Kingsman movies.
Same face. Same impeccable posture. Same "I can kill you with a fountain pen" aura.
Ben nearly asked whether he knew a bloke named Eggsy.
Instead he smiled and extended his hand.
"A pleasure, sir."
Croaker took it. His handshake was firm, clinical — and Ben could swear the man was analyzing his magical composition molecule by molecule.
"Benjamin Carter," Croaker murmured. "Creator of the Wiphone?"
"Yes, sir," Ben replied.
"Impressive work," Croaker said, releasing his hand. "A device of remarkable efficiency. And ingenuity."
Coming from an Unspeakable, it was high praise.
Coming from Croaker, it was practically receiving an Order of Merlin in a handshake.
"Thank you," Ben said, genuinely pleased.
Croaker's eyes flicked down over Ben's attire — the exact shirt and trousers the blurred dragon-man in the Spy-glass had worn. Then back up. The handshake had already told him what he needed to know.
Andrew Carter's nervousness earlier suddenly made perfect sense.
"And that's not your only achievement, is it?" Croaker said.
Ben blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
"Your novels," Croaker said casually. "Remarkably well written for someone who began writing at age seven. And an amateur filmmaker as well. You wear many hats."
Ben chuckled lightly.
"What can I say? Everyone needs a hobby."
"Or several," Croaker returned. "Forgive me, but why are you here during the holidays, Mr. Carter?"
"I was working with the headmaster, sir," Ben said smoothly. "On a translation matrix for the Wiphone. Automatic cross-lingual translation for text, speech, and images."
Technically true.
And something Ben was very proud of.
Croaker's brows rose. "That sounds remarkably useful. I apologise if I interrupted your work."
"Not at all," Dumbledore said. "We were just finishing. I will see you later, Ben."
Ben nodded to both men.
"If you'll excuse me."
He walked toward the door, acutely aware of Croaker's eyes scanning him like a magical MRI.
When the door closed behind him, the office fell into a taut, brittle silence.
Croaker turned to Dumbledore.
"Do you remember when you offered me the post of Defence Against the Dark Arts in '86?"
Dumbledore nodded. "I recall. You declined."
Croaker stepped forward and sat across from him.
"I have never regretted that decision."
His eyes flicked toward the door Ben had exited.
"Until today."
He leaned forward, voice low.
"I think I finally understand why you spend so much time at Hogwarts. What a privilege it must be to watch such minds reach their full potential." His gaze sharpened. "Albus… I want him."
Dumbledore blinked innocently.
"I beg your pardon?"
Croaker's tone became flint-hard.
"Do not insult my intelligence, old friend. We both know exactly what that boy did an hour ago."
The room temperature dropped.
Dumbledore folded his hands.
"My dear Saul, accusations of that magnitude require proof."
Croaker's reply was razor-sharp.
"We have proof. Enough for the Minister to take drastic measures concerning Mr. Carter."
Every hint of geniality vanished from Dumbledore's face.
His voice deepened, ancient and dangerous.
"Understand this, Saul. No student under my protection will be turned into a weapon by any Ministry. Not while I live."
Croaker met his fury without flinching.
"Do you truly think so little of me?" he asked quietly. "I have already classified today's events as top secret. Only I can inform the Minister — and I will not. Just as I have no intention of using the boy."
Dumbledore's anger eased.
"Then what is it you want with Benjamin?"
Croaker answered plainly.
"I want him to work with me. In the Department of Mysteries."
Dumbledore's brows rose. "Why?"
"Tell me, Albus," Croaker said, "How did your students perform in the exams this year?"
"Quite well."
"And compared to the generation before? Or the one before that?"
Dumbledore fell silent.
Croaker leaned back, sighing.
"Magic is dwindling, Albus. Every generation weaker than the last. Bloodlines thinning. More squibs every year. Muggleborns help, yes — but we get, what? Two or three a year? Not enough. At this rate, in a thousand years… magic will die."
Even Fawkes shuffled uneasily.
"Let him work with us," Croaker said earnestly. "The boy's intellect is extraordinary. Leyline Resonance Antenna? Genius. And that ritual he performed—" He shook his head. "His runic and enchanting knowledge must be decades ahead of his age. Albus, the wizarding world needs Benjamin Carter if we are to survive."
Dumbledore exhaled.
"He is barely fifteen, Saul."
"Fifteen," Croaker said softly, "and already more powerful than any wizard alive. More powerful than You-Know-Who. More powerful than you."
Dumbledore didn't argue.
At last he nodded.
"He will decide for himself."
Croaker inclined his head.
"I will speak to him."
"Later," Dumbledore said firmly.
Croaker's eyes narrowed slightly.
"Oh?"
"This year," Dumbledore said, "Hogwarts will host the Triwizard Tournament."
Croaker raised an eyebrow.
"He intends to participate?"
"I would be astonished if he did not," Dumbledore replied.
Croaker snorted.
"Well, boys will be boys."
"And so," Dumbledore said, rising, "he will have no time for occupational commitments until the tournament ends."
Croaker studied him for a moment.
Then nodded.
"Very well. After the tournament."
He stood and headed toward the door.
"I look forward," he said quietly, "to seeing how he handles the tasks."
The door closed behind him with a click.
Silence settled.
Dumbledore let out a long, weary breath and glanced at Fawkes.
"Well," he murmured, "that could have gone worse."
Fawkes made a pointed, disgruntled trill that very clearly meant:
We are doomed.
Dumbledore sighed.
"Yes. I rather thought so."