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Chapter 50 - Chapter 50 — The Letter and the Layers Beneath

Chapter 50 — The Letter and the Layers Beneath

The candlelight flickered softly against the shelves of Amelia Bones' private study, its flame casting long shadows over rows of legal tomes, Ministry archives, and framed photographs that told a lifetime of service and sacrifice. The night outside was quiet—too quiet for London. She preferred it that way. In silence, one could think.

A barn owl tapped once on her window, its talons clicking against the glass with precise impatience. She sighed, rose from her seat, and let it in. The parchment it carried bore an unmistakable crest—the Hogwarts seal, waxed in midnight blue.

Amelia untied the ribbon and read.

Dear Madam Bones,

I hope this finds you well. I write seeking your guidance in a matter involving two young individuals who may benefit from temporary placement within a Muggle-integrated household. They are promising, curious, and, I believe, would thrive under the watch of one familiar with both magical and non-magical worlds.

Should you have any recommendations, I would greatly appreciate them.

Yours sincerely,

Albus Dumbledore

No names. No ages. No details.

Amelia's brow arched. Typical Dumbledore.

She read it twice, tracing the words like threads on a web. Beneath the politeness, she sensed maneuvering. He wasn't asking for guidance—he was guiding her toward a specific path. He always did.

"Two young individuals," she murmured, tapping the parchment. "And not a whisper of why."

Her instincts stirred. Dumbledore's letters never came without purpose. She reached for her wand and with a flick, summoned a series of folders from the corner cabinet—recent Hogwarts curriculum updates, book registration logs, and educational supply contracts, all cross-referenced through the Ministry's quieter divisions.

If Dumbledore wanted her to recommend, then she'd make sure she knew who and why first.

It didn't take long for her staff to uncover the anomaly.

Two new textbooks, both officially approved by Hogwarts for the 1989–1990 academic year:

• Principles of Potion-Brewing: A Complete Guide for the Apprentice (1989 Edition)

• Principles of Herbology: A Complete Guide for the Apprentice (1989 Edition)

Author: Ronald Bilius Weasley.

Amelia nearly spilled her tea.

"Weasley? Arthur's boy?" she muttered, flipping through the attached Ministry review notes. Each one was stamped 'Accepted' by Hogwarts' internal board—with Dumbledore's signature at the bottom.

She leaned back in her chair, lips tightening into something between admiration and disbelief.

A nine-year-old author, reforming Hogwarts education? The very notion was absurd—and yet, here it was, fully sanctioned and even printed by Obscurus Books.

"Dumbledore, you sly old fox," she murmured, setting the papers down. "What game are you playing?"

But what unsettled her most wasn't the accomplishment itself—it was that the Headmaster hadn't mentioned it at all. If he'd wanted to flaunt the boy's brilliance, he would have. The omission meant he was hiding something—or protecting it.

That made her decision simple.

She picked up her cloak, turned on her heel, and vanished with a crack of Apparition.

The night air smelled faintly of rain and iron when she appeared at the edge of a sprawling estate—a patch of disciplined geometry amid the chaos of London suburbia. The gates were black wrought iron, enchanted subtly to deter unwanted magical visitors. The initials N.B.B. gleamed under the moonlight.

Amelia smiled faintly. Nathaniel Bishop Bones. The one man in Britain who can make a Muggle skyscraper and a wizard manor share a postcode.

She rapped once on the door with her wand. It opened silently.

The man who emerged was tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit. His dark hair was swept back, his posture commanding without arrogance. His expression was calm, assessing.

"Madam Bones," he greeted, voice low and controlled. "You've Apparated directly to my home. I assume this isn't a social call."

Amelia stepped inside without ceremony. "You assume correctly, Bishop."

He gestured toward a sitting room—clean lines, Muggle lighting, and a roaring fireplace that somehow burned without smoke. No portraits. No moving photographs. Just stillness and discipline.

She appreciated that.

She handed him the parchment. He read it once, eyes narrowing.

"'Two young individuals,'" he quoted. "Vague, even for him."

"Indeed," Amelia said, lowering herself into a chair. "And when Dumbledore is vague, it's either because he knows too much—or wants someone else to know too little."

Bishop smirked slightly. "So you came to me."

"I came to you," she said, "because Dumbledore requested placement in a Muggle-integrated environment. And because, frankly, I don't trust him to be transparent. He's a good man, Bishop—but one who enjoys pulling strings when people aren't looking."

The squib leaned back, fingers steepled. "You're telling me to take this job and keep an eye on his puppets."

"I'm asking," she corrected, though her tone left little room for refusal. "Because what he's not saying bothers me more than what he is."

He waited.

Amelia flicked her wand again, summoning a stack of parchment—copies of Hogwarts' new textbooks.

He skimmed the covers, pausing at the author's name.

"Ronald Weasley?" he said, brows lifting. "Arthur's boy?"

"The same," Amelia replied. "Nine years old. Already written and published two textbooks—one on Potions, one on Herbology. Approved by Hogwarts faculty. Mandatory reading for lower-year students."

Bishop's eyes widened slightly. Then narrowed.

"And Dumbledore didn't mention that."

"Precisely."

He let out a slow breath. "That's… extraordinary."

"Or dangerous," Amelia said. "Depending on why he's doing it."

They sat in silence for a while, the fire crackling faintly between them. Outside, rain began to tap against the windowpanes.

Finally, Amelia spoke again, softer now.

"Bishop, I know the wizarding world hasn't treated your kind kindly. Squibs are valued less than house-elves in most families. But that's exactly why you're perfect for this. You've built your life in both worlds and made something neither can dismiss."

He looked at her—calm, thoughtful. "You want me to watch the boy."

"I want you to observe," she said carefully. "Not spy. If this boy truly is what these books suggest—a bridge between Muggle practicality and magical tradition—then we need to know what Dumbledore intends to do with him. And with his family."

Bishop nodded slowly. "You think the Weasleys are part of something bigger."

"I know Dumbledore thinks so," Amelia replied grimly. "And I'd rather we find out before the game begins."

Bishop rose, walking to the window. The city skyline shimmered in the distance—Muggle towers glinting like blades of glass. His reflection in the pane looked almost spectral, a man caught between two worlds that would never fully claim him.

"If I do this," he said, "it won't be as a Ministry pawn."

"Nor as Dumbledore's," Amelia said. "You'll have my protection, and my silence."

He turned, smirking faintly. "I imagine that's worth more than gold in some circles."

"It is," she replied. Then, softer: "Keep an eye on them, Bishop. Especially the boy. If what I suspect is true, his mind could change how both our worlds think."

He studied her for a moment, then nodded once. "I'll do it."

Amelia smiled, not warmly but with quiet respect. "Good. And Bishop—be careful. Dumbledore's not a villain. But when he sets the board, everyone becomes a piece."

Her cloak billowed slightly as she turned to leave. The sound of her Apparition echoed like thunder, and then she was gone.

Nathaniel Bishop Bones stood alone in the dim light of his study, Dumbledore's letter still in hand. He reread it, this time paying attention not to what was said—but what wasn't.

He could already see the pattern forming:

Two children.

One Headmaster.

And a silence louder than any declaration.

A faint smile tugged at his lips. "A Weasley rewriting Hogwarts," he murmured. "And a Headmaster rewriting the rules."

He placed the letter beside the textbooks and extinguished the fire with a flick of his fingers. The room fell into shadow—save for the faint glimmer of moonlight on the inked name Ronald Bilius Weasley.

Far away, Albus Dumbledore sat alone in his circular office, the morning sun filtering through the enchanted windows. A Ministry owl tapped gently at the glass. He let it in, unrolled the parchment, and read Amelia's reply.

Her recommendation was short, decisive, and precise—as she always was.

For your Muggle-integrated arrangement, I recommend Nathaniel Bishop Bones. Capable, discreet, and familiar with both worlds.

Do take care with the children, Albus. You have a habit of seeing the future before the present has caught up to it.

—Amelia Bones.

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled faintly as he folded the parchment.

"Ah, Amelia," he whispered. "Still three moves ahead."

He looked out over the castle grounds, where the snow was beginning to fall again. Somewhere far south, a Weasley boy was already thinking far beyond his years.

And the Headmaster smiled, knowing the next move on the board was already in motion.

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