Chapter One: A Late-Blooming Magic
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Headmaster's Office
"You're telling me there is a sixteen-year-old on the list of first-year students?"
"I know it sounds extraordinary, Albus, but the ancient magic cannot be wrong. The register clearly states the boy is sixteen."
Minerva McGonagall, dressed in her dark green robes and a pointed hat, spoke with solemn concern.
It was a fundamental rule of Hogwarts. The school, with its long and storied history, recorded the name of every magical child in Britain from the moment of their birth. When they turned eleven, the castle's ancient magic would ensure an acceptance letter found its way to them, most often delivered by owl.
Yet now, for the first time in centuries, that infallible magic had presented an anomaly. On this year's intake list, Minerva McGonagall had discovered the name of a teenager who was sixteen years old. She had come immediately to the office of Albus Dumbledore, the greatest wizard of the age, seeking an explanation.
The Headmaster, however, could offer none. This was beyond even his considerable understanding.
Albus Dumbledore, his white beard glowing in the candlelight, held the parchment close to his eyes.
"Elian Thorne. Fifteen years, eleven months, and twenty-six days. Third-floor south-facing bedroom, 35 Carnaby Street. Muggle-born… both parents deceased."
He lowered the parchment and peered over his half-moon spectacles at his deputy. "This is the boy? Elian Thorne?"
"That is correct, Albus. In hundreds of years, Hogwarts has never admitted a student so far past the age. I cannot fathom how this has happened."
Professor McGonagall's voice was tight with worry. As the member of staff who oversaw the admissions process, such a breach of tradition was deeply unsettling.
"Voldemort has returned," Dumbledore said softly, his blue eyes distant. "While this is reminiscent of his method of entering Harry's name into the Goblet of Fire, I do not believe this is his doing. Not directly. This feels… different. Perhaps a resonance from the ancient magic itself."
He stood slowly, gathering his black travelling cloak from the back of his chair.
"These are dark times, Minerva. The Ministry seeks to bury the truth of Voldemort's return. Cornelius Fudge no longer desires my counsel; he now views me with suspicion."
At the mention of the Minister of Magic, a flash of disgust passed over Professor McGonagall's features. Dumbledore did not miss it.
Cornelius Fudge had been a timid, insecure minister, once reliant on Dumbledore's support to maintain his position. Now, that fear had twisted into paranoia. In Fudge's mind, the terrifying story of the Dark Lord's return was nothing but a plot by Dumbledore, using Harry Potter, to seize power.
"The Order has moved to collect Harry," Dumbledore continued, fastening his cloak. "Dementors are stalking Muggle neighbourhoods. Voldemort's shadow lengthens. I shall go and meet this young Mr. Thorne myself."
Without another word, he turned on the spot with a soft swish, shrinking to a single point and vanishing into thin air.
Apparition. The most efficient, if uncomfortable, method of magical travel.
Left alone in the silent office, Minerva McGonagall let out a long, weary sigh. She glanced up at Fawkes, the Headmaster's phoenix, who preened his brilliant scarlet feathers on his golden perch. The bird cocked his head, his wise black eyes meeting hers for a moment before he took flight with a soft cry, leaving a shimmer of warmth in his wake.
35 Carnaby Street, London
The silent, sleeping street was broken by a faint pop. An old man in black robes materialised, his long white beard stark against the dark wool.
Albus Dumbledore looked up at the neat brick townhouse. His eyes immediately went to a third-floor window, where a peculiar, rhythmic golden-red light pulsed against the glass, unlike any electric lamp.
A subtle, trained sense honed over a century alerted him. Magic. Not the wild, untamed spill of accidental magic from an upset child, but something focused. Controlled.
Dumbledore's expression grew grave. The boy was listed as Muggle-born. How could he possibly be performing deliberate magic? And such control…
His thoughts flew to Harry Potter, due to face a disciplinary hearing at the Ministry for using a Patronus Charm. But Harry's case was one of underage magic in a dire emergency. This was different. If the Ministry's trace detected this…
Frowning, Dumbledore drew his wand—the Elder Wand, though it looked old and unremarkable—and gave the front door a gentle tap. "Alohomora."
The lock clicked, and the door swung open without a sound.
Inside, the young man in the third-floor room felt the gentle probing of the unlocking charm through a quiet, instinctual nudge at the edge of his mind—a silent alert from the system that had been his guide. His concentration, fixed on the kitchen knife he was levitating in a complex, weaving pattern, did not break. His right hand moved in a sharp, finishing gesture.
Whoosh.
The knife halted its dance. With a flash of that same golden-red light, it shot across the room, coming to a dead stop, tip pointed menacingly at the closed bedroom door. It hung there, perfectly still, thrumming with latent power.
Downstairs, Albus Dumbledore paused, sensing the shift in the magical atmosphere above. Upstairs, Elian Thorne stood ready, his expression calm but his eyes sharp.
A silent standoff in a silent house.
(End of Chapter)
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