One week earlier—two hours after the explosion in Knockturn Alley.
All that remained of the scene was a perfectly spherical crater, its edges smooth and unnaturally precise, as though the ground itself had been scooped away by an invisible hand. Members of the Ministry of Magic stood scattered around the perimeter, speaking in low voices, their expressions tense and troubled.
Aurors had already sealed off the surrounding streets, so very few civilians remained nearby. Even so, the area was far from deserted. A handful of reporters lingered at the cordon line, quills at the ready, eager to gather any scrap of information that might earn them tomorrow's front-page headline in The Daily Prophet.
At the very center of the crater, the air suddenly twisted.
A faint vortex formed, spiraling inward upon itself, and in the next instant, two figures emerged from the distortion.
The first was Kingsley Shacklebolt, a senior Auror of the Ministry of Magic. He wore a deep purple robe, his dark skin set off sharply against the pale stone ruins around him. His posture was straight, but his face betrayed the strain of the past several days.
The second figure stood tall and slender beside him. His long silver hair and beard flowed freely, both long enough to be tucked neatly into his belt. He wore a simple grey-white robe, and behind his half-moon spectacles, a pair of clear, sky-blue eyes glimmered with quiet intelligence.
Albus Dumbledore had arrived.
"Dumbledore," Kingsley said after a brief pause, his voice heavy with apology, "I'm sorry to trouble you personally. But my Reversal Charm completely failed to reconstruct the events at the time of the incident."
Dumbledore did not respond immediately. His gaze swept slowly over the crater, lingering on its unnaturally smooth curvature.
"All we know so far," Kingsley continued, "is that an adult and a child entered Knockturn Alley. They were confronted by a group attempting to rob them. During the struggle, someone cast a Killing Curse—and the one targeted suddenly transformed into… a cat-headed humanoid."
He hesitated, clearly still unsettled by the memory.
"Have you discovered anything?"
Only then did Kingsley notice that Dumbledore wasn't looking at him at all. The old wizard's eyes were fixed on the empty air above the crater, his expression thoughtful.
"Hush," Dumbledore said softly. "Kingsley, calm yourself. The more anxious you are, the more likely you are to overlook the truth. Look carefully—there. That point is the center of the entire arc."
As he spoke, Dumbledore raised his wand. It was an unusual thing, marked by a series of circular nodes along its shaft. With a gentle motion, he pointed it toward the air.
A white orb of light blossomed into existence. Slowly, it expanded, releasing concentric waves that rippled outward until they aligned perfectly with the curvature of the ground below.
Moments later, a translucent sphere more than ten meters in diameter enclosed the space.
Kingsley's pupils contracted. He swallowed hard.
"There's nothing left within the area covered by that sphere," he murmured. "Merlin's beard… what kind of magic could do this?"
Dumbledore shook his head. "I'm afraid I don't know."
Lowering his wand slightly, he brought its tip to his lips and blew gently.
"Trace Flash."
Golden mist poured from the wand, thick and luminous. It spread outward, filling the entire sphere until the air shimmered with light. Slowly, the mist began to shift and condense, shaping itself into streets, walls, and shadows.
Knockturn Alley reappeared.
This was the Reversal Charm—magic capable of recreating echoes of the past. Ordinarily, Kingsley himself was skilled enough to perform it with precision. But the violent magical fluctuations at this site had rendered his efforts useless.
That was why he had called Dumbledore.
Within the mist, two figures emerged from the alley entrance—one tall, one small. Their faces were indistinct, but Kingsley recognized them immediately.
Soon, seven more figures materialized, surrounding the pair. Their intent was unmistakable.
Then the first spell was cast.
Under Kingsley's stunned gaze, the taller figure raised a single hand and swatted the spell aside as if it were no more than an annoyance.
Kingsley sucked in a sharp breath.
Batting away a spell—with one hand?!
Even Dumbledore lifted an eyebrow, surprise flickering briefly across his features. That manner of defense was… highly unusual.
The scene continued. The man appeared to speak to the child while casually snapping his fingers, deflecting multiple incoming spells in the process.
As the events unfolded, Kingsley felt a growing sense of unease. The robbers were knocked down one by one. The child stumbled. A surge of magic erupted.
And then—the transformation.
The golden mist depicted the moment clearly: the sudden emergence of a cat-headed humanoid form, radiating raw, unfamiliar power.
Finally, the man drew what could only be described as a huge wand and tapped the air lightly.
At once, the recreated scene destabilized. The golden mist collapsed inward, dissolving into shimmering ripples that scattered in the sunlight before vanishing completely.
The spell ended.
Kingsley stood frozen for a long moment.
"Dumbledore…" he muttered hoarsely. "What was that?"
Dumbledore's expression had turned grave. "I cannot say for certain. It resembles ancient magic—magic far older than modern wizarding practices. That kind of wand has not been used in centuries."
Kingsley frowned. "The witnesses claimed he blocked a Killing Curse. But… that wasn't really one, was it?"
The Reversal Charm recreated motion, but not sound or color. He couldn't be sure.
He didn't want to be sure.
Dumbledore looked at him steadily and placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Kingsley, don't deceive yourself. You and I both know that wand movement. It was a Killing Curse."
The last of Kingsley's resistance crumbled. He rubbed his brow, muttering under his breath.
Dumbledore softened his tone. "More than one being has survived the Killing Curse before. History records such cases. And perhaps… that individual was a cat."
A faint smile tugged at his lips. "Cats are said to have nine lives, after all."
Kingsley managed a weak chuckle, realizing how badly he had lost his composure.
At that moment, an Auror approached from behind.
"Captain Shacklebolt, new information from the Ministry."
Kingsley straightened. "Report."
"The man matches the individual who was seen flying over London twelve days ago. He injured several members of the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, disarmed them, and vanished."
Kingsley nodded grimly. Then he turned to Dumbledore and lowered his voice.
"How should we proceed?"
Though he served the Ministry, Kingsley was still a former member of the Order of the Phoenix. In moments like this, Dumbledore's counsel mattered most.
"That decision lies with you," Dumbledore replied, his eyes unreadable.
Kingsley exhaled slowly. If Dumbledore chose not to intervene, the outcome was predictable.
Minimize major issues. Bury minor ones.
Cornelius Fudge, the current Minister for Magic, had built his reputation on stability and public reassurance. A mysterious, overwhelmingly powerful figure was precisely the sort of problem he would rather ignore than expose.
That evening, Albert had not expected to eat an entire rack of lamb by himself.
In truth, it was far too much for an ordinary human. But after sleeping for a full week, his appetite felt justified.
Harry, on the other hand, ate cautiously. Albert kept glancing at him throughout the meal, his golden eyes thoughtful, as if planning something. It made Harry nervous.
Albert looked unusually casual today. His mane was loosely combed, his shirt plain, and a wide-collared robe draped over his shoulders.
Harry remembered seeing a crescent moon and skull symbol stitched into the back of the robe. He suspected it had something to do with Mr. Lucifer's pirate past—though the idea of modern pirates still puzzled him.
When the meal ended, Harry stood to clear the table, but Albert waved a hand. The plates floated up obediently and settled themselves into the kitchen sink.
"Harry," Albert said, gesturing to the chair. "Sit."
Harry swallowed and obeyed.
"Given your recent performance," Albert continued, smiling faintly, "I have a proposal. I'd like to know whether you're willing."
Harry clenched his trousers beneath the table. "Just tell me, Uncle Albert. I'm willing."
As long as he didn't have to return to the Dursleys, he would agree to anything.
Life at Moonlight Fortress was different. He worked, yes—but he was fed, spoken to kindly, and even allowed to play. He'd grown especially fond of his flying broom, which he'd named Meteor. The two had become fast friends.
"Very well," Albert said. "But you should know—magical research can be dangerous."
Harry blinked. "Magical… research?"
Albert stroked his whiskers. "Naturally, there will be training."
"Training?"
"Learning magic."
Harry shot to his feet, face burning red. "Yes! I—I'm absolutely willing!"
The words tumbled out of him.
The memory of Knockturn Alley—the helplessness—still haunted his dreams.
This time, he would not remain powerless.
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