August 4, 1991
The afternoon sun filtered through the blinds of Timothy Hunter's bedroom, casting long, slatted shadows across the pages of A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot. More than a week had drifted by since the whirlwind visit to Diagon Alley. The frantic energy of the Leaky Cauldron and the strange, dusty chill of Ollivanders felt like a fever dream, yet the heavy stack of parchment and the polished wood of his wand sitting on his desk proved otherwise.
Tim leaned back, rubbing his eyes. Bagshot's prose was dense, ranging from the faked deaths of eccentric witches during the medieval witch hunts—who apparently found the sensation of a Flame-Freezing Charm quite ticklish—to the grim realities of the 20th century. He found himself pausing at the sections regarding the Global Wizarding War. The idea of a magical conflict paralleling the Muggle World War II, culminating in a legendary duel between Albus Dumbledore and Gellert Grindelwald in 1945, felt like something out of a comic book.
Then, his eyes drifted to the more recent darkness: the British civil war led by Lord Voldemort and his "Death Eaters".
"Death Eaters," Tim muttered to himself, a dry smirk touching his lips. "A bit on the nose, isn't it?".
His amusement soured as he read about their platform of 'Pure-Blood' supremacy. He sighed, leaning his head against the cool wall. "Honestly, with all that power, they couldn't just upgrade their brains for Christ's sake?".
The most baffling part, however, remained the ending of that war. The book claimed the Dark Lord had been vanquished by an infant named Harry Potter. Tim stared at the name, searching for a logical explanation. An infant? A toddler in nappies defeating a genocidal wizard? It felt like a joke, or perhaps a massive cover-up for something the Ministry didn't want to explain. Regardless, the child had lost his parents that night—a tragedy that cast a somber light over the supposed victory.
A sudden, sharp chime of the doorbell broke his focus.
"I'll get it!" his mother, Mary, called from downstairs.
Tim listened to the muffled sounds of greeting. Mary's voice was uncharacteristically cheery, suggesting a guest of some importance. A moment later, she called up the stairs, "Tim! Come down, we have a visitor!".
When Tim entered the living room, he froze. Sitting on the floral sofa, looking entirely out of place yet perfectly composed, was Ms. Rose. She had been Timothy's elementary school teacher and was currently teaching his little sister.
She was a striking woman with a black, flapper-style bob and an aesthetic that seemed frozen in the 1930s. Molly was already perched on her lap, chirping away about a drawing she had made.
"Hello, Timothy," Ms. Rose said, her voice like velvet.
"Ms. Rose. I didn't know you were stopping by," Tim replied, keeping his voice polite but cautious.
As they exchanged pleasantries, Tim noticed her eyes. They weren't just looking at him; they were inspecting him. She hummed softly, her gaze lingering on his hands and then his forehead, as if looking for a mark that wasn't there.
"Is something wrong, Ms. Rose?" Tim asked, shifting slightly.
"Nothing at all, Timothy," she said with a faint, enigmatic smile. "Just seeing how much you've grown over the summer. You seem... different".
Mary returned with tea and biscuits, and the conversation drifted into mundane school talk. When Ms. Rose finally stood to leave, she offered a polite goodbye to the family. However, as she stepped onto the pavement outside, she paused. She turned back, her eyes fixing on the window of Timothy's room with a look of cold, sharp concern before vanishing around the corner.
Back in his room, Tim felt a restless energy. He picked up The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1. He knew the Ministry of Magic had strict laws against underage magic, but his research had uncovered a loophole: the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery generally applied only once a student actually began their education at Hogwarts. Since he hadn't stepped foot on the Express yet, he figured he had a few weeks of "free" practice.
He laid his wand on the bed. He had already noticed he was different from the wizards described in his books. When he used the wand, he felt like he was trying to channel a river through a straw; if he wasn't careful, the wand felt like it might shatter under the pressure. Without it, however, things felt natural. Telepathy, telekinesis, a strange empathetic bond with the stray cats in the neighborhood—it all came to him without the need for Latin incantations.
"Let's try this properly," he whispered. He focused on a quill on his desk. Instead of a "chaotic" outburst, he visualized the air thickening around the object.
Wingardium Leviosa.
The quill didn't just float; it danced. It zipped through the air with a precision that would have stunned a charms master. A wide, genuine grin broke across Tim's face. He was a natural.
—--------
Far from the brightness of the Hunters' Residence, in a place where the light of the sun never reached, a circle of individuals in charcoal robes gathered around a stone altar. In the center of the ritual slab, Timothy Hunter's face shimmered in a pool of dark water.
"His resonance is growing," one voice rasped, the sound like dry leaves skittering on a tombstone. "If he is allowed to reach the castle, his rise will tilt the scales into chaos. He is a threat to the future we have envisioned".
"He is a child," another countered, though there was no mercy in the tone. "Weak. Exposed. He knows nothing of our world's true lethality".
"Then he must be pruned before he can take root," the first voice commanded. "Eliminate him tonight".
"Our apprentices are already moving," a third figure whispered. "The mice will be dealt with".
—------
Night fell over the Hunter residence with a deceptive stillness. The streetlights flickered, casting orange pools of light on the empty pavement. Inside, Tim's parents and Molly were deep in sleep, the house quiet save for the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall.
From the shadows of the neighboring gardens, half a dozen figures materialized. They wore hoods that swallowed their features, their robes blending into the darkness.
Their leader, a man with a voice that sounded like crushed glass, looked up at Timothy's darkened window. "The masters are generous to grant us this hunt," he whispered to his followers. "Remember the order: no survivors. We leave this house a tomb".
He drew a long, curved wand, his lips peeling back into a serene, terrifying smile.
"Let's kill some mice".