28th June 1994
Ministry of Magic
The Ministry of Magic was embracing its usual late-afternoon brand of pandemonium. Interdepartmental memos dive-bombed through the air like aggressive origami geese, interns sprinted between lifts with the frantic energy of cornered puffskeins, and a small fire smoldered merrily in the Magical Patents Office — an entirely ordinary occurrence. Over in Misuse of Muggle Artefacts, someone was loudly insisting that enchanting a traffic camera into a sneakoscope had seemed like a good idea at the time.
Then the alarms screamed.
A piercing wail knifed through the Auror Office, rattling windowpanes and spines alike. In the Magic Detection Ward, the enormous bronze map of the United Kingdom bolted to the far wall blazed scarlet. A massive red orb pulsed over the Scottish Highlands, throbbing like a wounded star, its surface flaring brighter with each passing heartbeat.
Amelia Bones strode into the ward like a summoned storm.
"Report!" she barked.
A clerk — who looked one tremor away from bolting — swallowed and stammered, "Five minutes ago, a massive magical energy surge occurred in the Scottish Highlands. Energy levels… they're still rising!"
"Magnitude?"
The poor man blanched. "C-Category 5, ma'am."
A horrified murmur rippled through the ward.
Category 5 meant full-grown dragons, ancient wards cracking, or the sort of magical catastrophes that made insurance goblins weep.
Amelia's jaw locked. "Location?"
The clerk pointed at the throbbing red sphere. "West of Caithness. Uninhabited ridge. No settlements."
"Good." She spun on her heel. "Assemble three teams. Full dragonhide. Emergency loadouts."
The Auror Office didn't need the order twice.
Within minutes, the floor trembled beneath a thunder of boots. Three strike squads formed in tight formation, each led by a senior Auror: Kingsley Shacklebolt, John Dawlish, and Andrew Carter.
Amelia swept past them, voice sharp as a blade.
"Teams Alpha, Bravo, Delta — we deploy on my signal. Expect a Class-Red entity. Dragon-level. Unknown disposition."
Andrew Carter said nothing, but a cold, tight unease coiled in his chest. Ben had not come home for the summer with Rachel, claiming he had business at Hogwarts. Now, barely a week later, an unprecedented magical phenomenon was erupting not far from the castle.
Coincidence? His instincts — the same ones that had helped him survive a decade of fieldwork — whispered otherwise.
He gripped his wand a little too tightly.
The teams were seconds from departure when movement darkened the entrance to the Auror Office.
Three black-robed figures glided in, silent as falling ash.
Unspeakables.
Saul Croaker led them, tall and grave, followed by Broderick Bode and Elton Elderberry, their cloaks humming with enchantments that suggested "classified" before anyone even asked.
Croaker didn't bother with greetings.
"The Department of Mysteries will be joining this operation."
Amelia's eyebrow twitched — a tiny, deadly motion.
"With respect, Croaker, this falls under DMLE authority."
Croaker met her glare with the calm of someone who'd seen too much and filed all of it under Highly Confidential.
"Not anymore. What you're dealing with is not merely magical. It is anomalous. And anomalies fall under our Department."
Much as Amelia wanted to hex the man into next Tuesday, the law — annoyingly — was on his side. The Department of Mysteries had the legal equivalent of a royal flush when it came to dealing with...well, mysteries.
"Fine," she bit out. "But field command stays with us."
Croaker inclined his head. "Agreed."
They were about to move when a gasp tore through the ward behind them.
The bronze map flared brighter — a violent, searing crimson.
The clerk stared, stricken.
"Ma'am… it's not Category 5 anymore."
The orb ballooned, glowing with the intensity of a star on the verge of collapse.
""Director…" the clerk whispered, "it's gone off… the chart."
For a moment, nobody breathed.
Amelia snapped down her visor. "We move. Now."
The strike force stormed into the Atrium. Amid the towering fireplaces and the echo of boots on polished stone, wands were drawn, gear checked, nerves steeled.
On Amelia's signal, with a synchronized series of sharp cracks, the full Auror strike teams — along with all three Unspeakables — vanished from the Ministry Atrium—
---
The Scottish Highlands
—and appeared atop a windswept, desolate ridge in the depths of the Scottish Highlands.
The instant the strike force materialized, every wand hand stiffened. The air itself thrummed. Magic hung thick and heavy, vibrating through the atmosphere like the aftermath of an electrical storm — the sort you'd only walk into if you were fond of danger and metal headgear.
Amelia's eyes narrowed.
"Aurors — spread out and run full scans."
More than a dozen wands flicked out in a synchronized sweep, sending arcs of detection magic rippling across the rocky slope. But instead of flowing outward smoothly, the spells warped — bending away from the epicenter, sputtering, recoiling like startled animals.
Kingsley frowned. "Magic's still active in the air. Not residual — charged."
Andrew Carter didn't respond. His heartbeat had begun to thrum in his ears. He recognized this signature — the peculiar density, the strange resonance. He had felt it hundreds of times before.
But never like this.
Not magnified a hundredfold.
Not shaking the ground.
Behind them, the Unspeakables moved with unnerving, deliberate silence.
Saul Croaker knelt, reached into his cloak, and withdrew a palm-sized instrument that looked like a cross between a watch, a compass, and something that belonged in a locked drawer labeled DO NOT TOUCH UNLESS THE WORLD IS ENDING.
He tapped it once.
A low hum rolled through the clearing — then the device's arrow jerked violently, spinning in panicked circles as though trying to flee its own existence.
Amelia stared.
"What in Merlin's name is that?"
"Detection apparatus," Croaker said, as though that explained everything.
"For what, exactly?"
"Unrestricted magical anomalies."
"That tells me nothing useful," Amelia snapped.
Croaker remained serenely unbothered. The device pulsed again — so brightly the Aurors flinched away from the glare.
Broderick Bode leaned in, breath catching.
"This… this energy density shouldn't be possible."
Elderberry squinted at the reading. "That's… that's above the classification scale. Like, above-above. If the chart were a staircase, we're at the step where someone forgot to finish drawing the building."
Croaker stood abruptly.
"I have a heading."
Amelia nodded curtly. "Everyone mount up."
The Aurors yanked their brooms from their magically-expanded field kits — sleek combat models reinforced for speed and maneuverability. In seconds, the entire squadron rose into the air.
"Follow Croaker's lead," Amelia commanded, taking point beside him.
They shot forward, wind roaring past, clouds shredding around them as Croaker's device glowed brighter and brighter. The arrow tugged sharply east.
Kingsley's eyes narrowed behind his visor.
"This direction feels… familiar."
Andrew's stomach tightened like a fist. He didn't need to look; he knew what silhouette waited beyond the next ridge.
Dawlish spotted it first and shouted, horrified,
"Is that—?"
"Hogwarts," Kingsley said grimly.
The ancient castle rose in the distance, tall and unyielding, its silhouette a jagged crown against the horizon. The Forbidden Forest spread beneath it like a dark ocean of secrets.
Croaker slowed, angling downward.
"The reading originates here."
The squad spiraled lower. The air grew denser, thicker — magic coiling around them in invisible waves. They landed in a wide clearing deep in the forest.
Every single witch and wizard froze.
The clearing looked as though a colossus had stepped through it moments ago.
Massive prints — depressions meters wide — crushed the earth. Several trees lay snapped like matchsticks. The grass around the center was flattened in a perfect circular ripple pattern, as if something huge had landed with devastating force.
And the scent in the air…
Burnt pine.
Ozone.
And an undercurrent of ancient magic so potent it made Amelia's teeth ache.
Croaker lifted his scanner, sweeping it through the clearing with slow, reverent motion.
This time, the device didn't hum.
It sang.
A deep, resonant tone reverberated through the ground, vibrating through armor and bone.
Croaker's voice was barely above a whisper.
"Director Bones… the magical residue here exceeds that of a fully-grown Ukrainian Ironbelly."
Dawlish choked, "Exceeds? By how much?"
Bode checked the readings again, as if hoping they'd suddenly become sensible.
"Rough estimate? …All of it."
Kingsley's breath left him in a slow, measured exhale.
"Whatever was here… was enormous."
Andrew stepped forward, eyes fixed on the ruined earth, dread prickling along his spine.
"And powerful. Very, very powerful."
Croaker reached into his robes with deliberate care and withdrew a small, ornate hourglass. Golden filigree curled around its delicate frame, the twin bulbs filled with shimmering sand that flowed both upward and downward at once. The entire device rotated gently in his hand, as though stirred by an unseen current.
Amelia's breath caught.
"A time-turner?"
Croaker inclined his head. "One of the Department's field prototypes."
He held the hourglass up to the afternoon Highland light, the sands glittering in impossible motion.
"In all our recorded history," he said gravely, "from the Ministry's founding in 1707, through every fragmented pre-Ministry archive we possess… we have never documented a magical signature of this magnitude."
Kingsley gave a low whistle. "Never?"
Croaker's expression was carved from stone.
"Never."
Andrew Carter shifted, a muscle jumping in his jaw. The magical resonance in the clearing still prickled faintly against his skin — familiar, unmistakable, and terrifyingly amplified. Ben's. But transformed into something far beyond anything Andrew had ever felt from his son.
Croaker continued, "We cannot ignore this. And we absolutely cannot delay. Understanding the nature of this event is of paramount importance."
Amelia crossed her arms. "Hence the time-turner."
Croaker nodded. "We will observe the last hour. But we will not"—his gaze swept over the assembled Aurors like a blade—"interfere."
The word cracked through the clearing like a snapped wand.
"The moment we travel back, we exist outside the original causal chain. We were not present the first time, therefore we must not participate now. Any interaction risks altering what occurred."
Elderberry added, "And 'alter' is the charitable phrasing. 'Catastrophic divergence' is the less pleasant one."
Dawlish cleared his throat. "And by… catastrophic… you mean?"
Bode answered with academic cheerfulness.
"Branch reality creation. Paradox implosion. Timeline collapse. You know, the fun stuff."
A ripple of pale faces passed through the Aurors.
Croaker pressed on, his voice firm.
"No spells. No communication unless absolutely necessary. No exposure. And under no circumstance are you to approach the entity responsible."
Amelia responded crisply. "Understood."
Bode's expression grew even more serious.
"Additionally — whatever was here… its senses must have been extraordinary. Possibly beyond even normal dragon parameters."
Andrew thought back to the immense crater-like footprints, the scorched earth, the sheer force left behind.
Extraordinary felt like an understatement.
Bode continued, "If we remain in this clearing, we risk being detected even as observers."
Croaker gestured sharply.
"Mount up. We relocate three kilometers west."
Brooms shot upward through the forest canopy, weaving in and out of massive tree trunks as they skimmed barely above the forest floor. After a tight, silent flight, Croaker raised a hand.
"Here."
They descended into a narrow clearing ringed by towering oaks. Unlike the earlier site, this space felt untouched — quiet, cool, the moss underfoot soft and undisturbed.
Perfect for observation.
The three Unspeakables moved to the center.
Croaker knelt and placed the time-turner gently on the ground. The golden device rested on the moss like a living artifact, humming with a faint, otherworldly resonance that prickled across the skin.
"Gather close," he instructed.
Amelia stepped in first. Kingsley followed. Andrew joined them, his breath tight in his chest. The Aurors formed a tense, circular perimeter around the hourglass.
Croaker inhaled once.
Then he gave the time-turner a single, precise turn.
The hourglass spun.
WHOOMPH
The world lurched.
Wind reversed direction. Leaves soared upward into branches. Sunlight flickered, dimmed, brightened, dimmed again — each shift perfectly reversed, as if time itself were breathing backward. Birdsong inverted into strange, swallowing echoes. The air thickened with the peculiar weight of a world unspooling itself.
They stood in the same clearing…
…but everything beyond their circle moved like a film winding in reverse.
Croaker's cloak rippled in the backward wind.
"No interference," he warned, his voice sounding stretched and hollow in the warped air.
---
Forbidden Forest
One hour in the past
The hourglass gave one last trembling spin, then stilled.
The world snapped back into clarity. The trees stood where they had been, the wind rustled the moss the way it should — but the sun hung slightly further east. Time had rewound.
Croaker didn't waste a heartbeat.
"Bode. Elderberry. Concealment protocols."
The two Unspeakables nodded and immediately began weaving complex spells into the air. Translucent latticework spun around the group like a dome of liquid glass, shimmering with runes that bent light, sound, and magical presence. The forest seemed to shift away from them, like reality itself politely stepped aside.
Croaker knelt and opened a reinforced case. From it, he lifted a circular pane of flawless glass mounted on an intricate bronze stand. The runes around its rim pulsed in slow sequence.
"A Spy-glass," Amelia murmured, impressed despite herself.
Croaker set it on the ground.
"Focuses on any area within a five-kilometer radius. No temporal contamination."
The surface rippled once—
Then the forest clearing from earlier appeared within the glass like an aerial projection.
Empty. Quiet. Waiting.
The Aurors leaned in.
Then—
FWOOMP
A portal tore open in the center of the clearing.
Except it didn't tear — that was the terrifying part.
It unfolded, clean as silk, the edges smooth and quiet, as though space had simply decided to take a polite step sideways.
Andrew Carter froze.
He'd seen that same portal countless times in the last few years.
His heart clenched.
It was Ben's portal.
But he kept silent — professionalism, protocol, and paternal panic wrestling in his chest.
A figure stepped through.
Tall. Over six feet. Broad-shouldered. Wearing casual shirt and trousers, like someone who'd finished a gym session and was casually walking home.
Kingsley whispered, "Who in Merlin's name—?"
Dawlish breathed, "That's a man? Looks like a Greek statue tried out for the Auror Corps."
Elderberry choked. "That portal—no fracturing, no ripple distortion—no stress lines. Spatial integrity is… perfect."
Bode shook his head in open disbelief. "Impossible. Spatial folding without resonance feedback? That's decades beyond us!"
Croaker leaned closer, eyes narrowing.
"A seamless portal."
His voice held something rare — genuine awe.
But then a new complication arose:
The man's face was blurred.
Not shadowed. Not turned away. Not out of focus due to distance.
Blurred.
Like reality itself refused to draw his features.
"What in the—?" Dawlish breathed.
Kingsley frowned. "Is that a malfunction?"
Croaker adjusted the Spy-glass, twisting its runes.
"Enhance resolution."
Nothing changed.
He flicked another control.
Still blurred.
He tapped the glass sharply with his wand.
The blur remained — stubborn, absolute, almost mocking.
"This should be impossible," Bode said slowly. "Spy-glasses pierce glamours, invisibility fields, even mild temporal displacement."
Elderberry added, "It would take either a Tier-7 concealment charm"—he paused, then grimaced—"or… interference from something outside our temporal layer."
Amelia turned sharply. "Outside our what?"
Elderberry opened his mouth.
Croaker raised a hand.
"Not now."
Andrew stood silent. The universe could scramble every pixel on that projection — but a father knew his child. The posture, the stance, the habitual way the man flexed his hands when excited…
But the sudden height?
The sculpted physique?
That… was new.
---
Meanwhile (In Another Reality)
A small wooden cabin floated serenely in a pocket dimension between worlds.
Inside, the Old Man — the one who had reincarnated Ben with a wave, a grin, and absolutely zero disclaimers — rocked in his chair, sipping tea.
He glanced at a hovering projection of Croaker violently shaking a Spy-glass.
He whistled innocently.
"Oops."
He turned the page of his newspaper, where the headline read:
TIME-LORDS ASK AGAIN: PLEASE STOP MEDDLING WITH YOUR CHOSEN REINCARNATE.
He shrugged.
"What can I say? I am fond of that boy."
---
Back in the Forbidden Forest
The blurred figure in the Spy-glass shifted.
A faint glow rose from his skin.
Soft at first.
Then brighter — gold seeping outward like dawn cracking through stone.
The Aurors tensed.
"What's happening to him?" Amelia demanded.
Croaker didn't answer.
The glow intensified.
Clothes strained.
Magic roared.
Light erupted from the man's limbs, spine, shoulders —
And then—
FWOOOOM
Before their stunned eyes, the man expanded — erupted — transformed.
Bone reshaped.
Skin hardened.
A river of golden scales burst across the figure like molten metal solidifying in fast motion.
Wings unfurled in a blinding sweep.
A tail whipped free.
Horns spiraled upward.
Claws curved from molten-gold talons.
When the transformation completed…
A twenty-meter gold dragon stood in the clearing.
Majestic. Radiant. Terrifying.
A living sun forged in the shape of a beast.
Every Auror recoiled.
Even Croaker stumbled back, jaw slack — the closest to losing composure he had ever been.
Kingsley whispered, "By all the founders…"
Dawlish forgot how to speak English entirely.
Elderberry emitted a high-pitched squeak.
Amelia could only stare.
"This… this is a metamorphosis spell?" she gasped.
Bode shook his head violently. "No spell is that seamless—no biological rewriting that smooth—this is… natural."
Andrew didn't breathe.
The dragon crouched—
—and with a titanic beat of its wings that rattled trees even through the Spy-glass—
FWHOOOOOOM
—took to the skies.