July's summer brought the year's most sweltering heat to Surrey. A drowsy tranquility had settled over the abandoned park at the end of a quiet residential street.
From the outside, the place was a wilderness of weeds and crawling insects, where raccoons and nameless creatures occasionally peered out from shadowy corners. Every passing Muggle felt an instinctive revulsion, unconsciously steering clear from blocks away. Even ordinary wizards who didn't know its secrets would dismiss it as nothing more than an unremarkable vacant lot.
But if you pushed through that weed-choked wasteland and ventured deeper—past layers of poison curses, illusion charms, and hidden traps—a three-story mansion the color of aged laurel would suddenly materialize before your eyes, like some enchantress's lair lurking in a dark fairy tale forest.
This was indeed a witch's home. Fifteen-year-old Orli Waters lived here.
Strictly speaking, she wasn't yet of age in the wizarding world. But she'd already mastered enough magic to spend an entire month weaving a formidable web of defenses around her property.
Her caution was hardly excessive—with Voldemort newly resurrected, it would be madness for an underage witch who'd repeatedly thwarted the Dark Lord's schemes to be anything but vigilant. Unlike Harry Potter's aunt's house with its blood protection, or the Burrow with its numerous family members, Orli's home offered no inherent magical safeguards.
Her only window to the outside world came through the Daily Prophet and a jury-rigged old wireless—one she'd modified to pick up both wizarding and Muggle broadcasts simultaneously.
Yet against all her expectations, an entire month had passed without incident. No disturbances in either world. The wireless hummed constantly in the background. The familiar opening notes of the six o'clock news filtered into Orli's consciousness, and her fingers drummed restlessly against her chair. Perhaps today...
"The Spanish airport baggage handlers' strike enters its second week, with record numbers of stranded holidaymakers crowding terminals across the country—"
"Southeastern drought conditions and projected agricultural price increases—"
"Celebrity divorce proceedings between a famous actress and her well-known husband..."
Orli stared at the ornate ceiling moldings and released a slow, measured breath. She absorbed every news bulletin with meticulous attention, alert for any detail Muggles might overlook. But this summer had become a maddening cycle: tension, anxiety, fleeting relief, then back to tension. Everything existed in an unnatural stillness where nothing happened—not even the usual gas leaks, missing persons cases, or traffic accidents that might hint at magical interference.
She drifted toward her bookshelf, half-listening as the announcer launched into a story about a water-skiing parrot, while scanning the latest issue of The Quibbler. The magazine had transformed into Rita Skeeter's primary battleground, featuring her explosive exposés: comprehensive Triwizard Tournament coverage, documented evidence of contestants under the Imperius Curse, Death Eater Avery's infiltration of Hogwarts, and Dumbledore's stirring end-of-term address.
Despite these meticulously researched articles providing compelling proof of Voldemort's return from multiple angles, The Quibbler's reputation as a fringe publication—notorious for its Crumple-Horned Snorkack theories and Wrackspurt investigations—combined with Rita Skeeter's checkered journalistic history, meant only a handful of wizards were taking notice of this crucial information.
The silence was becoming more ominous than any storm.
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