West London, Kensington.
One of the most affluent districts in the UK, Kensington was renowned for its elegant residential neighborhoods, world-famous cultural institutions, and lush greenery.
At this moment—
Inside a villa in Kensington, a middle-aged man with a broad frame set down the telephone. A deep furrow formed on his brow, and his expression was far from pleasant.
"My dear, what's wrong?"
A woman in a red dress stepped out from the kitchen, placing freshly baked scones and a pot of Ceylon tea on the table before removing her oven mitts.
"Something urgent at the company again?"
"No, not the company… the call was from Dawn," Mr. Richter said automatically.
"Dawn?"
The woman raised her eyebrows, visibly surprised to hear the name. "Did something happen to him?"
"I don't know… he just said he needs a ferry to France. He's leaving the country today."
Mr. Richter spoke as he paced the room, clearly agitated.
"Don't worry, darling," the woman said gently, pulling him down into a chair and massaging his temples. "Did he get into trouble again?"
"Hmph, no doubt about it!" Mr. Richter snorted, clearly displeased.
"Why else would he want to leave the country in such a hurry? Damn it, I hope he hasn't landed me in something serious."
"Don't talk like that." She comforted him with a soft voice. "He's been on his own for years now. It's not unusual for trouble to find him. You're his father—it's only right that you help."
"Father?" Mr. Richter recalled those crimson eyes that always stared at him with cold indifference. His anger flared again.
"That boy probably doesn't see it that way! Can you believe it? I asked what happened, and he didn't tell me a damn thing!"
The woman looked at her sulking husband and shook her head in resignation. "So what are you going to do?"
Mr. Richter remained silent for a moment, clicked his tongue in frustration, then stood and picked up the phone again.
"I think David's shipping some goods to France this evening… I need to give him a call."
Back in the day, Mr. Richter had built his fortune on seafood and freight. Though he later branched out into other industries, his connections with several ferry captains remained intact.
As he waited for the call to connect, Mr. Richter glanced apologetically at his wife.
"Also… I might need to go to Kent soon. Sorry—I won't be able to enjoy your afternoon tea."
"It's fine. The boy matters more. I'll come with you," she replied with a smile.
"What about the kids? They should be getting out of school soon."
"I'll call my parents and ask them to pick them up."
She spoke as she grabbed the car keys and swiftly began gathering everything they might need.
Mr. Richter seemed like he wanted to say something else, but just then, the call went through.
He had no choice but to focus on greeting David.
After a short exchange, Mr. Richter hung up and then phoned Dawn with the details—David's number, the ferry's location, and its departure time.
He had hoped to say more to his son, but before he could, the line cut off, leaving only the cold dial tone.
Furious, he slammed the receiver down.
...
Exiting the phone booth, Dawn got into the back seat of a taxi.
"To Dover Port," he told the bored-looking driver.
"What?"
The driver seemed confused until Dawn repeated himself. "Dover Port? Sir, do you know how far that is? I mean, I'm not sure if I can—"
"I'll pay you a hundred pounds," Dawn cut him off.
That number shut the driver right up. He stepped on the gas without another word.
The UK and France were separated by a narrow stretch of water—only 34 kilometers from Dover to Calais. The ferry trip took about an hour and a half.
However, it took nearly two hours just to reach Dover from Kent.
By six in the evening, Dawn arrived at the port.
He climbed out of the cab and, while making his way toward the dock, dialed David's number. Soon, he spotted a tall, broad-shouldered man standing beside a ferry.
"Richter's boy?" David looked down at him from above.
Seeing Dawn nod, David muttered, "Red eyes… doesn't look like him at all."
But he didn't press further or ask why Dawn was fleeing the country. Instead, he led him to a cargo hold filled with containers.
From there, things went smoothly.
The ferry surged across the channel with no stops, reaching Calais in just 80 minutes.
By then, Dawn knew he was more or less safe.
He had left the UK using Mr. Richter's connections. His only worry had been whether the Ministry of Magic would act fast enough to squeeze information out of his father and intercept him in time.
But now that he was on French soil, it would be much harder for British Aurors to track him.
Still—
To be cautious, Dawn ran a little test.
He found a large department store nearby, went to the busiest floor, and pulled out his wand.
Draping his coat over his wrist to conceal it, he cast a Levitation Charm on a nearby trash bin, lifting it just a few millimeters.
Then he quickly wrapped the wand in the coat and left it on a nearby bench before disappearing into the crowd.
Half an hour later, he looped back and found the coat untouched. No one had disturbed it.
Which meant the tracking charm had indeed been thrown off.
With magic on his side, slipping onto a flight to Egypt would be easy.
Being close to Britain, Calais had plenty of English speakers. Dawn had no trouble explaining himself and getting a taxi to the airport.
He arrived at the terminal at 8 p.m., just in time for a flight to Egypt that was scheduled to depart in thirty minutes.
Grabbing a bite to eat to fill his stomach, Dawn used a Disillusionment Charm ten minutes before takeoff to cloak himself and slipped onto the plane unnoticed.
Boom—
The roar of the engines shattered the clouds.
Leaning against the cabin wall, Dawn exhaled slowly and watched the blurred nighttime scenery flow past the window.
He knew he was about to embark on an unknown and entirely new journey.
...
While Dawn floated above the skies, Dumbledore had returned to the castle after an entire day dealing with the Ministry of Magic.
Just as he reached the door to the Headmaster's office, he found Professor McGonagall standing there with a stern face.
"Minerva?"
Dumbledore pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to joke through his fatigue. "Did something happen at school? That look on your face says I'm in for another bucket of bad news."
"Albus, you'd better look at this."
McGonagall didn't reply directly. Instead, she handed him a piece of parchment with a grave expression.
Dumbledore shrugged and took it.
But when he opened it and saw the three words written there, his brow slowly furrowed.
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