Dyna floated up from the bed, blinking at the bright sunshine streaming through the window. A whole night had passed, yet his body hadn't adapted to the magic. He felt his total magical power was barely three times what it used to be.
He shook his head. He couldn't go out today—let alone enter Muggle territory. The magical energy spilling from his body would immediately trigger an underage-wizard-warning from the Ministry of Magic if used outside. He'd already been warned once; another violation might lead to a court summons.
Floating downstairs, Dyna opened a necklace that contained compartments so airtight it even preserved a large loaf of bread—bread he'd taken from Foster's house when he fainted. Luckily, it still looked fresh. He found a small knife—it was less rusty than before, but still old—and prepared to cut into the loaf. He dared not use a spell; he didn't want to accidentally split the house in half with a Severing Charm.
At that moment, there was a knock at the door. He glanced down—his feet floated half a foot above the floor—and froze.
"Dyna, are you home?" came a voice.
It was Professor McGonagall—arguably the one person he trusted most since escaping Azkaban. Relief washed over him as he floated toward the door.
"Professor McGonagall? That's you—I'll open it right away!"
He opened the door. McGonagall stood there, noticing immediately that Dyna was nearly as tall as she was—and floating.
"Dyna, what's going on with you?" she exclaimed, concern etched across her stern face.
Scratching his head awkwardly, he said, "I think I had a magic surge last night, and now I—well, I float."
She raised an eyebrow. "A magic surge? Are you alright?"
She looked him over carefully; besides his levitation, he seemed fine.
"I'm okay, Professor. Maybe I'll adjust in a few days."
McGonagall shook her head. "No, this is serious. Young wizards rarely experience surges after age eleven. This is abnormal. If you don't guide it properly, you risk becoming an Obscurial."
Obscurials, magical children under ten who develop destructive energy reserves—rare survivors past that age. Only Dumbledore's nephew had ever lived beyond ten. But exceptions existed, and McGonagall sounded genuinely alarmed.
She touched the tip of her wand, releasing a silver-white tabby cat that scampered out through the wall. Her attention shifted to the table.
"Dyna, is this all you've eaten?" she asked, eyeing the single loaf of bread.
Startled, Dyna explained, "Well, I can't go out like this. Old Thomson, from Thomson's Tavern on the corner, can vouch that I ate well last night."
McGonagall nodded, then opened the door again. This time, "Mad‑Eye" Moody limped in at full speed.
"Minerva, why the rush… Oh, Dyna! What's happened?"
"He had a magic surge," McGonagall answered. "We need to contact Dumbledore and get him here to take a look."
Moody nodded and sprinted away. "Good thinking. I'll alert Dumbledore!"
Normally, McGonagall could have used Hogwarts's Floo Network, but this house had been abandoned for four years—and the service had been discontinued due to unpaid fees.
Dyna, stomach growling, reached for the bread knife again—but McGonagall shook her head.
"Don't eat that. It's not nutritious."
With a wave of her wand, mashed potatoes, sausages, fried eggs, and hot milk appeared.
"These were prepared by the Hogwarts house-elves," she said.
No more words were needed: Dyna understood. He floated awkwardly, bending to eat while hovering, until he found a more comfortable diagonal angle.
McGonagall frowned slightly, then opened a first-floor window. "It's an old house—remember to ventilate more regularly. And if you can't take care of yourself, I won't let you come back next holiday."
Dyna nodded along, too embarrassed to speak.
"Professor, why did you come here?" he asked after a moment.
She sighed. "I'm worried about you, Dyna. You're only eleven—you can't take care of yourself properly. If I wasn't here, you'd be in big trouble."
Soon, a ball of flame erupted in the living room. A tall wizard in white robes inscribed with purple stars appeared, Phoenix perched on his shoulder. It was Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, the most powerful wizard alive.
"Good morning, Minerva," he greeted McGonagall, then spotted Dyna. "Good morning, Dyna."
He approached him, and Dyna greeted him politely: "Hello, Professor… no, Professor Dumbledore."
"Just call me Professor," Dumbledore smiled.
Dumbledore observed Dyna closely. Even with the arrival of such a significant figure, Dyna remained engrossed in eating—perhaps a byproduct of his Azkaban-hardened indifference.
Dumbledore stroked his long white beard—reminding Dyna of the time he plucked Merlin's beard. "How rare… I've never seen this."
McGonagall interjected, concerned. "What should we do now?"
Dumbledore grasped Dyna's arm. "He has immense magical energy—stronger than needed for an Obscurial, but still dangerous. We must help him channel it immediately. Though I've never known an Obscurial after age ten, this power must be controlled."
Turning to McGonagall, he said, "Minerva, we'll take Dyna back to Hogwarts. We need to help him cast and stabilize his magic."
"Back to Hogwarts?" Dyna's heart sank. He still had holiday plans to finish!
But he reminded himself: with the new Spandim Gate, he might move freely within Hogwarts. Maybe being there would be better than here?
"Alright, Professor Dumbledore. Let me go pack my things."
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