Ministry of Magic, Office of the Minister
The office of the Minister for Magic smelled of freshly polished beeswax and new parchment. Cornelius Fudge settled into his green leather chair, running a finger along the gilded edge of a document. He was the man of the moment. With barely two months in the position of Minister for Magic of Magical Britain, one of the oldest and most influential magical centers in the world, the weight of responsibility rested on his shoulders, which he tried to keep straight under his pinstriped suit. His round face, crowned by a disorderly strand of grey hair, usually wore a satisfied smile, but in the privacy of his office, his eyes betrayed a constant anxiety.
He frequently sent owls to Albus Dumbledore asking for advice. Still green in his post, he feared making an irreparable mistake. However, his burgeoning "friendship" with Lucius Malfoy and other old families who "donated" generously to the Ministry—and offered equally generous suggestions—made him think everything would be plain sailing.
At that moment, he was leafing through a document from Barty Crouch Sr., now Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation. A bitter competitor during the elections, whose career had been cut short by the scandal of his Death Eater son seven years prior. Fudge signed the document with a pheasant-feather quill with a smug smile. Britain would host the next Quidditch World Cup in six years, in 1994. An achievement for his fledgling administration.
The sound of wings interrupted his thoughts. A disheveled owl entered through the open window, dropping a rectangular package onto his desk before perching on the back of a chair, waiting for some food. Fudge frowned upon recognizing the Flourish and Blotts emblem. Remembering the subscription the "generous" Lucius had gifted him, he picked up the package disinterestedly and waved his hand to shoo the bird away.
The owl, irritated by the dismissive gesture, let out a sound of protest and, in a perfectly calculated act of defiance, dropped its droppings directly onto the lime-green hat Fudge prized so much, before flying off at full speed.
"Filthy beast!" roared Fudge, jumping to his feet. With a sharp flick of his oak and dragon heartstring wand, he cleaned up the mess. "Good thing we use paper memos at the Ministry. These things only know how to make a mess."
Fudge was readjusting his hat when his eyes fell on the book. Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone. Another sensationalist tale about the Boy Who Lived. He set it aside. Perhaps he would skim it in his spare time.
Just then, an elderly wizard, with more wrinkles on his face than hair on his head, entered, staggering under the weight of a pile of documents.
"Minister...more papers... to review..." he said, dragging out his words.
Fudge sighed, overwhelmed. There was too much to do, too many changes after Bagnold's retirement. He looked at the decrepit secretary. I need a new one, he thought. Perhaps a woman... she'd be more efficient.
New York, USA
The magical district of New York buzzed with an energy that Newt Scamander, even after all these years, found somewhat overwhelming. He passed a shop offering guaranteed dream potions and a street stall where a vendor proclaimed the benefits of Graphorn hide for baldness.
Newt Scamander, a man of advanced age but with a youthful energy in his step, moved through the crowd of wizards with some discomfort. His hair, a messy mix of grey and blond, framed a kind and curious face, full of freckles that betrayed years under the sun. His eyes, a clear blue, shone with the same spark of wonder he'd had as a young man, though tempered by the wisdom and weariness of the years.
He needed supplies. A new litter of Scarbatos—adorable platypus-like creatures with a weakness for shiny things—had been born in his case, and they needed specific care. He had recently retired from the reserve in Arizona, passing the work to his children. His body could no longer keep up with the more energetic beasts. His wife, Tina, planned to retire next year from MACUSA, and they both dreamed of a quiet retirement in Dorset, surrounded by their creatures.
So lost was he in thoughts of this future that he bumped into an advertising board outside a bookstore. Recovering, he read: "Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone." The name of his old friend Nicolas Flamel's artifact caught his attention. A memory assailed him: Paris, decades ago, him, Nicolas, and others containing Grindelwald's fiendfyre, preventing Paris from turning to ashes. With a shy smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes, Newt entered the bookstore. The scent of old paper and magical ink comforted him immediately. He took a copy of the book, running his thumb over the illustration of the mirror and the red stone, and decided to buy it. Reading a story to the little Scarbatos, perhaps with Tina, would be a charming way to spend the afternoon.
Wales, UK
The fine, constant Welsh drizzle soaked Remus Lupin's threadbare cloak as he walked along the cobbled streets of a small magical village. He felt the weight of every one of his 28 full moons lived in every bone, in every scar that adorned his gaunt face.
Remus was not doing well. His face, marked by perpetual fatigue, was pale and thin. His clothes, though clean, were frayed and faded from use and constant travel. The life of a werewolf was an endless cycle of hope and disappointment. He would get a job, work quietly, in fear, and just when he thought he had found a place, his secret would come out and he would be fired with scorn and threats.
He had just been thrown out of an inn near London. Now in Wales, he was desperately seeking a new start. Passing a newspaper stand, his gaze fixed on a book: Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone. A pang of guilt twisted his stomach. Harry. He hadn't seen him since that night. The memory brought with it the ghosts of James, Lily, Peter... and the traitor, Sirius Black.
"Hey!" The voice of the stand owner, a short man whose enormous mustache seemed to have a life of its own, snapped him out of his reverie. "If you're not buying anything, don't loiter!"
Remus flinched. His eyes, a dull yellow, met the vendor's. But looking back at the book, he felt it was a thread connecting him to the past he had lost. He took a copy, paid quickly, and walked away. The vendor grumbled about "young people today." Remus, with the book in his hand, felt a mix of curiosity and pain. Perhaps, when he found a place to stay for the night, he could read it and find out what they said about his best friends' son.
Hogsmeade, Scottish Highlands
Augusta Longbottom was a witch of imposing presence. Tall and unyielding in posture, she wore a green hat with a stuffed vulture that seemed to gaze with the same severity as she did. Her face, though marked by age and sorrow, did not yield an inch in its expression of authority.
She was in Hogsmeade looking for a gift for her grandson, Neville. The boy had just shown his first sign of magic, and while Augusta was euphoric, a cold anger burned within her over the method her other son had used to "provoke" it. Her grandson was all she had left after the tragic night her son, Frank, and her daughter-in-law, Alice, were tortured into insanity by the Lestranges and Crouch's spawn. They were in St. Mungo's, their minds irreparably damaged under one of the Unforgivable Curses.
Seeing the book in the "Quills and Parchments" writing supplies shop, she sighed. She thought of the other family that suffered that night. At least mine are alive, she thought. She decided to buy it. Neville could read it to his parents during his visits. It would be a good distraction for the boy, a way to bring a little light to those gloomy rooms. With her elegant and determined gait, she rang the bell on the door and entered the shop.