Apparition is often described by the Ministry of Magic as a practical, high-speed method of transportation, a mere convenience for the modern witch or wizard. Yet, in the shadowed corners of history, it is remembered as something far more sinister. To the victim of a magical ambush, the sharp, whip-like crack of displaced air is the herald of murder, the sudden precursor to arson, or the silent footfall of a thief in the night. It is a spell that defies the physical boundaries of the world, and while common wizards view it as a daily necessity, its reputation is forever stained by those who use it to deliver death.
On a secluded, windswept hillside far from the comforting brick and mortar of St. Mary's Orphanage, the air grew heavy with the scent of ozone and impending doom. Arthur Silas stood on the damp grass, his small frame looking particularly fragile against the backdrop of a bruised, purple-grey sky. He turned his head, watching as several plumes of roaring black smoke tore through the atmosphere, descending like predatory birds.
For the first time since he had been found in that rain-slicked alley as an infant, a look of genuine panic flickered across Arthur's usually mask-like face. His breath hitched, and he looked toward the tall, silver-bearded man standing beside him.
"Aren't you supposed to be the strongest wizard in the world?" Arthur asked, his voice tight with a mixture of fear and pragmatic annoyance. "Dealing with these people should be easy for someone of your stature, shouldn't it?"
As the crisis approached with agonizing inevitability, Arthur's brow furrowed. He felt deeply troubled, not because of the cosmic implications of magic, but because of the sheer inconvenience of it all. He was, in his own mind, just an ordinary boy who had found a clever way to fund his education. He had written a novel to escape poverty, not to start a war. After realizing he had been reborn into the world of Harry Potter, he had expected some level of interest, but he never anticipated that his prose would lead to his execution.
What frustrated him most was the irony: his would-be assassins weren't coming for him because he had predicted the future or spoiled the ending of a war. They were coming for him because he, a mere Muggle, had dared to pull back the veil and treat their sacred, hidden society as a source of royalties.
Dumbledore did not respond immediately. His blue eyes, usually so full of warmth and wisdom, were now hard as sapphires. He intently watched the six black-robed wizards as they slammed into the earth, the black smoke dissipating to reveal figures of cold, calculated malice.
Dumbledore had already anticipated this. He had discussed the mounting panic at the Ministry with Cornelius Fudge, knowing that "Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone" had acted like a lightning rod for every old-fashioned, pure-blood prejudice in Britain. It was the very reason he had gone to meet Arthur in person. He had expected the Ministry to be difficult; he hadn't quite expected this level of fanaticism.
"Have the Death Eaters and the remnants of Grindelwald truly joined forces?" Dumbledore murmured softly, his voice barely audible over the whistling wind.
Among the six figures, Dumbledore recognized faces that stirred memories of his youth—bitter men who had once marched under a banner of "The Greater Good." Others were younger, their magic radiating a chaotic, jagged energy that marked them as followers of the more recent Dark Lord. They were not common thugs; they were the elite of the underworld, wizards who had spent decades honing their craft in the dark.
"Dumbledore!" the lead wizard spat. He was a grey-bearded man with a face like etched stone, his eyes burning with a hatred that had simmered for seventy years. He stared at Arthur as if the boy were a plague-carrying rat. "This Muggle child... he must die today. There is no negotiation."
To this man, Abernathy, Dumbledore was the ultimate traitor. Dumbledore had defeated their spiritual leader, Gellert Grindelwald, and had spent a lifetime advocating for the protection of Muggles. But even for Dumbledore, this was a step too far. As a wizard, Dumbledore was supposed to protect the Statute of Secrecy.
How could a Muggle child, who had lived his entire life in a derelict orphanage, write a novel that detailed the existence of the Dark Lord, the specific layout of Hogwarts, and the very secrets of the Philosopher's Stone? To the old-fashioned wizards who had one foot in the grave and were desperate to be remembered, Arthur Silas was a terrifying anomaly. They could no longer change the direction of the magical world, but they could ensure that their secrets were not turned into bedtime stories for the "despicable" Muggle masses.
"Your presence here," Dumbledore said, his voice gaining a resonant, commanding quality, "already violates the sacred agreement I made with Gellert all those years ago. And to think you have colluded with the remaining Death Eaters... it is a low point, even for you, Abernathy."
Dumbledore's gaze swept over the men behind the grey-bearded wizard. As he did, an immensely dignified and terrifying aura erupted from him. The grass at his feet seemed to bow under the weight of his power, and the very air grew still.
"Aren't you the one violating the Statute by protecting him?" a tall, thin wizard retorted. His face was obscured by a heavy hood, his voice a hoarse, rattling rasp. "The International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy was signed in 1690 to ensure our survival. It demands that we remain hidden, that no Muggle eyes ever gaze upon our truth. This... this brat has trampled upon that law. He has made us a curiosity for the commoners!"
The Statute was the bedrock of their society. If Muggles began to believe the stories—if they began to look too closely at the strange happenings in the world—the entire structure of the wizarding world would collapse. Although these dark wizards wanted to rule the Muggles, they were traditionalists at heart. They would not allow a child to expose them. They feared Arthur Silas because they suspected he wasn't just a writer; they feared he was a prophet of terrifying accuracy.
"The Statute of Secrecy, huh?"
In the middle of this life-and-death standoff, Arthur Silas did something that made every wizard present freeze in confusion. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, battered diary and a pencil stub. A flash of inspiration had struck him, and his fear was momentarily eclipsed by his professional instincts.
"A secret law to keep magic hidden... signed in the seventeenth century... that's a fantastic entry point for a world-building chapter," Arthur muttered to himself, scribbling furiously.
The six black-robed wizards stared in stunned silence. They were prepared for a duel that would level the hillside, yet this Muggle child was casually taking notes for his next project. The sheer arrogance of it—the total lack of reverence for their power—was more insulting than any curse.
"Ahem. Mr. Arthur," Dumbledore said, looking down at the boy with a mixture of exasperation and profound concern. "You truly are a unique troublemaker."
Dumbledore's eyes caught the words Arthur was writing. The boy was listing real, obscure events from wizarding history to flesh out his next "fictional" plot.
1790: The French witch escaping execution by turning into a rabbit... The courtier of King Henry VII who was revealed as a sorcerer... The 1932 Ilfracombe Incident, where a Welsh Green attacked sunbathers in Devon...
Dumbledore felt a massive headache beginning to form. Most adult wizards didn't even know the details of the Ilfracombe Incident. How did this boy have access to the archives of the Ministry? Arthur's pencil continued to fly across the paper, noting the laws prohibiting underage magic and the restrictions on wand ownership.
"These are just scattered materials," Arthur said, looking up at the dark wizards with a clinical eye. "Not enough for a standalone novel, but they would make excellent flavor text for the sequel. It adds a layer of political tension that the first book lacked."
He then looked at Dumbledore. "Uh, if you don't act soon, I feel like they'll really kill me. If I'm dead, I won't make any money. And without money, I can't pay for Eton, I can't repair the roof at the orphanage, I can't help Sister Maggie with her heart medicine—"
"Alright, stop!" Dumbledore interrupted, his voice a mix of a chuckle and a groan. He couldn't help but admire the boy's singular focus, even if it was maddeningly misplaced during a magical ambush.
"Dumbledore," Abernathy growled, his patience at an end. "The Daily Prophet has already carried the news. The entire wizarding world is in a state of hysteria. We will not allow a Muggle to turn our lives, our history, and our leaders into characters for entertainment! We will not be penned by a Muggle!"
The grey-bearded wizard stepped forward, his wand leveled at Arthur's chest. "Let's make a deal, Albus. You want peace? Give us the boy. If you step aside, we—the last followers of Grindelwald—will leave Britain forever. we will return to Nurmengard, to our Lord's side, and never interfere in your Ministry's pathetic affairs again. One Muggle life for the total withdrawal of your oldest enemies. It's a bargain even you must see the value in."
Abernathy had spent his life fighting for the "glory" of wizards. He wanted a world where magic was supreme, but he couldn't stand the idea of magic being a Muggle's intellectual property.
"Mr. Abernathy! You cannot be serious!" the tall, thin Death Eater cried out, his voice cracking with alarm. He had relied on Grindelwald's remnants for protection. Without them, the Death Eaters were just scattered remnants, hunted by Aurors and forced to live in the "foul-smelling gutters" of the wizarding world.
Dumbledore remained silent, his gaze fixed on the horizon, weighing the lives of many against the life of one extraordinary boy. Abernathy waited, his dead eyes locked onto Dumbledore's face, certain that the "Great Albus Dumbledore" would always choose the path that prevented more war.
In the heavy, expectant silence, Arthur Silas clicked his pencil and put his diary away. He looked at the six powerful wizards who were debating his life as if he were a piece of livestock.
"Um... actually," Arthur said, his voice clear and remarkably business-like. "I think we can find a middle ground. If you're that upset about the book... if you pay me enough to cover my tuition and the orphanage repairs, I don't actually have to write the 'Harry Potter' series anymore. I'm quite flexible with my intellectual property."
The hillside went silent again, the only sound being the distant roll of thunder, as the strongest wizards of the age tried to process the idea of a Muggle child attempting to extort them for his own retirement.