"A series?!"
The exclamation broke from Albus Dumbledore's lips with the force of a physical blow. The great wizard, a man who had stared down dark lords and navigated the labyrinthine politics of the Wizengamot for decades, found himself gasping for breath. He looked at Arthur Silas—this small, rain-dampened child standing amidst the tall grass—as if the boy had just suggested setting fire to the Great Hall.
"Why not?" Arthur retorted, his voice as calm and level as a stagnant pond.
For a long moment, Dumbledore was utterly speechless. He opened his mouth, but no words came out, his mind whirring like a clockwork mechanism struggling to find its gears. He had personally read every word of Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, and the experience had been harrowing. It wasn't just the prose; it was the terrifying accuracy. Dumbledore had long ago confirmed that Arthur Silas possessed a degree of prophetic ability that was as precise as it was unintentional.
Few in the world knew about the private decision shared between Dumbledore and the ancient alchemist Nicolas Flamel to move the Philosopher's Stone to the safety of Hogwarts. It was a secret guarded by the highest levels of magical security. Only days ago, Rubeus Hagrid had successfully retrieved the Stone from Gringotts and brought it to the castle. At this very moment, the blood-red gem was sitting temporarily beneath the ash-wood base of the phoenix's nest in the Headmaster's office, shielded by Fawkes's watchful eye.
Dumbledore's plan was to wait until the various professors had completed their respective protective chambers before moving the Stone into its final, trap-laden vault. Some of these challenges, such as the three-headed dog Fluffy, were already in place. Others existed only as theoretical drafts in the minds of his colleagues.
Yet, without exception, Arthur had written them all down.
If Hagrid had let the secret of the three-headed dog slip over a pint of firewhisky, that was one thing. But what of Professor Sprout's Devil's Snare? Or the enchanted flying keys conceived by Professor Flitwick and Madam Hooch? These were Dumbledore's most trusted confidants; it was fundamentally impossible for all of them to have leaked such sensitive information.
More disturbing still were the chapters regarding Professor McGonagall's giant wizard chess set and Professor Snape's logic riddle of potions. Both teachers had been far too busy with the start-of-term preparations to even begin constructing them. And then there was the Mirror of Erised—Dumbledore's own contribution. The Mirror was still currently in transit from abroad and was not scheduled to reach the castle for another week.
Arthur's book had turned the school's security into a public roadmap. Dumbledore sighed, the weight of a hundred years pressing down on his shoulders. He would have to scrap everything. He would have to redesign every ward, every trap, and every riddle from scratch.
The professors are going to truly dislike this boy if they ever meet him, he thought grimly.
Ignoring the malicious, vibrating tension from the six black-robed wizards who encircled them, Dumbledore looked back at Arthur.
"That is a very dangerous thought, Arthur. A very dangerous thought indeed."
"Don't you think it would be a pity," Arthur said, a sudden glint of entrepreneurial fire appearing in his dark eyes, "if a prestigious institution like Hogwarts, with seven full grades of history and adventure, only had one solitary book written about it?"
The boy was no longer looking at the hillside; he was looking at a global empire. To Dumbledore's horror, Arthur seemed to be mentally calculating the compound interest of a multi-book deal. A single book was a sensation, but a series? That was a legacy. That was a major intellectual property. He could see it clearly: comics, animations, cinematic adaptations, and a mountain of merchandise. It wasn't just a story to Arthur; it was the capital he needed to conquer the Muggle world.
"You! You insolent brat! How dare you!"
The grey-bearded wizard, Abernathy, was shaking with a fury that transcended mere anger. To a follower of Grindelwald, magic was a sacred, noble calling. To hear this Muggle child measure their hidden world in terms of royalties and "merchandise" was a blasphemy of the highest order. His withered, mottled arm snapped upward, and the tip of his wand began to glow with a sickly, pulsating green light—the unmistakable hue of the Killing Curse.
"Abernathy! I am still standing here!"
A majestic roar erupted from Dumbledore's aged frame. It was not a shout of anger, but a release of pure, raw power that seemed to vibrate the very earth. The dark clouds overhead swirled in a sudden, violent vortex, and the ravens perched on the nearby withered trees took flight, their panicked cawing lost in the sudden thunder.
"Dumbledore, there are six of us!" the hoarse-voiced Death Eater roared, though he took a reflexive step back.
In truth, the Death Eaters in the group cared nothing for the boy's prose. If anything, they relished the chaos the book had caused. A destabilized Ministry was a gift. However, their master, Lord Voldemort, was currently a shadow of his former self, existing as a vengeful spirit. He had been incensed to learn that a Muggle had chronicled his defeat. He had demanded the author's head as a matter of pride. These men feared Dumbledore, but they feared the wrath of their absent master even more.
"When did I ever give you the impression that numbers mattered?" Dumbledore asked. The terrifying aura vanished as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by a terrifyingly peaceful smile. He looked down at Arthur, his voice regaining its gentle, grandfatherly lilt. "Tell me, Arthur... are these current events—this ambush, these men—part of the plot you've conceived for your sequel?"
Arthur stared at the black-robed wizards for a moment, then slowly shook his head.
Dumbledore let out a long, genuine breath of relief. He finally understood the nature of Arthur's gift: the boy's prophetic ability wasn't a constant stream. It was an intermittent spark, a "fragment" of a reality that hadn't happened yet. If Arthur hadn't written this scene, then the future was still unwritten.
"You don't think those idiots at the Ministry of Magic will help you, do you?" the hoarse voice rang out with a mocking cackle. "We've already sent a diversion to Whitehall. The Aurors are busy chasing shadows while we finish the job here."
Arthur looked at the speaker with a clinical, detached interest. "I always thought that portraying villains as overly talkative was a bit of a literary flaw," he remarked. "A cliché to pad the word count. But I see now that fiction truly does come from life. You really can't help yourselves, can you?"
With Dumbledore by his side, Arthur felt no fear. He was a librarian at heart, an observer of narratives. To him, Abernathy and the Death Eater weren't monsters; they were archetypes. They were providing him with the very "local color" he lacked. He had been a librarian in China in his previous life, and now he was a penniless orphan in London. He knew nothing of British wizarding culture, but these men were giving him a masterclass in magical extremism.
"Arthur, he says we have no help," Dumbledore noted, curious about the boy's lack of terror. "Aren't you afraid? Abernathy was one of Grindelwald's most lethal lieutenants. The others are not far behind him in skill."
Dumbledore knew he could win the fight, but Arthur was a liability—a fragile Muggle who could be killed by a stray spark of magic.
"Actually... I just had an idea," Arthur said. His eyes shifted, and he pulled out his diary again, his pencil poised. "In this version, you get injured while protecting me. It's very dramatic. Just as we're about to be hit by a Killing Curse, the horizon breaks with light. Professor Snape and Professor McGonagall arrive with the rest of the faculty, leading a counter-attack that saves us at the last second. It would really raise the stakes for the mid-point of the book."
"No!"
Dumbledore's voice was sharp. He had just celebrated his hundredth birthday; he was quite proud of his health and had absolutely no desire to see Arthur's "dramatic injury" manifest into reality. Given the boy's track record, if he wrote it, Dumbledore would likely be in the hospital wing by sundown.
"You don't like it?" Arthur asked, looking disappointed. He glanced at the six wizards. "Do you all dislike it too? I suppose the 'cavalry arrival' is a bit overused. I'll change it."
"Abernathy," the Death Eater whispered, his voice trembling with suspicion. "This boy... he is too calm. Look at him. No Muggle acts like this. Could it be Polyjuice Potion? Is this a trap?"
The idea took root. Abernathy narrowed his eyes. He signaled to one of his companions, a specialist in the mental arts. Without warning or preamble, the wizard launched a brutal, piercing Legilimency attack at the boy's mind.
Arthur didn't even flinch.
The Legilimens recoiled, his face pale and sweating. He shook his head frantically at Abernathy. He had hit a wall—an impenetrable, lightless ocean of thought that refused to yield a single image.
"It's a trick!" Abernathy screamed, his face contorting. "Dumbledore has swapped him! This isn't the Muggle child; this is an agent! A master of Occlumency! He's stalling for time while the real boy is moved to a safe house!"
The logic was sound to a paranoid mind. Why else would Dumbledore be so relaxed? Why else would the boy be taking notes?
Arthur ignored their shouting, his pen flying across the page. "Mr. Dumbledore, how about this for a resolution?" He turned the diary around, showing a new paragraph of text.
Dumbledore read the lines and fell into a deep, contemplative silence. He looked at the page, then looked at the confused, angry wizards who were now convinced they were in the middle of a grand deception.
"I will remember this, Dumbledore!" Abernathy roared. He believed he had seen through the ruse. "You won't hide him forever!"
With a synchronized flourish of their wands, the six figures dissolved into plumes of black mist. They roared back into the sky, streaking away toward the horizon to find the "real" Arthur Silas.
Dumbledore watched them go until they were nothing but dots. Then, he looked at Arthur.
"You wrote that they realized they were in the wrong place and left of their own accord," Dumbledore noted quietly.
"It felt like a cleaner ending for the chapter," Arthur replied, tucking his pencil away. "Less paperwork for you, and I still have an afternoon meeting with my editor. Speaking of which... can we go back now? Time is money, Mr. Dumbledore."
Dumbledore looked at the boy—the ordinary orphan who had just out-maneuvered the most dangerous men in Europe with a diary and a blunt pencil. He realized then that the wizarding world wasn't just in trouble because of a book. It was in trouble because of the boy who wrote it.