The Ministry of Magic's atrium was unusually quiet that morning. Behind the grand, enchanted windows, the sun caught on the floating candles, casting flickering light over the polished tables of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.
Amelia Bones sat rigidly at the head of a large table, a stack of reports spread before her. Her fingers drummed lightly against the parchment as she stared at the latest dossier from Azkaban. Across from her, the head of the Unspeakables and the Auror Department leaned in, brows furrowed, each absorbing the implications of what they had read.
"This… this doesn't make any sense," Amelia said finally, her voice tight. "Every last one of them—Bellatrix aside, of course—are dead. There's no sign of struggle. No wounds, no traces of magical torture. Nothing. Except…" Her eyes narrowed as she traced the magical signatures recorded by the Unspeakables. "Every single one shows the unmistakable mark of the Killing Curse."
The room went silent. The Unspeakables head swallowed audibly.
"No conjured shield, no counter-curse, nothing," he said slowly, voice hollow. "Whatever did this… it was instantaneous. Absolute. The spell's mark is clean. Too clean. And the fact that there's no other signature… no residue of Apparition, no other magic… it's… unprecedented."
The Auror chief leaned forward, voice low and urgent. "You're saying someone entered Azkaban without Apparating? Without any trace of magical entry at all?"
Amelia's jaw tightened. "Yes. That's exactly what the dementors reported. One of them… one claimed they sensed a presence that simply… appeared. No entry, no exit. And they were repelled by it—distrustful. Agitated. Whatever this being is, even a dementor feels its presence as… unnatural."
"Bellatrix," muttered the Unspeakables head. "She's the only one who's gone. No body, no trace. Not even her aura lingered."
"Exactly," Amelia said sharply. "She's missing, and everything else… every single death eater… killed cleanly. By the Killing Curse. Whoever did this didn't hesitate. Didn't leave a mark, didn't make a statement. They simply ended them. All of them."
The room fell into a tense silence. Even the murmuring from the lower departments of the Ministry seemed to fade into the distance.
"How?" the Auror chief whispered finally, more to himself than anyone else. "How does anyone—anyone—get into Azkaban? And why?"
Amelia exhaled slowly, leaning back in her chair. "That's the problem. All the evidence, every report, every dementor account points to the same conclusion: whoever—or whatever—did this, it came from nowhere, killed everyone without effort, and left no trace. The only logical assumption we can make…" She paused, letting the weight of the words settle over the table. "…is that this person is responsible for all of it. And if that's true…"
Her gaze swept over the gathered department heads. "…then the implications for the safety of the wizarding world are… beyond anything we've ever considered."
No one spoke for a long moment. The horror in the room wasn't just that the death eaters were dead. It was that someone—or something—had crossed a line that had always been thought absolute. Azkaban had been impregnable. Untouchable. And now it had been emptied, silently, cleanly, by a hand that no one could track.
And the one question that echoed, unspoken but unavoidable, was the one that chilled every wizard and witch in that room:
Who could do this? And why?
The tense silence in the room was shattered by the sharp click of heels on polished floors. Dolores Umbridge swept in, her expression unusually serious, a parchment clutched tightly in her hands.
"Minister Bones," she said, voice precise and slightly shrill, "I have urgent news that requires your attention immediately."
Amelia took the parchment, glancing down at it, her brows knitting together as her eyes darted across the lines. Then, as if the words physically struck her, she let out a strangled, horrified scream.
"He... he did what?!" she shrieked, her hands shooting to her head. Her nails dug into her scalp as she tried to think of how she was going to deal with this mess that he created.
The room went utterly silent, the earlier tension replaced by outright disbelief. Even the seasoned Unspeakable and Auror heads froze.
The head of the Unspeakables leaned forward cautiously, reaching for the paper as if touching it might shatter reality itself. He scanned the words, and as comprehension dawned, his face drained of color. The parchment slipped from his fingers and fluttered to the table, forgotten.
The head of the Aurors leaned in, grabbing the paper next. His lips parted, then went pale. He let out a soft, rattled whistle, eyes widening to the point of disbelief. The parchment nearly fell from his trembling hands.
Harry Potter had cleared the mastery exams for four subjects. Not partially, not by some fluke. He had scored full marks in Charms, Transfiguration, Defense Against the Dark Arts, and Arithmancy. He was now considered a master in all four.
A heavy, stunned quiet settled over the table. Everyone present understood the implications, but no one dared speak. Because now he was not a master of four, but he was a master in all the five main magical brances. Potion, Charms, Transfiguration, Defense Against the Dark Arts, and Arithmancy.
And he was 12! Twelve years old!!!!
Harry on the other hand was already in America by now as he had departed yesterday night after dinner with Nexus. And even Amelia was there and now she was cursing him for not mentioning anything to her then. How was she supposed to deal with this kind of news now? Daily Prophet must have already posted it.
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Breakfast at Moonstone Dunvegan was usually calm. Comfortable. Predictable.
Not today.
The long dining table was packed. Petunia and Vernon sat closest to the head, flanked by Sirius, Percival, Edward, and Amaryllis. On the other side sat Ted, Andromeda, Tonks, Adorabella, Pandora, Xenophillius, Dan, and Emma. Plates of eggs and toast lay forgotten as everyone speculated about what Harry was doing in America.
Sirius leaned back in his chair, smirking. "If I know him, he's already causing trouble."
Percival snorted into his tea. "Causing trouble? The boy attracts it. He's probably thrown an entire department into disarray by now."
Vernon grumbled, "Must you assume the worst?"
Everyone stared at him.
Vernon sighed. "Fine. Yes. He does sow chaos. Constantly."
Just then, seven owls swooped through the open windows, each dropping a Daily Prophet in front of a different person. They barely paid attention—news came often, and most of it was nonsense anyway.
Petunia was the first to open hers.
She raised her teacup to her lips, glanced at the headline—
And her hand went slack.
The cup slipped, smashed against the stone floor, and tea splattered everywhere. Petunia swayed once, then crumpled sideways, fainting dead away.
"Petunia!" Vernon shot up so fast his chair screeched, grabbing her shoulders and trying to lift her upright. His voice cracked with panic. "Petunia! What—what happened?!"
Everyone leapt to their feet. Chairs scraped. A plate toppled to the floor.
Dan rushed to her side and checked her pulse, his healer instincts kicking in. "She's fine. Just fainted. Shock more than anything."
That made the rest freeze.
Shock?
Petunia was many things, but easily shocked was not one of them.
Sirius frowned at the paper lying face-down on the floor. "What in Merlin's name could—"
He picked it up.
His face drained of color.
The room erupted.
Tonks choked on her pumpkin juice. Edward swore loudly. Andromeda pressed a hand to her heart. Xenophillius blinked rapidly, like he was trying to determine whether he had accidentally inhaled Wrackspurt fumes. Emma covered her mouth. Dan looked torn between laughing and panicking. Vernon stared at the headline, speechless.
Sirius sank into his chair as if his knees had vanished.
"Four… four masteries," he whispered. "Charms. Transfiguration. DADA. Arithmancy. Full marks. He passed all of them."
Pandora, usually serene, grabbed the paper from his hands to double check. "These aren't honorary. These are the actual mastery exams. The real ones. The ones that take years—years—to achieve."
"And he did it at twelve," Ted murmured, sounding faintly ill.
Amaryllis placed a trembling hand over her mouth. "This... this is going to cause an uproar. Britain will lose its mind."
"Britain?" Adorabella said weakly. "Try the world."
Percival stared hollowly at the table. "The boy left for America seven hours ago. Seven. If this much chaos happened while he was asleep on a plane…"
Sirius dragged a hand down his face. "We are all doomed. Absolutely doomed."
Silence settled for a heartbeat.
"How... just how? I don't understand. How is he doing all of this? Does he have multiple brains or something?" Tonks asked groaning into her hands.
"He has photographic memory. He can remember anything he has seen once. Anything and everything." Vernon explained. "But that still doesn't explain how he understands mastery level stuff."
"Maybe it's just me..." Emma said. "But I'm not that surprised by this..."
Everyone turned to her as if she had lost it. And she explained. "I mean didn't Harry create an entire ship that could host 10,000 people in like 2 days?"
"I don't see how this is that much shocking considering we have seen what he is capable of."
Edmund seemed to agree with Emma. "Indeed. I think it was only a matter of time for him to do something like this."
For a moment, the room sagged under the weight of Edmund's calm verdict. It was at odds with the storm brewing in every face around the table, and somehow that made it land even harder.
Sirius let out a hollow laugh. "Only a matter of time. Right. Of course. Why not. Why shouldn't a twelve-year-old walk out of Hogwarts with more masteries than most countries have registered masters."
Ted rubbed his temples. "Do you understand what paperwork this will trigger? The Ministry will implode. Someone's probably already setting himself on fire in an office."
Andromeda exhaled slowly, composure fighting panic. "They will demand to know where he studied. Who trained him. How he did it. They will demand oversight. Access. Control."
At that, Vernon stiffened, but then laughed. "Like they would be able to control him of all people."
"Which," Edward muttered, "will only make them angrier."
Tonks slumped forward until her forehead hit the table. "He's probably stretching in some hotel room right now. Totally relaxed. Meanwhile half the Ministry is having cardiac arrests."
"Half?" Pandora murmured dryly. "Try all."
Xenophillius reached for his tea, missed the handle twice, then grabbed it with both hands. "The Prophet has already printed the confirmation seals. They must have received the results in the middle of the night. The moment this hits the public, Britain is going to go feral."
"Already has," Dan said, checking Petunia again. "Look at this. She's still pale. And she raised him. Imagine how the rest of the country's taking it."
Vernon stroked her hand anxiously. "Harry always did things… differently. We knew that."
"Differently," Sirius repeated flatly. "He bypassed every normal path to mastery and walked straight through the exams like they were crossword puzzles."
"Maybe that's just it," Amaryllis said softly. "He doesn't think like us. He doesn't approach magic like we do. For him, complexity isn't a barrier, it's a puzzle."
Pandora nodded, eyes distant. "He sees structure. Patterns. Connections most people never notice. That kind of mind could dismantle an entire discipline and rebuild it in days."
"And he has," Molly added. "Repeatedly."
Silence drifted through the room again, this time deeper, threaded with awe instead of shock.
Then Ted broke it with a weary sigh. "Well. America has him now."
Sirius stared at the headline again, then dropped the paper as if it might explode. "May they survive the experience."
The Floo flared emerald green in the corner of the room. Everyone turned.
Professor McGonagall stepped out, brushing soot from her tartan robes. She froze.
Moonstone Dunvegan was not the Dursley Manor fireplace she had expected.
Her eyes swept across the long dining table crowded with faces she very much had not anticipated on a quiet morning: Sirius, the Tonkses, three Lovegoods, the Grangers, the Dursleys, the Greengrasses, the Parkinsons, and the Weasleys. More than half the room stared back at her like she'd arrived in the middle of a crime scene.
McGonagall blinked once. Slowly.
"…This is not the Dursley residence."
Sirius coughed. "Ah. Yes. That Floo is redirected now. Long story. Very long."
Before she could ask, her gaze fell on Petunia, still slumped in Vernon's arms. Concern overtook confusion. With a neat flick of her wrist, McGonagall cast a gentle rejuvenating charm. Pale light brushed over Petunia's skin, restoring color to her cheeks. Her eyes fluttered open with a small gasp.
"Oh dear," McGonagall muttered under her breath. "That must have been quite the shock."
"You don't say," Tonks murmured.
McGonagall straightened, expression firming into her usual brisk calm. "I had hoped to speak with Mr. and Mrs. Dursley. And perhaps Mr. Black. I was not expecting…" She gestured faintly at the gathering. "…a full council."
Vernon cleared his throat, still steadying Petunia. "What's happened? Is something wrong?"
The professor hesitated, a rare uncertainty tugging at her features. Her eyes darted around the room, weighing her words.
Petunia stopped her with a small nod. "It's all right. You can speak freely. Everyone here is family."
The declaration landed with surprising solidity. McGonagall studied the room again, then inclined her head in acceptance.
"Very well."
She clasped her hands in front of her. "I assume you have all read this morning's news."
Every head nodded grimly.
"The Ministry is… unsettled," McGonagall said carefully. "Four masteries in a single sitting—and true masteries, not honorary—has caused quite a sensation."
"That's one word for it," Sirius muttered.
She continued. "But that is not why I'm here."
The room sharpened with attention.
"I have come because the Headmaster requests your presence," she said. "All of you who are considered Harry's family."
"And what does Dumbledore want now?" Edward asked, arms folding.
McGonagall exhaled, tension flickering briefly across her face. "He wishes to show you something. Something Harry created. Four days ago."
Confusion rippled around the table.
Petunia frowned. "Four days ago? But Harry didn't tell us he—"
"That," McGonagall cut in gently, "is precisely why you should see it for yourselves. I will explain nothing further. Words would… not do it justice."
She stepped back toward the fireplace, giving them space to rise.
"If all are ready," she said, composure slipping just enough to betray that even she was rattled, "we will go directly to the Headmaster's office."
The room exchanged wary glances.
Whatever Harry had done this time, it was enough to shake Minerva McGonagall.
And that was never a small thing.
The Floo deposited them one by one into Dumbledore's office. Only—it wasn't empty.
Every professor Harry had ever interacted with was present.
Flitwick stood near a globe of floating spell models, murmuring to Vector. Snape hovered in a dark corner like an irritated shadow. Madam Pomfrey had her arms crossed, brow drawn tight in worry. Thorne leaned against a bookcase, eyes sharp. Remus (History, not DADA) gave Sirius a tiny nod.
Even the portraits were awake, whispering excitedly.
Dumbledore rose from his seat, blue eyes widening as the sheer number of them kept stepping through the Floo.
"My, my," he breathed, amused and startled. "When I asked Minerva to bring Harry's family, I did not expect… quite this many."
He studied the group, gaze sweeping over the interwoven houses, alliances, and surnames.
"A clan," he concluded softly. "You've formed a clan. And knowing Harry, he orchestrated it."
The entire group froze.
"How..." Sirius began.
Dumbledore simply smiled. "Years of practice, dear boy."
His expression shifted, turning solemn as he approached Petunia. She stiffened instinctively, old nerves, old history...but Dumbledore's voice gentled.
"Petunia," he said quietly, "you have the gratitude of the entire magical world. For raising the boy who has done something no wizard has ever even conceived of."
Every professor nodded.
Petunia stared at him, words refusing to form. She could only swallow and nod faintly.
"You must be very proud," Dumbledore said warmly.
Petunia's voice trembled, but it was steady enough. "There is nothing I am prouder of than Harry… and Abigail."
A ripple of soft smiles moved through the room. Even Snape's glare softened by a millimeter.
Dumbledore chuckled. "Your pride is well earned."
Then his tone shifted, heavier. "What I'm about to show you has not left Hogwarts' walls yet. But when it does... the magical world will turn on its axis."
A chill went down several spines.
"I have met countless prodigies in my life," he said. "But this… this is the first time I have truly felt jealousy."
You could have heard a pin drop.
Dumbledore. Jealous. Of Harry.
Vernon sputtered. "E-excuse me, what does that mean?!"
Dumbledore glanced at the professors. They exchanged looks, and nodded in perfect unison.
He turned back to the group. "It is better if I show you."
He led them behind his desk, where a staircase spiraled upward.
"Brace yourselves," he warned softly.
They climbed.
At the top was a large door, simple wood, no decoration. Dumbledore laid a hand on the handle, inhaled, and pushed it open.
Everyone stepped inside.
They gasped.
It wasn't a room. It was a chamber, broad as a banquet hall—yet everything inside had been pushed tightly against the left wall, as if making space for something monumental.
And in the center of the cleared area stood…
"…a painting?" Emma whispered.
Not quite a painting.
Not canvas.
Not framed.
Not flat.
It felt like a gate connecting to an open field with a small castle in it.
Dumbledore turned toward them, eyes shining with an excitement so uncharacteristic it almost looked boyish.
"What you are looking at," he said softly, "is not a painting."
Before anyone could ask, he simply smiled, refused to explain further, and walked straight into the shimmering surface.
He vanished.
The professors followed without hesitation—Flitwick practically bouncing, Vector murmuring equations under her breath, Thorne grinning like a child at Christmas, even Snape slipping through with an unreadable expression.
The room fell silent.
Petunia stepped forward first, jaw set, fear and determination warring visibly on her face. Vernon followed immediately. Then the rest—Sirius, Emma, Dan, the Blacks, the Lovegoods—until the chamber emptied.
They emerged into sunlight.
A vast green field stretched to the horizon in every direction. Endless. Alive. Quiet.
Nothing stood in the world except a small castle—more like Dumbledore's version of a manor—sitting comfortably in the open plain.
Everyone turned in slow disbelief.
"Welcome," Dumbledore said, spreading his arms, "to a new space. A new world."
No one spoke. The wind brushed the grass.
"I built the little castle myself," he added sheepishly. "I… got excited when Harry showed me this place. Forgive the design. Interior decoration has never been my strength."
Petunia and Vernon stepped forward, voices trembling.
"What… what is this place?"
It wasn't Dumbledore who answered.
Snape did.
His face was pale, but his voice was steady. "This is a new world. A separate dimension. Crafted, stabilized, and accessed by Harry Potter."
Petunia's breath hitched. Her hands began to shake violently. Vernon caught her arm.
"A… a world?" she whispered. "Harry made a world? Does that mean he is— is he becoming something else? Something beyond—"
Dumbledore immediately stepped closer, lifting a calming hand.
"No. Not at all," he said gently. "Harry did not create this place from nothing. This realm existed—or was capable of existing—in theory. What he did was open the entrance. Connect it. And anchor it safely."
Petunia exhaled shakily, but her knees still wobbled.
"But," Dumbledore continued, turning to gaze at the horizon, "this is where things grow… extraordinary."
Everyone listened, breath held.
"Harry achieved something no wizard in history has even theorized properly. He introduced temporal dilation."
Percival stumbled as though someone had kicked his legs out from under him. "Temporal… he changed time? Meaning this world's time flows differently from ours?" His voice cracked. "What… what is the ratio? What has he done?"
Dumbledore's voice was soft.
"One to one hundred."
Petunia blinked. "Does that mean… one hour outside is one hundred hours inside?"
The professors exchanged looks. They remembered their own reaction. Their own shock. Their own disbelief.
Thorne spoke this time.
"It's… stronger than that."
Everyone turned sharply.
"Not hours," he said. "Days."
Silence. Utter silence.
"One day outside," Thorne continued, "is one hundred days in here."
The world seemed to tilt.
Emma grabbed Dan's arm. Sirius swore. Andromeda looked near fainting. Ted sat down in the grass. Xenophilius whispered something about realities fracturing. Vernon clutched his head like he was trying to hold his brain inside.
And Petunia....
She simply stared at the endless sky, lips trembling, eyes shimmering with a mixture of awe and terror.
Her son had changed the flow of time.
Not for minutes. Not for hours. For days.
Dumbledore let out a long, almost reverent breath as he surveyed the boundless field. Then he chuckled—quiet at first, then louder, until it rolled into a full, unrestrained laugh.
Not the dignified chuckle of the venerable Headmaster.
A child's laugh.
"If the Unspeakables ever learn this exists," he said, wiping a tear from his eye, "the entire Department of Mysteries will file for trauma leave."
The professors didn't even deny it.
Flitwick nodded vigorously. "They may never recover."
Vector looked like she was calculating how many laws of magical physics had just been obliterated. "Their entire department's research would be rendered obsolete. In one afternoon."
Remus swallowed hard. "They will need group therapy. Mandatory."
Snape pinched the bridge of his nose. "And firewhisky. Industrial quantities."
The group from Moonstone Dunvegan stood frozen, overwhelmed by the casual way the staff of Hogwarts were predicting a government-wide breakdown.
Then—slowly—the professors turned toward Petunia again.
There was no condescension. No softness.
Only gratitude.
And something close to reverence.
Flitwick bowed his head slightly. "Thank you. For raising him."
Vector followed. "For nurturing him."
Remus stepped forward. "For giving the world not just a child… but a force."
Snape hesitated—then spoke, voice low and absolute. "A herald of magic."
Petunia choked, startled. "I… I didn't do anything except raise him the best I could."
Dumbledore shook his head gently. "No. You did everything. You raised someone who will lift magic to heights we cannot even imagine. What he has done here… what he will do… it is not brilliance alone. It is heart. It is stability. It is grounding. It is humanity."
He smiled softly.
"And that came from you."
The words seemed to ripple through the group. Eyes widened. Hands covered mouths. A few people sank to the grass, overwhelmed.
Xenophilius stared at the sky as if expecting constellations to rearrange themselves.
Emma rubbed her arms like she was cold.
Andromeda whispered something about witnessing the birth of a new magical age.
Vernon tried to speak twice and failed, settling on sitting heavily on the ground with a stunned grunt.
Pandora clasped her hands together. "He created time."
"No," Ted corrected weakly, "he engineered time."
Tonks threw her hands up. "How is that even allowed?!"
Percival still hadn't gotten up from the grass. "One day… one hundred days… Merlin help us."
Sirius sank onto his back with a groan. "James, Lily… your son is going to give me a heart attack."
Dumbledore only smiled, faint but proud.
"This world," he said, "is the first ripple. Just the beginning. And when the magical world learns what he has done…"
His eyes gleamed.
"…they will never be the same."
Dumbledore's gaze drifted over the horizon, as though he could already see the shape of the future stretching beyond it.
"If he continues at this pace," he said quietly, "it will not be long before the world hails him as the second coming of Merlin."
Silence.
The kind of silence that comes when reality tilts… and everyone feels it.
Sirius sat up so fast he nearly pulled something. "Second...? Merlin?! Are you serious?!"
Snape scoffed, but it carried no usual bite. "If anything, that may be underselling it."
Flitwick nodded with grave sincerity. "Merlin created systems. Frameworks. Laws. Harry is… rewriting them."
Arthur exhaled shakily. "A twelve-year-old is about to give the greatest sorcerer in recorded history competition. That should not be possible."
Andromeda murmured, "Perhaps impossible does not apply to him."
Ted ran a hand through his hair. "Merlin's era was defined by the emergence of magic itself. Harry's may be defined by its ascension."
Dan laughed once—short, disbelieving. "My god… we're raising a myth."
Emma elbowed him lightly. "You say that as if he isn't already half of one."
Vernon finally found his voice… sort of. "Merlin? As in… Merlin Merlin?"
Dumbledore turned to him with an understanding smile. "Yes, Vernon. And I do not say it lightly."
McGonagall added softly, "History will remember Harry Potter very differently than anyone expected."
Petunia pressed a trembling hand to her chest. "He's just a boy…"
"No," Remus said gently. "He was a boy. He is becoming something else. Something more."
Sirius let out a hollow laugh. "I knew James' kid would be trouble. But this… this is world-shaping trouble."
Percival finally stood...barely, and stared at the sky. "If this is only the beginning… what happens when he reaches adulthood?"
Dumbledore's answer held no fear.
Only wonder.
"When he reaches adulthood," he said, "magic itself will evolve."
And as those words sank in, as the wind moved across the endless field Harry had unlocked, everyone felt a strange truth settling into their bones:
They were witnessing the prologue of a legend.
And the world—whether ready or not—would soon witness it too.