The Great Hall grew increasingly noisy as students discussed the day's newspaper.
At that moment, a neatly dressed middle-aged man hurried in, his expression dark and strained.
Harry glanced up between bites of breakfast and felt a vague sense of recognition.
"That's Mr. Avery—the one who was injured in the paper," he whispered.
Hermione noticed him as well and spoke softly. "He's probably here to take his son away. The paper said Dawn plans to kill him in two days."
Harry and Ron exchanged a look and fell silent.
For two first-year students, the subject of death was far too heavy.
They watched quietly as the man walked to the Slytherin table, called over a young wizard, and then led him up the shifting staircases of the castle with hurried, restrained steps.
Ron stared at old Avery's back and found he could no longer say the man deserved what happened.
He poked at his food and muttered, "Richter is just… the worst."
The moving staircases carried the two upward.
When they reached a quiet corridor, old Avery spoke in a low voice. "Murphy, you shouldn't have said that to the reporter."
"Father, I knew exactly what I was saying."
Murphy lowered his gaze. "From the moment he did that to you at the banquet, Dawn became an enemy the Avery family can never reconcile with.
And I will not show weakness to an enemy."
"There's no need for that," old Avery said, shaking his head. "Dawn is a complete madman. As a noble pure-blood family, gambling our lives against him is not worth it."
Murphy was silent for a moment. "Then what do you plan to do?"
"Spend some money. Let the people in the underground world fight him instead—dogs biting dogs." Old Avery touched his injured eye. "The most important thing is ensuring our own safety."
After thinking for a moment, he asked, "Murphy, how would you feel about transferring to Beauxbatons?"
The young man paused. "You want me to run away?"
"Run away? Don't put it so harshly. Think of it as a strategic withdrawal."
Old Avery patted his shoulder. "But if you insist on staying at Hogwarts, that's fine too. With Dumbledore here, safety is still assured. But Murphy—"
He suddenly stopped and gripped his son's shoulders tightly. "Promise me this. Until everything is truly safe, you are never to leave the school grounds."
Murphy pressed his lips together, clearly displeased. He had always been proud of himself.
But when he met the pleading look in his father's eyes, he finally turned his head aside and said dully, "I understand, Father."
"Good." Old Avery smiled faintly. "Don't worry. Nothing will happen. I promise you."
Skye.
The largest and northernmost island in the Inner Hebrides off the west coast of Scotland.
Though not vast in area, it was rich in marshlands and natural resources, its scenery beautiful and untouched—a paradise for those who cherished nature and seclusion.
At this moment, a Quidditch match was raging fiercely over the island.
The home team wore deep purple robes emblazoned with a golden five-pointed star.
The Portree Pride.
Founded in 1292, the team was hardly famous internationally, but it enjoyed immense popularity on Skye.
Leading them was a short-haired blonde female Chaser.
She leaned low over her broom, twisted sharply through a turn, and hurled the Quaffle cleanly through the opposing hoop.
"Ten points to the Portree Pride! A flawless maneuver! Captain McCormack has already secured forty points for her team!"
The commentator's voice echoed across the stadium, and the stands erupted with cheers.
Yet even with the crowd and commentary favoring them, the Portree Pride were visibly at a disadvantage.
Their opponents wore pale green and crimson-striped robes—the Caerphilly Catapults, eighteen-time league champions and victors of the 1956 European Cup.
McCormack was undeniably outstanding, perhaps the strongest individual player on the pitch, but the Catapults' overall team strength was superior.
The atmosphere was electric as the two teams clashed back and forth, drawing waves of cheers.
But Slughorn, seated among the spectators, couldn't focus on the match at all.
"Here," he whispered, pulling a small pouch from inside his robes.
He glanced around nervously before quickly stuffing it into Dawn's hand. "This is the Time-Turner you wanted."
"Got it already?" Dawn opened the pouch, raised an eyebrow, and glanced sideways at the anxious man. "Not bad, Slughorn. I'm impressed."
Slughorn wiped his face. "The Department of Mysteries' security was far worse than I expected. I just turned into a Ministry official I knew and walked right in."
To be honest, even Slughorn himself couldn't believe how easy it had been. At one point, he was convinced it had to be a trap.
Dawn smiled and took out the object, turning it in his hand.
The Time-Turner resembled a small hourglass suspended on a golden chain. Inside it shimmered fine, faintly glowing grains of some unknown material.
Its operation was simple: each full rotation of the hourglass sent time back one hour.
Dawn studied the intricate, mud-like runic patterns etched along its frame, then focused on the glittering dust within.
Such a miraculous artifact surely owed much of its power to this mysterious substance.
He was intensely curious—but since he still needed the Time-Turner later, dismantling it was out of the question.
He glanced at Slughorn. "You only took one?"
"Huh? Isn't one enough?"
Dawn shook his head in exasperation. "You finally get in there and don't think to take a few more?"
Easy for you to say.
Slughorn curled his lip inward. One might go unnoticed—but taking several? If the Ministry investigated and traced it back to him, he'd be finished.
He cursed Dawn silently for speaking so casually, but outwardly lowered his head and admitted he hadn't thought that far.
Dawn ignored him and turned his attention back to the stands and the Quidditch pitch.
He had chosen this place as the site of the ritual.
Once everything was done, he needed time to escape. To avoid Dumbledore catching up once the news spread, he had to stay far from London.
Ideally, he would have gone abroad.
But since his public announcement had appeared in Britain's Daily Prophet, he decided—just in case—to stay within the range where the "public message" would fully circulate.
Slughorn flipped through his newspaper and glanced at Dawn in disguise beside him. "You really intend to kill Murphy Avery on January seventeenth?"
"Of course."
"But how?" Slughorn asked anxiously. "Believe me—once Albus sees today's paper, he won't let your target out of his sight."
"Oh, that's fine," Dawn said lightly. "I don't need to do anything. Murphy Avery will come to me on his own—if everything goes smoothly."
He tucked the Time-Turner into his pocket and looked toward the match, which was nearing its conclusion.
His voice was calm and unhurried.
As if the matter were already settled.
___________
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