The robust meal and the shared Redcurrant Rum had created a rare moment of relaxed camaraderie in the Leaky Cauldron. As the trio—Anduin, Hagrid, and the marginally sober Tom—settled in, the inevitable topic of the escalating conflict dominated the conversation.
"Those Death Eaters are nothing but skulking vipers," Hagrid grumbled, clearly still angry despite the warmth of the rum. He took a deep, shuddering breath. "They only pop out of the shadows to bite when you've turned your back."
"But it feels quiet lately, Hagrid," Anduin observed, noting the lack of major incidents in the Daily Prophet over the last week. "Has the Ministry managed to contain them, or are they lying low?"
"Hiccup... Low, lad. They're definitely planning something new," Hagrid slurred, his massive head bobbing precariously. "But they forget one thing: we have Dumbledore's Order of the Phoenix. We'll win this war, mark my words."
Anduin seized the opportunity for more tactical intelligence. "The Ministry of Magic is the formal, regular army, so to speak. Why did Dumbledore establish a separate, private armed force like the Order of the Phoenix? Doesn't that complicate command structure and security?"
Hagrid leaned in conspiratorially, his breath smelling heavily of rum and dragon liver. "Because the Dark Lord is too good at twisting minds. The Ministry can't be fully trusted, see? There are too many influential vipers within the Ministry who sympathize with the Dark Lord's blood purity rubbish. Nobody knows who to trust! Dumbledore says we must fight secrecy with secrecy." He paused, then whispered loudly, "And besides, a lot of the best Aurors in the Ministry? They're already members of the Order, just working undercover!"
Anduin felt a surge of professional alarm. This giant is casually revealing top-tier intelligence while drunk! The Order of the Phoenix was effectively operating a shadow government parallel to an infiltrated Ministry. The security of the Wizarding World was resting on a web of secrets and overlapping loyalties. This was a precarious state of affairs, indeed.
The conversation dragged late into the evening. Finally, Hagrid's blurry eyes focused on the grandfather clock. "Blast! It's past curfew. Gotta get back to the grounds."
"Be careful, Hagrid," Tom reminded him, nearly sliding off his stool in his own inebriation. "The Floo Network here collapsed weeks ago. Those blasted Death Eaters ruined the Department of Magical Transport's communication lines, and they haven't had anyone to fix it."
"Ah, don't worry about me," Hagrid dismissed the concern with a wave. "I'll just nip over to Borgin and Burkes in Knockturn Alley. That dark magic shop stays open late, and they always keep their Floo connection working, no matter what."
Anduin saw Hagrid's massive, swaying form and felt a jolt of worry. Sending this giant—a walking information leak—staggering through the dangerous, dark back alleys was asking for trouble.
Feeling unusually warm and perhaps a little too confident from the dragon liver and the late hour, Anduin offered a courtesy he immediately regretted.
"I'll walk with you, Hagrid. Knockturn Alley is only a short distance. I need to stretch my legs, and frankly, I'd be curious to see what Borgin and Burkes looks like. Tom is unconscious anyway."
Hagrid, thoroughly intoxicated, agreed without hesitation.
The transition from the dimly lit Diagon Alley to the oppressive, suffocating darkness of Knockturn Alley was immediate. The buildings here were shadowed, their windows shuttered, radiating an aura of decay and ill intent.
Borgin and Burkes was the only shop showing light. It was a macabre spectacle: dusty, dark, and filled with terrifying curiosities. Scary, skull-like masks hung from the rafters, a withered human hand rested on a cushion in a glass case, and a chilling glass eye seemed to follow Anduin's movements.
"Hiccup! Anduin, don't touch anything, lad. This ain't a safe place. You never know what curse they've stuck on these things," Hagrid warned, ironically offering the only sober advice of the night.
Hagrid lumbered over to the fireplace, grabbed a handful of glittering Floo Powder, and bellowed, "Hogsmeade!" before vanishing in a swirl of emerald flame.
They don't even have a counter attendant, Anduin noted, looking around the empty shop floor. They trust the ambient curses to protect their inventory.
Anduin quickly left the oppressive gloom of the shop. He was halfway back down the narrow lane connecting Borgin and Burkes to the main thoroughfare of Knockturn Alley when he saw it.
A figure, moving with unnatural speed and desperation, shot past the far entrance to the alley. The speed of the movement was so fast that the wizard seemed to blur—a distinct Ghost Effect.
Anduin instantly reacted. Every sense, honed by years of martial discipline and recent magical training, screamed danger. He immediately dropped his body, extinguishing the weak light from the small lamp he carried and flattening himself against a protruding stone pillar lining the narrow street. He went from walking to a state of near-invisibility in less than a second.
The fleeing figure—evidently being pursued—collided with a stack of empty crates a few yards away, sending wood scattering and making a loud, panicky noise. The man sprinted past Anduin's hidden position, heading deeper into the labyrinthine alleys.
Friend or foe? Unknown. Priority: Concealment. Anduin felt a fleeting moment of annoyance at his own lapse in judgment. The dragon liver had warmed his blood, dulling his tactical alertness.
Then, the danger became real.
Two distinct plumes of swirling black smoke descended rapidly from the sky, resolving themselves instantly into two figures dressed in the standard uniform of terror: long black robes and stark white skull masks.
Death Eaters.
The reality of the war hit Anduin with the force of a physical blow.
One Death Eater immediately raised his wand and fired a hostile spell at the fleeing figure. The pursued wizard, forced to abandon his flight, whirled around, brandishing his wand. He deflected the curse, which missed wide and struck a large wooden barrel near the street exit, splintering it violently.
The intense, rapid-fire magical exchange began. The fugitive was now trapped at the end of the alley, facing two heavily armed, merciless opponents. Anduin was perfectly positioned behind the two Death Eaters, hidden by the shadows and the clutter of the dark street.
An undeserved disaster, Anduin thought, breathing deeply to stabilize his racing heart. Now I am trapped behind enemy lines in an active firefight.
The fight was intense, punctuated by shouts and flashes of colored light. Anduin heard the scornful voice of the leading Death Eater, his face illuminated by a passing spark of green light.
"Sirius, you sniveling brat, don't think that mask hides your stench! I can smell the filth of your lineage from a hundred meters away!" The Death Eater's voice was sharp, aristocratic, and laced with arrogance.
The man being pursued—Sirius—retorted amidst the chaos. "Slug, you idiot! Do you still have the breath to mouth off? I won't miss this time!"
"Stop talking, you fool! Finish him! The Master expects a report quickly!" the second Death Eater urged, stepping back, his wand tip glowing with a dangerous, building power, clearly preparing a decisive curse.
Anduin recognized the name. Sirius Black. A major character, a pure-blood from a complex family, likely a member of the Order of the Phoenix. He was currently fighting a deadly, uneven battle.
Anduin was faced with a stark, immediate tactical choice:
Remain Hidden: The safest option. Wait for the duel to pass and sneak away. This meant potentially allowing a member of Dumbledore's secret force to be captured or killed.
Intervene: Risky, but possible. He was positioned perfectly for a flanking attack, completely unnoticed by the two Death Eaters focused on their target.
The danger of exposure was immense, but the opportunity was fleeting. The second Death Eater was charging a powerful spell.
I have the Air Ball, Anduin realized, his mind racing. A silent, invisible, kinetic shot. I can breach the structure of their formation.
His decision was made not out of heroism, but out of cold, strategic necessity. Protecting the Order of the Phoenix, however tangentially, served Dumbledore's cause, and thus, his own future safety at Hogwarts. He had to prove his worth, even if he couldn't take credit for it.
He silently drew his Ebony Wand, Dark Picture. The time for theoretical training was over. It was time for the Air Ball's baptism by fire.