Days of relentless snow had buried the grime of London's ancient streets, yet the sky remained a bruised, oppressive gray, signaling a more violent blizzard brewing on the horizon. On the weathered avenues, Muggle street cleaners strained against the drifts, fighting to carve out narrow paths through the white wasteland.
Amossta Blaine, clad in an old, dark-green overcoat, stood in a barren courtyard. He stared intensely at a half-finished structure, his pale violet eyes shimmering with a faint, unnatural magery.
Unlike the surrounding buildings, which leaned with the weight of history and Victorian character, this was a stark, six-story block. It lacked any defining style, resembling a dormitory with a dozen rooms on every floor. Once finished, it would house scores of people.
"Amossta!"
A call from the iron gates pulled him from his trance. He turned to see a middle-aged woman scurrying toward him, her face etched with worry. As their eyes met, a warm, genuine smile transformed Amossta's youthful face.
"Good morning, Mrs. Reagan."
"Oh, you should have sent word, Amossta!" Mrs. Reagan said, pulling him into a hurried, stifling hug before pulling back to scold him.
"My apologies. I hadn't intended to be in such a rush, but something has come up. I'll likely be tied down for the next few months, so I had to check the progress while I could." Amossta shrugged, his tone casual and light.
"Always in a hurry, this one," Mrs. Reagan murmured, her eyes swelling with pride as she looked at him. Amossta was the most successful child to ever walk out of this orphanage, a source of constant consolation to her. "Don't you worry, Amossta. Mr. Parker from the construction crew said they'll resume work the moment the Christmas break is over. Two months, and the children will have their new home."
"Yes. I imagine they're looking forward to it."
Amossta smiled and clicked open his weathered briefcase. He pulled out two thick stacks of British pounds and pressed them into Mrs. Reagan's hands.
Gringotts offered exchange services for Muggle currency, but their rates were highway robbery and their limits were strictly enforced. Amossta preferred a different route: turning his gold into bullion and selling it to the less-than-reputable jewelry shops of London. The losses were still significant, but far more palatable than dealing with a greedy goblin.
"This is the final payment for the project. Please see that it reaches Mr. Parker."
Mrs. Reagan's lips trembled. She had said 'thank you' so many times over the years that it felt redundant. She tucked the money into the grease-stained pocket of her apron, her eyes shining with hope.
"Will you stay to see the children? Little Hammer has been shouting for days, complaining that you broke your promise to spend Christmas with them."
"Give him my apologies, Mrs. Reagan. Tell him I'll bring him something special when I return for the summer."
"Very well."
Mrs. Reagan didn't hide her disappointment, but she didn't push. She knew that if Amossta were leaving so abruptly, it had to be for something vital.
Their meeting was brief. Mrs. Reagan had a dozen hungry mouths to feed, and once she departed, Amossta lingered only a moment longer before stepping out of the desolate yard. He walked east with a steady gait, passing the familiar, crumbling facades of his childhood without slowing down.
He paused only once, standing on a dilapidated stone bridge over a ten-foot-wide frozen river. He watched the ice for a long, silent minute before continuing toward a patch of wasteland dotted with spindly birch trees.
In the center of the waste lay a small cemetery, enclosed by a leaning, rotted fence.
" Ventus Tergeo. "
Amossta didn't even remove his hand from his pocket. He simply moved his lips, and several small whirlwinds erupted within the graveyard. They swept the snow from the rows of headstones and the dark gray pebbles of the paths before vanishing as silently as they had appeared.
"Sorry, Philena. I forgot the flowers."
Amossta stopped before a pristine white headstone. He leaned down to brush away the remaining icy slush from the marble face, then stood straight, gazing at the black-and-white photograph of a kind, elderly woman.
She was the woman who had raised him in the orphanage, the only person he had truly considered family since he was born—in the form of an infant—into this world.
As if sensing his melancholy, an owl perched on a nearby birch tree didn't hoot for attention. It simply tilted its head, watching him, occasionally preening its feathers against the biting wind.
"I have to go back to that 'magic trick' school for a few months," Amossta murmured to the stone. "The place is in a bit of trouble, and someone wants me to find something in the chaos. To be honest, it's not my first choice. Albus Dumbledore—that old man with the white beard who likes to 'accidentally' meet me in the library at midnight to tell me I should sleep more—he won't like what I'm doing. I don't much like being under his nose, either... but they're paying too much to ignore. It'll cover the children's education once the dormitory is done."
A bitter gust of wind carried away his sigh, but couldn't erase the frustration on his face.
"I wish I could remember the plot. I'd be in and out in a week with the gold in my pocket."
That single sentence revealed the deepest secret of the man standing in the frozen graveyard. Amossta Blaine was not 'native' to this world. His soul came from a blue planet where magic was nothing more than fiction.
The story of Harry Potter had been his favorite childhood read, but twenty years had passed since he received his Hogwarts letter. His memories were now a blur of half-remembered fragments. Ten years ago, when the owl first arrived at the orphanage, he had assumed it was a cruel prank.
It wasn't until a man with greasy hair and a hooked nose turned his bed into a toilet with a stick that he realized his life wasn't going to be a standard urban drama.
Since then, he had tried desperately to claw back the details of the "script." But he found only vague concepts: Horcruxes, Hallows, a scar, love, Voldemort, resurrection. The fragments were useless compared to the raw data he had gathered through his own investigations in the Wizarding World.
Even after becoming a master of magic, Amossta had tried supernatural means to recover his memories. But the information was stubbornly absent. No matter how he delved into his mind, the memories remained hidden behind a thick, gray fog, as if protected by an unimaginable power. Eventually, after nearly driving himself mad, he gave up.
"The Potter boy is a second-year now. He has years until graduation, so things shouldn't be too lethal yet. And Dumbledore is there... no, wait. Dumbledore is the danger."
Amossta watched his breath bloom into a cloud of white mist. A bitter smile touched his lips.
"Survival is a grueling business in any world, isn't it, Philena?"
The snow began to fall again. The owl on the branch gave an impatient, low trill. Amossta reached out a hand, and the parchment tied to the bird's leg zipped through the air, landing perfectly in his palm.
Dear Mr. Blaine,
I have finalized negotiations with the Board of Governors. The proposal has passed. You are required to arrive at Hogwarts by 8:00 PM tonight to present your investigative plan to Dumbledore in person.
Note: Lucius Malfoy was adamant in his opposition to an investigator, preferring instead to move for Dumbledore's immediate suspension. The Greengrasses were his only supporters.
Yours faithfully, Carcus Folly
The hurried scrawl spoke of the sender's urgency. The gray owl, having received no treat for its trouble, gave an indignant screech and took flight, vanishing into the snow.
Amossta closed his hand around the note. Under his touch, the parchment transformed, sprouting into a cluster of snow-white carnations.
"Do you like this trick, Philena?"
In the photograph, the old woman seemed to smile.
Amossta laughed softly. He turned and stepped into the blizzard. With a sharp crack of Apparition, the wasteland was empty once more, leaving only a faint whisper echoing through the birch trees:
"Is the train of fate ready to head into the unknown?"