Chapter Eleven – Ashes and Green Flames

Hogwarts stood, as always, timeless and proud against the Scottish Highlands. The sky was moody, casting a greyish light through the towering windows of the castle. Deep within its stone walls, spiraled at the top of a turret, lay the Headmaster's office—circular, mysterious, and filled with quiet hums of magic.

Bookshelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, stacked with tomes older than most nations. Silver instruments whirred and ticked upon delicate brass limbs. A grand desk sat in the middle, its polished surface cluttered with parchment, ink bottles, and curious artifacts. Near the edge of the room was a tall golden perch, shaped almost like a chalice. Beneath it sat a bowl filled with soft grey ash.

A warm breeze fluttered in through a narrow arched window, and with it soared a magnificent scarlet bird—its tail like flames, wings wide with dignity. The phoenix alighted upon the perch, its sharp eyes watching the room.

An owl followed, clumsier but determined. It landed beside the phoenix and blinked rapidly, staring in awe. The old man behind the desk looked up, his half-moon spectacles sliding a little down his nose.

"Fawkes," said Albus Dumbledore, a gentle smile on his lips, "you shouldn't intercept the post just to show off."

The phoenix trilled smugly.

Dumbledore chuckled and stood, plucking the letter from the owl's leg. "Ah, let's see… addressed to me, from Alastor Moody." His eyebrows rose. "Now that's unusual."

He reached into a drawer, fetched a biscuit, and fed it to the owl, which took it gratefully before flapping back out the window—leaving the phoenix to preen in self-satisfaction.

The letter was short and direct:

"Open the Floo. Urgent."

Dumbledore sighed. "So much for pleasantries."

He crossed the room, pointed his wand at the fireplace, and whispered, "Ignis Aperio." The flames leapt up, shimmering emerald for a heartbeat before calming to their usual orange flicker. Satisfied, he turned toward the teapot and began preparing a second cup.

The flames turned green again moments later.

With a whirl of ash and heat, a man emerged—grizzled, battle-scarred, and more metal than flesh. His magical eye spun as he scanned the room, while his wooden leg tapped loudly on the floor.

Alastor Moody grunted.

He waved his wand once—sweeping the room, then again—checking the chair and tea. Only after both scans did he nod and sit.

Dumbledore poured the tea calmly and said with an amused note, "It has been a while, Alastor. I'm glad to see you're doing... well."

"Well enough," Moody grumbled. "I came because of a report I got."

"You never come here for mere reports," Dumbledore said, setting down the cup. His voice lowered slightly. "Is it… serious?"

Moody nodded. "It's about the Potter boy."

The room fell into silence. Fawkes, perched above them, ruffled his feathers.

Dumbledore's tone hardened. "What happened?"

Moody sighed and leaned forward. "I got word yesterday about a flicker of wandless magic at a Muggle primary school. Harmless, I thought. Sent one of my Aurors to check it out. Bit of a punishment assignment."

"I see."

"But he came back shaken. Said he saw two boys doing wandless magic. Young ones. Six, maybe five. One of them—Harry. The other—unknown."

Dumbledore blinked. "You didn't think to just write that in the letter?"

"I would have," Moody said. "Except I wanted to make sure it wasn't worse. So I went myself."

Dumbledore's eyes narrowed. "And what did you find?"

Moody's mouth became a thin, hard line. "He's not being raised well, Albus. In fact, he's being neglected. Starved. Locked in a cupboard most of the day. Punished for any sign of magic. Called names. Ostracized."

Dumbledore sat very still.

"I'm not exaggerating. If he weren't Harry Potter, I'd be expecting an Obscurial in a few years. Maybe sooner."

Lines formed at the edges of Dumbledore's eyes. "I wrote in my letter… I explained what he needed. I expected them to be cold, yes—but not cruel."

"You put too much faith in blood ties," Moody growled. "They don't care that he's Lily's son. If anything, they resent him more for it."

Dumbledore bowed his head slightly, as if the weight of the news pressed on his shoulders.

"I will look into this myself," he said after a pause, voice quiet. "Today."

Moody rose, grabbing his staff. "That's why I came. And the other boy?"

Dumbledore looked up. "Yes. You mentioned another."

"Name's Jonathan Grace. Muggleborn. Father works in business—manager or something. Mum's a homemaker. Smart kid. Controlled magic. Very controlled."

"Hmm…"

Moody headed toward the fireplace. "I'll keep my eye on the area. You take care of the boy."

Dumbledore raised a hand. "Thank you, Alastor. Truly."

The grizzled man gave a grunt and vanished in a swirl of green flame.

--

Privet Drive – Cupboard Morning

BANG! BANG! BANG!

"Get up, boy! Make breakfast!" came Petunia's shrill voice from above.

Harry sat up quickly inside his tiny cupboard, brushing sleep from his eyes. I locked myself back in, he thought proudly. With magic.

He crawled out and shuffled to the kitchen. Sausages. Eggs. Toast. He moved quickly, like a ghost in his own home. While the Dursleys ate, he made a small plate for himself and retreated to the hallway before anyone noticed.

He ate in peace. Cold peace, but peace nonetheless.

He had just begun washing the dishes when a knock echoed through the house.

Uncle Vernon scowled. "Cupboard. Now."

Harry ducked inside, heart pounding. He could hear footsteps—Vernon's heavy ones, and then the door creaking open.

A pause.

Then Vernon's voice—tight and suspicious. "What do you want?"

Harry strained his ears.

A soft, composed voice responded. "May I come in?"

There was a gasp.

Petunia's voice, tight and shaking. "You…"

Silence followed.

Harry pressed his ear to the cupboard wall.

Who's at the door? And why is Aunt Petunia so scared?

The door creaked open wider, and with it came the faint scent of lemon drops… and something older, deeper. Like books and fire and candle wax.

Harry didn't know it yet, but his life was about to change.

Again.