While Alan Scott and his friends cheered in the warm Gryffindor common room for the birth of the Light and Shadow Matrix, dreaming of a new magical business empire, a completely different scene, and a completely different set of emotions, was unfolding far away.
Germany, deep within the Black Forest.
A gloomy ancient castle was shrouded in millennia-old mist, its cold stone walls adorned with tapestries depicting the faded glory of the Volk family.
The fireplace's flames jumped in vain, failing to chase away the chill in the study.
Helmut Volk, an elder wizard whose stomps could cause tremors in the German magical community, stared at the arrogant letter from the British Ministry of Magic with eyes bordering on madness.
His fingers tapped nervously on the ancient oak desk, tap, tap, tap.
The dull, repetitive sound was the only noise in the deathly silent study, a heartbeat marking the storm of frustration boiling inside him.
That brat Alan Scott, the first-year "Muggle-born" he had always dismissed, had cornered him in a way Volk both understood and despised.
Logic.
Bureaucracy.
Every word in that extortionate letter wrapped around him like a cold snake, woven from the regulations of the British Ministry, choking him, leaving him unable to breathe, unable to escape.
He refused to yield.
Or rather, his pride would not allow him to bow.
A burst of emerald-green flames exploded in his fireplace. Enraged, Volk appeared instantly in the vast, icy hall of the British Ministry of Magic.
He ignored the astonished gazes of British wizards and strode straight toward the "Improper Use of Magic Office."
He intended to confront the director.
He intended to crush these ridiculous, absurd accusations with his reputation and authority.
But reality slapped him harder than he expected.
The office reeked of cloying perfume. The walls were painted a garish pink and hung with plates trimmed in lace, each depicting fat, cartoonish cats staring at him.
Behind a massive desk, a short, plump figure lifted her head.
Dolores Umbridge.
She wore a pink cardigan and a matching, ridiculous bow atop her head. Her face was broad, her lips slack, and her protruding eyes made her look like a grotesque, overexcited garden toad.
Volk clenched his stomach and, with his usual uncompromising tone, laid out his purpose.
He spoke of "technical errors."
He suggested the accusations might be a false charge against the German magical community.
He demanded immediate withdrawal of the foolish warning and an official, written apology for the student named Alan Scott.
Umbridge didn't interrupt him once.
She merely sipped from a pink teacup, wearing a saccharine, fake smile.
When Volk finished speaking, she slowly set down her cup with a crisp, grating sound.
"Mr. Volk."
Her voice, like her office, was sickly sweet to the point of nausea.
"The technology of our Ministry of Magic… is absolutely flawless."
She paused, clearly enjoying the momentary stiffening of Volk's expression.
Then, a suppressed, high-pitched giggle escaped her throat.
"An official written apology… for a 'Muggle-born, first-year student who doesn't know their place'? Oh, ho ho ho… this is, without a doubt, the funniest thing I've heard all year."
The negotiation ended in the most humiliating way Volk could have imagined.
With a grim expression, he left the British Ministry.
The bureaucratic path had failed, he would take more direct action.
He mobilized his network in the German Ministry of Magic to pull up Alan Scott's family records.
He would find that brat's address.
Bypassing the Ministry, bypassing Hogwarts, he would privately, as an elder wizard, make Alan understand what true "power" meant.
But when his trusted aide, an archivist with thirty years of experience, cautiously transmitted the findings through magical communication, Volk felt his blood nearly freeze.
The family address for Alan Scott was covered with a row of flashing, crimson runes.
Top Secret.
Access Level: Ministerial.
Impossible.
How could a Muggle-born first-year student possibly possess a file protected at this level?
In all of Germany's wizarding world, fewer than five people enjoyed such treatment!
A name flashed across Helmut Volk's chaotic thoughts like lightning ,
Albus Dumbledore.
And another, older, deeper, far more inscrutable name followed right behind it ,
Nicolas Flamel.
Volk collapsed into his chair, his back instantly soaked with cold sweat.
He understood now.
This wasn't the prank of some arrogant first-year.
This was a carefully constructed web , flawless, deliberate, spun by Dumbledore himself… perhaps even by Flamel.
Every road before him had been sealed.
The path through the British Ministry was blocked by that toad-faced woman, Dolores Umbridge.
The path to the boy's home was protected , not by ordinary wards, but by a power so ancient and profound that even he, a master of curses, could not begin to fathom it.
And his great work , the research that could have rewritten the entire history of magic ,
his study of the Ancient Runes Library , had come to a complete standstill.
The "key" to it all was clutched firmly in the hands of Alan Scott.
Days bled into weeks, each one an agony.
Volk tried everything , invoked favors, called in debts, cast spell after spell , yet each attempt shattered uselessly against an invisible wall.
His temper grew wild.
The house-elves of the ancient castle lived in terror, scurrying through the dark halls like frightened shadows.
His once-proud intellect, his once-unchallenged influence , now seemed nothing more than a cruel joke.
At last, one gray dawn pierced the perpetual mist of the Black Forest.
Helmut Volk's strained nerves finally snapped.
He had lost.
Completely and utterly.
The proud, reclusive old curse master of Germany, once a figure whose word could shake the magical world, now found himself forced to bow , in pain and humiliation.
Slowly, he walked to his desk.
Each movement was heavy, as if every step drained the last of his strength.
He unlocked a drawer and drew out his most precious parchment , fine lambskin, shimmering faintly with a pearly sheen.
Dipping his quill into ink, he raised it, the tip trembling in midair.
He was about to ask for help ,
from a man he hadn't contacted in years,
a man who had always been his rival in scholarship and reputation,
yet the only one whose influence spanned the whole of Europe,
the only one capable of breaking this deadlock.
The humiliation burned like hot iron against his pride.
Finally, he took a long, shuddering breath, lowered the quill,
and in a tone of desperate humility , a tone he had never used before ,
wrote the words he had never imagined himself writing:
"My dear Albus,
I hope this letter finds you well.
Please forgive the abruptness of this correspondence,
but I've encountered a problem , a colossal one ,
that only you can help me resolve.
It concerns a certain student in your school,
a Muggle-born by the name of Alan Scott…"
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