The Minister for Magic's office lay nestled deep beneath the bustling streets of Whitehall, a silent sanctuary of polished mahogany, whispering portraits, and ancient secrets that had stood the test of centuries. Inside, Minister Cornelius Fudge was in a rare state of high spirits. He had just concluded a lengthy council meeting, and to his immense delight, his latest proposal regarding trade regulations with the goblin community had been adopted with a rare, resounding unanimity. He felt a sense of triumph that made the world seem brighter, the air in his subterranean office feeling less oppressive than usual.
He was currently humming a jaunty little tune, a popular wizarding melody that had been stuck in his head all morning. With a light, elegant wave of his wand, he directed a stream of boiling water into a delicate china cup, brewing himself a perfect serving of black tea. He watched the steam rise in fragrant swirls, anticipating the first soothing sip of the mellow brew. It was the kind of moment a man in his position lived for—the quiet after the storm of bureaucracy.
Before he could even bring the cup to his lips, the heavy oak door was flung open with a startling bang. A grim faced wizard, his robes disheveled and his face pale with a mix of exertion and terror, hurried into the room.
Fudge looked up, his brow furrowing deeply as he prepared a sharp, authoritative reprimand for the intrusion. He was the Minister for Magic, after all, and he did not care for his moments of peace being shattered so violently. However, the words died in his throat, replaced by a sudden, heavy knot of apprehension when the wizard placed a book directly onto the center of his desk. It was a Muggle publication, bright and gaudy compared to the leather bound grimoires that usually graced his office.
A few minutes of heavy, suffocating silence passed as Fudge scanned the first few pages. As his eyes darted across the text, his face underwent a dramatic transformation. The healthy, self satisfied flush drained away, replaced by a sickly, ashen pallor. His hands began to tremble, causing the teacup to rattle against its saucer until he finally set it down with a sharp clatter. He let out a panicked roar that echoed through the stone corridors outside.
"Go get Dumbledore! Immediately! Bring him here at once!"
Once the messenger had vanished, fleeing the Minister's wrath as quickly as he had arrived, Fudge stared at the volume with a look of profound, soul deep unease. He remained silent for a long time, the only sound in the room being the ticking of a grandfather clock that seemed suddenly much louder than before. His trembling fingers traced the golden title embossed on the cover, a name that carried a weight he could barely fathom.
"Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone," he whispered, his voice cracking. "Dumbledore, what exactly are you up to? Is this some kind of elaborate game, or has the world truly gone mad?"
____________
Outside the ministry, a sudden downpour brought a fleeting coolness to the sweltering August heat. The relief was short lived for the children of St. Mary's Orphanage, who had just spent the morning hanging bedsheets out in the yard.
"Sister Irene, why doesn't Arthur have to help us?" a freckled little boy asked. He clutched a heavy pile of wet sheets, looking toward the main building with a dejected expression.
"Arthur is the pride of St. Mary's," a blonde girl interrupted before the nun could respond. Her eyes sparked with defensive loyalty. "You expect a great writer to do manual labor like this?"
"He just writes stories," the boy grumbled under his breath.
"What was that?" the girl snapped, stepping toward him.
"Nothing!"
Inside the director's office, the boy in question was maintaining a much humbler tone.
"It is nothing, Father. I only want to earn enough to cover the tuition fees," Arthur Silas said, shaking his head gently.
"Arthur, there is no need for such modesty," Director Hughes replied, his voice thick with pride. "Not everyone your age can write a novel that becomes a national sensation in a matter of weeks."
Hughes, a man in his sixties, had spent his life within these walls. To him, the orphanage was not just a job; it was his home and his family. He had raised many children, but Arthur was different. He still remembered the day he found the boy. It had been a gloomy morning in a damp alleyway. The infant had been frail, soaked to the bone, and burning with a fever that lasted a week. When the baby recovered, Hughes felt it was a miracle.
"The publishing house contacted me this morning," Hughes continued. "Editor Theresa will be here this afternoon to deliver your school recommendation and your royalties."
"I see," Arthur replied simply.
His lack of excitement made Hughes sigh. He looked at the boy, trying to read the thoughts behind those calm eyes. Even after eleven years, Arthur remained somewhat of an enigma.
"Do not be so serious all the time," Hughes said, smoothing his silver hair. "You are only eleven years old. If I hadn't raised you myself, I would find it hard to believe you were truly the author of that book."
"I just want to ensure my future, Father," Arthur explained.
"Yes, yes, I know your goals. I won't nag you further. Go and put on a coat; the rain has made it chilly, and I don't want you falling ill."
"I will see you this afternoon, Father Hughes."
Arthur closed the door softly behind him. Left alone, Hughes looked at the copy of the novel resting on his desk and smiled. He walked to his glass cabinet, carefully placing the book among his most cherished items.
St. Mary's was a historic place, a sixteenth century church rumored to have been built by the illegitimate daughter of Charles I. But history could not pay the bills. The orphanage was struggling, tucked away in a remote corner of London where donors rarely visited. The electricity company had already sent a final notice.
In the dim light of the library, Arthur sat at a scarred wooden desk. He held a small pencil stub, scribbling figures onto a piece of yellowed newspaper. He was calculating the cost of Eton College: the tuition, the deposits, and the registration fees. He also factored in the medical costs for Sister Maggie, the woman who had cared for him since he was a baby.
"To change my life and save this place, I need more than just a story," Arthur whispered to himself. "I need resources."
He knew he was an ordinary person. His only advantage was the strange, vivid fragments of memory that had recently begun to surface in his mind.
A knock at the door broke his concentration.
"Arthur! I knew you'd be hiding in here."
Arthur closed his notebook and looked up at the girl in the doorway. "What is it?"
"Sister Irene said Father Hughes is looking for you."
"Thank you. I'm coming." Arthur stood up, carefully blowing out his candle to save the remaining wax.
"Aren't you curious?" the girl asked, following him into the hall. "Why he wants you so suddenly?"
"It is likely the editor, Theresa."
"I don't think so," the girl said, skipping a step to keep up. "I've been in the yard. I didn't see her. But I did see a man with a very long beard asking for the director's office."
Arthur paused for a split second, then continued toward the office. "Perhaps she sent a representative."
"You're such a bore," the girl pouted, stopping in the hallway as he walked away. "Can't you ever just have a normal conversation?"
Arthur reached the director's door and knocked softly. Upon hearing the invitation to enter, he pushed it open. Father Hughes was beaming. He gestured toward a tall, elderly man sitting in the guest chair.
"Arthur, come in. This is Mr. Albus Dumbledore. He has traveled quite a long way specifically to meet you."