The air in the director's office was thick with the scent of old parchment and the faint, lingering smell of the rain hitting the cobblestones outside. Father Hughes stood at the door, his face alight with the kind of simple joy that only comes from witnessing a miracle. To him, this was a moment of peak serendipity, a storybook ending to a morning spent worrying about electricity bills.
"Arthur, what a coincidence, isn't it? Mr. Dumbledore shares the exact same name as the Headmaster in your novel," Father Hughes said, his authentic London accent carrying a note of genuine wonder. He didn't step into the room, seemingly content to remain the bridge between the ordinary world of the orphanage and the extraordinary visitor sitting in his guest chair.
Arthur Silas looked toward the man who had occupied so many of his recent thoughts. He didn't show the wide eyed shock of a child who had seen a ghost. Instead, he maintained the same eerie, calculated composure that had defined him since he recovered from that childhood fever years ago.
"Hello, Mr. Dumbledore," Arthur said.
He stepped fully into the room and closed the wooden door behind him with a soft, deliberate click. He offered a polite, respectful bow to the man sitting by the window.
"Hello, Mr. Silas. Your novel has truly shocked me," Albus Dumbledore replied.
The Headmaster of Hogwarts sat with his fingers interlaced, his half moon spectacles glinting in the dim light. He watched the boy closely. Arthur's eyes were clear, showing no trace of the panic one might expect from a child meeting their own fictional creation. Instead, the boy was as still as a deep, lightless pool. Dumbledore felt a spark of genuine curiosity; this child had managed to throw the entire British wizarding world into a state of total upheaval with a few hundred pages of ink.
"Arthur has always been a bit taciturn, even as a small child," Father Hughes offered, sensing the sudden drop in temperature within the room. He didn't want this prestigious visitor to think the orphanage's prize pupil was rude. "Please, do not take it to heart, Mr. Dumbledore. He is a deep thinker."
"It is quite alright," Dumbledore said, a gentle smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. He reached into the folds of his heavy grey robes and produced a copy of the book. "Father Hughes, would you mind if I had a private word with young Arthur? A simple meeting between a fan and an author, perhaps?"
As he spoke, a subtle, rhythmic power emanated from him. It wasn't a violent force, but a soft, persuasive wave that filled the small office. Hughes blinked, his expression turning distant and compliant.
"Of course, I understand. A meet and greet. I actually have a few documents in the hall that require my immediate attention," Hughes murmured.
Under the gentle push of the suggestion, the old priest gathered a stack of papers and walked out. The heavy door thudded shut, leaving Dumbledore and Arthur alone in a silence so heavy it felt tangible.
________
For a long moment, the two simply stared at one another. Dumbledore attempted a light probe of the boy's mind, a subtle brush of Legilimency intended to catch the surface thoughts of a surprised child. He expected to find confusion, or perhaps the frantic hum of a secret being kept. Instead, he found nothing. It was as if he were staring into a vast, empty sky.
Realizing that silent observation would not yield answers from this particular subject, the old wizard broke the tension.
"Can you tell me, Arthur, why you chose to write this story?" Dumbledore opened the book to a passage describing his own mysterious and rather flattering appearance. He couldn't help but chuckle. "You've painted a very grand picture of me. A powerful wizard, a mentor, a man of many secrets. How did a child in a London orphanage, who has never stepped foot in Diagon Alley, come to know these things?"
"Because I need the money," Arthur answered simply.
Faced with Dumbledore's immense presence, Arthur saw no point in fabricating elaborate lies. The truth was his most effective shield. He paused, his gaze flickering with a sudden, genuine unease that had nothing to do with magic and everything to do with his bank balance.
"You didn't come here to ask for royalties, did you? Because I haven't actually received the first payment yet. The publisher promised it this afternoon."
Dumbledore's eyes narrowed into thin slits before he let out a sudden, booming laugh that shook the glass panes of the cabinets. He had been confused by Arthur's lack of surprise, but now the picture was becoming clear. The boy wasn't looking at a legendary wizard; he was looking at a potential lawsuit.
"Hardly," Dumbledore said, wiping a tear of mirth from his eye. "I only wished to hear how you created this story. After all, much of what you have written has already happened. The events regarding the Potter family, the details of the school, the very nature of the Philosopher's Stone... and some of it is currently in progress."
Dumbledore generally disliked using magic on children, but the stakes were too high to ignore. He tried once more to peer into Arthur's thoughts, pushing just a fraction deeper. The result was even more startling. Arthur's mind felt as though it were wrapped in a vast, impenetrable ocean. Every time Dumbledore tried to find a memory, he was met with the crushing weight of deep water.
It was the unmistakable mark of Occlumency, and of a very high order.
The Headmaster's mind raced through the possibilities. There is no Arthur Silas on the admission list for this year. The Quill of Acceptance in the tower has never missed a magical signature in centuries. Yet this child possesses a soul of immense power and a mind that can bar Albus Dumbledore. How can he exist?
"I simply had an idea," Arthur said, breaking Dumbledore's train of thought. "I imagined a plot, processed it into a narrative, and wrote it down. It was meant to be a fantasy. I didn't realize the world was so... literal."
Arthur felt a small wave of relief that his royalties weren't under threat. He was remarkably composed for an eleven year old, a fact that Dumbledore found increasingly unsettling. The boy sat down in the wooden chair opposite the Headmaster, his posture straight, his hands folded neatly in his lap.
The old wizard turned to the final chapter and whispered the words he had once said to a different boy in a different timeline. "Only someone who wants to find the Stone... find it, but not use it, would be able to get it."
He closed the book and stroked his silver beard. "A very fine idea, Arthur. But it is an idea that carries a weight you might not yet understand. In my world, secrets are the most valuable currency. You have just given them away for the price of a paperback."
"I am sorry if it caused trouble," Arthur replied, his voice tightening. "But surely I don't owe compensation? I don't have a single Galleon to my name. If the Ministry is upset, I can issue a public apology or claim it was all a dream."
"You truly are an interesting fellow," Dumbledore laughed, though his eyes remained grave. "Perhaps Hogwarts is exactly where you belong. You have the mind of a scholar and the pragmatism of a goblin."
"I'd rather not go," Arthur countered immediately. "I've done the research. Eton leads to Oxford or Cambridge. Magic... magic seems like a very narrow career path. I don't think learning to turn buttons into beetles will help me save this orphanage."
Dumbledore's smile faded. "You must understand, Arthur, your book has caught the eye of the Ministry of Magic. Cornelius Fudge is not a man of great imagination, but he is a man of great fear. This is no longer something that can be fixed with a simple Memory Charm. You have exposed our world to the Muggles."
He sighed, thinking of the chaos at the Ministry. "They see you as a threat. Or a weapon. I didn't want you to end up as a specimen in the Department of Mysteries, being poked and prodded by Unspeakables who want to know how you 'dreamed' of the Dark Lord's downfall."
"Is there no other way?" Arthur asked. "I can stop writing the series. I was actually working on something else to diversify my income. A prequel, of sorts. A story about a younger version of you and a man named Gellert Grindelwald... their summer in Godric's Hollow..."
Dumbledore's heart nearly stopped. The blood drained from his face, leaving him looking every bit his age. A dark, cold premonition filled his mind. The boy knew everything. Not just the public history of the wizarding world, but the shames buried in the deepest pits of Dumbledore's own soul.
He opened his mouth to speak, to demand how Arthur could possibly know that name, but his expression shifted instantly to one of sharp, combat ready alertness. His blue eyes lost their twinkle, replaced by a steel like hardness.
"It seems," Dumbledore whispered, his voice turning cold as a winter tomb, "that some people lack the patience for conversation."
"What do you—"
Arthur didn't get to finish his question.
The air in the room suddenly compressed. A violent explosion ripped through the office, the force of it blowing the door off its hinges and shattering the windows into a million glittering diamonds. Shards of glass, splinters of heavy oak, and chunks of stone were swept into a deadly whirlwind, all screaming toward the center of the room.
Dumbledore reacted with the speed of a man half his age. A dark, gnarled wand appeared in his hand—the Elder Wand, though Arthur only knew it as a description from his own chapters. With a sharp, whip like flick, Dumbledore conjured a shimmering, translucent barrier that caught the debris in mid air, neutralizing the shockwave before it could crush the boy.
The dust began to settle, but the danger was only beginning. Dark figures moved in the rain outside the shattered window, their silhouettes jagged against the grey sky.
In a blur of movement, Dumbledore was at Arthur's side. His withered, powerful hand gripped the boy's thin shoulder.
"You wouldn't want this place to be reduced to ruins, would you? The children, the nuns... they are in the line of fire as long as you are here," Dumbledore said, his voice urgent.
Arthur looked toward the door, thinking of Father Hughes and the girl with the blonde hair. He realized then that his "ordinary" life was over. The fiction had become a prison, and the walls were falling down.
"Where are we going?" Arthur managed to ask, his voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through his veins.
"Somewhere safe. Somewhere where your stories can be explained," Dumbledore replied.
Before Arthur could blink, the world twisted into a sickening, claustrophobic spiral of black shadows. The ruined office, the smell of burnt wood, and the sound of the London rain vanished in an instant. There was a sensation of being squeezed through a very narrow tube, a momentary lapse in breath, and then the crushing weight of the magical world took hold.
Arthur Silas, the boy who just wanted to pay his tuition, was gone from the orphanage. Left behind in the wreckage was a single, charred copy of a book that had changed everything.