Harry Potter : Cael Vale’s journey to Hogwarts

A few days later, Cael returned home from his excursion to Knockturn Alley. His robes were slightly dusted with soot, and his expression was grim. He had ventured into the dark heart of wizarding London in search of something forbidden—an unregistered way into France.

The reason was simple. Using the official Floo Network or Ministry-approved Portkeys would leave a magical trace. The French Ministry of Magic, like its British counterpart, monitored all international magical travel. As soon as Cael arrived and used his wand, it would be logged. And since he was underage—and technically muggle-born—it could lead to immediate expulsion from Hogwarts. Worse, the Ministry might even arrest him for violating international magical law.

And so, the back alleys of the dark market had seemed the best option.

Unfortunately, he hadn't expected the prices to be so steep. A black-market two-way Floo passage cost over 500 Galleons. An illicit Portkey? Nearly 1,200. Cael grimaced at the thought. He couldn't—wouldn't—spend that kind of gold. Not when he needed every coin for the journey ahead.

Then, a thought struck him.

What about the Muggle way?

It was 1993, after all. England and France had loosened travel restrictions. Muggles could simply buy a plane ticket, show an ID or passport, and hop over the Channel in under an hour. No tracking. No magical interference. No questions.

By the end of the day, Cael had successfully forged a believable Muggle identity. With the help of falsified documents and a fabricated family registry, he secured a legitimate British ID and passport. Officially, he was now "Cael Vale," a British citizen born in London to two entirely fictional parents. His real records had been destroyed years ago by Mama Linda, the head of the orphanage, to protect him. She had feared that if the government ever investigated the orphanage—especially after ordering all children to be transferred to official welfare services—they might ask questions about Cael. Since he was secretly attending Hogwarts as a wizard, revealing his existence could have caused serious problems for both him and the orphanage. To keep his magical identity hidden, Mama Linda had erased all trace of him from official records. As a result, he had never possessed any government-issued identification—until now.

Two days later, he stood in line at Heathrow Airport, clutching a plane ticket to Paris Charles de Gaulle. When asked where his parents were, he lied with a casual smile.

"They're already in France. I'm just going to meet them. I travel a lot alone."

A few hours later, he was in the sky—marveling at the wonders of Muggle aviation. The ride was smooth, the clouds endless. He closed his eyes, clutching his wand discreetly under his jacket, and let the quiet hum of the engines lull him to sleep.

⸻

After landing at Charles de Gaulle Airport, Cael passed through customs with barely a glance. His heart thudded, but no alarms went off. No Aurors waited at the exit. He was just another tourist in a foreign land.

He took a taxi into the heart of Paris—specifically, the 9th arrondissement.

There, nestled between elegant Haussmann buildings and boutique perfume shops, stood a seemingly ordinary fashion store. Mannequins turned slowly in the windows, cloaked in vibrant silks and flowing robes that shimmered faintly in the afternoon light. The brass sign above read: La Merveilleuse Mode.

He stepped inside.

Inside, it was lively—seamstresses enchanted fabric to stitch itself, while sharply dressed patrons examined capes that could change color with a whisper. A tall woman with a sleek bob and a measuring tape slung around her neck approached him, speaking rapid French.

Cael blinked. "Sorry. I—I don't speak French. I came from England. Just wanted to see your… finest fashions."

She narrowed her eyes, then suddenly smiled in perfect English. "Follow me, monsieur."

He did.

Through the back of the shop, into a side room, and finally into what looked like a storage closet—until she tapped a wand against the far wall and whispered a word he didn't catch.

The wall shimmered. A door appeared.

She turned and gestured. "Bienvenue, monsieur. Welcome to the magical world of France—Place Cachée."

Cael stepped through.

⸻

It was like walking into another world.

Place Cachée was vast—larger and more bustling than Diagon Alley. The cobblestone streets curved in gentle arcs, lined with open cafés, shimmering bookstores, wand boutiques, potion parlors, and clothing shops where enchanted gowns danced in the air. Everything radiated a quiet elegance. Even the witches and wizards who passed by wore sharply tailored robes and silver-accented boots. There was no mistaking it—French magical fashion was leagues ahead of Britain's.

He wandered through the district until he found what he was looking for: a wizarding pub.

Its name, Le Lys de Lune, was scrawled in curling silver letters above a weathered oak door. Inside, it was warm and dim, candlelight flickering across mahogany beams. Laughter bubbled from shadowed corners, and glasses clinked with quiet charm.

Cael found a table near the window and sat down.

Moments later, a server approached—and Cael blinked in surprise.

She was breathtakingly beautiful. Silver-blonde hair framed her delicate face, and her luminous eyes shimmered like liquid mercury. Her ears were elegantly pointed, her movements graceful beyond reason.

Then it clicked. She's a Veela.

He immediately slammed his Occlumency shields into place, forcing his mind into clarity. The allure faded slightly. Her voice, though in French, was melodic.

He replied in English, "French cuisine, please. Whatever you recommend."

She nodded and disappeared with the menu. He glanced around the pub. Almost every server here was a Veela. Even the matron at the bar, issuing directions with commanding grace, bore the same inhuman beauty. So this place is run by Veela, Cael thought. He was about to take a sip of the drink served to him when someone slid into the seat across from him.

He looked up, wary.

A sharp-jawed man with slicked-back hair and calculating eyes watched him with faint amusement.

"Is there a problem?" Cael asked evenly.

The man smiled. "Just observing. You're British, aren't you? You dress like a Muggle."

Cael kept his posture relaxed. "Yeah. I'm British. So?"

"How old are you?"

"Do I have to answer that? You haven't even introduced yourself."

The man chuckled and reached into his coat, withdrawing a badge. He laid it on the table. A gold emblem gleamed at its center: Ministère de la Magie, Département de l'Ordre et Sécurité.

"Agent Davoir," the man said smoothly. "I work for the French Ministry. Foreign wizard surveillance."

Cael narrowed his eyes. So they're already on me.

Davoi continued, his English tinged with a French accent. "We monitor magical entries. You didn't come by Portkey. Not by Floo, either. You're not registered. That's unusual."

"I came legally," Cael said calmly. "Via Muggle travel. There's no law against that, is there?"

"Non," Davoir said. "There is not. But you are underage. And unregistered wand use by foreign minors is a… sensitive issue. Especially if you're—how do you say?—'uninvited.'"

Cael leaned back. "Then it's simple. I'm just visiting. I haven't cast a single spell."

The man studied him for a long moment. Then, slowly, he smiled.

"Très bien. But know this, monsieur. If I see even a flicker of light from your wand, I will be there. We do not like surprises in Paris."

With that, he rose from the table, adjusted his coat, and walked away, disappearing into the shadows of the pub.

Cael exhaled slowly.

"Fantastic. Now I've got a stalker."

He downed the rest of his drink, leaned back, and stared into the flickering candlelight.