Harry Potter : Cael Vale’s journey to Hogwarts

The thunderous echo of the door closing rippled like a shockwave across the grounds of Château de Gisors. The pale morning mist clung to the forest surrounding the ancient ruin, but all eyes—wizarding and otherwise—were fixed on the now-dormant stone archway.

Inside the command tent erected just beyond the castle's wards, chaos erupted.

"He saw it!" someone cried. "The door opened—fully opened!"

Dozens of witches and wizards, most wearing the insignia of the French Ministry's Département des Malédictions, rushed about in panic. For decades, the door had been inert—an impenetrable mystery even to their most skilled Curse-Breakers. But now it had opened, and something had come through. Of that, they were certain.

A tall, sharp-featured man with silver-rimmed spectacles and a raven-black cloak stormed into the center of the confusion. His name was Émile Francois, one of France's highest-ranking magical researchers—a legend among the French Unspeakables.

"Silence!" he roared, voice cutting through the chatter like a blade. "You all saw what I saw. That door opened. That means someone found a way inside."

He turned to a group of elite Aurors, his tone fierce. "I want this entire perimeter locked down. No one—nothing—leaves this castle. I don't care if it's a cat or a cricket—stun first, ask questions later! Do you understand?"

The Aurors nodded grimly and scattered in all directions.

"I'm authorizing a reward—ten thousand Galleons—for whoever captures the one who came out of that door," Francois added coldly. "Alive."

Just then, a voice—calm, clipped, and British—broke the tension.

"I believe I deserve to be briefed on this," said a man in a charcoal coat, bearing the golden crest of the Department of Mysteries. "I was sent here by the British Ministry to observe any developments regarding the door, per the treaty of magical cooperation signed in 1783."

Francois narrowed his eyes at the man. "You," he said with a sneer. "You British always want your slice of the pie."

The Unspeakable from England gave a cordial smile. "Only the slice we helped bake. Remember, it was our researchers who first suggested this door might be linked to the ancient Council of Magic. And your department has been sharing findings with us ever since."

"You also withheld information," Francois snapped. "Especially when that door key was stolen from your Ministry—the key said to be connected to the British-born council member."

"That incident was classified," the Brit replied. "We didn't want to spook the thief into going deeper into hiding. But I assure you, the suspect is still being pursued."

"Then pursue faster," Francois growled. "Because if this person—this thief—has found a way to open the door, then it is my soil they're trespassing on. And I will see them in our cells first."

The British Unspeakable nodded coolly. "Then let's both hope your Aurors are as good as their reputation."

Neither of them realized that just yards away, cloaked in the veil of Veyarum, Cael was silently listening to every word.

He shook his head with quiet amusement. Good luck finding me, assholes.

He turned and slipped away, feet light upon the ancient stone, heading for the same tunnel he had used to enter this place. The door behind him was shut, the spell still cloaking him in perfect nothingness.

⸻

The spiral staircase wound downward, deeper into the cold belly of the earth. For nearly an hour, Cael walked through the twisting stone tunnel, its torches long-dead but the path etched in his memory.

As he walked, he mentally conserved his magic. The Veyarum spell, powerful as it was, drained him quickly. He deactivated it midway through the tunnel—there was no one here to see him—and rested his magic for the escape.

He reached the trapdoor beneath the ruined chapel and emerged once again into the ruined courtyard of Château de Gisors, now crawling with Aurors.

But he was ready.

Cael raised his wand again, concentrated, and whispered: "Veyarum."

With a shimmer of magic, he vanished—completely undetectable.

The search parties were still scouring the outer ruins. Some had resorted to casting Homenum Revelio and detection charms, but none of them so much as twitched in Cael's direction.

Slowly, carefully, Cael made his way through the perimeter, down the slope and into the outer fields near the town of Gisors. As he reached the first cobbled road, the rising sun kissed the horizon.

His magic was waning.

Just as he stepped into the town proper, a jolt of fatigue hit him. His vision blurred. The spell faltered.

And then—he was visible again.

No one seemed to notice.

Tourists were beginning to gather for early morning visits. Vendors were opening their shops. Muggle life was returning to normal—blissfully unaware of the magical hunt taking place just beyond the town's edge.

Cael ducked into the nearest train station. He kept his head down, pulled out a simple enchanted wallet that he bought in France, and purchased a ticket to Paris with exact Muggle currency.

He sat on the bench and waited.

Within the hour, the train pulled in. Cael boarded with a few yawning travelers, businessmen, and a gaggle of foreign students. He settled by the window and exhaled.

Safe.

As the train sped through the French countryside, he watched the fields and forests blur past. In the distance, he caught sight of Ministry operatives still flying overhead, desperately scanning the area.

But here—inside this mundane world, dressed in neutral clothes with nothing magical about his appearance—he was just another teenager heading home.

Two hours later, he arrived in Paris.

He stepped off the train, wandered through the crowd, and disappeared into the morning streets. Eventually, he found a quiet hotel in the 8th arrondissement and paid in cash for a small room with a bed, a kettle, and a window overlooking the waking city.

Cael collapsed into the bed, exhausted. As his eyes fluttered shut, his last thought was of Rose's voice, calm and wise:

"When you're powerful enough, come back to me."

He smiled faintly.

"I will," he whispered into the pillow.

Then he slept.