Harry Potter : Cael Vale’s journey to Hogwarts

Deep beneath the humming lanterns and ever-turning gears of the British Ministry of Magic, within the veiled silence of the Department of Mysteries, an office stood shrouded in half-light.

A tall-backed chair faced a desk of old yew, upon which stacks of charmed parchment and ancient scrolls sat neatly organized. Behind it, the figure of a man, his face etched by years of quiet calculation, read through a brittle report with long, pale fingers.

Then came the knock—sharp and deliberate.

"Enter," the man said without looking up.

The door creaked open and in stepped Victor Ainsley, a junior liaison officer assigned to monitor magical incidents abroad. He looked winded, pale, and nervous—his robes still dusted with floo powder.

"Sir," Victor said, standing stiffly. "We've received confirmation. It's… it's about the Château de Gisors."

The man at the desk paused, eyes narrowing. "Go on."

Victor swallowed. "Our agent stationed in France reports that last night, the door was… opened."

The silence that followed was thick and heavy. The air itself seemed to hold its breath.

Finally, the man behind the desk leaned back in his chair and spoke slowly. "Did they see who entered?"

Victor hesitated. "No sir—not clearly. One witness claims the figure was a young man. Another says… well, it may have initially appeared as a cat. An Animagus, it seems."

"A cat…" the man murmured, tapping his fingers once against the desk. "And what else?"

Victor continued, "A pair of Aurors stationed nearby witnessed the figure perform what they described as a magical ritual—some form of activation sequence. After that, the door opened, and he vanished inside."

"The Aurors followed?"

"They tried. But the moment they stepped past the threshold, they were thrown back. The door rejected them."

"Hmph." The man's eyes glinted. "So the door is sentient… or keyed to specific magical signatures."

"Yes, sir. That's what both the French Unspeakables and our own analysts believe."

"And when did the door reopen?"

"Six hours later. But no one was seen emerging. No trace. No magical footprint. Nothing."

The man gave a quiet laugh, devoid of humor. "Then he was smart. Very smart."

Victor nodded. "The French Ministry believes whoever came out used some kind of high-level concealment—something that even evaded enchanted perimeter alchemy and magical tracers."

The man raised an eyebrow. "Then this was no amateur."

"No, sir."

A long silence fell again, and then—

"Did the Aurors see his face?"

Victor shook his head. "No, sir. Hooded. His build suggested someone young, but they weren't certain. The memories are vague due to the darkness and, possibly, a charm cast during the confrontation."

"Retrieve those memories," the man said sharply. "I want to view them myself."

"I've already requested them from the French Ministry," Victor replied. "But they're… being difficult. One of their senior curse-breakers, Francois, is particularly hostile."

"Francois has always been territorial." The man stood up slowly and walked to a cabinet at the side of the room. "What about the key?" he asked without turning.

"The one from the Irish highlands?" Victor clarified.

"Yes. Any news from the field?"

"Our agents are still combing the mountain regions and the ruins, but no signs yet. It's been five months since it activated ."

"Five months too long." The man pulled open a drawer and extracted a thin folder stamped Level 9 Clearance. "Send more. I want every scrap of land within a hundred kilometers searched. Caves. Barrows. Dead valleys. Use divination, blood magic, whatever it takes."

"Yes, sir."

"And send more men to Gisors. I don't trust the French to give us the full picture. I want our eyes inside that place."

Victor nodded quickly. "Understood. Anything else, sir?"

"Yes," the man said as he returned to his seat. "The most pressing task—those Auror memories. I want them here tonight."

Victor gave a crisp bow. "I'll see to it immediately." He turned and strode from the office.

The door closed with a soft click.

Silence returned.

The man sat still for a long time, staring at nothing in particular. Then he reached into a private drawer and retrieved a worn photograph.

The woman in the picture smiled softly, her features striking: icy blue eyes, jet-black hair, and a gaze that seemed to look through the very lens of the camera.

"Elara," he whispered.

His thumb brushed the edge of the photo. "Is it you? Did you finally step out of hiding?" His voice darkened. "Or have you joined them?"

He exhaled slowly and put the photo away, locking the drawer with a flick of his wand.

"I hope it's not you… if I ever find you again—"

He did not finish the sentence.

The clock ticked on.