The Iron Gates of Whitehall
Sirius abruptly pushed himself off the wall, his eyes wide with disbelief. "You're going to what?!" He looked toward Dumbledore for intervention, but Hazel spoke before he could continue.
"Uncle Sirius, it's okay. I will be okay." She shrugged, though her expression remained guarded. "To be honest, the Tan Dimension will not allow the Ministry to do anything to me."
Marcel snorted from the corner. "The Divination Houses would be here in a moment if they tried."
Evervine frowned at him, her hand resting on her torque. "This is serious, Marcel. En is no longer used to magical wars. They have stunted themselves; they fear what they do not understand."
Hazel nodded. "So they will not—"
Minerva stepped forward and pulled Hazel toward her, her grip firm. "You do not understand everything, young lady. You said yourself that Voldemort knows of your existence. Open a portal to Diagon Alley." She turned a sharp, piercing gaze toward Dumbledore. "If something happens to her, Albus, I will be blaming you."
Hazel and her adoptive mother stepped through the portal, and the shimmering starlight snapped shut behind them. Before the others could process the departure, a dream gate opened. Evervine and Marcel looked to each other, the reluctance to leave Hazel palpable in the air. Dumbledore looked to them, his voice calm but heavy. "What can you do for her here?"
Evervine looked at Harry and George. "As soon as you know anything..."
George nodded, his face set in a grim line. "She gave me access to her dream labs. If we have to work on something to help her, we will."
Evervine and Marcel nodded in agreement and entered the dream gate. As the light faded, Sirius looked down to see Kreacher smiling up at him—a genuine, unsettlingly happy smile.
"Mistress Hazel fixed things, Master Sirius."
Sirius frowned until he saw what Kreacher was holding: the Black family tree tapestry. Sirius's name was no longer a charred hole; the gold thread had been restored, gleaming as if it had never been touched. Beside him, the names of Andromeda and Alphard had been restored as well. Sirius looked toward his mother's portrait—currently silenced and gray—and a slow, predatory smile spread across his face.
In Diagon Alley, a portal opened on a brightly lit side street. Minerva McGonagall and Hazel walked out, the air of the alley smelling of rain and expensive parchment.
"Mother, I am sorry. I had to—"
"I know." Minerva sighed, her lips pursed in that familiar, thin line. "I still don't like it. I would be more upset, but I know that your father would have encouraged you to do the same." She exhaled sharply and led the way toward the main thoroughfare.
Just before they reached Gringotts, they turned right down a narrow side street and stopped in front of a kiosk that looked like an ornate, vintage fortune-teller's booth. Hazel's eyebrows rose in confusion until the mechanical-looking figure inside shifted, its wooden eyes focusing on her and then on Professor McGonagall.
"How can the Ministry of Magic help an esteemed member of the High House of McGonagall?" the booth's voice rattled.
"My daughter, Hazel McGonagall, student of the Star Academy of the Tan Dimension, would like to turn herself in for using magic while underage."
Hazel glanced at her mother and then whispered internally to Gaelia. "Hide yourself as best you can."
"Already done," the mirror replied telepathically. "I have no desire to be stuck in the En Dimension's clutter."
Hazel fought the urge to look down at her side holster and focused on the booth.
"There have been no reports of—"
"It occurred at Number 12, Grimmauld Place," Minerva interrupted firmly.
The fortune-teller paused. It flipped over two cards—The Tower and The Judgement—and spoke again. "This incident is currently under investigation." Two shimmering cards dropped out of the slot: one bronze trimmed in black, the other solid silver. "Hazel McGonagall is ordered to go to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement on Level Two. Minerva McGonagall can wait within the waiting area on the main level."
Professor McGonagall opened her mouth to protest the separation, but Hazel took the cards. As soon as her fingers touched them, the ground below their feet opened in a perfect circle. A flood of bioluminescent blue light rushed up, and they were sucked into the Ministry's transit tubes.
The ride was a chaotic blur; they lunged sideways, took sharp curves, and looped several times before the pressure eased, and they were deposited into the grand Atrium of the Ministry of Magic.
They stepped out onto the polished dark wood floors, and Professor McGonagall walked them directly to the security desk. Hazel eyed the balding man behind the counter, noting his thick, drooping mustache. Without looking up, he spoke with a practiced grumpiness. "I need your wands and any magical items."
Hazel handed over her En Dimension wand. She knew that dimensional magics clung to a person like a scent, and she expected the sensors to react. The man, Eric Munch, waved a thin golden rod over her. He passed it over the Mirror of Indifference, but the mirror remained silent and "dead" to the sensor. However, when he passed it over her hair, a sharp, wailing alarm filled the Atrium. Munch frowned.
"What do you have in your hair?"
Hazel shrugged. "Nothing."
"You have something. Undo it."
Hazel undid the tie, allowing her hair to cascade down her back. She passed the tie to Munch, who scanned it—nothing. He looked at her, narrowed his eyes, and moved to pass the rod over her hair again.
Professor McGonagall moved forward, her voice like a whip. "I already reported that she attends school in the Tan Dimension. You are evidently picking up dimensional residue."
Before Munch could reply, a sickeningly sweet, high-pitched voice drifted from the shadows of the pillars. "Is there a problem?"
Minerva's jaw tightened as she looked at the woman in the fuzzy pink cardigan. "There is no problem, Madam Umbridge. We are merely checking in."
"Are you sure there is no problem, Minerva? The alarm seems to have gone off." Hazel winced at the woman's childish, forced voice. "We will need to detain this young lady. Mr. Munch?"
The man nodded, and as Minerva began to protest, Dolores Umbridge leaned in to whisper in Hazel's ear, her breath smelling of peppermint and stale tea. "School in the Tan Dimension? How grand. But all you need is here, dear. I will help you see."
It had happened so fast that Hazel hadn't had time to process the logistics. She now sat in a specialized cell designed to suppress unknown, altered, and wild magics. The walls were a stark, blinding white, and she sat on a glowing blue circle on the floor that had been calibrated to pulse in time with her heartbeat.
The Ministry had determined she was a "High-Risk Diviner." She wore heavy shackles on her ankles and wrists, connected not by iron, but by a chain of solid, blue-black light that floated in the air, forcing her limbs to remain stretched out in front of her. Finally, a silver and black cloth was tied tightly around her forehead. In the center sat a runic eye with three drops of blood dripping from it—a blindfold for the soul.
Hazel's entire body itched, a deep, magical irritation that felt like being wrapped in raw wool. She could still see the Dreamscape and the Layers—she could see the structural breaks in the walls of her cell—but the shackles acted like a lead weight on her will. She could see the escape, but she couldn't reach for it.
She knew this was Umbridge's doing. The woman's "sweetness" hid a rot far worse than anything in Grimmauld Place.
Suddenly, a tiny speck of light bloomed directly in front of her face, cutting through the darkness of the runic blindfold. She heard Shylah's voice, faint but urgent.
"Where are you?"
"I am in a cell in the Ministry of Magic," Hazel whispered.
"What!?"
"Shylah... how is Father?"
There was a long, agonizing pause. Hazel's heart dropped into the pit of her stomach as the silence stretched.
"He is dead, Bright Star."