Germany, deep within the Black Forest.
The ancient castle, shrouded in legend and heavy clouds, perched atop the mountain like a dormant beast. Its stone exterior, worn and pitted by time and wind, exuded an ominous chill that warned strangers to stay away.
In the alchemy laboratory at the topmost floor, the air was thick with the strange scent of ozone mixed with scorched feathers.
Helmut Volk stood amid the wreckage. His deeply lined face twitched as muscles contorted from extreme rage, his sunken eyes burning with the last flickers of controlled rationality.
At his feet lay a shattered crystal ball, used for divination, its fragments flickering weakly. Charred raven feathers were scattered nearby , the failed remnants of astral tracking. In the corner, the bloodline resonance array's ruby core had gone dim, signaling yet another futile attempt.
Every method had been exhausted.
All the tracking magic that would strike fear into any witch or wizard, all the forbidden divination arts that could peer into the future, had failed against that damned British brat. His trail was cloaked in an impenetrable mist, as if erased from existence itself.
"Alan Scott…"
Volk ground out the name between clenched teeth, each syllable dripping with icy hatred.
Because of this name, his lifelong research, the grand project that could have overturned the entire European magical order , the study of the Ancient Rune Library , had been forcibly halted.
The "rune key" was the key to everything. And now, the key was gone.
Volk's chest heaved violently, his heavy breaths echoing through the empty lab. He felt like a caged beast, all his power trapped with nowhere to unleash it.
After all advanced magic had failed, a thought he despised most , and was most reluctant to consider , surfaced unbidden:
Connections.
The word made him feel physically ill. For a researcher immersed in pure knowledge and power, seeking aid from those vulgar, tangled networks of influence was a disgrace.
But he had no choice.
He sifted through the dust of memory and finally settled on a name , one he hadn't contacted in years, but with whom he had maintained a decent rapport:
Arthur Weasley.
Volk remembered him. A low-ranking official in the British Ministry of Magic, a good-natured man who spent his days dealing with Muggle contraptions, unambitious and harmless.
But he also remembered Arthur's extraordinary connections. His network, like creeping vines, seemed inconspicuous but reached into every corner of the Ministry. He always knew things others didn't.
Volk moved to a dark oak desk and drew out an expensive sheet of parchment. With a quill dipped in enchanted ink, he wrote swiftly.
The letter was simple and carefully disguised. He never mentioned the existence of the "rune key," merely claiming that a very important research material had been "mistakenly taken" by a first-year student named Alan Scott. He pleaded with Arthur to use his position in the Ministry to discreetly track down the student and return the material to its proper place.
When the letter was finished, a proud-looking eagle-owl took it silently and merged with the night outside.
Meanwhile, in London, at the Ministry of Magic…
In an office cluttered with Muggle items, so packed that it was hard to find a place to step, Arthur Weasley was holding a screwdriver, tinkering with a sizzling toaster that looked ready to explode , his daily research.
A faint smell of burnt food lingered in the air.
The arrival of an owl interrupted his work.
He retrieved the letter, transmitted via encrypted magic. The runes on the ink shimmered and, at his touch, spread like ripples in water, revealing the writing beneath.
It was a letter from Helmut Volk.
Arthur was surprised. He hadn't expected any contact from the notoriously temperamental German wizard.
He read the letter carefully, word by word. At first, his expression was relaxed, even thinking Volk was overreacting. After all, wasn't it just a case of a research material being mistakenly taken by a student?
However, the moment his eyes landed on the name, his actions froze.
"Alan Scott."
The screwdriver in Arthur's hand slipped to the floor with a clatter.
He slowly removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes hard, as if trying to make sure he hadn't misread it.
Alan?
The Alan?
The Alan that Fred and George admired as their "genius friend"?
Instantly, Arthur Weasley's brain , usually occupied with Muggle wires and plugs , kicked into overdrive. He immediately realized this matter was far from the simple "mistaken taken" Volk claimed.
Mistaken taken? There was no way someone his sons genuinely revered as a genius could commit such a basic error.
Arthur knew his sons well. They might be mischievous or trouble-prone, but their judgment was razor-sharp. Anyone they admired sincerely, especially those proud twins, could not be ordinary , they were of "star-level" caliber.
Volk was lying.
Or, at the very least, he was hiding something crucial.
Without hesitation, Arthur pushed the sparking toaster aside, spread out a fresh sheet of parchment, and took up his quill. He began drafting a reply to Alan, informing him in full about Volk's letter.
When Alan, visiting the Burrow, heard the name Helmut Volk and the story of "mistakenly taken research material" from Arthur's own mouth, his calm expression remained unchanged.
Yet deep in his mind, an information storm raged at unprecedented speed.
Germany… illegal magic accusation… research material…
All seemingly unrelated fragments instantly snapped together under the powerful gravitational pull of the name Helmut Volk.
A sharp, icy clarity struck through his entire thought palace.
It was him.
The wizard who had illegally used tracking magic behind the scenes, setting Alan up to take the fall.
Alan's gaze deepened as he finally pieced together the full chain of events.
Meanwhile, Arthur Weasley, having listened to Alan's calm and precise explanation, and confirmed that Volk was indeed the true perpetrator of the illegal spell, felt the warmth in his usually kindly face gradually harden.
He looked at Alan , the young man his sons so deeply respected , and his eyes filled with resolve.
Arthur made his decision.
He sat back at his desk. This time, his handwriting was no longer gentle; it was sharp, firm, and unprecedentedly serious. He was about to send a reply to his "old friend" in Germany: a warning letter.
"Helmut, I must remind you.
The so-called 'first-year student,' Alan Scott, is by no means an ordinary child you can manipulate at will.
My sons respect him as if he were in the same league as Dumbledore himself.
I give you my assurance, based on years of friendship, that you must under no circumstances attempt to resolve this issue by forceful or dishonorable means.
Otherwise, I can guarantee the consequences will be severe."
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