A year had slipped quietly by since Jack first stumbled across the shadowed glades of the dense forest, and in that time, the cabin he had pieced together from timber and stone had become both his refuge and his prison. It stood at the heart of the woods—half-sinking under a weight of moss, furs hanging by the door, and strange trinkets scattered across the porch like trophies. The cabin's walls whispered of sleepless nights and wary hunting trips, of wards layered by instinct and survival, and of the presence of a boy who had learned far too early that solitude could be both a comfort and a curse.
On this particular morning, as a pale mist drifted low across the undergrowth, an old man with a long, snow-white beard ambled between the towering trunks. His robes swayed faintly with each step, neat and strangely unmarked by mud or thorns—a curious sight for anyone who had ever tried to navigate these woods. His sharp eyes, however, took in more than the twisting roots beneath his boots.
The man's gaze settled upon the cabin before him, his attention caught almost immediately by a pile of animal furs strewn near the doorway. His lips moved as though tasting the weight of each one.
"Horned Beast hides… Fwooper feathers… Murtlap skins…" he murmured softly, the recognition in his voice heavy with concern. "Wolf and bear hides as well. Curious. Could this place belong to Hagrid?"
The old man shook his head slowly. No—something was wrong. Hagrid's touch was absent here. These furs weren't gathered out of necessity or simple care for magical creatures; they carried an air of deliberate collection, of experimentation.
As he stepped closer, his eyes narrowed further. Resting casually against the doorframe were two objects entirely out of place in the natural wilderness: a pair of iron clamps and a chainsaw. Both items pulsed faintly with a presence far darker than their mundane appearance should have allowed.
The man extended a hand, brushing his fingers against the handle of the chainsaw—only to flinch back almost instantly.
"Hiss…" he drew in a sharp breath, eyes gleaming with recognition. "These are not mere tools. They have been tainted… saturated with the Dark Arts. The grievances clinging to them are thick enough to overflow."
The lines on his face deepened. He reached behind him and pulled forth a wand—a length of wood carved with multiple bone joints, polished yet strangely ominous in its construction. He did not raise it, but neither did he let it leave his grasp. The air seemed to still around him as he approached the cabin door.
"Knock, knock, knock."
The sound of his knuckles echoed against the wood.
From inside, a muffled voice groaned. "Coming, coming… waking someone up this early in the morning…"
The door creaked open, revealing a young man rubbing his eyes, his dark hair tousled and his expression bleary with sleep. He blinked at the sight of the white-bearded stranger.
"If you're asking for directions, I haven't found my own way yet," the boy said bluntly. "Try the next place." And with that, he shut the door.
The old man blinked, startled into silence by the brusque dismissal.
Moments later, however, the door was yanked open again. The boy—Jack—stared at him, his expression shifting from irritation to disbelief.
"A person? It's actually a person?"
The old man gave a small, sheepish smile. "If I'm not mistaken, I too am still a person." His voice carried the warmth of good humor, though there was something probing beneath it. "Won't you invite me in for a seat, child?"
Jack's eyes narrowed. He wasn't the sort to offer blind trust, especially not in these woods where survival often depended on suspicion. The stranger's robes were suspiciously clean—impossibly so, considering how long a walk it must have been to reach this isolated cabin. His posture was relaxed, but his left hand remained hidden behind his back.
Jack crossed his arms. "What are you hiding behind your back? Take it out."
The old man did not flinch at the demand. Instead, he revealed the item with an almost indulgent smile. "What could it be? Merely a small hobby of an old man."
But Jack's eyes widened the instant the object came into view. A wand. Not an ordinary stick or staff, but a true wand—the kind he had only seen in the pages of books and the flickering images of film adaptations. This one was different, though, marked with bone joints that gave it an unsettling appearance.
And suddenly, with the beard, the kind face, the steady presence, recognition clicked in Jack's mind like a lock falling open.
Dumbledore.
The realization tightened something in his chest. This wasn't just some wanderer.
The old man's gaze sharpened ever so slightly. "So, child," he said gently, "since I have shown you my sincerity, shouldn't you also take your hand from behind your back?"
Jack hesitated. Then, slowly, he withdrew the hand he had kept concealed.
Dumbledore's eyes froze.
What Jack held was not a wand. It was a Colt revolver, its barrel gleaming faintly even in the dim light of the forest. The old wizard's expression turned grave.
"Child," he said softly, "this thing… is far too early for you."
Jack smirked faintly, though the revolver remained steady in his grip. "One should always be prepared, shouldn't they?" He gave Dumbledore a meaningful glance, deliberately laying the weapon on the table nearby—but not far enough to be out of reach. The barrel angled loosely toward the visitor. "So, who are you? Where do you come from? And what are you here for?"
The white-bearded man straightened his robes and, without the slightest trace of fear, replied, "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I have come to invite you, Jack, to enroll."
Jack's lips twitched. Of course he knew who this man was, but feigning ignorance felt safer.
"Hogwarts?" he echoed, voice tinged with skepticism. "What kind of school is that? Don't you have an admissions office? The headmaster himself running around recruiting students—doesn't that seem a bit ridiculous?"
Dumbledore did not so much as frown. Instead, he produced an envelope with a flick of his wand, holding it out with steady hands. "Your situation is… rather special. You'll understand once you read this letter."
Jack hesitated before accepting it. The parchment was thick, the handwriting precise.
To Mr. Jack,
of the Forest Cabin deep within the Forbidden Forest.
Dear Mr. Jack,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted as a student at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
In this acceptance letter, we will provide an overview of our school, outline admission requirements, and guide you through preparations for enrollment.
…
Jack's eyes flicked over the words, his breath catching at one phrase in particular. His gaze snapped up.
"Forbidden Forest? You said this place is the Forbidden Forest?"
Dumbledore's brow furrowed in genuine confusion. "You seem to know of the Forbidden Forest?"
Jack gave a short laugh, though it sounded strained. "Please—that name sounds terrifying enough on its own!"
Dumbledore nodded solemnly. "The Forbidden Forest is indeed a place to be feared."
What he did not say aloud was that the boy standing before him was even more troubling. Every item scattered around this cabin reeked of curses, of the Dark Arts. Even the revolver Jack had casually handled was tainted with a curse so thick it made the air hum faintly.
"If you truly do not wish to enroll," Dumbledore said carefully, "I can return. The choice is yours."
But Jack was already strapping a backpack over his shoulders, the hide of some unidentifiable beast forming its straps. His eyes gleamed with anticipation.
"Go? Let's go! What are we waiting for? Finally, I can get out of here." He leaned closer, lowering his voice. "You wouldn't believe how terrifying this forest is. Sometimes, when I go hunting, I run into a giant wandering around with a hound the size of a horse."
Dumbledore watched him, caught between relief and concern. When he turned toward the door, however, he noticed Jack was no longer behind him.
"Jack, we need to leave," he called, stepping back into the cabin.
The sight that met him made his stomach tighten.
Jack was hastily stuffing object after object into his pack: a golden Rubik's Cube that shimmered unnaturally, a music box that exhaled faint whispers with every movement, gloves tipped with cruelly sharp blades. Each item radiated dark, malignant power.
Dumbledore quickly intervened, plucking the pack from the boy's hands. "You don't need to bring these. They are dangerous. Allow me to keep them safe for you."
Jack looked at him, wide-eyed with reluctant protest. "But… Principal, you must return them to me, okay? Promise me you will. And that bag—it's the only one I have."
Dumbledore softened his tone, though his grip on the cursed bag remained firm. "Very well. Once you have graduated from Hogwarts, I will return these items to you."
Jack sighed, but the promise seemed enough. He finally followed Dumbledore out of the cabin, pausing only once to glance back at the crooked roof and the warded walls.
"Goodbye, my lovely cabin," he whispered.
And then, with a single turn on the spot, Dumbledore apparated them away.
The moment Jack vanished, the forest shifted. Magical creatures that had long avoided the cabin cautiously crept closer. Yet the instant they neared, a shimmering light shield flared into existence, repelling them as though the cabin itself had been gifted a lingering protection.
Jack, meanwhile, staggered into nausea. The sensation of apparition was like being hooked by iron tongs and shoved headfirst into a spinning machine. His stomach lurched violently.
"Ugh…" He doubled over, leaning against what he thought was a dark stone pillar, and promptly vomited.
When the dizziness finally cleared, Jack glanced up—only to realize the "pillar" he had leaned on was not stone at all, but a tall, greasy-haired man whose black eyes glittered with disdain.
Jack blinked, then muttered aloud, "I thought this pillar had a foreskin."
Dumbledore's lips twitched as he tried—and failed—to suppress laughter. "Ah, Professor Snape. Do forgive him; he is still just a child."
Snape's expression, however, was murderous.
Jack, sensing danger, fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a crumpled wad of cash. He pressed 200 yuan into Snape's palm. "Master, two hundred for throwing up."
The professor slapped the notes to the ground with a disgusted hiss. He turned to Dumbledore, his robes flaring dramatically. "Headmaster, if there is nothing else, I shall return."
Without waiting for a reply, he swept away like a great bat into the shadows.
Jack watched him go, then looked at Dumbledore. "Principal, he just ignored you! Can you tolerate that? If it were me, I would have already taught him a lesson he wouldn't forget…"