Several days of heavy snow had buried the grime and filth of old London's streets. Yet the sky above remained perpetually gray, hinting that an even worse snowstorm was brewing. On the narrow lanes of the ancient city, weary Muggle cleaners struggled tirelessly to clear pathways through the accumulating drifts.
Amosta Brayne, dressed in a dark green, slightly frayed overcoat, stood in a bare courtyard. His lavender eyes were calm and deep as he stared silently at the unfinished building before him.
Unlike the surrounding timeworn buildings steeped in history, the new structure was plain and modern—square, six stories tall, resembling a dormitory. Each floor had over a dozen rooms. Once completed, it would house many people.
"Amosta!"
The call came from beyond the iron gate, pulling him back from his thoughts. Turning around, Amosta smiled warmly when he saw a middle-aged woman hurrying toward him.
"Good morning, Mrs. Reagan."
"Oh, you really should have called in advance, Amosta," she said half-scoldingly as she embraced him.
"Ah, I know. I hadn't planned to come so suddenly," he replied with a light chuckle. "But something's come up. I might be too busy to visit for a while, so I wanted to check on the progress while I still could."
"You're always in such a hurry," she said, though her expression softened with pride. To her, Amosta was the brightest child ever to come from the orphanage—her greatest success.
"You don't need to worry," Mrs. Reagan continued. "Mr. Parker's team will resume construction right after the Christmas holiday. In two months at most, the children will finally move into their new home!"
"I suppose that's what they're all hoping for," Amosta said with a faint smile.
He opened his suitcase, pulled out two thick bundles of pound notes, and handed them to Mrs. Reagan.
Gringotts did exchange Muggle currency, but the limits were strict and the exchange rates appalling. Amosta preferred converting his gold into small bars and exchanging them discreetly in certain London shops. The process came with losses, but it was preferable to dealing directly with greedy goblins.
"This is the final payment," he said gently. "Please give it to Mr. Parker for me."
Mrs. Reagan's hands trembled as she accepted it. She had already thanked him so many times over the years that more words now felt meaningless. Carefully, she tucked the money into her apron pocket, her voice full of gratitude and anticipation.
"Are you going to see the children? They'd love that—especially little Hammer. He's been complaining that you didn't keep your promise to spend Christmas with them."
"Give him my apologies, Mrs. Reagan. I'll bring gifts for everyone when I return in the summer."
Mrs. Reagan's tone carried disappointment, but she didn't press him. She knew he adored the children—if he could, he'd visit them in a heartbeat. But clearly, he had urgent matters to attend to.
Their conversation ended soon after. Mrs. Reagan hurried away to tend to the children, leaving Amosta standing briefly in the snowy courtyard before turning east and walking down the cleared street.
The old buildings he passed were filled with childhood memories, yet his pace never faltered.
Eventually, he reached a small stone bridge arching over a frozen river. He paused there a moment, gazing at the ice below, then continued onward to a desolate field scattered with thin birch trees.
In the middle of that barren land stood a quiet graveyard surrounded by a crooked wire fence.
"The whirlwind sweeps away."
He didn't even lift his hand—just moved his lips slightly. Instantly, small gusts rose across the graveyard, swirling snow from the tombstones and clearing the ground. Within moments, the resting place stood clean and still.
"Sorry, Grandma Ferena. I forgot to bring flowers."
He walked to a white marble tombstone, bent down, and brushed the lingering frost from the engraved surface. Straightening up, he gazed at the smiling old woman in the black-and-white photograph, speaking softly.
Beneath this stone lay the woman who had raised him at the orphanage—his only family in this world.
Sensing his sorrow, the owl approaching through the bitter wind hesitated. Instead of landing, it perched quietly on a birch branch nearby, occasionally preening its windswept feathers with its sharp beak while keeping a curious eye on him.
"In a few months," Amosta murmured, "I'll return to that so-called school of 'tricks.' The place is in trouble again, and someone's asked me to take advantage of the chaos to find something. Honestly, it's not exactly what I want to do."
He let out a low sigh. "Old Albus Dumbledore—that white-bearded man who always appeared in the library at midnight to warn me that staying up late was bad for my health—definitely won't like what I'm about to do. And I don't much enjoy sneaking under his nose either. But they've offered too much… enough to keep me working for at least half a year."
He paused, looking toward the half-built home in the distance. "And once the new dormitory is finished, I'll make sure the children finally get the education they deserve."
The wind swept away his sigh but not the faint bitterness on his handsome face.
"Unfortunately," he muttered, "if I could just remember the plot, I could finish the job faster—and leave this world with the money."
Those quietly spoken words revealed the deepest secret of the man standing alone in the graveyard.
Yes—Amosta Brayne was no native of this world. His soul came from another: a blue planet without magic.
Harry Potter's story had once been his favorite as a boy, back in that other life. Yet now, decades after receiving his Hogwarts letter in this one, those memories were little more than fog. When that owl delivered the letter to his cold orphanage room ten years ago, he'd thought it was only an elaborate prank.
That illusion lasted until a sallow-skinned man with greasy hair arrived—and turned his bed into a toilet with a flick of his wand. Only then did Amosta realize that he wasn't living in an urban fantasy novel but *inside* a real one.
He had tried desperately to recall the story ever since. All he could remember were fragments: Horcruxes, sacred relics, love, scars, Voldemort, resurrection… But they were vague and incomplete, less useful than what he had since uncovered personally in the wizarding world.
He even tried magical methods to restore his memory—but every attempt failed. The forgotten knowledge was sealed behind a gray, shifting mist, as if an immeasurable power was protecting it. After months of failed spells and mental strain that nearly broke him, he gave up.
"The boy named Potter should be in second year now," he whispered. "Still years away from graduation. So I shouldn't be facing the worst yet… not while Dumbledore's alive—well, unless the danger *is* Dumbledore."
He exhaled a faint chuckle, his breath turning white in the frigid air.
"No matter the world, survival is always the hardest lesson, isn't it, Grandma Ferena?"
Snow began falling again, soft and relentless. The owl above gave a few impatient cries as Amosta raised his hand. A small note descended swiftly through the swirling snow and landed in his palm.
***
**Honourable Mr. Brayne,**
I've made representations to the Hogwarts Board of Governors. They have accepted our proposal. You are required to arrive at Hogwarts by 8 p.m. this evening to discuss with Dumbledore how you plan to investigate the attacks.
Additionally, Lucius Malfoy has firmly rejected the idea of sending an Inquisitor, insisting instead that Dumbledore be dismissed entirely—with the Greengrasses as his only supporters.
Faithfully yours,
Cacus Foley
***
The scrawled handwriting betrayed the urgency of its sender. The owl, dissatisfied at not receiving a reward, screeched softly before vanishing into the swirling snow.
Amosta closed his hand. The note crumbled into dust, and from his palm sprouted a small cluster of pure white carnations."Like this trick, Grandma Ferena?"
The smiling portrait on the tombstone seemed to glow with contentment.
Amosta smiled faintly, then turned away, walking into the howling snow. The wind swallowed his fading figure, leaving the quiet graveyard empty once again.
Only a whisper lingered on the wind among the trees:"The train of fate… ready to depart for an unknown destination?"(End of chapter)