Hagrid had vanished into the chaos of the castle the night before, and since then, the hulking half-giant had not returned. Anduin stood alone outside the hut, the ground still scarred from his controlled infrasound experiment. His focus, however, was not on his notes, but on the distant, looming, celebratory silhouette of Hogwarts Castle.
A dull, profound ache of betrayal and loss settled in his chest, soon transmuting into a searing, nameless magical rage.
He had saved Lily once, only for fate to circumvent his efforts. He had put absolute faith in Sirius Black, only for the Daily Prophet to brand him a mass-murdering traitor. The magical world was celebrating freedom, but Anduin felt only the crushing weight of failure and injustice.
Unsure how to vent the furious energy boiling within him, Anduin let his magic surge. He did not aim; he simply allowed the raw, elemental power to escape. The air around him began to distort. Loose objects—the giant, frost-covered pumpkin he'd meant to carve, wooden logs stacked for kindling, and empty storage barrels—were instantly levitated. They didn't float gently; they spun violently, caught in an invisible, tightening gyre centered on the wizard.
Anduin roared—a sound swallowed by the distance, but one that released the immense magical pressure in his core.
As the torrent of his magic reached a breaking point, something snapped. It wasn't a physical chain, but a cognitive one. The objects, which had been orbiting wildly, suddenly ceased their chaotic motion. They hung suspended, utterly still, as if held by invisible, vice-like clamps. The pressure, rather than dispersing, had internalized, becoming focused, precise, and infinitely more devastating.
With a final, desperate surge of his raw, uncontrolled anger, Anduin slammed his will down. The magical clamps tightened simultaneously. The floating objects—the seasoned wood, the dense pumpkin—offered only momentary resistance before they were crushed to fine, powdery dust. The barrels imploded, the pumpkin evaporated into a sticky cloud of vaporized fiber.
As the physical manifestation of his emotional turmoil settled, the early morning sky, dark and heavy, finally broke. A light, cold drizzle began to fall, pattering against the surviving remnants of the hut and washing away the dust cloud.
The cold sting of the raindrops brought Anduin back to reality. He looked around in stunned realization. Everything within a ten-meter radius of where he stood was ruined: the heavy oak logging table, a section of the defensive wooden fence, the entire small vegetable patch—all were ripped, twisted, or pulverized. The damage was immense, total, and terrifyingly controlled.
He slowly extended his right hand. A few meters away, where the rain was creating ripples in a puddle, a shape formed: a colossal, shimmering, transparent appendage—a giant, ghostly hand. Anduin closed his fingers; the ghostly hand clenched. He turned his wrist; the ethereal hand rotated perfectly.
"This… this isn't the Obstruction Curse anymore," Anduin whispered, gazing at the terrifying manifestation of his own power.
The curse he had spent years perfecting, that had reached the Instinct Level (Level 3 Mastery), had finally been pushed beyond its theoretical limits by raw, overwhelming emotion. It was no longer a simple magical barrier or a low-level telekinesis spell.
It had broken through to the Transcendent Level, an achievement only possible when the mind, body, and magic were pushed to an absolute cognitive failure point.
"It truly is the 'Wizard's Hand' now," he confirmed, naming the new power. It was pure, unadulterated magical manipulation of matter at a distance, limited only by the concentration of the caster.
But the profound leap in magical ability brought him no joy. He dropped his hand, and the shimmering projection vanished. He stood there, soaked and motionless, listening to the muffled, distant sounds of celebration floating over from the castle—cheers, laughter, and the occasional burst of celebratory fireworks.
The stark contrast between Hogwarts' delirious joy and his own desolate sorrow was unbearable. He spent the next hour silently cleaning up the magical wreckage, his mind already churning through the contradictory evidence surrounding Sirius Black.
The quiet of the early morning was broken by a rough, familiar roar. Anduin looked up to see the tell-tale shape of a monstrous, winged motorcycle descending toward the hut.
Hagrid landed the bike with a heavy thud, the damp earth trembling beneath the massive wheels.
"Hagrid! Where in the world have you been? What is this?" Anduin rushed forward, recognizing the iconic machine instantly. "This is Sirius's motorbike, isn't it? I heard Professor Burns say Sirius betrayed the Potters—how did you get his motorbike?"
Hagrid pulled off his enormous goggles, his face etched with profound exhaustion and raw grief.
"Lily and James… I don't know if yeh heard… it's true, Anduin," Hagrid managed, his voice thick and shaky. He lumbered into the hut, found a copper mug, and drank half the water supply in a single, painful gulp.
"I heard the news," Anduin confirmed, his own voice tight with pain. "Tell me everything, Hagrid. Please."
"It all started the night before," Hagrid recounted, his massive hands trembling as he spoke. "Albus sent me a message right before the feast. He told me to fly immediately to Godric's Hollow and retrieve Harry."
"So, when I was testing my charms… that was when Voldemort struck," Anduin realized, the timing confirming his worst fears.
"Aye. When I got there, it was… awful. The house was half-wrecked. James was lying in the front hall, and Lily… she was next to little Harry, shielding him. They were gone." The mention of the scene was too much. Hagrid pulled out a tea towel—not a handkerchief—and honked loudly, tears streaming freely down his cheeks.
He continued, his voice hoarse: "Dumbledore had commanded me to protect Harry and bring him safely to his aunt and uncle in Little Whinging. I picked up the babe—poor thing—and just as I was leaving the Potters' drive, I ran straight into Sirius Black."
Anduin leaned forward, his entire focus on Hagrid. "You met Sirius? What did he do? Did he try to stop you?"
"He did, aye," Hagrid sniffled, wiping his nose vigorously. "He was distraught, nearly mad with grief and shouting. He demanded I hand Harry over to him, kept yelling he was the boy's godfather. I refused him—I told him I was following Dumbledore's direct orders. Sirius… he seemed to collapse right there. He didn't fight, didn't try any magic. He just looked at the motorcycle, then looked at Harry in my arms, and said, 'He won't need it where I'm going. Take it, Hagrid. He'll need this more than me.' And he handed over his keys and flew off. I used the bike to get Harry to the rendezvous point much quicker."
Anduin's mind raced, analyzing the narrative. A mass-murdering, calculating betrayer doesn't break down in tears and surrender his most prized possession to the agent of the man who will soon try to imprison him. A guilty man flees; a man protecting a secret stays.
"Hagrid, has the Headmaster returned to the castle?" Anduin asked, rising abruptly. The grief was still there, but it was now overlaid with a cold, renewed suspicion about the official story.
"He should've been back hours ago, Anduin. I had to ride all night, and he was using a much faster portkey or broom," Hagrid replied, still drying his tears.
"Good. Hagrid, you need to rest. I need to speak with the Headmaster immediately."
Anduin left Hagrid to his mourning and strode toward the castle, the Daily Prophet's accusation burning in his mind. He didn't know the truth, but he knew Sirius Black's actions on the night of the attack—giving up the motorcycle—screamed of a man who was clearing his ledger, not a man celebrating his treason.
Meanwhile, high up in the quiet solitude of the Headmaster's office, the air was vibrating with intense, volatile magic. Albus Dumbledore, looking ancient and profoundly sorrowful, sat behind his desk, watching the figure pacing furiously before him.
It was Severus Snape, his black eyes blazing with a desperate, animalistic grief that shattered his usual icy composure.
"You promised me! You swore to me you would keep her safe!" Snape's voice was strained, raw, and bordering on hysterical. The façade of the cold, arrogant Potions Master was entirely gone.
"Lily and James trusted the wrong person, Severus. They chose poorly," Dumbledore said softly, his own eyes clouded with regret. "But the boy lives. Lily's sacrifice was not in vain."
Snape stopped pacing, his hands trembling. "I don't care about the boy! He needs no protection now! The Dark Lord is gone!"
"The Dark Lord will return, Severus," Dumbledore stated, his blue eyes piercing. "And when he does, that child will be in grave, immediate danger. The Dark Lord's soul is fractured. He must be guarded." Dumbledore paused, leaning forward and speaking the words that would irrevocably bind Snape to his cause. "If you truly love her, Severus, you must protect what she died to save. And look at the boy, Severus… his eyes are very much like his mother's."
Dumbledore's words were a carefully calibrated blow. Snape froze, the breath catching in his throat. He saw not the infant, but the reflection of Lily Potter's emerald green eyes. The grief, the betrayal, and the desperate, possessive love warred within him.
"No one… no one can ever know," Snape whispered, his voice dangerously low, referring to the vow he had made to protect Lily.
"I give you my word, Severus. Your secret is safe with me. Now, come to Hogwarts. Come, and help me. The Ministry is pressing charges against former associates of the Dark Lord; I will help resolve your situation, but you must commit to this path."
Snape nodded silently, the last traces of his emotional breakdown vanishing. He took a deep, shuddering breath, wiped the remaining tears from his eyes with a single, sweeping motion of his sleeve, and his face hardened.
The cold, impenetrable mask—the one that would define him for the next decade—snapped into place. He turned and descended the spiral staircase just as Anduin arrived at the base, ready for his confrontation with the Headmaster.