Author's note:

If you are looking for a story that explores JK Rowling's main characters, you will not find it here. If you've ever wished to sit down and reread the Harry Potter series as if for the first time, I am hopeful that this is exactly the story for you. This is an exploration of Hogwarts and the wizarding world through the perspective of a young boy, a new character, one that is in for quite the adventure. This prologue will set up the overarching plot, and then our dear Elliott will appear in the next chapter.

Prologue - When There's Smoke

The National Gallery of Art was nearing its busiest hours of the afternoon as Polonius Westerhaus stepped outside for his third cigarette break that day. From in between the towering columns of the main entrance, the middle-aged wizard had a proper view of the hordes of tourists bustling around Traflgar Square. It had been a cloudy weekend thus far, but Polonius knew that would only attract more muggles to the museum. They were the type to let the weather keep them from spending their off days outdoors.

Polonius adjusted his collar as he took a few puffs of his cigarette. Damn useless tie, he thought, might as well be casting an incarcerous spell on myself. Such attire was necessary in his line of profession, however. Polonius was expected to blend in with his muggle counterparts around the museum, even if his actual job was unbeknownst to any of them.

As the wizard's cigarette dwindled, he flicked the butt down the museum steps and turned to go back inside. Except, where most patrons would step into the large spacious rotunda beyond the beautifully marbled entrance, Polonius took an immediate right and entered into the less than grandiose coat room connected to it. Despite being the midst of summer, the closet interior was filled with dozens of unassuming coats, jackets, and cloaks. Polonius knew that none of these articles of clothing actually belonged to anyone—they were in fact merely there to hide what was hung behind them.

With an unenthusiastic tug at the nearest coat rack, Polonius stepped between the layers of jackets and waddled his way through the hangers. It was a painfully ungraceful process to access the small square painting that lay hidden behind all the coats, but the wizard found that it was worth even the shortest of cigarette breaks.

"Ahem!" Polonius addressed the painting.

"Ah, Mssr. Westerhaus, lovely to see you again," said the toad-like man inside the inconspicuous frame. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Open up, Tybalt," answered Polonius impatiently.

"I'm afraid I cannot do that without the password, sir," Tybalt the painting replied with a sarcastic curl of his lip.

"Doorkijkje! The password is doorkijkje. Happy?"

"Unfortunately, that was the old password, sir. It's been changed since last you left."

The wizard could see Tybalt attempting to disguise a smile while he adjusted his white powdered wig authoritatively. He was clearly enjoying this.

"You know who I am! Damn it Tybalt, I work here!" Polonius spat in frustration. "Why in the world would you have chosen now to change the password anyway? I've only been gone for five minutes. Just let me in!"

"Why, Mssr. Westerhaus, if I'm not here to do my job then what am I really here for?" Tybalt asked before taking a long, slow sip of his tea. "I can't make exceptions simply because you're the department's lead curator. That would be unethical."

"Tybalt, I swear if you don't open thi-"

"Polonius!" interrupted a voice from behind them. In an attempt to see who had called, the curator nearly fell amongst the foliage of coats surrounding him. After a few deep, calming breaths, the wizard turned to find his co-worker Abram had joined him in the coat room. "There you are. I've been looking everywhere for you."

"Well, here I am," replied Polonius. "What did you need?"

"The Director wants to speak with you. I believe it's about that uh… transfer."

"Thank you, Abram," Polonius sighed. He could really use another cigarette. "I'd be happy to oblige the Director the moment I get past this damn painting."

The other man chuckled before turning to Tybalt and saying, "Grisaille."

With a perfunctory bow, the figure in the painting disappeared as a rectangular section of the coat room wall shifted into a plain wooden door. Polonius and Abram walked through this newly revealed entrance and into a slightly smaller, yet equally resplendent rotunda. The walls on either side of this magnificent foyer were lined with several fire places, each roaring proudly with crisp green flames. In the center sat a bored-looking intern behind an information desk. At the sight of Polonius and Abram, the young shaggy-haired witch sat up and feigned an attentive posture. The two men gave her a knowing smile.

Despite working in the National Gallery, there was very little work to do on days like today. Tour groups for the wizarding division of the art museum were few and far in between for a number of reasons. Not only was Polonius the lead curator of the gallery, he was the only curator. The Ministry of Magic was less than generous with the grant money it issued to the museum, and the wizarding community didn't seem to mind.

Not only was there a minimal amount of financial support, the museum was also somewhat lacking in magical support as well. The absence of spellwork involved in the job tended to attract a noticeable number of squibs to the profession. Many of these non-magical folk sought the comfort of a workplace where they could be unimpeded by their lack of magic while still maintaining a connection to the wizarding world. Abram was one such squib. At first Polonius found it immensely uncomfortable to perform spells while in the company of Abram, but it wasn't long before he noticed that his fellow co-worker didn't seem to mind at all. He concluded that growing up around wizards, squibs must get used to their own magical shortcomings or else get lost in an inferiority complex.

Polonius took a few meditative breaths as Abram knocked on the office door of their superior. The square partition of glass before them read in small cramped print, "Martin Fig, Chief Executive Director of the entire Department of Magical Art & Culture at the National Gallery of British Art in the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland."

"God, that's always a mouthful, ain't it?" whispered Abram.

Suddenly, the door sprung wide open to reveal a skinny man with long straight hair, slicked back without a strand out of place. "Sorry, what was that about mouthfuls?" he asked, head wobbling slightly as he addressed Abram.

"Oh, oh, nothing at all, sir. I was only telling Polonius about my…breakfast cereal this morning. It was, um, delicious."

"That's the one with the flavored grains and the milk, correct?"

"Yeah, that's the one."

"Ew."

On that brisk note, the director turned his back on the two wizards and reunited with his desk. Mr. Fig's office was dressed with large regal curtains that caped the pair of windows on the far wall. On the left was a long bookshelf, loosely packed with art books and biographies. And on the right, the wall was dominated by a grand painting with a gilded, leaf-fringed frame. Tybalt stood watching them from beyond the canvas. Whereas the painting in the closet suited him in size, the enormity of this painting only exacerbated his minute figure.

"Good to see you again, Mssrs. Westerhaus and Pavlov," said Tybalt, his hands behind his back in a militant pose. The wizards ignored him and crossed the room.

"Please, take a seat," Mr. Fig told them as he took his place behind the desk. Polonius resisted the temptation to roll his eyes as he and Abram both sat down on the single cramped couch. He couldn't understand why Mr. Fig refused to get more furniture for his office. Having to be squeezed so closely next to a person while the boss spoke down to him felt like some petty form of well-cushioned torture.

"You're probably wondering why I called you in here," said Mr. Fig, looking both of them in the eye.

"It's about the move isn't it?" Polonius replied, "Seems fairly routine. The fact that it's the-"

"That particular piece," Mr. Fig interrupted, "is going to require a special degree of attention during the process of removal. It's stood in this gallery alone for several decades now and I'm sure you are both aware of its...historical significance.

The two wizards nodded solemnly.

"This transfer has even grabbed the attention of those above. For security reasons, the whole process must be conducted internally. It must be done yourselves and preferably with discretion."

"Those above?" Abram asked, "You don't mean-"

"Yes, the Minister of Magic has contacted me about this matter directly."

"There's a shock," Polonius remarked. "I wonder how something like this ended up on their desks."

"It is none of your concern," said Mr. Fig, head wobbling like it was balanced on a pivot. He looked like one of those bobbleheads they had in the muggle gift shop. "Your job is not to voice your speculations. It's to smoothly complete the transfer without compromising the artistic value of the piece, or its occupant for that matter. Normally, I wouldn't expect there to be any problems, but this attention from the ministry has me worried."

"So, is it still locked down in Deep Storage?" Abram asked, leaning forward.

"It is momentarily safe in an undisclosed location."

Abram and Polonius shared a quizzical look as Mr. Fig stood up from his own chair to gaze out of the heavily draped window behind him. The two wizards waited for their boss to continue speaking, but now he seemed lost in thought.

"So," said Polonius, breaking the silence, "I assume this will be a standard carry-along portkey transfer?"

"That is correct. I've spoken with the headmistress personally about allowing the two of you to pass through the barrier for a brief period of time. You will have a tight schedule, Polonius, so no smoke breaks."

Polonius shifted sheepishly in his tiny corner of the sofa.

"Disgusting habit, that is," Mr. Fig remarked with condescension. "But I digress… I will keep you each updated about the exact time of the transfer. For now, you may return to your duties. That will be all."

The wizards stood up from their cramped seat and bid their bobble-headed boss adieu. Duties, Polonius scoffed as he and Abram left the office, like there's really anything that needs my immediate attention.

KABOOM!

"What in the world was that?!" Abram gasped, looking at Polonius in bewilderment.

Without another word, the two men booked it across the foyer and in the direction of the sound. They were followed by Mr. Fig, who had appeared from his office in an equally shaken state. Whatever the explosion had been, its force had rocked the foundation of the building. A layer of dust and bits of rock was descending from the tall ceiling and filling the air with a veil of debris. Polonius yelled at the intern to find cover as they ran passed the information desk. Mr. Fig was already coughing through a field of smoke as the three wizards ran down the hallway and back towards the coat room.

"The muggles…" Abram spoke with little more than a whisper as they neared the entrance. Polonius and Mr. Fig nodded in agreement. The explosion had come from outside the inner sanctum of the magical museum, somewhere amongst the crowds of muggles that lie beyond. If the three wizards were going to offer any magical form of emergency assistance, it would have to be with some discretion. They each equipped their wands and stepped through the rectangular entrance.

What lay beyond the coat room was surreal, even by magical standards. Laying curled in a curtain of fog were the echo of screams and shadowy shapes somewhere between the wizards and a great expanse of gray. Distance was suddenly impossible to measure. Alarms rang muffled and smothered from every direction. The dusty atmosphere had obscured Polonius's sight, but he could tell that what lay before them was a mess of ruins and injury. It was as if the ground had coughed and let loose an unearthly storm.

Polonius, Abram, and Mr. Fig stared into the abyss of their former workplace, unable to react. They absorbed the disturbing scene while a sense of growing consciousness took hold. Finally, as if the force of the explosion hit him a second time, Polonius was snapped back into the moment by Abram.

"W-what do we do?" asked the squib, looking for an answer that none of them had. Less than an hour ago Polonius had been standing upon the steps of the museum, admiring the open air. Now everything lay in shadow. The very light of day had been snuffed from sky.

"We need to help," said Polonius, abandoning his normally laid back demeanor. He wasn't sure how they would do it, but he knew it needed to be done. "For now, forget the rules. We'll split up and save as many as we can."

Mr. Fig scoffed at Polonius's remark about the law, or perhaps he was momentarily overcome by the chemical haze. Either way, the three of them spread out across the alien landscape, wands held high.

"Lumos!" whispered Polonius, casting a beam of light from the tip of his wand. It brought only a few feet of his surroundings into view, but it was enough. He held it high, letting the beam seep through the dust like an off-kilter car light. Polonius squinted through the grandeur and desolation—layered gradations of smoke penetrating the bubble of light, causing it to billow with a tent-like effect where the edges of his vision crawled. The crumbling ground beneath his feet was littered with wreckage and knickknacks. Scraps of tissue paper, broken eyeglasses, handbags, purses, pens, wallets, and cell phones swam into view. Polonius stumbled through the ruin like he was drunk, a feeling he was quite used to. But in this vacuum, he struggled to gain any sense of his ever-expanding surroundings. On his left hung a sheet of vaporous chalk with no discernible shape, and on his right was a mountain of hot shredded wreckage where the roof, or the wall, or the floor should have been. Polonius couldn't distinguish between where gravity was and where it should have been. He crawled across strange slants and displaced rock as if lost in a field of golden Limbo Mist.

Polonius called out and listened intermittently while crawling through the dust. For a time, it was as if all sound had been pulled from the air. The echo of screams remained, but it paled in comparison to the suspenseful silence that filled the chamber. If he focused, he could hear the slow crack of rock like an arctic glacier and the impersonal shriek of fire alarms, but they too were lost in the fog.

Polonius wished he knew a bit of weather magic, something to suck the smoke out of the air. But that was quite specialized and never something that had interested him in school. He doubted the others knew anything to combat the chemical haze either.

As the wizard continued to scour the wreckage, he became more aware of the body-like shadows slumped amongst the ruin. At first, they seemed like nothing but dark shapeless hulks, but further inspection revealed that many of them were the remains of the dead. Polonius gripped the gut of his ash-ridden shirt as he stared down upon their chalky figures, torn and tossed about like ragdolls. Collapsed pillars and chunks of ceiling had caused their demise. Polonius had to forcefully turn his head away, telling himself that there may still be those he could help.

Through the frothy wake of churning plaster dust, the wizard stumbled on. A feeling of uncharacteristic loneliness began to grip his addled brain, but not before a nearby voice called out. Polonius shook his head and focused his hearing to confirm that it was not his imagination. With a mixture of fear and relief, his suspicions were confirmed. A body camouflaged in ash seemed to appear before his eyes. Polonius approached the injured woman with caution. As he knelt before her, he laid a gentle hand upon the woman's slight frame—layered in a chalky powder and still as a muggle sculpture. Then, suddenly, her eyes were open—lively eyes, brighter than the tip of his wand. She gave him a weak smile before breaking into a fit of coughs, sickening and wet.

"Anapneo!" Polonius spoke with a whisper and a wave of his wand. The woman was immediately freed from the poisonous air infecting her lungs and she began taking deep, pitiful breaths. The wizard hung over her patiently, propping her head up with one hand. Scanning her figure, he noticed a severe gash in her left thigh that was soaking her leg in blood. Polonius had the bare minimum of medical expertise—that is to say, he knew almost nothing. And basic spells could only do so much for the critically injured. He'd have to make do.

Removing the tie from his neck, Polonius wrapped the thin cloth tightly around her thigh to slow the bleeding. Looks like this damn thing comes in handy after all, he thought. Polonius wasn't sure if it would have any effect, but he'd read somewhere that it was important to maintain pressure on the wound. Despite his attempts, the wizard felt woefully unequipped to save this woman's life. For all he knew, she could have torn an artery and would bleed out within a matter of minutes.

"W-wat...water," the woman choked, peering up at him like a pigeon with a crooked neck.

"Yes, of course," Polonius answered, "I'll see what I can do."

With the flick of his wrist, the light from his wand evaporated and they were plunged into the gray darkness of the room. The wizard was not particularly worried about this woman witnessing his slight feats of magic. She was in such a daze that it was unlikely she could tell a wand from a flashlight. Nevertheless, Polonius instinctively hesitated before placing the tip of his wand by the woman's mouth and saying, "Aguamenti!" under his breath.

While the woman desperately drank from the fountain of water, Polonius considered his options. He could apparate her to safety, but transporting her in such a state could prove dangerous. The risk of splinching an injured person greatly increases for those not practiced in emergency relocation. The fact that she was a muggle would only complicate things. They were ill-equipped to deal with the side effects of apparition.

Polonius filed through his memories, desperately searching for even the simplest healing spells. It was as if he suddenly felt the utter uselessness of the knowledge contained in his brain. Precious space was wasted on the names of artists and the histories of paintings. How could it all prove so meaningless during these moments that really matter?

The wizard retracted his wand from the woman and regarded her with growing hopelessness. He could attempt to levitate, or even carry her, out of the building. But this place that was once so familiar was now a labyrinth of darkness. Was it better to move her or stay where they were? Was she likely to survive the hike through the deadly wreckage? Were there others out there that were more in need of his immediate attention? Polonius was all out of answers.

A swift movement from behind the wizard then grabbed his attention. Polonius spun around, scanning through the fog and the wreckage. Wisps of light sneaking through the darkness revealed nothing, but he was sure he had heard footsteps.

"Is anybody there?" he called out into the abyss. "Abram? Mr. Fig? Anyone? We need your help."

Polonius was about to illuminate his surroundings once more when the woman at his feet burst into another storm of coughs. Just as the wizard turned his attention back to her shivering form, a breath-taking force struck him square in the back. He felt an evaporation of air from his lungs as the room suddenly spun sideways. There was no pain, no other feeling but a slight sensation of bliss, like the tension released from a snapping mouse trap. The wizard collapsed into a pillow of ash. The last thing Polonius saw were the woman's beautiful, cowering eyes before his vision was overcome by a sickeningly green shadow.