27th of December, 1970

The house in Woodhouse Leeds was a skeletal thing, its bones exposed to the elements. Wind whistled through gaps in the weathered boards, carrying with it the bitter tang of winter. Inside, a musty air hung heavy, the scent of decay mingling with the faint, sweet aroma of old tea. Dim, flickering oil lamps cast grotesque shadows that danced and writhed on the peeling wallpaper, their light barely dispelling the encroaching gloom.

A wizard, his appearance etched with the lines of hardship, sat hunched over a chipped teacup. His fingers, trembling slightly, gripped the porcelain as if it were a lifeline. Worn Muggle clothing hung loosely on his frame, a stark contrast to the grandeur his magic presumably commanded. His eyes darted nervously around the room, finally settling on the threadbare couch across from him—a ghostly reminder of better days.

At the opposite end of the wobbly wooden table sat Albus Dumbledore, an aura of authority surrounding him like an invisible cloak. His periwinkle robes, though slightly rumpled, exuded an air of timeless elegance. The candlelight danced on his short, grey beard, casting an almost ethereal glow upon his face.

Dumbledore leaned forward. "The task I give you is of paramount importance," he said, each word a carefully measured stone. "Its outcome could tip the scales of this terrible war. Failure is not an option."

Cadwygn's grip tightened on his teacup, the porcelain cool against his trembling fingers. "Professor Dumbledore," he began, his voice edged with uncertainty, "I must ask, why this girl? What makes her so crucial to the fate of this war?"

"The girl possesses knowledge of immense power," Dumbledore replied, his voice low and measured. "Knowledge so dangerous that it must remain hidden, even from herself. Unwittingly, she has become the guardian of secrets that could reshape the world in ways we cannot fathom. To protect her, and by extension, the world, we must shield her from the attention that would surely come if her importance were known."

Cadwygn leaned forward, his gaze fixed on Dumbledore, a mixture of determination and trepidation evident in his expression. "What, precisely, is expected of me, Professor?"

Dumbledore's eyes, twin pools of cerulean, sparkled behind his half-moon spectacles as he leaned forward, his hands clasped on the worn tabletop. "Cadwgan," he began, his voice carrying a tone of expectation, "to succeed in this mission, you must adopt the guise of a Squib."

Cadwgan, his expression a mix of curiosity and concern, raised an eyebrow. "A Squib, sir? But why?"

Dumbledore sighed,"The situation is delicate, Cadwgan. Far more delicate than you can imagine. Your abilities, while extraordinary, must remain concealed." He paused, his gaze intense. "She must not suspect your true nature. To her, you must be as unremarkable as the furniture in this room. This is essential for her safety, and for the protection of the secrets she unwittingly holds."

Cadwgan nodded, his expression a mask of grim determination. The flickering candlelight cast dancing shadows across his face. "I understand the importance of this mission, Professor," he said, his voice low. "But won't this disguise put me at a disadvantage? Squibs are often marginalised."

Dumbledore's smile was a comforting warmth in the dim room. "Precisely. It will make you appear harmless, an unremarkable figure easily overlooked. She will underestimate you, and therein lies your advantage. Your magic, held in reserve, will be a potent weapon when the time is right."

Cadwygn looked at his wand with a longing look. "What should I know about our cover story besides being a squib?"

"You are to be known as a disgraced Squib from an unimportant Wizarding family, someone who has fallen out of favour with the magical community. You will work in a mundane factory job, a position that keeps you removed from the wizarding world's affairs. Your wife," he murmured, stroking his beard thoughtfully, "died during childbirth. This detail will explain the girl's presence in your life and the absence of a maternal figure."

Cadwgan absorbed the information, his mind already beginning to weave the backstory into his own persona. "And the girl?" he asked, his concern evident. "What do I tell her?

Dumbledore leaned back, his gaze distant as he pondered the details. "When the time is right, you will reveal to her that she is, in fact, a witch. This will coincide with the arrival of her Hogwarts letter. Until then, she must grow up believing she is a Muggle. It is imperative that she never questions her origins, and that no one else does either."

"Yes, sir," Cadwgan replied, his voice barely a whisper. A lump formed in his throat as the gravity of the situation settled upon him. He was a simple Auror, a cog in the machine of the Order. To be entrusted with such a crucial task was both a privilege and a terrifying responsibility.

Dumbledore nodded, his gaze steady and filled with a mix of trust and grave concern. "I have no doubt in your abilities, Cadwgan. Remember, the girl's future—and perhaps the fate of the wizarding world—rests in your hands. Keep her safe, keep her hidden. Ensure her life is so ordinary, so unremarkable, that no one would give a second thought if she vanished without a trace."

With their plan solidified, the two men rose from the worn wooden table. Dumbledore placed a reassuring hand on Cadwgan's shoulder. "Good luck, my friend," he said, his voice filled with a quiet strength. "We all rely on you."

Albus paused at the threshold, his gaze drawn to the young witch slumbering on the threadbare couch. Her dark, unruly curls cascaded across the pillow, framing a face etched with the innocence of youth. The dim light cast an ethereal glow upon her skin, transforming the drab surroundings into a sanctuary of slumber. A profound sense of tenderness washed over Dumbledore as he stood there, a silent guardian watching over her. His expression was a complex tapestry of sorrow and steely resolve.

Turning to Cadwgan, his voice low and urgent, Dumbledore instructed. "The ring must never be removed. It is her protection, her shield against the knowledge that courses through her veins. It must remain on her finger at all times."

Cadwgan dipped his head in a silent implication of Dumbledore's words was chilling. He knew of the dark magic Dumbledore had been forced to delve into to create the ring, a necessary evil to protect the girl. "I won't let her take it off," he promised, his voice firm, a tremor of fear and determination mingling within.

Dumbledore glanced back at the sleeping girl, his gaze lingering for a moment. A look of profound regret crossed his face as he whispered, more to himself than anyone else, "I wish you never came to this time, Miss Granger."