Chapter 10: The First Operation
The glow of streetlamps cast long shadows across Diagon Alley as Alex stood by a grimy window, the hum of activity from Knockturn Alley far below. His team was assembled around the cluttered table in his apartment. A map of the Ministry of Magic glowed faintly, pinned down by enchanted stones. Each person in the room had a role, a task, and a job they couldn't afford to mess up.
"This isn't just about stopping a bad policy," Alex began, his voice low and steady. "This is about showing the Ministry—and ourselves—what we're capable of. We don't burn it down. We steer it. Shift things just enough that they unravel on their own."
Emily Lang smirked. "More finesse, less fire."
Alex nodded. "Exactly. We can't make Crowley suspicious, or they'll close ranks. We nudge things. Confuse a process here, create a delay there... by the time they realize what's happened, they'll think they just tripped over their own robes."
Ray tapped his mop against the floor. "So... no potion spills?"
Alex gave him a look. "No potion spills. Light touch only. If anyone notices us, we've failed. Got it?"
The team exchanged glances, nodding.
Emily leaned back in her chair, tossing a small coin between her fingers. "What's the score?"
Alex allowed himself a rare grin. "The Occupational Purity Act. A new policy that'll shove Muggle-borns out of every decent job in the wizarding world." He jabbed his wand at the glowing map. "Crowley is drafting it now. Tomorrow, he plans to send it straight to the Minister's office. If it lands, it's done."
"And if it doesn't land?" Liam asked from the corner, his courier's bag slung lazily over one shoulder.
Alex smirked. "It won't land."
Alex leaned over the map, pointing to several key points: Crowley's office, the records department, and the message tubes scattered throughout the Ministry.
"Crowley's got the Act ready to go. He just needs everything to align—signatures, meetings, approvals. Our job is to nudge each of those things off course, one by one. Not enough to kill the Act outright. Just enough to slow it down until it collapses under its own weight."
Emily leaned closer. "So we're playing the long game?"
"Exactly," Alex said. "If we do this right, they'll think it was their own incompetence."
Phase One: Whispering Doubt
Marla was the first to move. As a Ministry records clerk, she understood better than anyone how information flowed through the labyrinthine halls of the Ministry of Magic. It wasn't through official memos or committee meetings—it was through the quiet chatter of secretaries, the complaints of overworked assistants, and the whispered musings of ambitious staffers hoping to climb the ladder. Gossip wasn't just a distraction in the Ministry; it was a currency, a way of establishing power, loyalty, and influence. And Marla was about to spend hers wisely.
Her first target was Percy Pritchard, a junior assistant in the Department of Magical Law. Percy was young, wide-eyed, and far too interested in other people's business for his own good. He was precisely the kind of person who couldn't resist digging deeper when given the faintest whiff of a secret.
Marla found him alone in the records room, a stack of enchanted parchments floating beside him as he sorted them into their appropriate shelves. He was muttering under his breath, his lips moving as he double-checked the titles on each page. Marla smiled to herself. Percy was a rule follower, a worrier—someone who lived in constant fear of making a mistake. She could work with that.
She approached with practiced ease, carrying a steaming mug of tea in one hand and a folder in the other. "Busy day?" she asked, her tone light and friendly.
Percy looked up, startled, then quickly relaxed when he saw it was her. "Always," he said with a sheepish smile, straightening up. "You know how it is—policies don't sort themselves."
Marla chuckled, shaking her head as if she genuinely commiserated. "Tell me about it. Between Crowley's office and the Department of Magical Accidents, I don't know who's worse with their requests."
Percy frowned slightly, tilting his head. "Crowley? What's he been up to?"
Marla leaned casually against the edge of a desk, taking a long sip of her tea before responding. She let the silence stretch just long enough to pique his curiosity. Then, as though deciding to let him in on a secret, she lowered her voice.
"Well, you didn't hear it from me," she began, glancing over her shoulder as if checking for eavesdroppers, "but word is Crowley's been meeting with... let's just say, the wrong kind of people."
Percy's brow furrowed. "What kind of people?"
Marla hesitated, tilting her head as though debating whether to tell him more. "Oh, you know how it is with these pure-blood types," she said finally, her tone conspiratorial. "Someone's always trying to take the biggest slice of the pie. And Crowley? He's been stepping on toes, trying to grab more control than some folks think he should have."
Percy straightened up, his interest fully captured. "Whose toes?"
Marla smiled faintly, a knowing glint in her eyes. "Let's just say not everyone's happy with him lately. And if certain... factions caught wind of what he's been doing, well, things could get complicated for him."
She patted him lightly on the arm, her expression turning almost apologetic. "Anyway, I'm sure it's nothing to worry about. These things have a way of coming out in the end, don't they?"
Before Percy could press her for more, Marla walked away, leaving him standing there with a head full of questions and a growing curiosity he wouldn't be able to resist indulging.
But Marla wasn't done. She knew that spreading a single rumor wasn't enough—it needed to be reinforced, echoed through multiple voices until it felt like common knowledge. Over the course of the day, she made her way through the Ministry, carefully selecting her targets and tailoring her words to suit each one.
In the breakroom, she struck up a conversation with a receptionist from the Department of Magical Transportation. "I heard Crowley's been keeping late hours lately," she said casually, stirring sugar into her tea. "Always meeting with someone just after everyone else has gone home. Makes you wonder what he's up to, doesn't it?"
The receptionist raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Late hours? That's not like him."
"Exactly," Marla said with a knowing smile. "I'm sure it's nothing, but... well, you know how these things go."
To a house-elf tidying up the lounge near the Auror offices, Marla offered a more sympathetic approach. "Poor Crowley. He must be under so much stress," she said, shaking her head. "All those meetings with... whoever they are. It can't be easy, keeping secrets like that."
The house-elf's ears perked up, its large eyes blinking curiously. "Secrets, ma'am?"
"Oh, I'm probably imagining things," Marla said quickly, as if catching herself. "But it does make you wonder, doesn't it?"
By mid-afternoon, Marla's work was bearing fruit. As she passed through the Ministry corridors, she overheard snippets of conversations that mirrored her own words.
"... heard Crowley's been meeting with someone after hours..."
"... pure-blood politics, you know how they are..."
"... makes you wonder what he's really up to..."
Satisfied, Marla returned to her desk, a small, triumphant smile playing on her lips. She knew the rumor would only grow from here, twisting and evolving as it passed from person to person. By the time Crowley himself caught wind of it, the details would be so muddled that he wouldn't know where it had started—or how to stop it.
The seed had been planted, and like a well-tended Devil's Snare, it would spread through the Ministry's gossip channels, ensnaring everyone in its path. For now, all Marla had to do was sit back and let it grow.
Phase Two: Delaying the Inevitable
Liam's role in the operation was simple on the surface—misdirect, delay, and disrupt. But the artistry lay in his ability to execute chaos so seamlessly that it would feel like nothing more than the Ministry's own cumbersome bureaucracy tripping over itself. His courier's uniform, with its neatly pressed navy-blue robes and silver trim, was a badge of trust. Couriers were ubiquitous in the Ministry, seen but rarely noticed, and Liam knew exactly how to leverage that invisibility.
Today, his satchel was stuffed with memos critical to Crowley's plan: policy drafts, correspondence with key allies, and a meticulously organized timeline of meetings and approvals. It was Liam's job to ensure none of it reached the right hands.
He began his day at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, wandering through the bustling office with a practiced air of distraction. He pulled a memo from his satchel—a thick envelope stamped with the Ministry's urgent red seal—and examined it with an exaggerated frown.
"Urgent?" he muttered to himself, feigning uncertainty. "Mmm... might not be that urgent."
He made a show of consulting a clipboard, then casually dropped the memo into an inbox labeled Magical Games and Sports—Event Proposals. The enchanted quills in that department were notoriously inefficient, prioritizing trivial tasks like Quidditch field requests over anything remotely important. This single detour would create a ripple effect, delaying a key meeting between Crowley and one of his staunchest supporters.
Liam strolled out of the office, whistling softly, his expression the picture of a man on a routine delivery. But his mind was calculating his next move. He approached the elevator bank, selecting the button for the Department for the Regulation of Magical Creatures. As the lift ascended, he rifled through his satchel, plucking out another memo addressed to Thaddeus Arkwright, a prominent pure-blood advocate and one of Crowley's most trusted confidants.
The lift dinged, and Liam stepped into the dimly lit hallway of the Department. His destination wasn't Arkwright's office but an unassuming file room at the end of the corridor. He slipped inside unnoticed, tucked the memo into a drawer labeled Dragon Preservation Requests—Pending, and exited as quickly as he'd entered.
"Dragons always take priority," he murmured to himself with a sly grin. It was a small touch, but the cumulative delays these misplaced documents would cause were anything but minor.
His next target was the sprawling atrium, where dozens of couriers flitted between departments like enchanted bees in a hive. Liam blended into the crowd effortlessly, navigating the chaos with practiced ease. His destination was the mailroom—a cavernous space lined with enchanted message tubes that connected every corner of the Ministry. Each tube was labeled with a department or individual's name, a vast network of pneumatic magic that operated with startling efficiency.
Liam approached one of the overworked sorting clerks, flashing a friendly smile. "Busy day?"
The clerk, a frazzled wizard with ink-stained robes and a permanent scowl, barely glanced up. "When isn't it?"
"Tell me about it," Liam replied, setting his satchel on the counter. "I'll save you a trip and drop these off myself."
The clerk waved him off with a distracted grunt, and Liam moved to the message tubes, taking his time as he examined the labels. He pulled a memo marked for Crowley's inner circle and slipped it into a tube bound for the Department of Mysteries. Another found its way to the Goblin Grievances Committee, a notoriously slow office where paperwork often languished for weeks.
With each misdirected document, Liam felt a surge of satisfaction. The beauty of the plan lay in its subtlety. No single action would raise suspicion; it was the cumulative effect that would throw Crowley's operation into disarray.
By the time Liam returned to the upper floors, the consequences of his handiwork were already beginning to unfold. In the Department of Magical Transportation, a frustrated official was barking orders at a flustered assistant.
"I sent that memo to Arkwright hours ago! Where is it?"
The assistant stammered, "It—it hasn't arrived yet, sir. I'll check with the mailroom."
In the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, a meeting was delayed when the agenda mysteriously failed to appear. Crowley's supporters, already on edge from mounting pressure, began to grumble about inefficiency and lack of coordination.
Liam continued his rounds, stopping briefly in the breakroom to mingle with other couriers. He listened intently as they exchanged complaints about lost documents and rerouted messages, occasionally chiming in with a sympathetic nod or a dry remark. His presence was entirely unremarkable, just another cog in the Ministry's massive machine.
But beneath the surface, the cracks were widening. By late afternoon, Crowley himself had noticed the disruptions. He stood in his office, glaring at a growing pile of unresolved issues on his desk.
"Nathaniel!" he barked, summoning his frazzled assistant. "What's going on with the memos? Arkwright hasn't received the agenda, and I've missed two meetings because of this mess!"
Nathaniel shuffled nervously, his hands clutching a clipboard. "I—I don't know, sir. The couriers say everything's been delivered on time."
"Then where are the damned papers?" Crowley snapped, his voice rising.
Nathaniel opened his mouth to respond but faltered under Crowley's withering glare.
Unseen and unnoticed, Liam passed by Crowley's office, his satchel now empty. He allowed himself a small, satisfied smile as he made his way toward the exit.
The beauty of Liam's work was that it didn't just cause delays; it planted seeds of doubt. As Crowley's plans unraveled, his allies would begin to question his competence, his dedication, and even his trustworthiness. The Ministry's labyrinthine bureaucracy was a perfect scapegoat, allowing Liam's sabotage to remain undetected.
By the time Crowley realized the extent of the chaos, it would be too late. Meetings would have been missed, crucial support lost, and the carefully constructed momentum behind the Occupational Purity Act would have ground to a halt. And all the while, Liam would remain an invisible hand, steering the collapse with quiet precision.
Phase Three: Planting the Knife
Emily's part in the plan required finesse, a talent she had honed over years of navigating delicate social situations. Disguised as a nondescript Ministry assistant, her role wasn't about confrontation or overt sabotage. It was about leaving behind the faintest trace of doubt—a shadow that would stretch and grow in Crowley's mind until it eclipsed his entire operation.
She entered the Ministry early that morning, her borrowed robes neatly pressed, her hair pulled back in the no-nonsense style favored by administrative staff. She knew every detail of her appearance mattered; she needed to blend in, to appear unremarkable, yet just noticeable enough to spark curiosity at precisely the right moment.
The meeting she targeted was one of Crowley's most critical—a private discussion with his inner circle to address mounting tensions within their ranks. Emily knew the stakes were high. Every move had to be calculated, her presence a whisper of intrigue rather than a blaring alarm.
She stationed herself in the hallway outside the meeting room, holding a stack of blank parchments and glancing around as if waiting for instructions. Her movements were deliberate but subtle—adjusting her grip on the papers, smoothing her robes, glancing toward the door just often enough to catch Crowley's attention through the narrow glass panel.
Inside, Crowley's voice carried through the door, sharp and commanding. He was mid-sentence when he stopped abruptly, his gaze locking onto Emily through the glass. She saw the flicker of annoyance on his face, quickly replaced by suspicion.
"Who's that?" Crowley barked, turning to his assistant, Nathaniel.
Nathaniel, already frazzled, peered out into the hallway. "I—uh, I'm not sure, sir. She must be new."
"New?" Crowley's tone sharpened. "Why is she standing there? Who let her in?"
Emily, sensing the perfect moment, gave a nervous smile and ducked down the corridor as if embarrassed to have been caught lingering. She disappeared around a corner before Nathaniel could reach the door, leaving behind only unanswered questions.
Inside the room, Crowley's irritation was palpable. He scanned the faces of his allies, his voice a low growl. "This is what happens when we let the Ministry grow complacent. Security's a joke. That girl could have been anyone—a spy, a saboteur!"
The room buzzed with murmurs of agreement, but the seed of doubt had been planted. In Crowley's world, nothing happened by accident. A stranger lingering outside his meeting wasn't a coincidence—it was a warning. And warnings, in his experience, came from enemies.
Emily didn't stop there. Later that afternoon, she ensured whispers began to circulate among the Ministry staff. It started innocuously enough—a quiet remark over lunch, a passing comment near the enchanted coffee cart.
"Did you hear about Crowley?" she murmured to a pair of clerks from the Department of Magical Games and Sports. "Strange, isn't it? That he's meeting with people from... you know, the other side."
One of the clerks perked up, curiosity alight in her eyes. "The other side? You mean the ones who—"
Emily nodded conspiratorially, lowering her voice. "Exactly. Word is, they're not happy with how he's running things. Too much control, not enough cooperation. And you didn't hear it from me, but someone saw him meeting with one of their people earlier today. In secret."
The clerks exchanged glances, the spark of gossip already catching fire. Emily left them to their speculation, knowing it would spread like Fiendfyre in the days to come.
By the time the rumors reached Crowley, they had grown in scope and severity. Whispers of clandestine meetings turned into accusations of betrayal. Some claimed Crowley was cutting deals with rival factions; others insisted he was deliberately sabotaging his own allies to consolidate power.
Crowley, already rattled by the delays and disruptions caused by Liam's interference, felt the weight of the rumors pressing down on him. His normally pale complexion turned ashen as he paced his office, his mind racing to make sense of the unraveling situation.
"Nathaniel!" he snapped, his voice sharp with frustration.
Nathaniel appeared in the doorway, looking as exhausted as Crowley felt. "Yes, sir?"
"Find out who that woman was outside the meeting room this morning. I want her name, her department, and a full report on why she was there."
Nathaniel hesitated, wringing his hands. "Sir, I—I've asked around, but no one seems to know who she is. She's not on any of the rosters."
Crowley slammed his fist onto his desk. "Unacceptable! She didn't just appear out of thin air. Someone knows something, and I want answers!"
But the answers never came. Emily had vanished as quickly as she'd appeared, her fabricated identity leaving no trace behind. The mystery of her presence only deepened the paranoia gripping Crowley and his allies.
By the end of the week, Crowley's inner circle was fractured, each member questioning the loyalty of the others. Meetings devolved into tense accusations, and critical decisions were delayed as mistrust festered.
Emily watched from the sidelines, her work complete. She knew that in Crowley's world, where every action was a calculated move on a dangerous chessboard, the mere suggestion of betrayal was often more damaging than the act itself. And with each passing day, Crowley's grip on his allies—and his ambitions—grew weaker.
Phase Five: Seeds of doubt
aced with reassurance. "Crawley can be... ambitious, though, can't he? Sometimes too ambitious. It's strange he wouldn't include you in something this important."
Hubert's jaw clenched, and without another word, he downed the rest of his drink and stormed off, his mind spinning with suspicion.
As the evening unfolded, Emily watched her handiwork spread through the room like ripples on a pond. Whispers turned into hushed conversations, casual glances became sharp stares. Allies began to distance themselves from Crawley, their confidence eroding under the weight of imagined slights and unspoken fears. The once-unshakeable bonds of camaraderie frayed as each person questioned their standing in Crawley's plans.
By the time Crawley himself realized something was amiss, it was far too late. The warm smiles that had greeted him at the start of the evening now seemed edged with frost, every handshake laced with unspoken suspicion. When Hubert finally confronted him near the exit, his accusations slurred but no less venomous, Crawley's attempts at explanation only deepened the rift. The room buzzed with quiet judgment, and Emily watched from the periphery, satisfaction gleaming in her eyes.
The seeds of doubt had taken root, and Crawley's carefully constructed reputation was beginning to crumble. By morning, the cracks would spread even further, and Emily would be one step closer to completing her mission.
The Final Push
Late that evening, when the halls of the Ministry had fallen silent and the last echoes of footsteps had faded, Ray slipped quietly into Crawley's office. The glow of the enchanted sconces cast flickering shadows across the room, lending an air of intrigue to his clandestine task. He carried a stack of mundane memos under one arm—official-looking enough to deflect suspicion should anyone stumble upon him but meaningless in reality.
Ray moved with practiced precision. He wasn't there to steal secrets or plant incriminating evidence—nothing so overt. Instead, he intended to unravel Crawley's carefully maintained sense of control. He flicked his wand, muttering a soft charm, and the neat stacks of documents on Crawley's desk rearranged themselves into a haphazard mess. Important reports were shuffled beneath trivial papers, and a critical file—one Crawley would desperately need for a high-stakes meeting the next morning—was placed conspicuously beneath an innocuous pile of outdated schedules. The disarray looked almost accidental, a careless oversight rather than deliberate sabotage.
As he surveyed his handiwork, Ray allowed himself a small, fleeting smile. It was a harmless prank on the surface, the kind of mischief that could be laughed off—if Crawley weren't already teetering on the edge of paranoia. Satisfied, Ray slipped out of the office as silently as he had entered, leaving no trace of his intrusion beyond the carefully orchestrated chaos.
The next morning, Crawley arrived early, as was his custom. The moment he stepped into his office and saw the state of his desk, his carefully cultivated composure shattered. Papers were strewn everywhere, vital documents buried beneath irrelevant clutter. His jaw tightened, and his breath quickened as his gaze darted across the mess. Crawley thrived on control, and this—this—was an affront he couldn't tolerate.
"Nathaniel!" he bellowed, his voice echoing through the nearly empty corridors. His assistant appeared almost immediately, wide-eyed and flustered.
"Y-yes, sir?" Nathaniel stammered, his hands clutching a clipboard like a lifeline.
Crawley's face was already turning an alarming shade of red. "Who was in my office last night?" he demanded, slamming a fist onto the disordered desk. The sound made Nathaniel flinch.
"No one, sir, I—I locked up myself—"
"Liar!" Crawley's voice rose, and his anger boiled over. "You're in on it, aren't you? Working with them! All of you, conspiring to undermine me!" His eyes darted wildly, and his breathing grew heavier, each word spilling out with greater venom.
Nathaniel looked stricken, his lips parting in a feeble attempt at a defense. But before he could utter a word, Crawley had turned his glare on the doorway, as if expecting an unseen enemy to materialize.
The commotion drew attention. A few of Crawley's closest allies, already lingering outside the office to discuss mounting frustrations, stopped in their tracks. They exchanged wary glances as Crawley's voice carried into the corridor, every word brimming with accusation and desperation.
Inside the office, Crawley's outburst reached a fever pitch. His paranoia, already stretched thin by the whispers circulating from the previous night, now snapped entirely. His fists clenched, and his gaze darted between Nathaniel and the chaos on his desk, seeing plots where there were none.
For those who overheard, the spectacle was damning. Crawley, once so commanding, now looked less like a shrewd leader and more like a desperate man spiraling out of control. His allies, already frustrated by delays and rattled by the rumors seeded at the gala, found their remaining loyalty eroded by the display. One by one, they began to back away—figuratively and literally—leaving Crawley to wrestle with shadows of his own making.
By midmorning, the Ministry buzzed with whispers of his breakdown, the narrative spinning faster than Crawley could counter. His reputation, already fractured, was now in free fall, and the final threads of his alliances were unraveling. Ray's subtle act of mischief had delivered its intended blow—not through direct confrontation, but by pushing Crawley to destroy himself.
The Fall
By the end of the week, Crawley's world had come crashing down with a swiftness he could scarcely comprehend. The Ministry, once a stage for his calculated moves, had become a hostile terrain. His allies—once loyal, or at least opportunistically aligned—now kept their distance, unwilling to be ensnared in whatever chaotic tangle he had created. Meetings were missed, plans derailed, and the once-fervent push for the Occupational Purity Act faltered. Without the unified support of Crawley's faction, the controversial bill was quietly shelved, its potential impact dissolved into irrelevance.
The whispers of Crawley's instability, sown with precision throughout the gala and beyond, had spread like wildfire. Paranoia rippled through his circle, feeding on the mistrust he had fostered both unwittingly and through his outbursts. It wasn't just his opponents who questioned him now—it was his closest confidants. The cracks in his influence deepened until they became chasms, and with no one willing to bridge them, Crawley found himself utterly isolated.
The final blow came not from his enemies, but from within his own camp. Fearful that Crawley, in his growing desperation, might turn on them next, several of his erstwhile allies decided to protect themselves by sacrificing him. Carefully curated snippets of incriminating information—details of backdoor deals, manipulations, and power grabs—were handed to a keen reporter at the Daily Prophet.
The headline the next morning was damning:
"Power Play in the Ministry? Crawley's Web of Influence Unravels."
The article laid bare the machinations that had once bolstered Crawley's rise, reframing his cunning as ruthless ambition and his alliances as cynical manipulations. For many in the Ministry, the exposé confirmed what they had already begun to suspect: Crawley was a man whose ambitions had outpaced his control, a liability too dangerous to align with.
The fallout was swift and unforgiving. Crawley's carefully constructed career lay in ruins, his reputation irreparably tarnished. Invitations to critical meetings ceased to arrive. Projects he had spearheaded were reassigned to others. Even his staunchest supporters avoided eye contact in the corridors, muttering excuses to escape conversations with him. Crawley, who had once commanded rooms with his mere presence, now moved through the Ministry as a ghost, his authority eroded and his ambitions crushed.
He raged internally, searching for the thread that had unraveled his plans. He couldn't pinpoint the moment it had all gone wrong—was it the rumors about Lockwood? Hubert's drunken accusations? The disarray on his desk? It was as if the world had conspired against him, dismantling his influence piece by piece in ways he couldn't predict or combat.
And that was exactly how Alex had planned it. From the shadows, Alex watched the downfall with quiet satisfaction. There was no need for overt confrontation, no grand battle of wills. Crawley had undone himself, his paranoia and arrogance exploited to devastating effect. Alex had merely set the stage and let the inevitable play out.
By the time Crawley realized the full extent of his defeat, it was too late. His legacy, his alliances, and his dreams of dominance lay in tatters. Alex, meanwhile, walked away unnoticed, already turning their mind to the next move in the intricate game of power.
Back at Alex's apartment, the team gathered to debrief over drinks. Emily slouched comfortably in her chair, her grin wide. "He's done. The whole thing fell apart like a house of cards."
Ray chuckled, raising his glass. "The best part? He thinks he caused it. Classic."
Liam tapped the side of his glass, grinning. "And those memos? Still sitting in Magical Games and Sports."
Marla smirked. "Bet he's already burned half his bridges. By the time anyone figures out what really happened—if they ever do—it'll be ancient history."
Alex leaned back in his chair, watching his team with satisfaction. "This is what we do," he said softly. "We don't force change. We steer it. People like Crowley? They destroy themselves. We just give them the push."
The team clinked their glasses together, the sound of triumph ringing through the dim room. Crowley was finished, and the Ministry was left scrambling to make sense of the chaos.
Alex sat at the edge of his rented room in Hogsmeade, the dim glow of a single enchanted candle casting erratic shadows across the worn walls. The room was sparse, its only furnishings a small bed, a rickety chair, and a desk piled with stray scraps of parchment. The Daily Prophet lay crumpled on the floor, its headline blaring in bold letters:
"Sirius Black Strikes Again: Attempted Break-In at Gryffindor Tower!"
He leaned back in the creaky chair, fingers tapping against its armrest as his thoughts raced. He knew the truth—at least, most of it. Sirius Black wasn't the villain painted by the papers, wasn't the traitor who had sold out the Potters. That honor belonged to Peter Pettigrew, who now scurried through Gryffindor Tower disguised as Ron Weasley's pet rat, Wormtail. The knowledge was a bitter weight on Alex's conscience.
The injustice gnawed at him, but his position was precarious. Should he act and risk disrupting a timeline he only half-remembered? Or should he stay on the sidelines, letting events unfold as they were meant to?
"Too fast," Alex muttered, running a hand through his hair. "It's all happening too fast."
He tried to recall the finer points of the story, the chain of events that had once seemed so clear, now blurry and fragmented in his memory. One thing he knew for certain: meddling came with consequences. A single alteration could ripple outward, warping the timeline beyond recognition. And yet, could he really sit idle, knowing the truth? Could he stand by as Sirius suffered for a crime he hadn't committed?
His gaze fell on his wand, lying motionless on the bedside table. The urge to storm into Hogwarts was strong, but the obstacles were too great. Dumbledore, with his piercing insight and unshakable wisdom, would see right through him. Alex had no desire to become another unpredictable piece on the chessboard of the great headmaster's plans.
For now, staying in Hogsmeade was his best option. He could watch, listen, and wait for the right moment to intervene—if that moment ever came.
The final weekend of the term arrived, and with it came the bustling, festive atmosphere of Hogsmeade. The village was alive with life and color, snow dusting the rooftops and crunching underfoot as students and villagers filled the streets. Fairy lights adorned shop windows, casting a warm glow that reflected off the icy cobblestones. Laughter and chatter spilled out of every doorway, blending into the crisp winter air.
Alex found himself drawn, as he often was, to the Three Broomsticks. The pub was a haven against the cold, its roaring fire and heady mix of spiced cider and butterbeer creating a comforting cocoon. He settled into his usual corner, a vantage point that allowed him to see the ebb and flow of the crowd while remaining inconspicuous. A half-empty mug of butterbeer sat on the table in front of him, long gone cold, as his focus drifted to the snippets of conversation floating through the room.
Students chattered excitedly about their holiday plans, their voices overlapping in a symphony of youthful exuberance. A group of professors sat near the fire, their tones more subdued but no less merry. Villagers discussed the latest Ministry news, sharing rumors and speculations about the war brewing on the edges of their otherwise peaceful world. Alex listened carefully, his senses attuned to the smallest shifts in tone and content.
Then he heard it—a conversation that froze him mid-thought.
At a nearby table, Madam Rosmerta was leaning in close to Hagrid, Professor McGonagall, and Minister Fudge. Their voices were low, but the weight of their words carried to Alex like the echo of a distant storm.
"...and Black betrayed the Potters to You-Know-Who," Fudge said, his voice tinged with a mixture of authority and grim satisfaction.
Alex's stomach churned. This is it. The moment the lie would spread further, tightening the web around Sirius Black. His heart raced as he pieced together what was unfolding: Harry, Ron, and Hermione were here, listening from the shadows. The truth they thought they knew was about to shatter.
Leaving a few coins on the table, Alex slipped out into the night, the cold air biting at his face. Snow fell in gentle swirls, blanketing the village in a deceptive calm. His boots crunched against the cobblestones as he scanned the streets, his breath forming clouds that lingered in the frosty air.
He didn't have to search long. Just outside the Three Broomsticks, he spotted Harry, Ron, and Hermione huddled together. Their faces were pale, their expressions a mix of shock and confusion. They had heard the same conversation, and the weight of it hung heavy in the cold night air.
"Harry," Alex called softly as he approached, his voice careful not to startle them.
Harry turned immediately, his face brightening with recognition. "Alex!"
Ron and Hermione, however, weren't so quick to trust. Their eyes narrowed, suspicion etched into their features.
"Who's this?" Ron demanded, glancing between Harry and Alex, his tone guarded.
"It's okay," Harry said quickly, trying to reassure them. "I trust him."
Hermione wasn't convinced. Her sharp gaze fixed on Alex, her posture stiff with caution. "Why should we trust you?"
Alex met her scrutiny with calm resolve. He respected her wariness—it was only natural given the stakes they faced. "You don't have to trust me yet," he admitted. "But I'm here to help Harry, and by extension, both of you. That's all I can offer right now."
Hermione exchanged a look with Ron. Slowly, her expression softened, though the caution didn't leave her entirely. "If Harry trusts you, we'll give you a chance," she said carefully. "But we'll be watching."
Alex smiled faintly. "I wouldn't expect anything less."
Harry stepped closer, his voice low but intense. "What are you doing here, Alex?"
"I overheard it," Alex said, nodding toward the pub. "Everything they said about Black."
Harry's shoulders sagged. His voice trembled as he asked, "So... it's true, then? He really did it?"
Alex hesitated. This was the moment where every word mattered. "It's what they believe to be true," he said carefully, his voice steady. "But that doesn't mean it's the whole story."
Harry's eyes searched Alex's face, looking for answers he couldn't yet give.
"I know it's hard," Alex said softly. "Hearing that and not knowing what to believe. But you're not alone in this. When the time comes, you'll know what to do. Until then, trust yourself. And if you need me, I'm here."
Harry nodded slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little. "Thanks, Alex."
For a moment, the group stood in silence, the snow falling around them in a serene hush. The glow from the pub's windows painted the street in golden light, but the air between them was heavy with unspoken worries.
Ron finally broke the quiet. "We should get back. If Filch catches us out here, we're done for."
Alex nodded. "Harry, I'm staying here in Hogsmeade. If you need anything, just send an owl. I'll come."
Harry, Ron, and Hermione began their journey back to the castle, their figures disappearing into the swirling snow. Alex stayed where he was, watching until they were out of sight. The village grew quieter, but his mind remained restless. He knew that this was only the beginning—and the hardest choices were yet to come.