Alex Mercer had always been good at keeping a low profile. It was a skill he'd perfected over the years—disappearing into the shadows, staying just out of reach of those who might want to ask too many questions. He had no intention of becoming part of any grand narrative, especially not one involving wizards, prophecies, and destinies. He preferred the quiet anonymity of the world he had crafted for himself.
But somehow, despite his best efforts, Albus Dumbledore had taken an interest in him.
The owl had come with a message as simple as it was direct: "Please meet with me in my office at your earliest convenience." There was no greeting, no pretense. Just a quiet pull of inevitability behind the words. Alex had hoped, for a long time, that Dumbledore would overlook him, would let him slip through the cracks. But that hope had been dashed. The old wizard, it seemed, had other plans.
Alex had never been a student at Hogwarts, nor had he ever sought Dumbledore's attention. He wasn't a part of this world—at least not in the way most people were. His involvement in the events that surrounded the likes of Harry Potter and the others had been entirely incidental, a matter of being in the wrong place at the right time. But Dumbledore's gaze was sharp, and he saw things others did not. Alex had never been able to escape that piercing awareness.
And now, he was here—standing before the gargoyle at the entrance to Dumbledore's office. The stone creature, as if knowing who Alex was and what he had come for, slid aside with an almost knowing grunt, revealing the winding staircase that led up to the headmaster's sanctum.
The stairs turned slowly beneath his feet, like the hands of a clock, their rhythmic grinding sound filling the air as Alex ascended. He had always been wary of Dumbledore's power—his ability to manipulate events, to foresee moves before they were made. It had made him cautious, careful in his actions, always aware that one wrong step might bring the old man's gaze upon him. Now, that caution seemed futile. Dumbledore had found him anyway.
At the top, Alex reached the polished oak door. Its brass knocker—a griffin with outstretched wings—seemed to watch him as he hesitated for just a moment, feeling the weight of the inevitable settle over him. This was the moment of reckoning. The door swung open, almost as if it had been waiting for him, and Alex stepped into the headmaster's office.
It was everything Alex had imagined it would be—intricate instruments whirred softly on shelves, some of them spinning lazily while others clicked and ticked in complex, incomprehensible patterns. Scrolls were stacked precariously, leaning against towering bookshelves that groaned with knowledge, while paintings of long-dead headmasters whispered amongst themselves, their voices barely audible, as if debating some ancient matter.
In the far corner, Fawkes—the aging phoenix—ruffled his brilliant feathers and fixed Alex with a curious, knowing glance, as though he could sense the gravity of the conversation to come. Alex couldn't help but return the glance, the weight of those intelligent, burning eyes feeling like a silent challenge.
At the center of the room sat Albus Dumbledore, the headmaster himself. His bright blue eyes sparkled from behind half-moon spectacles, the gleam in them both sharp and wise, though softened by the slight curve of his lips, which gave nothing away. He appeared entirely at ease, his presence as comfortable as the room itself, as if they were about to discuss something as mundane as the weather rather than delve into matters of intrigue, manipulation, and hidden truths.
"Mr. Mercer," Dumbledore greeted, his voice low and rich with the weight of experience. He gestured toward the chair opposite him, his movement graceful but deliberate. "Please, have a seat."
Alex didn't hesitate. He took his place in the chair across from Dumbledore, trying not to let his discomfort show. Despite his best efforts to remain unnoticed, he couldn't help but feel the weight of Dumbledore's gaze on him—an old, calculating gaze that seemed to know everything about him.
"Tea?" Dumbledore asked, his voice as smooth as silk. "Or perhaps something stronger?"
"I'm fine, thank you," Alex replied, his tone neutral but measured. He didn't come for pleasantries, and neither did Dumbledore. They both knew why he was here.
Dumbledore's smile remained, but there was a sharpness in his eyes that Alex recognized all too well. "I imagine you know why I asked you here," Dumbledore said, his voice soft, though the intention behind it was unmistakable.
Alex smiled politely, but there was a flicker of something else behind his eyes. "If I had to guess, you've got a few questions for me."
Dumbledore's eyes glinted, a brief flash of amusement passing through them. "Indeed," he replied. "But as you know, Mr. Mercer, it is not always the answers that interest me. It is the way in which they are given."
Alex stiffened slightly, sensing the trap already being laid. He had known Dumbledore was a master of this kind of subtle interrogation, but that didn't make it any less uncomfortable. Alex had spent years dodging such attention—whether from the law, rivals, or even more dangerous figures—but it seemed that Dumbledore was determined to make him an exception.
"I don't see why you're so interested in me," Alex said, keeping his tone measured. "I'm hardly anyone of importance."
"Ah, but importance is a curious thing, isn't it?" Dumbledore mused, leaning forward slightly. "Sometimes, it's the ones who try hardest to remain unnoticed who end up making the most impact."
Alex met his gaze, refusing to let his discomfort show. "I don't make an impact. I just try to stay out of the way."
Dumbledore's smile remained warm, but his eyes remained sharp. "That's not quite true, is it? You found yourself in the Shrieking Shack at a rather opportune moment, wouldn't you agree?"
Alex's gut tightened. He had been hoping to avoid this conversation. He knew exactly where Dumbledore was going with this. "It was just a coincidence," Alex said, trying to keep his voice casual. "I was in the right place at the right time. It happens."
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled, but there was a sharpness to them now, a quiet knowing. "Ah, and yet, you've made a habit of being in the right places at the right times. Curious, isn't it? For someone who claims to avoid attention."
Alex felt a flicker of frustration but suppressed it. "I've never sought attention, Professor," he said, his voice steady, though there was an edge to it now. "I'm not here to play whatever game you think I'm a part of."
Dumbledore smiled, that knowing smile again, as though he had anticipated this response. "That's the question, isn't it?" he replied softly. "What if you have already become part of it, whether you wish to or not?"
Alex shrugged again, though he knew the game was shifting. Dumbledore wasn't simply making small talk. Every word, every glance, carried weight. And Alex was beginning to realize just how much the old wizard had already seen.
Dumbledore's eyes never wavered as he studied Alex, as if weighing his words with the precision of a seasoned judge. "Life does seem to have a curious way of placing you where things are... happening," he mused, his gaze intent. "Though it's interesting, Mr. Mercer, how often your 'wrong place' seems to be the very place where things most need to be... witnessed."
Alex's smile barely shifted. "Can't say I've ever been good at avoiding trouble," he replied with a disarming grin.
"Indeed," Dumbledore said with a nod, his tone light, but his eyes sharp. "And yet, trouble seems to follow you wherever you go. Especially when it concerns young Harry Potter."
There it was—Dumbledore's first direct move. Subtle, but deliberate. The mention of Harry was no accident, and Alex knew it. The headmaster was testing him, watching for any crack in his composure.
"I crossed paths with Harry by chance," Alex said smoothly, maintaining his casual tone. "He seemed like he could use a hand. That's all."
Dumbledore tilted his head slightly, as if considering Alex's words before responding. "Harry has a remarkable talent for drawing people to him," he said. "Though not all who are drawn to him come with good intentions."
Alex's expression remained neutral. "Harry's a good kid," he said, his voice steady. "He could use someone looking out for him."
Dumbledore's gaze lingered on him, assessing, weighing. "An admirable goal," he said finally. "But tell me, Mr. Mercer, why do you believe yourself to be the one best suited for the task?"
Alex chuckled softly, his smile a touch self-deprecating. "I'm not looking to take over your job, Professor," he said, the words light but with an edge. "I just figured an extra set of eyes wouldn't hurt."
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled, though it was more like a glint of ice than warmth. "A prudent sentiment. But it raises a question, does it not? How many sets of eyes does one boy need before he is no longer truly free?"
Alex tilted his head slightly, sensing where this conversation was going. "Freedom's a tricky thing, isn't it?" he said, his tone thoughtful. "Too much of it, and people end up lost. Too little, and they break."
"Very true," Dumbledore replied, his voice softer now. "And yet, even in freedom, people carry burdens they cannot shed."
The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. Alex knew what Dumbledore was trying to do—steering the conversation toward something deeper, feeling out Alex's true intentions. He could sense the old wizard probing, trying to gauge how much he really understood.
Alex smiled faintly. "You mean Harry," he said, voice just a touch quieter. "You're afraid the weight on his shoulders might crush him."
Dumbledore's eyes never left his, sharp and intent. "I believe the weight of destiny can only be borne by those who are truly prepared for it," he said softly. "And preparation... often depends on the company one keeps."
The word hung in the air like a delicate trap—company. It was a deliberate choice of words, and Alex knew what Dumbledore was really trying to get at. The mention of "company" was a subtle invitation to speak of Harry's friends, his protectors, his allies. And with that, Dumbledore was testing whether Alex knew of the prophecy, or perhaps whether he knew the true nature of Harry's connection to the world of magic.
Alex didn't flinch. "Destiny's just another word for hindsight," he replied smoothly. "It only makes sense when you look back."
Dumbledore's smile flickered, a moment of respect passing between them. Alex had sidestepped the trap with ease. The bait had been ignored—at least, for now.
"Perhaps," Dumbledore murmured, his voice thoughtful. "And yet, hindsight offers little comfort to those caught in the midst of it."
Alex allowed a polite smile, offering nothing more, his mind already moving to the next layer of their conversation.
Dumbledore shifted slightly in his chair, a new question forming in his mind. "And what of Peter Pettigrew?" he asked suddenly. "He seems to have slipped through many fingers—including yours. What do you believe he intends?"
Alex's gut tightened. He knew the question was coming, but that didn't make it any easier to answer. He had seen the trap before it was set—but still, he stepped into it. He couldn't afford to appear too evasive. Not now.
"If I had to guess?" Alex began, voice cool. "He's running scared. And scared men do stupid things."
Dumbledore leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing. "Do you believe he is capable of something more dangerous?"
Alex paused, then continued, keeping his tone casual but calculated. "If Pettigrew's smart, his best play would be to run straight to Voldemort." He shrugged, offering the suggestion almost offhandedly.
For a fraction of a second, Dumbledore froze, his mind processing the words. The expression in his eyes shifted—just the briefest flash of disbelief before it vanished, swallowed by a mask of composure. In that brief moment, Alex understood. Dumbledore had not considered the possibility of Voldemort's return. Not like that. Not through Pettigrew. He had assumed the dark lord's defeat was final—only now, Alex had planted a seed of doubt.
"That is... an unsettling possibility," Dumbledore said, his voice quieter now, his mind racing to reassess the situation. "One I must admit I had not fully contemplated."
Alex cursed himself internally. He had miscalculated. A fraction too much. A fraction too soon. The old man was already moving, recalculating, considering the implications of what Alex had just revealed.
"I never said I had all the answers," Alex said softly, his gaze steady. "Just that I know how people like Pettigrew think. Survival is an instinct. And for someone like him, survival always means finding someone more dangerous to hide behind."
Dumbledore's gaze softened for a moment, as if the weight of the information had landed. Then, as though nothing had changed, he returned to his usual calm, "A keen observation," he said, his voice low and thoughtful. "Though I wonder what, exactly, you have observed to come to that conclusion."
Alex smiled faintly, offering nothing more than the truth he had shared. "I make it a habit to understand people. Keeps me alive."
Dumbledore studied him for a moment longer, his expression unreadable. Finally, he spoke again, his tone softer now. "And what of the Ministry?"
Alex knew where this was going. He had been dreading it.
"They won't take kindly to what happened at the Shrieking Shack," Alex said, his voice a little colder now.
Dumbledore's expression darkened slightly, though his voice remained calm. "Indeed. Cornelius Fudge finds the idea of Peter Pettigrew's survival... inconvenient. It does not fit the narrative he has so carefully cultivated."
"And Lupin?" Alex asked, though he already knew the answer.
Dumbledore's gaze grew more serious. "The Ministry has made their position clear. They would prefer that Remus step aside—quietly, of course. Anti-werewolf sentiment is growing. The tides are shifting."
Alex absorbed the information, his mind turning the gears of his own plans. The Ministry's resistance to truth was nothing new, but the smear campaign against Lupin was particularly troubling.
"I must ask, Mr. Mercer," Dumbledore said softly, "what is it you seek to achieve by remaining close to Harry?"
Alex met Dumbledore's gaze without hesitation, his voice steady. "I'll know when I find it."
Dumbledore's lips curled in a small, knowing smile, but there was an unmistakable edge to it now—a warning, perhaps. "I do hope, when that moment comes, you make the right choice."
Alex rose from his chair, smoothing the lines of his jacket. "I usually do."
The winding staircase descended slowly, grinding like an ancient machine under Alex's feet. Each rotation echoed in his ears, amplifying his thoughts. Dumbledore's words lingered, replaying themselves with maddening clarity. The old man hadn't just probed him—he had seen him, peeled back layers Alex had spent years fortifying.
Outside the gargoyle's entrance, Alex paused, exhaling a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. The castle's corridors stretched out before him, silent and empty, their stone walls bathed in the flickering glow of torchlight. He moved quickly, slipping through the shadows as he had countless times before. The conversation with Dumbledore had left him unsettled, not because of what had been said, but because of what had not been.
The headmaster wasn't just concerned about Harry or Pettigrew. He was concerned about him.
The D.A.T.D. buzzed faintly in his thoughts, its presence like a heartbeat in the back of his mind. He could leave. At any moment, he could set the device's parameters, vanish into another universe, and leave all of this behind. The temptation was real, but so was the pull to stay. The multiverse had shown him countless realities, countless paths. But this one... this one felt different.
Perhaps it was Harry, or the stakes surrounding him. Or perhaps it was Dumbledore himself, the quiet gravity of a man who seemed to know more than anyone should. Either way, Alex wasn't done here. Not yet.
Far above, in his office, Dumbledore sat silently, his hands steepled before him. Fawkes perched nearby, his head tilted as though listening to the headmaster's unspoken thoughts.
"Curious, isn't he?" Dumbledore murmured, his gaze fixed on the door Alex had left through. "A man who claims no stake in the game, yet finds himself always at its edges."
Fawkes let out a low, melodic trill, his fiery feathers glinting in the lamplight.
Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful. Alex Mercer was an enigma—a man without a past in their world, yet with knowledge that surpassed even the most well-read wizard. He had deflected Dumbledore's questions skillfully, but not without leaving traces. The mention of Voldemort, the sharp understanding of Pettigrew's mind—those weren't the insights of an uninvolved bystander.
There was more to Alex than he let on. Dumbledore could feel it, like a faint thread in the tapestry of the world, tugging at the edges of his perception.
Alex's home in Hogsmeade wasn't much to look at, and that was exactly the way he liked it. Nestled at the far edge of the village, just past a cluster of uneven cottages, it was small, unassuming, and partially hidden by the overgrown ivy that crawled up its stone walls. A cracked lantern hung near the front door, its glass clouded by years of neglect, and the single window beside it was dimly lit from within, the curtains drawn tightly shut.
He pushed the door open and stepped inside, exhaling as the familiar quiet embraced him. The place smelled faintly of old wood and the slight metallic tang of the devices he had scattered across his makeshift workbench. A fire crackled in the hearth, though Alex hadn't lit it—it seemed the Nexus had taken care of it in his absence, as it often did with small comforts.
The house was more a shell than a home, its rooms sparsely furnished and its walls bare save for the odd scribbled note pinned up with a knife. Alex had always preferred to travel light, even in the places he called "home." Anything important could be stored in the Nexus, safe from prying eyes, time, or even fire. This place was just a waypoint—a staging ground.
He tossed his jacket onto the back of a chair and walked to the workbench, where a jumble of intricate machinery and magical paraphernalia lay scattered in a seemingly haphazard yet oddly methodical arrangement. The workbench was the heart of his inventiveness, a place where the lines between science and magic blurred seamlessly.
Sliding into the worn chair beside the bench, Alex leaned back and stared at the ceiling. The conversation with Dumbledore replayed in his mind, the old man's probing questions cutting sharper with each repetition.
"What's your angle, Dumbledore?" Alex muttered under his breath. The headmaster's words had been measured, deliberate. He'd been tested, no doubt about it. The old wizard wanted to see if Alex would crack—or reveal something he hadn't meant to.
But Alex hadn't survived this long by being careless. He had walked the line, offered enough to satisfy without giving away the full scope of what he knew. Still, Dumbledore was dangerous. His gaze was like a scalpel, peeling away masks until only truth remained.
Alex's hand drifted to the Protean-Charmed coin on the corner of the workbench. An idea he had stolen from Hermione in the books. It allowed him to connect with the three people he trusted most. Emily, Damian, and Mara.
He hesitated for a moment, then tapped the coin.
Emily appeared first, her sharp features and dark curls illuminated by the faint glow of her projection. Her arms were crossed, her expression skeptical as always. She had a way of looking at Alex like she was trying to decide whether to scold him or help him.
"About time," she said, her voice tinged with annoyance. "You've been quiet. Too quiet. What's going on?"
Before Alex could respond, Damian materialized, his towering frame and easy grin filling the space. His dark skin seemed to glow faintly in the light of the projection, and his braided hair was tied back in a loose knot. "Let me guess," Damian said, his voice warm and teasing. "You've gone and gotten yourself into trouble. Again."
Last to appear was Mara, her presence softer than the others but no less commanding. She stood with a quiet confidence, her auburn hair pulled back into a practical ponytail. Her piercing green eyes locked onto Alex immediately. "What's the situation?" she asked, her tone calm but firm.
Alex leaned back in his chair, his gaze flicking between the three projections. "I've got a problem," he said, his voice low. "Dumbledore."
Emily raised an eyebrow. "The Dumbledore? Headmaster, wizarding legend, probably knows more about you than you'd like?"
"That's the one," Alex replied dryly. "He called me in today. Asked a lot of questions—about Harry, about Pettigrew. He's digging, and he's too good at it."
Damian frowned, the teasing edge in his voice replaced by concern. "What did you tell him?"
"Enough to keep him off my back for now," Alex said. "But he's not letting this go. He knows I'm not just some drifter who happened to stumble into all this. He's suspicious."
Mara's eyes narrowed. "What's his angle? Does he think you're working against him?"
"I don't know," Alex admitted. "He's not just worried about Harry or Pettigrew. He's trying to figure out what I want. Why I'm here."
Emily sighed, her expression softening slightly. "To be fair, we're all wondering that. You've got the D.A.T.D. You could go anywhere, do anything, and yet here you are. Why?"
Alex hesitated, the question hanging heavy in the air. Why was he here? He could have left at any moment, set the D.A.T.D. to a random destination, and disappeared into the multiverse. But he hadn't.
"I don't know," he said finally, his voice quiet. "But Harry... there's something about him. Something bigger than the prophecy or the war. He's at the center of it all, and I need to see it through."
The three projections exchanged glances, their expressions a mix of concern and understanding.
"What's your next move?" Mara asked.
Alex leaned forward, resting his elbows on the workbench. "We need to figure out where Pettigrew is and what he's planning. If he's already gone to Voldemort..."
Emily's expression darkened. "Then the war starts sooner than anyone's ready for."
"Exactly," Alex said. "I need all the intel you can get—on Pettigrew, on the Death Eaters, on Voldemort. Whatever you can find, no matter how small."
Damian nodded, his easy grin returning. "Consider it done. But Alex... watch your back. If Dumbledore's onto you, it won't be long before others are, too."
The cold night air bit at Alex's face as he stepped into the streets of Hogsmeade. He pulled his coat tighter, scanning the empty cobblestones. The village was quiet, its shops dark, save for the occasional flicker of candlelight from a pub or distant cottage. He hadn't waited long before Emily appeared from the shadows, her boots silent against the ground.
"Did you ever think about installing a front door?" she asked, quirking an eyebrow as she joined him.
"I had one once," Alex said with a shrug, his breath fogging the air. "It was overrated."
Emily snorted softly, falling into step beside him. The two of them moved briskly, heading toward the outskirts of the village where Emily had set up her base of operations. She was good at this—covert planning, assembling networks, and finding information where others couldn't. It was part of why Alex trusted her.
They reached a narrow alley behind a small apothecary. Emily rapped twice on an unmarked wooden door, and a faint shimmer of magic passed over it before it swung inward. Inside, the space was stark and utilitarian. A table sat in the center, covered in maps, scrolls, and a collection of odd trinkets. A handful of people stood clustered around it, their faces turning toward Alex and Emily as they entered.
"This is your team?" Alex asked, his eyes scanning the group.
"Some of it," Emily replied. She stepped forward, addressing the others with a sharp tone. "All right, listen up. We've got a situation. Alex needs intel on a high-value target—Peter Pettigrew."
The name drew a ripple of recognition from the group, a mixture of surprised glances, furrowed brows, and murmurs of disbelief.
"I thought he was dead," one of them, a tall, broad-shouldered man, muttered. "Murdered by Black, wasn't it?"
Emily nodded grimly. "That's what everyone thought. But we've got reason to believe he's still alive. And if he is, he's been moving—most likely to rejoin You-Know-Who."
There was a pause, a weighty silence. For a moment, it seemed as if no one wanted to speak the name aloud.
"I thought he was dead too," a young woman with a tight braid said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Voldemort, I mean."
Emily's gaze hardened. "So did we. But things aren't adding up. We need to find Pettigrew before he can do any more damage. No one here knows what he's capable of when he's backed into a corner. He's a rat, literally and figuratively," Emily continued, "and we think he's moving to reconnect with Voldemort, potentially heading to Albania. We need to track him down before he causes any more damage. Any leads, no matter how small, need to be brought in immediately."
One of the spies, a wiry man with a quick, nervous energy, spoke up. "We'll keep an eye out, but animagus are hard to track."
Alex folded his arms, his gaze sharp. "We know, but do your best. And the Death Eaters? Any recent movements?"
A younger woman, her dark hair tied in a tight braid, nodded. "There's been chatter in Knockturn Alley—people stocking up on illegal charms, curse supplies. We haven't confirmed it, but it could be them gearing up for something big."
Emily turned to Alex. "You think they're pulling Pettigrew in to rally their forces?"
"It's possible," Alex said. "He's not a leader, but he's useful—information, alliances, blackmail. Voldemort wouldn't waste a tool like him unless he had a replacement, and I doubt he does."
Emily tapped her fingers on the table, her mind already working through the possibilities. "We'll start with Knockturn Alley. If they're moving supplies, someone's keeping track. I'll take a small team and see what we can find."
"I'm coming with you," Alex said, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Emily glanced at him, her lips pressing into a thin line. "Fine. But you're not leading. This is my operation, Mercer. Stick to the plan, or stay out of the way."
Alex smirked faintly. "Wouldn't dream of stepping on your toes."
Emily rolled her eyes, already moving to gather her gear. "Roth," she called, addressing the wiry man. "You're with us. Katya, hold down the fort here and keep your ears open. If anything shifts, send a Patronus immediately."
Emily led Alex down a narrow, winding path at the village's edge, where the main roads gave way to hidden alleys and shadows whispered secrets instead of shouting them. They arrived at a decrepit shop, squeezed between a cramped alley and a rundown bookshop. The wooden sign was barely visible, choked by ivy, and the windows were grimy, the door scarred by years of use and abuse.
"You sure this is it?" Alex asked, his voice low, eyes scanning the dilapidated building.
Emily nodded, her voice a barely audible whisper, "Stay sharp. We don't know what we're walking into."
The air was thick with the scent of incense and damp stone, the atmosphere heavy with an almost palpable tension. Alex's eyes darted from face to face, his heart pounding as a tall, sharp-featured man caught his attention. The man moved swiftly through the crowd, and Alex's instincts kicked into high gear. He knew that stride, that eerie grace. He followed, heart racing, as the figure slipped into a narrow passage between two buildings.
"I'm on him," Alex breathed to Emily, his voice barely a whisper.
Emily's eyes met his, sharp and focused. She nodded, her stride unbroken. "Stay close. Don't lose him."
Alex stuck to the man like a shadow, his steps silent, heart pounding in his ears. The tall man wove through the alleys, his pace quickening until he stopped at a nondescript door, knocked once, and vanished inside.
Alex held his breath, his mind racing. This was no ordinary meeting. He looked at Emily, her nod barely perceptible. They had to be cautious; this could be a trap.
"Fall back," Alex whispered, gently pulling Emily out of sight. "We wait, see who else shows up."
They melted into the shadows, eyes glued to the door. Minutes ticked by like hours, the street eerily still. No one came or went. Alex's unease grew, the silence deafening. Suddenly, the door creaked open, but the tall man didn't emerge.
"Now," Alex muttered, his voice tense. "We can't wait any longer."
Emily's eyes scanned the street, her expression sharp. She nodded, leading the way back toward the alley's entrance. They had to regroup, but the stakes were higher than ever. They needed intel, and they needed it now.
Alex's senses were on high alert, his instincts screaming at every sound, every shift in the air. The dampness of Knockturn Alley seeped into his bones as he followed Emily back toward the open streets of Hogsmeade. The narrow lanes felt like a noose tightening around them.
"We need backup," Emily murmured, her voice urgent as they stepped into a wider street. "Something's off. We're not the only ones watching that place."
Alex nodded, his mind racing. Whoever that man was, he was connected, and they were walking into a hornet's nest.
"Where's your backup coming from?" Alex asked, his tone low and urgent.
"Roth's sending a team. They're already in position," Emily replied, her voice steady but her shoulders tense.
Alex clenched his fists, frustration gnawing at him. They were chasing shadows, and every second counted. If You-Know-Who was making a comeback, if Pettigrew was involved, they couldn't afford a single misstep.
Suddenly, a soft crack echoed through the alley. Roth materialized out of thin air, his tall, lanky frame appearing near the corner. His face was worn with experience, his eyes sharp.
"No movement yet," Roth reported, his voice low. "But I've got eyes on the place. We'll know if anyone leaves."
"Good," Emily said, her expression turning sharper. "Stay put. We're going in. We need to see what's inside that building, and we're not waiting any longer."
Alex matched her pace, his mind racing ahead. They had to be careful; one wrong move could cost them everything.
"Roth, stay in position," Alex called softly. "We'll need a distraction to get a closer look."
Roth nodded, his face unreadable. "I've got it. Just say the word."
Emily and Alex crept toward the entrance, their footsteps light, hearts pounding. The alley grew darker, the air heavier with each step. They reached the door, a single knock away from the unknown.
"Silencing Charm," Emily whispered, her wand at the ready. "Stay behind me. No noise, no mistakes."
Alex nodded, his heart in his throat. There was no turning back now.
With a quiet incantation, the door creaked open. They slipped inside, the dimly lit corridor enveloping them in a musty scent. Shadows closed in, the faint hum of magic in the air oppressive. They moved silently, Alex's hand instinctively reaching for his wand.
They followed the faint glow of a distant light, their steps measured, breaths shallow. As they neared the source, Alex's pulse quickened. The tall man's voice echoed softly from behind a thick curtain.
"...must move fast. If he finds out about this, we're finished."
Alex's blood ran cold. The mention of he sent a chill down his spine. They were onto something big, something dangerous.
"Move in," Emily whispered, her voice tight with urgency.
They crept forward, each step a calculated risk. As they approached the curtain, Alex's heart raced. Emily pushed it aside just enough to peer into the room. The tall man was sitting at a table, his voice low, speaking with someone Alex couldn't see.
"Pettigrew's still out there," the man said. "We're not going to let him slip through our fingers. He's the key to everything."
Alex's heart skipped. Pettigrew—alive. The world shifted beneath him. You-Know-Who was pulling strings, even now.
"Is it safe?" a soft, cautious voice asked.
A hooded figure stepped into the light, her posture sharp, her identity obscured. She was someone who knew how to hide in plain sight.
"We've already got people on the inside," the tall man continued. "Once we get Pettigrew back, we'll be ready to move on the Ministry. That's the first step."
Alex's breath caught. The Ministry was at risk. You-Know-Who was making his move, setting the stage to take back control.
"They're preparing for the next election," the woman murmured. "And we'll be ready. The Minister of Magic's days are numbered."
Alex exchanged a glance with Emily. They needed more information, but the woman's eyes flickered toward the door, her instincts on high alert.
"Someone's listening," she said quietly, her gaze snapping toward their hiding spot.
Alex's heart raced. They were discovered.
"Move," Emily hissed, grabbing Alex's arm.
They dashed down the hallway, footsteps muffled. As they rounded the corner, distant voices and footsteps echoed closer. They were being hunted.
"Go," Emily urged, pushing Alex toward a small side door. "We can't stay here. They'll have everything blocked off."
Alex bolted toward the door, slamming it open just as the first footsteps rounded the corner. Emily followed, closing the door with a soft click behind them.
The narrow street was dark, but distant shouts filled the air. Alex knew their time was running out.
"We've got to get out of here," Emily whispered urgently. "They'll be looking for us, and we're not prepared for a confrontation."
Alex nodded, his mind racing. The weight of their discovery pressed down on him. The Ministry was at risk, and Pettigrew was still alive. They had to act fast.
"Where do we go?" Alex asked, his voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through him.
Emily scanned the streets. "Back to base. Let Roth know what we've found."
As they hurried through the winding streets of Hogsmeade, Alex's mind lingered on one chilling thought: they had just stumbled onto the edge of something far bigger and more dangerous than they had ever anticipated. You-Know-Who wasn't just plotting a return—he was coming for everything.
However, as they reached the safety of their base and began to debrief with Roth and the others, it became clear that they had learned nothing of substance. The conversations they overheard were vague and cryptic, offering no concrete information about the tall man's plans or his connections to You-Know-Who. The mention of Pettigrew and the Ministry could have been mere speculation or misdirection.
"We risked everything for nothing," Alex muttered, frustration and desperation evident in his voice.
Emily nodded, her expression grim. "We'll have to find another way to get the information we need. This was a dead end, but we can't give up. The threat is real, and we have to be more vigilant than ever."
Roth leaned back in his chair, his eyes thoughtful. "We'll keep our eyes and ears open. Something will turn up eventually. It always does. And when it does, we'll be ready."