The Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures was particularly damp this time of year, chilled by subterranean drafts and thick with the smell of old parchment, stale tea, and mildewed animal-hide folders.
Deep within the Beast Division, heavy April rain tapped rhythmically against the enchanted internal windows that overlooked a simulated, dreary London morning.
A young wizard in creased, ink-stained robes hurried past row after row of mahogany desks, clutching a thick leather-bound dossier stamped with a crimson seal.
He stopped before a heavy oak door bearing a brass plaque: Senior Departmental Supervisor — Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.
He knocked twice, sharply.
“In,” a muffled voice grunted from inside.
The clerk stepped into the office.
The room was chaotic, stuffed with overflowing filing cabinets, stuffed creature trophies, and parchment maps of the British Isles pinned to the walls.
Sitting behind a desk piled high with illegal trading ledgers was a weary-looking wizard with thinning silver hair and heavy bags under his eyes.
“What is it, Davies?” the supervisor asked, not looking up from a report on illegal Hippogriff breeding rings in Yorkshire.
“The quarterly report on the Wyrm-Breakers, sir,” Davies said, placing the dossier gently on the corner of the desk.
“Their black-market poaching activities… they’ve escalated again. Three Graphorns killed in the Highlands last month, and two clutches of Ridgeback eggs smuggled through the Bristol docks. Their movement pattern is completely erratic.”
The supervisor sighed, finally setting his quill down and rubbing the bridge of his nose.
“And let me guess. The Strike Team arrived to find cold campfires and empty cages?”
“Precisely, sir,” Davies admitted, lowering his gaze.
“They’re using heavy Anti-Unapparition wards combined with mobile portkeys and runic concealment charms. By the time our Obliviators and Magizoologists trace the magical signatures, Vane’s group is already across the Channel or buried in the Scottish peaks. They’re like ghosts.”
“Garrik Vane is no ghost, Davies,” the older wizard growled, his jaw tightening.
“He’s a ruthless bastard who knows our protocols and how to take advantage of them. But no syndicate runs forever. They’ll slip up. We will catch them eventually.”
He leaned back in his leather chair, tapping his fingers against the desk before looking back at the clerk.
“What about the Muggle-born orphan from Sheffield? The one missing since last summer?”
“No trace, sir,” Davies replied gravely.
“Our Obliviators checked St. Jude’s Orphanage again. The Muggle authorities think the boy ran away, but the magical residue left at the scene confirms a heavy-handed Stunner and an illegal Portkey. It fits the Wyrm-Breakers’ pattern. Whenever they can, they snatch un-registered, magical orphans to use as camp labor and live bait.”
The supervisor grimaced, shaking his head.
“Hogwarts isn’t pleased. That makes two potential muggle-born students snatched out from under the Ministry’s nose in four years. Headmaster Dumbledore has already sent two inquiries to the Minister’s office.”
“There’s nothing we can do without a precise location, sir,” Davies said softly.
“Unless the boy survives long enough for them to make a mistake, he’s as good as dead.”
“Keep monitoring the black-market potion ingredient flows,” the supervisor ordered sternly, waving his hand toward the door.
“If Vane’s men flood the market with cheap dragon blood or powdered horns, that’s where we’ll strike. Dismissed.”
Hundreds of miles away, inside a small, worn leather tent pitched deep within a mist-shrouded pine forest, the atmosphere was altogether different.
Finn sat on his creaky wooden cot, staring at Leon with wide, skeptical hazel eyes.
His messy red hair was sticking up in all directions, and he held a wooden spoon halfway to his mouth, completely forgetting the bowl of lukewarm stew in his lap.
“He said what?” Finn whispered harshly, leaning forward as if afraid the tent walls had ears.
“Garrik Vane—The Scarred himself—said he might make you a proper duellist in a few years?”
“Word for word,” Leon said calmly, sitting cross-legged on his own cot across the small space.
He was carefully polishing his worn, second-hand wand with a piece of dry cloth.
“He was impressed that I didn’t panic during the Troll-Boar hunt and that I picked Jad’s locks.”
Finn let out a sharp, cynical laugh, shaking his head bitterly.
“Ah, Leon, ye brilliant little eejit. Don’t go swallowing that poison. That’s the oldest trick in the book!”
Leon raised an eyebrow, pausing his cleaning.
“You think it’s a lie?”
“I know it’s a lie!” Finn hissed, setting his bowl down on a wooden crate with a dull thud.
“When Jad dragged me into this hellhole three years ago, Vane looked me right in the eye and said the same grand shite. ‘Work hard, lad. Prove yer worth and ye’ll be carrying a real wand and earning gold.’ It’s how they keep us from slitting our own throats or running into the woods! It’s a carrot on a stick to make us haul their iron chains and act as meat for their traps until some bloody monster rips us in half.”
Leon listened patiently.
He didn’t interrupt, understanding where Finn’s anger came from.
Finn had seen two other ‘apprentices’ come and go over those three years—now they were buried in nameless graves or digested by magical beasts.
‘His reaction is emotionally logical,’ Leon thought internally, assessing Finn’s psychological baseline.
‘A survival mechanism built on cynical self-preservation to avoid false hope.’
“Your assessment is accurate for the average recruit, Finn,” Leon said.
“For a normal child who takes weeks to learn a basic lighting charm, we are expendable labor. The poachers don’t invest in weak assets.”
Finn frowned, squinting at him.
“Are you insulting me?”
“A little bit, yeah,” Leon said with a light shrug.
“Look, it’s just logic. Jad’s been doing this for fifteen years, and his magic is still clumsy and loud. Most of the other poachers are the same. How many people of Vanya’s caliber are there here? I’ve been here six months, Finn. I picked up Alohomora in a few hours, tweaked Incendio to have unmatched accuracy, and I can figure out where a spell is landing before the caster even finishes swinging his arm.”
Leon leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
“Vane isn’t stupid. He’s a bastard, but he’s a smart one. He sees an eleven-year-old who gets magic faster than his adult goons. Why keep me doing dishes when I’m way more useful casting spells? He doesn’t care who I am, he just cares about what I can do for him.”
Finn stared at him for a second, then let out a snort, shaking his head.
“Listen to you,” Finn chuckled, tossing a small pebble from his pocket at Leon’s chest.
“Cocky little menace, aren’t you?”
Yet behind the joke, Finn couldn’t actually argue with him.
The kid sounded arrogant, but he wasn’t wrong.
“Bloody hell,” Finn muttered, rubbing his face with his scarred hands.
“Ye really aren’t normal, are ye? Ye talk like a bloody hundred-year-old scholar trapped in a scrawny kid’s body.”
“I just want to survive, and more.” Leon replied quietly.
He looked at Finn, his expression softening slightly.
“And I don’t intend to leave you behind to scrub blood off butchering tables forever, either.”
Finn blinked, taken aback.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Jad’s teaching methods are useless,” Leon said, pulling his wand up and twirling it cleanly between his fingers.
“He shouts, he swings his belt, and he expects you to copy his sloppy wand movements without understanding why the magic works. That’s why your spells keep misfiring.”
Leon leaned toward his friend, his blue eyes sharp and focused.
“Starting tonight, I’m teaching you magic. Real magic. I’ll break down the vectors and structural flows for you in plain terms. If we’re going to survive this camp, I need a partner who can cast a proper shield charm when everything goes to hell.”
Finn stared at Leon’s outstretched hand, the cynicism in his chest slowly giving way to a spark of genuine hope he hadn’t felt in three long years.
He let out a breathless, half-amused chuckle.
“Teaching me, eh? An eleven-year-old teaching a fourteen-year-old?” Finn shook his head, a broad, gap-toothed grin spreading across his freckled face as he reached out and grasped Leon’s hand in a firm, calloused grip.
“Alright, teacher. But if ye start barking orders like Jad, I’m putting Devil’s Snare in yer stew.”
“Deal,” Leon said, a faint, genuine smile touching his lips.
As the two boys settled down under the dim lantern light to begin their first real lesson, the bond between them solidified—no longer just two desperate captives sharing a tent, but two allies preparing for the road ahead.
I think I’ll try to publish one or two chapters a day.
We’ll see if I can stick to it.
In any case, I’m sure I can maintain a daily pace for at least three weeks with the backlog of chapters I’ve prepared.