The Ministry knocked first.

  It wasn’t the kind of knock that waits politely for a response—it announced itself like a spell breaking wards. Two sharp raps. Silence. Then another. Rhythmic. Measured. The kind of knock you don’t ignore.

  I was on the stairwell, tucked into shadow, eyes glinting just past the banister. Lyra was drawing circles on the stone with her finger beside me. She didn’t understand tension yet. But I did.

  My father—Cassian Rosier—opened the door himself.

  Two men stood in the entryway. Robes crisp, eyes sunken. One carried a file under his arm. The other didn’t blink once.

  "Mr. Rosier," said the one with the folder, already pushing past the threshold, "you understand why we’ve come."

  "Do I?" Father asked, voice cool as frostbite. "Because no one’s sent me a formal summons."

  "A formality," the man replied.

  "How ironic."

  They left shortly after. Said there were no charges. No proof. No reason to pursue anything "at this time." But they didn’t need to say it out loud. Grindelwald was gone, but his shadow hadn’t left the floor. Anyone with even the whiff of allegiance to him was being hunted—quietly, methodically. Old names. Dark families. Half-truths. All of it stirred the Ministry like blood in bathwater.

  Cassian Rosier didn’t look worried. But he did drink more than usual that night.

  Mother didn’t ask questions. She never did—not to him.

  But she turned the radio off for the first time in weeks.

  A week ter, we received a letter.

  It was pin parchment. Stamped with a Ministry seal. Addressed not to Father. Not even to Mother.

  But to me.

  To Caelum Rosier,You have been provisionally recorded by the Ministry of Magic as a potential future student of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, based on magical outbursts observed and documented. Please note: This does not constitute an official offer of pcement, but a recognition of magical potential. Further assessment may occur in due time.

  It was signed.Not by a clerk.Not by a Ministry drone.

  But by Albus Dumbledore.

  Deputy Headmaster. Chief Warlock. Newly crowned vanquisher of Grindelwald.

  I read the letter twice. Then again. It wasn’t just paper. It was bait. I felt it in the phrasing. An invitation, hidden behind protocol.

  I didn’t have to wait long.

  He came on a Sunday.

  Dumbledore didn’t knock like the Ministry. He knocked like an old friend, visiting for tea. I watched Mother open the door. He smiled at her like she was the most interesting thing he’d seen all morning.

  "Anna Rosier," he said warmly. "An honor."

  She blinked, flustered, pushing a loose curl behind her ear. "I—yes. Sorry. You’re—are you the Dumbledore? The one from—"

  "I’m many things," he said, stepping in, "but yes, I’ve been known to teach a css or two. Is Caelum home?"

  He said my name like he already knew me.

  I came down the stairs silently. My eyes met his. Blue. Cold. But not dead. Curious. Dangerous in that slow-moving way gciers are.

  Lyra took to him immediately, skipping over and offering him a drawing she’d done of a thestral with six legs. He ughed—genuinely—and knelt to speak to her like a grandfather, not a wizard feared across continents.

  Mother served tea. Dumbledore complimented the sugar biscuits and asked gentle questions about Muggle technology. She warmed to him fast. He had that effect—the disarming kind. It made you forget he was the man who personally defeated the most powerful dark wizard in living memory.

  Then, as if it were casual, he said, "I’d love a moment alone with Caelum. Nothing serious—just curiosity."

  Mother looked unsure.

  I nodded.

  He led me into Father’s study.

  The door closed with a soft click.

  For a few seconds, he said nothing. Just looked around the room. His fingers brushed the spines of books he probably read backwards before I was born.

  "Interesting collection," he murmured. "A bit dark for a child, though."

  "I’ve read them all."

  "I’d believe that." He turned to me. "You’re quiet."

  "You came here to confirm if my father was one of Grindelwald’s supporters."

  He raised an eyebrow. "Sharp."

  "I’m six, not stupid."

  That made him smile. Not fully. Just a twitch at the corner of his mouth.

  "No," he said, "I came here to meet a boy the Ministry fgged as magically exceptional. The question of your father is... secondary."

  "And you do this for every child?"

  "Not every child. Just the interesting ones."

  I folded my arms. "So you’re going house to house?"

  "Only the ones with red eyes and war in their silence."

  That made me pause. Only a moment. But he caught it.

  "You’re not like the others, Caelum. Not just because of what you can do... but because of how you think. I’ve seen eyes like yours. Once. Long ago. They belonged to a boy who never quite belonged anywhere. He did great things. Some terrible. But all extraordinary."

  "Did he die?"

  "Everyone does," he said quietly. "But not everyone is remembered the same way."

  He turned to the window, hands folded behind his back.

  "When your father returns, tell him I came for tea. Not for questions. He’ll understand."

  "And if he doesn't?"

  "He will."

  He walked to the door. Paused. Gnced back.

  "Magic," he said, "is a nguage. Some people whisper it. Others scream. I think you, Caelum, will learn how to rewrite it."

  Then he left.

  No fanfare. No fsh of robes. Just the click of the door and the soft sound of Lyra’s ughter in the next room.

  That night, I stood in the corridor outside my father’s study.

  He had returned te. The smell of firewhisky and legal parchment hung in the air. He didn’t speak to Mother. Just sat in silence.

  I didn’t enter.

  But I whispered one word to the doorframe.

  "Why?"

  And the wood didn't answer.