The Scottish Highlands were finally shaking off the damp chill of spring. By early May, the grounds of Hogwarts had transformed into a sprawling emerald carpet, and the Great Lake shimmered like a polished sapphire under the pale sun. But for the students of the Auror Training Class, the beauty of the season was a background blur. The air didn't smell like blooming heather; it smelled like impending doom.
The rumors about Sebastian's private life hadn't disappeared, but they had been pushed into the "old news" category by a much more immediate threat: the end-of-year assessments.
Sebastian stood at the front of the classroom, his expression uncharacteristically grim. Gone was the playful, sharp-tongued professor who teased them about their wand movements. In his place was a veteran who looked like he had seen too many battlefields.
"Listen up," Sebastian's voice echoed off the stone walls, low and steady. "The theoretical portion of your other subjects is your own business. But in this room, we deal in reality. Therefore, I'm not interested in how well you can write an essay on the ethics of the Stunning Spell."
He paced the front of the room, his boots clicking rhythmically. "Graduation assessments for the Auror Training Class start this week. There is no parchment. There are no quills. You will be tested in the field, under the supervision of active-duty Aurors from the Ministry."
A collective gasp rippled through the twelve students. Harry felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach. Neville looked like he was about to faint, and even Hermione's hand didn't go up—she was too busy scribbling notes in a frenzy.
"You will work in pairs," Sebastian continued. "Your partners will be assigned at the moment of the exam. You will receive an owl with your assembly time. If you are a minute late, you fail. If you leak the details of your test to a classmate, you fail. If you panic and forget your basics... well, the Aurors are there to make sure you don't actually die, but you will certainly fail."
He stopped and looked directly at Harry. "This isn't a school project anymore. This is a job interview for the most dangerous profession in our world. Treat it as such."
The next few days were a blur of nervous energy. Harry couldn't focus on History of Magic, and even Quidditch practice felt hollow. Every time an owl entered the Great Hall, twelve heads snapped up in unison, watching to see where the letters landed.
The seventh-years went first. Cho Chang and Cedric Diggory had disappeared on Tuesday and returned looking exhausted, their robes singed at the edges. They wouldn't say a word, citing the "instant failure" rule Sebastian had laid down.
Thursday morning arrived with a crisp breeze. Harry was pushing a piece of toast around his plate when a snowy owl—not Hedwig, but a Ministry messenger—dropped a heavy parchment in front of him.
Mr. Potter, it read in sharp, jagged script. Report to the perimeter gates in twenty minutes. Bring your field kit. The clock is ticking.
"This is it," Harry muttered, standing up so quickly his bench scraped loudly against the stone floor.
"Good luck, Harry," Hermione whispered, her eyes full of worry. Ron just gave him a thumbs-up, his mouth too full of kidney pie to speak.
Harry checked his belt. He had his wand, his dragon-hide gloves, a small pouch of powdered silver, and the emergency Portkey whistle Sebastian had issued them months ago. He ran through the grounds, his breath hitching as he reached the towering winged boars of the main gate.
Cedric Diggory was already there. He looked calm, but the way he was gripping his wand told a different story. Beside him stood a wizard Harry didn't recognize—a man with a jagged scar running from his ear to his jaw and eyes that seemed to track three things at once.
"Potter. Good. Nineteen minutes and twelve seconds," the wizard said, checking a heavy gold pocket watch. "I'm Delores. I'm an investigator with the Fugitive Recovery Task Force. Today, you aren't students. You're my junior shadows."
"What's the mission, sir?" Cedric asked, stepping forward.
Delores tucked his watch away. "A mid-level Dark Wizard named Hallowes gave us the slip during a raid in the Pennines last week. We missed him, but we found his bolt-hole. It's a mess of traps and curses. Your job is to go in, secure the perimeter, and extract every piece of evidence. If it looks dark, cursed, or even slightly suspicious, you catalog it and bag it."
He pointed to a battered, rusted tin teacup sitting on a nearby stump. "That's our ride. It's a synchronized Portkey. Hands on, now."
Harry and Cedric reached out. The moment Harry's finger touched the cold metal, the world inverted. He felt that familiar, violent tug at his navel, and then the sickening sensation of being stretched through a straw.
When his boots hit the ground, he stumbled. The air was different here—damp, salty, and smelling of rotting seaweed. They were in a dense, fog-choked woodland. Ahead of them, partially hidden by weeping willow branches, stood a lopsided wooden shack. It looked like it was being held together by spite and dark magic.
"The house is a minefield," Delores warned, his voice a low hiss. "Hallowes is a specialist in 'Delay and Decay' magic. If you trip a wire, you won't just blow up—you'll rot where you stand. I'll be watching from the treeline. If things go south, I'll pull you out, but that's an automatic zero on your record. You have two hours. Move."
Harry and Cedric didn't hesitate. They had trained for this in the Room of Requirement for months. They pulled on their dragon-hide gloves in perfect unison.
"I'll take point on the structural detection," Cedric whispered. "You watch my six for any lingering spirits or sentient shadows."
"Got it," Harry replied, his wand held in a low-ready position.
They moved toward the shack. Cedric used a delicate, sweeping motion with his wand. "Revelio Maleficus."
A faint, sickly purple pulse rippled through the air. The front door glowed with a jagged red aura.
"Pressure plate under the welcome mat," Cedric noted. "Classic. It's linked to a ceiling-mounted piercing hex."
"I see a secondary trigger on the hinges," Harry added, pointing to a thin, shimmering thread of magic that looked like a spiderweb. "If we bypass the mat but open the door normally, it still goes off."
They worked like a well-oiled machine. Cedric neutralized the floor plate while Harry used a freezing charm on the hinges to lock the secondary trigger in place. Inside, the house was a nightmare of filth and malice. Old bones were arranged in patterns on the table, and the walls were inscribed with runes that made Harry's head throb.
"Cedric, look at the floorboards near the hearth," Harry said, squatting down. "The dust pattern is wrong. Someone's been dragging something heavy toward that corner recently."
Cedric joined him, casting a localized weight-detection spell. "You're right. There's a hollow space beneath. It's shielded heavily."
"Together?" Harry asked.
"Together."
They both cast Protego, creating a shimmering translucent barrier between them and the suspicious boards. Harry used a low-level blasting hex to pop the wood.
A blast of cold, black air surged out, hitting their shields with the force of a physical punch. Beneath the floor sat a crate filled with shrunken heads, cursed daggers, and a series of journals bound in what looked suspiciously like human skin.
"Boring stuff first, evidence later," Cedric grunted, sweat beading on his forehead as he began the tedious process of de-cursing the items so they could be moved.
They spent the next hour meticulously clearing the basement. It was grueling, soul-sucking work. Just as Harry was bagging the last of the journals, a sound like a thunderclap echoed from outside.
A high-pitched, screeching laugh tore through the forest.
"Delores! You old dog!" a voice screamed. "Did you think I wouldn't come back for my property? And you brought snacks for me!"
Harry and Cedric scrambled out of the basement. Through the shattered window, they saw Delores locked in a ferocious duel with a gaunt, wild-eyed wizard in tattered black robes. Spells were flying like tracers—green, red, and blinding white.
"The students!" Delores roared, ducking behind a tree as a blasting curse turned a nearby rock into shrapnel. "Hallowes is here! Get to the Portkey! Now!"
"We can help!" Harry shouted, raising his wand.
"NO!" Delores bellowed, his face contorted in a mask of desperation. "He's a Tier-4 combatant! You'll just get in the way! Take the teacup and get back to Hogwarts! Get help! Tell Swan it's a Code Black! GO!"
Hallowes turned his gaze toward the shack, a cruel sneer twisting his face. He leveled his wand. "Secta—"
"MOVE!" Cedric grabbed Harry's arm and practically tackled him toward the rusted teacup sitting in the mud.
They both slammed their hands onto the Portkey just as a bolt of violet light pulverized the spot where they had been standing a second before.
The world spun. The navel-tug was more violent this time, fueled by the urgency of the magic. Harry felt like he was being torn apart and reassembled a thousand times.
They slammed into the ground hard. Harry rolled, his wand out, expecting to see the stone gargoyles of the Hogwarts gate or the green grass of the grounds.
Instead, his hands sank into thick, rotting leaves. The air was cold—bitterly cold—and the fog was so dense he couldn't see five feet in front of him.
"Cedric?" Harry gasped, coughing as he sat up.
"I'm here," Cedric groaned, picking himself up a few feet away. He looked around, his wand tip glowing with a nervous Lumos. "Harry... this isn't the gate. We aren't at Hogwarts."
Harry stood up, his heart racing. The forest around them felt ancient, silent, and deeply, deeply wrong.