Harry Potter : Cael Vale’s journey to Hogwarts

The time had come.

After weeks of careful planning, observation, and preparation, Cael stood hidden in the shadows of a narrow alley off Knockturn Alley, his sharp eyes trained on his target. The alley was quiet, tucked between crumbling brick buildings, the air thick with dampness and the faint stench of rubbish. A perfect place for what he needed to do.

Across the street, walking with his usual hurried pace, was Julian Travers—a mid-level Ministry employee, pure-blooded, quiet, with just enough access to the right departments to serve Cael's purpose. For weeks, Cael had followed him, memorizing every detail: his gait, the nervous way he rubbed his hands together, the way his voice tightened when someone important spoke to him. He knew Travers' schedule better than Travers himself.

Today, all that preparation paid off.

Julian veered into a secluded alley—a shortcut he often took when heading home. The alley was empty, shielded by towering brick walls and piles of discarded crates. No one in sight. Exactly what Cael had hoped for.

With a swift movement, Cael stepped forward, wand in hand. His heart remained steady, his mind focused.

"Stupefy," he whispered.

A flash of red light shot through the shadows, hitting Julian squarely between the shoulder blades. The man barely had time to register what happened before collapsing, face-first onto the cold, damp cobblestones.

Cael rushed over, casting several protective runes in a practiced sequence. Faint blue symbols shimmered along the perimeter of the alley, forming an invisible barrier that concealed sound and prevented anyone from stumbling upon them.

He knelt beside Julian, examining him. The man was unconscious, breathing steadily, his limbs slack.

"Good," Cael muttered to himself.

From his cloak, he produced a small pouch containing four vials of freshly brewed Polyjuice Potion. Brewing them had taken weeks—painstaking hours spent ensuring they were potent, effective, and stable. He had prepared enough for multiple transformations, each vial capable of keeping him disguised for roughly an hour, maybe longer if the brew held its strength.

He plucked several strands of Julian's dark brown hair, carefully dividing them into portions for each vial except one that he left it just be save .

Satisfied, Cael began swapping their clothes. Julian's Ministry robes were slightly wrinkled but otherwise clean. Cael dressed himself in them, adjusting the fit, fastening the buttons, and smoothing the creases. Travers wasn't tall, making the robes sit comfortably on Cael's frame.

He tucked away his own belongings, keeping only what he needed—the Polyjuice vials and Julian's wand, which he slipped into the inner pocket of the robes. His own wand remained hidden safely nearby.

Finally, he uncorked the first vial, dropping in a strand of hair. The potion hissed, shifting colors from murky grey to a revolting, sludge-like brown.

The smell hit him—like rotten eggs and moldy cabbage—but he grimaced and downed it in one gulp.

It was worse than he imagined.

The potion burned down his throat, thick as syrup, coating his mouth with the taste of spoiled meat. Almost instantly, his body rebelled—skin crawling, bones twisting, muscles spasming. It felt like thousands of insects burrowing beneath his flesh, rearranging everything.

His hands reshaped, fingers narrowing. His arms stretched slightly, shoulders hunching forward. His face shifted, the bones grinding as his jaw realigned. The itching faded, replaced by an eerie stillness.

He stumbled toward a dirty window, catching his reflection in the cracked glass.

Julian Travers stared back.

Gaunt face, hollow cheeks, dark circles under the eyes. Plain features, forgettable but perfect for this mission.

"I miss my handsome face already ," Cael whispered, noting how even his voice mimicked Julian's quiet, nasal tone.

But appearance wasn't enough. He had to move like Julian, speak like him, carry himself with the same nervous, cautious energy.

Cael spent hours practicing. Now, he rolled his shoulders forward, adopting the subtle hunch Julian always carried. His steps became short and clipped, head slightly down, as if perpetually anxious.

Confident he could pass, Cael retrieved the extra vials and Julian's wand. The real Julian remained secured in the alley, protected by runes. He wouldn't wake up anytime soon.

"Time to begin this James Bond like infiltration ," Cael muttered.

System said " More like Mission Impossible Infiltration "

And Cael rolled his eyes. 

He made his way through the twisting side streets of London, eventually arriving at the red telephone booth—one of the hidden entrances to the Ministry of Magic. The old booth stood crooked on the pavement, graffiti scrawled along the side, the glass panels fogged with grime.

Cael stepped inside, the cramped space barely holding him. He picked up the receiver and dialed the code he'd memorized after weeks of surveillance.

"Name?" a disembodied, magical voice asked.

"Julian Travers. Department of Magical Transportation. On assignment," Cael replied smoothly.

The booth vibrated beneath him, descending underground. The walls pressed in, the air thick with old dust.

Moments later, the door creaked open, revealing the grand entrance to the Ministry of Magic.

Cael stepped onto polished marble floors that gleamed under floating torches. The vast atrium stretched out before him, lined with tall golden pillars. Ornate fountains gushed crystal-clear water, and enchanted paper memos zipped through the air like birds.

Dozens of witches and wizards bustled about—some chatting, others walking with purpose, briefcases and files in hand.

For a brief second, Cael's breath caught.

The Ministry. He had seen it before, but only through films and stories in his old life. Now, it was real, bustling, alive.

Excitement bubbled in his chest, but Occlumency smothered it. His mind remained calm, emotions tightly sealed.

He approached the security desk, presenting Julian's wand.

The goblin clerk barely glanced up, scanning the wand with a magical device. After a tense moment, the goblin nodded, handing it back.

"All clear, Mr. Travers."

Cael exhaled silently and stepped deeper into the Ministry.

The building sprawled in every direction—corridors twisting like a labyrinth, enchanted lifts sliding between floors, fireplaces flaring with green fire as people arrived through the Floo Network.

Cael moved with purpose, answering greetings with brief nods or vague phrases:

"Morning."

"Busy day."

"Same old."

Nobody suspected him. Julian Travers wasn't popular—he was forgettable, unremarkable—the perfect cover.

He entered one of the golden lifts, the doors clanging shut behind him. Inside, various Ministry employees stood quietly, whispering conversations.

Arthur Weasley stood nearby, animatedly discussing something with Kingsley Shacklebolt—the tall, broad-shouldered Auror.

"They're stirring trouble again," Arthur muttered, his face tense. "Pure-blood fanatics pushing anti-Muggle rhetoric—more aggressive than ever."

Kingsley crossed his arms. "Let them try. We'll shut them down — same as last time. Dumbledore hit them hard, they stayed quiet for months."

Cael kept his eyes low, maintaining his disguise.

When the lift chimed for the lower floors, he stepped out, following the corridor toward the Department of Mysteries.

The entrance loomed ahead—an unmarked, black door guarded by a tall wizard in dark robes.

Cael approached, presenting forged papers and Julian's identification badge.

The guard scrutinized them, his eyes narrowing.

"Inspection order," Cael explained, keeping his tone bored.

After a long pause, the guard handed the papers back and stepped aside. "You're clear."

The heavy door creaked open, revealing the Department of Mysteries.

Cael's heart was pounding like mad as he slipped through with his forged papers. Nerves coiled tight in his chest — but he'd done it. He was in.

The air inside buzzed with raw magic. Dimly lit, the chamber twisted unnaturally—walls curving at impossible angles, faint symbols glowing across the surfaces.

Memos floated like wisps of smoke. Magical artifacts hovered mid-air, rotating slowly.

The Hall of Prophecies stretched endlessly, glass orbs flickering with soft light, each containing whispered visions of the future.

Cael passed them, resisting the urge to stare.

Another room contained enormous, floating brains—pulsating with eerie, magical energy, faint tendrils trailing behind them like jellyfish.

Walls were lined with runes, diagrams, and ancient languages—some of which Cael recognized from his mother's journal.

He blended among the Unspeakables, responding to questions with curt nods or vague answers.

Finally, deep within the labyrinthine halls, he found it.

A vault—marked with the same ancient symbols from his mother's research.

He approached, using Julian's wand and identification to access the door.

It hissed open, revealing a small, rune-inscribed artifact resting atop velvet cloth.

The Door Key.

A relic whispered about in his mother's journal, connected to the long-lost legacy of the ancient High Council of Magic.

Cael pocketed it swiftly, his heart pounding with victory.

As he turned to leave, footsteps echoed behind him.

"Oi! What're you doing back here? You're not cleared for this section," a sharp voice demanded.

Cael froze, eyes darting to the source—a wiry wizard in black robes, suspicion etched across his face.

The room seemed to still—the faint hum of magic fading under the weight of the confrontation.

Every second dragged as Cael calculated his next move.

Bluff? Fight? Flee?

The mission teetered on the edge of disaster.

Everything stopped.