Behind the Door
"He's not ready, Shacklebolt."
Healer Mirren stood like a wardstone in the hallway, robes wrinkled, wand in one hand, exhaustion in the other. Her voice was firm, but not unkind—just stretched thin from long nights and difficult patients. "The child just regained consciousness this morning. His magical core is unstable. He doesn't even remember his name."
Kingsley Shacklebolt's expression was unreadable, though the furrow between his brows said enough. "And every hour we delay is another hour without answers. We don't know where he came from, how he got through the wards, or what might have brought him. If something dark is attached to this, we need to know sooner—not later."
Mirren's lips pressed into a line. "He's five."
Kingsley's arms remained folded across his chest, calm and certain. "He looks five."
The door behind them creaked open with the drag of rusted hinges, and Alastor Moody emerged into the corridor, magical eye spinning once before locking onto both of them. "We've waited long enough."
Mirren raised a brow. "He had a magical outburst less than three hours ago, Moody."
"Which is exactly why we don't leave him unmonitored and unanswered," the older Auror growled. "That outburst nearly tore the ward apart. We still don't know if it's accidental magic or something worse. If the boy's half-turned, the bite might be amplifying his core—or twisting it. Either way, we need to know what's in his head."
"Or who," Kingsley added quietly.
Mirren stared at them both for a long moment, then let out a breath. "Five minutes. I'll be in the room with you. If he shows signs of magical destabilization again, I end the interview immediately."
Kingsley gave a short nod. "Agreed."
Mirren turned sharply and opened the ward door with a flick of her wand.
Inside The Room
The boy was awake.
He sat curled at the center of the bed, blanket pulled around his shoulders like armor. His eyes darted toward the door as it opened, flickering between the faces that stepped through.
Mirren led the way, her tone softening. "Hello again, dear. You remember me, don't you? I've brought two Aurors from the Ministry. They'd like to ask you a few simple questions. Only if you feel up to it."
The boy didn't speak, but he gave a small nod.
Mirren stepped aside. Kingsley entered first and conjured a chair, setting it beside the bed with slow, deliberate movements. Moody followed, leaning heavily on his cane, the faint clink of hidden vials in his coat the only sound he made.
The child's gaze fixed on Moody's magical eye. He flinched slightly, shrinking back.
"He's not going to hurt you," Kingsley said gently. "Neither of us will. We just want to understand what happened."
No answer.
Kingsley continued, careful with every word. "We found you in the Forbidden Forest. You were being attacked by vampires. Do you remember that?"
A pause. Then the boy gave a hesitant nod.
"Do you remember how you got there?"
A longer pause. Then a small shake of the head.
Kingsley leaned in slightly, voice still calm. "Nothing? Not even what happened before the forest?"
The boy frowned. His fingers gripped the blanket tighter. "There was… light. And then cold. Like falling. I couldn't breathe. And then I was in the trees."
Mirren looked up sharply at that, but said nothing.
Kingsley asked, "Do you remember your name?"
The boy hesitated.
There was a strange silence in his mind—not emptiness, but fog, thick and heavy. He reached for his name and found… nothing. Just a dark hallway with a locked door at the end.
But even with the door shut, things leaked through.
He could speak English. Perfectly.
He knew what an Auror was.
He recognized the man with the magical eye—Alastor Moody. He didn't know how he knew, only that he did.
He knew he was in a hospital called St. Mungo's. He knew what the Ministry of Magic was. And more disturbingly, he knew that this world—this entire place—was supposed to be fictional.
Once, a long time ago, in another life, he had read about it. Watched it, maybe. A story from another world. A fantasy universe tucked into a book series with talking portraits and flying brooms.
But now he was living in it.
He didn't remember who he had been before. No name. No face. No place to return to. Only the heavy, humming certainty that he did not belong to this world—and yet, somehow, he was inside it.
"I… don't think I have one," he said quietly.
Mirren's expression faltered for a moment.
Kingsley tilted his head. "You don't remember your name?"
The boy shook his head.
"You do," Moody said, stepping forward. "It's just buried under something else. Something we don't understand yet."
Kingsley gave him a warning glance, then softened his tone again.
"That's alright. We're not here to force anything. But do you remember anything about yourself? Where you lived? Your family?"
The boy stared at his hands for a long time.
"I think…" he whispered, "I was older. Before."
"Older?" Mirren asked.
He nodded slowly. "Inside. I feel like I'm supposed to be taller. Heavier. Like my body isn't… right."
Moody muttered something under his breath, barely audible. Kingsley's eyes narrowed.
"You might be right," he said. "The transformation—the bite—could've changed more than just your body. That's part of why we're here. To figure out what you are now. Not because you're dangerous—but because we need to help you."
The boy looked up at him. "I feel… full. Like something's pushing out of me."
"Magic," Mirren said gently. "Your magic's waking up."
"But it doesn't feel human."
That silenced the room.
A faint shimmer pulsed beneath the skin of his forearms. Just for a second. Golden veins that faded as quickly as they appeared.
Kingsley exhaled slowly. "Then we'd better start finding answers."