Tyler Blake appeared in the yard in an instant. The moment his feet touched the ground, pain stabbed through his skull, followed by a wave of dizziness so sharp it nearly brought him to his knees.
Apparition was never comfortable. Even after using it often enough to grow used to the squeezing, twisting pressure of it, Tyler still hated the sensation. This time, though, the nausea had nothing to do with Apparition itself.
His magic was almost drained.
The battle in Diagon Alley had cost him far more than he had expected. He had cast one powerful spell after another, pushed silent casting to its limit, unleashed a massive Fiendfyre spell, and even clashed with Dumbledore for a brief but brutal exchange. Every one of those moments had torn through his magical reserves.
If he had not used the fire dragon as a blood sacrifice and drawn power from it, he would never have been able to release Fiendfyre on that scale. His natural magic was strong, far stronger than most wizards his age, but he was still only eleven. His body had not finished growing, and neither had his magic.
For a wizard, the years from eleven to seventeen were when magical power grew the fastest. After seventeen, that growth slowed year by year until it eventually levelled off. Once a wizard entered old age, their magic usually began to weaken, though Dumbledore was clearly an exception.
Even so, Tyler knew one thing very well. Dumbledore, as powerful as he was, could no longer match Voldemort at his peak in a straight contest of raw power.
The reason Dumbledore could still stand against Voldemort had much to do with the wand in his hand. The Elder Wand was not called unbeatable for nothing.
"Timo," Tyler called.
With a soft crack, the house-elf appeared in front of him at once. "Little Master, Timo is at your service."
"Timo, take me to my room. I'm tired and need to sleep." Tyler's voice was already fading, his vision blurring at the edges. "Don't let anyone disturb me."
The words had barely left his mouth before his body went limp.
"Oh! Poor Little Master!" Timo cried, his long ears trembling in panic. "Timo will do it. Timo will definitely do it!"
The house-elf quickly raised his thin arms and cast a careful Levitation Charm. Tyler's body floated from the ground, moving gently through the yard and into the house. Timo carried him all the way to his bedroom, placed him on the bed, and began fussing over him with frantic care.
He removed Tyler's coat, pulled the covers over him, and checked twice to make sure he was breathing evenly. Only then did Timo creep backwards toward the door, close it as softly as he could, and stand guard outside.
Tyler slept for two full days and two nights.
When he finally woke, it was already morning on the third day. Pale sunlight slipped through the curtains, warming the edge of the bed and making the room feel peaceful in a way that almost seemed unreal after the chaos of Diagon Alley.
"Ah," Tyler muttered, sitting up and stretching until his shoulders cracked. "That was a good sleep."
The heaviness in his limbs had faded, and his mind no longer felt as if someone had stuffed it with wet cotton. His magic had not fully recovered, but at least the worst of the exhaustion was gone. The hollow ache inside him had settled into something manageable.
"Still, magical exhaustion feels awful," he said to himself, rubbing his temples. "I'll have to be more careful next time. I was far too high-profile this time. Low-key. I need to stay low-key."
He got out of bed, washed up, and took a long, thorough shower. After three days without bathing, he felt as though the stink of smoke, blood, and ash had seeped into his skin. The hot water helped wash away more than grime, leaving him sharper and steadier by the time he dressed.
Once everything was taken care of, Tyler went downstairs to the dining room. Timo had already prepared breakfast, and the table was laid out with the kind of care only a house-elf could manage.
"Oh, Little Master, you finally woke up!" Timo cried the moment he saw him. His eyes filled with huge tears, and his voice shook with emotion. "Timo was worried to death! Timo did not take good care of Little Master. Timo is a bad elf! A bad elf!"
Before Tyler could stop him, Timo snatched up a spoon and began smacking himself on the head with it.
"Enough, Timo," Tyler said sharply, feeling a headache coming on again. "I order you to stop. This wasn't your fault."
Timo froze at once, still clutching the spoon. The servility of house-elves really was carved into their bones. Not every elf was like Dobby, dreaming wildly of freedom and dignity.
"Oh! Little Master is so kind." Timo wiped his tears with the corner of a tea towel, choking back a sob.
Tyler sat at the table and picked up a spoonful of porridge. It was warm, smooth, and plain in exactly the right way, settling in his stomach and making his whole body feel alive again. After days of magical exhaustion, even something simple tasted better than a feast.
"Timo, bring me the Daily Prophet from the past few days," Tyler said. "I want to see what happened while I was asleep."
"Yes, Little Master."
Timo hurried away and returned moments later with several folded copies of the Daily Prophet. The stack landed neatly beside Tyler's plate, each issue arranged by date as if Timo had been waiting for this exact order.
Tyler ate breakfast while flipping through the papers. As he had expected, nearly every front page was filled with reports about what had happened in Diagon Alley. It would have been stranger if they were not.
The incident had been far too serious. There was no way the Ministry of Magic could suppress something of that scale, not when half the wizarding world had either seen the destruction or knew someone who had.
"Gringotts Robbed! Goblins Suffer Heavy Losses! Can Wizards Still Trust Goblin Security?"
Tyler paused at the headline and read the article with mild interest.
According to the report, Gringotts had suffered an enormous blow, both in losses and reputation. Several vaults had been damaged, a number of goblins had been killed or injured, and the bank's long-standing claim of being impossible to rob had been shattered almost overnight.
"After this, those greedy goblins are going to lose a great deal of credibility," Tyler said with a faint sneer.
He turned the page.
"Diagon Alley Badly Damaged! Shops Destroyed! Wizards Blame Ministry Failure and Demand Compensation!"
This article was even more amusing. Many shop owners and customers were furious that the Ministry had failed to warn them in time, failed to evacuate civilians, and failed to prevent the attack from spreading through the street. A group of affected wizards had already begun preparing a lawsuit against the Ministry, demanding compensation for their losses.
"Hmph. As if the Ministry will actually pay," Tyler said.
The Ministry of Magic had never been especially popular. After Cornelius Fudge became Minister, it had only grown worse. Fudge cared more about his position, his reputation, and the benefits he could squeeze from power than about doing anything useful.
"But the Ministry does make a convenient target," Tyler murmured, nodding to himself. "Very much in keeping with the style of these governments."
He continued reading.
Then another headline caught his eye.
"Shock! Was Dumbledore the True Cause of the Diagon Alley Massacre?"
Tyler blinked. "Huh. This report…"
He set down his spoon and began reading more carefully. The more he read, the stranger his expression became.
The article claimed that the dark wizard responsible for the Diagon Alley massacre was actually connected to Dumbledore through an old romantic scandal. According to the writer, Dumbledore had once abandoned this wizard, driving him into darkness and causing him to launch the attack on Diagon Alley as revenge.
The whole piece was written as if it were some tragic love story. It twisted the battle into an absurd tale of betrayal, heartbreak, obsession, and vengeance, with Dumbledore placed firmly at the centre of the drama.
Tyler stared at the paper in silence for a moment.
Then he looked at the byline.
"The author is Rita Skeeter." Realisation dawned at once, and he gave a soft laugh. "So it was that woman. No wonder she dared to drag Dumbledore into this."
Rita Skeeter was practically the wizarding world's most infamous gossip reporter. She specialised in scandal, exaggeration, and outright lies, all dressed up as shocking revelations for the public to devour. As long as a story attracted attention, she never cared much about whether it was true.
And because she was an unregistered Animagus who could transform into a beetle, her sources were far better than most people realised. She could sneak into places no normal reporter could enter, overhear conversations no one intended her to hear, and dig up secrets that should have stayed buried.
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