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Chapter 1: "Time to Clean the Streets"
🕑 Added 2025-10-25 08:00:36 +0000 UTCChapter 1: "Time to Clean the Streets"
The weather in Birmingham is a constant, dreary drizzle. Pedestrians, heads down and collars up, push through the damp, cold smog as they hurry into the deep black of the night.
In front of the city's main police station, a single, dim yellow streetlamp fought a losing battle against the gloom, casting a weak and fragile light. The street was utterly silent, devoid of any passersby.
Two stout, reeking men, leaning on each other for support, stumbled out of the station house doors.
"Chief Inspector, that shipment of arms we seized today... once we fence it, it'll fetch at least two hundred thousand quid!" one of the men slurred, his excitement laced with a sliver of worry. "But, about the Shelby family..."
"A bunch of gutter-scum arms dealers who've gotten too big for their boots, that's all they are," the portly Chief Inspector sneered, his voice cold. It was clear he'd held a grudge against the so-called Shelby family for some time. "Their business has been growing these past few years, heard they're even planning a push into London. It's high time someone put them back in their place."
He pulled out a cigarette, and his crony, quick to notice, struck a match and lit it for him.
The cherry of the cigarette glowed and faded with the rhythm of his breath. The damp night wind cut through the air, sobering the Chief Inspector slightly. He pulled his coat tighter around his frame and was about to order his man to bring the car around when his brow furrowed. He scanned his surroundings, a flicker of caution in his eyes, and took a deliberate step back.
On the entire street, only that one lonely lamp was lit.
And though it wasn't particularly late, the street was completely, unnaturally empty.
The Chief Inspector's gut clenched. Something was wrong. He spun around, intending to retreat back into the safety of the station, but to his horror, he found the heavy doors were now locked from the inside.
He slammed his fists against the wood, but not a single officer within responded to their Chief Inspector. There was only silence.
A cold sweat instantly soaked the back of his shirt. Now completely sober, the Chief Inspector's lips trembled as he shoved his subordinate. "Quickly! Go and get the bloody car!"
But it was too late.
From the far end of the street, a large group of figures emerged from the darkness, advancing slowly, methodically, towards the police station.
They were all men, dressed in immaculate black three-piece suits, their white shirts underneath spotless. On their heads, they wore sharp, tweed flat caps.
And in their hands, they held something the Chief Inspector knew all too well—Thompson submachine guns, the "Tommy guns," favoured for their portability and devastating firepower.
Dozens of hard-faced English men marched forward in eerie silence, boxing the Chief Inspector and his lackey against the doors of the station.
The Chief Inspector's legs felt weak, and he slumped against the door for support, barely able to stand. His man was just as bad, breathing in short, panicked gasps, sweat beading on his brow.
The gangsters in suits surrounding them remained silent, simply standing their ground. An unnatural quiet fell over the street, broken only by the Chief Inspector's ragged, terrified breathing.
Finally, the sound of a single set of footsteps, not heavy but deliberate, echoed from the darkness, growing steadily louder.
The men encircling the Chief Inspector bowed their heads in deference, parting their ranks to form a clear path.
The fat constable next to the Chief Inspector craned his neck, desperate to see who could command such a force of armed men, who would have the audacity to corner the city's Chief Inspector on his own doorstep.
He was stunned to see that the figure walking towards them was… a child. A boy no taller than four and a half feet, who looked to be only eleven or twelve years old.
The boy was also dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit. His young face was blank, showing no emotion, and his voice, when he spoke, was just as flat.
"Good evening, Chief Inspector."
The boy paused. "It has been a long time, but I doubt I require an introduction."
The Chief Inspector stared at the child, momentarily speechless. After a long moment, he squeezed his eyes shut in anguish, forcing the words out from between clenched teeth.
"Leon Shelby... The rumours were true. Bloody hell... the Shelbys really did choose a child to lead them."
"Our last meeting was three years ago," Leon said, shaking his head slightly. "I must say, in those three years, you have grown greedier. And far more foolish."
"Is there... is there any chance you'll let me live?" the Chief Inspector pleaded, all his authority gone, his voice a weak, soft whine.
Leon simply gave an elegant, dismissive nod, not bothering to answer the question.
He raised his hand and gave a gentle flick of his fingers.
Instantly, the roar of machine guns shattered the night's silence, the deafening reports echoing across the Birmingham skyline for a long, long time.
When the gunfire finally ceased, the street returned to its eerie quiet.
All that remained in front of the police station was a grim, unidentifiable mess of flesh and a scattering of brass casings, still hot to the touch.
Leon turned up his collar and walked to the station doors. He knocked politely.
In the space of a few breaths, the same door that the portly Chief Inspector couldn't force open was yanked open from the inside.
"Gentlemen," Leon's voice was still devoid of emotion. "I'm afraid you have some cleaning up to do." His words were polite, but they sent a chill down the spine of every officer inside.
He paused, then his eyes landed on the station's second-in-command. "Chief Inspector," he said, "Congratulations. I trust that under your management, Birmingham will soon become the safest city in all of Great Britain."
Colour returned to the man's face at these words. He rubbed his hands together nervously. "About that shipment of arms that was confiscated..."
"A gift," Leon cut him off without hesitation. "From the Shelby family to you. The Shelbys will always support a Chief Inspector who shows such... restraint."
With that, Leon turned and walked away, not sparing a glance for the man's ecstatic expression. His men fell into formation around him, a disciplined unit with Leon at its very centre. Every single one of them knew that the Shelby family's meteoric rise over the past three years was entirely thanks to their prodigious new boss.
Suddenly, a loud hoot pierced the night air, followed by the frantic flapping of wings. Leon's men immediately closed ranks around him, ready to shield him from any threat.
A moment later, what looked like a fat English owl came into view.
A letter was dropped. Carried by the night wind, it floated past the wall of men and landed perfectly in Leon's outstretched hand.
Leon looked down. It was an old-fashioned parchment envelope, sealed with wax bearing a vivid crest.
An eagle, a lion, a silver serpent, and a badger formed a large letter 'H'.
Leon, who hadn't even flinched while ordering a man's execution moments before, now had a rare look of shock in his eyes.
He broke the seal. Inside, the script was an elegant, emerald-green ink.
Dear Mr. Leon Shelby,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry...
Leon skimmed the rest of the letter, his eyes jumping to the signature at the bottom.
Albus Dumbledore
(Headmaster of Hogwarts, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, and Grand Sorcerer of the Order of Merlin, First Class.)
Leon stared, a slow smile spreading across his face.
When he had been transported to this world three years ago, he had assumed it was just an ordinary one. He never imagined he was in the world of Harry Potter.
Taking a deep breath, he casually stuffed the letter into his pocket, a new excitement bubbling up inside him.
Beside him, Leon's eldest brother saw the change in his expression and asked what the letter was about.
Leon took another deep breath, his voice now steady and measured.
"The letter says there's a place called Hogwarts," he said. "And it requires a Shelby."
