September 1, 1991.
London, King's Cross Station.
Harry Potter was happily pushing his cart loaded with luggage, searching for Platform 9 ¾ as indicated on his ticket.
But no matter how many times he asked, the station staff kept insisting that no such platform existed.
Just as Harry was at his wits' end, his luggage cart seemed to crash into something.
"Watch it, kid!" A stern voice barked.
Harry quickly looked up and saw two adult men in long trench coats, standing beside a blond-haired boy.
The two men glared at Harry with hostility, while the boy, on the other hand, gave him a cheerful smile. He bent down slightly and dusted off his pants, which had gotten dirty.
"Uh, sorry?" Harry apologized hastily, but then he noticed something odd—a chain. His eyes followed the chain upwards.
It was then he realized that the blond boy in front of him was shackled head to toe. His hands, legs, and even his neck were bound in heavy iron chains.
The sight of the thick, heavy chains wrapped tightly around the boy made Harry instinctively take a few steps back in fear.
The blond boy looked at him, chuckled softly, and shrugged before pointing at a wall behind him.
"I think you're looking for that place. Be brave and run straight into it. You'll get where you need to go."
After saying that, the boy, escorted by the two trench-coated men, walked straight into the wall and vanished without a trace.
Outside the wall, Harry was still utterly confused, while inside, the blond boy drew wide-eyed stares from the other children.
The blond boy was escorted to the very last carriage of the train, where the two men shoved him into a compartment.
They then anxiously waited outside, glancing around nervously.
Inside the compartment, a short, chubby middle-aged man had been waiting for some time.
The moment he saw the boy, he hurriedly gestured for him to sit down and, with trembling hands, poured two glasses of sherry—one for the boy and one for himself.
"Mr. Karl, it must've been a tough journey. Have a glass of sherry to warm up," the man said, raising his glass in an attempt to appear friendly.
However, the boy didn't even lift an eyelid. He simply sat quietly on the sofa, completely ignoring him.
This left the middle-aged man in a rather awkward position. He—Cornelius Fudge, the current Minister of Magic, and the so-called top authority in Britain's magical world—had never been treated with such blatant disrespect.
Feeling thoroughly humiliated, Fudge had no choice but to retreat to the desk at the side.
Opening a thick file, he cleared his throat and read in the calmest tone he could muster:
"Karl Hohenzollern, dual citizen of Germany and the United States."
"You have been accused by the International Confederation of Wizards of engaging in long-term illegal magical creature trafficking."
"The French Ministry of Magic, on the other hand, has accused you of ties to the Magische Partei in the 1940s."
"More importantly, let's discuss this—your crimes in the Muggle world. In New York State, you have been organizing a mafia-like syndicate for an extended period."
"Illegal drug trafficking, illegal arms smuggling, human trafficking."
"You have been on Interpol's Red Notice list, consistently ranking in the top ten. Don't you have anything to say in your defense?"
"No, please continue."
Karl, seated on the sofa, gave a faint smile and gestured for Fudge to carry on.
With impeccable manners and a strikingly handsome appearance, Karl exuded a courteous demeanor.
However, Cornelius Fudge, who was currently reviewing the file, knew very well that this young man before him was anything but harmless.
The deeds Karl had committed behind the scenes were far more terrifying than those of the Dark Lord himself.
Summoning his courage, Fudge pounded the table and spoke loudly:
"No, you must give an explanation. Today's conversation will be the primary basis for determining whether you can enter Hogwarts. I have a responsibility to my office."
"Alright, if you insist."
Karl looked calmly at Cornelius Fudge across from him, picked up the glass of sherry beside him, and swirled it gently as he spoke.
"First of all, let me make one thing clear: I do not acknowledge any of the charges. For example, the first one."
"Engaging in long-term illegal magical creature trafficking? The lands were mine to begin with. The animals and trees on those lands are my property."
"According to German law, they are also legally mine. Selling my personal property—how can that be considered illegal?"
"Secondly, Aunt Rosier is my elder and a relative. I know nothing about her past, nor am I interested in it."
"Lastly, the accusations from the American government are baseless. They have no evidence. In the United States, I run a legitimate business."
"My accountants and financial records are enough to prove it all."
"You dare claim that? You smuggled drugs, causing hundreds of thousands of Americans to fall into addiction."
"You even smuggled firearms into war-torn regions, letting Muggles slaughter each other!"
Cornelius couldn't help but roar in frustration.
Karl, whose speech had been interrupted, merely smiled faintly in response to the middle-aged man's accusations.
"How could you phrase it that way? You're bordering on slander. Every single opioid product sold by my company—"
Sip.
"—is backed by prescription forms issued by licensed doctors. Under the current laws in the United States, this is entirely reasonable and legal."
"As for the issue of addiction, the side effects are clearly stated on the drug packaging."
"The lack of self-control in those people—what does that have to do with me?"
"As for the accusation of arms smuggling, that's something I absolutely cannot acknowledge. My shipping company's cargo vessel was hijacked in the Persian Gulf, and I even filed a police report about it."
"Interpol failed to recover my losses, and now they're falsely accusing me instead? What kind of logic is that?"
Silence. Faced with the boy's cunning arguments, Cornelius could only choose to remain silent. Indeed, as the other party had said, even though there was a thick stack of files right in front of him, there wasn't a single piece of solid evidence.
All the documents were marked with large red words like "speculation" and "possibility."
The only reason Karl was sitting here at all was because he had been arrested for recklessly using magic in the Muggle world.
And all indications suggested that this might have been done intentionally by Karl himself.
Cornelius could only sigh deeply at this, his small eyes glinting as they fixed on Karl.
"You're going to hell, Mr. Karl."
"Oh, is that so?" Karl smiled faintly at the words, swirling his glass of sherry as he continued.
"You all believe I'm steeped in sin, but have you ever considered—what about the homeless wanderers on the streets of New York?"
"And for those veterans who have returned home suffering from severe PTSD, that small vial of painkillers—"
Sip.
"—might be the only comfort they can find in this world."
"As for those firearms..." Karl slowly stood up, downing the sherry in his hand in one smooth motion.
"They are the final gift for people in despair, resisting global tyranny."
After speaking, he spread his arms wide, gesturing around him with his fingers, and smiled calmly.
"Look at this place—so lavish, so grand, and so utterly disgusting. No need to see me out, Minister."
"I am already in hell. I've been here for a long time."