Chapter 5

4th of August, 1991

London

Minerva McGonagall walked briskly through the corridors of Hogwarts, clutching a stack of papers that needed the Headmaster's signature. As she approached the entrance to Dumbledore's office, she muttered the new password under her breath, "Vivi best Waifu." Whatever that meant. The gargoyle sprang aside, revealing the spiral staircase that led to the Headmaster's desk.

"Please, let him be dressed this time," Minerva whispered to herself, steeling her nerves for whatever eccentricity awaited her. She ascended the stairs and knocked before entering. The sight that met her eyes made her stop in her tracks.

"Albus, what the hell is that?" she exclaimed, her usual composure shattered.

Dumbledore turned to face her, dressed in a full scientist's garb: a white lab coat over a pinstriped waistcoat, safety goggles perched on his nose, and rubber gloves up to his elbows. He stood in front of a massive, muggle machine labeled "Quadrupole Time-of-Flight Mass Spectrometer" (Q-TOF MS). Of course, he did not tell Minerva he had stolen it - well, the parts to make it, as it did not really exist in 1991. The contraption was a marvel of modern technology, with sleek steel panels, a digital display pulsing with data, and a network of tubes and wires connecting to a central analysis chamber.

"Ah, Minerva! Do not worry, it's just a bit of Muggle apparatus," he said cheerfully, waving a gloved hand dismissively.

Minerva's eyes widened as she glanced at the table beside the machine. "Is that... the Philosopher's Stone?" she asked, her voice rising to a pitch she didn't know she could reach.

Dumbledore snorted inwardly. Of course it was not. Like Flamel would give him the stone. It was the Fake One the alchemist had created—essentially very condensed and dense life elixir. He was analyzing it with the Quadrupole Time-of-Flight Mass Spectrometer to understand how magic interacted with chemistry. Well, applied physics, at this level. The readouts were showing a series of intricate, multi-colored graphs and complex data that he was deciphering. The elixir's molecular structure was highly unstable, yet it didn't degrade. It appeared to fluctuate between solid, liquid, and plasma states simultaneously. The magical properties caused a continuous reaction with the physical elements, creating this unique interaction at a subatomic level. It was quite the puzzle, and utterly fascinating…but it was going to be a nightmare to understand and to reproduce. He only about 30% of the original Deadbuldore knowledge, which did not include a lot of the ones in alchemy…maybe he should wait ?

Minerva blinked, trying to process the scene. "Albus, that seems... extremely dangerous, truly. But what I need are these papers signed." She held out the stack of documents, her tone edging back to its usual sternness.

Dumbledore removed his gloves and goggles, taking the papers from her with a nod. "Of course, Minerva. Apologies for my distraction. Just one moment."

15th of August, 1991

London

Young Harry, just eleven, sat cross-legged on the plush carpet of the Tonks' cozy living room, bathed in the flickering glow of the television. He nibbled on a mix of magical and Muggle treats, savoring the sweet, melty goodness of chocolate. The world around him felt surreal and comforting all at once.

The shock of discovering he was a wizard, the truth about his parents' deaths, the terror of Lord Voldemort, and meeting Dumbledore—who seemed like a blend of Gandalf, Merlin, and Churchill—had all been overwhelming. But now, nestled here, he felt a sense of belonging he'd never known at the Dursleys'.

Andromeda, graceful even in her nightgown, argued with fervor. "The rhinoceros would win, Nymphadora. Its strength and charge are unparalleled."

Nymphadora, sprawled in an oversized T-shirt and panties, her hair bright pink, snorted. "You're bonkers, Mum! The elephant's bigger and stronger. One stomp, and the rhino's history." She gestured wildly with her beer can, almost spilling it.

Harry grinned, munching on his snacks. "They'd probably just run away from each other," he said, his tone light.

The women turned to him, eyes wide, before bursting into laughter. "You might be right, Harry," Andromeda said, her eyes sparkling.

"Smart kid," Tonks agreed, tousling his messy hair.

Laughter filled the room, and Harry felt a warmth he'd never experienced. He belonged here, part of their playful debates. The reality show on TV—a ridiculous spectacle of celebrities failing at wilderness survival—only added to the night.

Harry watched a pop star struggle with a kangaroo, and the room erupted in laughter. He joined in, the sound of their shared mirth wrapping around him like a comforting blanket.

The room was a cozy clutter of mismatched furniture, stacks of books, and the faint smell of freshly baked bread—details that made this place feel like home. For the first time, Harry felt truly happy and at ease. As the night wore on, Harry leaned back against the couch, his eyes heavy but his heart light. The Tonks women's playful banter continued, their voices a soothing backdrop. Here, with them, he wasn't the Freak, he wasn't the Boy Who Lived (and that had been a surprise, when he went to Dragon Alley for the first time)—he was Harry, part of a family, laughing and loved.

23th of August, 1991

London

Edward Haversham, a man living a double life as "The Collector," a notorious child trafficker, reclined in his luxurious living room, sipping a glass of fine scotch. His Victorian manor, an opulent testament to his wealth, was a place of dark secrets and hidden horrors. His wife, oblivious to his true nature, hummed a cheerful tune in the kitchen as she prepared their late-night tea.

The lights in the grand hall began to flicker sporadically, casting eerie shadows that danced across the ornate wallpaper. Edward frowned, setting his glass down. "Who's there?" he called out, his voice echoing in the vast space. The distant sound of childlike giggles drifted through the hallways, unsettling him. He stood, his heart beginning to pound as the laughter grew louder, more mocking. The air turned cold, and the flickering intensified until, with a final, blinding flash, the lights went out completely.

In the sudden darkness, Edward's breath quickened. He reached for the light switch, his fingers trembling as he flipped it repeatedly, but the room remained engulfed in darkness. The giggles grew louder, echoing from every corner of the room. He heard the creak of the floorboards, the faint sound of footsteps approaching.

"Who's there?" Edward repeated, his voice now a whisper. The footsteps stopped, and for a moment, there was only silence. Then, a faint, chilling breeze swept through the room, and with it, the sound of sleigh bells jingling softly. The lights flickered back on, dim and eerie, casting long, twisted shadows.

Standing in the middle of the room was a figure dressed as Santa Claus, but this was no jolly Saint Nick. His suit was tattered and filthy, his beard long and tangled, with bits of debris stuck in it. His eyes, burning with an unsettling light, fixed on Edward with a predatory grin. The sight of him was grotesque, like a figure pulled from the depths of a nightmare.

Edward's pulse raced. He took a step back, his hand fumbling for the gun he kept hidden beneath a cushion. The figure remained still, watching him with an almost amused expression. Edward finally grabbed the gun, pulling it out with shaking hands. He aimed at the intruder and fired. The bullets seemed to pass through the man as if he were made of smoke, clattering harmlessly to the floor.

"Who...who are you?" Edward stammered, his voice shaking.

The figure took a step closer, his grin widening. "I'm Santa 'The Punisher' fucking Claus," he said, his voice a gravelly whisper that seemed to echo inside Edward's skull. The words sent a shiver down Edward's spine, and he felt his legs weaken.

Desperate, Edward grabbed a heavy chandelier from a side table and swung it at the intruder. The figure didn't move. Instead, he raised a gloved hand and, with a sickeningly cheerful "Hohoho - Defense Christmas Technique," a large, prickly pine tree appeared, deflecting the blow. The chandelier shattered into pieces, scattering across the room.

Edward's mind raced, trying to process the impossible. The tree vanished as quickly as it had appeared, and Santa stepped forward, his eyes glinting with malicious glee. "Is that all you've got?" he taunted.

Before Edward could react, Santa Claus waved his hand, and a length of craft paper rope appeared from thin air. The rope twisted and coiled around Edward like a living serpent, binding him tightly to a chair and gagging him. The ropes constricted with a will of their own, ensuring he couldn't move or scream. The sinister Santa Claus then sat down opposite him, his eyes glinting with dark amusement.

"Let's have a talk," he said, pulling a large, filthy witch hat seemingly from thin air. The hat was grimy and stained, looking as if it had been dragged through a century of dirt and filth. As he placed it on the table, it twitched and moved.

"Hey, you're the one that's dirty," the hat croaked in a high-pitched, accusatory voice. Edward's eyes widened in disbelief and horror, realizing he was trapped in a nightmare far worse than anything he had ever inflicted on his victims. Did the hat just…read his thoughts ?

"Ho Ho Ho", said Albus Percival Brian Fucking Kylian Dumbledore.

Santa Claus stood, his eyes twinkling. He began to lecture on moral theory. "Great power involves great responsibility," he intoned. "As Franklin D. Roosevelt said—I don't know why everyone is quoting fucking Uncle Ben on that ? It doesn't matter. The point is, 'Power tends to corrupt,' said Lord Acton, the 19th-century British historian. 'Absolute power corrupts absolutely.' Thus, I now have almost absolute power. I can change reality."

Edward's terror deepened. Santa Claus had absolute power? The concept twisted his gut into knots. He had heard whispers of powerful beings, but this was beyond comprehension.

Santa The Punisher's clothes rustled as he stood, his presence overwhelming. "Aware of the risk of corruption by power, I devised a moral compass," he continued.

"It's me, and I'm a hat, not a compass," interjected the sorting hat, sounding distinctly irritated.

Dumbledore nodded, seemingly unfazed. "Indeed. To hone my enchanting skills, I integrated generative moral law into the hat, based on Rawlsian contractualism."

"It's me," the hat repeated, a touch of pride in its voice.

Dumbledore leaned closer to Edward, his eyes gleaming with eerie light. "Now, let's put this to the test." He turned to the hat. "Is it moral to kill Edward Haversham?"

The hat twitched before blurting out, "Of course not, you dumb fuck. What kind of question is that?"

Dumbledore sighed deeply, shaking his head as if disappointed by the hat's outburst. "Must you always be so crude?"

The hat let out a huff. "However..." it continued, and Edward felt his heart almost stop from fear.

The hat launched into a monologue, its voice now calm and measured. "Considering the contextual information you've programmed into me, Albus, there's a distinct possibility that we exist within a fictional world or some kind of hallucination. If this is the case, the probability of Edward truly existing is exceedingly slim. And by extension, the children he kidnapped might also be figments of an imagined reality."

Edward's mind struggled to process the words, the fear of his predicament mingling with the confusion of this bizarre, philosophical revelation. He glanced at Dumbledore, who was nodding thoughtfully, clearly fascinated by the hat's reasoning.

"So, Edward," the hat continued, its voice dripping with a mix of condescension and eerie amusement, "if you're nothing more than a fictional construct, the moral implications of ending your life become rather... murky, don't they? If we are mere figments of someone's imagination, then the lines of morality blur, and traditional ethical considerations lose their grounding."

Edward felt a cold sweat break out over his skin. "Please," he managed to croak, his voice barely above a whisper, "I don't understand. Let me go."

Dumbledore's gaze intensified, his eyes boring into Edward's soul. "You see, Edward, whether or not we exist in reality, the suffering you've caused feels real enough to those who have endured it. Your actions, whether in a perceived reality or an imagined one, have had dire consequences. And it's time for you to understand the depths of that pain."

The hat chuckled darkly, its voice filled with a malevolent glee. "Indeed, Edward, while your existence may be debatable, the torment you're about to experience will be very, very real. Your crimes cannot go unpunished, and whether or not you truly exist, the punishment will feel excruciatingly tangible."

Edward's world began to spin, the room closing in on him as the weight of his sins and the dread of his fate pressed down on him. His breaths came in short, panicked gasps. "No, no, please," he whimpered, tears streaming down his face. "I'm sorry, I'll change, I swear!"

Dumbledore's expression remained stern, unmoved by Edward's pleas. "It's too late for apologies, Edward. Whether or not you believe in the reality of this world, you must face the consequences of your actions. The fear and pain you inflicted on others will now be your own."

The hat's voice turned almost gleeful, savoring the moment. "Prepare yourself, Edward. The nightmare you have created for others is about to become your own reality. And there will be no waking from it."