Chapter 9


28th of August, 1991
Hogwarts

Minerva McGonagall strode down the seventh-floor corridor of Hogwarts, her thoughts consumed by the myriad tasks demanding her attention with the school year fast approaching. The familiar sight of the tapestry depicting Barnabas the Barmy's ill-fated attempt to teach trolls ballet came into view, its whimsical absurdity always bringing a small smile to her lips. Today, however, something was different. She halted mid-step, her eyes narrowing as she took in the sight before her. Had there always been these two stone statues flanking the tapestry?

The statues were nothing short of awe-inspiring, casting long shadows down the corridor. They stood tall and forbidding, clad in dark, intricately detailed armor that seemed to drink in the light. Their helmets were menacing, with narrow, slit-like visors that hinted at a gaze capable of piercing through stone. Each statue gripped a massive mace, the spiked heads of which glinted with a nasty edge, suggesting a readiness to crush any intruder who dared approach. Minerva felt a chill run down her spine as she approached the statues. The craftsmanship was impeccable, every chiseled line and curve bringing them eerily to life. But what truly caught her attention was the faint but unmistakable magical aura that surrounded them. She recognized the magical signature immediately—it was Albus Dumbledore's magic, woven into the stone with an incredible might and precision.

"Curious," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "Albus, what have you done now?"

Despite the statues' intimidating presence, Minerva's trust in Dumbledore was unwavering. If he had placed these guardians here, there was undoubtedly a good reason. She sighed, shaking her head slightly, a small smile playing on her lips at the thought of her Patron's unpredictable genius.


28th of August, 1991
Hogwarts

On the other side of the castle, Professor Pomona Sprout found herself in a particularly vexing predicament. Standing before what should have been the entrance to the second-floor girls' lavatory, she instead faced a blank stretch of wall. Had Hogwarts once again decided to indulge in one of its mischievous pranks ?

"Really, Hogwarts? Now? Of all times?" Pomona muttered, her voice a mix of frustration and urgency. She tapped the wall with her wand, her need to pee growing more urgent by the second. "Open sesame! Please?"

Nothing happened. The wall remained as solid and unyielding as ever. Pomona felt a surge of desperation.

"Come on, I really need to pee!" she pleaded, giving the wall a firmer tap. "Aperio Ostium!"

Still nothing. She groaned, her patience wearing thin. "Fine, be that way," she grumbled, turning on her heel and hurrying towards the third-floor lavatory. "Of all the times to pull this trick..."

As she sped down the corridor, a few portraits chuckled at her predicament. A particularly cheeky knight called out, "Need a horse, Professor Sprout?"

"Very funny," Pomona snapped, her steps quickening. She could almost hear the castle itself laughing at her. Thought Hogwart's laugh definitely sounded a bit like Albus Dumbledore's snickers. She shook his head. The venerable Headmaster would not prank her like that…it had to be an auditive hallucination. Yes. A hallucination.


28th of August, 1991
Hogsmeade

Minerva McGonagall and Filius Flitwick stepped into The Three Broomsticks, a hive of activity, the warm, amber glow from the sconces reflecting off the aged wooden beams and casting playful shadows across the bustling room. The air was thick with the scent of butterbeer and meat, mingling with the low hum of laughter and conversation. They wove through the crowd, eyes searching for their elusive friend.

"He said he'd be here," Minerva murmured, scanning the room with a mix of irritation and concern.

Flitwick, standing on his tiptoes, peered around. "Knowing Moody, he's probably disguised as the broomstick stand."

As they approached the corner table where they were supposed to meet, a particularly large flower pot near the entrance began to shake violently. Minerva and Flitwick exchanged bewildered glances just as the pot exploded with a shower of soil, revealing Mad-Eye Moody crouched within. His grizzled face was caked in dirt, a daisy perched comically atop his head, his magical eye whizzing around madly while his normal eye fixed on them with fierce intensity.

"Constant vigilance!" he roared, startling a nearby witch who spilled her drink.

Minerva sighed, rubbing her temples. "Alastor, must you always make such a dramatic entrance?"
Moody's magical eye swiveled suspiciously while his normal eye scrutinized her. "State the password!" he demanded, his voice a gravelly bark.

Flitwick chuckled, though his eyes twinkled with exasperation. "Moody, it's us. We came because you asked."

"Password first!" Moody insisted, his magical eye now zeroing in on Flitwick with unnerving precision.

Minerva rolled her eyes. "Fine. It's 'Fawkes fancies frilly flamingos.'"

Moody grunted, still unconvinced. "Prove it. Turn into a cat. Animagus abilities are the hardest to fake."

Minerva's lips pressed into a thin line, but she transformed in a shimmer of silver light, a sleek tabby cat sitting where she had stood. She glared up at Moody, her emerald eyes gleaming with irritation, her tail flicking impatiently.

"Alright, alright," Moody grumbled, stepping aside to allow her to change back. "Can't be too careful."

Flitwick, barely containing his amusement, piped up, "Since you've put us through the ringer, are you at least buying the drinks?"

Moody grunted an assent and led them to the table he had secured in the corner. As they sat down, Minerva dusted off her robes, still scowling.

"Honestly, Alastor, a flower pot?" she said, a mix of disbelief and exasperation in her voice.

Moody ignored her, his magical eye darting around the room, scanning for threats. "Never know where they might be hiding," he muttered.

Just then, Roberta the barmaid approached, her presence causing a noticeable stir among the younger wizards in the room. She was stunning, with flowing auburn hair cascading over her shoulders, and a figure that college boys often fantasized about. Her smile was warm and genuine, her ample bosom barely contained by the snug fit of her blouse.

"What can I get for you fine folks tonight?" she asked, her voice cheerful and kind.

Moody's normal eye widened while his magical eye seemed to twitch in suspicion. "What's your game, woman?" he growled, leaning back cautiously.

Roberta laughed, a bright, musical sound. "Just doing my job, sir. What'll it be?"

Minerva sighed, recognizing Roberta's charm. "Three Butterbeers, please."

As Roberta swayed away, Moody's eyes followed her, still wary. "Did you see that? She's too friendly. No one's that friendly unless they're up to something."

Flitwick, thoroughly enjoying the spectacle, leaned in. "She's a barmaid, Alastor. It's her job to be friendly."

Moody grumbled but kept his eyes trained on Roberta as she moved through the bar, charming patrons with her genuine warmth.

A few minutes later, Roberta returned with their drinks, setting them down with a bright smile. "Enjoy," she said, her kindness palpable.

Moody sniffed his drink suspiciously, then took a tentative sip. "Wouldn't put it past her to slip something in this," he muttered darkly.

Minerva took a long drink from her Butterbeer, clearly trying to ignore Moody's antics. "Alastor, for once, could you just relax?"

Moody's magical eye swiveled to face her, while his normal eye narrowed. "Relax? That's exactly what they want us to do."

Flitwick, shaking his head with a smile, raised his mug. "To constant vigilance, then."

Moody grunted in approval, raising his own mug, but his gaze never left Roberta, who was now chatting up another table with her same genuine charm.

Minerva sighed deeply, resigning herself to an evening of absurdity, her hopes for a quiet drink dashed by Mad-Eye Moody's relentless paranoia.

Suddenly, Moody's demeanor shifted from wary to intensely focused. He began casting a series of protective spells, each more complex than the last. The air around them shimmered with layers of magical wards: Anti-Eavesdropping Charms, Muffliato, Protego Maxima, Salvio Hexia, and several others Minerva didn't recognize.

"Alastor, what on earth are you doing?" Minerva demanded, her patience wearing thin.

Moody's magical eye fixed on her with a laser-like intensity. "Ensuring we're not being listened to," he replied gruffly. "I didn't bring you here for a social call."

Minerva and Flitwick exchanged worried glances. Moody's paranoia, though usually over the top, seemed to be on another level tonight.

"What's going on, Alastor?" Flitwick asked, his voice tinged with genuine concern.

Moody's magical eye whirled, his normal eye narrowed with intensity. He leaned in, his voice a gravelly whisper, "I think Albus Dumbledore has been replaced."

Minerva and Flitwick exchanged incredulous glances. Minerva opened her mouth to speak, but Moody held up a hand, cutting her off. "Hear me out. I've got theories. Lots of theories."

Minerva sighed, but gestured for him to continue. "Alright, Alastor. Let's hear them."

Moody nodded, eyes darting around suspiciously before he continued. "First theory: Polyjuice Potion. Someone's been dosing regularly, taking on Albus's form. It's tricky, but not impossible with the right ingredients and the right person."

Flitwick raised an eyebrow. "Alastor, Polyjuice only lasts an hour. They'd have to be drinking it constantly."

Moody waved him off. "Fine, fine. Second theory: Imperius Curse. Someone's controlling him, making him act differently. It's subtle but effective. I've seen it before."

Minerva frowned. "That's a stretch, even for you, Alastor. Dumbledore's mind is too strong."

"Alright, third theory," Moody continued, his voice undeterred. "A Doppelgänger. Dark magic has ways of creating perfect copies. We've seen it with Inferi, Golems, and more. Someone could've created a perfect copy of Dumbledore."

Flitwick sighed, rubbing his temples. "A Doppelgänger? Really?"

"Fourth theory," Moody said, eyes darting around the room and then under the table as if he expected an ambush. "Time travel. Someone's come back from the future, replacing Dumbledore with a younger version of himself. The timeline's all messed up, and we're seeing the effects."

Minerva pinched the bridge of her nose. "Alastor, that's bordering on madness."

Moody suddenly ducked under the table, causing both Minerva and Flitwick to jump. "Fifth theory," he said, his voice muffled as he peered out from beneath Minerva's seat. "Alternate universe. Someone's come from a parallel reality, a place where we're just characters in some grand story. They've replaced Dumbledore with an idealized version of himself."

Minerva sighed louder, looking down at Moody, who had now emerged, dusting off his robes. "Alastor, I... I don't even know where to begin. Yes, Albus has changed lately. He's more extravagant, more passionate. But he seems genuinely interested in the wonders of magic again. And if he wanted to be healthier through rituals or whatever, who am I to tell him not to?"

Moody's eyes bore into hers. "It's my intuition, Minerva. And you know my intuition's saved my life more times than I can count."

Minerva raised an eyebrow. "Such as?"

Moody leaned back, a grim smile spreading across his scarred face. "You want examples? Fine. How about the time I was about to sit down for dinner, and my intuition screamed at me to check the chair first? I did, and found a manticore's tail hidden under the cushion. You should have seen the look on my house-elf's face when it tried to fluff the pillows later. Nearly lost an eye!"

Minerva raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical, but Moody barreled on. "Then there was the incident with the enchanted umbrella. It was a clear day, not a cloud in the sky, but something told me to grab an umbrella before heading out. Halfway down Diagon Alley, it started raining cats and dogs. Literal cats and dogs. Could've been crushed by a falling tabby if I hadn't been prepared!"

Flitwick chuckled, but Moody's expression remained deadly serious. "And let's not forget the time I was about to board a broomstick. Looked perfectly normal, but my gut said otherwise. I took a closer look and realized it was rigged to transform into a wild hippogriff mid-flight. Can you imagine? I'd have been bucked off and eaten for dinner!"

Minerva sighed, trying to hide a smile. "Alastor, those are... quite something."

Moody leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with intensity. "I'm telling you, my intuition is never wrong."

Flitwick sighed, looking between Moody and Minerva. "Alright, Alastor. Let's test your theories. Did Dumbledore remember the passwords you've undoubtedly told him?"

Moody grumbled, "Yes."

Flitwick pressed on. "Did you test his magical signature?"

Moody's grumble deepened. "Yes."

Minerva, exasperated, asked, "Alastor, do you know of any technique that would allow someone to fake a Phoenix or force Fawkes to stay with them?"

Moody's eyes widened, his voice taking on a conspiratorial tone. Well, an even more conspiratorial tone. "Not easily. But my intuition tells me there's something we're missing. What if it's more than just magic? What if someone from a parallel universe where we're just pieces of fiction came here and made a self-insert into Albus?"

Minerva sighed heavily, shaking her head. "Alastor, sometimes I wonder how a man as brilliant as you can be so profoundly wrong."