Chapter 21

31st of August 1991
Hogwarts

In a burst of flames and a swirl of incandescent light, Albus Dumbledore appeared in the heart of Hogwarts, his arrival a spectacular display that sent sparks flying and shadows dancing along the stone walls. The sheer brilliance of his entrance nearly singed Argus Filch, who was creeping through the corridor with his usual scowl. Filch let out a strangled yelp, flailing as he narrowly avoided the flames, and bolted down the hall like a startled cat, his mop clattering to the ground behind him.

Dumbledore, completely unfazed by the chaos, adjusted his hat and stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Hm, Filch... I really must do something about him. Ah! What a splendid idea!"

His thoughts quickly shifted back to the last of the Deathly Hallow, the stone, now in his possession. He needed to secure it and study it further before considering any destructive actions. He already possessed the Elder Wand, now the Resurrection Stone, and he had the Invisibility Cloak safely tucked away at his villa, named "The Bastion of Arcane Delights and Scholarly Secrets" or the B.A.D.A.S.S for short. But did owning all three truly make him the Master of Death? Already ? Or had he to use the ring - well, the stone - at least once ? And maybe Harry was still the owner of the cloak - in the magical sense of transmission and heredity ? And what, precisely, did that mean, being the Master of Death ? The question lingered in his thoughts. Fuck, his life was already complicated…

As he strolled down the familiar corridors of Hogwarts, he almost collided with Professor McGonagall. Her eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Albus? I just left your office, and you were inside."

Dumbledore blinked, realization dawning on him with a start. Fuck. The time turner. He had completely forgotten about the dangers of crossing paths with his past self. And if Minerva knew he scammed the Ministry of one time turner…Scrambling for an excuse, he blurted out, "Ah, Minerva! Yes, well, you see, I was... practicing my... spontaneous tea party transfiguration spell! Yes, yes, it's a new spell I'm working on. You wouldn't believe how tricky it is to get the scones just right. One moment I was in my office, the next I found myself transported here—an unexpected side effect of the charm, you see!"

"Really, Albus ?"

Dumbledore nodded earnestly, his eyes sparkling with fabricated enthusiasm. "Quite so! Dangerous business, tea parties. You never know where you might end up. Perhaps next time I'll find myself in the kitchens... or the roof!"

With an tired shake of her head, McGonagall continued on her way, leaving Dumbledore to his own devices. He let out a small sigh of relief and made his way down to the dungeons, the air growing cooler with each step. The towering statues that guarded the entrance loomed ahead, their forms inspired by the fearsome Berserker Armor of legend - well, the ones he had shamelessly ripped the diagnosis off from the manga. The statues depicted massive, muscular figures clad in jagged, blackened metal, with fierce, hollow eyes that seemed to follow his every move. Their outstretched arms and menacing posture conveyed a sense of relentless power and unyielding guardianship.

Dumbledore passed by the first of his nine secured chambers, where his NFL Battery - the Diary Horcrux - laid. He barely spared it a glance before moving on to the second room, which contained the mysterious box from the Room of Requirement—still an enigma, even to him. He had to take some time to inspect it further. Finally, he arrived at the third room. The door responded to his touch, swinging open. Dumbledore placed the cursed ring on a pedestal at the center of the room, the runes etched into the walls glowing faintly in response.

He stepped back, studying the ring with curiosity. "There we are. Safe for now," he murmured to himself. "But what secrets do you hold, I wonder?"

Dumbledore pulled out his aged pocket watch, its cover snapping open to reveal not the time but a vividly erotic animation of Nami and Robin from One Piece. Clad only in gossamer-thin bikinis that clung precariously to their ample breasts, the characters were locked in an intimate embrace. As they kissed, a string of saliva connected their full, parted lips, emphasizing the intense sensuality of their union. Nami's fingers traced a deliberate path down Robin's spine, pulling her closer to deepen their kiss, while Robin's hands roamed over Nami's hips, tugging at the strings of her bikini to reveal more of her flushed, sensitive skin. Their eyes, heavy with desire, locked onto Dumbledore, inviting him into their lascivious world as their bodies moved against each other with palpable heat and arousal. The animation captured every detail—the slick sheen of sweat on their skin, the gentle biting of lips, and the rhythmic grinding of their bodies—drawing Dumbledore into the depths of its enchanting, erotic display.

Dumbledore sighed, shaking his head with a bemused smile. "Honestly, Albus, you really need to find better hobbies," he muttered, snapping the watch shut. "One last thing to do today."

31st of August 1991
Ministry of Magic

Amelia Bones was drowning in paperwork, each parchment on her desk a piece of a sprawling puzzle of illegal smuggling operations. Her office, a bastion of disciplined efficiency, reflected her meticulous nature. Shelves lined the walls, filled with neatly organized files, each one precisely labeled, and her mahogany desk bore only the essentials—a silver inkpot, a stack of fresh parchment, and a single, potted plant that added a touch of life to the otherwise austere room. The enchanted lamp cast a focused, white light over her workspace, accentuating the sharp contours of her high cheekbones and the intense focus in her deep blue eyes.

A sharp knock at the door shattered the silence, dragging her back from the labyrinth of contraband trails and coded messages. She sighed, a mix of irritation and curiosity flashing across her striking features.

"Enter," she commanded, her voice cool and authoritative.

The door creaked open, revealing her personal assistant, a young wizard with a perpetual air of anxiety and determination. His wide eyes darted around the room before settling on Amelia.

"Madam Bones, Master Auror Alastor Moody requests to see you," he announced, his voice quivering slightly.

Amelia's eyebrow arched, intrigue piqued. "Moody? Here?" She set aside the report, folding her hands on the desk. "Send him in."

As her assistant scurried out, Amelia whispered a quick charm, and her robes smoothed themselves into pristine lines, while her hair cascaded into elegant, controlled waves around her shoulders. She always dressed with purpose—minimalist yet undeniably expensive robes. The fabric, a rich midnight blue, contrasted strikingly with her alabaster skin, accentuating her statuesque figure and elegant curves. Her high cheekbones and full lips, accentuated her piercing blue eyes.

Around her neck, concealed beneath the fabric, hung a small, ornate collar with her most treasured possession: a stone. This was no ordinary stone; it was one of the keys to the Ministry wards room, directly linked to the Major Ley Line for over seven centuries, since the creation of the Wizard Council. Each department head, the Minister, and the three Ministry Administrators—the Chancellor, the Undersecretary, and the Master Quaestor—held one. Seven keys were required to open the room.

The door to Amelia Bones' office swung open with a force that sent a stack of neatly piled papers fluttering. Alastor Moody stomped in, his magical eye spinning wildly, taking in every detail of the room while his natural one zeroed in on Amelia.

"Amelia," he grunted, giving a rough, perfunctory salute.

Amelia looked up, surprise flickering across her composed features. Her deep blue eyes, sharp and inquisitive, narrowed slightly. "Moody? I'm surprised to see you here. You usually prefer the chaos of the field to the sterility of an office."

Moody grunted again, more a growl than a reply. "I don't like it, but we need to talk."

Amelia gestured to the chair opposite her desk. "Take a seat, Alastor. What brings you here? This must be important."

Moody lowered himself into the chair with a thump, the wood creaking under his weight. His magical eye continued its restless surveillance, but his natural eye locked onto Amelia's. "I'm here because I want to retire for real this time," he said bluntly.

Amelia's eyes widened, shock rippling through her. "What? Retire? Why now?"

"Don't worry," Moody said, waving off her concern with a calloused hand. "I'll still drop by a few hours a week to train the rookies, make sure nobody's getting too comfortable. If there's a case or a raid that truly needs me, I'll come."

Amelia was flabbergasted. Alastor Moody, the man who lived and breathed Auror work, willingly stepping back? She studied his face, searching for answers in the deep lines and scars that marked years of relentless vigilance. "Is it because of Albus Dumbledore?" she asked, her voice steady but laden with unspoken questions.

Moody's response was a low, guttural grunt. An acknowledgment, plain as day.

Amelia leaned back, her mind whirling with possibilities. She knew Moody well enough to understand that if he was stepping back, something had profoundly shaken him. "Are the rumors true, Alastor? Is You-Know-Who coming back?" She knew that if Moody was concerned enough to retreat, he had done his homework. He was nothing if not thorough.

Moody grunted, saying nothing more, his magical eye spinning lazily while his natural one focused intently on Amelia.

"If you have information, Alastor, you need to share it with me. How can I help without knowing what we're up against?" Amelia pressed, her tone demanding yet edged with genuine concern.

Moody's jaw tightened. "A shit storm may be coming through," he muttered, his voice a gravelly rasp. "But normally, they won't even feel it."

Amelia's eyes widened at his evasiveness. "A shit storm we won't feel? That doesn't sound like the Moody I know."

He paused, taking a deep breath as if wrestling with himself. "Albus has changed," he said finally. "For the better. More proactive. And with me by his side, that Voldemort fucker won't know what hit him."

And with that, he turned on his heel and stomped out, leaving Amelia behind to digest the bombshell he had just dropped. The door swung shut with a heavy thud, the silence in its wake thick and tense.

Amelia sat motionless for a moment, her mind whirring with the implications of Moody's words. The seriousness of the situation hit her like a tidal wave. "Damn it," she muttered under her breath, the rare curse slipping out in her frustration and concern.

The door creaked open again, and her personal assistant poked his head in, eyes wide with curiosity and anxiety. "Madam Bones, is everything alright?"

She straightened, her expression hardening into one of determined resolve. "Get Scrimgeour in here immediately. And schedule an appointment with the Chief Warlock. We have no time to waste."

The assistant nodded quickly, disappearing as swiftly as he had appeared.

31st of August 1991
London

Rita Skeeter jolted awake, heart pounding and sweat clinging to her brow. Her latest dream had been a real doozy. Albus Dumbledore, of all people, had been towering over her, decked out in an eye-searing pink robe with neon green polka dots. His beard, for some godforsaken reason, was braided into tiny plaits, each adorned with jingling bells that sounded like a deranged Christmas elf convention.

"Rita!" he thundered, eyes blazing with uncharacteristic fury. "One more bullshit story from your quill, and I'll turn it into a Quick-Quotes Squirrel!" To her horror, her quill transformed into a jittery, squeaking squirrel that scurried up her arm and tangled itself in her hair, chattering madly.

"Bloody hell," Rita muttered, shaking her head as if to dislodge both the dream and the phantom squirrel. "I need to stop drinking Firewhisky before bed."

She stumbled out of bed and into the bathroom, flicking on the light and grimacing as her reflection stared back at her. Hair a wild, tangled mess, last night's makeup smudged like war paint. "Good morning, gorgeous," she muttered sarcastically, grabbing her hairbrush and tackling the knots with all the grace of a Fudge. Which was : not a lot.

Next, she splashed cold water on her face, scrubbing vigorously with a face wash that promised miracles but delivered marginally less. She slapped on her anti-wrinkle pseudo-magical cream, glaring at the stubborn lines around her eyes. "You can fuck right off," she grumbled at her reflection. With practiced ease, she reapplied her signature red lipstick, smacking her lips together with a satisfied "there we go." She struck a pose, winking at herself in the mirror. "Still got it."

In the kitchen, she set a pot of coffee brewing, inhaling the rich aroma like it was a lifeline. As she waited, she noticed a garden gnome perched cheekily on the windowsill, peeking in. "Oh, piss off," she snapped, grabbing a dish towel and whacking at the creature until it toppled off with a yelp.

Her owl, Nimbus, hooted from his perch, clearly enjoying the morning show. Rita rolled her eyes and poured herself a steaming cup of coffee, savoring the first life-giving sip before settling at the table.

Flipping open her notebook, she picked up her quill—thankfully, still a quill and not a rodent—and began scribbling furiously. "Alright, Dumbledore," she muttered, a wicked grin spreading across her face. "Let's see who has the last laugh today."