• Somewhere in Europe, Unplottable Area •
• Monday, 2:00 PM •
[Alastor Moody]
Walking through the magically expanded, dark, and dreary hallway, Alastor couldn't help but sigh in resignation. He wondered what the point was of leaving the place unclean, dark, and generally unpleasant. It wasn't as if the people who came here—or the rest of the wizarding world, for that matter—didn't know it was a dark market.
So what's the point of this shit? he grumbled inside his head, swatting a hand in a circle to clear the spiderwebs clinging to his hair.
With a grunt, he took out his wand and cast a new spell he had learned two days ago: a modified Protego spell, one of Albus's creations. A wave of purple light enveloped him, forming an elastic, easy-to-move-in barrier that could stop most spells, apart from the Killing Curse.
At least there was a positive side to me connecting with that untested magic, he admitted to himself. Unwilling or not, I have yet to find a negative side effect.
And that was the truth. If there had been other people in the room when he connected, they might have thought he accepted it willingly, but he had not. He was too paranoid—ahem, vigilant—for that.
He just knew Albus too well to not recognize when his displays of vigilance were unwelcome, so he had reluctantly gone along with the initial connection, though not without layering every harmful-intent and influence-reflection charm he knew at the time. If it had been up to him, he would have spent at least a week verifying and checking the magic before connecting to it.
Still, now I know why he is doing this, he took comfort in the thought. Now he understood just how useful the magic was, and why Albus was doing his best to spread it.
Albus wanted to cast the net of analysis as wide as he could to get a read on the bigger picture. It was one of the reasons he had sent him on this mission in the first place.
[Flashback]
"I have a mission for you, Alastor," Albus said, inclining his head forward. "I want you to go across all known black markets and see if there's any information about new and powerful 'wizards' emerging in the world."
"I can do that, but why the emphasis on the word 'wizard'?" Alastor asked, catching the unusual stress in Albus's tone.
"Because I believe there are beings from the other world here already," Albus revealed with a sigh. "And I think they were the ones behind the attack on the Ministry."
"What do you mean? Weren't they the usual monsters?" Alastor asked.
"Hah, Alastor, please," Albus laughed, a dry, mirthless sound. "When have you ever heard of monsters working together without a powerful commander behind them?"
Alastor didn't say anything in return, merely listening. He was still not fully trusting this new Albus; he was too different from the man he knew.
"I saw how the monsters behaved back then," Albus continued. "They killed and tried to take all the dead bodies with them, instead of eating them then and there. That, coupled with the fact that they fought with coordinated tactics, should give a clear indication of a chain of command. Someone wants the bodies of wizards for some reason…"
"Why would they want that? A necromancy ritual?" Alastor guessed.
"Haha, it is good to see how innocent your thoughts still are," Albus laughed, his voice tinged with something that sounded suspiciously like pain. "And that reminds me—investigate any missing wizards and witches, especially children, in both the Muggle and wizarding worlds…"
A cold dread began to coil in Alastor's gut. The situation was becoming too clear, and the implications were deeply unsettling. He remained doubtful about the whole "gods, devils, and other worlds" situation, but this mission sounded too critical to risk with his personal doubts.
"Look, Alastor. You have the Archive now. Consult it during your investigation, and you will get a clear picture of the stakes. I will not try to quell your doubts here, because I know they will be gone by the time you return. So, do not disappoint me. This is too important of a mission to fail," Albus said, his voice deadly serious.
"Two weeks. That's when we will meet again," Alastor grunted and stood up.
[End of Flashback]
That was why Alastor Moody had left Britain the same day without telling anyone about his departure. That was why he was now enduring this stupid, oppressive atmosphere that these imbecilic dark wizards and witches seemed to relish.
It's for the sake of the mission, Alastor. Endure it, he repeated in his head as he pushed open a heavy black door adorned with a skull-shaped doorknob and bone inlays.
"Ah, a customer. Welcome," croaked a hunched-back, ugly-looking witch with a crooked nose and pox marks all over her face.
Don't we have potions to clear those? Alastor inwardly bemoaned the willful repulsiveness of dark-affiliated wizards and witches. He wished he could beat some sense into them, but he had a mission to complete.
"I want information," he stated without fanfare.
"Information, you say?" the witch drawled in a creaky voice that made him wonder if she practiced it. "We have information. The price, though, depends on what you need."
"Information on missing children—wizards and witches—as well as any new, powerful people who are recruiting."
"Hmm, that's expensive…" the witch said, looking at him with intense eyes that made his magical eye spin more erratically than usual beneath his disguise. "Can you afford it?"
"State your price, and don't try to play games with me. You will not like the consequences," he warned her.
The ugly wretch had the gall to laugh at his warning. "I've heard all of that before…" she said in a sickeningly playful tone.
"I am sure you did," he replied evenly. "But none had the resources and manpower I do. So, please, make sure your information is correct and tell me the price." He looked directly into the witch's eyes.
"Two thousand and five hundred Galleons," the witch stated, waving her wand to summon a small, black-bound diary. She cast a Gemino Charm on it, creating a duplicate, and placed the copy on the counter.
Alastor threw a pouch onto the counter. "Here's your gold. Check it if you want," he said, taking the diary.
The witch, of course, did not check the pouch, as it was a Gringotts-issued one where the holder would normally sense the amount within. But that was the trick—the pouch didn't contain any real gold. In fact, it was filled with Leprechaun gold.
Normally, such a deception would be impossible to pass off at a place like this, but that funny-looking Albus, through the Archive, had taught him how to cast a subtle, lingering modified Confundus Charm on the pouch specifically for this mission.
'Hell will freeze over before I hand your ilk any real gold', he thought as he started heading out. He knew this trick would only last for less than a week, but that was all the time he needed.
X_
• Somewhere in Romania, Unplottable Area •
• Monday, 9:30 PM •
[Alastor Moody]
Huff, huff, huff…
Running through the forest as fast as he could, Alastor worked frantically to hide his tracks. He layered vision-obscuring spells, Confundus Charms, footstep, scent, and trace-removal charms, all while maintaining his usual eyesight-diversion enchantments, putting as much distance as he could between himself and the pursuing Aurors.
Huff…
He leaned back against a tree, taking a few deep, calming breaths to steady himself. His eyes scanned the dark woods, ensuring he had finally lost all pursuit, before he finally allowed himself to sink down onto the ground.
He cast a few more security spells—not forgetting to throw a Revelio among them—to be doubly certain he was alone before his tension finally began to ebb.
Ugh, that's what I get for not being more vigilant, he thought, shaking his head in self-reproach.
In all fairness, it wasn't really his fault this time; he had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Who would have thought an Auror unit would be stupid enough to raid a black market with such clumsy execution?
As if that weren't enough, they had compounded their error by calling for backup when the situation spiraled out of their control. The only reason the unit that followed him was still breathing was because the kid leading them had chosen to pursue a single target rather than stay and engage in the escalating battle back at the market.
'Sigh, I guess it's true that the only thing you can truly trust is human stupidity', Moody mused, shaking his head once more before summoning the Archive interface.
As soon as the interface materialized, a prompt popped up, asking if he wanted to enable "Full Synchronization." He didn't need to read it; he'd seen it multiple times over the past few days. His finger moved with practiced irritation, jabbing the "X" to close the window before it could finish loading.
He may have agreed to connect to the magic and was using it for its undeniable utility, but he was no rookie. He lived in a state of constant vigilance, and any magic that proactively asked for unrestricted access to his memories was something to be regarded with extreme suspicion.
Just because I'm doing this mission doesn't mean I've quelled my doubts about Albus, he thought, his jaw tight as he selected the pensive-like icon to begin his daily investigation.
He had been doing this since Saturday morning: meticulously picking apart the memory Albus Dumbledore had shared for those who wished to verify his "ascension." He didn't know precisely why, but something about it felt off, staged as if It was a performance. It showed just enough to be plausible but very carefully omitted anything truly substantive…
'Ugh', he grunted, dragging a hand across his face. 'Why does everything have to be so complicated? he complained inwardly. It would have been much easier to just believe he was up to something. But the more information I gather, the more I realize that we might not even be on the same battlefield anymore.'
Alastor rocked his body forward, placed a hand against the tree for support, and pushed himself to his feet. He pulled a necklace from under his robes and gave it a precise tap with his wand.
Tap… swish… thud… click…
The necklace twisted upon itself, enlarging and morphing in mid-air before landing softly on the ground as a red wooden trunk with silver corners. As soon as it finished its transformation, the lid clicked open.
Moody gave his wand a sharp twirl and a pulling motion, summoning his old tent from within the trunk.
The tent was nothing special to look at; in fact, it appeared so worn and tattered that any passerby would assume it was unusable. This was entirely by design. Believe it or not, this tent had more enchantments woven into its fabric than a Ministry safe house. The shabby exterior was itself the result of a powerful illusion, designed to work in tandem with subtle Notice-Me-Not and Muggle-Repellent Charms, inducing a sense of visceral disgust and urging anyone who glimpsed it to move along.
Alastor moved his wand in a series of precise arcs, situating the tent snugly between several trees, well away from any visible path. He then knelt, reached into his trunk, and retrieved a few essential potions—nothing out of the ordinary, just a Flushing Potion and an Invigoration Draught. Standard procedure after potentially being exposed to subtle airborne toxins or magical contaminants.
Finally, he began layering temporary wards around his makeshift camp, weaving the spells with a delicate touch to ensure they remained as subtle and imperceptible as possible.
After finally securing his temporary safety, he transfigured the visible parts of the tree roots and the trunk itself into a rough-hewn armchair, still connected to the living tree. It looked bizarre, but as a temporary measure, it would suffice.
Now, let's see here, he thought, expanding the Archive interface from its minimized state in the corner of his vision. He pulled the stack of papers from his coat, allowing the Archive to scan them with a brief, silent pulse of light before leaning back to wait.
The scanning of the entire stack took only about ten seconds. The subsequent analysis and organization of the data, however, stretched the total process to just over a minute.
He began scrolling through the compiled information, immediately finding more concerning tidbits than he had anticipated. One entry, in particular, stood out: the underworld was already aware of Grindelwald's escape, despite the International Confederation of Wizards and most affiliated governments working tirelessly to suppress the news.
This is going to be a headache, he thought, massaging his temples and weary eyes. He had estimated it would take a week for the news to spread throughout the underworld and subsequently leak to the press, but four days was a disturbingly efficient record…
Moody shook his head in resignation and pointed his wand upward, casting a silent Tempus to check the time, before pushing himself to his feet and heading towards the tent.
He had more work to do tomorrow, which meant less time to untangle the knot of his doubts and suspicions.
"Too many coincidences," he muttered to the empty air as he ducked inside the tent. "Far too many for my taste."
X_
• Hogwarts School, Monday, 3:30 PM •
— Albus Dumbledore —
Huffff… Haaaah…. Huuuuuuuffff… Haaaaah…
The sound of rhythmic breathing filled my office as I fought to steady my pattern, desperately staving off a full-blown panic attack. Now, some might call this whining—a thing unbecoming of a man of my stature—but I say…
Screw that!!! I may have the memories of living more than a century, but I am still twenty at heart!
And frankly, I think this would happen to anyone in my position: to realize that the mission and plans you've been building are a fundamental misconception on your part, and that failure to correctly interpret the parameters could lead to your utter erasure from existence.
I mean, what does one expect to happen when you are asked to prepare a world for a merger? I asked myself, feeling my temper begin to flare again. I thought I had to train the wizards, build a few defenses, and act all mysterious and overpowered…
That might still be part of it, but the likelihood of it being that simple seems to dwindle with every passing thought. I knew the mission had seemed too straightforward when compared to the power I was given; now I understand that my initial suspicion was correct.
I know full well my Essence of the Archmage is a nerfed version, and I can guess why, too. That lazy motherfucker had bigger plans from the start…
Okay, enough whining, I scolded myself. I've read too many stories not to have anticipated a twist like this, and I still fell for it. This just proves that no matter what, I'm still prone to errors and stupidity.
I am only human, after all, I admitted. But now, it's time to get my new theory in order and draft at least a rough outline of what I must do.
Huffff.
I let out a long breath and opened my eyes, only to be greeted by my phoenix familiar, Fawkes, looking at me with a tilted head.
He must have sensed my anxiety through our bond. I smiled slightly at the thought and extended a hand to scratch his beak.
The simple, grounding action helped me collect my thoughts as I scooted off my bed and stood up. I began pacing back and forth, mentally organizing the points that supported my new theory.
It was still more of a hypothesis, but its groundwork was built on three pillars.
First, I know from my exuberant consumption of novels, tales, stories, and fanfiction that no two worlds are the same. Each has a rank of its own, dictated by the power level of the beings within it.
Second, I know that higher-ranking worlds or realities possess more than one type of energy—each with its own hierarchy—and multiple pathways for an ordinary person to achieve power. They may even contain beings so potent that their mere existence elevates the world's rank.
The energy issue, at least, could be solved relatively easily, so I didn't have to worry about it for now. It was the other two aspects that were the real concern.
There's divinity and conceptual energy in that world, I mused, closing my eyes in frustration at the sheer scale of it all.
Now, for the third point. I know, or am almost certain, that every world has a system to process the continuous, ever-evolving torrent of information it generates, receives, exchanges, stores, and manipulates. Different universes represent this system in different ways—be it a dimension, a collective will, or any other form of cosmic nonsense.
This leads to the critical question: What if the merger isn't what I pictured? What if it's a process based on the comparative value and rank of the worlds involved—a value I still believe depends on a multitude of complex factors?
If that's the case, then we are truly fucked. The evidence was already there when I sensed our magic beginning to mutate and change. If that process continues, then no matter what I do, wizards and witches will die. It's an almost certain probability of an entire race facing extinction.
I stopped pacing mid-stride and stood silently, my mind racing to adjust my plans. If introducing new energy can add to the world's value, then I should start by creating chakra. That's a valid course of action, right?
"What do I do, Fawkes?" I asked my familiar. "Am I thinking about this correctly? Or am I just strengthening and provisioning our future enemies? I haven't even had time to enjoy this new body yet…" I sighed, running a hand through my hair. "Ugh, this is frustrating."
"Albus, are you there?" Minerva's voice called from downstairs.
When did she arrive? I thought, shaking myself from my reverie as I walked out of my room.
"Minerva, what a pleasant surprise," I smiled, descending the stairs. "What can I do for you?"
"I need to talk to you," she stated, already seated in a chair before my desk.
"Of course. Lemon drop?" I offered as I took my own seat.
"No, thank you," she declined with a slight shake of her head. "I need your advice on something." She watched me settle, her expression serious.
"I am all ears."
"I want to undergo my first true self-reflection using the Archive," she announced. "I have caught up on the new transfiguration theories and revised everything I've known and studied since childhood. Now, I want to see if I, too, can achieve what you did."
"I see. Have you already settled on a theory for your magical advancement?"
"Yes. Elemental Transfiguration," she answered firmly. "I want to see if I can use your hypothesis on energy form changes to achieve a true form of elemental magic."
"Not a bad path," I nodded, stroking my beard. "And what element are you starting with?"
"All four."
"Ambitious," I smiled, a genuine warmth spreading through me. "You seem to have regained your spark, Minerva."
She simply nodded, her gaze steady.
"What has brought this on, though? It's not as if there is a need to hurry," I asked, leaning forward slightly. "You know the rules; you can only voluntarily attempt such a thing once every three months."
"Gellert is out. And the world is changing more radically with each passing day." She let out a weary sigh. "I am old, Albus. I feel old. I don't have the same energy I did in my youth. I feel like I can't keep up. And now we will be accepting new, younger students, full of mischief and vitality, and I fear… I fear that I won't be able to keep going at this rate."
I saw it in her eyes. It was there for only a moment, but I saw it: the toll of years spent caring for hundreds of students—teaching, worrying, and parenting. The weight of emotions she kept locked close to her chest, the sadness and grief she never fully unleashed or experienced because there was always a job to be done. The wrinkles on her face, the age lines I had previously failed to notice or simply ignored, now seemed more prominent…
She had lost a great many things over the years, her husband, her students, and pieces of herself, yet she never had the time to sit down and process any of it.
"Forgive me, Minerva. I… did not notice," I said softly, standing and walking to her side. I knelt beside her chair. "I truly am sorry, old friend. I did not stop to consider how these changes would affect you."
"Hahahah," she chuckled, a dry, quiet sound. "I am not blaming you, Albus. You haven't had a day of rest either, so I understand."
"Still, it is only right that I admit my shortcomings," I sighed, rising to my feet.
"Yet, I feel I must warn you," I told her, returning to my seat. "You will be tested, Minerva. You may lose the ability to distinguish between the you of now and the you of the past. That is the very reason I created the false stimulation—to help you temper your will and discern who you are from who you were."
"I know, Albus," Minerva nodded, a small, knowing smile touching her lips. "We have already figured that out. All of us have."
"Of course you would. You are Britain's finest for a reason," I proclaimed playfully. "So, when do you intend to attempt your ascension?"
"Today, after dinner," she answered. "I don't have an early class tomorrow, so if I haven't woken by morning, you will have to cover for me."
"It's decided, then," I nodded with a soft smile. "Very well. Let us do it this way: we will meet in the medical wing later and discuss the finer details with Poppy. You will do the discussing, however; I have no wish to be on the receiving end of her ire…"
"Ugh," Minerva groaned into her hand. She actually groaned… "Okay, fine."
We continued to talk for another ten minutes or so about nothing of great importance—just two friends catching up on the happenings of their lives. Two friends who saw each other every day, yet hadn't truly seen each other. Two friends who, despite their physical proximity, had grown so busy that the distance between them had widened without either of them realizing.
It was nice. It helped more than I could express in words. It centered me and allowed me to place my own overwhelming worries on hold, if only for a little while.
'She will do great', I thought as I watched her leave my office. I would have to give her more time when I grant her intemporary access to my Archmage Essence through the Archive and maybe add a few more protective blessings to her profile as well…
" hahaha" I chuckled softly " I can't wait for the results"
X_
• Somewhere Unknown. Monday. ??? •
[???? POV]
The room was dim, illuminated only by candlelight that glinted off gilded surfaces and the moonlight filtering through a multicolored window.
A man lay on his bed, head propped on his hand, with two naked women sleeping soundly beside him, their breathing soft and slow.
He let out a long, contented sigh as his mind began to wander. How long had it been since he arrived in this world? A year? Or more?
He didn't know, and he didn't care. Or, more accurately, he was feeling too successful to care. He relished the fact that the stupid humans now worshiped him as a god. Oh, what a thrill it was. He, a six-winged Fallen, was being worshipped as a messenger of God—or, as of late, as the Son of God himself.
He didn't know how it had happened, or why. One moment, he had been sleeping in a U.S. safe house after a Sacred Gear user extermination mission; the next, he woke up here—in a world with almost no trace of the supernatural, aside from those wand-waving monkeys, of course…
But to think there was a world untouched by divinity, he mused. Is this why I've been growing more powerful? Because I am the closest thing to a divine being this world has?
He didn't care either way. He was having the time of his life. Church fanatics bowed to his every whim, nuns lined up to share his bed and bear his "divine" children, and the wand-waving monkeys were helping him bolster his private monster army and experiments. On top of that, he was growing stronger.
Sure, he wasn't the one personally conducting the experiments, but it might as well have been his own work. He just had to find a crazy monkey, pair him with a nut-job fanatic, spout a few lines about "figuring out the path for human salvation" and "attaining divine status," throw a few light spears, and kill a man with a punch now and then. The inferior beings handled the rest.
"Your Holiness, there is an urgent message for you." A knock on the door pulled him from his reverie, and he contemplated whether to kill the impudent fool.
He decided against it; he had done that yesterday. If there was anything he had learned about humans, it was that you had to balance their fear with their worship.
He rose from the bed and strode to the door, opening it and stepping out. His six wings were on full display, and he wore only a loose pair of pants.
"What is it?" he asked, his voice steady and his gaze firm.
"Your Holiness, the witch we stationed in the black market has reported a man asking questions about monsters, powerful wizards, and missing people," the priest relayed.
"And why is that important?"
"Because she identified the investigator as Alastor Moody, one of Albus Dumbledore's closest allies."
Now that had his attention. Albus Dumbledore was not just anyone. He was a high-class being—this world's first, in fact—and the only one who posed a legitimate threat. It was the very reason he had sent those Greek monsters and stray devils to Britain: to test the old man after hearing of his rank promotion.
"Who reported the news?" he asked, already walking toward one of the underground labs.
"It was Generva, sir," the priest replied, scurrying to keep up.
"Hmm," he hummed, tapping his ear. A magic circle flickered to life beside it. "Generva. Report everything."
"Yes, Your Holiness," the woman's voice came through the circle. "This afternoon, a man in disguise came to my shop asking for information…" He tuned out most of the drivel, having asked only to maintain appearances.
"And how did you see through his disguise?" he interrupted. "Why the delay?"
"Your security seal and the spells you taught me, sir," she replied, her voice cracking with fear. "I had to contact associates to see if he had visited other markets."
"Hmm. Next time, report immediately." He severed the link.
It was all about appearances. He had to ensure these sheep followed him out of reverence, not fear; that kind of loyalty lasted longer.
Now… what to do about this new development?
….
Next two chapters on [email protected]/hunter20…
Enjoy…