Dylan tucked the ordinary locket into his jacket's inner pocket, his fingers brushing against the cool, textured metal.
He followed Dumbledore onto a small boat. The headmaster gripped the oars, rowing gently. The wooden paddles dipped into the lake, sending droplets splashing onto the dark water, where they vanished instantly.
Neither spoke as they glided across the lake, soon reaching the shore.
Moody leaned against a rock, his cane propped unevenly in the dirt. His other hand pressed against a recent injury, though his complexion looked better than before.
Seeing the two return, Moody straightened up, his gruff voice laced with frustration. "So, we went through all this trouble—fighting Inferi, chugging potions—and we still don't know if that Horcrux is destroyed or not?"
His tone dripped with dissatisfaction at the inconclusive mission.
Dumbledore approached, clapping a hand on Moody's shoulder. His voice was calm but methodical. "The trail isn't cold, Alastor. We'll split up and investigate three leads. I'll look into the Borgin family—they've long been tangled with Death Eater circles. You take the Burkes; you know their dealings better than anyone. As for Dylan," he turned to the younger wizard, "you're still young, so go talk to Sirius Black about the Black family."
"Fifteen years ago, all three families had members who joined the Death Eaters. If we dig deep enough, we'll find clues about who took the Horcrux."
Dylan nodded, his mind racing. The locket was in his possession, which could help him complete a system achievement and give him a reason to reconnect with Sirius. Dumbledore's plan aligned perfectly with his own.
As for the note inside the locket, signed R.A.B.—well, there was no need to speculate about who that was. But he saw no reason to mention it to Dumbledore just yet.
Who knows? Dylan thought with a smirk. Maybe I'll even summon Slytherin himself back. The idea of Slytherin meeting Ravenclaw made him chuckle inwardly.
With the tasks assigned, Dumbledore snapped his fingers. A warm, orange-red flame flared up on the shore, its heat gentle rather than scorching. Fawkes, the phoenix, emerged from the fire, its golden and crimson wings spreading wide, tail feathers shimmering faintly.
Dumbledore grabbed Fawkes' tail first, followed by Moody, who gripped it too eagerly, yanking out a fiery red feather in his haste. The feather hit the ground and dissolved into tiny sparks, vanishing into the air.
Fawkes let out an indignant squawk.
In the next moment, the trio and the phoenix Apparated, reappearing inside the dimly lit Hog's Head pub in Hogsmeade. The air carried a faint scent of malt ale.
Dumbledore looked down at Fawkes, gently stroking its feathers. "There, there, little one. That didn't hurt, did it?"
Fawkes' eyes glistened with what looked like wounded pride, glaring at Moody, who shifted uncomfortably. Scratching his head, Moody muttered, "Er, Albus… I didn't mean to. Just lost my grip during the Apparition."
As he spoke, Fawkes flapped its wings and flew to the bar, where a burly man—Aberforth Dumbledore—emerged, wiping a clay mug. His brows were furrowed so tightly they could've crushed a fly.
Fawkes perched on his shoulder, shooting a disdainful glance at Dumbledore and Moody before vanishing in a burst of flame.
"What're you doing here?" Aberforth growled, slamming the mug onto the bar and glaring at his brother, clearly unimpressed by the unannounced visit.
Dumbledore smiled serenely, gesturing to Dylan. "Dylan here says your cooking's probably delicious. He insisted I bring him for dinner."
Dylan's eyes widened. Excuse me? When had he ever said that? He shot a glance at Moody, whose mouth hung slightly open, mirroring his own confusion.
Both were thinking the same thing: How can someone lie so shamelessly without even blinking?
But neither voiced it, swallowing their thoughts in silence.
Aberforth clearly didn't buy it either but said nothing, turning to the kitchen. Soon, he returned with three clay plates, setting them down heavily. The food looked dubious—charred bread mixed with unidentifiable greens, glistening with odd oil. It was not an appetizing sight.
Moody stared at his plate, fork and knife frozen mid-air, his expression screaming, Is this even edible?
"Eat it or don't," Aberforth snapped, his tone mocking. Likely tired of seeing his brother's face, he retreated to the kitchen.
Dumbledore, unfazed, speared a piece and popped it into his mouth, exaggerating a look of satisfaction. "Delicious, Alastor. Give it a try. And Dylan, didn't you say the food here would be amazing?"
Dylan grimaced but took a bite. Surprisingly, despite its appearance, the food was crispy outside, tender inside, with a subtle herbal aroma—far better than it looked.
Moody, skeptical, tried a bite. His eyes lit up. After losing blood earlier, he'd felt weak, but the warm food settled his stomach, restoring strength to his limbs. Before long, he'd cleared his plate.
Halfway through the meal, Dumbledore set down his fork and looked at Moody. "Alastor, I have a proposal. How would you like to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts?"
Moody froze, then pulled a palm-sized silver mirror from his pocket—a Foe-Glass. Its surface spun rapidly, glowing faintly, the intricate patterns along its edge blurring.
"You're up to something!" Moody said, pointing at the mirror, his tone wary. "Trying to throw me into the fire, eh?"
"Not at all," Dumbledore replied, his voice earnest. "Your experience fighting dark wizards isn't something you can learn from books—tracking, defending, turning the tables in desperate situations. You could teach the students so much, help them avoid mistakes, and train a new generation of capable wizards. It'd strengthen the Auror ranks and better protect the wizarding world. Isn't that what you've always wanted?"
"There's a dark wizard out there, nearly as dangerous as Voldemort. He's been quiet lately, but his followers are numerous and growing. My students need to grow stronger, fast—especially with Voldemort's potential return looming. The dangers are everywhere."
Dumbledore's words were clear, each one hitting exactly what mattered to Moody, his tone carrying a compelling conviction.
Dylan couldn't help but marvel inwardly. If Dumbledore were in ancient times, he could've persuaded a stubborn king to change national policy. As a debater, he'd have opponents conceding before they even spoke. He could convince anyone, no matter how difficult.
Moody's expression softened, clearly swayed. After a few seconds of silence, he said, "I've got to finish what I'm working on first. I'll dig into the Burkes—they're a family I know well. Half of them were sent to Azkaban by my own hand. If we can sort out this Horcrux business by the end of summer—either confirm it's destroyed or find and deal with it—I'll report to Hogwarts."
Dylan's gaze lingered on Moody's weathered face, each scar telling a story of past battles. A deep gash ran from his brow to his jaw, still faintly pink. Another scar on his cheek left his face slightly distorted, his eye drooping. This isn't just a former senior Auror, Dylan thought. This is Alastor Moody, with countless life-or-death fights carved into his very being. Every scar is a badge of honor against dark wizards.
Over the past few days, Hermione, Harry, and Ron had repeatedly invited Dylan to watch the Quidditch World Cup final. Hermione had even shown him an invitation with a golden Snitch design, while Harry and Ron raved about seeing Bulgaria's star Seeker.
But Dylan had other priorities. The final wasn't the right time for him to be at the stadium.
At that moment, he sat with Dumbledore and Moody in a corner of the Hog's Head, eating and talking. Meanwhile, the Quidditch World Cup final had officially begun.
In the top-tier box at the stadium, Hermione and her group sat on plush seats. Sirius Black leaned against the railing, his gaze casually sweeping the stands below.
Minister Fudge, dressed in a deep blue robe with a silver badge at the collar, sidled up to Sirius, trying to make conversation. "Mr. Black, fine weather today, isn't it? No wind—perfect for Quidditch, wouldn't you say?"
Sirius gave a curt nod, his eyes fixed on the pitch, offering no further response.
Fudge, rebuffed, touched his nose awkwardly, tugging at his robe's hem, his expression sour.
Just then, Lucius Malfoy approached, his pristine white silk robe adorned with the Malfoy crest on the cuffs. His hands were tucked into his pockets, his demeanor elegant yet distant.
Glancing at Sirius' retreating figure, Lucius turned to Fudge with a faint, mocking tone. "No need to take it personally, Minister. I suspect Mr. Black simply doesn't care for you. Some people fancy themselves above us 'ordinary folk,' don't they?"
Fudge let out a muffled grunt, barely containing his irritation, his face darkening further.
The tension in the box was palpable until Ludo Bagman, Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports, burst in. His bright red sports jacket was dusted with dirt from his rushed arrival, his blond hair damp with sweat, and he clutched a crumpled schedule.
"Sorry, sorry, I'm late!" he panted, his round face flushed with urgency. His eyes scanned the box, landing on Fudge. "Minister, everything's ready. Can we start?"
Fudge took a deep breath, pushing aside his earlier frustration. He forced a genial smile and waved a hand. "Your call, Ludo. Proceed as planned."
Ludo nodded, pulling his wand from his belt and pointing it at his throat. "Sonorus!"
His voice boomed, amplified several times over, echoing through the box and out into the packed stadium. The noisy crowd fell silent, all eyes turning to the top box.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" Ludo's voice thrummed with excitement. "Welcome to the 422nd Quidditch World Cup final!"
"Today, we'll witness a clash of titans: the Eastern powerhouse with the world's greatest Seeker, Bulgaria! And our homegrown, tactically brilliant Ireland!"
As "Bulgaria" and "Ireland" rang out, the stands erupted in deafening cheers. Bulgarian fans waved red banners emblazoned with their team's crest, chanting, "Bulgaria will win!" Irish supporters flourished green streamers, some singing traditional folk songs, their lively tunes mingling with shouts and cheers in a vibrant cacophony.
As the crowd's roar subsided slightly, Ludo spoke again, his voice still booming. "This Quidditch World Cup final is proudly sponsored by the wizarding world's rising star in potion-making, XY Potions!"
With his words, a massive blackboard in the center of the stadium lit up, displaying a vivid image. A silver cauldron bubbled with pale purple potion, glossy bubbles rising and bursting with faint white halos. The XY Potions logo appeared in the background, underscored by elegant, vine-decorated text that glowed under the lights:
"XY Potions: Committed to providing wizards with high-quality, life-enhancing potions you can trust!"
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