Chapter 347: The Triwizard Tournament—Voldemort?
In the next instant—like a single frame missing from a film—Alexander Smith appeared before the horn.
Invisible magic spread outward, weaving itself over the massive gray spiral horn like a delicate spiderweb.
Just as he expected.
A terrifying magical force slumbered inside it—enough to obliterate the entire house in a single explosion.
Fortunately, the explosive venom contained within the horn had nearly dried up.
The power itself hadn't weakened, but it no longer possessed the volatility to detonate at the slightest disturbance.
Otherwise, Xenophilius Lovegood would have joined his wife long before Alexander ever found this place.
And one day, in some quiet Hogwarts classroom, Luna would have been gently called aside and told the news that would shatter her world.
Buzz.
The sound was faint—easily swallowed by the cluttered room that served as both living room and workshop.
Yet it marked something crucial.
The horn's explosive potential was being dismantled.
From the outside—and even within—it looked no different from before. But under Alexander's near-nano-level magical control, the violent, volcanic power at its core was almost entirely erased.
Now, even if Luna forgot his warning or dismissed it entirely, the horn would cause nothing more than embarrassment at worst.
That was enough.
Thinking of a dust-covered, unharmed Luna, Alexander couldn't help the faint smile that curved his lips.
He took a slow breath and surveyed the room—the true "living room" in Luna's sense.
The place gave him a powerful sense of déjà vu.
It reminded him of the Room of Requirement when transformed into a hidden refuge—equally chaotic, just far smaller, perfectly circular, and even more densely packed.
Every surface was buried beneath books and loose parchment.
From the ceiling hung exquisitely crafted models of magical creatures—beasts absent from Newt Scamander's Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them. Among them was the so-called Crumple-Horned Snorkack, wings flapping, jaws snapping softly.
The rhythmic clatter came from a strange printing machine.
As expected, it was almost certainly Xenophilius Lovegood's own invention.
Entirely wooden. Powered by gears that blatantly violated known magical and Muggle engineering principles. Noisy, whimsical, and overflowing with magic.
Xenophilius himself stood before it, carefully inspecting each freshly printed copy of The Quibbler as it emerged.
Seeing Luna's father in person, Alexander finally understood where Luna's perpetual dishevelment came from.
Xenophilius Lovegood was, objectively speaking, a handsome wizard.
He wasn't bald like Arthur Weasley, nor did he possess the refined stiffness—or the faintly growing belly—of Lucius Malfoy.
Yet, much like Luna, his appearance made it impossible to focus on anything else.
His long, cotton-white hair mirrored Luna's—tangled, unwashed, and wild. He was barefoot, wrapped in a stained robe that looked suspiciously like sleepwear.
Perhaps he was usually more presentable. Perhaps not.
With his daughter away at school and his wife long gone, there was no one left to remind him otherwise.
In wizarding society, his attire likely qualified as outright eccentric.
Alexander sighed.
He extended his pale, translucent fingers.
A single drop of pearly, transparent liquid—something like blood, yet not—rose from his fingertip and drifted forward, settling gently between Xenophilius's brows.
"Hiss… What's wrong with me today?"
Xenophilius blinked, then suddenly brightened.
"I've got a wonderful idea—this report needs revising. Yes… much more interesting this way."
He snatched a fresh piece of parchment from beneath a mountain of papers and began writing furiously.
This was Alexander's true purpose.
That droplet was a modified anchor—derived from the same principle Harry once absorbed, imbued with Alexander's magical characteristics.
First, it ensured Xenophilius's safety. With his newfound wealth and fondness for bizarre artifacts, it was only a matter of time before he bought something as dangerous as another Erumpent horn.
Second, it safeguarded Luna's future.
The Quibbler had gained notoriety, but its content remained largely absurd—amusing, yes, but unstable. Subscriptions had already begun to dip.
The revised anchor carried an additional effect: stimulating inspiration.
From now on, Xenophilius's writing would only improve.
And Luna would never have to grow up in poverty.
"Tch… and she still refuses to spend his money."
Alexander smacked his lips lightly, then vanished without a trace.
Meanwhile, the lights in the Hogwarts Headmaster's Office still burned late into the night.
Owls came and went in steady succession, delivering letters and carrying replies.
Yet Albus Dumbledore, seated at the long table, showed no sign of fatigue.
For the first time in his life—
He felt alive.
The British wizarding world shifted and turned according to the letters flowing from his pen.
One by one, the ugly habits hidden within the ivory tower were dragged into the light and corrected.
False judgments were overturned. Old injustices erased.
Wizards stopped stagnating and began studying Muggle ideas—fusing them with magic.
A new cinema had even appeared in Diagon Alley, courtesy of Skywalker Alchemy Workshop.
Dumbledore had visited it personally.
The décor closely resembled a Muggle movie theater—yet at the same time, it reminded him unsettlingly of Tom Riddle's old Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom.
The films weren't mere enchanted projections.
They functioned more like a Pensieve—pulling the viewer directly into the memory, creating a fully immersive experience.
There were… drawbacks.
Some scenes were far too realistic.
Dumbledore distinctly remembered wishing his sense of smell were weaker that day.
After that particular scene, he'd caught the unmistakable scent of heather drifting from the seat beside him.
If only he hadn't recognized the wizard sitting there.
At his age—and with his memory—he knew nearly ninety percent of Britain's magical population.
Seeing former model students blushing furiously in the dark was… deeply unsettling for a man over a century old.
"Hm… the Triwizard Tournament?"
"Igor Karkaroff plans to restart it next year?"
"And Beauxbatons will participate as well…"
Dumbledore's quill paused.
"Next year… He's a Death Eater."
"Will Tom change his target?"
"Does he intend to resurrect himself using Harry's body tissue?"
Dumbledore narrowed his eyes and calmly penned his agreement.
It was entirely possible.
Hair, blood, nails—Harry's body was not difficult to access if Tom controlled someone close to him.
And then—
There was the Elder Wand.
Dumbledore's hand rested on the greenish wand placed prominently upon the desk.
The Deathstick.
The Elder Wand.
The most dangerous guide of them all.
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