157Prologue
26th of July, 1991
?
Romain groaned and ran a hand over his bare chest. He sighed with relief. No one had taken a shit on his chest. Don't judge him—his best friend, a rugby player named Artus, had a seriously twisted idea of what counted as an acceptable prank to do when Romain passed out like a wreck on the floor during a party. He groaned again. Fuck! His back hurt! Kind of pathetic for a twenty-five-year-old, fairly athletic guy to be waking up with old man problems. He was only 109 years old and...
Wait...
Something was off...
He jolted awake, springing out of bed in a pose that looked like the Limbo, sending the blankets flying to the other side of the room with the speed of a political opponent fleeing the country after seeing the results of a rigged elections in a dictatorship.
"Watch out! I know kung fu!" he shouted, not really knowing who he was yelling at—and without mentioning that he had only taken one trial class, once, when he was six years old. A trial class he hadn't finished, since he had passed out like a wimp in the middle of it because he hadn't had breakfast that morning.
He looked around. This was definitely not his bedroom. Rich, burgundy wallpaper smothered the walls, with gold leaf patterns so over-the-top they almost gave him a headache. Heavy velvet drapes hung over tall, arched windows, letting in just enough light to make everything seem like a magician's lair. A massive four-poster bed, carved with all sorts of mythical creatures, took up most of the space. The canopy was draped in emerald green silk, looking so luxurious he felt like he'd wandered into a posh historical drama.
As his eyes adjusted, he noticed a bunch of weird artifacts scattered around. An antique mahogany dresser held a crystal ball that seemed to be whispering secrets like a gossipy neighbor, a tarnished silver mirror that rippled like it was made of water, and a brass astrolabe spinning around, mapping out constellations he'd never even heard of. Shelves lined the walls, crammed with dusty, leather-bound books covered in glowing runes that cast an eerie light and looked like they might bite if you got too close.
In the corner, a gilded birdcage held a phoenix preening its fiery feathers, casually sending sparks into the air like it was no big deal. By the fireplace, which burned with blue and green flames because why not, a bunch of alchemical contraptions bubbled and steamed. Glass beakers full of swirling liquids sat on a brass setup that hissed and clicked like it had a mind of its own, brewing up potions without any supervision. The place smelled like a mix of exotic spices and ancient books, making Romain feel both oddly energized and totally confused. He half-expected a wizard to pop out and offer him a quest or something.
He stumbled forward, drawn to a massive, gilded mirror that practically screamed "Look at me!" As he got closer, he saw the reflection of an old man staring back at him. Not just any old man, but a completely naked one, except for a ridiculously oversized nightcap perched jauntily on his head. The skin sagged like a deflated balloon, with wrinkles so deep you could lose a penny in them. His eyes widened, taking in the sagging pouches under his eyes, the drooping jowls, and the creaky joints that seemed to pop just from standing there.
"What the hell?" he muttered, poking his reflection, half-expecting it to yell back. The old man's chest looked like a map of the Grand Canyon, with deep valleys and folds that defied logic. His belly hung low, like a sack of potatoes barely holding on to his skeletal frame. The whole scene was so absurd that Romain couldn't help but snort in disbelief.
Then it hit him. That nightcap... the long, flowing white beard... He leaned in closer, squinting. Holy shit. Albus Dumbledore. He blinked hard, hoping the image would change, but nope. The legendary wizard stood there in all his naked, wrinkled glory, looking like he'd just rolled out of bed in the worst way possible.
"Dumbledore? Really?" he said, shaking his head. "This has got to be some kind of joke." He tugged at the nightcap, hoping it would magically transform him back, but it just flopped comically over one eye, making him look even more ridiculous.
The phoenix looked at him and trilled, pointing with a wing towards a fountain. Well, not a fountain—a Pensieve, he realized. He tumbled towards it, nearly tripping over his own absurdly long beard. His mind raced with a singular, pressing concern: how the hell was he supposed to keep banging hot chicks if he was stuck as this wrinkly old man?
Stumbling to the Pensieve, he peered into the swirling silvery contents. "Alright, here goes nothing," he muttered, hoping for a miracle. He plunged his face into the liquid, feeling an odd tug as he was pulled into a memory. Romain plunged his face into the liquid, feeling an odd tug as he was pulled into a memory. When the swirling stopped, he found himself back in the same extravagant room, Dumbledore's room. In front of him stood Albus Dumbledore, staring intently at his reflection in the gilded mirror.
The Dumbledore in the Pensieve began to speak aloud. "Ah, this is where it all started," he said, his voice filled with a mix of nostalgia and regret. "My younger self, heed my words."
Romain's thoughts whirled around like a hamster on a caffeine high. Why was he back here? And why was this old wizard always naked? Did Dumbledore think clothes were optional now? That beard probably had its own zip code. Maybe he had snacks hidden in there for later. Perfect for a mid-speech granola bar.
The Dumbledore in the Pensieve turned to address Romain directly, though his eyes were still locked on the mirror. "As you know, younger me, I have many regrets. Lives lost, opportunities missed, friendships destroyed by pride and stubbornness."
Great, an old wizard with a guilt complex. Fantastic. And he had to be naked while delivering this heartfelt monologue?
"For over five years," continued the older Dumbledore, "I worked on a complex ritual. One that would allow me to send my soul back to a pivotal moment in my past. This is that moment. I needed to confront myself, to explain the path I chose and why it needs to change."
A time-traveling soul swap? This guy's really gone off the deep end. And this guy belly…It was like Yoda decided to do a TED Talk in the buff.
Dumbledore turned to face Romain, his eyes filled with a mix of sorrow and hope. "Yes, exactly. And now, you have the chance to alter the course of events. To prevent the tragedies that have haunted us for so long."
But then, Dumbledore continued, "However, there was a…necessary consequence of this ritual. This is why, younger me, I had to take some years of your life and send it to my - your, now - old body".
The older Dumbledore nodded solemnly, understanding the confusion and dismay in Romain's eyes. "Yes, it is a grave action, one I deeply pondered. But it was the only way. You must become the Dumbledore that this world needs - or maybe the multiverse theory is wrong, and my changing of the past means this memory will never be visioned because it won't be created."
Romain couldn't help but laugh, a mix of disbelief and irony. So, this guy had somehow botched up the ritual that was supposed to send his soul back a few decades…and to let his younger him land in this old, fucked-up body? And he made a fucking mistake - Romain definitely wasn't younger Dumbledore. Yeah, right. Step one: find some clothes. Step two: figure out how to use magic without blowing himself up. Step three: try not to ruin the entire wizarding world. Piece of cake. And there was Voldemort running around, a fucking basilique or some other type of snake herb in the castle…
The older Dumbledore continued explaining to who he thought was his younger self, "I apologize for 'kidnapping' you and forcefully putting you in the future. But I wanted to go back to the past, and soul-switching was the only way."
Romain averted his eyes, not wanting to look the naked old wizard in the eyes... or worse, in the nether regions. As he looked around, something caught his eye. A strange little statuette, a small, smiling man with a plump belly, holding a goblet of wine in one hand and a bunch of grapes in the other. The figure was adorned with vine leaves and seemed to be in a perpetual state of mirth.
"But," Dumbledore added, "I did not leave my younger self alone. I created a runic body-bound memory storage. Gradually, over the next two weeks, you will regain all your memories, from a third-person perspective, and also all my knowledge and experience."
Romain's thoughts flickered back to the little statuette. Maybe this was some sort of magical insurance policy. Or maybe it was just Dumbledore's idea of a joke. Either way, it didn't look like it was going to be much help.
The older Dumbledore wished his younger self good luck, and Romain felt himself being yanked out of the Pensieve. Great, back to reality, he thought. Time to save the wizarding world while trying not to die of embarrassment.
26th of July, 1991
Hogwarts
Professor Minerva McGonagall walked briskly through the echoing corridors of Hogwarts Castle, her stern features drawn with concern. It was the 26th of July, 1991, and Harry Potter had yet to respond to his first Hogwarts letter, which had been sent three days ago, and followed by two - then three others. The weight of this silence bore heavily on her mind, gnawing at her usually unshakable composure.
The ancient stones of the castle seemed to sense her urgency, the flickering torchlight casting anxious shadows as she approached the gargoyle guarding the entrance to Dumbledore's office. With a quick glance around, she whispered the password, "Gummy Snitches," and the stone guardian sprang to life, rotating to reveal the staircase behind.
Ascending the spiral stairs, McGonagall felt a chill of foreboding. She reached the top and stopped abruptly. Dumbledore's office, usually a haven of organized chaos, now resembled a battlefield of knowledge. Books lay strewn across the floor, parchments scattered in disarray. In the midst of this chaotic scene stood Albus Dumbledore, looking utterly unlike himself.
She did a double take. There, in the center of the disorder, was Dumbledore, clad in a hideous yellow bathrobe that clashed violently with his long silver beard. He turned to her with an almost comical nonchalance and greeted her with a casual, "Yo, Minerva."
McGonagall blinked, her mind struggling to process the sight before her. "Albus," she began cautiously, "are you... okay?"
Dumbledore, seemingly unfazed, ambled over to his desk and sank into the high-backed chair, his bathrobe splaying out like a grotesque sunflower. "What's up?" he asked, his tone light but his eyes twinkling with the familiar spark of mischief.
McGonagall hesitated, her instincts on high alert. This was bizarre, even for Dumbledore. Her hand discreetly slipped into her robe pocket, fingers curling around her wand. "Albus, are you sure you're all right?"
Dumbledore mumbled something unintelligible under his beard, then met her gaze. He leaned forward slightly and uttered the ridiculous ten-word password they had agreed upon for situations where she could have doubt on his identity: "Toffee Toads Tapdance Tirelessly Till Tea Time's Tingly Twilight."
McGonagall sighed in relief, her fingers slipping away from her wand. The tension that had been coiled tightly within her began to unravel, albeit cautiously. Dumbledore's eccentric password had confirmed his identity, but the disarray around him and his disheveled appearance still troubled her deeply.
Dumbledore stood up, his bathrobe fluttering open just enough to reveal a troubling lack of undergarments. Minerva's eyes widened in horror. "What the hell, Albus?" she swore, uncharacteristically losing her composure.
With an almost whimsical disregard for her shock, Dumbledore uncorked a bottle of cola. Who the hell still had bottles of cola with corks? He downed it in one gulp. Minerva would never admit it, but she found it impressive and almost wanted to clap.
He then sat down, and his eyes took on a serious aspect, a sharp contrast to his previous antics. McGonagall tensed, sensing the shift in mood.
"Minerva," he began, his voice adopting a grave timbre, "the times are dire. I have gathered indications that Voldemort may be back."
Her breath hitched, but she stayed silent, her mind racing.
"I embarked on a complex alchemical process, altering the chemistry of my brain," Dumbledore continued. Minerva's face paled. He should know better! Her mouth opened to scold him, but he stopped her with a gesture of his hand, his gaze commanding her silence.
"The procedure has left my thoughts and memory a bit confused," he admitted, his voice carrying the weight of his actions. "This state will persist for a month or so. But once the effects subside, I will be even more brilliant, more equipped to tackle the challenges ahead."
Then, with a sudden, mischievous grin, he shattered the solemnity of the moment. "Look! I can even do this!" He attempted a flip, his long limbs flailing awkwardly. The outcome was inevitable—he crashed to the floor in a spectacularly undignified heap, his bathrobe flipping up to reveal far too much leg. "Fucking floor!" he muttered, glaring at the stone tiles as if they had personally offended him.
Minerva's hand flew to her mouth, stifling a laugh. "Albus, what in Merlin's name are you doing?"
Still on the floor, he looked up at her with a sheepish grin. "Thought I'd try to bring some levity to the situation. Clearly, the floor had other plans."
As he clambered to his feet, his bathrobe flapping open precariously, he added, "So, why did you come, Minerva? Surely not just to witness my acrobatic prowess?"
McGonagall, still trying to suppress her amusement, straightened herself. "Albus, I'm worried. We haven't received any response from Harry Potter. It's been three days since the first letter, and subsequent letters have also gone unanswered."
Dumbledore's expression changed, a glint of concern mingled with something that made Minerva uneasy. She didn't like the look in his eyes. "Then," he said, his voice tinged with resolve, "I'll go and have a look. Personally."
"Albus," Minerva began, her voice laced with apprehension, "is that wise, given your current condition?"
He waved off her concern with a grand flourish, his bathrobe once again threatening to expose more than it should. "I'll be fine, Minerva. Harry's safety is paramount. Besides, a little field trip might clear the cobwebs."
She watched him, still skeptical. "And what if someone sees you like this?"
Dumbledore struck a pose, one hand on his hip, the other dramatically pointed skyward. "Then they'll see the most magnificent headmaster Hogwarts has ever had! In all his glory!"
Minerva sighed . "Just... be careful, Albus."
He grinned, the warmth in his eyes mixed with a hint of mischief. "Careful is my middle name. Albus 'Careful' Dumbledore."
"Really? Because I thought it was 'Percival'," Minerva retorted dryly.
"Details, details, it's fucking long enough for people not to remember it" he said with a wink. He grabbed a ridiculous, oversized hat from a nearby hook, plopped it on his head, and struck out towards the door with a swagger that belied his disheveled appearance. "To adventure, Minerva!"
She facepalmed - he had taken the wrong direction.
"Albus…", she started.
"I know, I know. I'll go tomorrow…I have stuff to do before."