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[HP] Chapter 148-150
🕑 Added 2025-09-02 14:30:06 +0000 UTC### [HP] 148: Dumbledore Calls on His Connections
“Who are you?”
Dumbledore asked in a low, steady voice.
It wasn’t that he liked wasting words—only that the Headmaster’s office was too cramped for a proper duel. One wrong move and the unconscious Harry Potter or Fawkes could be gravely injured.
“Me? Surely you’ve heard of me, Professor Dumbledore. My name is Dio Brando.”
Louis struck a flamboyant JoJo-style pose as he introduced himself.
Dio Brando?
Dumbledore’s pupils constricted sharply.
This man was one of the members of that bizarre organization—and not a low-ranking one either.
But why on earth was he making such a ridiculous pose? What was wrong with him?
Dumbledore gripped the Elder Wand, his gaze flicking every so often toward Harry, still slumped over the desk.
Louis glanced at the wand in Dumbledore’s hand and smiled. “Professor Dumbledore, are you thinking of making a move against me?”
He caught the look in the old wizard’s eyes and smirked. “But it seems today isn’t convenient. Perhaps another time—we’ll have the chance to cross wands.”
The moment his words faded, gentle phoenix fire wrapped around his body. In the blink of an eye, he vanished, consumed as if by his own flames.
Dumbledore didn’t strike to stop him. Dio Brando was an even trickier opponent than Voldemort, and with Harry and Fawkes both here, he couldn’t risk a reckless attack. He could only let the intruder go.
When the uninvited guest had gone, Dumbledore hurried to Harry’s side.
Harry still slept soundly, without the slightest sign of pain—the phoenix tears had completely healed his injuries.
He would need rest, of course, and Dumbledore would have to send him to Madam Pomfrey shortly.
But Fawkes was another matter.
Dumbledore cradled the phoenix, who lay limp on the floor, too weak to rise. Its body felt cold, as if it were at death’s door.
A phoenix could not truly die, but only if it could be reborn in flame. Fawkes’s fire, however, had been drained by more than half. Dumbledore had no idea what this would mean.
There was no precedent for this. The Dumbledore family had been bound to phoenixes by contract for generations, and never had anyone succeeded in stealing a phoenix’s flame. It was more inconceivable than killing one outright.
The thought made Dumbledore’s fear of Dio Brando deepen. A man who could not only devour fire but wield it instantly…
“Practically the incarnation of flame itself…” Dumbledore muttered under his breath.
Suddenly, his face was lit by a soft red glow. Weak as it was, Fawkes’s body began to smolder. Its dim feathers sloughed away, crumbling into ash.
With a mournful cry, the phoenix’s body collapsed into the gray dust, vanishing beneath it until nothing remained but a small heap of ashes.
Fawkes had entered rebirth—half a year ahead of time.
Dumbledore stared tensely at the ashes, praying to see a newborn phoenix rise.
But time crawled by, and the ashes lay still.
His beard trembled as he stared without blinking, terrified of missing the miracle of rebirth.
At last, a faint cry emerged from within. Dumbledore, fluent in the phoenix tongue, recognized it instantly—it was a call for help.
A look of joy burst across his face as he dug into the ashes, pulling free a bedraggled, featherless chick of a Fawkes.
But this rebirth was clearly flawed—the newborn phoenix was half the size it should have been.
Still, the very fact that Fawkes could be reborn was a good sign—it meant there was hope for recovery.
But Dumbledore’s joy was quickly overshadowed by the gloom settling on his face.
He placed Fawkes gently back onto the perch of the sycamore branch, then sat at his desk and began to write letters.
He needed to gather intelligence on the group calling itself United Villains of the World, One Big Family.
Dumbledore had many friends. Nearly two centuries of life had allowed him to form bonds with gifted individuals all across the globe.
Some of them specialized in collecting intelligence, others controlled networks through which such information flowed. Perhaps they could give him answers.
And yet, when he wrote down the name of that organization, even Dumbledore himself couldn’t help but feel speechless.
“I just hope they won’t think I’m joking with them,” he muttered helplessly, shaking his head as he sealed the letters.
To be honest, the name alone made the whole thing sound like a farce. If he hadn’t seen with his own eyes the power of two members, heard Quirrell’s testimony, and watched Voldemort’s shaken response, he wouldn’t have believed it.
But the facts were undeniable. Such a terrible group did exist—and under this ridiculous name, they had already stirred chaos within Hogwarts.
They had nearly killed Fawkes… and had stolen the Philosopher’s Stone!
Dumbledore was already certain the Stone had been taken by them. What he did not know was whether they intended to use it to resurrect Voldemort.
“They shouldn’t… according to what was said, Voldemort is only their candidate under assessment, not a true member. Surely the Elixir of Life wouldn’t be granted to one under examination.”
That was his reasoning—but speculation was never certain.
To place hope in the intentions of others was foolish. Thus, in his letters, Dumbledore discreetly hinted that Voldemort’s return might be imminent.
But compared to that organization, Voldemort’s revival no longer seemed the greater threat.
“Fawkes…” Dumbledore called out instinctively, wishing to summon his most reliable messenger. But when he heard Fawkes’s confused, weak chirp, he remembered.
“Sigh… Fawkes can’t deliver letters for now. That makes the authenticity of these letters… somewhat questionable.” He sighed with helplessness.
Phoenix-delivered letters were Dumbledore’s privilege and hallmark. Except during the brief window of rebirth, a phoenix was always his most loyal courier.
But now Fawkes was incapable.
So Dumbledore reluctantly opened the envelopes again, adding the distinctive magical traits that marked them as his personal letters.
It was the customary method to be used during a phoenix’s rebirth.
He placed the letters neatly in the corner of his desk, where a house-elf would later retrieve them and send them off.
Among them lay one letter of apology, written with sincere remorse, addressed to Nicolas Flamel—Dumbledore’s old friend and mentor.
He had lost his good friend’s Philosopher’s Stone, even though Flamel had not intended to reclaim it in the first place.
Hopefully, Nicolas and Perenelle had enough Elixir of Life stored away.
The normal letters were finished, but Dumbledore still felt it wasn’t enough.
After hesitating for a long while, he took up his quill again and began a new letter.
This one did not flow easily. He scratched out words, rewrote, crossed out phrases, agonized over the tone.
It had been ages since he’d felt so conflicted—just as it had been ages since he had last seen the man to whom this letter was addressed.
He had once thought their lives would never again intertwine. But the emergence of that mysterious organization left him no choice.
Because when it came to dealing with villains… perhaps no one in this world was more suited.
At last, a letter was completed—meticulously worded, stripped of all emotion. Dumbledore sealed it into an envelope, and on the front he wrote the recipient’s name:
Gellert Grindelwald.
---
### [HP] 149: Schemes and Consolation
“His goal may have been Fawkes from the very beginning. Helping Voldemort was likely just a smokescreen.”
Inside the Headmaster’s office, Dumbledore was explaining the events to Snape and McGonagall, who had demanded answers.
With all the students evacuated, it was clearly no trivial matter, and Dumbledore had a duty to account for what had happened.
“In the end, Voldemort fled. The Philosopher’s Stone is still in his possession. And now that man has absorbed phoenix fire, which he can call upon at will.”
Professor McGonagall’s eyes flashed with astonishment. “What kind of monster is he?”
“That, we do not yet know. It is unlike any magic…” Dumbledore shook his head helplessly. “Dio Brando—this man seems to have appeared out of nowhere.”
Snape said nothing, but his eyes burned with hatred.
Because Dio Brando was allied with the woman who had nearly gotten him mauled by the three-headed dog.
He bore that grudge against all of them.
“How are the students, Minerva?” Dumbledore asked.
“They’re unharmed. But what should be done about young Weasley and Mr. Longbottom?” McGonagall’s face darkened. “To sneak into such a dangerous place…”
“No, no, don’t blame them, Minerva,” Dumbledore said gently. “We share responsibility for this. Whatever the risk, their intentions were good. I believe they deserve a reward.”
“A reward?” McGonagall blinked in surprise, while Snape’s face twitched visibly at the word.
He had only just managed to bring Gryffindor’s House points under control, and now Slytherin was only fifty points ahead. With one Quidditch match left, Gryffindor could easily claim another fifty. It seemed encouragement was coming for those reckless brats.
If Felix Felicis weren’t so expensive, Snape might have been tempted to cheat.
“We’ll decide on the specifics later. For now, I must see our little hero.” Dumbledore rose. “Though he did not succeed, his courage deserves recognition.”
Snape’s expression shifted strangely—fear, disbelief, and a sudden glimmer of realization.
“Albus… it was you…!”
He meant to say more, but Dumbledore cut him off.
“Severus,” Dumbledore said softly. “It was necessary.”
“Even a fledgling dragon must learn to fly.”
…………
In the hospital wing, Harry stirred awake from his dreams. Blinking blearily, the first thing he saw was Louis sitting by his bedside.
Louis looked at him and smiled.
“You’re awake. Congratulations—henceforth you’re a girl. Better change your name to Harriet.”
Harry jolted in shock, springing upright and immediately patting himself down below.
Thankfully, everything was still intact.
“Just kidding,” Louis said with a grin. “Here, I brought you a gift.”
It was a small wooden carving of a monkey. But unlike an ordinary toy, this one seemed oddly alive, as if it might transform at any moment.
And indeed, it did.
Harry watched with wide eyes as the carved monkey suddenly shifted, becoming a wide-winged eagle.
“Something I made while practicing,” Louis explained. “It transforms automatically every thirty seconds. Not particularly useful—but it looks fun.”
He set the little trinket—essentially a Black Qi-crafted magical device—on the bedside cabinet beside Harry’s bed.
The table beside Harry’s bed was piled high with gifts—get-well presents from all the friends who had come to see him.
Looking at them, Harry couldn’t help but smile. He really liked this feeling of being cared for.
And most of all, he liked the little toy Louis had given him—the way it transformed was endlessly fascinating.
“Right—what about Quirrell? And Voldemort… and Dio Brando!” Harry suddenly pulled himself from the distraction of the gifts and asked urgently.
He still remembered that Dio Brando had taken the Philosopher’s Stone, and Voldemort had been inhabiting Quirrell’s body.
Louis raised an eyebrow, his expression unreadable. “Those people you’re talking about—I don’t know anything. I think most students don’t. If you’re curious, you’d best ask Headmaster Dumbledore or Professor McGonagall.”
“Oh—sorry…” Harry quickly apologized, worried he had troubled Louis with his questions.
“No matter,” Louis said as he stood up. “I should be going. But as your friend, I’ll give you one piece of advice.”
“What is it?” Harry asked.
“Next time—don’t be reckless.” With that, Louis tipped his ever-present top hat and turned to leave the hospital wing.
Truth be told, Harry’s sudden charge to grab the Dark Lord’s sword had genuinely startled Louis. What on earth had the boy been thinking? In that moment, shouldn’t he have run for his life? Instead, he had stayed put, waiting like a fool for the “plot” to play out in a boss fight.
Harry didn’t realize Louis was talking about the sword incident. He assumed Louis meant sneaking through the professors’ obstacles.
“I will. Next time, I’ll be careful,” Harry said earnestly.
Already at the door, Louis rolled his eyes.
Harry Potter promising not to stir up trouble? What a joke.
He didn’t believe it for a second.
Still, he waved a hand behind his back, signaling he’d heard.
At the hospital wing entrance, Louis ran into Dumbledore.
“Mr. Wilson, you’ve just finished visiting Harry?” Dumbledore asked.
“That’s right. Harry’s in good shape. It won’t be long before he’s back on his feet. With luck, he might even make it to the Quidditch final,” Louis replied.
“That’s good to hear.” Dumbledore’s eyes met his—and this time, Louis didn’t look away.
“Do you know what happened in the school that night?” Dumbledore asked, testing him.
“What happened? I’d think the Headmaster knows better than me,” Louis answered lightly.
Dumbledore didn’t press his evasiveness, instead asking, “And what do you think those people are?”
“Headmaster Dumbledore, are you asking me to divine the future?” Louis replied with an open smile, making no attempt to hide his talent.
“You could put it that way,” Dumbledore nodded.
“Then let’s wait until third year. Once I’ve studied Divination, perhaps I’ll have something worthwhile.”
Louis removed his hat, bowing politely. “Goodbye, Headmaster Dumbledore.”
With that, he strode away with a flourish.
Dumbledore watched his retreating figure, lost in thought.
“He seems to have changed greatly again. Is this… the gift of Merlin’s bloodline?”
But no matter how he pondered, no clear answer came. With a sigh, Dumbledore shook his head, pushed open the door, and entered the hospital wing.
“Harry…”
The time had come to offer the Savior comfort, guidance, and a few answers.
---
### [HP] 150: Settlement of Gains
[Your multi-line maneuver successfully fooled both adult and underage wizards.]
[Trivial deception.]
[You gained Fraud Points: 60,800. Current Points: 170,900.]
Louis returned to the dormitory, lay on his bed, and watched as the system settled his gains at the end of this school year.
The first was the simplest—using a double to stand in for him during the student headcount, avoiding suspicion.
A very common “clone trick,” but with the power of the Stand, it became flawless—virtually indistinguishable from reality.
Of course, that was only the appetizer. The real rewards came after.
Louis’s gaze slid down to the summary of profits earned from fabricating the United Villains of the World, One Big Family hoax.
[Your fabricated organization has thrown the legendary wizard Albus Dumbledore into grave concern.]
[Memorable deception.]
[You gained Fraud Points: 7,000. Legendary Draw ×1.]
[Current Points: 177,900.]
[Your fabricated organization has made the adult wizard Minerva McGonagall deeply anxious.]
[You gained Fraud Points: 3,000. ]
[You obtained Perfect-Grade Deception Item: Polymorph Candy ×10.]
[Your fabricated organization has earned the hatred of the adult wizard Severus Snape.]
[You gained Fraud Points: 3,500.]
[You obtained Perfect Item: Bottle of Mood-Shift Potion ×1.]
[Current Fraud Points: 184,400.]
This time, the system had not only given him point rewards and a Legendary Draw, but also two Perfect-grade items.
If not for the reminder from the items, Louis might have forgotten that this was supposed to be a Trickster System, not just a lottery system.
Relying entirely on draws was a bit much.
Louis stretched out his hand, and a cloth pouch containing ten jellybeans, along with a seemingly ordinary potion vial, appeared in his palm.
[Polymorph Candy: For ten minutes after consumption, the user may transform into any magical creature and wield all of that creature’s abilities.]
The Polymorph Candy was essentially a temporary version of Animagus Transfiguration, but even stronger—it allowed transformation into magical creatures of any kind.
If he became a phoenix, or a fire dragon, he could accomplish a great deal in just those ten minutes.
“But this is pretty much useless to me.” Louis turned the pouch over in his hand and sighed.
Not because the item itself wasn’t powerful, but because with the legendary Twelve Talismans’ powers combined with Shendu’s essence, Louis already wielded perfection.
Every aspect of magic and ability was covered by the Talismans—there was hardly any room left for outside forces to shine.
“Unless… I used it to conceal my true power or hide my identity… Wait.” Louis rubbed his chin. “This candy could make my dragon transformation look perfectly reasonable.”
After all, no one knew exactly what knowledge Merlin’s bloodline carried. Having power imprinted in one’s blood was normal enough—like Parseltongue in Salazar Slytherin’s line. So if the Merlin line carried a unique potion recipe? Entirely plausible.
“As long as I can analyze its formula… this candy could even be made into a simplified version and sold commercially.”
Louis carefully stowed away the candy, planning to study it later.
The other item—the Bottle of Mood-Shift Potion—was even more impressive.
[Bottle of Mood-Shift Potion: Can generate any registered potion. Just put in the materials and it will instantly produce the corresponding potion, with a 100% success rate and no waiting required.]
A truly practical tool.
The most troublesome thing about potion-brewing was always the time it took.
Any potion worth its salt, any of the truly powerful ones, usually needed at least ten days to half a month of simmering. The worst offenders—like Baruffio’s Brain Elixir or Felix Felicis—took three full months to brew, with success rates so abysmally low that one careless mistake could leave you with a deadly poison instead.
Some potions could indeed be forced through with Black Qi methods, but their effects were uncertain, and the brewing time just as long.
Every year, wizarding hospitals—especially St. Mungo’s—received a fresh batch of overconfident witches and wizards who had poisoned themselves on their own brews.
Confidence or not, poison was still poison, and self-confidence didn’t grant immunity.
So, a vial that could produce finished potions instantly—no preparation, no waiting, just toss in the raw ingredients—wasn’t just impressive, it was every wizard’s dream and every potioneer’s nightmare.
Definitely worth keeping. Later, he could collect some materials and brew up Felix Felicis just for fun.
Louis tucked the potion bottle away with satisfaction and checked his results again.
[You prevented the Philosopher’s Stone from being destroyed, and secured its eternal existence within your body.]
[You gained Fate Points: 20.]
This was Louis’s most important gain—the Fate Points.
Though in this year-end grand finale he had neither saved the doomed nor resurrected the dead, he had acquired the Philosopher’s Stone itself!
“Fate Points… ten for a lottery, one hundred for a Fate Grafting…” Louis hesitated. Should he spend them now, or save up for a full Fate Graft later?
“For the moment, it doesn’t feel like I need anything desperately. Maybe I should save them.”
Still, the thought left him restless. The last Fate Draw had given him the Eye of Fate Observation—a priceless tool. He might not urgently need more powerful items, but curiosity clawed at him like a cat’s paw.
… … …
What would the next draw reveal?
After thinking it through, Louis made his decision. “I’ll spend half on the lottery, and save half.”
“System, initiate Fate Draw.”
[Fate Lottery Initiated]
With the system’s prompt, Louis once again saw endless translucent threads unfurl before his eyes.
The first time, he hadn’t realized it—but now he knew. These threads were the tethers of destiny, strings that bound and manipulated the fates of those they touched.
They looked a little like the strings of a marionette, but their mechanism and purpose were far from so crude. This was merely how the system presented them, in terms Louis could comprehend.
The sound of a wheel spinning filled the air. The vision twisted, and a card dropped into Louis’s hand.
A card? Something like a tarot card?
Intrigued, Louis studied it carefully—and saw the two words inscribed upon it.
[Illness]
[Three Days]
The moment he read them, an ominous feeling welled up inside him.
The card dissolved into a streak of light and shot into his forehead. In the next instant, Louis felt dizzy. His brow grew hot, his nose clogged as though stuffed with cotton.
He was sick—because of the lottery prize!
No—prize wasn’t the word. It was a curse.
Louis sneezed violently. In his mind, a phrase surfaced:
[Fate Is Unpredictable].
---
