The stone gargoyle guarding the entrance to the Headmaster's office sprang aside at the utterance of the password, revealing the spiral staircase that led to the circular room atop the tower. Sunlight streamed through tall windows, illuminating the myriad of curious instruments that whirred softly on polished tables. Portraits of previous headmasters and headmistresses dozed in their frames, occasionally stirring to observe the living occupants.
Professor McGonagall stepped into the office, her emerald robes swishing softly against the floor. She found Professor Dumbledore seated behind his vast desk, a half-eaten sherbet lemon in hand, and a twinkle in his eye that belied the gravity of recent events.
"Good morning, Headmaster," she began.
"Ah, Professor McGonagall," Dumbledore replied, gesturing to the tin of sweets on his desk. "Sherbet lemon?"
She declined with a slight shake of her head. "I assume you've heard about the incident at the tomb?"
Dumbledore's expression grew solemn. "Yes, a most unfortunate event. The loss of life is always tragic."
"The Ministry has declared the site a Forbidden Ground," she informed him. "No one is to approach without explicit permission."
Dumbledore nodded thoughtfully. "A prudent decision, though I wonder if it might hinder our understanding of what transpired."
"Understanding won't bring back the dead," McGonagall replied, her voice tinged with concern.
"No, but it might prevent further loss," Dumbledore countered gently.
She regarded him closely. "You've sent Hagrid, haven't you?"
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled once more. "Indeed. I thought it best to extend an olive branch, so to speak."
Before McGonagall could respond, a tremor interrupted their words. The windows rattled in their frames, shelves shook, and the delicate instruments wobbled precariously. The portraits grumbled and peered down from their canvases. This was no ordinary earthquake — it was the impact of something vast colliding with the school grounds.
"What happened?!" McGonagall gasped, bracing herself against the desk. From below came the sharp, unmistakable cries of students, carrying even through the stone walls. For screams to reach this high in the tower… what in Merlin's name had descended upon Hogwarts?
Together they strode to the window. Heavy curtains were pulled back, and the scene outside struck them both dumb for a heartbeat.
A Dragon had landed in the main courtyard.
Its golden body gleamed in the sunlight, wings folding with a leathery crack. Each talon gouged the flagstones like a knife through parchment. Its eyes, like molten coals, blazed with terrible awareness.
Then came the roar.
A bellowing, primal sound tore through the air, shattering glass in its leaded panes. The ground quivered again beneath the force of it all, as students clutched their ears, some outright collapsing to the floor as the force of the sound battered their senses.
McGonagall's face tightened. Her wand was already in her hand. At last, a time for Hogwarts' defenses. She had waited her entire life to use it for this purpose. With uncharacteristic exhilaration she shouted:
"Piertotum Locomotor!"
Instantly, the statues and suits of armor lining the corridors leapt down from their plinths. From the floors above and below came answering crashes as hundreds more stirred.
"Hogwarts is threatened! Man the boundaries, protect us, do your duty to our school!" McGonagall's voice rang out, fierce and exultant.
With a clattering roar, the horde of guardians surged into motion: helmed suits of armor brandishing swords and morning stars, stone lions bounding on heavy paws, giants of granite crashing down the staircases. The castle itself seemed to have come alive.
"I've always wanted to use that spell," McGonagall said, breathless with excitement as the tide of guardians thundered into the courtyard.
There, beneath them, two small forms dropped lightly from the Dragon's back.
Children — or so they looked at first glance. A boy and a girl, sun-darkened skin, ears long and unmistakably inhuman. Elves.
Mare stepped timidly forward, staff clutched in both hands. With a shy glance at Aura, he planted it into the ground.
The effect was instantaneous.
The flagstones split apart with a shriek, fissures racing outward in a spiderweb pattern beneath the charging guardians. In an instant the entire army of enchanted statues and armor was swallowed. No resistance, no sound — one heartbeat they marched, the next they were gone.
The earth slammed shut again, ridges rising where once Hogwarts' protectors had stood. Silence fell.
Mare drew his staff back, eyes lowered, voice barely audible. "Ah… all gone."
McGonagall froze in disbelief. The thrill she had felt moments ago evaporated. Her defenders — centuries of enchanted guardians — had been erased by a single casual gesture.
And then Aura stepped forward.
She cupped her hands to her mouth, and her voice boomed unnaturally loud across the castle grounds:
"Er, can everyone hear me? I'm a subordinate of Ainz Ooal Gown-sama, and my name's Aura Bella Fiora!"
Every ear in Hogwarts heard her.
"The Headmaster of this school sent a bunch of rude chaps to the Great Underground Tomb of Nazarick, where Ainz-sama stays! Ainz-sama is very unhappy. So if you don't apologize, we'll wipe this school out!"
She spread her arms wide, her tone shifting into singsong mockery.
"For starters, we've already destroyed your Golems~ Now we're going to kill all the people here! …Er, I don't know who's the Headmaster, so never mind! If the Headmaster doesn't show himself right now, we'll destroy this school! Headmaster-san, please come out now!"
"Albus…" McGonagall's voice trembled despite herself, her face pale as she turned to him.
"...So," Dumbledore murmured, his gaze still fixed on the courtyard below, "It seems the tomb is not as dormant as the Ministry believes."
The portraits muttered anxiously in their frames. Several headmasters called warnings at once, but Dumbledore silenced them with a raised hand. His expression was calm, but the lines about his eyes were grave.
"Ainz Ooal Gown…" Dumbledore's whisper was almost to himself. 'What manner of being… No. Now is not the time for speculation.'
He shouted from the window: "I am Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts! I wish to speak with you! May I trouble you fine envoys to enter the castle?"
McGonagall turned sharply to him, still pale. "Albus, are you certain—"
"Prepare the finest reception for them," Dumbledore said firmly, turning from the window. "At once."
The portraits exchanged alarmed glances and several muttered in protest, but his tone brooked no argument. McGonagall pressed her lips thin, then swept from the room to set his command in motion.
Dumbledore remained at the window, his gaze following the two Dark Elves who stared back up at him.
"…I underestimated them," he admitted softly. 'If those are merely subordinates… Perhaps we stand before a power beyond reckoning. Still, I will not back down. If they seek to parley… then we shall test our strength in words. Ainz Ooal Gown…' His eyes glinted behind the half-moon spectacles. "…watch as I guard my school."
X
Albus Dumbledore — Headmaster of Hogwarts, the man regarded as the greatest wizard of the age — sat in silence, his hands folded lightly on the armrest.
He had faced Ministers, warlords, and tyrants before. He had stood before the Wizengamot and cowed them with nothing but words. He had spoken kindly, he had spoken sternly, and he had never once lost control.
To his students, he was a grandfatherly figure, full of whimsy and sweets. To the Ministry, he was an inscrutable rival, always a step ahead. He had worn such masks for decades.
It was always important to understand one's opponents.
Suspicion blocked knowledge. But trust, carefully given, could peel away layers of wariness. That was how you glimpsed the truth.
All hidden behind the courteous smile of a host who said, Welcome.
Yet here, his opponents were not ministers or children — but emissaries of a being powerful enough to ride into his school on the back of a Dragon and erase Hogwarts' guardians with a gesture.
Two strange little elves. Their innocent appearances belied the destructive power they commanded. Children's faces, sun-darkened skin, wide eyes — and yet...
With one gesture, the staff-wielding one had swallowed Hogwarts' stone guardians whole. A catastrophe.
Centuries of enchantments erased as if they were nothing but brittle toys.
If they had destroyed only the enchanted knights… perhaps it could be replaced in time. But the statues were the legacy of the founders. A fortune of magic, now lost.
The blow was heavy. But Dumbledore showed nothing.
He could not drive them away. Not now. Not against those who could kill without blinking.
All he could do was welcome them with a smile.
But he would not yield.
His blue eyes studied them with sharp attention, not letting a single twitch escape his gaze.
He studied their clothes—
He studied their looks—
A veritable legion of house-elves were enlisted by Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry to help out the entire school in various menial labour.
They were magical beings who were immensely devoted to their masters. Loyal magical creatures bound to their owners as servants for life. And to symbolise their enslavement they usually wore makeshift clothes made with found objects such as pillowcases and rags. These clothes could become quite filthy, and yet the elf would not clean their clothes to further express that they had no needs which were not specifically commanded to them by the master.
However the ones sitting before him were… exceedingly attractive. Those small, slender bodies, alive with ever-changing expressions. Not hollow, not worn thin by long labor. They were children's faces, touched by care.
Their clothes were neat, well-fitted. Their voices too—clear, certain. House-elves did not speak so, without deference, without excuses or pleas. These two spoke as though it never crossed their minds to do so.
Even their eyes were different. Elves glance upward in fear, quick and darting. These looked on openly as if the social conventions didn't exist for them.
'Who was this Ainz Ooal Gown?
What was his motive behind sending this pair with such confounding traits?'
Dumbledore's thoughts churned. Then stilled. I don't know enough.
'My first task must be to learn more. Then, to test the boundaries of their patience. One careless word, and the school might crumble.'
The pair had said it already: "The Headmaster sent rude people to the Great Tomb of Nazarick." Then destroyed Hogwarts' guardians in front of everyone.
Did they have proof? Or was it just bait?
He would need to find out.
He thought briefly of the Ministry. It had been they who sent full investigation teams. He himself had sent only Hagrid, with nothing more than a letter of admission in his hand. A gesture of goodwill. A way to welcome a boy, not to trespass. But Ainz Ooal Gown would not know, or would not care.
And so the blame would fall on him.
'But what of Hagrid? Was he safe? …Or alive, at least?'
Dumbledore smiled faintly, as though nothing were amiss. "Honored guests, you have traveled far to grace us with your presence. Will you not moisten your throats? Please, partake of our humble hospitality."
As he spoke, plates of food appeared one after another, filling the table to the brim, covering every corner. Steam rose in gentle curls, the smell of roast and spice spreading through the room.
Before they could reach for anything, a soft pop echoed. An elderly house-elf hunched with age appeared by the desk, its long fingers wringing nervously.
"I must speak, Headmaster!" it said, voice quavering but firm. "Elves in clothes bring only shame. They must be cast out."
The office grew still.
Aura's head turned slowly, her expression unreadable, eyes narrowing just slightly.
"…What?"
The elf flinched, stumbling backward a step, its ears twitching wildly. The force of that single word seemed to smother the air.
With a squeak, it protested again. "It is a disgrace. Elves do not wear garments of masters. To do so brings dishonor to all. You must be cast out—"
Dumbledore's voice entered the space like a calm tide.
"Enough, my friend—Your concern is noted. I ask only that you trust me and let us end this matter here."
The elf shifted uneasily, glancing between Aura and the headmaster. After a long pause, it bowed its head and vanished with a soft pop.
Mare tugged at his sister's sleeve, whispering,
"S-sister… it's gone now."
Dumbledore blinked. Sister? He looked closer. Yes. The "boy" was not a boy at all. A girl, dressed in boyish clothes. For freedom of movement, perhaps. Children their age were androgynous. Easy to mistake. The quieter one — the younger sister, then? Or was she the brother? He could not be sure.
Aura exhaled through her nose, a faint, dismissive sound. She shifted her eyes back to Dumbledore, expectant.
The headmaster inclined his head, voice low and courteous.
"My apologies, Miss Fiora. I beg your understanding—the weight of old ways can make even kind tongues stumble. Pray, pardon their outburst."
After diffusing the tense moment, Dumbledore's tone lightened, his hands spreading in gentle invitation.
"Then, please, do help yourselves."
Aura leaned back slightly, lips curving in a faint, amused hum.
"Hmmm~"
The boy — or so he had thought earlier — lifted a crystal goblet, turning it in small fingers, then took a mouthful of the drink.
"This doesn't taste particularly good," the child said flatly.
The words sent a tremor through Dumbledore's chest.
Blunt. Dismissive. Rude.
Even for a child, no one had ever spoken to him like that.
Not once in the thousands of years of its history had anyone mocked Hogwarts' feasts. Not the sons of the Ministers. Not the daughters of ancient houses. Not even those who wished him harm. Hogwarts' food was pride, history, ritual. Never slighted.
But here. Mocked by a girl no older than a first year student.
"…Then I must apologize," Dumbledore said softly. His smile did not waver. "If it displeases you, the fault is mine. Perhaps, should you tell me your favored dish, we might—"
The child smirked. "There's no way you could prepare the drinks I want."
The quieter sibling fidgeted. "O-oneechan, y-you're being rude..."
"Oh? Am I now?"
It was clear that this farce is going to be a clear deride of his own lack of knowledge about them. And treading too close to them to fish out information would be like stealing eggs from beneath a sleeping dragon.
"Then, honored guests," he said at last, bowing slightly. "Allow me to introduce myself once more. I am the Headmaster of the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. I am certainly aware of Miss Fiora's own noble name, but might I inquire as to yours?"
"Ah, I- I'm Mare Bello Fiore."
"My deepest thanks, young Fiore. Then, with reference to what you said, specifically 'Ainz-sama is very unhappy and will destroy this school unless he receives an apology'... I assume that I, as the presumed offender in question, will be making my way to Nazarick?"
"Isn't that obvious?"
It was a terse reply, but one that dripped with frostiness. The Elf called Aura had no warmth in her eyes from the very beginning. She looked at people like she was looking at insects.
"Naturally. If, the responsibility lies with me. I sent only one emissary — a man named Hagrid — and it was with goodwill, not hostility. But if offense has been given, I will expiate it before Sir Ainz Ooal Gown himself." Dumbledore inclined his head.
"Huh~ all right. Let's go together, then."
"A moment, please. While I have no issue with leaving presently, I cannot simply vanish from my post and abandon the duty to my students at a moment's notice. Perhaps, if you could allow me two, maybe three days… to settle the school," He said, as he eyed the twins.
"And to prepare the reparations for Sir Gown, I think ten days should—"
"Ten days? Too long."
"With ten days, I can prepare a fitting gift. A thoughtless offering would be an insult."
Aura tilted her head. "A gift, huh." Beside her, Mare shifted nervously.
Dumbledore noted it at once. They revere him. Ainz. Even the mention of a gift makes them uneasy. That means…
But before Dumbledore could continue his thought process, Aura's lips curled. In a teasing tone, she spoke,
"Just kidding~. Ainz-sama just told me to tell you to come over now, but he didn't say exactly when. So 'now' is 'however long you think you need.'"
Tricky. He is testing me. So he wanted to see how I'd react to the demand of "now." He must be quite the sage to have foreseen the path this conversation would take.
"Alright then," he said smoothly, "five days. That will suffice."
"Got it. We'll let Ainz-sama know." Aura clapped her hands together, with a smile like a sun shining amidst the spring."
Dumbledore let himself be bathed in it with a thinnest smile of his own, momentarily forgetting the atrocities the two before him were capable of.