The twins yanked aside a rough oilcloth. Metal clattered against metal, and a mountain of materials came into view.
Scrap metal and low-grade potion ingredients, all of it pre-processed with basic alchemical treatments. The whole pile reeked of rust, magical reagents, and sweat in equal measure.
The workshop air carried that particular bite of ozone and hot metal. In the corner, several broad-shouldered werewolf students hunched over a magically modified lathe, their faces lit by showers of sparks. Focused. Hopeful.
"Professor, we found the perfect substitute!"
Fred hoisted a metal sphere that gleamed dull silver, practically shouting, grease smeared across his face.
"Metal salvaged from the scrap heap by our werewolf brothers," George picked up, "combined with a standardized enchanting process."
"We've cut the per-unit cost of a Nightmare down to one Galleon. Five Sickles!"
Something flickered behind Douglas's eyes.
He picked up one of the spheres and turned it over, studying the runes etched across its surface.
Crude. But effective.
There was a beauty to it, purely utilitarian, nothing wasted.
He hadn't expected it. These two, the pair most likely to transfigure a teacher's chair into a toilet, turned out to have a genuine gift for business and development.
"Good." He tossed the sphere back to George. "Lock in the design, then move to initial mass production. You get your cut, per the contract."
"The chaos at the World Cup was just the beginning."
His voice cooled.
"Orders from the Ministry will start pouring in. We need to make sure every Auror in Britain has a few of these in their pocket."
He let his gaze sweep the workshop. Bare walls, rough floors, nothing elegant about it. The werewolf students worked the metal casings in the corner while Lupin moved between them, guiding each hand, correcting each rune stroke. Fred and George had already returned to their notes, arguing over something in low, rapid voices.
No Hogwarts polish here. No quiet grandeur.
Just raw creativity, wrung out of people who'd spent too long with nothing, only now being given room to make something.
"Professor." Fred materialized at his elbow, voice dropped. "We've got another idea."
"We'll need your technical support," George added. "Specifically, your book. Magical Applications of Muggle Artifacts."
"We want to bring in electricity."
Douglas's eyes narrowed.
Electricity.
In a valley saturated with pure magical energy.
"Keep talking."
They pulled him to a workbench buried under blueprints. The sketch on top was dense: Muggle circuit diagrams overlapping with magical energy schematics, the two systems woven together like they'd grown that way.
"Pure magical flashes are too easy to block," Fred said. "Any decent defensive spell handles them fine."
"But electricity's different!" George leaned in. "A Muggle stun gun drops someone instantly. It bypasses most magical defenses entirely."
Fred was already gesturing at the diagram. "We want a dual-effect non-lethal weapon. Magic-powered, but the payload is high-voltage arc discharge."
Douglas studied the blueprint. In his head, the model assembled itself, fast and clean.
It was workable. More than workable.
Magic-technology integration had been his research direction for years. And these two had found the door on their own, without anyone pointing them toward it.
He felt something, not quite pride, but close enough.
Successors. The thought settled warmly.
"Approved."
He tapped three points on the blueprint in sequence. "You still need to solve the interference problem. Magical fields degrade electrical systems. And you need a reliability solution for complex magical environments." He straightened. "If you hit a wall, put in real work on Ancient Runes next semester. The answers are in there."
Douglas was in a good mood as he left.
Silvermane Academy was growing faster than he'd projected. That was the thing about people who'd been pressed down too long — give them direction, give them room, and the potential that came out was staggering. These weren't society's discards anymore. They were his. A new force, quietly taking shape, building something no one else had thought to build.
---
Hogwarts. Headmaster's Office.
"Spicy Dragon's Blood."
The gargoyle received the password with a low, grumbling sound, distinctly unimpressed, as though it were personally affronted that Dumbledore continued to have terrible taste. The heavy stone door ground open, and the familiar revolving staircase appeared.
Douglas stepped into the circular office as dusk settled over the castle. Golden evening light came through the narrow windows in long, fractured bars, catching the silver instruments on their shelves, all of them spinning, humming, doing whatever it was they did. Fawkes drowsed on his perch, beak tucked down, emitting small, satisfied snores.
The air smelled of lemon drops.
And, faintly but unmistakably, of spicy hotpot.
The old Headmaster was at his desk, but not reading. He was bent forward, watching a small flat disc spin inside an odd little box. The disc cast shifting, colorful images into the air above it.
A Swooping Evil spread jewel-bright wings and screamed.
Cut to: a Bowtruckle reaching out with delicate twig-fingers to accept a woodlouse from a wide, careful palm.
A gentle voice, slightly shy, carried through the room.
"Oh, they're enormously sensitive creatures. You need a great deal of patience..."
Dumbledore registered the visitor. He waved a hand — light and sound vanished — and the disc dropped silently back into his palm.
"It looks like Newt's first batch came out well," Douglas said.
The disc technology had taken time to perfect. Once it had, he'd sent the first samples to that particular legendary alumnus with a simple suggestion: use this to capture what books couldn't. The creatures he'd spent his life among. On film.
"He was thrilled," Dumbledore said, tucking the disc away. "He said it's far more immediate than writing, though he admitted the camera makes him somewhat uncomfortable."
Dumbledore removed his half-moon spectacles and polished them at a leisurely pace with the corner of his robe. His blue eyes caught the last of the evening light.
"Though, Douglas, I understand the name Albus Dumbledore has been generating considerable interest lately. Particularly in Rome. And Cairo."
He settled back into his chair behind the desk, unhurried, his tone balanced precisely between complaint and amusement.
"The Italian Minister of Magic sent me quite a long letter. Very... enthusiastic wording."
"He wanted to know when I'd developed such a passionate interest in the Church's Holy Light magic."
"He also asked whether I'd be willing to lead a formal technology transfer."
Douglas shrugged. "Efficiency, Professor. A well-known name cuts through a lot of unnecessary back-and-forth."
He set his bag on the desk and continued, expression perfectly neutral: "And you are a genuine authority on Holy Light magic. The Patronus Charm, specifically."
From the bag, he produced a gift box wrapped in fine linen and slid it across.
"A small local specialty. From Italy. I hope it suits you."
Dumbledore's eyebrows rose. He unwrapped it.
Inside: a small bottle of olive oil, deep gold and clearly excellent, and a substantial wedge of Parma cheese sealed in wax paper.
The moment the wax broke, rich aged cheese filled the room, cutting straight through whatever remained of the hotpot smell.
Dumbledore stared at it for a beat.
Then a low chuckle escaped him, helpless and genuine, his beard trembling with it.
"Merlin's beard, Douglas. You never fail to surprise me."
He set the gift carefully to one side, and his expression settled into something more focused.
➤ Next: Shocking! Albus Dumbledore Actually Receives a Job Application Letter from Ma...
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