At Hogwarts, the end of term wasn't only about exams. There was another thing that tugged at everyone's nerves: who would win the House Cup.
Slytherin had already taken it for six straight years—make it seven if you counted this year too.
Whenever it came up, Gryffindor's little lions were furious.
It wasn't even that they were upset about not getting the Cup themselves. They simply couldn't stand watching that pack of Slytherin snakes strut around smugly. Our pretty-boy Draco was positively glowing every day, forever drifting over to Harry and the others to toss out a couple of infuriating, punchable taunts. Ron and Hermione were so angry they could've exploded, but Harry stayed oddly calm.
That was the unsettling part—Harry had been quiet lately in a way that felt outright frightening, and not like his old quiet. His roommates hadn't seen him smile in ages. Not long ago he'd been a hard-working student, but now he spent his days just staring into space. And yet he didn't look depressed, either. The whole state of him was simply… strange.
Skyl was the least worried person in the school when it came to the House Cup. He knew Dumbledore would arrange everything.
Besides, that werewolf-hound, Afu, had been sneaking out a lot lately. The Weasley twins said they'd even seen Afu on the fourth floor in the middle of the night.
Which meant the Philosopher's Stone plotline was about to kick off.
In Skyl's prophecy, Harry still obtained the Philosopher's Stone at the end of his first year. From that miraculous creation, he even glimpsed certain magical mysteries, stepped through the door into essential Transfiguration… and, by a twist of fate, savagely crippled Afu's soul, tearing away a huge chunk of memory-construct from him as nourishment for his own growth.
Classic "snatch the treasure, wound the enemy" stuff. You could say Harry had the script of a power-fantasy protagonist—except he took a wrong turn somewhere, and in the end became a tragic figure.
Skyl wanted Harry to grow up properly. Not just in knowledge and ability, but with a healthy mind as well—so that one day he could be a key pillar of the Tower of Tomes, helping dig out the deepest roots of spellcraft. As for resurrecting loved ones… all Skyl could say was that anything might be possible. Who knew? Maybe one day they'd find a method in some other world.
Not long after the year-end exams, Dumbledore sought Skyl out specifically. He said he needed to visit the Ministry of Magic to attend a session on the destruction of Time-Turners, and asked whether Skyl wanted to sit in and observe.
Skyl agreed happily. To be honest, he wanted to take the opportunity to acquire something useful. Destroying Time-Turners for nothing felt like a hideous waste.
The Ministry of Magic was in London, with a visitors' entrance located on a street near the city centre. That day, Dumbledore had deliberately changed into Muggle clothes so he wouldn't be gawked at while walking around in public. The moment Skyl saw what he was wearing, he burst out laughing.
"What is it? Do I look terribly improper?" Dumbledore's outfit was… an experience. On top, a bizarrely mixed-colour suit jacket; on the bottom, bright green beach shorts printed with palm trees; below that, two glaringly pale calves with surprisingly defined muscle. His long silver beard hung all the way to his waist, and he'd even put on a pair of sunglasses. Skyl's first thought was Master Roshi from Dragon Ball—an old rascal who looked like he was up to no good.
Skyl knew perfectly well that the old man understood Muggle fashion. Dumbledore was just having fun. Dressed like that on the streets of London, he drew plenty of attention anyway.
Compared to him, Skyl looked far more normal. With a youthful face that passed for seventeen or eighteen, and a well-trained build from sticking to his workouts, he wore a white short-sleeved shirt under a khaki canvas jacket, paired with blue work trousers and tan high-top leather boots—clean, neat, and capable.
Western Europe at the time was still heavily influenced by rock, punk, and similar trends, so Skyl's look didn't stand out much. Dumbledore, on the other hand, somehow earned approving looks from a group of hippies.
"Looks like I'm the more popular one," the old man said, pushing down his sunglasses and winking at Skyl.
"Professor, I want to donate some money to Hogwarts—specifically to help students who are struggling financially," Skyl took the chance to bring up something he'd been thinking about. "I'm grateful the school reached out to me when I was in a tight spot. As repayment, I'm planning to work with Flourish and Blotts so students can collect their new textbooks for free. I'll cover all costs."
"It's a very good idea," Dumbledore said—then his expression grew serious. "But about money… Skyl, have you already mastered the ability to turn stone into gold?"
"Yes."
"Then please don't abuse magic. Too much gold does not bring wealth."
"Are you worried the goblins will be angry?" Skyl asked.
With essential Transfiguration, Skyl could create gold—but firstly it was extremely difficult, and secondly it could be undone by a counter-charm, so it wasn't enough to spark panic in the banking world. Only eternal Transfiguration could truly accomplish a lasting "turn stone into gold."
Dumbledore chuckled. "Let the goblins be angry if they wish. I'm only worried you won't be able to stop yourself. You should always be careful with spending." What he meant was: follow the rules of the game. Money doesn't fall from the sky; it needs a traceable origin, otherwise it attracts the wrong kind of attention.
"Do you have a suggestion?" Skyl asked.
"Build something," Dumbledore said, pulling a business card from his pocket. It read: Turing Alchemy Workshop—a small shop in Diagon Alley. Not famous, but good enough to serve as a cover for Skyl's source of funds.
Skyl shook his head, amused. "All these rules and restraints—how many good young people have they ruined? I could say I discovered treasure from a Spanish Armada shipwreck. That's a perfectly decent reason." Seeing the card made him think of job-hunting after graduation in his previous life—bending his back for a few crumbs of survival.
"If there's a chance, I'd like to invite you to Winterhold," Skyl continued. "You'll see a different society, a different school. There, magic is applied to production—everyone eats well and dresses warmly. Public education is free, and once you've learned your skills, you're assigned a job. I've always felt that Hogwarts provides excellent education, but it's also somewhat detached from reality—and in some ways, it runs against the broader current of history."
Dumbledore looked moved. He hesitated, then nodded. "Then… I look forward to that day."
Talking as they walked, they arrived at the Ministry entrance: a battered red telephone box. The street bustled with people, but no one noticed that such a shabby booth led to a world of hidden wonder.
"The secrecy of the magical world will be known to the Muggle public sooner or later," Skyl muttered as he stepped into the box. "When that happens, maybe the Ministry can finally replace this with a proper lift."
Dumbledore was tall enough that he had to hunch slightly. He picked up the receiver and dialled 62442, connecting to the Ministry. The witch on the line sounded exhausted—when they entered the Ministry for real, they would find that most employees here wore the half-dead look of overworked office drones.
The telephone box descended, dropping them into the lobby on Level Eight, and the space suddenly opened up around them.
The Ministry's decor felt more "fashionable" than Hogwarts—by which one meant it had stepped out of the classical era and into the Victorian, leaping across nearly an entire Middle Ages. Dark wood planks covered floors and walls, and old-fashioned lifts squeaked as they ran; wood and steel together gave it a distinct industrial feel.
Crippling bureaucracy dragged down the Ministry's efficiency. They were going to be stuck here all day. After Dumbledore explained their purpose, a receptionist escorted them to the Minister's office. The destruction of Time-Turners needed approval by a Wizengamot vote. Minister Fudge sat in his chair making phone call after phone call to every department, and since he respected Dumbledore, he had his assistant bring in a steady stream of drinks.
Muggle Britain couldn't get anything done without a bit of alcohol. Wizarding Britain wasn't any different.
Skyl quickly grew sick of the endless waiting. Using illusion magic, he created a decoy body to remain seated in the office. Meanwhile, he cast the Disillusionment Charm on himself and wandered the Ministry unseen.
His magical projection acted so naturally that Fudge even praised him—what a model student, so steady and patient, surely destined for greatness at the Ministry someday. Which was utter hypocrisy. Rising at the Ministry mostly depended on connections and flattering your superiors.
Down on Level Nine, in the Department of Mysteries, Skyl found magical objects that genuinely interested him. Security there was extremely tight; he had to pour in far more focus to maintain stronger concealment magic, or risk being discovered. He also couldn't linger—better not to leave any trace at all.
After a quick sweep through, he pilfered a portion of the Time-Turners that were about to be destroyed—mainly by swapping out the Hour-Reversal Sand inside.
Seeing the real thing also answered a question that had been nagging at him. Those grains of sand still carried faint remnants of divine power—no wonder they could serve as an "eternal object" in transformation casting.
That night, news arrived that Harry and the others had broken into the school's forbidden area. Dumbledore and Skyl, already unable to endure any more of the endless meeting, hurried back to Hogwarts via the Floo Network.
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