I decided to have breakfast in my office while going through the morning's fan mail.
"Pipi, could you bring me my usual breakfast?"
A moment later, with a soft pop, a plate of two sunny-side-up eggs and a glorious mountain of bacon appeared on my desk, flanked by buttered toast and a tall glass of orange juice. The aroma of sizzling fat and crisp bread filled the air, nothing like the scent of victory to start the day.
I dug in with gusto, the yolk breaking perfectly beneath my fork. Between bites, I began sorting through the enormous pile of letters stacked on one side of the desk. Some people would complain about such correspondence, but not I. Fame has its perks, and few things are as pleasant as basking in one's own legend through parchment and ink.
Occasionally, a bold admirer would send along a risky photograph or a little souvenir, one must suffer for one's charm, after all.
I reached for a letter that felt heavier than the rest. Intrigued, I broke the wax seal, and something soft and black slipped out, landing silently upon the wood. I lifted it between two fingers. A thin scrap of silk. A single line of elegant handwriting followed on the parchment inside: [Wouldn't you like to see them on me?]
My brows rose in appreciation. I brought the silk closer, and, ah yes, the unmistakable scent confirmed my suspicions. Rosmerta. The ever-radiant owner of the Three Broomsticks, and the collective wet dream of half the Hogwarts male population.
Why could I recognise her by scent alone, you ask? Let's just say she was my first tutor in the finer arts of adulthood, back when I was still a bright-eyed seventh-year, and we've remained... collegial ever since. What can I say? Being this handsome should truly be illegal.
I reached for my quill to compose a suitably charming reply, only to find the space behind my ear empty. I frowned and glanced around my desk, then muttered, "Accio quill!" Nothing. Not even a twitch of parchment.
"Pipi!"
Pop!
"Yes, Professor Loki?" came the squeaky voice of my ever-helpful office elf.
"I seem to have misplaced my favourite quill," I said, adopting a tone of mock gravity. "Any idea where lost things end up in this castle?"
"Oh, yes, sir! Lost things be placed in the Come and Go Room!" the elf piped proudly.
"The Come and Go Room?" I echoed with feigned curiosity, suppressing a knowing smile. "And where, pray tell, might this mysterious place be?"
"Pipi can take you! It be on the seventh floor." Before I could object, the elf grabbed my hand and popped us away.
A heartbeat later, we stood before the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy, forever attempting to teach a line of reluctant trolls how to dance ballet. The trolls' expressions of confusion were almost as entertaining as Pipi's enthusiasm.
"We be here, sir!" he chirped. "Walk three times in front of that wall, thinking what you need, and the room appears!"
"Really?" I said, masking my excitement with mild surprise. "Well, let's see if it works."
I began pacing before the blank stretch of wall, repeating in my mind.
'I need to find my lost quill.'
'I need to find my lost quill.'
'I need to find my lost quill.'
The wall shimmered, and a door materialised out of the stone. I grinned. "Marvelous."
Inside stretched a vast chamber the size of the Great Hall, filled from floor to ceiling with forgotten relics, desks stacked on chairs, broken trunks, dusty tomes, and countless odds and ends glinting in the low, flickering light. The smell of age and magic hung thick in the air, like parchment and candle soot soaked in centuries.
Right atop a desk near the entrance gleamed my precious griffin-feather quill, untouched by time. "Ah, there you are, old friend." I picked it up reverently.
"Tell me, Pipi," I said, turning to the elf, "does this room serve any other purpose besides storing misplaced trinkets?"
"Oh yes!" he said eagerly. "The room do anything you need! You just have to ask!"
"Remarkable," I murmured. "Thank you, Pipi. You've been most helpful. You may return to your duties. I'll... explore this wonderful room a bit longer."
"Pipi is glad to be of help, Professor!" And with another pop, he was gone.
The silence that followed was thick, broken only by the faint creak of shifting objects.
"Well then," I said to myself, rolling up my sleeves. "Let's see what treasures Hogwarts has been hiding."
Hours seemed to slip away as I wandered the labyrinth of clutter. Dust motes danced in shafts of light that pierced the gloom, glinting off forgotten goblets and cracked crystal balls. I found several decent brooms that might make fine replacements for Madam Hooch's aging collection.
A few intriguing books caught my eye, titles long out of print. Into my bag they went. A small pile of coins glittered in a corner, mostly Knuts, but I pocketed a neat stack of Galleons and Sickles. Waste not, want not.
Eventually, I reached the deeper recesses of the room, where the air grew colder and heavier. My heart quickened as I spotted the marble bust described in the book I'd read in my past life. And there, perched upon it, gleamed Rowena Ravenclaw's lost diadem. Its silver surface shimmered faintly in the gloom, the blue gem pulsing like a heartbeat beneath the dust.
A whisper of temptation brushed against my mind. I felt my hand twitch toward it.
'Wear me.'
It took every ounce of occlumency I possessed to shove the thought away. With a controlled breath, I drew the containment box from my satchel, a polished rune-inscribed case meant for isolating dark artefacts, and placed the tiara inside. The oppressive weight of its presence faded at once, leaving only the echo of its power.
I exhaled slowly, wiping imaginary sweat from my brow. "So that's what it feels like," I murmured. "No wonder Dumbledore fell for the Gaunt ring's curse." Even prepared, I'd felt that pull like a siren's call. The old man must have been practically consumed by it, especially when the Resurrection Stone was the one thing he'd longed for his entire life.
I snapped the box shut. "Right then. Off to Dumbledore's desk with you."
And before you complain about my decision and start saying that the old man's a secretive, manipulative schemer, and you'd be right. But manipulation doesn't work on someone who already knows the script. Besides, it never hurts to let the Headmaster handle the heavy lifting. Later, I can publish Dumbledore Begged Me to Defeat the Dark Lord or something along those lines, which sounds rather good on a book cover, doesn't it? Well, maybe not so good, but I have plenty of time to polish the title.
Before leaving, I eyed a large Vanishing Cabinet leaning against the far wall. Tempting. But I'd need an expanded trunk to move it safely. Another day, perhaps.
One more experiment remained. I stepped outside the room, let the door vanish, and then paced once more before the wall, concentrating on my next wish. The new door appeared, its handle cold beneath my fingers. I opened it, and was met by a rush of damp, cool air.
An eerie marsh stretched before me, thick with fog that coiled like ghostly tendrils. The faint croaks of unseen frogs echoed across the water, and the smell of wet earth and moss filled my lungs. Perfect.
I smiled to myself. "Ideal for tomorrow's class. The students will love it."
With a flicker of thought, I imagined a door that led straight back to my Defence classroom. A moment later, one shimmered into existence beside me. When I stepped through, I found myself once again amid my familiar desks and blackboard, four floors below and half the castle away.
"Well, well, well," I said, admiring the handiwork. "Isn't this just perfect?."
I clasped my hands, already envisioning the terrified, delighted faces of my students.
"Nothing like a bit of realism to keep them on their toes."
…