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Chapter Text

The house at Number Four, Privet Drive, was dark and quiet, save for the occasional creak of the wooden floors settling in the night. The air was thick with the faint scent of lavender from Aunt Petunia’s meticulous cleaning, yet it did nothing to mask the ever-present coldness that seemed to lurk in every corner of the home. Inside a cramped, dimly lit cupboard beneath the staircase, a small boy curled up on a thin, rough blanket, barely large enough to cover his tiny frame.

Harry Potter was barely three years old, though he had quickly learned that he was different. Not in the magical way that would one day define him, but in a way much simpler and far crueler: he was unwanted. Unlike his cousin Dudley, who had entire rooms full of toys and soft, warm blankets, Harry had nothing but an old stuffed rabbit with one missing ear, something he had found discarded in the rubbish and claimed as his own.

That night, he lay awake, tiny fingers absentmindedly tracing the faint lightning-shaped scar on his forehead, his stomach growling in protest at the lack of dinner. He knew better than to complain. He knew better than to cry. Crying only brought harsh words, sometimes worse. He had learned that silence was his only protection, but tonight, something felt different.

Earlier that evening, as he had been sweeping crumbs off the kitchen floor—a task much too difficult for a child his age—his aunt had left something out. A single, fragile photograph. It was tucked inside a box of old keepsakes she had hastily pulled from a cupboard. A fleeting glance at the image had been enough to root Harry to the spot, his tiny heart hammering in his chest.

A woman. She had red hair—bright and beautiful, like fire. And her eyes, those green eyes… they were his.

He had never seen her before, not even in his dreams, yet something inside him whispered that she was important, that she belonged to him. His small fingers had twitched, desperate to touch the photo, to hold onto something—anything—of her. But Aunt Petunia had seen.

“Get out!” she had shrieked, her face twisting in something ugly—something Harry couldn’t name. He had scurried away as she slammed the box shut, stuffing it back inside a cupboard as though the very sight of it pained her.

Even now, as he lay on his cot, he could not forget the image. The way the woman had smiled, her arms wrapped around someone else—a man, his face partially obscured, but warm and kind in a way Uncle Vernon never was. That warmth was foreign to Harry, but he wanted it. He wished he had a family that looked at him like that.

His small fingers clutched the thin blanket as his young mind wandered, grasping at something deeper than he could fully understand. Magic was not yet a word he knew, nor did he comprehend the way the universe listened to the pure, unfiltered wishes of a child. But in that moment, as he closed his eyes, he wished.

‘I want to go where I’m wanted.’

The air around him shifted. It was subtle at first—like the way the house would creak in protest when a storm raged outside. But this was different. The small cupboard grew warmer, and for the first time in his short life, he felt safe.

Then, in the span of a heartbeat, the space where Harry Potter had been was empty.

The house remained silent, undisturbed. The Dursleys slept soundly in their beds, unaware that their unwanted nephew had vanished, carried away by a force beyond their comprehension. The world outside remained dark and still, not yet knowing that one of its most important pieces had just disappeared.

It would be morning before anyone realized he was gone.

The sea was calm that evening, the waves rolling gently beneath the hull of the Red Force, their rhythmic movements steady and predictable. The sky stretched vast and dark above, scattered with stars, their dim light reflecting off the ocean’s surface like fragments of silver. It was a night meant for thinking, for reflecting—something Shanks rarely allowed himself too much time for. A pirate’s life was one of momentum, always forward, never stagnant. But tonight, as he leaned against the railing, a newspaper in his hand, he let himself slow down.

The paper crinkled slightly in his grasp, its ink still fresh, the scent mingling with the salty breeze. His sharp eyes traced the bold letters emblazoned across the front page:

Monkey D. Luffy: The Rising Star of the New Era!

The corners of his mouth curled up in a grin, not the sharp, confident smirk he often wore in battle but something softer, something proud. He had always known Luffy would make it. That foolish little kid from Foosha Village had been destined for greatness the moment he declared he’d be King of the Pirates. Even so, seeing the proof in ink, knowing the world was finally taking notice—it stirred something deep in him.

He exhaled slowly, letting his gaze drift past the newspaper, past the deck of his ship, out toward the open sea. The horizon stretched endlessly, the same as it had always been, the same as it always would be. Yet tonight, it seemed to shimmer differently, as if the past and present were blurring together in the waves.

It was strange, how memories surfaced when least expected. He barely remembered his earliest years — just fleeting images, the warmth of a woman’s embrace, the echo of laughter he couldn’t quite place. But those memories were distant, faded, buried beneath a life lived on the sea. His first real memory — the one that truly shaped him — was of being found.

He had been just a small child when the Roger Pirates discovered him, tucked away in an old treasure chest aboard a shipwrecked vessel. The wood was worn and splintered, the scent of salt and decay thick in the air. He didn’t remember how he got there, nor what had come before. But he remembered the moment those massive hands had lifted him out, the booming laughter that had followed.

“Well, well, what have we here?” Gold Roger’s voice had been like thunder, rough yet warm, carrying the weight of a man who had seen everything and still found joy in the smallest of surprises.

That had been the beginning of everything. He had grown up on the sea, not in the way most children did, but in the heart of it, among legends. He had learned to walk on the deck of a pirate ship, learned to fight before he had ever held a book. And alongside him had been Buggy, the blue to his red, his first rival, his first friend.

Buggy had always been different from him — louder, greedier, more prone to dramatics — but they had been inseparable all the same. Where one went, the other followed, bickering all the while. They had chased treasure together, fought battles together, dreamed together.

And then, as with all things, it had come to an end.

Roger had left them behind.

Shanks closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the weight of that memory settle over him. He had never resented their captain for it, had never questioned why Roger had made the choices he did. But it hadn’t made it easier. They had been just kids, standing on the shores of an uncertain future, watching the man who had raised them walk away.

And then Roger had died.

Shanks could still see it, even now — the execution platform, the crowd, the glint of sunlight on the blade. He had stood there, among the masses, listening as the man he had admired more than anyone spoke his final words.

It had been a turning point for the world. For him.

He had made a promise that day, a quiet vow spoken to the wind. He would carry Roger’s will forward — not in name, not in title, but in spirit.

And when the time came, he would find someone worthy.

His fingers brushed the brim of his hat, the one that had once belonged to Roger, the one he had passed on to Luffy. A piece of himself, left behind in the hands of a boy who would one day change the world.

He had crowned the next King of the Pirates long before the world would acknowledge it. Luffy hadn’t reached the end of his journey yet, but Shanks knew — without a shadow of a doubt — that he would.

He had seen it in the boy’s eyes, the same fire that had once burned in Roger’s, the same unshakable will. He had tested him, pushed him, and when the time had been right, he had entrusted him with the symbol of his belief.

Shanks exhaled another breath, the weight of his thoughts dissipating like mist over the water. He wasn’t the type to dwell on the past for too long. There was too much left to do, too many adventures still waiting.

His crew had grown alongside him, becoming his family, his home. They had carved their own path through the seas, earning their place among the Yonko, their strength recognized by the world. Unlike some of the other emperors, Shanks had never ruled through sheer might alone — he had built something greater. A crew bound by loyalty, by trust, by the unspoken promise that no matter what came their way, they would stand together.

His ship, the Red Force, was among the largest, its decks filled with warriors, adventurers, misfits who had found a home beneath his flag. His family.

A chuckle escaped him as he thought of the other Yonko. Some were so unnecessarily large they could crush a ship beneath their weight. Others had … questionable recruitment strategies, taking in children barely old enough to understand the weight of a pirate’s life. Shanks had never needed that. His crew was strong not because of numbers, but because they chose to follow him, just as he had once chosen to follow Roger.

Another gust of wind swept across the deck, rustling the pages of the newspaper in his hand. Shanks looked down at Luffy’s face, captured mid-laugh, his straw hat tilted just so.

He smiled, folding the paper carefully and tucking it beneath his coat. His gaze returned to the horizon, the endless expanse of the sea stretching out before him.

“Keep going, Luffy,” he murmured, his voice barely carried by the wind. “I’ll be waiting.”

The steady creak of the Red Force blended with the rhythmic crash of the waves, a song as familiar as the voices of the men aboard her. The ship was alive, not just a vessel of wood and sails but a home, a sanctuary built on loyalty and laughter, on the unbreakable ties of those who had chosen to follow a man as reckless as the sea itself.

And at the heart of it all stood Shanks.

He moved with an easy grace, as though the ship’s rolling deck was nothing more than an extension of himself, his bare feet padding lightly against the planks. The folded newspaper was long forgotten, tucked beneath his arm as he strolled towards the gathered crew. They had been watching him, though most had been too polite to comment on his rare moment of introspection.

Most. But not Ben Beckman.

“You’re brooding again.”

The words were dry, almost lazy, but Shanks didn’t miss the weight behind them. Beckman stood with his usual relaxed stance, a cigarette dangling from his lips, but his sharp eyes missed nothing. Shanks grinned, his usual boyish charm slipping easily back into place.

“Me? Brooding? Perish the thought.”

Beckman exhaled a long, slow breath, tilting his head just enough to let Shanks know he wasn’t buying it. They had been together too long for pretense, too long since that first fateful meeting when Shanks was just a scrappy teenager barely holding himself together after Roger’s execution. Beckman had found him in the aftermath, a lost boy with too much grief and too much fire, and somewhere along the way, they had become something more than captain and first mate.

“You get that look every time you read about Luffy,” Beckman noted, flicking his cigarette overboard.

Shanks let out a chuckle, rubbing the back of his head. “Can’t help it. Kid’s doing well.”

“He’s going to turn the world upside down.”

“He already is.”

Nearby, Lucky Roux let out a booming laugh, biting into a chunk of meat so large it could have been mistaken for an entire meal. “Not that any of us expected less! The brat’s got your stubborn streak, Captain.”

“Oi,” Shanks feigned a look of offense, placing a hand over his chest. “I take that as a compliment.”

“Don’t.” Yasopp, their sharpshooter, leaned against the mast, idly cleaning his rifle. “Means he’s gonna get into way too much trouble before he reaches the top.” His smirk betrayed his words, though, a father’s pride shining through despite himself.

Further down the deck, Bonk Punch was thumping out a steady rhythm on a drum, his hulking frame swaying slightly in time with the beat. Monster, his ever-present companion, let out a pleased chittering sound, perched on his shoulder like some kind of primal guardian.

Building Snake was deep in conversation with Hongou, their navigator and doctor speaking in hushed tones over a worn map, likely planning their next heading. Gab and Lime Juice were throwing dice on an overturned barrel, their banter blending with the ambient noise of the ship, while Rockstar paced nearby, still the eager young recruit desperate to prove himself among legends.

And then there were the newer faces, men and women who had joined along the way, their loyalty just as fierce as those who had been there from the beginning. Among them was Elara, a woman with sharp blue eyes and a sharper tongue, whose blade work was as fluid as the waves they sailed. Then there was Doran, a mountain of a man with arms like tree trunks and a laugh that could shake the ship, his skill with an axe unmatched.

Shanks took a deep breath, letting the scent of salt and wood and the faint traces of Beckman’s cigarette fill his senses. This was his crew. His family.

He turned his gaze back to Beckman, grinning. “I ever tell you how glad I am that you stuck around?”

Beckman snorted, shaking his head. “Once or twice.”

Shanks clapped him on the shoulder before throwing his arms wide. “Alright, boys! Let’s drink! We’ve got a rising star to celebrate!”

A chorus of cheers erupted across the deck, the steady thrum of camaraderie rising like the tide. The past was always there, lingering beneath the surface, but the present was what mattered. And right now, in this moment, they were together.

And that was everything.

The Red Force was alive with the sounds of celebration. Bottles clinked, raucous laughter echoed across the deck, and the deep hum of Bonk Punch’s drums set a rhythmic pulse to the evening’s merriment. The air was thick with the scent of salt, rum, and roasted meat, a familiar concoction that wrapped around the crew like an old friend.

Shanks leaned against the main mast, a wide grin splitting his face as he watched his crew revel in the simple joy of being together. His half-filled tankard swung lazily in his hand as he took in the scene before him. Beckman was seated a short distance away, his usual composed demeanor intact despite the mug of dark liquor resting in his grasp.

“Not drinking too much tonight?” Shanks teased, tipping his own drink toward his first mate.

Beckman smirked, tapping ash from his cigarette over the railing. “Someone has to make sure you don’t fall overboard.”

Shanks let out a laugh, shaking his head as he turned toward the rest of his men. Lucky Roux was in his element, laughing with his mouth full as he juggled a turkey leg in one hand and a bottle in the other. Yasopp was perched on a barrel, entertaining a small group with stories of impossible shots he had once made.

Further down the deck, Gab and Lime Juice were arm-wrestling over an overturned crate while Elara cheered them on, her piercing blue eyes sparkling with amusement. Bonk Punch’s drumming intensified as Monster screeched alongside him, their chaotic melody adding to the festive air.

Then, as if the universe itself had decided to intervene, the world changed.

It started with the wind — or rather, the sudden absence of it. One moment, the salty breeze was dancing through the rigging, the next, it vanished completely, leaving the ship eerily still.

Building Snake, who had been perched near the helm, was the first to notice. His head snapped up, his keen navigator’s instincts tingling. “Something’s wrong.”

The laughter died down almost immediately. The seasoned crew of the Red Force was not one to dismiss omens lightly. Beckman stood smoothly, his cigarette barely shifting as his eyes darkened, scanning the horizon.

Shanks pushed off from the mast, his expression turning serious as he followed Beckman’s gaze. The sky, once a deep shade of midnight blue, was shifting—black clouds spiraled into existence from nowhere, rolling like ink spilling across the heavens.

“What in the hell—” Yasopp muttered, standing quickly.

Then came the wind.

It was not the usual kind, not the type that howled and roared as storms did in the New World. No, this was different. It was alive. It whistled through the sails without rustling them, it curled around the crew like unseen fingers, sending shivers down even the most hardened spines.

A sharp crack split the air, followed by a low, guttural rumble that seemed to come from the ocean itself.

Beckman’s voice was calm, but there was a steel edge beneath it. “All hands on deck. Now.”

The command was unnecessary — every man and woman aboard was already moving. Lucky Roux threw aside his half-eaten meal, grabbing the nearest rope as his eyes scanned the heavens. Rockstar and Lime Juice secured the barrels, their movements quick and precise. Gab and Elara rushed to the rigging, checking the sails, though they barely stirred despite the unnatural wind whipping around them.

“Snake, talk to me,” Shanks called as he strode toward the navigator, his boots thudding against the deck.

Snake’s usual confidence was absent, his fingers tracing the edge of the map he always carried. “This isn’t natural. I’ve seen tempests, hurricanes, storms that could break islands—but this? This feels like the sea itself is rejecting reality.”

The words sent a shiver down Shanks’ spine. He trusted his crew, especially the ones who had been with him the longest, and Snake was never one to overreact.

The sky churned, the clouds now crackling with something that was not quite lightning. It arced across the heavens in golden veins, pulsing like a living thing, illuminating the deck with an eerie, flickering glow. The ocean beneath them remained undisturbed, no waves, no swells — just an eerie, perfect stillness that made the Red Force feel as if it were floating in the void.

Then the light came.

A blinding golden radiance erupted from beneath the ship, cutting through the abyss like the birth of a new sun. The crew barely had time to react before the Red Force lurched violently downward, as though something beneath them had given way.

“Hold on!” Shanks shouted, his voice barely reaching over the cacophony of creaking wood and the roaring light.

The world tilted. The ship was falling — not sinking, not capsizing — but falling, as if the ocean had simply disappeared beneath them. Beckman was already moving, one hand gripping the rigging while the other latched onto Shanks’ coat, ensuring neither of them was separated.

Then, just as quickly as it began, the golden light swallowed them whole.

There was no time to think. No time to brace. One by one, the crew vanished into the abyss, the Red Force consumed by the impossible light as the storm raged on above a sea that no longer held them.

Then, the Red Force stopped. Not gradually, not with the resistance of water or the shift of tides, but with an abruptness so unnatural it sent nearly every crew member tumbling. One moment, they were falling, consumed by golden light and the chaos of an impossible storm. The next, there was silence.

A deep, eerie silence.

Shanks barely had a second to adjust to the stillness before his instincts flared to life. His Observation Haki stretched outward like an invisible net, scanning for any immediate threats. His sharp eyes darted across the deck, watching as his crew groaned, pulling themselves up from where they had fallen. No missing limbs, no cries of mortal injury — good.

“Beck?”

“I’m here,” Beckman’s voice was calm but tinged with something unreadable. “Everyone seems to be in one piece.”

Shanks exhaled, rolling his shoulders as he steadied himself. Alright, that’s the first concern handled. Now the second… He turned toward the railings, gripping the worn wood as he finally took in their surroundings.

The last thing he had seen before the fall was a raging, impossible storm. Now, there was only calm. Too calm.

The Red Force floated on glass-like water, its hull barely causing ripples in the vast, still lake that stretched out around them. The mountains loomed like silent sentinels, their jagged peaks bathed in the soft glow of the moon, reflecting off the tranquil water like a painting frozen in time.

Shanks’ breath hitched slightly. What the hell?

“Captain…” Rockstar’s voice wavered as he took his own assessment. “We were in the middle of the ocean.”

“Yeah,” Lucky Roux added, rubbing his head. “And now we’re… not.”

“Where in the hell are we?” Yasopp demanded, still gripping his guns as if expecting another disaster to strike.

Elara, one of the newer members, stood near the starboard side, eyes wide as she turned in slow circles, trying to make sense of what she was seeing. “This—this isn’t possible.”

Shanks didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he took a moment to absorb everything. The mountains, the unblemished water, the crisp night air. And then there was the castle.

It loomed on the far side of the lake, its towers stretching toward the sky, its massive stone walls glowing with the light of a thousand torches. It was unlike anything Shanks had ever seen. The architecture was strange— too intricate, too structured, lacking the ro ugh, practical style of the fortress cities he had encountered in his travels. This was something old, something steeped in history that whispered secrets in the wind.

And then there were the figures.

Small at first, distant and indistinct, but they were approaching. Their movements were hurried, purposeful. They carried lanterns, their golden light flickering against the dark backdrop of the castle grounds. Shanks strained his hearing, his advanced senses just barely catching the faint shouting carried over the water. The words were muddled, but the urgency was unmistakable.

“We’ve got company,” Beckman murmured beside him, already reaching for his rifle. Not aggressively, but in that ever-present state of readiness he carried.

“No immediate hostility,” Shanks observed, holding up a hand to keep his crew steady. “But I’d bet my arm they’re just as surprised to see us as we are to see them.”

Bonk Punch and Monster exchanged a wary glance. Gab muttered something under his breath, adjusting his stance. Building Snake was already at the helm, making sure the ship was steady, though in truth, the waters were eerily still.

“Alright,” Shanks said, clapping his hands together as a slow grin spread across his face. “Let’s see what kind of strange adventure we’ve landed ourselves into this time.”

He was grinning, but deep down, something told him that whatever lay ahead was nothing like anything the Red-Haired Pirates had faced before.

And for the first time in a long time, Shanks felt the thrill of the unknown course through his veins.

Chapter Text

The Great Hall of Hogwarts was alive with the buzz of eager anticipation. The enchanted ceiling mirrored the restless autumn sky, the dark clouds shifting in endless patterns above the flickering glow of floating candles. The long tables of the four Houses were packed with students, their faces alight with excitement, their voices a chorus of murmurs and speculation. The Triwizard Tournament had returned to Hogwarts, and tonight, the champions would be chosen.

At the head of the Hall, the Goblet of Fire stood tall upon its pedestal, its blue-white flames licking upward in a mesmerizing dance. It had been accepting names for the past twenty-four hours, the enchanted parchment swallowed by the fire one by one, vanishing into the unseen depths of ancient magic.

Dumbledore stood near the Goblet, his aged but bright eyes sweeping over the assembled students. Beside him, the other judges—Madame Maxime of Beauxbatons, her towering form regal as ever, and Igor Karkaroff of Durmstrang, his sharp gaze calculating—stood with measured patience. Ludo Bagman and Barty Crouch Sr. flanked them, each bearing different degrees of enthusiasm.

Then, at last, the flames surged.

A collective hush fell over the Hall, the excitement tightening into suspense. The first name was about to be revealed.

A thin slip of parchment erupted from the Goblet, carried by the flames as if lifted by unseen hands. Dumbledore caught it deftly between his fingers, holding it up for all to see.

"The champion for Durmstrang," his voice rang clear across the Hall, "is Viktor Krum!"

A wave of applause swept through the students, particularly among the visiting Durmstrang delegation. Krum, the famed Seeker, stood with his usual quiet demeanor, striding forward with measured steps toward the judges’ table.

The flames crackled again, burning higher. Another name flew forth.

"The champion for Beauxbatons," Dumbledore read, "is Fleur Delacour!"

The Beauxbatons students erupted in cheers, Fleur rising with graceful confidence. Her silver-blonde hair shimmered in the candlelight as she made her way forward, offering a nod of thanks as she approached the judges.

The Goblet pulsed a third time, the flames twisting upward. Another parchment shot into the air.

"The Hogwarts champion," Dumbledore announced, "is Cedric Diggory!"

The Hufflepuff table exploded in cheers, their pride evident as Cedric stood, smiling modestly before making his way to join the other champions. There was a tangible energy in the Hall now, the excitement nearly reaching its peak.

But just as the Goblet should have dimmed, the flames flared once more.

The Hall stilled.

Dumbledore’s expression turned wary as another parchment emerged, fluttering down toward his waiting hand. This was not supposed to happen. Three champions. Three schools. That was the rule, as it had always been.

The whispers began before he even looked at the name. The sharp breaths of students, the exchanged glances of the professors—something was wrong.

Slowly, Dumbledore turned the parchment over, his sharp blue eyes scanning the words.

Then he stilled.

Silence fell heavier than before.

"Harry Potter."

For a moment, there was no reaction. No cheers, no outbursts—just a deep, weighted stillness as if the entire Hall had collectively stopped breathing.

Then, like the shifting of a great tide, the murmurs began.

"That can’t be right—"

"But he’s gone—"

"It has to be a mistake—"

The teachers at the head table exchanged glances of shock and uncertainty. McGonagall’s lips parted slightly, her usually stern expression giving way to genuine disbelief. Snape, his arms crossed, narrowed his eyes, his frown deepening into something unreadable.

“Impossible,” Karkaroff muttered, stepping closer. “The boy vanished years ago! The Ministry declared him—”

“He’s not here,” McGonagall interjected, her voice hushed but firm. “Harry Potter is not here.”

The Goblet did not respond to doubts, nor did it answer questions. It had spoken, and its magic was final.

Dumbledore, still gripping the parchment, lifted his gaze toward the students, his expression unreadable. He had lived long enough to know that fate seldom worked in simple ways, and yet, even for him, this was something unprecedented.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, an old, uneasy feeling stirred. A feeling that something was shifting, something ancient and untamed.

Harry Potter’s name had been drawn.

But Harry Potter was nowhere to be found.

The name Harry Potter lingered in the air long after it had been spoken, a ghost of a boy long since vanished, echoing through the Great Hall like an incantation no one knew how to counter. The Triwizard Tournament had long been a stage for spectacle, but this was something else entirely. This was a name that should not have been called.

And yet, the magic had decreed it so.

Beyond the walls of Hogwarts, beyond the murmurs of the students and the troubled glances of the professors, the very fabric of Wizarding Britain had been reshaped by the boy’s disappearance all those years ago.

Harry Potter was supposed to have been the savior of their world, the child who had defied death itself, the Boy Who Lived. But in the space of a single night, he had simply ceased to exist. No remains, no trail, no trace—just the lingering whisper of magic that had once shielded him.

At first, the Ministry had tried to quell the public panic. Children did not simply vanish, not in Britain, not from the heart of the Muggle world, not under their watch. Dumbledore himself had led the initial search, his presence a grim testament to how seriously the matter was taken. Aurors combed Little Whinging, tracing every leyline, every possible point of magical disturbance.

But there was nothing.

No sign of him, no residual magic that suggested a Portkey or Apparition. Even the Muggle authorities had been left baffled, though Vernon and Petunia Dursley had done little to help.

They had never wanted the boy.

Petunia, so tightly wound with bitterness, had clutched her hands to her apron and ranted about the unnaturalness of it all. Vernon had only scowled, his face redder than usual as he barked about how the boy had always been strange. They were not distraught. They were not worried. They were relieved.

It had taken everything in Dumbledore not to let his disappointment show.

Their relief turned to horror, however, when the world learned the truth. Harry Potter had disappeared from under their roof.

The press had descended on Privet Drive like a swarm of locusts, their quills scratching against enchanted parchment, demanding to know how Britain’s most famous child had vanished. The Prophet printed speculative headlines for months:

Was He Taken? Did He Run? Has the Dark Lord Returned?

Some factions of the public were quick to condemn the Ministry for their failure to keep the child safe. Others whispered that perhaps the boy had been meant to vanish, that his unnatural survival had been an omen best left alone. Conspiracy theories flourished, each more outlandish than the last. There were whispers that he had been taken by foreign wizards, that he had fled to lands unknown to escape some great doom.

Without a body, without an explanation, without even a direction, the world had no choice but to let the mystery stand. The searches lessened. The years passed. And soon, Harry Potter became less of a boy and more of a fable.

The Boy Who Lived had become The Boy Who Was Lost.

But not everyone had let go so easily.

The Weasleys had mourned the child they had barely known, their home always open should he somehow find his way to them. Sirius Black, once he had escaped Azkaban years later, had stormed Britain in search of the boy who should have been under his protection, his desperation driving him into near madness before Dumbledore had forced him to accept the truth.

Even the Death Eaters had taken notice, though their interest had been different. For those still loyal to the memory of Voldemort, the lack of a corpse left questions no one dared voice aloud. The Dark Lord had fallen, and yet his greatest enemy had simply disappeared?

It did not sit well.

And so, the world had continued on, changed but unchanging. The Ministry moved forward, laws were rewritten, names once feared were whispered only in shadowed corners. A new generation grew up in the absence of the boy who should have stood among them.

And now, twelve years later, his name had returned.

At the head table of the Great Hall, Dumbledore remained motionless, parchment still held between his fingers. The weight of the moment bore down on him, pressing into the very air around them. He had suspected something strange when the Goblet had flared again—but this?

This was something even he had not foreseen.

"It must be a mistake," McGonagall said, her voice clipped but edged with a rare, unguarded tension. "It must be."

"The Goblet does not make mistakes," Karkaroff muttered, his pale features tightening as he ran a hand through his beard.

A murmur was rising among the students. Not just among the Hogwarts tables, but among Beauxbatons and Durmstrang as well. Many of them had grown up hearing the stories, seeing the famous lightning scar on book covers and posters. But none of them had ever met the boy. He was a myth, a relic of the past.

And yet, the Goblet had spoken.

Dumbledore, at last, folded the parchment carefully, slipping it into the sleeve of his robe. His expression betrayed nothing, but inwardly, his mind was racing.

If the Goblet had selected Harry Potter, then somewhere—somewhere—Harry Potter was alive.

And fate had just called him back.

The murmur of confused and uneasy voices filled the Great Hall like the distant rumbling of a gathering storm. Harry Potter’s name still hung over them, weightier than the enchanted ceiling above, as students exchanged bewildered glances and hushed speculations. The Goblet of Fire stood silent, its flames once more a steady, indifferent blue, oblivious to the chaos it had just wrought.

Dumbledore did not waste time. His voice, though even, carried a note of urgency as he addressed the gathered students. “Professors McGonagall, Snape, Moody, and Karkaroff, with me. Madame Maxime, if you would join us as well. The rest of you, remain here.”

Some of the professors exchanged glances, but they obeyed without hesitation. As Dumbledore turned toward the smaller adjoining chamber where the champions were meant to meet, McGonagall cast a sharp glance at Flitwick and Sprout. “Ensure the students remain calm,” she ordered.

“Calm?” murmured Flitwick with an incredulous huff. “Easier said than done.”

Snape’s black robes billowed as he swept ahead of the group into the chamber, his sharp gaze betraying neither surprise nor concern—only a calculating wariness. Karkaroff followed with visible agitation, muttering to himself in hushed tones, while Moody stomped in with a growl, his magical eye whizzing erratically.

The door shut firmly behind them, sealing them from the prying ears of the students outside.

Inside the chamber, tension curled through the air like a tangible force. The room was smaller than the Great Hall but no less grand, lined with aged stone walls and several tall, arched windows. A fireplace crackled, its glow barely warming the chill of uncertainty settling over them.

Dumbledore folded the slip of parchment containing Harry’s name and tucked it into the sleeve of his robe. He turned to face them all, his calm gaze betraying the swift calculations running through his mind. “We must act swiftly. The Goblet has spoken, but as we all know, Harry Potter has been missing for over a decade.”

Karkaroff scoffed, pacing furiously. “This is absurd! Someone is playing a very dangerous game, Dumbledore. Either that, or your vaunted tournament is broken beyond repair.”

McGonagall’s lips pressed into a thin line. “It is not broken, Igor,” she said coldly. “The Goblet does not make mistakes.”

“Then what do you propose? That a boy who vanished into thin air twelve years ago has somehow entered himself?” Karkaroff snapped. “Do you even hear how mad that sounds?”

“We are not here to argue what does or does not sound mad,” Snape interrupted, his voice like a blade against stone. His expression was unreadable, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. “We must consider how this could have happened and, more importantly, what it means.”

Moody grunted. “Someone put that name in there, and they did it for a reason. If Potter’s alive, someone’s been keeping him hidden—or he’s been hiding himself. Either way, the world will want answers.”

Dumbledore nodded slowly. “That is why we must be careful in our next steps.” He turned to McGonagall. “Minerva, I want you to send an immediate message to the Ministry. We must inform them of this development, though we must be cautious in how much we reveal.”

McGonagall gave a sharp nod and strode toward the writing desk in the corner, pulling out a quill and parchment with swift efficiency.

“Snape,” Dumbledore continued, “we must attempt to trace the name magically. If there is a lingering signature, we may find some clue as to its origin.”

Snape inclined his head, his dark eyes glinting with calculation. “I will need time.”

Madame Maxime, silent until now, finally spoke. “What do you expect to find, Dumbledore? If zis boy ‘as truly returned, would he not ‘ave made himself known before now?”

Dumbledore let out a slow breath. “That, my dear Olympe, is the very question we must answer.”

A hush settled over them, thick and heavy, as if the very air had grown wary of their discussion. The fire crackled. The distant murmur of students from the Great Hall seeped faintly through the stone walls.

Then, all at once, the room was flooded with golden light.

The professors flinched, turning toward the tall windows that overlooked the Hogwarts grounds. Beyond the glass, past the rolling green hills and shadowed treetops, something was happening near the Black Lake.

The golden light pulsed, its brilliance swallowing the darkened sky, illuminating the water’s surface in a way no natural magic should have. The very air seemed to hum with power, a resonance that sent chills down the spine.

“What in Merlin’s name—” McGonagall breathed, her quill falling forgotten onto the desk.

Moody was already reaching for his wand. “That’s not normal magic.”

Dumbledore stared at the phenomenon, his expression unreadable. The light was unlike anything he had ever seen—ancient, untamed, and impossibly vast.

A storm was coming.

And for the first time in many years, he did not know what lay beyond it.

The golden light still pulsed outside the windows, its brilliance bathing the Great Hall in an eerie glow. Whispers had turned to anxious murmurs, students rising from their seats, craning their necks to see what lay beyond the towering doors of the castle.

Then, with a resounding boom, a burst of crackling blue light shot from Dumbledore’s wand, splitting the air like a thunderclap. Silence fell instantly, the weight of his presence commanding the room.

His eyes, usually twinkling with some hidden mirth, were sharp as steel as they swept over the assembled students. “You will all remain in the Great Hall,” he declared, his voice carrying an authority that left no room for argument. “No one is to leave until instructed otherwise.”

A few students, particularly from Gryffindor, looked as though they wanted to protest, but McGonagall’s pointed glare kept them seated. Even the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang contingents exchanged wary glances, uneasy about what was unfolding.

Dumbledore turned sharply, addressing Flitwick, McGonagall, Moody and one of the Ministry officials present, a stern-looking man by the name of Charles Montford, who had come to oversee the proceedings. “With me.”

The smaller professor’s eyes flickered with curiosity behind his half-moon spectacles, but he nodded briskly. Montford, though clearly unsettled, fell into step beside them. Snape and the other headteachers remained behind, both watching the students like hawks.

Together, the five strode toward the great entrance doors, the heavy wooden slabs groaning as they swung open to reveal the castle grounds.

The moment they stepped outside, the sight before them stole their breath.

Out on the lake, looming like a specter against the moonlit water, was a ship unlike anything they had ever seen. It was massive—larger than the Durmstrang vessel by far, its hull a deep crimson, gleaming in the golden light that had seemingly brought it forth. A massive skull adorned its sails, the stark white of it a glaring contrast against the dark canvas.

“A ship?” Flitwick muttered in awe, his tiny frame stiff with shock. “How—?”

Dumbledore’s expression was unreadable. He had seen many things in his long life, had studied ancient magics far beyond the understanding of most. But this? This was beyond even his considerable knowledge.

“A ship of that size shouldn’t even fit on the lake,” Montford said, his voice laced with disbelief. “And that flag—what does it mean?”

Dumbledore didn’t answer. He had no answer to give.

As they moved closer, more details became apparent. The ship was bustling with figures, men and women moving with practiced ease across the deck. They were shouting to one another, their voices carrying over the water, though the words were foreign to wizarding ears.

And then there were the weapons.

Dumbledore’s keen eyes locked onto the odd devices slung across the backs and belts of several figures. Some carried curved blades—swords, he recognized those well enough—but others clutched strange metal contraptions, their hands resting easily on what appeared to be triggers. They resembled something he had once glimpsed in Muggle history books, but they were bulkier, more intricate, their designs unlike anything from modern Muggle times.

“What are they holding?” Montford whispered.

McGonagall's brow furrowed. “Some kind of Muggle artifact?” She sounded uncertain. “But—no, those don’t look like the rudimentary firearms Muggles use. This is something else.”

Dumbledore remained silent, taking in the scene before him. The figures on the ship were not simply standing idly—they were checking the rigging, assessing their surroundings with the air of hardened sailors. They carried themselves with an ease that spoke of battle, of experience. These were no lost travelers.

And yet, they showed no outward aggression.

Dumbledore watched as a tall figure, broader than most of the others, turned to speak to a man with a cigarette dangling from his lips. The way they moved, the sharp glances exchanged—this was a structured crew, a unit that functioned without needing to speak every command aloud. He recognized discipline when he saw it, though theirs was a far cry from the rigid formations of Aurors or Ministry officials.

“This has something to do with the Goblet,” Montford muttered, his grip tightening on his wand. “It has to.”

Dumbledore inclined his head slightly. The Goblet of Fire was ancient magic, bound by rules that even he could not fully decipher. And now, it had called forth something that should not exist in their world.

“We should make contact,” Flitwick said, though his tone was edged with caution.

Dumbledore nodded. “Yes. But carefully.”

His blue eyes remained fixed on the ship. The magic that had brought it here was powerful—ancient, unpredictable.

And if the Goblet had deemed it necessary to summon these strangers, then whatever came next would change everything.

With a quiet incantation and a flick of his wand, Dumbledore extended the dock outward, the wooden planks stretching over the still waters of the Black Lake with an eerie smoothness. The structure stopped just short of the great red ship, allowing them to approach without the need for boats or spells that might startle the strangers.

Dumbledore led the way, his long robes trailing behind him as his boots clicked softly against the dock’s polished surface. McGonagall walked beside him, barely making a sound, her sharp eyes darting across the ship and its inhabitants. Montford followed closely, his grip tight on his wand, ready for any sign of hostility. Flitwick and Moody where bringing up the rear.

The closer they came, the clearer the figures on the deck became, and the more apparent it was that they were not ordinary travelers. The crew was rough-looking, yet their movements were controlled, disciplined in a way that was at odds with their roguish appearance. Their clothing was unlike anything seen in the wizarding world—long coats, heavy belts with pouches and strange metal objects, and in many cases, wide-brimmed hats or scarves tied loosely around their necks.

Swords, curved and gleaming, hung at their sides, but even more alarming were the objects slung over their shoulders—long, metallic contraptions that bore no resemblance to wands yet exuded a similar sense of lethality. These were weapons, but of a kind that did not belong in either the magical or Muggle world as the wizards knew it.

And then there was him.

At the center of it all stood the man they clearly deferred to. A tall, broad-shouldered figure with a thick red mane of hair, tied loosely at the nape of his neck, the color stark against the darkness of the night. A black coat, lined with gold trim, draped over his shoulders, the fabric slightly open at the front to reveal a simple white shirt, tucked carelessly into dark trousers. But it was his face that drew the eye.

Three long scars ran diagonally over his left eye, a deep, jagged mark that did nothing to detract from the easy confidence he carried himself with. His right arm was conspicuously absent, the empty sleeve tucked neatly into his coat. And despite his relaxed stance, there was no mistaking the sheer weight of his presence. The crew watched him, waited for his cues, every movement acknowledging him as their leader in a way that was unspoken yet absolute.

Who is this man? Dumbledore thought, studying him carefully.

The red-haired man turned his gaze toward them, sharp yet filled with an unmistakable amusement, as though this entire situation was more entertaining than concerning. He cocked his head slightly before stepping forward to the edge of the deck, resting his one hand on the railing.

“Looks like we’ve got visitors,” he said, his voice deep and rolling like the sea itself. His accent was unfamiliar, the tone light but carrying the weight of someone used to command.

Dumbledore, ever the diplomat, took another step forward. “Indeed,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “I am Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. These are my colleagues, Professor Flitwick, Professor McGonagall, Professor Moody and Charles Montford of the Ministry of Magic.”

The red-haired man raised an eyebrow, the smirk still playing at his lips. “Magic, huh?” He turned slightly, glancing back at his first mate, the tall, silver-haired man who had been standing at his side, cigarette dangling loosely between his fingers.

“Guess that explains the weird storm,” the first mate—Beckman, if the muttered conversations from the deck were any indication—remarked dryly.

Dumbledore chose to ignore that, instead pressing on. “We seek information. A name was drawn from an ancient magical artifact—a name belonging to someone who has been missing from our world for over a decade. We believe his presence is tied to the unusual events that brought you here.”

The crew exchanged glances, curiosity flickering across their faces.

“We are searching for a boy,” Flitwick added, stepping forward. “A fourteen-year-old with black hair, glasses, and a lightning-shaped scar on his forehead.”

The crew stared at them. Then, one by one, they started laughing. Some snorted, others outright howled, but it was clear that their response was not one of cruelty—merely disbelief.

“Oi, Captain,” one of them called—a burly man with a bandana and an easygoing grin. “D’you see any fourteen-year-old kids on this ship?”

Shanks—if that was truly his name—chuckled, shaking his head. “Nope. Can’t say we have.”

Montford scowled. “This is not a joke. The name that was called belongs to someone of great importance to our world. If you know anything—”

“We don’t,” Shanks said simply, but there was no disrespect in his tone. He studied them again, this time more thoughtfully. “But from the looks of it, something pretty interesting is going on.”

Dumbledore exhaled slowly. These people, whoever they were, had no idea what they had been pulled into. And yet, they had been pulled into it. The magic of the Goblet was absolute. If it had reached across worlds to bring them here, then this was only the beginning.

“Then it would seem,” Dumbledore said at last, “that we have much to discuss.”

Chapter Text

The night air was crisp, tinged with the faint scent of damp stone and fresh water. The stillness of the lake stretched around them, untouched except for the gentle lapping against the Red Force’s hull. The golden glow that had torn them from the chaotic winds of the New World had faded, leaving only the unsettling silence of an unfamiliar world.

Shanks stood at the ship’s railing, one hand resting idly on the wood, his gaze fixed on the figures making their way down from the massive castle perched in the mountains. The crew behind him moved with their usual ease, but the undercurrent of tension was unmistakable. They weren’t strangers to the unknown, but something about this place, about these people, sent a faint ripple through their instincts. 

"They move like warriors," Beckman observed from Shanks’ right, his cigarette glowing faintly as he exhaled slow, deliberate smoke. "But they don’t carry themselves like fighters."

Shanks hummed in agreement, his keen eyes taking in the newcomers. Their robes billowed as they walked, an odd uniformity in their garb that didn’t match the rugged wear of pirates or even the strict uniforms of Marines. The older man leading them had a strange presence, a quiet sort of authority that carried no arrogance, only experience. But it was the two beside him that held Shanks’ attention. 

The stern-faced woman with her hair in a tight bun had the posture of someone who took no nonsense, her sharp gaze scanning everything in measured calculation. She reminded him of the few disciplined captains he had crossed paths with, the ones who could command entire fleets with a look alone. The other was more unsettling—a man with mismatched eyes, one normal and one a strange, mechanical thing that whirred and flicked from side to side. He walked like a man who trusted nothing, his hand twitching as though itching for a weapon. 

Behind them, a small older man, shorter than anyone else in the group, moved with surprising speed, his eyes bright with something that looked almost like curiosity. And the final one—the one with an air of formality too rigid to be anything but authority—was already gripping his wand with white-knuckled determination. A government man if Shanks had ever seen one. 

"That one’s got the air of a man who’s seen too many battles," Yasopp muttered, nodding toward the grizzled man with the unnatural eye. "Reminds me of some of the warlords. Always watching, never resting."

"And the woman?" Lucky Roux asked, still chewing on a piece of meat. "Bet she’d smack someone if they got out of line."

Shanks chuckled. "She does have that look, doesn’t she?"

Despite their words, there was a tension among the crew. It wasn’t fear—pirates didn’t fear the unknown, only things they had learned *deserved* fear—but an awareness, a readiness. The strange storm had brought them here, and now the people walking toward them carried an air of something… else.

It wasn’t Haki, not quite. But it was something akin to it. A force, invisible yet tangible, weaving through the air like an unseen current. It didn’t press upon them like a conqueror’s will, nor did it whisper of danger the way a predator’s instincts would. Instead, it simply was—a deep hum of energy threaded into the very fabric of this world.

Shanks rolled his shoulders, shaking off the strange weight of it. He wasn’t a scholar, wasn’t one to dwell on things he couldn’t grasp immediately, but whatever it was, it was ancient. 

"Feels different, doesn’t it?" Beckman muttered.

"Yeah," Shanks admitted, watching as the figures reached the dock. "But at the same time… not."

There was something else, too, something the crew hadn’t spoken about yet but all of them had noticed. These people—they had *power*, but none of them felt like the strongest one present. Not even the old man with the beard who carried himself like a leader. No, the strongest one here was still Shanks. 

And that? That made things interesting.

"They’re almost here," Rockstar muttered, adjusting his grip on his sword.

Shanks smiled, raising his hand in an easy wave as the figures finally stopped at the dock. His grin widened when he saw the brief flicker of surprise in the older man’s eyes. 

So they weren’t expecting us to be friendly. Interesting.

Beckman exhaled, taking one last drag from his cigarette before flicking it into the lake.

"Let’s see how they handle a conversation."

Shanks leaned on the railing of the Red Force, his grin widening as the odd group of robed figures stood at the end of the dock, gazing up at his ship. The silver-bearded man at their center carried himself like a leader, his voice steady but warm as he introduced himself. 

Dumbledore, huh? Shanks thought. The name meant nothing to him, nor did the titles the man listed for his companions. But the way they carried themselves, the way their eyes darted about cataloging details, told him all he needed to know. They were wary, but not afraid. Curious, but not desperate. 

Magic. Now that was something interesting.

He let the silence hang for a moment longer before turning to Beckman. “Guess that explains the weird storm,” he mused, watching as his first mate exhaled a lazy stream of smoke.

Beckman gave the smallest tilt of his head, an unspoken agreement. Magic wasn’t something they had encountered before, at least not in the way these robed figures wielded it. 

Dumbledore, however, was already moving on. 

“We seek information,” the old man continued. “A name was drawn from an ancient magical artifact—a name belonging to someone who has been missing from our world for over a decade. We believe his presence is tied to the unusual events that brought you here.”

Shanks noticed the way his crew shifted at that. The idea that some thing—some relic or artifact—had pulled them here without their knowledge or consent didn’t sit well. Pirates didn’t like being controlled, least of all by unseen forces.

Then Flitwick spoke up. “We are searching for a boy. A fourteen-year-old with black hair, glasses, and a lightning-shaped scar on his forehead.”

Shanks blinked. 

Then, before he could help it, he laughed. The reaction rippled through his crew, Yasopp snorting into his sleeve, Lucky Roux letting out a full belly laugh. Even Beckman smirked around his cigarette.

“Oi, Captain,” one of the crewmen called out, shaking his head. “D’you see any fourteen-year-old kids on this ship?”

Shanks let out another chuckle, shaking his head. “Nope. Can’t say we have.”

Montford, the stiff-looking official, didn’t seem amused. “This is not a joke. The name that was called belongs to someone of great importance to our world. If you know anything—”

“We don’t,” Shanks said simply, but his tone was even, certain. He studied them again, this time more thoughtfully. They believed what they were saying, that much was clear. But it was equally clear that they weren’t lying either. If this artifact of theirs had truly called his crew here because of some kid, then either the artifact was mistaken—or something bigger was at play.

“But from the looks of it,” he continued, crossing his arms, “something pretty interesting is going on.”

Dumbledore exhaled slowly, clearly coming to the same conclusion. He was no fool. These weren’t the answers he wanted, but they were the answers that existed. 

“Then it would seem,” Dumbledore said at last, “that we have much to discuss.”

Shanks exchanged a glance with Beckman, who gave the faintest of nods. They had no reason to trust these people, but there was no threat here—not yet. 

“Well,” Shanks said, stepping back from the railing. “No point in talking from down there. Why don’t you come aboard?”

There was a moment of hesitation. The crew might not have drawn their weapons, but the sheer presence of them was enough to make any outsider pause. The swords at their sides, the rifles slung over their backs—these weren’t mere sailors. 

Moody’s mismatched eyes flickered around the deck, his hand hovering near his coat. McGonagall’s frown deepened, but she looked to Dumbledore. The old man studied Shanks for another long moment before finally nodding.

“Very well.”

With that, the wizards stepped forward, the dock beneath them creaking slightly as they crossed the threshold onto the ship.

The Red Force was now officially hosting some of the strangest visitors it had ever seen.

The wooden planks of the Red Force creaked under the weight of their strange visitors. Shanks watched as the group of robed figures stepped carefully onto his ship, their movements wary, though not fearful. The old man, Dumbledore, took the lead, his gaze sweeping over the deck with an appraising eye, while the others remained slightly behind him.

Beckman stood to Shanks’ right, his cigarette still burning between his fingers, watching the newcomers with his usual unreadable expression. Yasopp and Lucky Roux lingered close as well, casual in stance but ready for anything. The rest of the crew had taken a step back, giving the conversation room to unfold while still observing with the quiet vigilance of seasoned pirates.

Dumbledore took a deep breath, his expression still calm but tinged with something contemplative. “I imagine this situation is as peculiar to you as it is to us,” he began, his voice carrying that same gentle authority Shanks had noted before. “We were not expecting… outsiders, let alone an entire ship, to be drawn into our world.”

“Yeah, well, neither were we,” Shanks replied with an easy shrug. “One moment, we’re on the sea. Next thing we know, there’s a storm that shouldn’t exist, and suddenly we’re here. A bit rude, if you ask me.”

Flitwick, the small man who had introduced himself as a professor, hummed thoughtfully. “The Goblet of Fire is ancient magic, but never before has it… transported individuals across worlds. It was designed to select champions, not summon them.”

“Champions, huh?” Shanks rubbed his chin. “And you think this missing kid of yours is on my ship?”

Montford, the stiff official who had been silent for the past minute, crossed his arms. “Harry Potter’s name was drawn. The Goblet does not lie. He must be here, whether you realize it or not.”

Shanks raised an eyebrow at the certainty in his tone but didn’t comment. Instead, he leaned back slightly, casting a glance at his crew. “Alright. Let’s say for a second this Goblet thing isn’t wrong. Why would it pick some random teenager?”

McGonagall, who had thus far been silent, spoke up. “Harry Potter is not just any teenager,” she said crisply. “He is—was—one of the most important figures in our world. As an infant, he was at the center of the downfall of a dark wizard who sought to rule over us all.”

Shanks whistled low, impressed despite himself. “Sounds like a big deal.”

“More than you know,” Dumbledore said. “And yet, he vanished from our world years ago. We had long assumed him lost—until the Goblet of Fire called his name.”

There was a beat of silence. The waves lapped gently against the hull of the Red Force, the quiet juxtaposing the weight of the conversation.

Then, Lucky Roux scratched his head, looking genuinely confused. “Alright, I gotta ask… what exactly is a school?”

McGonagall blinked. “I—pardon?”

Shanks chuckled at the sheer bewilderment on the wizards’ faces. “You see, where we come from, kids learn from their elders. Parents, village elders, crewmates—they teach you what you need to know. You pick up the skills to survive from those around you. If you want to be a swordsman, you train under a swordsman. A navigator? You apprentice under someone who knows the stars.”

Flitwick tilted his head. “So… no formal education?”

Shanks grinned. “Not in the way you’re apparently thinking. If you want to learn something, you find someone who knows it, and you learn by doing.”

Moody, who had been largely observing, grunted. “Hmph. Not entirely unlike Auror training.”

Beckman took a slow drag of his cigarette. “Sounds more efficient, if you ask me.”

McGonagall huffed. “Education is more than learning a trade—it’s about knowledge, discipline, understanding history, and magic.”

“That’s another thing,” Shanks said, looking back at Dumbledore. “You keep saying ‘magic’ like it’s some kind of skill. From what I can tell, you folks can do things that we’d usually chalk up to tricks or devil fruits. So what exactly is it?”

Dumbledore smiled slightly, as though expecting the question. “Magic is an intrinsic force, an energy that certain individuals are born with. With proper training, it allows us to shape the world around us, to alter reality itself.”

Shanks scratched at his beard. “Haki lets us do some pretty crazy things too. But anyone can learn Haki if they train hard enough. You’re saying magic is something you have to be born with?”

Flitwick nodded. “Precisely. One cannot simply learn magic if they do not possess the gift.”

Shanks exhaled through his nose, filing that information away. So that was the difference. Haki was a power anyone could reach, a force of will and discipline. Magic, however, was something you either had or didn’t.

Yasopp crossed his arms. “Alright, so this kid of yours—Harry Potter. If he was really on this ship, we would have noticed.”

Shanks nodded in agreement. “We keep track of our own. No stray teenagers sneaking around our decks.”

Montford scowled. “The Goblet of Fire does not make mistakes.”

Beckman exhaled slowly. “Maybe not. But if Harry Potter’s here, he sure isn’t making himself known.”

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled, though there was something deeper behind them. He stroked his beard. “Then, Captain Shanks, it would appear we have more investigating to do.”

Shanks leaned back, a smirk playing at his lips. “Seems like it.”

And as the night stretched on, the divide between their two worlds became all the more apparent.

The air aboard the Red Force had shifted. Not in tension, not in hostility—but in understanding. Two worlds stood facing each other, separated by more than just an ocean, more than just magic. It was a divide carved by the lives they led, by the things they valued, by the way they saw the world.

Beckman, who had been mostly silent as the conversation ebbed and flowed, flicked his cigarette overboard, watching the embers disappear into the still water of the lake. Then he turned his sharp gaze toward Montford, the stiff-backed man who had been quiet for most of the discussion, observing but not engaging.

“You’re different,” Beckman said, tilting his head slightly. “Dumbledore introduced you separate from the others. ‘Of the Ministry of Magic,’ wasn’t it?”

Montford straightened, adjusting the lapels of his robe. “Yes. I represent the Ministry, the governing body of the wizarding world in Britain.”

Shanks hummed, eyes glinting with curiosity. “Governing body, huh?”

Montford gave a curt nod. “The Ministry oversees all aspects of magical society—law enforcement, international relations, regulation of magical creatures, secrecy laws, and education, among many other duties.”

There was a beat of silence among the pirates. Then, Yasopp let out a low chuckle. “So you’re a government man.”

Montford’s expression didn’t change. “Yes.”

That single word carried a weight that hung between them, and the pirates exchanged looks, their amusement more pronounced now. It wasn’t the kind of amusement that came from mockery—it was the kind born from a fundamental, near-innate understanding of something that the wizards in front of them would never grasp.

Lucky Roux grinned, arms crossed over his chest. “Let me guess—lots of rules, lots of paperwork, and lots of people in suits deciding how others ought to live?”

Montford’s frown deepened. “We maintain order. Without the Ministry, the magical world would fall into chaos.”

Beckman exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly. “Sounds familiar.”

Shanks leaned back slightly, tilting his head toward Montford. “And what happens if someone doesn’t agree with your rules? If they don’t want to be governed?”

Montford’s expression hardened. “Then they are dealt with accordingly.”

That earned a full laugh from the pirates. Not a mocking one, but one laced with the kind of understanding that could only come from men who had spent their entire lives outside the reach of governments and their laws.

“You hear that, Captain?” Yasopp grinned. “Sounds a lot like the Marines.”

Shanks smirked, but his eyes remained sharp. “A little too much, yeah.”

McGonagall, who had been silent for a moment, finally spoke, her voice measured. “The Ministry is not a force of tyranny. It exists to ensure the safety of the magical world and those within it.”

Shanks considered her words carefully, then let out a slow sigh. “I’m sure that’s what they tell themselves. But let me ask you this—what happens when your so-called order starts deciding what kind of freedom people are allowed to have?”

Montford stiffened. “Freedom cannot come at the cost of structure and security. We must protect our world.”

Shanks shook his head, a small, knowing smile playing at his lips. “That’s where we see things differently. See, we don’t have a government. No king, no laws, no ministry watching over us. The sea is free, and the only thing that rules it is strength and will.”

Flitwick looked intrigued, though his expression remained neutral. “And yet you have structure—your crew follows you, do they not?”

Shanks nodded. “They do. But not because they have to. They follow me because they choose to. Because they believe in me, and I believe in them.”

Beckman crossed his arms. “Big difference between loyalty and obedience.”

Moody, who had been observing with his ever-scrutinizing gaze, finally let out a gruff chuckle. “Hmph. You lot really don’t trust authority, do you?”

Lucky Roux smirked. “Would you?”

McGonagall sighed, rubbing her temples. “We are not oppressors.”

“No,” Shanks agreed, “but you still put a leash on the world.” He gestured vaguely toward the castle in the distance. “We live by freedom. We choose our own paths. We fight for what we believe in. No one decides for us how we live, where we go, or what we do.”

Montford’s face was unreadable, but it was clear the words unsettled him. The idea of a world without structured control was not one he could accept so easily.

Dumbledore, however, was watching Shanks with a glint of understanding in his eyes. “Then I suspect this will be an interesting challenge,” he murmured.

Shanks chuckled. “Yeah. Guess it will be.”

The conversation hung heavy in the air, the weight of it settling between the two groups like a tide pulling back to reveal jagged rocks beneath. Shanks could see it in their eyes—the wizards had lived in a world of laws, of governance, of systems built to contain magic and those who wielded it. The idea of true freedom, of a life unbound by any overarching authority, was foreign to them.

Beckman leaned back slightly, arms crossed, his ever-present cigarette smoldering between his fingers. “You want to know about our world’s government?” he mused, eyes flicking toward Montford with something between curiosity and amusement. “Well, it’s a little different from yours.”

Shanks exhaled, gaze turning toward the horizon for a brief moment before he began. “There are three main powers that control the world. The Marines, the World Government, and the Celestial Dragons.” He let the last name hang, watching the wizards’ reactions closely.

Dumbledore’s brow furrowed slightly, his sharp blue eyes catching the tension in the crew’s posture at the mention of the last group. “Celestial Dragons?” he repeated.

“They’re the so-called rulers of the world,” Yasopp muttered, scowling. “Descendants of the original founders of the World Government, and they think that makes them gods.”

“They live in the holy land of Mary Geoise,” Lucky Roux added, chewing idly but with less enthusiasm than before. “They own everything. Control everything. And if you’re not one of them? You’re nothing.”

Montford’s frown deepened. “That sounds… excessive.”

Shanks let out a humorless chuckle. “Excessive? That’s one way to put it. They don’t just rule from the shadows; they do whatever they want, to whoever they want. And the Marines? The ones who claim to be the keepers of justice?” He shook his head, expression darkening slightly. “They uphold it. They protect them. They look the other way when the Celestial Dragons buy and sell people like livestock.”

McGonagall’s face paled slightly, and even Moody, who had seen the worst of humanity, clenched his jaw. 

“Slavery,” Flitwick whispered, aghast.

Shanks nodded. “Yeah. And anyone who tries to stand against them? Branded a criminal. A pirate.” He let the word roll off his tongue, watching their reactions carefully. “There are good Marines out there, sure. People who believe in justice, who fight for what’s right. But the system itself? It’s rotten.”

Dumbledore exhaled, his gaze distant. He had lived long enough to know the depths of cruelty mankind was capable of, but to hear it laid out so plainly, with such certainty, was another thing entirely. 

“That is…” McGonagall struggled for the right words. “Horrific.”

Shanks smiled, but there was no humor in it. “It is what it is. That’s why we live free. That’s why we don’t bow to anyone.”

A long silence followed. The waves lapped gently against the hull, the only sound filling the space between them. The wizards had thought they were dealing with dangerous men, outlaws—but this? This was something else entirely. 

Then, in the quiet, Dumbledore clapped his hands together, the sound breaking through the tension like a gentle breeze cutting through a storm. 

“Well,” he said, his voice lighter but still holding that ever-present wisdom, “it seems we all have much to think about. But first, let us address the matter at hand. If young Harry Potter is indeed here, then we will need a way to locate him.”

He turned slightly, his eyes twinkling as he spoke his next words. “Severus, our Potions Master, will brew a special potion that should help us determine his presence or, at the very least, his whereabouts.”

Shanks tilted his head slightly, his grin returning but more thoughtful now. “A potion, huh? Guess that’s one way to go about it.”

“You are welcome to remain here on the lake, or, if you prefer, you may come to the castle,” Dumbledore offered, gesturing toward the towering spires of Hogwarts in the distance.

Shanks chuckled. “Appreciate the offer, old man, but we’re more comfortable on our own deck.”

Beckman smirked, exhaling another stream of smoke. “And we don’t exactly trust castles built by governments.”

Dumbledore merely nodded, unsurprised. “Very well. Then we shall reconvene in the morning.”

As the wizards prepared to depart, Shanks turned to his crew, already running through plans in his mind. 

“Ben,” he said, voice casual but carrying that undeniable authority, “set up a watch rotation. I want eyes on the shore and the sky.”

Beckman nodded, already knowing the drill. “Got it.”

Shanks exhaled, glancing back toward the castle as the wizards disappeared into the night. Whatever they had gotten themselves into, it was only just beginning.

Chapter Text

Hey everyone! 💬

First things first — this story is not abandoned. I’ve got an outline and I do intend to see it through to the end. That said… I want to be real with you for a moment.

Right now, I’m kind of stuck. 😔

I have the outline, yes, but the scenes I’m trying to write just… don’t feel right, no matter what I do. It’s frustrating.

So now I’m standing at a bit of a crossroads. 🛣️

I’ve already started rewriting some chapters — but I’m torn. Should I:

1. Just post the rewrites in this story and keep going here?
2. Or start a new work and post them separately?

I honestly can’t decide, so I’m leaving it up to you! 💭

Let me know in the comments what you’d prefer:

Rewrite here, or post as a new fic?

Until then, I’m wishing you a good day or night — wherever in the world you are. 🌍💖