Harry Potter: Magic and Guns

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*****

Golden plates on the long table were now piled high with food. Harry's gaze passed over the mashed potatoes, and he stacked his own plate with steak and roasted lamb ribs. As a true carnivore, Harry never forced himself to eat greens. Vegetables were necessary, sure, but a salad was more of a refreshing snack after the meal.

"This is great! It's been a while since I've seen someone with an appetite like mine," a chubby ghost floated over to Harry while he was digging in. "Hufflepuff has been on a diet craze since last year. To be honest, I just can't understand the positive benefits of making oneself go hungry."

"Well, you don't need to eat anymore, do you, Fat Friar? Since I joined Hufflepuff, I've been having breakfast, lunch, afternoon tea, dinner, supper, and every weekend there's a barbecue or some weird tasting party. If Professor Sprout didn't make us do some odd jobs like picking fertilizers, I'd bet I'd gain forty pounds this year."

A worried-looking boy rested his chin on his hands, his plate containing just a small piece of grilled chicken breast surrounded by a sea of green vegetables.

"Honestly, there's nothing wrong with gaining a little weight. You're all growing, after all. If you don't eat enough, how will you grow? Even if you want to lose weight, you need energy, don't you?"

The Fat Friar patted his belly, his face showing a harmless, good-natured smile.

"Oh, give me a break! Your experience doesn't exactly fill us with confidence, Friar."

The boy stuffed a mouthful of leaves into his mouth, chewing with a miserable expression, as if they were tasteless wax.

"Why do they call you the Fat Friar, anyway?" Harry asked after finishing the sizzling lamb ribs. He glanced at the Friar, who was draped in what looked like a bullet belt. He didn't resemble a church priest at all. Unless, of course, the church worshiped not God, but some deity of firearms, like the Gatling Bodhisattva: '3,600 rounds a minute, firing uranium rounds with complete detachment.'

"That's a long story," the Fat Friar scratched his cheek, speaking in a tone of total resignation. "After graduation, I joined the church as a cleric. But those times weren't good. The Muggle world was in chaos, even worse than the wizarding one—war, famine, and disease were everywhere. I thought joining the church could help somehow."

"And what happened?" Harry's curiosity was piqued.

"Well, I quickly rose to the rank of cardinal, almost becoming the Pope. But because of that, the current Pope, feeling insecure about his position, ordered the Inquisition to ambush me with a stun gun. They knocked me out and branded me a heretic."

"And then?"

"Then I realized being a holy man wouldn't save the world. There's no God, after all. But magic—that can change things."

The Fat Friar gave a resigned smile as he patted the bullet belt around his waist. "Unfortunately, I realized it too late. Thankfully, I didn't get burned at the stake. They didn't dare. I died somewhat respectably."

"Ambushed?!" One of the younger wizards laughed. "Didn't you get caught because you were too fat to run and got tied up by Muggles?"

"That's not true! I wasn't caught, tied up, or slaughtered like a pig. You're spreading lies!" The Friar firmly denied it, his face serious. He waved his hands in protest. "Rumors stop with the wise. You need to be smarter than to believe all that nonsense—it's all made up."

"But I didn't say anything..."

The Hufflepuffs burst into laughter. The Friar pursed his lips, and then joined in the laughter too.

"Well, kids, being too fat can be a problem, like me. But there's no need to starve yourselves now. Just make sure you're eating enough."

"Exactly! You need energy to get things done."

Harry finished his meat-heavy feast and then grabbed a bowl of salad to refresh his palate.

"See? That's the right idea," the Friar said, looking at Harry with admiration. "What a fine young man." He then floated away, cheerfully greeting the other first-years.

The banquet was nearing its end. The puddings at Hogwarts were good, though a bit too sweet for Harry's taste. After wiping his mouth with a napkin, Harry looked up at the teachers' table.

Hagrid was downing tankards of ale from a large oak barrel, chatting happily with an elderly professor missing an arm. Harry's godfather, Severus Snape, who had suddenly appeared earlier, had already finished his meal. He sat with his fingers intertwined, covering half his face. Their eyes met, and Snape gave him a barely perceptible nod.

When Harry's gaze shifted past Snape to the empty seat beside him, he didn't see the person he expected.

Quirrell, the nervous professor with the large turban, was nowhere to be found.

'Could it be that Voldemort isn't attached to Quirrell's head this time? Then who's teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts?'

Harry was no longer expecting the storyline to follow J.K. Rowling's original. The gun-shaped wands, Sirius Black being his first godfather, Severus Snape his second, and Grindelwald not imprisoned in Nurmengard—all of it had already exceeded his understanding. Missing a Quirrell possessed by Voldemort didn't seem so far-fetched anymore.

'But no matter what, Hagrid must have taken the Philosopher's Stone from Gringotts by now.'

Harry racked his brain, trying to recall the events at the Gringotts vault. At the time, his mind had been a blur. He vaguely remembered Hagrid taking a small package, though he had no idea what it looked like. He hadn't even paid attention.

'Is Dumbledore still planning to fish with bait? He has the bait, but where's the fish?'

He looked back at the teachers' table, but there were no strangely dressed professors, especially not one with a big head.

It was odd, but also somehow made sense.

The world had already become so bizarre that if Voldemort had stuck to Quirrell's head and followed the original plot, Harry might've found it even more unbelievable.

As the last pudding vanished, Professor Dumbledore stood up, and the hall fell silent once more.

"Oh, now that everyone has eaten and drunk their fill, I have a few more words before we begin the new school year..."

"First-year students, please take note: the forest on the school grounds is strictly off-limits to all students. I expect some of the older students to remember this as well."

He glanced briefly at the Gryffindor table, as though reminding a few mischievous individuals.

"Additionally, Mr. Filch, the caretaker, has asked me to remind you all not to cast spells in the corridors between classes.

"The Quidditch tryouts will take place during the second week of this term. Any students interested in joining their house teams should contact Madam Hooch."

"Furthermore, the corridor on the right side of the fourth floor is off-limits this year. Anyone who doesn't wish to encounter a painful and untimely death should stay away."

"Finally, as you all know, Hogwarts narrowly lost last year's Triwizard Tournament."

Dumbledore cleared his throat, a hint of regret in his eyes. "Everyone is aware."

"I," Dumbledore gestured to his face, "have been forfeited as part of the wager. I will spend the entire year away from Hogwarts, teaching at Durmstrang."

The first-year students were utterly confused, but the older students wore expressions of guilt and regret. Losing their headmaster was a shameful fact.

"However, thanks to Charlie Weasley's victory in the individual competition of the last Triwizard Tournament, although you lost me, you won Durmstrang's headmaster, Mr. Gellert Grindelwald."

Although there was a sense of relief on the young wizards' faces, they were still unable to feel truly happy.

"Headmaster Grindelwald will be teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts for one year. I hope each of you will take his lessons seriously. He is my friend and the world's foremost Dark Arts master. Under his guidance, I trust you'll improve and prepare for the next Triwizard Tournament."

"Now, let's welcome Headmaster Gellert Grindelwald to say a few words."

Dumbledore nodded toward Grindelwald, who stood up beside him, looking elegant in his white hair and trench coat.

Grindelwald hadn't spoken yet, but the atmosphere in the Great Hall shifted the moment he rose. Unlike Dumbledore's calm demeanor, Grindelwald carried a palpable aura of authority. The light-hearted mood vanished, replaced by a tense unease. His stern gaze swept over the hall, causing many students to lower their heads, unable to meet his eyes.

"I'm very disappointed in you. Deeply disappointed."

His voice echoed through the hall like a cold wind, making everyone shiver as if winter had arrived months early.

"I came to Hogwarts expecting to see something worth taking back to Durmstrang."

He shook his head, his disappointment and disdain making the young wizards' hearts burn with indignation. Some of the braver Gryffindor students were itching to act out, but Grindelwald's icy stare quickly made them sit down quietly.

"Hogwarts has admitted many talented young wizards, like Charlie Weasley, whom I witnessed last year. His performance in the individual competition was unquestionably the best. When faced with a sudden attack from a forty-foot-long Hebridean Black, his composure outshone ninety-nine percent of the world's wizards."

"Yet, even such an outstanding champion couldn't lead you to victory in the team competition."

"At the time, I thought Dumbledore had grown old and senile. Why else would he team him up with a bunch of weaklings? Watching your in-fighting on the field was more entertaining than a clown show."

His mouth twisted into a sneer before he continued in a more serious tone.

"Gold may glimmer within the sand, but that doesn't change the fact that it's still just sand."

"Disorganized, undisciplined, divided within. Even Beauxbatons, with their love of freedom and romance, impose strict rules to curb chaos. The fact that Hogwarts has stood for a thousand years is nothing short of a miracle in my eyes."

Although his words seemed like praise, everyone could hear the sarcasm behind them.

A few murmurs broke out as students began grumbling.

"Albus," Grindelwald didn't turn his head, "you must've worked very hard over the years to maintain this level of chaos and disorder."

"Wizards aren't Muggles," Dumbledore sighed quietly.

"I know, I know. But even so, Hogwarts is like a herd of sheep led by a lion. How can it ever compare to a pack of wolves led by a lion?"

Grindelwald finally turned to Dumbledore. "Last year's team competition—don't tell me you saw nothing. That performance was a disaster."

"Why don't you just retire? Come to Durmstrang with me. You're not suited to be a leader, but you'd be perfect by my side."

He gave Dumbledore a meaningful glance, but Dumbledore only responded with a bitter smile and a slight shake of his head.

"Enough with the complaints."

Grindelwald turned back to the crowd, his face now openly mocking.

"You're all so eager to prove me right, demonstrating how disorganized and scattered you really are. Perhaps you're even proud of it?"

"I don't expect you to learn much from me, though I'll certainly teach you seriously. All I hope is that when the next Triwizard Tournament comes, you won't disgust the audience and judges again."

"For instance, maybe avoid another brilliant display of blowing up your teammates from behind with a spectacular explosion curse."

The hall fell into a deathly silence. The Gryffindor students glared fiercely at the Slytherins, separated only by the Hufflepuffs, as their eyes locked in a silent battle that seemed ready to ignite.

"Thank you very much, Headmaster Grindelwald, for your words of wisdom. I sincerely hope everyone makes progress this year."

Dumbledore's voice broke the tension, drawing the glares away, though he could only sigh in silence.

"And now, let us sing the school song!"

Dumbledore glanced at Professor McGonagall, whose wand shot out golden letters, forming lines of text in the air.

"Choose your favorite tune," Dumbledore said. "Ready? Sing!"

The entire hall broke into song, each person singing to their own random melody, creating a chaotic yet somehow familiar mess.

When the song finally ended, Dumbledore gave a graceful bow to the crowd.

"That concludes tonight's feast. I hope that when I return next year, you'll surprise me in the best possible way!"

"It's time for bed now. Off you go to your dormitories."

As Dumbledore's voice faded, his figure became blurry, then vanished in a flash of white light.

The Dumbledore left behind was just a magical projection. The real one was already seated at Durmstrang's opening banquet, receiving applause from the staff and students.

(End of Chapter)