Pointing a wand at the arguably most powerful wizard of the twentieth century wasn't ever something Ciro thought he'd have to do. And yet here he stood, the tip of his wand crackling red as he pushed it against the back of the old man's neck.

"Don't move, Dumbledore," he warned, voice low and rough from the endless screaming, "I have a few questions."

He's read fanfiction in his past life. A lot of them that portrayed the old wizard in a very different light than the books. A nasty light. Fics where the wizard before him was nothing more than a sociopathic scheming manipulator. A liar and fraud that clung to power and grandiose ideas. A megalomaniac whose every move was calculated.

He didn't believe the tense set of the old man's shoulders. Didn't trust the slight twitch of his upheld hands. Doubted that the bearded man dressed in a robe of purple velour hadn't already calculated how to take him down. Take him out.

Be on your guard, the voice of his captain resounded in his head. Appearances deceive a lot more catastrophically when magic is involved.

"Have you lost your mind, intruder?" A portrait snapped at him from somewhere. The portrait spat the last word like an insult. Ciro didnt dare take his eyes off of the back of Dumbledore's head but he knew it was a man. Immediately, chimes of similar thoughts were flung at his head from the rest of the gallery of headmasters. "Cease this folly!"

"You are trespassing!"

"Put that wand away-"

"-tells you, young man!"

"Never in all my years-"

"Shut the hell up!" Ciro yelled, wincing when his voice cracked on the last syllable. His abused throat was going to be a bitch to heal. But he got the desired effect and the room quieted down to a few surly mutterings.

"A few questions, Dumbledore." He repeated, but let the threatening glow of his wand fade. No need for theatrics. "And I'll be gone."

"Well, as much as I'd rather be polite and have you take a seat, I don't think my offer would be welcome." Dumbledore said, and despite the situation, slight humor suffused his voice. "Ask away."

A brief silence ensued, and everyone seemed to lean closer. After all, it wasn't everyday that a foreign wizard trespassed unto Hogwarts grounds, infiltrated the Headmaster's office, and threatened the greatest wizard in Britain. What Ciro had done was nothing short of a miracle.

It didn't matter that just a half hour ago, he'd been investigating an old castle in Transylvania, poking wand and nose in places teeming with magical artifacts and forgotten spells older than Hogwarts. That he'd alohomora-ed one of the most elaborate mahogany doors he'd ever seen and slipped in a room of literal wonders and horrors.

That he'd wound up running for his life.

That he'd ended up more than a thousand miles far from there. In a castle who'd only been breached twice before. In the presence of a man who should be long dead.

It didn't matter because Ciro wasn't about to tell a fucking soul. Let them think he was some hybrid child of Houdini and James Bond. Let them think he was a miracle-worker, a clever slippery wizard, a thief who'd rolled nat20.

When you're backed into a corner and can't hide, his Captain sounded again in his mind, Make yourself bigger, stronger, faster, better than you are.

"Tell me the date." It came out more an order rather than a question, but it wasn't his intention. Ciro was scared -had been scared since he'd stepped through that damnable mahogany door- and the fear rendered him unable to say anything more than short, clipped phrases. He thanked years of grueling Auror training that his hand didn't tremble.

Dumbledore didn't seem to mind and answered in a rather cheerfully polite tone, "The Fourth of July. I believe it's a day of celebration for our American cousins."

At least Ciro had gotten the day and month right. But that wasn't what he wanted to know. Anxiety rose in him, thickening his accent, "What year is it?"

"Ah," realization dawned fast, and the room filled again with the murmurs of portraited headmasters, "I see. Well, it is 1974. July fourth, 1974."

Ciro resisted the urge to close his eyes. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

"It seems to me, good sir," Dumbledore said politely, "that you are far from home. And that you think you're in danger. But I assure you that you have nothing to fear from me. My name is Albus Dumbledore and I am Headmaster of Hogwarts."

He was right, Ciro knew. This fear, this terror he was feeling was unnatural, wasn't his. A hex. Or a curse, maybe. Or something worse. Either way he had to get it under control. Paranoia would get him nowhere.

He lowered his wand, but not his guard.

He stepped away from Dumbledore, which the man took as permission to turn around and look at him. Ciro couldn't read the old wizard's eyes, bright and blue as they were behind halfmoon-spectacles. He wondered what the shorter man saw. Ciro knew he didn't cut as striking a figure as he usually did.

He was tall and broad, and rigorous training kept him in incredible fit shape. Not even exhaustion managed to curve his back, although he was discreetly taking deep breaths through his nose to try and lessen the pain of his wounds. His blond hair was cropped short but dirty with matted blood and dust, as was his beard. His Auror uniform was practically ruined, with tears and gashes and blood and dirt, and he doubted even a magical tailor could salvage it.

He looked out of place in the cosy near enchanting office of the Headmaster. He felt out of place. Out of time.

Something dripped from his brow unto his eyelid -blood or sweat- and he absentmindedly wiped it away with his unarmed hand. His other hand was at his side, holding his wand tightly.

"I need to make a phone call," he said awkwardly. Then added, even more haltingly, "Please."

"Ah, I'm afraid no one in Hogsmeade has one of those mugglemade voiceboxes." To his credit, Dumbledore appeared unruffled by the whole happening. He showed neither annoyance or anger or wariness, even after being held at wand-point. If anything he seemed only curious and sympathetic. Ciro wouldn't have killed him -something about time paradoxes and calling the end of the Side of the Light- but Dumbledore couldn't have known that.

He knows something, Ciro thought, skin crawling with apprehension. He clenched his wand do hard his knuckles whitened. Stop it! He told himseld firmly. It's the hex. A hex is making me feel like this.

"Although," Dumbledore continued, not noticing his inward struggle, "I suppose that if you have one on your person… Then I suggest you apparate outside school grounds. Muggle technology tends to not do well around magic."

Ciro blinked slowly instead of closing his eyes. He held back a long sigh. Right. 1974. His phone wouldn't work. He didn't have a phone yet. Hell, he wasn't even born yet.

"Then, might I borrow an owl?" Resolve entered his eyes. "I need to send a letter to the Bulgarian embassy. "