Never let it be said that Dumbledore couldn't be an easy-going guy when he wanted to be. Ciro got loaned a fast express owl, parchment and a quill and was even allowed to use the Headmaster's desk -the last to which Ciro had politely declined, there were some thresholds you just didn't cross without the universe getting her revenge for the disrespect- to write his letter.

The quill had been trembling in Ciro's hand, both from the hex that showed no signs of fading, and the pain of his injuries screaming for attention as the adrenaline gradually left his bloodstream. From where he'd chosen to sit on the ground with his back against a bookcase he had sight on most of the circular room, and while drafting a letter to a government that hated his guts, Ciro had spared a few minutes just to wrap his head around the whole situation.

How do you go from drinking cold coffee in a stuffy office to running for your life to ending more than fifty years in the past? Just this morning Ciro was complaining about paperwork and strict captains. Now he was struggling not to jump at every sound. And the room was noisy -from the gossiping portraits, some of which were still giving him the stink eye, to the fluttering papers to silver instruments whirring to little kettled emitting damp clouds.

Any other day, Ciro would have enjoyed this, but all he wanted to do then was curl into a little ball under his Captain's bed.

He'd felt the eyes of the older man keenly as they both watched the owl flee into the horizon sky, letter securely attached to his leg.

"Now what?" He asked. What happened to guys who broke into magical institutions and threatened headmasters? The authorities were called, probably. Nevermind that the headmaster in question was also the highest authority to be found in this part of Scotland. All of it, even. Ciro grimaced, thinking about the disastrous paperwork this whole mess would bring.

Dumbledore regarded him with those wise blue eyes of his, and smiled from behind his beard. It was obviously meant to be reassuring, but Ciro's heart slammed in its ribcage, demanding to follow the owl to Bulgaria.

He's just a man. Just a man. What the fuck is wrong with me?

"Now, we wait." The old man had said simply and then snapped his fingers. An elf had appeared and Dumbledore asked it for tea and biscuits to be brought to his office. As if time-travelling home invaders were an everyday thing in the old man's life. Which it could very well have been the case. It's not like Ciro was an expert on the inner workings of a Supreme Magus.

Didn't Dumbledore have a tedious slew of titles following his name? Ciro had never bothered learning them, the name Albus Dumbledore having long since been added to history books in his time. Besides English wasn't even his first language, and he was far from being British.

In either lives.

God fuck, this was a mess.

Dumbledore had offered him a stay in one of Hogwarts's unused bedrooms, usually reserved for visitors during the school year, and had even offered to pay for a room in Hogsmeade when Ciro had quietly admitted he had no penny to his name.

The elf—"Thank you, Debby," Dumbledore said and Ciro choked on his spit because Debby, really?—had appeared once more to set the tray on the cleanest elevated spot she could find in the aviary, which was a feat and a half.

Tea and biscuits. Typical.

Ciro hadn't dared touch anything on the plate, but Dumbledore had no such reservations. He'd even started sharing his cookies with an overly friendly owl who'd perched itself close to the bespectacled man and croaked everytime it wanted another bite.

He wouldn't poison the birds, would he? Ciro had to reach back to his first life as a depressed, nihilistic, tidepod eating Gen Z teenager and forced himself into nibbling on the biscuits and slurping the tea. The tea had been awful, milk and soggy leaf juice, ugh British people- and Dumbledore was watching him.

He'd gripped his wand so tight he would've surely broken it had he not asked the wandmaker to cast an unbreakable charm on it when he'd first acquired it.

Ciro still didn't know how his heart hadn't given up from so much jackhammering in his chest, but he'd survived that night. He'd been a shivering, sweating mess by the time he'd made for Hogsmeade, but he'd managed to keep a modicum of civility, at least.

His first letter had come back, opened but without response. He'd sent a second letter, this time charmed into a howler. It wouldn't scream the letter's contents—Ciro was big, buff and blond, but he wasn't stupid—only a badly rendered version of the Bulgarian National Quidditch Team's chant.

It took a lot of back and forth, of sweet talking, the occasional harmless blackmail—future knowledge was really handy for shadeful dealings, who would've thought?—and proving himself over and over again to every nosy, suspicious bastard on the ladder, but ultimately he got the desired answer.

Two weeks and several howlers later.

By then, Ciro had settled in his one bedroom in The Three Broomsticks and he'd even managed to get a job as a helper of sorts. It started innocuously, with him explaining his predicament, sans the time-travel part, to the owner of the inn and asking her for a temporary job.

Somehow he ended up the little town's jack of all trades, master of clumsy accidents. From sorting different stinky tea leaves in Mister Puddifoot's Tea shop to scrubbing cauldrons for Madam Ceridwen and having them yodel at him—the cauldrons, that is—to trying out twenty different quill brands and rating them by 'flowliness' for that old codger Scrivenshaft, Ciro had his hands full. No pun intended.

But he continued, no matter how much he wanted to strangle Dominic Maestro so he wouldn't have to listen to that man's screechi—ahem—singing conveniently every time Ciro passed by his shop, because keeping himself busy meant his mind didn't wander to dark places.

His paranoia did not let up.

The first night he'd holed himself in his assigned room and spent a few hours warding it from every spell or evil he could think up. When Rosmerta had knocked to bring him food, he'd flown into such a panic he'd invented a new spell. It was a weak pathetic warding spell, and he wasn't even sure it would work to protect him from anything bigger than a fruit fly.

At the end he'd been so exhausted he didn't even change into the clothes offered to him or clean his wounds. He fell into a frightful sleep, curled into a ball, hidden under the bed.

The following days went better, thankfully. The ache of constant tension didn't ease, but he stopped jumping at every sudden sound or move, forced himself to sleep a minimum of 4 hours and eat something else than the crackers in his numerous vest pockets, and stretch the fingers clamped around his wand. The odd jobs helped in taking his mind off of things.

Until he got his hands on the Daily Prophet.

Ciro stared, aghast, at the moving picture of a Death Eater mark on a background of grey clouds. He groaned loudly and put his face in his hands. He forgot. Or rather, the thought had briefly passed his mind but not registered itself as 'Urgent, possibly lifesaving!'

Of course I've ended up in the First Wizarding War. Transmigration, time-travel, next thing I'll find out this Voldemort is an emo drag queen. Ciro rubbed at his eyes, exhaustion encroaching.

"Bad news, luv?"

The smoky voice belonged to the patron of the Three Broomsticks, twenty-something Rosmerta, and current beauty of Ciro's life. Not that they were together. It has barely been two weeks, and Ciro had always been a let's take it slow kind of guy, and wasn't even a guarantee that she liked him ba—Okay, by the playful smile and the way her fingers lingered on his jaw, she was at the very least thinking about it too.

The biggest hurdle, Ciro thought tiredly, is this fucking hex.

Because, while the all-consuming fear has diminished to an ever constant paranoia, Ciro couldn't find it in himself to relax when every shadow seemed to hide the enemy, and every sound made his heartrate spike and had him reaching for his wand.

Glaring at the newspaper, he accepted the cup of butterbeer she offered him, and muttered, "I got reminded of something nasty."

Rosmerta glanced at the newspaper, her lips pulling down, "I can imagine." She leaned over him and picked it up, but all she did was turn it over so that the snake skull symbol was hidden from view. Ciro slurped his butterbeer.

Hogsmeade residents didn't like to be reminded of the war raging in the West-European Wizarding World, and that was largely because their patrons didn't want to be reminded of it. The client was truly king, apparently.

That had been a surprising discovery. Hogsmeade was a tourist hotspot during summer. Witches and Wizards from all over the world flooed or portkeyed or flew here to see the legendary school and to gallivant in the Scottish countryside. Ciro wondered if that stayed the same during his time too. The Battle of Hogwarts had been an interesting, not to mention fun, chapter in Magical History.

"Are you done for today?" Rosmerta said, an obvious change of topic. Not that Ciro was complaining. He leaned back in his seat, and righted all his attention up at her. She trailed a hand over the linings of his shoulder. "No more dress-up?"

"Now, you're laughing at me." Ciro's grin is wide. "I'll have you know modelling is a well-paying job. Not to mention—highly respected."

Ciro honestly did not know how he ended up as a model for Spintwitches Sporting Needs, but it did pay a pretty penny.

He had not enjoyed having to stand still in the midst of flying pins, needles and scissors—not intentional as Anil Verma's apologetic look told him—or having measuring tape slither up and wrap themselves around sensitive parts of his body—and judging from Meera Verma's devious grin.

"The best advertising does not look like advertising." The shopkeeper admitted with a conspicuous wink. Weird, but Ciro wasn't one to say no to clothes fitted just for him. It got him appreciative looks from Rosmerta, at least.

"I still need to help the triplets with the Express cleanup. Beats me why though. We're nowhere near the end of summer vacation."

Rosmerta laughed. "It's for the Alumni gathering. It takes place each year at the beginning for August. Hogwarts invites back its old students to dine in the Great Hall once more. For old time's sake." Her manicured finger traced the line of his hem. "Can't have them all floo in, or we'll be under the soot in no time."

Ciro wanted to answer, wanted to make a stupid joke, wanted to continue this awkward flirting-not-flirting dance with Rosmerta—but his throat clogged up, his tongue seeming to curl up like he'd tasted curdled milk, because her hand was straying near his open —vulnerable. Was she going for his carotid?—throat and she was suddenly too close and everything was too much, too fucking much-

"I have to go." He blurted. It took an impressive amount of self-control to not push her away and instead gently coax her off. Thankfully, Rosmerta knew to respect boundaries and gracefully stood up. She even managed to make the whole thing seem like a mutual agreement by tugging him up by the hand.

Her smile was genuine, if a little disappointed. "Don't overdo it, golden snitch."

Tell that to this blasted hex, he thought tiredly, regret pooling in his stomach like a ball of lead.

.
.
.

The breeze brushed by, cool on Ciro's skin that was warmed by the sun shining bright above him.

The landing from the Portkey was rough and Ciro thanked his lucky stars that no one had seen him roll down the mountain side and end up ass over head with a mouthful of grass. Now he was sitting next to the blasted shoe, enjoying a beautiful summer day, the smell of wild flowers and fresh mountain air. Waiting…

Crack!

Or not anymore.

"Ciro Valentin, I presume?" The newcomer that had apparated spoke Bulgarian and had this voice that could only belong to prissy rich bitches. Prissy rich bitch was an apt description for the man walking up to him, his clothes a blend of British victorian era and traditional Bulgarian styles.

"The one and only." Ciro nodded, standing up and offering his hand. The man eyed it like it was a particularly disgusting rod but he shook it and Ciro took the time to study him more closely.

His dark hair was pulled into a low ponytail, slicked back and greasy. Dark eyes, a hawkish nose, wide mouth and thin lips, and thick eyebrows, a haughty face pulled into permanent scowl, he looked like a caricature of his job description: a lawyer in ambassadorial uniform.

The man began, "My name is Evan Prince, I am to be your liaison with His Royal Highness Tsar Simeon the Third-"

Yeah, Ciro really didn't want anyone citing his grandfather's long titles. They were useless, save for reminding everyone—and particularly Ciro—just how big the cliff separating them was.

"I call him Grandpa." Ciro cut in with a grin, which went unreturned.

"His Royal Highness has tasked me to verify the legitimacy of your claim." He raised a catterpilar of an eyebrow, "If there's any truth to it, you might know how this goes."

Ciro inwardly sighed, "Yes, the Ring." Not even the cool one, he thought sourly. Although that might've been a good thing. Ciro hadn't been a Tolkien fan and he didn't fancy prancing around with stinking Orcs.

Prince coughed politely.

This time Ciro didn't bother hiding the roll of his eyes. "Asparuh's Ring, the Liar of liars and Seeker of Truth. Gifted to Asparuh by his witch sister from the cradle when the First Bulgarian Empire was established back in 681. Yes, yes, should I sing the Mila Rodino too?" It's been a good while since he'd last belted out Bulgaria's national hymn and he doubted it'd echo well in the mountaintops, but Ciro's used to having to prove his legitimacy to the Ring before he'd found himself decades in the past.

Prince looked put out but he pulled out a velvet black box from his robes, albeit reluctantly. A muttered incantation opened it with a clicking sound. Inside, on a pillow of velvet blue, laid the gaudiest ring Ciro had ever seen. A familiar sight and he looked at it the way a passerby would look at dog poop on the sidewalk.

Ciro swiped the ring from its place. He turned around, ignoring the outraged sputtering behind him and put the ring on his left hand. Leaving his back wide open to a stranger should've made his hexed brain spritz with fear but Ciro knew where the real danger lay.

The ruby glinted in the sun, almost malevolently.

"C'mon, Sauron, start your bullshit." Ciro muttered.

As if on cue, the ring warmed up, almost searing his flesh with its sudden scorching heat and then Ciro got hit with the full force of a thousand ghosts screaming, reaching, howling for a chance at claiming even a piece of his soul.