Kreacher's muttering had once been easy to blame on age or bad breeding. But the real poison had been the locket—a Horcrux whispering like a hook in the ear. For years the elf had circled it, plotting how to destroy the thing. With a shard of Voldemort inside, it was a miracle Kreacher hadn't gone twice mad.
Under Li Ming, the air shifted. No Horcrux near. And every so often, Li Ming laid down small doses of healing—light charms on the elf's body, cleansing rites across his mind. Not pure white-wizard strength, maybe half as strong. But steady, again and again, until the light stuck.
Age remained the one barrier magic couldn't turn back. Even so, Kreacher was more himself now, slipping into old habits only rarely.
Catching Lupin's look, Li Ming gave the short version with a grin. "Better now, right? No more buzzing in my ear all day."
Lupin nodded. He knew where Li Ming came from—another world, other systems—and some of the man's methods sat flatly outside his frame of reference. Like that Key of Solomon volume: scripture and ritual that, when spoken by an ordinary believer, locked Lupin's wolf-half in iron chains. Magic without magic. The fact it worked and he couldn't explain it still bothered him.
Ron just looked lost. Hermione, as always, heard the hinge creak.
Bodies could be healed by spell or potion. But minds? St. Mungo's had whole wards full of the broken—tortured by Death Eaters, never really recovered. If spells could fix that, why were those beds still full?
Hermione studied Li Ming. "Mr. Austin…you know a spell that heals the mind?"
"Cleansing," he corrected. "Scrubbing off the worst twists. If you're counting Obliviate—peeling memories like rotten fruit—as therapy, then sure, call me a doctor."
Lupin snorted. "By that logic, I'm a mind healer too—and better than you."
Hermione wasn't discouraged. If anything, she leaned in. "Could I learn the cleansing spell?"
"Of course." Li Ming shrugged, pulling a slim spellbook. "Copy it, work through the logic. If you hit a wall, find me. I'll be in the secret room, always practicing."
He meant it—and lived it. While Hogwarts students packed trunks and whistled their way into summer, Li Ming surfaced from a year spent underwater. The days had blurred together—casting circles, scribbling notes, testing, recasting.
The gains were real. He could crush the version of himself who'd first stepped into this world. Side effects came with it: pale skin from Britain's endless rain and a sunless basement life. If not for Kreacher's cooking—fortified with medicinal herbs—he'd already look vampiric.
His greatest treasure fit in a pocket: a palm-sized spellbook. Outside, small. Inside—thanks to Kreacher copying Hogwarts' stacks day and night—bottomless. He could thump his chest and claim, not entirely falsely, "I've got half the library in here."
Canon itself had dissolved. Outside of Dementors patrolling the grounds, the original plot had gone sideways. Harry no longer spent afternoons with Hagrid; he came to the secret room instead—talking with Sirius, sipping tea, practicing.
When the students left, Sirius packed up too. Half a year of half-teaching, half-watching had convinced him: Li Ming was only training. The man needed sunlight more than company. If Sirius stayed buried in the secret room any longer, he'd go spare.
Not long after Sirius left, Li Ming stood before the Merlin Ring, reluctant. It was time.
He could feel his quantum energy thinning—the same current tied to his world-walking portals. He had no idea how it replenished. If it ran dry before he jumped, he'd be stranded in Harry's world. Even if he made it back to Marvel's side, would the crossing still work? He hadn't earned it; it had just…happened.
Infinity Stones or Hogwarts' fat ley lines—one had to win. He chose the Stones.
He breathed in, out. Spoke to Kreacher. "Leave two trunks—the biggest—inside. Pack everything else. Then go to Azkaban and wait. I'll finish my business and fetch you."
Kreacher blurred into work, collapsed the tent with a twist, and vanished with luggage stacked high.
Li Ming stayed, face set, teasing out seams in his plan. If he was leaving, he might as well leave a mark.
How big? Someone once described milestones this way: rich at thirty, dating at fifty, driving at eighty, standing to pee at a hundred, a portrait still on the wall at three hundred. Li Ming meant to do something that would keep his picture hanging in the Ministry five centuries from now.
For days he wore different faces, drifting London's edges, mapping streets, sightlines, exits. Tonight at dusk, not far from Cornelius Fudge's home, he settled as a ragged beggar, watching for the Minister's return.
Fudge was first for many reasons. Greed, for one—Li Ming's scan suggested the man hoarded artifacts and tomes, ripe for the taking. Knowledge or tools, all on Li Ming's list. And status. A burgled Minister made noise. Noise Dumbledore would hear.
If Dumbledore left Hogwarts to calm a rattled Minister, the castle would stand uncovered. Half the plan done.
Only when Li Ming reached the neighborhood did the obvious strike: wizard homes hid themselves. He couldn't rob what he couldn't see. So he waited for Fudge to reveal it.
Half an hour later, Fudge appeared, humming, his wife on his arm. Li Ming rose with the crowd, eyes down, patient.
When the house shimmered into view, he moved. A pulse from his left hand slammed Fudge's wife to the pavement; a lure spell from his right hooked Fudge a heartbeat later. Before the protective charm at his throat could spark, Li Ming's wand flashed—Petrificus Totalus.
He didn't spare Muggles a thought. Let them gape. Let pure-bloods gnash their teeth. Fudge might not wear a Dark Mark, but he wore purist ideals like a tailored coat. Tonight, a nobody from nowhere would show what "blood" meant when skill stepped on it.
Weak. That was Li Ming's verdict once the Minister lay bound and heaving. Either Fudge had never had fight in him, or power and comfort had hollowed him out.
Li Ming dragged him inside and ripped open a portal. Dementors he'd stationed nearby slid into the house, drifting like stains, sniffing wards and secrets.
He released the body bind, hit Fudge again with the lure, and murmured, "Show me your collection, Minister."
Hypnosis didn't always hold on trained wizards. Li Ming kept the spell topped as Fudge led him through a hidden door.
When clarity finally seeped back into Fudge's eyes, the vault lay bare. His mouth opened—and tears came, enough to rival London's yearly rain.
Li Ming didn't linger. From a rooftop shadow, he watched Aurors surge through the house, robes snapping in the wind.
No Dumbledore.
Li Ming frowned. Why not? Too late in the day? Asleep? Impossible. It wasn't even dark.
Thirty minutes later, he accepted the street's answer and picked target number two: the Malfoys.
He'd been inside once before—during the Dementor search for Sirius—so their tricks for hiding the manor wouldn't slow him. And the family's blood purism made them automatic. Skipping them would've felt like moral failure.
Smoke curled above Knockturn Alley, bitter with burned wards. Li Ming stood on a rooftop, two extension cases slung at his hip, watching his Dementors flood the street below.
"Wangcai," he ordered the lead wraith, voice cold, "drive them out. If they resist, swarm. If they still resist…use the Kiss."
Shops broke open like fruit under pressure, wizards and witches bolting into alleys, screaming as Dementors swept over them. None of them rallied. Too spoiled by peace, too selfish for teamwork. And against a swarm like this? Even courage bent fast.
Li Ming's hands stayed loose at his sides, but his mind spun. He'd raided half a dozen pure-blood homes already, left Dementors in plain sight, and still—no Dumbledore. Which meant the Headmaster had guessed. Not Knockturn. Not Diagon. Hogwarts.
If the old man wouldn't come to him, then he'd take what he wanted.
A ripple of light opened in the sky—round, deliberate. Dumbledore's portal. Li Ming's lips curved. He didn't bolt. He needed to be sure this wasn't a decoy. A breath later, the Dementors confirmed the scent: phoenix, lemon drops, the raw burn of controlled power. Dumbledore.
Silver fire burst from the light, a Patronus phoenix spreading its wings. The Dementors shrieked back, scattered, but survived. Patronuses drove—they didn't kill.
Li Ming's order slid down the bond: Skirmish only. Shadow him. If he leaves, burn Knockturn clean.
Then Li Ming drew his own circle and stepped through. One glance back at the light and he murmured a wish: "Stay soft, old man. Don't sacrifice the innocent."
If Dumbledore had shown earlier, Li Ming would have gone straight for the stacks—swept every charged tome he hadn't copied yet. But now? That would be suicide. The library would be fortified.
So he pinned a portal the size of a marble, peered through. Four professors on guard. Fine. He opened another—not to the shelves, but to Sprout's greenhouses.
Seeds and saplings here were unique, priceless for potion craft. More importantly, Sprout's wards would trip alarms the moment he brushed them. That was the plan. Pull her off the library.
He brushed one ward with his sleeve, then began harvesting with ruthless speed.
In the library, Sprout flinched. "Merlin's socks—something's in my greenhouse!"
Snape froze. "No. He's after the stocks."
McGonagall flicked her wand, opened a scrying portal over the greenhouse.
Li Ming glanced up, smiled, and swept entire trays into a case. When the viewing pane reformed at the doors, he dropped a scroll tube onto the stones, stepped backward into a portal, and vanished.
Sprout and Snape arrived too late. Beds flattened, plants ruined. Sprout went white. Snape snatched the scroll, read, and his own face hardened.
"Compensation," he said flatly. "From Austin. Stay here. If you leave, he'll strip the rest."
The note named Snape's storeroom next.
Snape cursed Hogwarts' No-Apparition rules and sprinted. Li Ming didn't have to run; he simply opened a portal into the stores. By the time Snape burst in, shelves were already gutted, half his rarest ingredients gone.
A second scroll sat waiting, offering favors from the Merlin Ring and carefully worded IOUs. None of this was necessary but Li Ming was baiting them. With a slight smirk he thought, "if you don't guard your own things, someone can easily steal everything".
Time was all he wanted. Time and absence. With Dumbledore gone and each Head chained down, Li Ming could go anywhere with his portals.
Flitwick's turn came next. Li Ming dropped a third scroll into his quarters after rifling through his private research. The Charms Master flinched upon seeing his quarters ransacked. McGonagall could read it on his face…dismay. McGonagall opened her own apparition type portal…forgetting the rules.
Li Ming didn't wait. He slid into McGonagall's collection room an instant before her own portal stabilized. She appeared in the doorway, eyes sharp with exasperation and complete resignation. She didn't waste words and opened another portal back to the library but left it open; ready to jump through if needed.
Li Ming's grin tilted. He pressed his own portal against hers, rims kissing. If she stepped through now, she'd come out into the fields beyond Hogwarts.
By the time she rebuilt the route, he'd shifted it again. Seat-shuffling, making her chase her own exits.
She gave up the gambit, sprinted back to the library.
When she arrived, the charged books were already gone. Only Snape stood among the stripped shelves, crushing the scroll in his hands with his face filled with rage.
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