Scene 1: The Aftermath of the Factory IncidentDumbledore looked up. The massive iron water tanks at the top of the abandoned factory bore deep claw marks, a testament to the recent violent chaos they had endured.
On the muddy ground below, broken metal pipes lay scattered in disarray. Some were bent at sharp angles, as if crushed by an immense force.
Bending down, Dumbledore examined the damage on one of the pipes. His face turned somber as his fingers traced the marks left by brute force. "Alchemy and transfiguration…" he muttered under his breath.
Moments later, the whirring of broomsticks descending from the sky drew closer. A group of Ministry employees approached hastily, led by none other than the current Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge.
"Great Merlin's beard! What in the world happened here?" Fudge exclaimed, his eyes darting to the claw marks and the collapsed structures. "Could it have been a coordinated attack by foreign Dark wizards?"
"Have the Muggles been taken care of?" Dumbledore straightened up and asked, ignoring Fudge's speculation.
One of the Aurors stepped forward. "Yes, they've been evacuated. Many have minor injuries, and a few are seriously hurt, but fortunately, no fatalities."
The Auror hesitated, then added with a puzzled expression, "Strangely, the Thunderbird seemed to intentionally head toward desolate areas, away from people. It looked… tamed."
"Tamed, you say? Then this must be someone plotting against us!" Fudge narrowed his eyes. "Find whoever is responsible for that Thunderbird and arrest them immediately. We cannot tolerate such lawlessness in Britain!"
The Aurors nodded and reached for their wands, but Dumbledore raised his hand to stop them. "Wait."
Fudge turned to him, confused. "What's the matter, Professor Dumbledore?"
"Nothing happened," Dumbledore said firmly.
"Pardon?" Fudge blinked, unsure if he'd heard correctly.
"I said, nothing happened," Dumbledore repeated. "Clean up this area and erase the memories of any Muggles who witnessed the event. Do not publicize this incident."
"But... but…"
Faced with the uncharacteristically stern demeanor of the usually gentle professor, Fudge wrung his hands nervously. He glanced at the Aurors for support, but they looked back at him, awaiting his decision.
The tension hung thick in the air until Dumbledore softened his tone and smiled slightly. "Minister, the Quidditch World Cup is just around the corner. Do you want the sports department scrambling to explain why there are no foreign spectators? It's better to keep this event quiet to avoid unnecessary panic."
Fudge breathed a sigh of relief and smiled awkwardly. "You're right, Headmaster Dumbledore. I may have been too hasty."
But he frowned again, scratching his head in frustration. "Still, if there's a loose Thunderbird in London, what should we do?"
"Leave it to me," Dumbledore said decisively. "I trust Hogwarts professors are more than capable of handling one magical creature."
"Well then, I'll leave it in your hands, Headmaster," Fudge said, visibly relaxing as he signaled the Aurors to withdraw.
Only after Dumbledore disapparated did the smile on Fudge's face falter, his expression twitching in discomfort.
Scene 2: The Soho Enigma
One month later, Soho's famed bar street in London was alive with its usual evening energy. Neon lights blinked through faint clouds of cigarette smoke, and groups of men and women strolled between pubs. Phone booths were plastered with glossy flyers advertising young women and their contact numbers.
In 1994, Soho was one of the most notorious red-light districts in Britain, drawing young men seeking thrills. On weekends, the area brimmed with stylish individuals, flashy cars, and the hum of life.
But tonight, an unusual hush settled over the street.
Every eye was drawn to a single woman.
She looked like a vision straight out of Malèna, the widow who bewitched an entire town with her beauty. With her striking presence, she commanded the attention of everyone around her.
She was tall, nearly six feet, with golden waves of hair cascading down her back, glowing under the streetlights. She wore a pale yellow mini-dress that hugged her impossibly perfect figure, her long legs gliding effortlessly in high heels.
A delicate purse hung from her wrist as she walked through the bustling street, appearing utterly out of place—otherworldly.
It was rare to see a woman like her alone in Soho, a district where groups of friends and couples flocked. Yet here she was, unaccompanied and unbothered.
Men stopped in their tracks, their gazes glued to her. A few bold ones whistled.
The woman met each whistle with a dazzling smile, her emerald-green eyes sparkling with mischief. Her finely made-up face—soft eye shadow and glistening red lips—was enough to make hearts race.
One man mustered the courage to approach her, but as he neared within a meter of her, he was struck dumb, grinning foolishly as if enchanted.
Other men abandoned their companions to follow her, ignoring the angry protests of their partners. Like moths to a flame, a growing crowd trailed her down the street.
The woman, indifferent to the chaos she caused, eventually arrived at the entrance of a theater glowing with neon lights.
A long queue snaked outside, filled with vagrants, addicts, and eccentric youths with brightly dyed hair. They jostled and craned their necks, desperate to get inside.
Two bouncers at the door struggled to keep the unruly crowd at bay.
The woman tilted her head and asked them sweetly, "No entry?"
One bouncer's nose began to bleed, and the other had to grip the doorframe to stop his knees from buckling.
"S-Sorry, ma'am… We're not open yet," one stammered, his voice hoarse.
"I'm a friend of the owner," she said, smiling.
The bouncer hesitated. "Uh, we... we just got a new owner."
"He's the one who invited me," the woman replied smoothly.
The bouncer, flustered, stumbled aside to open the door.
"Thank you," she said graciously before stepping inside.
As soon as the door closed behind her, the spell seemed to break. The men who had followed her and the crowd outside the theater blinked in confusion, unsure why they had been so captivated.
Inside the theater, on the third floor, in a dressing room...
Beside him, a young maid in a white dress immediately bent down and fed a sliced pear into his mouth, her "assets" brushing suggestively against the young nouveau riche's shoulder.
Since this boy had bought the entire theater outright a week ago, she had concluded that he was the perfect example of someone foolish but loaded. If she could hook him, her future would be set—spending her days swimming in money while raising children. The maid romantically daydreamed.
Hoffa remained oblivious. Chewing the pear, he stared into a massive mirror that stood two people tall and ten wide. Reflected in it was the image of an unfamiliar youth.
This youth was dressed like a flamboyant black flamingo, with an extravagant black feathered cape draped over his shoulders. Beneath it was a luxurious white suit. His meticulously styled gray hair was slicked back, and he wore a red visor that covered half his face. On his wrist sat a silver Patek Philippe, and each finger of his hand sparkled with a lavish ring.
Reclining on an oversized white sofa, he was surrounded by a dozen subservient men and women. Some held fine glassware filled with iced cola, others groomed his hair, and one frantically read through a thick stack of papers, speaking at a breakneck pace.
"Mr. Bach, the CEO of Dunlop Corporation wants to meet with you. If you're serious about investing in sports and fashion, it might be wise to discuss things in person."
"Meet him? Why should I go to him? He should come to me!" The gray-haired youth in the mirror scoffed arrogantly. "Didn't I say to buy his stock? Did you?"
"You actually want to buy it? That's a multi-billion-pound investment!" The secretary's hands trembled.
"Buy it! Why not?" Hoffa nonchalantly crossed his legs. "Anything I fancy, buy it all."
"Understood." The man packed away the file and nervously retrieved another. He hesitated before speaking, "Mr. Bach, Bill Gates from Microsoft... rejected your proposal."
"What?" The flamingo-clad youth froze mid-bite.
"Not only did he dismiss your idea about developing a next-gen gaming console, but he... also made some rather disrespectful comments."
"He dares!" The flamingo raged. "What did he say?"
"He said... he said he wouldn't collaborate with a clueless, idle rich kid of dubious origins."
"How dare he insult me like that!" Hoffa slapped his thigh in fury and opened his mouth. The maid quickly leaned down to pop a slice of apple into it.
"Mmph." He chewed, glaring through his crimson visor. Behind him, his entourage trembled in silence. This strange newcomer was capricious and temperamental, utterly clueless about business, yet his wages were unmatched—leaving his employees too terrified to complain.
After a moment's thought, he snatched a stock market report from his secretary and scowled as he flipped through it.
"Aha!"
Suddenly inspired, he beckoned. "Todd, come here!"
The secretary named Todd hurried over and bent down beside the gray-haired youth, who jabbed a finger at the report. "See this company, Apple? Buy their stock—everything you can get!"
"What?!" Todd's face turned pale. "Mr. Bach, please reconsider! This company has shown no promise for a decade. They've had three CEOs in three years, and last year their market share plummeted from 20% to just 5%!"
"Shut up! Who's the boss here, you or me?"
The flamingo-clad youth bellowed, cutting off his secretary mid-sentence. With a snarl, he flung the papers at Todd's face. "Buy it! I said buy it! And tell them to bring Steve Jobs back and start working on smartphones!"
"Y-yes, sir..."
Todd, drenched in sweat, scrambled to pick up the scattered papers before fleeing the room in a panic.
"Bill Gates," Hoffa sneered disdainfully. "Stupid programmer... ugh!" He opened his mouth again, and a bunny-costumed maid hurried forward, delicately inserting a straw into an ornate glass bottle of iced cola, originally meant for fine wine.
Biting down on the straw, Hoffa sucked noisily, his irritation evident. Nobody dared to speak until he drained the cola in one long gulp, tilting the bottle until it was empty. He belched loudly and turned to ask, "Carlson, did you find the person I asked you to locate?"
Another impeccably dressed secretary stepped forward.
"No luck, Mr. Bach," Carlson said, wiping sweat from his brow. "China is so vast, and it's so far from here. How can we possibly find a man named Jack Ma, an English teacher?"
Pausing, Carlson added with a fawning smile, "Besides, you're so gifted and quick-witted, fluent in both English and Chinese. Do you really need someone to teach you?"
"Short-sighted fool!"
Having calmed down from the cola, the black flamingo flew into another rage, shouting, "You lot are useless! Can't any of you Brits show some James Bond-level initiative? Dig him out, even if you have to scour every inch of the country! If you can't find him, you're fired!"
Carlson clenched his fists in frustration but forced a sweet smile, thinking of his £50,000 monthly salary. "Y-yes, Mr. Bach, we'll start searching for Mr. Jack Ma right away."
"Out!"
"Right away, sir."
Carlson tumbled dramatically on the plush carpet before bolting from the opulent dressing room.
The remaining staff exchanged wary glances, petrified that their eccentric young boss might cook up another wild scheme.
Suddenly, the tense atmosphere was broken by the sound of a door opening.
"Mr. Bach, someone wishes to see you," announced a petite Asian maid. Her alabaster skin, black Lolita dress, cat ears, and face marked with lipstick stripes made her look like a doll.
"Hmm?" The black flamingo cocked a brow, his voice dripping with mockery.
"N-not me!" The hapless rookie stammered, clamping her knees together in a timid pose. "Master, I mean someone outside wants to see you."
"That's better... hic!"
The flamboyant flamingo let out a hiccup and smiled arrogantly. "You enchanting little minx, who dares to disturb me?"
(End of Chapter)
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