Chapitre 406: 0405 Albania
Albania, a land of contrasts and mysteries, presents a facade of natural beauty to the unsuspecting Muggle world. According to official government statistics, one-third of Albania's diverse terrain is blanketed in lush, dense forests. These verdant expanses, with their towering trees and vegetation teeming with life, paints a picturesque scene that lures Muggle tourists from far and wide. However, for upstanding wizards in the Wizarding world, it's not a place worth lingering.
The root of Albania's magical predicament lies in its demographics. The country's population, by global standards, is relatively small. The limited population renders to a correspondingly small number of native-born wizards and witches. This scarcity of wizards has led to a critical problem that reverberates through every aspect of magical life in Albania.
Without a sufficient number of local wizards, Albania lacks the necessary foundation to establish a legitimate Ministry of Magic. Such a ministry, recognized by the International Confederation of Wizards, is the cornerstone of magical governance in most nations. It serves as the regulatory body, enforcing laws, maintaining order, and ensuring the delicate balance between the magical and Muggle worlds remains undisturbed. In its absence, a vacuum of power emerges, leaving only the bare minimum of magical law - the Statute of Secrecy - to govern the actions of witches and wizards within Albania's borders.
This lack of comprehensive magical oversight has given rise to chaotic and often dangerous phenomena. Magical creatures in this country are slaughtered indiscriminately. Their parts, prized for their magical properties, fetch exorbitant prices on the black market, fueling a cycle of greed and destruction.
The trade in illegal magical substances flourishes in this lawless environment. Rare potion ingredients, some so potent or dangerous that their very possession is illegal in most civilized magical communities, change hands freely here. Smugglers, drawn by the promise of enormous profits and lax enforcement, have made Albania their chosen marketplace. They conduct their evil business with liberty, knowing that no aurors or magical law enforcement agents will swoop down to arrest them.
In this climate of unchecked magical activity, the darker aspects of wizardry have found fertile ground to take root and flourish. Dark magic, shunned and forbidden in most magical societies, is practiced openly here. Curses that would earn a life sentence in Azkaban are cast without fear of repercussion. Enchanted objects of malicious design are crafted and sold to the highest bidder.
Adding to this volatile mix are the traditional wild witches and wizards who call Albania home. These practitioners of ancient and often brutal forms of magic often conduct cruel experiments here.
As word of Albania's unique situation spread through the darker corners of the wizarding world, the country became a magnet for those with something to hide. Fugitives pursued by their home countries' Ministries of Magic saw in Albania a perfect refuge. These individuals, already of questionable character, brought with them their own brands of mayhem. Incidents involving attacks on unsuspecting Muggles became increasingly frequent, though carefully orchestrated to avoid causing widespread panic that might draw unwanted attention.
The International Confederation of Wizards, theoretically responsible for magical governance in the absence of a local ministry, found itself in an impossible position. Tasked with maintaining the Statute of Secrecy above all else, the Confederation is forced to turn a blind eye to many of the atrocities committed within Albania's borders. As long as the Muggle world remains blissfully unaware of the magical chaos unfolding around them, the Confederation's hands were tied.
Even Dumbledore, arguably the most powerful and influential wizard of the age, was also powerless to change Albania. His desire to protect the innocent Muggles caught in the crossfire of magical conflicts is blocked by the complex web of interests that have taken root in the country.
Like the underground world in the depths of Knockturn Alley, Albania's magical underworld is protected by a network of connections that blur the lines between light and dark. To truly change the status quo, Dumbledore would have to charge in wielding his wand and go on a rampage himself.
As twilight descends upon this land, the sky's vibrant palette gradually fades.
The setting sun, once a blazing orb of fierce crimson, mellows to a softer, more subdued red. At the distant horizon, where the vast expanse of the sea meets the darkening sky, one can just make out the tiny black silhouettes of fishing boats struggling to reach shore, painting a picture of the vast, boundless ocean.
The encroaching night brings with it a palpable sense of unease among the Muggle tourists. Despite being captivated by the raw beauty of Albania's natural landscapes, As if responding to some unspoken signal, tourists begin to call out to their companions and walk with hurried footsteps to their cars to leave.
By the time the cold moon becomes faintly visible in the sky, there were hardly any Muggles left at the boundary between the primeval forest and the hills covered in lush green grass. However, by the rippling lakeshore, a middle-aged woman was kneeling, sobbing desperately as several policemen try to restrain her.
"What's going on?" A young man carrying a travel suitcase appeared silently behind a policeman, startling the Greek-looking Muggle police officer who had been standing nearby, hands on his hips, surveying the scene with a weary sigh.
"Oh Damn, where did you come from?" The policeman, seemingly the leading officer, nearly twisted his ankle. His hand even moved reflexively towards his gun holster, but after his gaze swept over the gray-haired young man's entire body, the vigilance in his eyes dissipated, replaced by a touch of embarrassed anger from being frightened.
"What happened?" The gray-haired young man asked, ignoring the Muggle policeman's emotions, raising his chin and looked towards the middle-aged woman who was struggling with several officers and wailing loudly as she tried to rush into the lake.
"Ah—" The Muggle policeman seemed to be a very approachable person. He didn't dwell on how the gray-haired young man managed to sneak up behind him without making a sound on the open grassland where they could see everything. Sighing, he looked at the middle-aged woman with sympathy in his eyes.
"She's a tourist from Italy. This morning, the lady and her daughter were out boating on the lake. Everything seemed normal at first, but then a gust of wind blew by. The woman says she just blinked, and in that instant, her daughter vanished."
"Oh—" The young man, with strangely rare eye color but handsome appearance and an eye-catching temperament nodded thoughtfully. "What about the search team? Haven't you tried looking in the lake?"
"You're not from around here, sir. You don't understand the situation—" The Muggle policeman lowered his voice, afraid of upsetting the Italian woman whose nerves are already frayed. He leaned towards the gray-haired young man's ear and whispered, "This sort of thing... it happens here quite often. More often than anyone likes to admit. Tourists come to enjoy our beautiful country, they're playing by the lake, exploring the forests, visiting our scenic spots, and then... in the blink of an eye, their loved ones vanish.
We search, of course. We search until we're exhausted, until we've combed every inch of land and water. But it's always the same. No matter how much effort we put in, how many resources we deploy, we can't find them. It's like they've been swallowed up by the earth itself.
Sometimes, if they're lucky, the missing people reappear after a while. They just show up in another place. But here's the strangest part - they have no memory of what happened to them during that period of time. They can't explain how they ended up where they were found, or what happened during the time they were missing. It's like they stepped out of the world for a while and then stepped back in, with no idea they'd been gone."
"And the unlucky ones?"
"Oh—" The Muggle policeman's face turned horrified. "The unlucky ones... when we finally find them, they're already gone. Dead. But that's not even the strangest part. There's never any apparent cause of death on their bodies. No wounds, no signs of violence. And then there are the most unfortunate cases. The ones where people disappear completely, leaving no trace at all."
"Hmm—" Looking at the grief-stricken Muggle woman, a deep light flashed in Bryan's eyes. "Haven't you ever truly investigated the cause?"
"Of course we want to!" The Muggle policeman cried out indignantly. "But the higher-ups won't let us dig too deep. The government, they're more concerned about protecting the tourism industry than finding the truth.
They use every trick in the book - threats, bribes, whatever it takes to keep the families quiet. They're terrified that if word gets out about what really happens here, no tourist will ever set foot in this country again. And the politicians, those despicable, self-serving—Oh, damn!"
The Muggle policeman suddenly stopped his rant, jumping away from the gray-haired young man and stared at him with terrified eyes. "I shouldn't have told you all this," he stammered, panic evident in his voice. "Oh, damn it. Alright, forget everything I just said. You never heard any of this, understand?"
His tone became urgent, almost pleading. "Hurry back to your hotel and rest, sir. It's not safe out here at night. There are... things in the darkness. Large wild animals prowling around. You wouldn't want to end up like the others, would you? Disappearing suddenly only to be found in a stinking sewer after a while?"
"Thank you for your warning. I certainly wouldn't want to meet such an end—" The gray-haired young man nodded politely to the Muggle policeman, smiling courteously.
"Then leave quickly!" the officer insisted, waving his arms in an exaggerated shooing motion. He watched intently as the young man turned to go, only relaxing slightly when he saw him start to walk away. With a heavy sigh, the officer turned his attention back to the weeping Italian woman, her cries having subsided to quiet, heartbreaking sobs.
But as the officer's gaze shifted away, the young man halted his departure. He turned his head, fixing the grieving mother with a long, penetrating look. For a brief moment, a flash of lightning-like anger in his eyes.
The gray-haired young man is, of course, Bryan.
Four or five days ago, Bryan was still drifting on the ocean with Sirius.
The trip to Azkaban had been quite fruitful. According to the original plan, he was prepared to return to 12 Grimmauld Place and spend some time pondering the gains from this adventure.
But just at the end of this adventure, a letter from Kakus Fawley interrupted Bryan's plans, forcing him to embark on a tiring journey to this unfamiliar country, despite having already expended considerable energy.
Now, as he stood at the edge of this primeval forest, Bryan couldn't help but draw comparisons to the Forbidden Forest that bordered Hogwarts. But as the Forbidden Forest held a certain familiarity, a sense of being tamed (if only slightly) due to its proximity to the school, this Albanian woodland exuded an aura of wild, untamed aura.
In the dense woods, towering trees reaching several dozen feet high and too thick for even several adults to encircle with their arms are everywhere. While the sky outside still held the faint glow of sunset, the forest was already steeped in darkness.
Bryan pulled his black robes tighter around himself, more out of instinct than any real need for warmth. The garment, imbued with protective enchantments, seemed to absorb the surrounding darkness, rendering him nearly invisible. This camouflage, however, did little to shield him from the unseen wizard's eyes that watched his every move.
Clad in black robes, Bryan ignored the greedy eyes that were lurking in the deep darkness, secretly peeping and waiting to strike, as he struggled along a barely noticeable path. The vines around were so thick that Bryan wasn't even sure if he's walking on the right path or if he's already gone astray.
After struggling through the vegetation, Bryan paused to check the letter from Kakus Fawley once more. From an inner pocket of his robes, he took out the slightly crumpled parchment. Attached to it was a crudely drawn magical map. In the dim light filtering through the canopy, Bryan studied the parchment intently.
According to the map, he was very close to his destination. Not far from it, a larger symbol marked his goal. Bryan took a moment to survey his surroundings, matching the outlines of the land to those depicted on the map. Satisfied that he was indeed on the right track, he carefully refolded the letter and map, tucking them safely away before setting off once more.
The next ten minutes of his journey were perhaps the most grueling yet. The forest seemed to grow denser with each step, as if actively resisting his progress.
Finally, after these ten minutes of struggle, Bryan emerged into a small clearing. At its center stood a massive spruce tree, its trunk as wide as a small house.
But it was what hung at the base of the spruce that truly caught Bryan's attention. There, fixed to the ancient trunk, was the severed head of a goat.
The sight was grotesque and unsettling in equal measure. The flesh where the head had been separated from its body was startlingly fresh, droplets of blood still clinging to the its edges, about to fall at any moment. But the rest of the head bore unmistakable signs of age and decay. The skin had tightened over the skull, giving it a mummified appearance.
Most disturbing of all were the eye sockets - once home to the goat's eyes, they now gaped as empty hollows, seeming to stare into Bryan's very soul.
"I wish to enter the camp,"
Bryan said in an old voice, facing the goat's head.
For a moment, nothing happened. The clearing remained silent, the only movement the gentle swaying of leaves in a breeze Bryan couldn't feel. Then, slowly at first but with increasing intensity, a change came over the scene.
A subtle wind arose, seemingly from nowhere, rustling the undergrowth and setting Bryan's robes to fluttering. The air grew thick with an unseen energy, making the hairs on the back of Bryan's neck stand on end. And then, most unsettling of all, the goat's head began to move.
Creak, creak, creak--
A sound emerged from its throat, a creaking, groaning noise. As Bryan watched, the goat's head fixed to the spruce tree suddenly laughed ghostly, two points of sickly green light ignited in the depths from its hollow eye sockets.
"State your name and your introducer,"
When the goat's head spoke, its voice was like nails scratching a chalkboard, high-pitched and grating.
"Golden Viper, introduced by Kakus Fawley—"
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Author's Note: This whole thing regarding albania is fully fictional. i just used the place's name in Original Story as a reference. This albania and our real world albania are different.
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État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
-- Power
stone