Outside the bookstore, Ted was now heading up the dark street. It wasn't quite as crowded as it had been in the morning, but the voices coming from the occasional pub echoed faintly along the road, mixing with the distant hum of cars and footsteps.
As Ted walked past one of the livelier pubs, he caught sight of a group of men dressed in red, their eyes glued nervously to the flickering screen of an old television set perched high above the bar. Even from where he stood, Ted could see the many crimson flags hanging from the ceiling, each bearing the unmistakable emblem of the liver bird.
Liverpool supporters.
Ted, being a Chelsea fan—not an obsessive one, but loyal enough—paused for a moment by the front window to watch the screen.
It was 3-3 between Manchester United and Liverpool. The final minutes of the match were ticking away. A collective sigh of frustration erupted from the pub's interior as Liverpool squandered another free-kick opportunity.
Ted's lips tugged upward into a faint, amused smile. For Chelsea, this wasn't a bad result at all. It left them in the race for the championship — unlikely, maybe, but far from impossible. Miracles did happen, after all.
Leaving the scene behind, Ted continued wandering up the street, but an uneasy feeling was steadily building in his stomach. It wasn't sharp or immediate, more like a dull pull at his insides — faint, but constant.
Most people might have dismissed it as indigestion or nerves, the result of wandering alone through London after dark. But Ted knew better.
For him, this feeling was all too familiar.
He was being watched. Targeted.
Some might have called it paranoia — or worse, an overactive imagination belonging to a lonely, overly mature eight-year-old. But Ted trusted this sense completely. It had never once failed him.
It was the very same feeling that had driven him to eavesdrop on Larry Bright and his father that day — the same subtle pull that had steered him clear of danger time and time again. What began as an unconscious instinct had, after Larry's birthday, become something deeper. A warning system. An internal mechanism honed by repetition.
To him, it was far from just a feeling.
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The day after Larry's birthday, Ted had spent the entire morning shut away in his room, curled up with a book—his refuge from a world that had once again proved how little space it had for trust.
His eyes were still faintly red from the tears he'd shed the night before, though now they were focused, calm, distant. In his hands rested a large, well‑kept volume from his mother's library—one of the few newer ones, with pages that had not yet yellowed or frayed.
This was Ted's favourite book.
Not because of the story itself—though he liked it well enough—but because it was the last thing tying him directly to her. It was the book his mother had read to him every night during those few fleeting weeks he could still remember.
A thick, red hardcover with gold lettering was embossed on the front:
Hogwarts: A Historyby "— Bagshot."
The author's first name was damaged, burned away at some point, leaving only the surname Bagshot clearly legible.
As a child, Ted had scoured libraries and bookshops, hunting for more works by this Bagshot—nothing. No records, no references. It had frustrated him endlessly.
The book itself spoke of a grand magical school hidden deep in the Scottish Highlands—a place where children learned spells, potions, history, and countless wonders of the wizarding world. Its founders were legends: Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena Ravenclaw, Godric Gryffindor, and Salazar Slytherin.
Its current headmaster, according to the text, was a man named Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore.
Ted had encountered that name before.
His mother's library mentioned Dumbledore several times, across different books, in passing or by reference—but always the same name, always the same man.
Yet, no matter how hard Ted researched, no matter which public records or authors he consulted, he found nothing to explain how a fictional figure from a damaged fantasy book appeared across multiple works.
It did not sit right.
It had never sat right.
Despite all his efforts, despite his carefully laid‑out searches and methodical reading, Albus Dumbledore remained a mystery—a ghost without an origin.
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Sitting cross‑legged on the bed, skimming pages he had already read hundreds of times, Ted let his mind wander, recalling events from the previous day and distant memories of childhood.
He knew he had felt that tug in his stomach before—the feeling that had drawn him to overhear the conversation—and that was what he focused on now. As he sat there, the memories surfaced on their own, rising one after another like pieces of a puzzle slowly falling into place.
He remembered how, when he was five, playing in the back garden, he had walked near a rose‑bush—and felt that tug. A moment later, Jina, Jessie's little sister, had jumped at him from behind, trying to catch him off guard. Almost instinctively, Ted had shifted just enough to avoid her.
The girl, only a year older than he, had fallen face‑first into the thorny flowers. She spent a week in hospital afterwards, needing several stitches.
He remembered how, when he was three and ill with a fever, a doctor had come to the house. The old man had promised no needles—only for Ted to feel that same tug moments before the doctor, thinking him asleep, reached for a syringe.
At that age, Ted hadn't understood it, but his reaction had been immediate. He burst into loud crying, prompting several staff to rush in and catch the doctor red‑handed.
And then there was the earliest memory of all.
He could remember lying in his crib, tiny, barely weeks old, gazing up at his mother as she moved about the room. She was beautiful in an almost otherworldly way, as though she didn't belong in a world as dull and cold as his father's.
Her long, silvery‑white hair fell like a shimmering curtain down her back. She hummed softly while adjusting her dress in the mirror—a sleek grey gown that fit as if it had been sewn onto her. In her delicate hand, she toyed absent‑mindedly with a slender, polished object—a stick of pale wood, smooth and straight, with an odd, silvery sheen.
Ted's memory was always extremely detailed, recalling even the slightest aspects of mundane events, especially those from when his mother was alive. This was the one detail he did his best to ignore, to deny—until that day, at least…
"Selwynnnnnn!"
A shrill scream echoed through the window just as his mother finished adjusting her dress and leaned down to kiss his forehead.
"I know you're in there!" came the mad voice of a woman, sharp and crazed.
Elara Blake—born Elara Selwyn—froze. A flicker of fear crossed her features.
"Come out, you filthy blood‑traitor!" the voice shrieked again. "Or I'll blow this whole house to shreds! I don't mind, really!"
Elara kissed Ted's forehead again, whispering, "It's going to be okay, Theo… it's all going to be okay."
Tears were already gathering in her eyes.
"Bombarda!" the voice roared, and the whole mansion shook under the force of the spell.
Elara didn't hesitate. Afraid for her son's life, she left the room at once, running into the garden.
There stood an elegant‑looking woman, a wide, twisted smile stretched across her face.
"Lil' Selwyn… how nice of you to join me," the woman purred. Her wand—curved like a horn—was already aimed at Elara.
Elara raised her own wand in return.
"Bella… it's not too late to stop this," Elara pleaded quietly. "We were friends once."
"You're right about one thing," Bella laughed. "I don't have to do anything. I want to."
"Crucio."
The curse hit Elara without warning.
Bella watched with a smile, her eyes twinkling with sick pleasure as Elara screamed beneath the curse. Ten minutes passed—an eternity under the Cruciatus—until Elara's voice gave out completely. Only then did Bella lower her wand, as if finally bored of her toy.
"This is the fate you blood‑traitors deserve," she said, voice smooth and unhurried.
Turning on her heel, Bella began walking slowly toward the open gate at the end of the garden, humming as though it were just another pleasant afternoon.
And that was when it happened.
A sharp, cutting sound tore through the quiet—too fast, too sudden.
"Diffindo!"
Ted could recall the sound of that voice even now: weak, strained, barely human—yet still his mother's.
Bella spun around instantly, instinct moving faster than thought. Her wand flicked up—a shield blossomed from thin air—but it wasn't enough. The slash cut through it like wet paper, carving down across her right eye, splitting skin from brow to cheekbone. Blood spilled in a sharp, ugly line.
Her expression twisted—not entirely in pain, but in disbelief, shock, rage.
"Avada Kedavra!" she roared, her other hand whipping forward, green light erupting without hesitation.
The flash struck Elara squarely in the chest.
She didn't even fall.
She simply… stilled.
Bella stood there, breathing hard, blood running down her face, staring at the figure before her. Then, with a final disgusted glance, she turned and left the garden without another word, vanishing beyond the gates as if she had never been there.
He hadn't understood then—he was just a baby, frightened by loud noises, shouting, and shaking walls. But the Ted remembering it now knew better.
He knew what he'd heard, what he'd seen, what he'd felt.
That same sick tug in his stomach—the exact sensation he felt every time danger crept close, long before he could have known it consciously.
As for how his mother died… well, that was the part he still couldn't answer.
The official reports said natural causes. No signs of struggle. No intruder. Nothing at all.
And yet Ted knew.
Whatever happened that day—whoever that woman was—she was the reason Elara Blake never came back.