The old wizard never stayed in one place for too long. This log cabin, originally belonging to a reclusive lumberjack, was reduced to rubble with a flick of his wand.
"Hurry up," he urged, a predatory grin splitting his face. "Let's be off boy."
Anton scowled. He had no intention of returning, rendering the demolition unnecessary. He was, after all, a pragmatist at heart.
He struggled under the weight of a massive, brown leather suitcase, its worn surface testament to years of use. Far larger than his slight frame, it held the wizard's research materials, belongings, and most unsettlingly an iron cage containing a werewolf – seemingly amplified by an Undetectable Extension Charm.
The suitcase itself wasn't heavy, but the lingering pain from his recent suspension was excruciating. Each step was an agony.
The wizard glanced back, his brow furrowed. Then, with a wave of his wand, he muttered, "Accio Fortis!"
Anton felt his heart pound, a throbbing pulse behind his ear. A chilling wave of icy coldness washing over him. The suitcase, previously burdensome, felt remarkably lighter, though the wrist pain only lessened slightly.
"Move it, boy!" the wizard snapped, his impatience evident.
Anton followed, his gaze fixed on the wizard's back. He'd seen enough in his Pottermore knowledge to know the wizard had many less brutal options. A simple Brakium Emendo would have healed his wrist; a Levicorpus would have lifted the suitcase.
Why hadn't he?
A daring thought struck Anton. Could this old man be self-taught? Unfamiliar with the more refined spells of a formal magical education?
The possibility was intriguing. If this wizard was truly self-taught, perhaps even capable of wandless magic.
Caution, he reminded himself. One misstep, and he'd be dead.
After a grueling mile along a mountain path, they reached a paved road. A vintage emerald green car, pulled up beside them, whisking them away.
Their journey ended before a grand bookstore on Charing Cross Road in Westminster, London.
The car's owner, a bewildered man, fumbled for his mobile phone as if jolted from a dream.
"Darling, I'm so sorry I'm late. I encountered something…unbelievable. I'm back in the city somehow. No, no, I haven't even left yet! Just listen, please? Hello?"
Beside him, the old wizard exited the car, his movements as swift and silent as a shadow. Anton heaved the trunk open, retrieving the suitcase.
They walked silently towards a dilapidated pub adjacent to the bookstore. His attire, though fine, went unnoticed; a middle-aged man, engrossed in a phone call, nearly collided with him, seemingly oblivious to his presence. The pub's weathered sign read, "Leaky Cauldron."
The old wizard showed no interest in the establishment. Ignoring the greeting of the barman, Tom, he headed for the rear patio, his wand tapping against the brick wall.
The wall, seemingly imbued with advanced concealment magic, parted to reveal a hidden passage. Through the opening, the bustling London street was visible.
With a subtle nudge, the old wizard shifted a nearby trash can, then slipped through the opening as if it were nothing more than a doorway.
The usual method involved counting three bricks on the trash can, then two horizontally, followed by three taps with a wand to reveal the entrance to Diagon Alley. The trash can's displacement, however, suggested a departure from the standard procedure. Even for a wizard who eschewed dark magic, this seemed like an unnecessary risk.
Anton rolled his eyes, following with the suitcase.
The old wizard wasted no time in Diagon Alley, quickly disappearing into a dark alleyway. The atmosphere shifted dramatically; the sky darkened, the path twisted, and the passing wizards seemed…off. They had entered Knockturn Alley.
"Wait here!"
The old wizard snatched the suitcase, his aged body moving with surprising speed towards the first shop at the alley's entrance.
His eyebrows shot up in surprise. 'He's not going to cast spells?' That was his first thought. 'Why?' His second thought followed, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.
At that moment, a group of children, their vibrant red hair a striking contrast to the shadowy alley, paused at the Diagon Alley entrance, their chatter echoing faintly. Weasleys, perhaps?
The Weasley twins, Fred and George, were attempting to persuade their mother. "Mum, maybe you could enjoy a spot of afternoon tea while we get our robes at Madam Malkin's and pick up our wands?"
Their mother, though visibly swayed, remained hesitant. "No, I must keep a close eye on you both!"
Behind them, a young boy, strikingly similar to Anton – freckled face and all – stared wide-eyed from across the alley. Sunlight glinted off his fiery red hair and the brightly colored lollipop he clutched.
"Blast it all!" their mother exclaimed, her gaze sweeping across Knockturn Alley, its shadowed corners seeming to bristle with malevolent intent. "We can't stay here!"
She hurried her sons away, tugging the freckled boy along. "Ron, come along! Stop daydreaming!"
Ron, however, lingered, his gaze fixed on the young wizard in the dark alley.
"Ron Weasley!" Anton murmured, a slight smile playing on his lips as he retreated further into the shadows of Knockturn Alley.
He now knew the precise timeframe. This was the year before Harry Potter's arrival at Hogwarts; the twins were two years older than Ron, and their eagerness to purchase wands confirmed it was the beginning of Harry's first year.
He had devised a seemingly foolproof escape plan: approach Ron's mother, Molly Weasley, and plead for help, claiming to be a child held captive by a dark wizard. Molly's strong sense of justice and protective instincts would undoubtedly intervene.
Yet, a nagging doubt persisted. The old man's casual demeanor suggested he anticipated this attempt. The risk was too great.
He lightly rubbed his wrist, his gaze falling upon an intricate tattoo – a combination of curves, a square, and indecipherable runes. Its significance remained a mystery.
His memories of his former life were fragmented, almost nonexistent. He had no recollection of his age, name, origin, or how he fell into the old man's hands. He was unaware of any precautions the wizard might have taken.
But one thing was certain: a dead old man posed no further threat.
The old wizard emerged shortly afterward. Anton, forcing a smile, picked up the suitcase.
"Come along, then. Let's get you that wand."
Damn it! Weren't you broke? Where the hell do you get your money from?
The plan had failed. Anton trailed behind, patiently biding his time, waiting for the old man's next misstep.