The old wizard never stayed in one pce for long. The ramshackle wooden cabin they’d been hiding in had once belonged to a reclusive lumberjack, but with a single flick of the wizard’s wand, it colpsed into a heap of splinters.

  “Cack-cack-cack,” the wizard ughed, utterly remorseless. “Come on.”

  Anton curled his lip. They weren’t coming back anyway—was there really any need to demolish the pce? The man was a natural-born vilin.

  Dragging a worn, oversized leather trunk behind him, Anton struggled to keep up. The case was rger than his small frame and looked like it had weathered decades of rough travel. Inside, it held everything the old wizard owned: all his research notes, possessions, and even a cage made of iron bars—currently containing a werewolf.

  The trunk wasn’t heavy, but Anton’s arms ached. His wrists were still raw from being magically suspended hours earlier, the pain like tearing sinew each time he took a step.

  The old wizard gnced back and frowned. With an irritated flick of his wand, he cast, “Strength Multiplia!”

  Anton’s heart jolted in his chest. He could feel a pulse thudding behind his ears as cool energy slithered through his limbs. Suddenly, the heavy trunk felt no more burdensome than a box of biscuits.

  But the searing pain in his wrists? That spell had only dulled it by a sliver.

  “If you can carry it, then walk faster!” the wizard snapped.

  Anton quickened his pace obediently, but his mind was racing. He watched the old man’s hunched back, furrowing his brow in thought. From what he remembered of Harry Potter, there had been far better options than Strength Multiplia just now.

  A simple Episkey could’ve healed his wrists. Or a Levitation Charm could’ve floated the trunk.

  So why hadn’t he used either?

  Anton had a bold theory: could it be that this back-alley wizard had never been trained properly? That he didn't even know how to cast those spells?

  Now that would be interesting.

  He kept his expression carefully neutral, hiding his thoughts. If this man really was an untrained, rogue spellcaster... then perhaps he didn’t know how to perform high-level wandless magic either.

  Still, Anton didn’t let himself get overconfident. He had only one chance. If the wizard ever suspected him of rebellion, he'd kill him without hesitation.

  They hiked down a winding mountain trail for over a mile before reaching a stretch of wide cement road.

  Eventually, a sleek bottle-green car—vintage in style—pulled up beside them. Moments ter, they were speeding off down the highway.

  The car stopped outside a rge bookstore on Charing Cross Road in Westminster.

  The driver blinked around in a daze, like he was waking from a dream. Scrambling for his phone, he babbled nervously, “Honey, I swear I didn’t mean to be te. Something weird just happened—I was suddenly back in the city. No, no, I did leave, I swear, just—listen, please, wait, don’t hang up! Hello? Hello—?”

  Beside him, the old wizard opened the car door and stepped out. Anton heaved open the trunk and followed.

  They didn’t head for the bookstore. Instead, they walked straight to the dingy little pub next door—no one even looked twice at their eccentric clothes. A man on a call nearly collided with Anton, not even seeing him.

  It was as if they were invisible.

  The Leaky Cauldron, read the weathered sign above the pub.

  The old wizard didn’t pause. Ignoring the barkeep’s greeting, he headed straight to the small courtyard out back and tapped a few bricks on the wall with his wand.

  With the sound of shifting stone, the wall rippled open like a special effect in a movie, revealing a bustling, cobblestoned street beyond.

  He gave a nearby trash bin a casual kick, nudging it slightly out of position, and walked on without missing a beat.

  Now, by normal procedure, you were supposed to count three bricks up and two across from the bin, then tap three times to open the way into Diagon Alley.

  But what happened if you moved the bin?

  This wizard… even if he wasn’t a Dark wizard, he was definitely the kind of bastard nobody liked.

  Anton rolled his eyes and followed him through.

  But the old man didn’t linger in the vibrant shops of Diagon Alley. He moved quickly, ducking into a shadowed alleyway that branched off into darkness. The moment they crossed the threshold, the atmosphere shifted. The sky above seemed to dim. The cobbles twisted underfoot. Lurking figures leaned against crooked walls—wizards whose eyes gleamed with secrets and suspicion.

  They had entered Knockturn Alley.

  “Wait here,” the old wizard ordered, snatching the trunk from Anton’s hands and dragging it to the first shop by the alley mouth.

  Anton raised a brow.

  He doesn’t know the Levitation Charm.

  That was his first thought.

  But how is that even possible?

  That was his second.

  His eyes narrowed.

  Just then, a group of children stopped at the junction between Diagon and Knockturn Alley, their chatter piercing through the gloom. A whole brood of redheads—unmistakable.

  Two identical boys were pleading with their mother. “Mum, maybe you could sit and have a nice cup of tea? We can go to Madam Malkin’s ourselves! We’ll be fine.”

  Their mother looked tempted, but still shook her head. “Absolutely not. I’m keeping my eyes on you two.”

  Behind them stood a freckled boy about Anton’s age, wide-eyed and staring straight at him.

  Sunlight caught in the boy’s fming red hair, glinting off the colorful lollipop in his hand.

  “Bloody hell!” the mother gasped, suddenly noticing the sinister edge of Knockturn Alley and the way every eye there seemed to radiate hostility. “We are not staying here!”

  She grabbed the boy’s hand. “Ron, stop dawdling!”

  Ron blinked, casting one st curious gnce into the shadows where Anton stood, before scurrying off with the others.

  Anton’s lips curved into a knowing smirk. “Ron Weasley,” he murmured, taking a step back into the darkness.

  Now he knew the timeline.

  That was Ron. One of the three main characters in Harry Potter. And those twins? Fred and George. Two years older than their little brother.

  They’d been arguing about buying their wands.

  Which meant—this was two years before Harry Potter started school.

  And that opened a very tempting possibility.

  If he wanted to escape the old wizard’s clutches, all he had to do was bolt out there, grab Mrs. Weasley’s arm, and tell her he was a kidnapped child.

  With her heart of gold and dueling skills to match, Molly Weasley would absolutely come to his rescue.

  But...

  Why hadn’t the wizard stopped him from seeing them? Why was he so rexed, letting Anton linger at the alley’s edge?

  Anton didn’t dare make a move. Not yet.

  He rubbed his sore wrist, eyes fixed on the strange tattoo etched into his skin—a twisted tangle of curves and a square, ringed by cryptic runes.

  He had no idea what it meant.

  In fact, his memories were a blur. He couldn’t remember his name, age, where he came from, or how he’d fallen into the wizard’s hands. Only the barest scraps of instinct and nguage remained.

  And whatever protection the wizard had pced on him?

  It was still very much in effect.

  There was only one surefire way to break free.

  The wizard had to die.

  Soon, the old man emerged from the shop, and Anton was all smiles, hurrying to retrieve the trunk without being asked.

  “Come on,” the wizard grunted. “Let’s get you a wand.”

  “???” What the—? You broke old freak, where did you get money for a wand?!

  Pn failed. Anton said nothing, simply falling into step behind him once more.

  He could wait.

  There would be another opening. And when it came, he’d be ready.