In these remote countryside hamlets of Great Britain, strangers were still a novelty. Word spread like wildfire, drawing the local folk—every aunt and uncle in the village—to cluster outside Old Bert's modest cottage, craning their necks for a glimpse inside.
Old Bert shuffled out, waving his arms. "Enough gawking, all of you! What's the fuss? Clear off before you block the lane!"
A stout middle-aged woman chuckled. "Old Bert, that lad's a proper looker! Caught a peek of him myself. Now you've patched him up, why not have him stick around? Marry our Dora, maybe? The telly's always on about these things—amnesiac hero washes up, ends up as the village son-in-law!"
Old Bert's face soured. "Watch less of that rubbish. The boy's no ordinary sort. Felt his coat just now—finer stuff than the suit young Wilkins brought back from London last year!"
Another villager piped up. "How much d'you reckon that costs? And that black cat of his—stunning creature! Fur like polished ebony. We've got rats scampering about my place lately. Bert, mind if I borrow it for a day or two to sort 'em out?"
Luckily, Ebony caught only the gist, not the details. He sensed someone eyeing him for a job, but nothing more. Had he known it involved chasing vermin, the sleek black cat would have unleashed a furious swipe. He was no common mouser—a rare magical familiar deserved better than that.
Just then, Ebony's ears twitched. He lifted his head, golden eyes narrowing as if piercing the thatched roof to the figure gliding silently overhead on a broomstick.
The wizard, having swooped into the village, had noted the gathering crowd and overheard the chatter.
"A Muggle-born wizard? Out here?"
A sudden prickle ran down his spine—like invisible eyes boring into him. He traced a quick sigil before his face; his irises flared with a faint golden glow.
Through the cottage walls, their gazes locked.
Ebony's hackles rose. "Mrowr!"
The wizard's enchanted sight flickered out. Sweat beaded on his brow.
"Merlin's beard, what a beast! Far beyond me—but it doesn't seem hostile. I'll alert the order at once."
He drew a small enchanted compass from his robes and tapped it with his wand. A series of soft chimes echoed.
If Erwin had witnessed it, he'd have snorted. A wizarding Floo call? In this day and age?
The connection hummed to life.
"Fifth Elder—er, Head Auror—I've traced the anomalous magic surge. Small village, on the Southern coast. But there's a guardian creature here—unknown breed, utterly ferocious!"
"Understood. Return at once. We've identified the source; no need to engage."
The line cut off sharply.
The wizard blinked in disbelief. "Hang on—answering doesn't cost a Knut! You lot knew all along and still sent me? Bloody time-wasters."
Orders were orders, though. He kicked off into the clouds, vanishing swiftly.
Ebony's tension eased as the unfamiliar presence faded from the air.
Inside, Erwin stirred on the narrow bed with a faint groan.
Ebony leaped to his side, nuzzling close with a worried meow.
Erwin's eyes fluttered open. The cat licked his cheek enthusiastically.
Erwin scratched behind Ebony's ears. "Good to see you too, old friend. Where are we now?"
Ebony mewed, tail flicking.
Erwin's brow furrowed. "The British countryside? How on earth...?"
Another soft meow filled in the gaps.
Erwin sighed. "He planned it meticulously—sealing every escape until I had no choice but to flee here. Then he could reclaim what he'd lost. But he never counted on the deep slumber. Best-laid schemes of wizards and men..."
Ebony tilted his head, uncomprehending the mutterings. All that mattered was his master was awake—a triumph in itself. He purred, rubbing against Erwin's arm.
"Give me a moment to recharge," Erwin said. "You keep watch here."
Ebony nodded, settling nearby.
Erwin reached into his enchanted pouch, withdrawing a fistful of shimmering magical crystals. He crushed them in his palm; pure magic flowed like liquid starlight, surging back into his veins. Compatible and potent, it restored him effortlessly.
Color returned to his cheeks as his reserves swelled.
The door creaked open. Old Bert entered, balancing a steaming bowl.
Spotting Erwin alert, he beamed. "Ah, you're up! Feeling steadier?"
Erwin smiled. "Much, thank you, sir. You saved my life."
Old Bert waved it off. "Nonsense—just neighborly. Hungry? Village fare's nothing fancy. Whipped up some pumpkin soup; tuck in."
Erwin sat at the rough-hewn table. The hearty broth, flecked with herbs, warmed him from within. White flour—or its wizarding equivalent—was a luxury here, doled out sparingly. This simple gesture meant the world.
"Thank you," Erwin said sincerely.
He lifted the spoon—cutlery Old Bert had set out—and savored the first sip. His easy familiarity startled the old man.
"Bloody hell, lad. You handle that like a local. Must've spent half your life 'round these parts!"
Erwin chuckled. "Something like that. Lived here ages ago—feels like another lifetime."
Old Bert guffawed. "You can't be more than a teenager! 'Ages ago'? I've spent my whole life in this corner of Britain!"
Erwin let it slide. His past life here had been brief but bone-deep, woven into his very soul.
...
High in the Scottish Highlands, Sunny Finch wrapped up her daily drills and retrieved the crystal ball, eager for another glimpse of Erwin. Lately, she felt a twinge of guilt—like a Peeping Tom with a scrying spell. But truth be told, his adventures sparked envy. Life in the wizarding enclave was a grind: endless practice, the odd pilfered sweet from the professors (followed by a clip 'round the ear), and precious little excitement.
She was restless, plain and simple.
The orb swirled to life, revealing Erwin at the table.
Sunny leaned in. "Pumpkin soup today? Straightforward stuff. That sturdy bowl—classic British make. Must've cost a pretty penny shipping one like that from Diagon Alley."
...
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