"John?"
Dudley's broad shoulders and long reach had served him well, sculpting him into the ideal form for a boxer. The boy who had once tormented his younger cousin was now a man who enjoyed the wealth and fame of the international boxing circuit.
He saw John, and a simple, honest smile spread across his face. "You're back?"
John recalled a flicker of friction with Dudley from their childhood. Back then, before he knew of magic, John had once used a pencil to scare several children into tears. Dudley was one of them, and he had later eaten the entire apology cake John's family had brought over all by himself. After John left for Hogwarts, their paths had rarely crossed.
John didn't dislike Dudley, nor the entire Dursley family. Though the portly Mr. Dursley had always roared at Harry, he was generally polite to his neighbors. As an ordinary man, he'd had the courage to point a gun at a wizard to protect his family. He might not have been a qualified uncle to Harry, but he was a qualified husband and father.
"Yes, I'm back." A genuine smile touched John's lips.
They had met once before on the day John first returned, but he had left too quickly for a proper reunion. Now, Dudley stood there, a bit embarrassed, looking like he wanted to say more but was at a loss. Finally, he remembered the freshly baked pie in his hands.
"I thought you might like this." He awkwardly rubbed his nose.
John took it with a smile. "You've matured a lot, Dudley."
"Can't be a little bully my whole life," Dudley replied with a self-deprecating shrug.
"No, I'm just feeling a bit emotional," John said, shaking his head slightly. Dudley was the head of his own family now, the responsibility of protecting them resting squarely on his shoulders.
After delivering the pie, Dudley left. John watched him go, his gaze falling to the warm pastry in his hands. He decided to take a walk through the place where he grew up.
Closing the door, he walked down the familiar road. Before he was eleven, he had chased and been chased countless times on Privet Drive. Back then, his father would drive home and spot his son playing in the nearby park. His mother, a woman with the grace of a noble lady, had opened a beauty salon and would often sit with a bone china teacup, drinking black tea and watching her son.
There was none of the frenetic energy of New York here. Skyscrapers stopped their march at the edge of Privet Drive. A cat meowed from an alley, and a trash can fell over with a clang. The roadside fixtures hadn't been changed in years; some streetlights still flickered from poor contact. But there were some changes, like the newly installed internet lines. In a big city, a few years could bring earth-shattering transformations. Here, time moved more gently.
Standing at an intersection, John looked at the bus stop. An old Squib lady used to live nearby. John had petted many of the cats she raised. He stood there for a while, watching as an owl flew across the darkening sky.
"There are no wizards in that house now, either."
John walked back home. Before entering, he paused and looked towards the lively Dursley house. Under the stairs, the room that had once belonged to a wizard was long gone. Dudley, smiling, walked to a window and opened it. He was startled to see John looking over, but John simply nodded to him, opened his own door, and returned to his quiet house.
On the owl perch, the black owl, Riddle, squinted its eyes. There was no fire in the fireplace; electric lights cast a sterile glow.
John walked into the basement. Tom, the beagle, ran over and scurried in a step ahead of him, wagging his tail, excited to be in this place.
John flipped his hands, and the Casket of Ancient Winters appeared between them. He snapped his fingers, and the light bulb above his head brightened.
"Alright," he said to himself, "time to get down to business."
This place, his secret base during his school days, stored many of his alchemical achievements. The great Wizard King of the magical world had started his journey to power from this very basement.
"Only with enough bargaining chips can we ensure the core can be taken out."
John placed both hands on the Casket, and a biting chill began to spread up his palms. A blue light flashed in his eyes, and golden scales appeared on his arms, suppressing the cold. Aiming the Casket in one direction, he mobilized his magic.
The next second, a torrent of arctic energy rushed out.
The basement was instantly transformed into a glittering ice cave.
John, his expression a mixture of annoyance and resignation, brushed a cascade of ice chips from his hair. "Not being a Frost Giant, controlling this thing is really a bit troublesome."
"Owoooo."
He looked down. Unlucky Tom was hiding under a table, now frozen solid along with it. John had no choice but to carefully rescue the dog from the ice. Once free, Tom ran outside with his tail tucked firmly between his legs.
"Is it really that bad?" John muttered.
The next day, John broke open an ice hole in the completely frozen basement and climbed out. He had to admit, it was a miscalculation not to have drawn a tube of Loki's blood when he had the chance.
After changing his clothes, he returned to the living room. His gaze fell on a letter on the table, and he paused. He remembered it now—the letter from his uncle that had arrived the day he returned. He had been about to open it when Natasha's dramatic performance outside had distracted him. He'd put it aside and, in the chaos of New York, had forgotten all about it.
Reaching out, he picked up the yellowed envelope. It was still sealed. John casually picked up a letter opener and slit it open.
A single sheet of aged paper fell out. Before it could land, John caught it between his fingers. As he read it, his brow furrowed.
"This is…"
He recognized the words, but their appearance here was the real problem. It was an ancient language. A thought flashed through his mind, and the letter paper in his hand ignited, turning to ash that drifted away and vanished.
After the paper was gone, John's brows were still tightly furrowed. In the depths of his mind, an ominous premonition surfaced. He kept replaying the single sentence from the letter.
"I have come to find you."
In the letter sent by his uncle, there had been a second sheet. Or rather, this sheet was the real letter. And the other was likely a magical marker, mixed in to find its target. A target who could understand the ancient language.
"Who could it be?" he wondered, rubbing his fingers together.
The material of that paper was special, possessing a unique magic that felt alien to this world. The chaos particles on it had vanished, transmitted back to another place. Keeping this disturbing new development in mind, John looked at the second sheet.
This one was far more normal. It was from his uncle. The contents were brief, mentioning that the bear at home had cubs, and that the mother bear had smoothly delivered them after drinking two bottles of vodka. Knowing his uncle's family, John knew this was likely true. At the end of the letter, his uncle invited his parents to visit Jovanovic again. Given his father's history of standing on a box drinking vodka there, he would probably refuse.
However, one sentence made John narrow his eyes.
"The spring water on the mountain has started moving."
In the territory of Jovanovic, there is a trial spring. John had entered it once.
It should be mentioned that Jovanovic is the last Hunter family in this world.
Hunters who, sometimes, also hunt wizards.
No one knows that the Wizard King's maternal grandfather is the sworn enemy of wizards.
[Chapter Complete]
***
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