Three days later, Rowan collected the special-ordered Guide to Gesture Casting from Flourish and Blotts.Ten days after that, he stood in the shop courtyard, wand in hand, facing a locked chest.
"Alohomora."
A thin blue spark leapt from the wand's tip and struck the lock. With a crisp click, the latch sprang open.
"Finally."
His satisfaction was well earned. Ten days of near-constant practice—split between this body and his Marvel self—had finally paid off. And with Tonks stopping by often to "borrow dinner," he'd squeezed in occasional coaching as well.
Those sessions made something painfully clear: he was no prodigy.
Hermione Granger had mastered several spells before even stepping into Hogwarts, all while studying magical history on the side. Snape had invented new spells as a student. And wizards like Dumbledore, Grindelwald, and Voldemort belonged in a category all their own.
Rowan was not that. But he had something none of them did: two bodies, two timelines, two sets of waking hours.If talent failed him, relentless practice would not.
After confirming the spell was reliable, he discarded the wand and switched to gesture-casting drills. Without a wand, the spell crawled into being—seven or eight seconds before the lock clicked open. Even with practice, he doubted he could get it under five.
In a duel, that was suicide. No wonder wandless casting had been abandoned.
On the morning of August 21, Rowan checked his magical calendar as he ate breakfast.
"Lockhart's signing is today…"
He didn't care about Lockhart. But today was also the day Harry Potter and the Weasleys visited Diagon Alley for second-year shopping.
"That might be worth showing up for."
He didn't plan to attach himself to Harry immediately, but the boy was a walking key to places Rowan would never reach alone. The Restricted Section, the Room of Requirement, dangerous artifacts—Harry attracted doors the rest of the school only whispered about.
So Rowan waited by the shop window, watching Knockturn Alley's foot traffic with quiet focus.
About an hour later, a blond father and son—robes immaculate, posture aristocratic—stepped into Borgin and Burkes.
The Malfoys. If they were here, then Harry was too.
Ten minutes later, a soot-covered, wide-eyed boy stumbled out of the shop, glasses askew and panic written across his face.
"Where am I?"
Harry turned in a slow circle, horrified by shriveled heads, crawling dark objects, and the gaunt figures whispering from shadowed doorways. He clearly understood enough to know this was dangerous ground.
"I need to get out of here…"
He took one step toward a narrow passage. Two shabby wizards turned to look at him, grinning faintly.
"Are you lost?"
Harry froze. The voice came from behind him—steady, young, and surprisingly calm.
He turned to find Rowan standing there with a book tucked under his arm, posture relaxed but eyes alert.
"This is Knockturn Alley," Rowan said. "Not a place to wander alone."
"I—yes, I'm lost," Harry admitted quickly. "I used Floo Powder, but I must have said something wrong. I was trying to get to Diagon Alley."
Rowan's expression softened. "You mixed them up. They sound similar if you're nervous." He nodded toward the main street. "Don't worry. The alleys connect. I'll walk you out."
Relief broke across Harry's face. "Thank you. I'm Harry, by the way."
"Rowan," Rowan replied with a small smile. "Come on. Stick close. People here notice strays."
And with that, he guided Harry out of the shadows and toward the sunlit street beyond.