For the entire day that followed, the Old Wizard stayed shut inside the wooden hut. The cauldron hissed, and the smell of herbs was so thick it choked the air. Outside, Roger even heard a long, twisted incantation, the syllables strange and awkward.
Just listening to it felt harder than casting Imperio.
At last, the tightly closed wooden door opened again, and the Old Wizard's hoarse voice rang out. "Get in here!"
In front of Roger, the Old Wizard flipped open an unremarkable old wooden chest. It looked barely wider than a chair, yet he leaned in until only his legs were left outside. Clearly, the inside was far larger than it appeared.
He rummaged for a long while before straightening up with a small vial of pale-purple potion and a wand so worn that its original appearance was almost gone.
He stared at the vial, the muscles in his face twitching, heartache and reluctance written plainly across his features.
"You should count yourself lucky," he rasped, his voice dry yet filled with fierce pride. "This is the proudest thing I've ever brewed, the Magic-Sensing Potion. Drink it, and your power will surge, for a time."
"For a time?" Roger's heart tightened, but his hunger for magic still burned.
The Old Wizard did not hand over the bottle.
Instead, he produced a delicate balance, poured out a few drops of the thick purple liquid, and carefully diluted it with water.
In the end, the cup held only a mouthful of pale-purple liquid.
"Once, and this little is enough," he warned, his cloudy eyes boring into Roger. "Swallow even a sip of the undiluted brew, and your brain will boil to porridge, leaving you an empty shell."
His bony fingers lifted the battered wand and aimed it at Roger, his voice suddenly icy. "For the next five days, you will learn one spell. Barely usable is enough."
"If you can't…" The wand tip glinted coldly. "I'll personally drain every drop of blood from your body."
"Believe me, boy," the corner of his mouth curled into that frozen smile, "I'll leave you bone-dry."
The diluted Magic-Sensing Potion was still as sticky as glue. Under the Old Wizard's hawk-like stare, Roger had no choice. He tilted his head back and gulped it down. An indescribable stench exploded across his tongue, like rotten fish soaked in stale sock water.
Thankfully, the Bio-computer's monitoring showed no harm to his body.
The effect struck like lightning. In an instant, Roger plunged into a lucid dream. His body seemed to sink into a warm seabed, surrounded by something soft yet omnipresent that pressed against him and washed over him.
"Boy, relax completely!" the Old Wizard's sandpaper voice cut through. "What you feel is the world of magic. Use your will. Drill into your own soul. Touch them. Speak to them. Draw them in. Make them obey!" Though still harsh, the explanation was clear and methodical, like that of a proper professor.
The words echoed in Roger's mind. He closed his eyes, cast off stray thoughts, and forced his awareness toward the chaotic energies. Gradually, he felt himself melt into that vast sea, becoming a tiny spark within it.
"Now," the Old Wizard called him back, his furrowed face calm as if this were only to be expected, "I'll teach you a top-tier spell. Imperio. It's simple."
"???"
Roger's consciousness lurched.
Who starts learning magic with the Unforgivable Curses?!
Over the next few days, under the Old Wizard's "careful" tutelage, Roger's analysis of Imperio rose to 90 percent. The obstacle now was no longer understanding the incantation, but still lacking that final trace of power.
It was terrifying. Even diluted, the potion had pushed the strength of a ten-year-old young wizard close to the threshold needed to cast Imperio. Even Potion Master Snape might not be able to manage that.
To push him further, the Old Wizard poured a full cup of undiluted Magic-Sensing Potion. His trembling hand then scooped up a pile of disgusting things—crawler limbs, twisted roots, oddly colored powders—and threw them all in.
Glug…
The cup reacted violently, releasing acrid purple fumes as the liquid turned murkier and more grotesque.
"Useless! I've never had such a stupid student!" Half his face twitched as he shouted, spittle flying at Roger. "Do you have any idea how many precious ingredients you've wasted?! Damn it—drink!"
Roger froze. The Old Wizard had warned him that even a mouthful of the concentrated potion would destroy the mind.
As if reading his hesitation, the Old Wizard added with a sinister smile, "I… improved the formula to suit your worthless body. At least… it won't kill you so quickly…"
"It won't… die… that quickly?!"
Roger stared at the viscous liquid in the cup, churning with strange bubbles and mixed with unidentifiable filth. His scalp prickled, and his stomach churned.
The potion slid down his throat. Instead of the burning sensation from the diluted version, an icy chill spread through him instantly.
It felt as though his entire consciousness had been plunged into an ice-cold mountain torrent. The slightest thought seemed capable of stirring violent waves in the water.
The Old Wizard snatched a living creature from the wooden crate, an Acromantula the size of a washbasin, and snarled excitedly, "Now! Hit it with Imperio! Hurry!"
The lessons of the past few weeks had taught Roger that when the Old Wizard gave an order in that unquestioning, near-maniacal tone, you obeyed immediately. Otherwise, what awaited you was far worse than a single Cruciatus Curse.
By now, Roger had gathered enough data on Imperio. The analysis of the incantation was complete. He flooded his mind with every scrap of it in an instant.
Without hesitation, he raised his wand. The power of the potion surged through him as he hissed at the restless Acromantula, "Imperio!"
"Ssshhhk!"
A beam far brighter and denser than any before shot from the tip of the wand, like a solid silver chain, and struck the Acromantula squarely.
Through the Bio-computer's vision, countless intricate strands of magic burst from the wand, twining and linking with the spider's own magical threads. On the level of magical patterns, the two became one, like conjoined twins.
So this was Imperio.
The moment Roger barely grasped the workings of the spell, the Old Wizard began preparing to leave.
At dawn, the cabin door creaked open. The Old Wizard snapped, "Pack up. You're coming with me!"
Before Roger could reply, the man stepped outside, thrust three bulging, battered briefcases into his arms, and grunted, "Carry these. We're going to Diagon Alley!"
Diagon Alley!
At the familiar name, Roger's pupils shrank and his heart began to pound.
At last, he was getting out.
What year was it now? Roger prayed desperately that it was around the time Harry Potter entered Hogwarts, when the magical world was still relatively peaceful.
More importantly, familiar figures like Dumbledore might appear in Diagon Alley. He might yet be saved.
The moment he stepped beyond the magical barrier, he looked back. Where was the camp? Only a tumbledown country house stood alone on the outskirts of London.
With a flick of his wand and a terse incantation, the Old Wizard made the building ripple like a reflection in water, then vanish, leaving behind a calm little lake.
"Stop dawdling. Keep up!" the Old Wizard barked.
"Sir… I… I can't keep up! I don't know any speed-enhancing spells!" Roger panted, half jogging to match the man's leisurely stride.
But surprisingly, this was no ordinary spell.
As they walked, the Old Wizard offered a brief explanation. He called it "ley-line magic," and added with a sneer, "Apart from my mentor and a few earlier generations, no one studies it anymore. Brooms and Floo powder are far more convenient…"
Nothing like this existed in the original Harry Potter books. This Old Wizard knew far more than he should. "Then where is your mentor?"
"I killed him. It's tradition in our school."
The Old Wizard's reply was icy.
With the help of ley-line magic, a long London street seemed to shrink to just a few steps.
Along the way, the Old Wizard explained the task. He urgently needed a living wizard with suitable magical traits for an experiment and planned to hunt for one in Diagon Alley or Knockturn Alley.
The briefcases were the tools for the capture.
Roger himself was the bait, meant to lure the chosen target into the trap.
Cold sweat poured down Roger's back at those words.
Soon they turned into a narrow, filthy alley and reached a tavern whose crooked sign creaked in the wind, the Leaky Cauldron.
When the Old Wizard stepped inside, his gloomy expression and Dark Wizard attire made it clear he was not here for a drink, so Tom the barman wisely kept his distance.
Without a sideways glance, the Old Wizard strode through the pub toward the back door. Roger held his breath and hurried after him.
Just before they crossed the taproom, Roger caught sight of a figure in the shadows beside the bar.
The man wore a crumpled robe and a ridiculous purple turban. His paper-white face twitched nervously as his eyes darted about.
Professor Quirrell?
An icy chill shot up Roger's spine, every hair on his body standing on end.
Because the infamous Lord Voldemort was attached to the back of his head.
And this was Voldemort's true body.
.
.
.