Welcome Back, Transfer Student

To be honest, the wizarding world of 1991 wasn't much different from the wizarding world of 1890.

At least, that was how it seemed to Glen Howard.

Though only eleven years old, he was currently sipping brandy, nursing his own troubles.

"Sir, I'm glad you enjoy my brandy, but you're still young—one small glass is enough," said a man whose hair was nearly gone, his face like a shriveled walnut.

This was the owner of the Leaky Cauldron, and Glen was sitting right there in the pub.

"Alright." Setting down the empty glass, Glen looked up.

The world instantly dimmed. All the decorations and objects in the pub lost their proper colors.

The pub owner Tom, the old women huddled in the corner sipping sherry, and the other drinkers chatting at their tables all turned into bright blue human shapes.

Of course, the pale young man sitting a few seats away was no exception.

But on the back of that bright blue humanoid's head, there was a vivid splash of red.

As for what that red actually looked like, Glen had no idea—the trembling young man wore a huge purple turban that completely covered the back of his head.

What he could be sure of, though, was that this red patch was part of a dark wizard.

And that was the source of Glen's frustration.

If the whole pub were full of dark wizards, he could just curse them all, pick a target at random, and cast a single Avada Kedavra to trigger the Avada Kedavra Lightning Chain, taking every dark wizard out equally.

Easy, convenient, satisfying.

But right now, the room was full of ordinary wizards. For the sake of one dark wizard fragment, taking them all out along the way just wasn't worth the cost.

"Sigh. Dark wizards used to travel in packs. Now I finally spot one, and it's just a fragment."

After all this effort, if he wanted to kill a dark wizard completely, he'd have to piece one together himself!

What a decline in the times.

With that thought, Glen sighed softly. "If only I had a wand right now."

Hearing this, the pub owner Tom grinned. "You'll have one soon enough."

He'd run the Leaky Cauldron for decades and could tell at a glance that this young gentleman had likely received a letter of admission from Hogwarts and was about to enter Diagon Alley to buy his school supplies.

"Sir, no need to pay for this brandy. Consider it a small gift from me before you enter Hogwarts." With that, the pub owner went off to greet a small man in a top hat.

Well, since the owner said so, he'd let it go.

For now, he'd spare them—cough—spare this dark wizard fragment.

When the world returned to its normal colors, Glen stood up to leave.

But just then, the chatter in the pub suddenly stopped.

Everyone's eyes turned toward the door.

A giant of a man, built like a bear, and a scrawny, dark-haired child.

At first, greetings rang out, calling for the giant named "Hagrid" to come have a drink.

But then someone gasped, and all attention shifted from Hagrid to the child.

"Harry Potter!"

As the pub owner stepped forward to shake his hand, an impromptu meet-and-greet broke out in the bar.

Almost every drinker except Glen rose with tears in their eyes, lining up to shake the hand of this child named "Harry Potter."

The queue blocked the counter—and Glen's way out.

"Harry Potter." Forced back into his seat, Glen murmured the name.

It was a name often mentioned in books published in recent years: "A child who survived Voldemort..."

As for who Voldemort was, honestly, Glen wasn't sure.

Between the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, he'd spent a long time traveling the world and hadn't been in Britain.

According to Modern Magical History, Voldemort's rise happened around the time Glen was visiting the native habitat of biting cabbages.

Still, from the book's descriptions, this "Voldemort" seemed to be an exceptionally powerful dark wizard.

He'd never seen him in person, but at least he was probably stronger than the dark wizard fragment on that young man's back of the head.

Otherwise, why would one make it into the textbooks while the other ended up as someone else's back of the head?

As the handshaking continued, the pale young man stood up, looking extremely nervous, one eye twitching slightly.

"Professor Quirrell!" Hagrid said. "Harry, Professor Quirrell is one of your teachers at Hogwarts..."

"What subject do you teach, Professor Quirrell?"

"D-D-Defense Against the D-D-Dark Arts," Professor Quirrell stammered, as if he'd rather not mention it.

Hearing this, Glen raised an eyebrow.

Professor Quirrell? This guy was a Hogwarts professor? And teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts?

Well, it seems this "Back of the Head" is a black wizard of barely passable skill...

But can he really teach students how to defend against the Dark Arts? What exactly has he been defending against?

This year's Defense Against the Dark Arts professor doesn't seem quite up to par.

As for that child named Harry Potter...

Glen looked at the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead.

"Revelio"

The world dimmed once more, as if all color had been drained away.

Wizards' bodies glowed a translucent bright blue, black wizards a vivid red, while the scar on Harry Potter's forehead blazed an exceptionally bright golden yellow.

"Blood Protection Charm?" After scrutinizing it for a moment, Glen uttered the name of a spell that barely existed in the modern magical world.

This was a powerful ancient magic, one that even the most fearsome dark spell known to the world, "Avada Kedavra," could not harm in the slightest—it could even rebound it back onto the caster.

Various books and newspapers knew nothing of this, only repeating over and over that it was a miracle.

Still, that couldn't be blamed on their shallow knowledge.

A baby surviving under a dark wizard's hand was indeed a miracle.

A century after everything had ended, traces of ancient magic reappearing was also a miracle.

As a fifth-year transfer student at Hogwarts a hundred years ago, and as the last guardian of ancient magic, Glen Howard had long since demanded that the Ministry of Magic delete all records concerning him and ancient magic before he set off on his worldwide travels.

Though the then-Minister of Magic was somewhat reluctant, after a personal visit from Glen, he was understanding enough to delete those materials.

But now, ancient magic had resurfaced, and the timing happened to be exactly one year after his own death.

Was it a test, because they thought he was dead?

Were they goblins? Black wizards? Or some old acquaintances?

Glen withdrew his gaze from Harry Potter's forehead scar.

He wondered how they'd feel knowing he wasn't dead. As for himself, if he found them, he'd be quite pleased.

With that thought, Glen stood up, turned around unnoticed, and walked through the bar counter.

Behind him, the handshake event for Harry Potter continued.

The pub owner gripped Harry's hand tightly, his hoarse, emotional voice carrying through the bar.

"An honor... Welcome back, welcome back..."