The August wind swept into Douglas's study, carrying a hint of sticky heat.
He had not left this safe house in the Muggle world for an entire month.
A stack of sealed letters sat at the corner of his desk, addressed to a few old friends scattered across the world.
He had no owl of his own.
That had been part of his early plan: to detach himself from the wizarding world as much as possible and live like a real Muggle.
Knock, knock, knock.
A sharp tapping came from the window. An arrogant-looking owl clung to the sill with its talons, staring at him with its head tilted.
It was the dedicated deadline owl of his editor in the wizarding world-Mr. Slane of Obscurus Books.
Douglas sighed, opened the window, and untied the letter from its leg.
"Thank Mr. Slane for me," he told the owl. "If it weren't for you, I probably really would have lost touch with that world."
The owl gave a haughty snort, as though saying, "At least you know it," then flapped its wings and vanished into the night.
He unfolded the letter. Written in Slane's ornate handwriting was an ultimatum, urging him to deliver his manuscript by the end of the month.
Douglas tossed the letter onto his desk, his gaze returning to the fruits of his month's work.
Thick stacks of parchment had been neatly sorted into categories, containing his summaries of the O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. exam syllabuses from the past five years.
He had to count himself fortunate that the wizarding world's population base, along with the examiners' almost unchanging lifespans, kept the exam content as solid as a rock.
Most of the questions offered nothing new.
In a separate lesson plan, he had clearly divided the textbook's contents into "Practical" and "Theory" sections.
Hogwarts professors had the right to choose their own textbooks.
But he had no intention of doing so.
He picked up the copy of The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin Trimble. Its pages had yellowed, giving off the scent of old paper and ink.
A classic was not always the best.
But in the slow-moving wizarding world, a classic meant the safest choice.
He was no Gilderoy Lockhart, that narcissistic fraud who would make students buy an entire set of his signed works.
Speaking of Lockhart...
Douglas kept feeling as though he had overlooked something crucial.
The feeling was like a tiny fish bone lodged in his throat, refusing to go up or down.
He rubbed the space between his eyebrows, trying to suppress that irritation.
On the wall clock, the hour hand slowly reached one in the morning.
Douglas stretched, his joints giving a series of crisp cracks.
He walked to the window. The night sky was clear, and a slender crescent moon hung like a silver sickle against ink-dark velvet.
"The moon curves like a hook..."
He had just begun to indulge in a poetic observation when a faint engine roar, one that certainly did not belong to the Muggle world, reached his ears.
"What the-"
His observation was abruptly choked off.
The outline of a car flew through the moonlight, its headlights flickering in and out of sight among the clouds.
Judging by its path, it was not very far from him.
An image forgotten in a corner of his memory suddenly became clear.
Douglas lightly touched a fingertip to his temple, his lips moving silently.
Bring the view closer.
The world before him suddenly surged forward, distant scenery pulled before his eyes as though by an invisible hand.
Like a high-powered telescope, he could clearly see the people inside that Ford.
Sure enough...
Four people sat in the car, three of them sporting fiery red hair.
Even from this far away, he recognized the twins as George and Fred, whom he had met at the Burrow a few years earlier.
The other redheaded boy was probably their youngest brother, Ron, who had still been a little runny-nosed kid back then.
But the most important one was the black-haired boy wearing round glasses.
"He looks a little familiar... Harry Potter?"
His voice was quiet, with a hint of uncertainty.
Before he could take a closer look, the flying car plunged into a thick bank of clouds and disappeared.
Douglas frowned slightly, released the spell, and rubbed his aching eyes.
"If I remember correctly, this should be the classic scene where the Weasleys raid the Dursleys at night and rescue Harry from misery in a flying car."
He walked over to the map and drew a circle on it, based on the car's direction and the approximate location of the Burrow.
"So Harry Potter actually lives near my house?"
Douglas searched his memory, trying to recall whether he had ever brushed past the Boy Who Lived during his routine shopping trips.
"Still, Mr. Arthur Weasley really is a genius when it comes to magical modifications."
A smile tugged at the corner of Douglas's mouth.
"Perhaps I should get a car too and ask him for a hand..."
That thought took him back five years.
Back then, he had been very close to Bill Weasley, the most outstanding graduate in his year, and had even been invited to spend Christmas at the Burrow.
There, he had met the Weasley children for the first time.
The exuberant twins, shy little Ron, and the even smaller Ginny.
And Charlie, of course. They had already been friends at school.
During that week at the Burrow, Arthur had been like an inquisitive child, pestering him with countless questions about the Muggle world.
When Douglas casually revealed a few of his "Muggle-style" ideas for modifying cars, Arthur's eyes had shone like two Galleons.
It was also on that visit that he had learned that fully transforming a Muggle object into a magical one was far more complicated than casting a few spells.
It required a solid grounding in alchemy.
Unfortunately, Hogwarts' alchemy classes had been suspended for far too long because of the turmoil of those years.
All that remained were a few dusty old books in the library and a place on the elective course list that no one showed any interest in.
Still, judging by Arthur's reaction, although the Weasley family had few Galleons, as one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, they must have possessed reserves and a legacy unknown to outsiders.
Douglas was not... the least bit envious.
Really.
Wait.
The Weasley children... Ginny...
He had finally pulled out that fish bone lodged in his throat!
An icy chain of words instantly formed in his mind: Ginny, diary, Chamber of Secrets, basilisk!
Too much time had passed.
He had almost forgotten about it.
Douglas leaned against the wall, an expression somewhere between laughter and tears appearing on his face.
He remembered how, in his first year, he had searched the entire castle for the Chamber of Secrets like a treasure hunter.
And he really had succeeded.
He had found Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, as well as the tap engraved with a little snake that never produced any water.
Back then, he had even imitated the "Muggle film" he had seen in his previous life, making hissing sounds in a strange voice as he tried to open the entrance.
Nothing had happened, apart from attracting Moaning Myrtle's ridicule.
"Muggle films really can't be trusted."
Douglas rubbed his chin, feeling a wave of shame over that embarrassing phase of his past.
"If I remember correctly, in some copy of Hogwarts, A History in the library, beside the page about the Chamber of Secrets, I think I even..."
He paused, his expression becoming stranger still.
"...used Chinese pinyin to note the location of the Chamber of Secrets and the 'surprise' inside."
"I even used a knife to carve a line beside that tap: [Welcome home, Mr. Voldemort]..."
Right now, he dearly wanted to cast Obliviate on his younger self.
Doing something so childish with a mature soul was simply a public humiliation.
"I wonder whether Tom Riddle would get a fright from a 'Seer' like me when he saw that line?"
He gave a self-mocking chuckle.
Still, none of that was what he ought to be considering now.
If the sky fell, someone taller, with a whiter beard, would hold it up.
His most pressing concern was dealing with his meeting with Mr. Slane at the end of the month.
Being chased for a manuscript really was painful.
Late August, London.
Douglas stood on Charing Cross Road, carrying a stack of manuscript pages thick enough to make a book.
Between a bookshop and a record shop, the shabby, unremarkable Leaky Cauldron stood quietly.
He pushed open the door, and a familiar smell of stale beer mixed with dust washed over him.
The pub was as dim and bare as ever, with signs of life only at the bar and a few tables in the shadowy corners.
Behind the bar, a grimy poster advertised a pig's-head meat dish to accompany drinks.
That was his "masterpiece."
For a certain secret he could not speak of, he had designed the poster himself and "contributed" the exclusive recipe for the dish.
"Oh, look who it is!"
Behind the bar, the wrinkled pub landlord Tom brightened, revealing an almost toothless smile.
"Mr. Holmes, my big spender! It's been such a long time!"
"Old Tom." Douglas walked over with a smile. "Your eyesight is as good as ever, I see."
"Of course!" Tom wiped a greasy glass and lowered his voice. "How about a Butterbeer? On the house, to celebrate you becoming-"
"Ahem."
Douglas coughed softly, cutting him off.
He glanced at the few wizards nearby who were pricking up their ears and gave Tom a meaningful look.
"Thanks for the offer, Tom. But I have business in Diagon Alley. I'll come back for a chat later."
"Of course, of course."
Old Tom immediately caught his meaning, shrugged, and said no more.
He could guess whom this "Mr. Holmes" had come to see.
After all, that pig's-head meat recipe had not been given for nothing. It had been hush money.
As Diagon Alley's gatekeeper, he knew better than anyone what should and should not be said.
Douglas made his way through the pub to the little courtyard at the back.
The courtyard was piled with rubbish bins and empty barrels.
He drew his wand and, using the rubbish bin as a reference point, counted three bricks up, then two across.
He needed to count because he really did not come here often.
He gently tapped the brick three times with his wand tip.
With a grinding clatter, the brick wall began to writhe and twist.
An arched doorway slowly opened amid the shifting bricks.
From the other side of the archway, a clamour of voices, a dazzling array of goods, and multicoloured magical lights instantly spilled out.
A long cobbled street appeared before him, lined on both sides with all manner of strange and curious shops.
Douglas stood in the shadow of the archway and took a deep breath.
The air was filled with the scent of magic.
"The wizarding world," he said quietly. "Long time no see."
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