The sky over London was low and the clouds were as thick as a soaked old quilt, hanging heavily over the entire city.
The air was thick with the sluggishness of rain, making even breathing feel sticky.
The wind had picked up sometime earlier, and the sycamore trees lining the street began to sway violently, swirling a few leaves that hadn't yet turned completely yellow into the air like frightened moths.
In the Bloomsbury Publishing office, Barry sat behind his desk piled high with manuscripts, a proofread copy that had just arrived from the printing press spread out in front of him.
He rubbed his sore eyes, picked up the teacup beside him, and took a sip; the tea had long since gone cold.
Just as he was about to turn to the next page, he suddenly caught something moving on his right side out of the corner of his eye.
Like the hem of a garment fluttering in the wind, or someone flashing past at lightning speed on the edge of his vision.
Barry instinctively turned his head to look.
The right corner was empty, with only a bookshelf, a half-dead green plant, and an old print that had been hanging on the wall for ten years. There was nothing else.
He blinked and stared at that corner for several seconds, making sure there was nothing there, before slowly turning back.
"I really should take a vacation," he muttered to himself, raising his hand to press his temples.
The light outside the window dimmed further, the dark clouds so thick they seemed to swallow the entire street.
A muffled rumble of thunder came from afar, deep and long, like some giant beast writhing in the depths of the clouds.
Barry looked up at the window and frowned.
The weather looked off. Although the weather forecast had predicted heavy rain today, the oppressive feeling of darkness, as if dusk had fallen early, still made him feel a little uneasy.
He shook his head and turned his gaze back to the proofread manuscript in front of him.
What he couldn't see was that about two meters behind him, a figure cast with the Disillusionment Charm was standing silently.
Under the spell, the International Auror's uniform blended perfectly with the background. He stood like a stone statue, his eyes devoid of any emotion.
His gaze was fixed on the back of Barry's head, staring at him quietly and expressionlessly.
Meanwhile, the wind began to pick up in Russell Square.
The leaves of the sycamore tree rustled in the wind, and scraps of paper and fallen leaves on the ground swirled and rolled in one direction.
There were significantly fewer pedestrians than usual. The few who did walk by quickly had their heads down and shoulders hunched, clearly trying to find shelter before the downpour began.
There were several times more white pigeons than usual on the stone slabs in the center of the square.
As if sensing the change in air pressure, they gathered from afar in advance, pecking at the ground around the fountain. Their grayish-white feathers were blown about by the wind, revealing the soft down underneath.
Christopher was walking briskly along the edge of the square.
He was wearing a dark gray trench coat today, with the collar turned up to block the cool breeze blowing in his face, but he wasn't carrying an umbrella.
He glanced at the sky as he left and figured he could get to the publishing house before the rain started, so he didn't go back to get it.
As he walked past the fountain, he noticed someone out of the corner of his eye.
A young man was standing in the center of the square, holding a long-handled black umbrella.
He was wearing a well-tailored light-colored coat, and his profile made him look very young, probably in his early twenties.
He was taking a small bag of breadcrumbs out of his pocket and bending down to scatter them on the ground at his feet.
The white doves circled around him, jostling and scrambling for food.
A few of the bolder ones jumped directly onto the back of his feet, but he didn't chase them away. He just looked down at them with a slightly amused smile on his lips.
Christopher glanced at him again, and for some reason, the young man had an air of being somewhat out of place.
In this weather that was about to pour down, everyone else was hurrying along, but he stood in the middle of the square, feeding the pigeons at a leisurely pace, as if the impending downpour had nothing to do with him.
"Young people aren't afraid of getting wet," Christopher muttered to himself, without slowing his pace.
Just as he stepped past, the young man accidentally bumped into him as he reached for breadcrumbs in his pocket.
A small metal object slipped out of the inside pocket of his coat and fell onto the stone floor with a soft, crisp sound.
The object was only about the size of a fingernail, its copper-colored metallic surface gleaming in the hazy sunlight.
The young man immediately bent down and picked it up; the movement was so fast it was almost instantaneous.
He clutched the badge in his hand and muttered, "How could I be so careless..."
Christopher heard his voice and instinctively turned his head, but did not stop or see what pattern was engraved on the badge.
He quickened his pace and headed toward Bloomsbury Publishing.
What he didn't notice was that when he turned the corner of the square, the young man feeding the pigeons suddenly stopped scattering breadcrumbs.
The white doves were still crowding around his feet, pecking at the crumbs on the ground, but his gaze lifted from the ground and fell on the back of Christopher's dark gray trench coat.
He watched Christopher's retreating figure silently until it disappeared around the corner.
Then he looked down at the badge in his hand and put it back in the inside pocket of his coat.
The badge, bearing the emblem of the International Confederation of Wizards, flashed its silver edge before disappearing into the fabric as it was retracted into the pocket.
Christopher had no idea that someone was watching him.
He strode into the street next to Russell Square and pushed open the door of a café.
The doorbell rang once, and a wave of warm steam, carrying the aroma of coffee beans and milk, rushed in, dispelling the damp chill outside.
The café was small, with a few tables by the window and a handful of customers sitting there.
The staff member behind the bar was wiping a cup. When someone came in, he looked up and gave a professional, polite smile.
"A hot Americano, please."
Christopher walked to the bar, taking out his wallet as he spoke.
His gaze unconsciously swept over the table by the window, where two people sat, a man and a woman, neither of whom looked to be more than thirty years old.
They each had a half-empty cup of coffee in front of them, but neither of them was drinking it.
They were also gazing out the window at the gradually darkening sky.
"The weather is really strange today," the man said, his English with a slight accent, making it impossible to tell where he was from.
There's an old saying in the East: "The storm is brewing, and the wind fills the tower." Today, I truly understand what that means.
Upon hearing this, the woman turned her head slightly, a dismissive smile playing on her lips, "Perhaps it's all bark and no bite?"
"Rain clouds look scary, but when they fall, it's not that bad. Aren't you familiar with London's weather?"
After she finished speaking, she turned back to look out the window, her gaze aimlessly sweeping over the few scattered pedestrians in the square.
Christopher didn't pay much attention to the conversation.
His coffee was ready, and the barista behind the counter pushed the paper cup in front of him.
He took it, thanked him, and turned to walk towards the door.
He walked rather quickly because the light outside had dimmed further, and he was afraid that it might suddenly start raining on the road.
He didn't bring an umbrella, and if he got soaked to the bone and had to wring out his coat at the publishing house—just thinking about it was embarrassing enough.
As he pushed open the glass door and walked out, the café behind him suddenly fell silent.
The doorbell was still ringing slightly, making a few soft tinkling sounds.
The two people sitting opposite each other by the window simultaneously turned their gaze away from the window and then, in perfect unison, turned towards the glass door.
Through the closed glass door, I watched Christopher's shrinking figure.
The barista who had been preparing coffee behind the counter has now stopped what he was doing.
He held the clean porcelain cup, and from half a room away, he also quietly gazed towards the doorway.
The entire café was silent, as if someone had pressed the mute button, with only the low whistling of the wind squeezing in through the crack in the door, like some creature breathing slowly in the distance.
Christopher was completely unaware of this.
He quickened his pace along the sidewalk, finally reaching the heavy oak door of Bloomsbury Publishing just before the rain began.
He pushed open the wooden door and went inside. A dry, warm breeze enveloped him, dispelling most of the chill clinging to his coat.
The young woman at the front desk was sitting behind the old wooden table, sorting through a stack of registered letters.
When she saw Christopher enter, she looked up and gave him a polite smile.
"Mr. Little, you've arrived."
Christopher nodded, taking the scarf off his neck and draping it over his arm. "Good afternoon. Is Barry up there?"
"Yes, Mr. Cunningham has been reviewing manuscripts all afternoon. You can just go up directly."
"Okay, thank you."
Christopher turned and walked quickly toward the stairs.
He was in a hurry to find Barry, mainly to check on the progress of the second half of " Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets ".
Although he knew there wouldn't be any new information from Barry, asking around was always more reassuring than waiting idly.
His footsteps echoed up the wooden stairs, quickly disappearing around the corner.
The young woman at the front desk watched his figure disappear around the corner of the corridor.
The perfectly professional smile on her face slowly faded from the corners of her mouth after Christopher's figure had completely disappeared.
She stood quietly in place, her gaze still fixed on the direction in the depths of the corridor where no one was anymore, her eyes serene.