Old Tom—hunchbacked, wrinkled, and toothless—looked every bit as sinister as the dark wizards of Knockturn Alley. Yet beneath that rough exterior beat a warm heart.
He walked Anton to the door, showed him how to summon the Knight Bus, and waited with him until it appeared with a deafening bang. He patted Anton's head gently. "Best of luck, lad."
Moved by such rare kindness in a harsh world, Anton bowed his head. "Thank you, Mr. Tom." For the first time in months, he saw not a monster, but the soft smile of a grandfather. With a wave, Tom vanished back into the pub.
The Knight Bus loomed—a towering, purple triple-decker that defied logic. Inside, instead of seats, there were cozy beds and brass lamps casting a warm glow. But Anton's eyes fixed on something else—a shrunken head hanging near the driver, a grim relic that sent a chill down his spine.
"Welcome aboard!" chirped Stan Shunpike, his grin as bright as a new broom polish. "Stan Shunpike at your service! Anywhere on solid ground!"
Still unsettled by the head, Anton checked his note. "France," he said firmly.
Stan blinked. "France?"
Realizing his mistake, Anton quickly asked, "How much?"
Stan's smile faded. "It ain't about the money, mate. We can't go there." He explained the Bus was a British invention, viewed by many continental wizards as uncouth or even offensive. "The French lot are… traditional. They won't let us land. It's off limits."
Anton stared back at the Leaky Cauldron, confusion warring with hurt. Had Old Tom sent him on a fool's errand?
He handed the paper to Stan. "Someone said you could take me here."
Stan scanned it, a knowing glint in his eye. "Ah, that little island between countries! We can manage that, mate." He grinned, stowing the trunk away. "Lucky you—usually we stick to dry land."
The driver, a sharp-eyed old wizard with spectacles, turned around. "Them islanders complained, said the mainland was just a bigger island! Why treat 'em different?" He shrugged. "So now… we drive on water."
Stan chuckled. "We did promise to stay above water, after all."
They exchanged a sly smile, leaving Anton slightly bewildered. Wizarding humor was often lost on him. Besides, he couldn't help feeling it was unfair. Why shouldn't those wizards be able to travel to the French islands just like everyone else?
Regardless, the journey was a go. The fare, surprisingly, was only fifteen Sickles.
"Make yourself comfortable," Stan said, showing Anton to a bed and sliding the heavy case underneath.
It was nothing like the smooth ride he had seen in movies or read about. With a deafening BANG, the bus shot forward. It careened wildly, and the world seemed to bend around it—lampposts, cars, and people leaped aside in the nick of time, snapping back into place the moment they passed. It was raw, chaotic magic.
He pressed his face to the glass, fascinated. Two months with the old man had taught him to appreciate magic's finer details, but this was pure, unbridled force.
As they raced through the night, a flash of movement caught his eye. In a shadowed alley, two hooded figures stood talking. Even over the noise, he caught a whisper:
"...leeches... potions..."
The bus swerved with surprising grace around the Ministry buildings, bending space effortlessly. It was chaotic, yet brilliantly controlled.
"Brilliant, innit?" Stan beamed with pride. "Most folks Apparate, but we get all the young 'uns. I love seeing their eyes go wide!"
Anton gazed in awe. "Is there… special magic at work here?"
Stan winked. "Top-secret Ministry alchemy, lad! Classified!"
Anton smiled, his mind racing. Combine this technology with a broomstick's speed? The thought was intoxicating—instant travel, nearly undetectable. He made a silent vow to unlock its secrets. The potential was too great to ignore.
The journey blurred past cities, forests, and even open sea until they reached a tiny island—little more than a rock topped with a windswept tree and a lone house. The bus teetered dangerously close to the edge, half-hanging over the water.
"Cheerio, mate!" Stan waved. "Need us? Just raise your wand!"
With a deafening BANG, it vanished, leaving only the smell of ozone and fading laughter.