Ian Stanley didn't stop to rest after leaving that battered wooden house. Driven by the intelligence he'd received, he set off for another destination—another gathering of underground wizards, equally unaware and equally unprepared for his arrival.
His purpose was unchanged. But this time, Ian didn't bother with words. He dispatched this group—larger than the last—in half the time.
The reason was simple: his mood had soured.
He loathed this part of himself that kept longing for the days at Hogwarts. Sometimes, it made him feel as if he'd slipped back into being that coward, Steven Swinton.
But he'd shaken off that man long ago.
Now, he was forging ahead on a path of blood and fire, chasing a thrilling, grand ambition. That was the life he deserved—not hiding in some crumbling school, teaching a bunch of brats how to run from werewolves and vampires, wasting away in "peaceful" days, playing make-believe with that kid, Qin.
The thought only made his irritation worse.
So, he vented his frustration the only way he knew how: with ruthless efficiency. When one wizard fought back hardest, Ian twisted the man's wand-hand into a grotesque shape—a break that even magic would take weeks to heal.
"Saturday night. Eight o'clock. Here." He spat out the words, left an address scrawled on the floor, and strode out through the splintered door without a backward glance.
Behind him, a roomful of wizards groaned on the floor, dazed and confused by this storm that had blown in from nowhere.
…
Not far from the scene, Ian slowed, rolling his neck and flexing his wrists. Two fights in a row—even against weaklings—left him weary.
Such was the fate of someone not yet in the inner circle of G.A.—Grindelwald's Army—sent out to do the dirty work.
That bearded wizard had guessed right about one thing: Ian Stanley was here on behalf of G.A., sent to bring Salem's underground to heel.
What they didn't know was that, had someone else been sent, the approach might have been gentler. But Ian was new, and to earn recognition, he needed to make an impression.
It was the classic "pledge of allegiance"—the ancient rite of proving oneself to a new organization.
A swift, clean sweep of Salem's rogue wizard factions—this was Ian Stanley's answer sheet to G.A. and its enigmatic leader, Gellert Abernathy.
That leader—sharing a name with Gellert Grindelwald—was a puzzle. Outwardly, he was imposing, charismatic, generous to his followers yet commanding respect. The first time Ian met him, he'd felt a jolt of surprise. This man seemed almost too perfect—exactly what a leader ought to be.
And in Ian's experience, anything that perfect had to be hiding something.
Just like Qin: clever enough, a passable prodigy, but hardly flawless—lazy, childish, indecisive at times…
Damn it. Why was he thinking about that kid again?
Ian shook his head, annoyed.
Still, from the very first meeting, a seed of doubt about G.A.'s leader had taken root. But that didn't stop Ian from wanting in. Everyone had secrets. What mattered was the stage—and G.A. was the perfect arena to show his strength.
"Ian, complete the tasks we give you, and you'll be one of us—truly," his handler had told him.
That handler was Tarde, a man in his forties with dark skin and a distinctly Latin American look. Word was, Tarde had followed Abernathy since the Brazilian days—fitting, since G.A. had risen from the jungles of South America.
"Tasks? Comrades? They really make it sound official," Ian snorted to himself.
With that, he called it a night and returned to his lodgings.
Tomorrow, he'd hit another district—more grunt work, more small fry. This would go on for days, until all of Salem's underground wizarding world was under his control.
Tedious. No challenge at all.
With a sigh, Ian Stanley sprawled on his bed, utterly bored, and soon drifted into sleep.
…
…
In Salem, a single butterfly beat its wings. Mist rose from the sea, and, borne by currents and winds, crossed the vast Atlantic—until it reached an ancient oak on a distant British morning.
There, the last remnants of Atlantic moisture condensed on a boy's hair, forming tiny beads of dew.
As dawn brightened, the light refracted through those droplets, scattering crystal brilliance.
The boy slowly opened his eyes, waking from a restless dream.
He raised his right hand to block the sunlight, pushed himself up with the other, and staggered to his feet. After a night spent sleeping rough, his legs were numb—no surprise.
Poor circulation, that's all.
(Years from now, a famous Eastern magician would use this same "numb leg" trick to swindle a chef named Fan out of a bicycle on national television. But that's another story.)
Shaking the dew from his hair, the boy picked up the thin blanket he'd brought, folded it, and tucked it inside his jacket. Good thing he'd thought ahead—without that blanket, the night's chill would have left him sick.
He looked down. Not a single acorn remained on the ground, and a glance upward showed the branches bare as well.
So even the little squirrel won't be here to keep me company anymore?
He shrugged, the thought passing, and started toward the castle.
"Draco, you really are pathetic," he muttered, half to himself, the words carried away on the morning breeze.
—Dimensional Wall—
Author's Note: For context, Ian Stanley is the "other" personality of Professor Swinton (did you all forget?!). In an ancient Egyptian pyramid, Ian used some mysterious means (deliberately left vague) to force Swinton's consciousness out and seize control of the body. He later traveled Europe, bumped into Fleur at Beauxbatons (yes, she's supposed to be the daughter of Swinton's old crush), but did nothing and moved on. Hearing about G.A., he saw opportunity and crossed the ocean to North America—leading to the current plot.
These side stories are just seasoning—the main plot won't be overwhelmed. After all, a little sweetness goes a long way.
Wishing you all good health! And if you're feeling generous, a free gift would be lovely—mwah!
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