Anduin was instantly and professionally interested in the topic of the Roving Striker certificate. His plan for life post-Hogwarts was an ambitious one: a global, magical pilgrimage to study the spellcraft of different cultures, delve into ancient rituals, and analyze unique magical ecosystems across the continents.
He saw the certificate not as a mere piece of paper, but as a portable, internationally recognized license for income generation. If he could obtain such a credential, it would provide a legitimate, lucrative means of financing his extensive travels, allowing him to earn substantial gold when he inevitably crossed paths with Dark wizards or high-value fugitives in foreign jurisdictions where he might otherwise have no authority to act.
So, Anduin asked Frank how to formalize the process. Frank, with a shrug, confirmed its bureaucratic simplicity. The certificate was issued very haphazardly, originating from the United States Magical Congress (MACUSA) and subsequently gaining recognition from the International Wizarding Association. It was designed to alleviate policing pressure globally by deputizing competent, if unconventional, wizards.
"You apply through the Department of International Magical Cooperation (DIMC), not the Department of Magical Law Enforcement," Frank explained. "As long as you fill out the paperwork and have no serious criminal record, almost anyone can get one. It's an acknowledgment of market demand, really."
Frank elaborated on the liability, however: if the Roving Striker caused excessive harm or violated the local laws of the host nation during their pursuit, they would be immediately arrested and deported by that country's Ministry of Magic, often losing the bounty in the process. It was a high-risk, high-reward profession, but the simplicity of the application process was too appealing to ignore.
Having acquired secret insights into the structural weaknesses of the Ministry and the operational limits of the Aurors, Anduin became deeply concerned about the current situation.
The stark information imbalance—Death Eaters with the instant, communal communication of the Dark Mark versus Aurors relying on slow Patronuses and reactive investigation—was the blueprint for a long, grinding, and catastrophic conflict.
His fragmented memories of his previous life confirmed this fear: if the Dark Lord, who attacked Harry, did indeed return, the wizarding world would not be at peace for a long time.
While he hoped Dumbledore's potent protection of Lily's family would change history, Anduin dared not rely on hope. Assuming the conflict would be prolonged, this precarious existence was not one he intended to endure as a passive bystander.
The only logical path was to become fully empowered—to transcend the limitations of the current magical establishment. In the days that followed, he became tenser than ever. His room became a sanctuary of intense magical discipline.
He dedicated hours to developing utility and defense spells that operated below the Ministry's detection thresholds. His Occlumency training moved from basic shielding to complex, multi-layered compartmentalization, building a psychological fortress against the insidious arts of Legilimency. He rigorously practiced combat sequences, breaking down complex dueling maneuvers into repeatable, muscle-memory actions.
A sense of existential urgency about his safety and the future of his new world prevented Anduin from relaxing even for a moment.
Augusta, keenly observant despite her own duties, noticed Anduin's driven state. Aside from brief, precise appearances to assist with the preparation of meals for the Longbottoms' exhaustive return from the Auror office, and the occasional, necessary supervision of Neville, Anduin had become a hermit. This relentless regimen had lasted for over five weeks.
On August 9, 1981, while Anduin was assisting her with the preliminary work for the evening meal, Augusta brought him news.
"An invitation from the Weasleys? Good heavens, I completely lost track of time," Anduin admitted, rubbing his temples. The sheer focus required for critical-stage spell development had pushed all social obligations from his mind. "Sorry, I almost forgot."
Augusta's stern expression softened with a flicker of maternal concern. "Yes, dear. I ran into Molly yesterday. She's reaching her term now, and she's hoping you can impart a few of those marvelous recipes to her before the baby arrives.
And the fruit—their orchards are absolutely laden with ripe grapes and plums. We need to go pick them. You've been pushing yourself too hard, Anduin. There must be a balance between work and rest if you are to maintain maximum efficiency."
Anduin nodded. He recognized the wisdom in her words. The unrelenting stress had begun to generate an almost oscillatory decay in the clarity of his concentration. He needed a proper reset. "You're absolutely right. I've been letting the urgency overwhelm the long-term objective. Relaxation is a necessary component of maximum efficiency."
"Okay then," he agreed. "Let's visit The Burrow tomorrow."
The next day, August 10, Anduin set out. He carried a surprisingly heavy Neville on his back in a sturdy canvas sling—the boy was nearly a toddler and weighed a considerable amount. Augusta marched beside him. Their destination lay on the outskirts of Ottery St. Catchpole, tucked away in a quiet fold of the countryside.
As they approached, Anduin observed the wards: the Weasleys had cast a comprehensive suite of Muggle-repelling and shielding spells, not for high security, but for simple, effective privacy, ensuring no curious farmers or hikers stumbled upon their eccentric abode.
The house itself was an architectural marvel of magical necessity and structural defiance. From a distance, it appeared to be a towering, impossible structure—a haphazard, multi-story pile of weather-beaten bricks and salvaged lumber that stretched vertically like a precariously stacked tower of boxes.
It defied Muggle physics; a house built like that should have collapsed instantly under its own weight. The magic holding it together was not complex, but pervasive and incredibly strong—a testament to the unique resilience and charming sloppiness of wizarding architecture.
The modest dwelling was surrounded by a small, fenced-in courtyard, which, to Anduin's refined eye, looked suspiciously like a dilapidated chicken coop repurposed for children's play. Outside, a slightly larger, leaning shed served as a storage room or garage, likely housing Arthur's growing collection of Muggle artifacts.
Yet, the overall setting was undeniably beautiful: nestled amongst magnificent, ancient rolling hills and fields, with a distant view of what looked like the glint of crystal-clear water. It was a place where nature and wild magic intersected.
As they drew near, the wards must have signaled their presence. Several small heads—a cascade of bright red hair—popped out of the windows above, greeting the two with a cacophony of cheerful shouts. Arthur Weasley, looking slightly rumpled but beaming, threw open the front door with immense enthusiasm.
"Haha! If you two hadn't come to visit soon, Molly would have gone into labor, and we wouldn't have had a free moment to welcome you then!" Arthur greeted them with a hearty, infectious laugh, ushering them inside.
"My sincerest apologies, Arthur. It is entirely my fault. I allowed myself to become too engrossed in my studies and spell research," Anduin replied, genuinely contrite, as he carefully adjusted Neville in the sling.
"Nonsense! Such single-minded ambition is rare at your age. I only wish my children possessed even half your discipline," Arthur said, cheerfully patting Anduin on the shoulder. "Come in, come in. Molly's been frantic in the kitchen, hoping to get your advice on some of those recipes before you arrived."
Arthur then led them through the cluttered but cozy living room. He chattered happily: "Bill will be turning eleven soon, but it's a pity he can't enroll at Hogwarts this year; another long year of waiting! But the fruit is glorious this year! The grapes and plums are already intensely sweet—you absolutely must try them."
Anduin and Augusta settled into armchairs, accepting plates piled high with the freshly picked fruit. The children descended upon them, gathering around the group. Bill, the eldest, already possessing a mature, almost protective air, held the placid baby Ron and very cleverly helped the younger siblings with the plates, demonstrating a natural knack for management.
The social peace was fleeting. Molly, her advanced pregnancy making her movements ponderous but determined, emerged from the kitchen, wiping flour from her apron. She exchanged warm, quick greetings with Augusta, but her priority was clear.
"Anduin, come now! I've been trying to replicate that savory stock since the Longbottom party, and I simply can't get the acid balance right. I need your guidance immediately." She took his hand and hurriedly pulled him back into the kitchen.
The Weasley kitchen was a warm, chaotic, lived-in space, overflowing with mismatched pots and the rich, complex scent of baked goods and herbs. Anduin found himself completely charmed by this hardworking mother. He showed her the precise timing for caramelizing the spices and the delicate technique for creating an emulsion without using butter.
Despite being heavily pregnant, Molly displayed an astonishing mastery over her cooking magic, using non-verbal charms to whisk, chop, and stir with minimal physical effort. With extraordinary culinary talent, she effortlessly adapted Anduin's Muggle-inspired recipes, incorporating subtle magical enhancements to create a richer flavor profile.
The nature of a large, high-energy family meant that even during this instructional moment, inherent chaos reigned in the next room. Even with her laser focus on the simmering sauces, Molly maintained an omnipresent, psychic awareness of the situation in the living room.
At regular, almost rhythmic intervals, the noises from outside would escalate: a shout, a thud of furniture, a shriek, or the distinct sound of the three-year-old twins, Fred and George, initiating a new, highly disruptive activity.
Then, the command would come. Molly, without turning her head, without stopping her stirring, and seemingly without needing to consult a single detail, would bellow: "PERCY, GIVE GEORGE BACK HIS CHARLIE!" or "FRED, IF YOU DON'T GET OFF THAT TABLE, YOU WILL BE SLEEPING IN THE GARDEN!"
Each time Molly shouted, the noise from the living room would instantly quiet down, replaced by an almost unnerving, momentary silence. But after a predictable, short interval, the sounds of scuffling, the crashing of objects, or the loud wails of a distressed child—usually Ron, who the twins loved to target—would resume. And then, the next perfect, silencing shout from Molly would cut through the air.
Anduin was utterly stunned by this performance of maternal, long-range damage control. "How do you know who is causing trouble without even looking?" he asked, completely mystified.
Molly, stirring a rich stew with a concentrated frown, replied, "After six of them, you learn the acoustic signature of each child's delinquency, dear. Fred's thud is louder than George's. That last whimper was definitely Ron. It's just simple pattern recognition and the magic of a mother's intuition."
In this relentlessly warm yet chaotic, chaotic yet profoundly harmonious family environment, Anduin and Molly prepared a monumental, collaborative lunch.
The transition to the meal was a dramatic affair. The mischievous children entered the scene, creating a joyous and overwhelming maelstrom in the dining room.
The three-year-old twins were the epicenter of the disruption, sometimes slyly stealing Percy's or Charlie's food when their brothers weren't looking, and sometimes successfully scaring baby Ron into hysterical tears in Bill's arms, only to quickly administer a wet, sloppy kiss as a bizarre, spontaneous apology.
The entire scene was a flurry of elbows, accidental spills, and irrepressible laughter.
While Molly and Bill worked tirelessly to maintain a semblance of order and ensure fair distribution, Arthur stood off to the side, wearing a foolish, thoroughly blissful smile, seemingly oblivious to the food fights and minor acts of rebellion. He simply basked in the energy of his creation.
Anduin watched the unfolding scene, the sheer volume of unrestrained affection and unpolished life. He felt that this family was truly, vitally alive, a vibrant, messy tapestry of love and chaos. The atmosphere was incredibly strong, an organic, powerful force field of familial belonging and shared history.
The Weasley home was not just a ramshackle house; it was a living, breathing emotional entity, reminding him of a warmth he had thought was lost forever.