Chapter Twenty Three - Wand and Boils
Chapter Twenty Three - Wand and Boils
Albus surveyed the scene cautiously, the narrow streets of Knockturn Alley stretching before him like a shadowy labyrinth. He had no business being here—not only because of his age but also because most who ventured into these parts were up to no good. If anyone recognized him, it would raise more questions than he could afford to answer. Thankfully, Knockturn had many entryways, and the charmed parchment he held guided him toward one of the less frequented paths.
Pulling up the hood of his cloak, Albus made sure to keep his face hidden as he slipped further into the alley. The path here was more rundown, the cobblestones uneven, and the buildings crumbling with neglect. Fewer people lurked about, but Albus made it a point not to let his gaze linger on anyone. He moved with purpose, though his heart hammered in his chest, aware of how easily things could go wrong.
He grimaced as the stench of rot and sewage filled his nostrils. The bustle and noise of Diagon Alley had long since faded behind him, leaving only the eerie silence of this forgotten part of the wizarding world. His hand tightened around the parchment. His mind drifted briefly to Lily. By now she would know that he wasn't actually chatting with some friends by the owls, and would surely be furious, yet Albus couldn't find it in himself to actually care enough to not continue on. Afterall he will make up a lie and She’ll surely forgive him.
The parchment glowed faintly in his hand, pulling him toward a small side street, even narrower than the others. He followed it, the air growing colder and more oppressive. The buildings leaned closer together here, casting long shadows that obscured much of his path. Finally, the parchment came to a halt, its glow fading as he stood before a small, decrepit shop. Its windows were grimy, and the sign above the door had long since faded into illegibility.
Yet he was never one to judge a book by its cover, and as he entered the shop, it appeared surprisingly cosy, filled with an old charm. As the doorbell rang, he looked around to see an older woman seated behind a desk fitted into the story behind the counter, seemingly engrossed in her work. Albus approached the counter and politely waited for her to notice him. A few moments later, she turned toward him.
“What can I help you with?” she asked in a calm tone that revealed nothing.
Albus handed her the charmed parchment, the business card he had received. “I was referred to here by Ella,” he said, gauging her reaction.
“Ella, you say?” The older woman chuckled wickedly, her eyes gleaming with intrigue. “You must tell that child to visit me more often,” she said.
“Then, as a friend of Ella, how can I help you today?” she asked, her demeanour shifting slightly.
“I need my trace and wand connection to the ministry removed.” He stated, now that the referral was made known and accepted.
“Remove your hood , child,” she instructed, her voice strained by old age.
Albus complied, revealing his face. The older woman inspected him for a moment, her sharp, weathered eyes narrowing slightly. She muttered something under her breath, more to herself than to him, as she continued her assessment. Albus felt a flicker of discomfort but maintained a neutral expression, refusing to show any signs of unease. He knew his youth would raise eyebrows, but there was no turning back now.
“Quite young to venture into these parts. What is Ella thinking?” she muttered again, her voice barely above a whisper. There was no softness in her words—only a distant, hard edge that indicated she wasn’t particularly bothered by the ethics of it all. Her focus shifted back to the task at hand as she straightened up, brushing a few stray strands of grey hair behind her ear.
“I need your wand, child,” she said.
The older woman’s voice was steady, almost clinical, as she continued her explanation. “All wands bought at Ministry-approved sellers are registered with the Ministry, linked to the witch or wizard who owns them. This is manually removed when the wizard or witch comes of age” She paused, letting the weight of her words settle over Albus.
“Not only does the ministry keep a backup history of the spells cast of each registered wand,” she continued, “But the wand's whole history, spanning years, can be retrieved if the right spellwork is used, tracing back to when the wand was first obtained. All magic performed outside the wizarding community is detected and traced, then reported. You can imagine the amount of paperwork it would take to keep track of every single wand. Most wands' histories are never reviewed unless the owner is under suspicion, involved in criminal activities, or, in cases like yours, underage–As you might have guessed–The link itself to the ministry is not severed when a wizen turns seventeen, only the trace. As by law; all wands need to be registered and linked to the ministry.“
Albus shifted slightly, gripping his wand tighter. He’d known the risks coming in, but hearing them laid out so plainly intensified the danger of his decision. Yet he was no stranger to dark magic and the edge of legality.
The woman studied his expression, her sharp eyes piercing through his calm facade. “Now, child,” she said, her voice softening just a touch, “I always recommend to my clients that instead of breaking the trace and the linkage, that they obtain a second wand—one that is not registered with the Ministry.”
Albus shook his head, his response quick and firm. “I don’t have the time for that.”
The old woman shrugged, as if she had expected that answer. “I see,” she replied, her tone returning to its detached neutrality. “Well then, child, you need to be aware that if anyone from the Ministry, or anyone with the skills to perform the wand work, checks your spell history, they will know the trace has been illegally removed and the link severed. However, they won’t be able to read your spell history anymore.”
Albus kept his expression neutral.
She continued, “It’s a criminal offence to own a wand that isn’t registered with the Ministry, as well as owning a tampered wand that’s been detached from the trace and Ministry records. If anyone ever tries to review your wand’s history, they will find it… empty.” She gave him a pointed look. “That will raise questions. It will be investigated— If you ever were to be in a situation where the wand was about to be investigated it is better to destroy it. ”
Albus let that sink in for a moment. The risk was higher than he had anticipated, but he couldn’t back out now. He couldn’t afford to. “I understand,” he said, his voice steady despite the turmoil brewing inside him.
The woman gave him one last appraising look, then turned her attention to the wand on the counter. “Very well, Let’s proceed.”
“I recommend you sit down,” she added in the same calm tone, gesturing to a worn but sturdy chair nearby. “This is an intricate and complex spellwork sequence, and it will take time. Tea?”
She waved her wand, and a chipped teacup floated over from a dusty shelf, filling itself from a hovering kettle that poured steaming tea before settling neatly on the small table beside Albus.
Albus didn’t reach for the cup, his attention drawn to her movements as she prepared to remove the trace and linkage from his wand. The air around her seemed to hum with the anticipation of magic, a silent tension building as she cleared her workspace. A thin, silver wand emerged from her sleeve, and with it, she began to trace runes in the air above his wand, each glowing symbol hanging in space like a constellation.
Albus watched as she circled the wand with delicate motions, her hand never wavering as more runes filled the space around it. She began muttering a series of complex incantations under her breath, the words blending together in a rhythm that sounded almost musical, like a chant of intricate spellwork. Each incantation seemed to lead into the next, like a chain of equations building on one another—every line of magic pulling from the last.
The runes surrounding his wand began to pulse with light, and the wand itself started to shiver in response. He watched her work as his mind strayed.
He knew there was a risk, and the knowledge of its illegality was not a shock. No, what concerned him was the understanding that each spell could be traced—not just on underage witches' and wizards' wands but all wands. How could the Ministry justify such an invasion of privacy? How aware were the regular public of the extent of Ministries surveillance? He wondered if owning two wands was more common than not. It would certainly be easier to explain away than having an illegally tampered wand. Yet Albus didn't have a choice; he needed the trace gone. He briefly pondered whether his wand had picked up magical usage from his blood rites. He clearly needed to do more research on the matter.
Albus's mind was once again drawn back to the spellwork as he sensed a shift in the magic. It grew denser around the wand, like invisible threads tightening and loosening in intricate synchrony. The woman continued her incantations, her words flowing seamlessly into one another, the spellwork unfolding into a delicate dance of command and control. Albus couldn’t quite believe it; he could actually feel and see the undercurrents of the magic at work.
Each incantation she uttered was like a key turning in an unseen lock, the layers of magic folding and unfolding with precise timing. The air thickened with magic, and Albus felt slightly ill from the sheer force of it.
He noticed beads of sweat forming at the edges of her brow, the intensity of her focus evident as she navigated and commanded enchantments far beyond ordinary spellcasting. At last, she uttered a final, elongated incantation, her voice trailing off into a whisper. His wand floated softly back onto the workstation, appearing unchanged—yet Albus could feel the difference. The trace was gone.
It was truly ironic how one could only recognize a presence once it had vanished.
“The work is complete; the trace and linkage is no more,” she announced, her tone flat as she wordlessly floated his wand to the counter. Albus stepped closer and peered down to observe his wand.
Her wand hovered above his, her thin fingers tracing a faint mark that marred its otherwise flawless surface. “This mark,” she said, her voice sharp and warning, “Is a sign that the wand has been tampered with. Do not let anyone knowledgeable see this; it will be a dead giveaway. Never let anyone touch or hold your wand. I also recommend using a glamour to conceal it.”
Albus stared at the mark, a barely visible scar on the wood, but to a trained eye, it was a beacon of illicit activity. He knew that if his father ever saw it, he would undoubtedly recognize the significance.
“Now,” she continued, her tone suddenly colder, as a smile grew “The price.”
He met her gaze with a smirk. “Of course,” he replied calmly, retrieving his money pouch from within his robes. The pouch was connected to the vaults their parents had set up for them, which meant that money never really was an issue.
Her eyes gleamed as he produced the Galleons. He wasn’t bothered; after all, she could be ripping him off—though the price was steep, it wasn’t shocking given the level of spellwork and its illegality.
“Now, to be clear,” Albus said, “if I use the wand and magic in a Muggle area, will it be picked up on?”
The older woman leaned back slightly, her gaze sharp as she reassessed him. “Ah, that’s a pertinent question, isn’t it?” A hint of amusement danced in her voice, though the weight of her words hung heavily in the air. “Once the trace is removed and the connection swerved, your wand will no longer be linked to the Ministry's records. However,” she added, leaning closer, “This does not mean that it will be invisible to the magic that exists beyond the Ministry’s oversight. If you use it in a Muggle area, the magic itself will still resonate—accidental magic, enchantments, and spells cast may leave traces. The Ministry simply won’t know it was you who cast it and it won’t be reported as fast without the trace.”
“So be quick, and conceal?” He said lightly. She nodded. He continued.
“Hypothetically, if one were to use other kinds of magic—say, rites— in Muggle areas, would the Ministry be able to trace it enough to pick up on it? Especially during Sabbats, when magic is more potent and blends together?”
Her expression shifted, intrigue flickering across her features as Albus posed the question. “Ah, now we’re getting to the heart of the matter,” she said, her voice a mix of caution and fascination. “Hypothetically speaking, if someone were to conduct rites in Muggle areas—especially during Sabbats when magic pulses with heightened intensity—the situation becomes quite complex.”
Albus leaned forward, eager for her insights. “So, the magic during those times would be more detectable?”
“Indeed,” she replied, nodding. “Ritual magic has its own signature, resonating differently than standard spells. When the energies are heightened, they can weave together in ways that Muggle sensors—though unaware—might still perceive as disturbances: unusual occurrences, strange weather patterns, or even unexplainable phenomena–Which will draw the ministres attention”
“Then, hypothetically, is there another way to conceal that kind of magic?”
The woman regarded him with a mix of amusement and caution. “Hypothetically, there are indeed methods to obscure the signatures of ritual magic,” she said steadily. “It requires a deft hand and a deep understanding of both the magic and the environment in which you operate.”
Albus leaned in, his curiosity piqued. “Such as?”
“Firstly, you could employ a masking spell,” she suggested, her tone becoming more instructional.
“These enchantments can help obscure the traces left by your magic, blending them with the ambient magical energy. However, the effectiveness of such spells can vary greatly, especially in areas rich with magical residue or during significant celestial events.”
“Interesting,” he mused, thinking aloud. “But what about the actual rituals themselves? Could they be altered to conceal their nature?”
“Certainly,” she replied, her eyes gleaming with approval. “Yet, that is a field I’m not particularly well-versed in.”
He nodded, absorbing the information. “What about places in the Muggle world that are already steeped in magic, like certain forests or haunted houses?”
“Ah, now that’s an astute observation,” she said, her voice brightening with interest. “Indeed, there are locations within the Muggle world that possess their own latent magical energies—places steeped in history, folklore, or significant emotional resonance. Forests with ancient trees, for example, often hold echoes of past enchantments, while haunted houses are typically infused with the residual magic of their histories.”
“Would these places then conceal or make the magic stand out more?” Albus probed.
“Just as magical houses can absorb and interact with the magic of their occupants, these enchanted locations in the Muggle world can act as conduits, blending their inherent magic with yours. If the area is steeped in rich magical history, it can shield your intentions, effectively masking your activities from the scrutiny of the Ministry's trace.”
“I see; it would then obscure the caster’s presence?”
“Precisely,” she affirmed, her tone encouraging. “The magic of such places can weave a protective shroud around your actions, making it almost impossible for the trace to pick it up; However, the effectiveness of this concealment hinges on the depth of the location's magical history and the intent behind the magic being cast.”
Albus leaned back, contemplating her words. “So, in essence, using these locations could allow one to operate under the radar of both Muggle and Magical authorities.”
“Correct,” she said, her eyes gleaming with a mixture of respect and caution. “But remember, just as these places can offer protection, they can also pose risks. If the magic you’re attempting to perform clashes with the existing energies of the location, you could invoke unforeseen consequences–Then the ministry is the least of your worries.”
“Interesting,” Albus said. “Hypothetically, of course.”
“Indeed, hypothetically,” she replied.
“Keep the card,” she added, flicking her wand over it. “Now it will lead you out of here, then return to its usual charmwork.”
He nodded. “Then I will take my leave. Thank you again for accepting me as your client.”
The woman gave him a final look, one that lingered longer than before. “I feel we might see each other again,” she said, then added, “Now be on your way, child, before Knockturn swallows you whole.”
Albus dipped his head in acknowledgment, pulling up the hood of his cloak once more. As he stepped toward the door, the charmed card in his pocket began to pulse faintly, guiding him toward the exit. He quickened his pace, having lost track of time in their engrossing conversation. Excitement surged within him at the possibilities ahead, and with his newfound freedom.
Then, without warning, Albus was seized and slammed against a cold, unforgivingly crooked stone wall. Pain shot through his back as the impact knocked the breath out of him. He cursed inwardly—he had been so close to escaping Knockturn Alley.
His body reacted on instinct, even as his mind lagged behind. The stench hit him next—rotting, thick, suffocating—it clung to the air around him, making it harder to breathe. His throat constricted, and panic surged, tightening in his chest.
“Missed me, Albie?” Rosier’s voice cut through the haze, dripping with malice. He loomed over Albus, pinning him to the wall with a force that made his blood run cold. The cruel, satisfied grin on Rosier’s face sent a sickening jolt of dread through Albus's veins. “I was so sad I couldn’t give you a proper send-off before the holidays.”
The chill of the wall bit into his skin, but Albus refused to let fear consume him. His heart hammered in his chest, loud enough that he could hear it in his ears, but he fought to keep his mental barriers intact. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—let Rosier see him crack. He clenched his jaw, muscles tense with defiance.
“Get off me, Rosier, You reek.” he spat, forcing steel into his voice, though the sharp edge masked how vulnerable he felt beneath it.
Rosier's grin only deepened as his fingers dug into Albus's robes, yanking him closer, their faces almost touching. The sour stench of stale sweat and decay swirled around them. Albus’s stomach turned violently, his body rebelling against the proximity, the disgust.
“Oh?” Rosier’s voice was low, the word stretching out with sickening amusement. His fingers coiled around Albus's chin, the leather of his gloves scraping roughly against Albus's bare skin, sending a shiver of discomfort through him. The grip was firm, unyielding, and it dragged Albus's head upward, forcing his gaze to follow. Albus turned his face away, defiant, but Rosier's grip only tightened, pulling his face back toward him. The movement was almost slow, deliberate—Rosier enjoying the struggle, savoring the control.
The proximity was suffocating, his breath hot against Albus's cheek. The stench of him—sweat, decay, rot—lingered like a foul miasma, crawling into Albus’s lungs with each breath. Albus's chest tightened, his stomach turning, but still, his gaze remained fixed somewhere on the ground, refusing to meet the malice in Rosier’s eyes.
The other let out a mocking laugh, and Albus felt his gaze compelled upward,
The intrusion hit him like a bludger—a violent, searing pain that split through his skull, forcing its way into his mind. Albus almost screamed, his body locking up under the onslaught. It was nothing like Fawley’s calculated yet cold and unyielding intrusion. This was wild, unrelenting, and cruel, like claws raking through his thoughts without care for the damage.
His mental walls wavered under the force, the pressure relentless. His breathing grew ragged, and a cry tore from his throat. The panic clawed at him, threatening to drown him. Rosier was searching, tearing through his mind with brutish determination. Albus bit down hard, tasting blood as he forced his way through the pain, instead of wavering he took control, control of the memories of what was shown.
The memories surfaced in a rush—Rosier’s sneering face, the mocking words from that day. The memory of how Albus had laughed, how his teeth sank into Rosier’s nose with visceral pleasure. The blood smeared across Rosier’s face, the horror in his eyes—The absolute feeling of triumph he felt inside a flicker of power in the midst of helplessness, of fear dying.
That feeling—the absolute delight of having control, of taking something back from Rosier, of hurting him, causing him pain and that wicked enjoyment—poured through him like acid, hot and sharp.
Rosier faltered, a tremor running through the hold he had on Albus. The pressure began to waver, just for a moment, and Albus seized it. He focused harder on the rush, the sickening satisfaction as the blood had pooled in his mouth. He forced that memory into Rosier’s mind, and just like that, the pressure broke.
Rosier growled low in his throat, the sound guttural and animalistic. His fingers tightened cruelly around Albus’s chin, twisting his head back at an unnatural angle. Pain lanced through his neck and spine, his body screaming in protest.
Gone was the mocking amusement that had once encompassed Rosier’s features. In its place was a cold, predatory fury, an expression that mirrored the murderous look he’d worn by the lake. It was feral, savage—like the moment before an animal strikes its prey.
“You kept me out, so what?” Rosier hissed, his voice a low, venomous rasp, the words drawn out with twisted pleasure. There was something in the sound of them, a promise of pain. “Only a fool would try to egg on the person who’s got them pinned against a wall.”
Albus’s lips curled into a sneer, but it barely concealed the dread gnawing at his insides. His anger flared as he met Rosier’s eyes, the fury enough to spit back, “What, Rosier? Afraid I might bite off your nose this time?”
Without warning, Rosier’s grip tightened, his fingers crushing into Albus’s jaw as he yanked his head forward. The sickening sound of skull meeting stone split the air as Rosier slammed Albus’s head hard against the crooked, jagged wall. Albus’s breath caught in his throat, a violent cry escaping him before he could swallow it. The stone jagged edges biting into the back of his skull, sending a shock of raw pain spiraling through his mind. A flare of white-hot agony shot through him, leaving him gasping and disoriented.
“What do I reek off, Potter?” Rosier’s voice was mocking, his words like a poison, as he pressed Albus’s head even harder into the stone. The pressure built, unbearable. Each breath Albus took felt like he was suffocating.
“Come on, Potter,” Rosier hissed again, his voice lower now, more guttural, dripping with madness. His eyes gleamed with manic intensity, as though he fed on the pain he caused. “Still playing tough? You’re not fooling anyone.” He leaned in closer, his body pressing against Albus’s as he forced him to feel every ounce of the pressure against his skull. The stone’s sharp edges cut into Albus’s skin, like the teeth of a predator. He gritted his teeth, trying to endure the searing pain, his thoughts scrambling in confusion.
Albus opened his mouth, his mind a blur, but before he could say anything, Rosier’s fingers tightened like iron, jerking his head forward once more, and back. The blow hit Albus so hard, it rattled his brain, sending a wave of dizziness crashing through him. His vision blurred, the world spinning as a warm trickle of blood dripped down the back of his head. He felt a sharp, crushing pain, like his skull might split open.
His head swam, but Rosier didn’t stop. The next slam forward felt like it might crack him in two.
Survival instincts, raw and primal, surged through Albus’s mind. He barely had the clarity to form words, but he rasped, “Like… death,” the words ragged and weak, tasting like iron on his tongue. His vision faltered, barely able to focus on Rosier’s face as it loomed just inches from him. Rosier paused, his grip loosening just enough not to hurt, the grip now almost caressing on his jaw.
“That wasn’t so hard now, was it?” Rosier’s voice was soft, almost a whisper, and the cruel intimacy of it made Albus’s blood run cold. It was sickening, as though Rosier enjoyed this, as though the pain and terror he inflicted were some twisted form of pleasure. Albus’s skin crawled, the sound of Rosier’s voice felt like a snake coiling around him, tightening its grip with each word. In a moment of almost delirium, Albus laughed bitterly, gathering the blood that had accumulated in his mouth, and spat it at Rosier.
Rosier flinched slightly as if in reflex when the blood mixed saliva hit his face, for a moment he froze, then his jaw tensed. The next moment, Rosier’s hand moved—slowly, deliberately, delicately—toward Albus’s throat, down and undoing his scarf as the leather made contact with his skin. His fingers brushed lightly, teasingly at first, making Albus flinch, every nerve in his body screaming to pull away. But before he could, Rosier’s grip clamped down, fingers like iron, cutting off his breath in an instant.
Albus’s vision blurred at the edges as the pressure on his throat increased, the world closing in around him. The walls seemed to shrink, the air thickening, and with each breath, it became harder to draw in enough air. A wave of nausea swept through him, rising from deep within his stomach, making the room spin. His pulse hammered in his ears, drowning out everything else, while the pain at the back of his head pushed against his skull like a vice. Rosier’s grip continued to tighten, each squeeze suffocating Albus’s very will to fight. His bravado began to crack, his mental defenses straining against the tidal wave of overwhelming fear and pain.
Rosier leaned so close to Albus's ear that Albus could feel the other’s hot breath, the words whispered with mocking intimacy, “Why don’t you beg like last time?”
The words hit Albus like ice water, and the rush of humiliation, shame, and regret flooded him. A cold fury built beneath the layers of emotion, a fire igniting in the pit of his stomach.
Rosier pressed even closer, his breath rancid against Albus’s skin. “I can still remember it—let’s see,” he purred, a mocking edge in his tone as he mimicked Albus’s previous pleas: “Please, I’ll do anything, anything... just don’t—”
Albus's body trembled, his skin crawling with disgust.
“No, no, no, please,” Rosier mused, almost purring, his breath sharp and mocking in Albus's ear. “Come on, Albie, I can feel you shaking. Don’t you want to beg, like last time?”
This time, Albus couldn’t stop the tremble—but it wasn’t fear. It was raw, unbridled rage. He felt the fire build inside him, smothering the fear and seizing his defiance. His anger surged, fueling a wave of resistance that met Rosier’s predatory gaze head-on.
“Don’t you remember, Rosier?” Albus spat, his voice steadier than he felt. “You told me yourself—begging wouldn’t help.”
Rosier laughed, the sound cold and cruel. “Ah, little Albie, always so clever,” he taunted, his voice dripping with mockery. “Now tell me, what are you doing down this street, hmm?”
Albus let out a bitter laugh. Good Rosier hadn’t seen much of his memories then. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” he spit out.
“Has the holiday made you forget fear? Talking back like this, walking around Knockturn Alley up to no good, don't you know what happens to small little kids like you in these alleys?” Rosier said with a predatory grin, and to make a point, he shifted his body slightly—which Albus felt all over, as Rosier was still tightly pressed to him.
“You’re disgusting, Rosier,” Albus spat out.
Rosier flashed an unnerving grin in response, his eyes glinting with a predatory gleam. He opened his mouth to speak, but then his expression shifted, a flicker of interest crossing his features as he turned toward the other end of the narrow alley.
Before Albus could process what was happening, Rosier had already drawn his wand, casting what appeared to be a Disillusionment Charm, cloaking them from view. Two silhouettes emerged from the shadows at the far end of the alley, clearly caught in a heated argument, blissfully unaware of the two schoolboys. Rosier cast a silencing charm wordlessly, the tension in the air thickening as the argument continued.
Albus strained to hear the words, though the conversation was hushed. There was one taller figure, and the other, shorter, seemed to hold the power in the exchange, pushing the taller one back with a quiet but undeniable authority. Albus could tell something serious had happened—something the taller one had messed up, and the smaller one was not pleased.
The hushed words drifted toward him in fragments: “Supposed to be—alive—” the smaller voice murmured, a sharpness to it. “Not—fault—They” the taller one replied, but with more reluctance, almost apologetic, though still defiant.
Albus’s gaze shifted away from the argument, landing on Rosier, whose attention was entirely consumed by the heated exchange. The distraction was the perfect opportunity. Albus, heart pounding, carefully reached into his robes, his fingers brushing against his wand. Rosier remained oblivious, too caught up in eavesdropping to notice Albus’s every movement.
Albus suppressed a smirk, willing his racing heart to steady. He couldn’t afford to draw Rosier’s attention. In a swift, calculated motion, he retrieved his wand, glancing one last time at the argument before focusing entirely on Rosier.
“Petrificus Totalus,” Albus whispered with deadly precision, the words flowing from him as his wand arced smoothly through the air.
The spell hit Rosier squarely, and in an instant, the other boy froze, his expression one of stunned disbelief. For a moment, Albus couldn’t help but revel in the shock that flashed across Rosier's face before he fell to the ground, completely immobilized, undoing his own spells. The thud of his body hitting the cobblestones was enough to catch the attention of the arguing figures, and Albus didn’t hesitate.
He quickly pulled up his hood, adrenaline surging through him as he bolted in the opposite direction, his steps light and swift. His heart hammered in his chest, but the rush of excitement filled him with a strange kind of thrill.
On impulse, and without thinking too much, Albus flicked his wand again, sending the boil curse at Rosier’s prone form. The thought of Rosier being caught off guard, stuck frozen, yet feeling the effects of the curse made his heart race, his steps feeling lighter than air. A giggle escaped his lips as he envisioned the chaos that would ensue when they discovered Rosier sprawled on the ground, frozen and vulnerable.
Making him forget the painful hammering at the back of his head, and the now dried blood in his hair. He knew there would be retaliation when they returned to school—he was sure of it. But that was a problem for another day. Right now, all Albus could think about was the exhilaration of his narrow escape, and the hope that Rosier wouldn't make it back to school at all.
It wasn't until he stepped out of Knockturn Alley and faced the reflective shop window that he truly saw the damage that Roiser had done. Rosier's grip had left a raw, angry bruise on his face and neck, and his scarf was askew. Albus grimaced as he ducked into a nearby alley, swiftly rummaging through his bag for the scar paste. He cursed under his breath as he applied it over the deepening bruises. He hoped it would work fast enough to hide the marks.
His fingers brushed through the bag again, and he found a knitted winter cap. He put it on carefully to hide the dried blood and the wound on the back of his head, the cap concealed the damage to his hair, and the scarf, tightly wound, would hide the rest for now—at least long enough for the scar paste to work its magic.
After ten minutes, he glanced into the reflective window again. The bruises on his cheeks had faded, the paste doing its job. But his neck still bore the unmistakable handprint, the mark stark against his skin. A curse escaped his lips as he tugged the scarf tighter, wiping the greasy salve off his face with the sleeve of his robe.
Without another thought, he turned and sprinted toward Magical Menagerie, the sense of urgency pressing against his chest.