Bathilda Bagshot was a writer.
She had an interest in books that surpassed everything else, and among those interests was the pursuit of love.
Her greatest hobby was organizing everything she knew and discovered into notes.
This gave her a deep fascination with magical history.
In her youth, she had not been a stunning beauty. Because she spent so much time in the library, her originally pleasant looks were instead overshadowed by the label of bookworm.
Partly because she herself was somewhat slow to react in other matters.
But Bathilda did not mind. She had graduated from that school decades ago.
The past had not changed her. She still often remained inside her own home.
On this particular day, the old spinster was seized by a sudden whim and stepped out of the house. She walked past her neighbor's yard, thick with morning glories.
She looked at the courtyard and the tightly shut doors and windows.
Bathilda felt a surge of pity.
Not long ago, the child there had lost control, resulting in the death of the beautiful woman who lived inside.
She herself had once brought a cake to try to befriend that lady.
Unfortunately, the lady had not accepted her cake.
Later, after the family's eldest son received her praise in a magazine, the family gradually began to have contact with her.
She pitied the children of that household. The father had left because of extreme behavior, and the mother had died.
Of the three remaining children, the youngest girl was ill.
Passing beyond the yard, Bathilda followed the edge of a small stream and walked into a quiet grove.
It was a place few people visited, perfect for letting her mind, tired from reading, fully relax.
But today, there was an extra presence in this serene woodland.
It was a boy who looked slender and fragile.
Snow-white hair and unfocused eyes made him appear utterly pitiful.
Even Bathilda, the old spinster who usually paid little attention to such things, could not help wanting to pull the fragile boy into an embrace.
She tried to strike up a conversation with him.
"Where did this little wizard come from?"
It was a rather clumsy attempt at conversation. Her flirtatious nephew could have done much better.
How did she know he was a wizard?
Bathilda attributed it to intuition. The boy did not seem like a Muggle.
Although the boy could not see, when he turned his head, that instant carried an invisible pressure.
Only someone as slow to react as the old spinster failed to notice it.
The boy's expression was one of disbelief as he felt around and stood up.
His fingers brushed against a thorn-covered vine.
His pitiful appearance stirred sympathy in the lifelong spinster.
"If it's alright, may I ask where this is?" the boy asked politely, his oppressive aura fully withdrawn.
Far more polite than her own nephew.
"Poor child, this is the woodland of Godric's Hollow. Where are your family members?"
…
Inside Bathilda Bagshot's house.
The attic carried a faint smell, the musty odor of damp wood.
There was probably a leak somewhere near the stairs, but the owner did not seem particularly concerned about fixing it.
John felt somewhat fortunate. Although his landing had been slightly off, at least he was still within his home country.
And the person he had encountered was also a witch.
Though likely a very reclusive one, since she did not even recognize the famous John Wick.
She thought he was just some pitiful young wizard.
John did not mind. He would repay her later.
With his eyesight malfunctioning, John guessed it was related to the soul and curses. If he prepared some soul-based potions, even if his vision could not fully return to normal, at least the world would not remain completely black.
He picked up a biscuit from the table, guessing it contained chocolate.
As he ate, he could just barely make out the taste.
"Thank you for the hospitality," John said with a light smile. "Is there anything I can help you with?"
"I don't think there's anything you can help me with." Old Bathilda shook her head.
She had simply been overcome with sympathy and brought the child home.
She had no expectation that this child could help her with anything.
Judging by his age, the boy should be a student.
"You're a Hogwarts student?" Bathilda asked. "It doesn't seem like the holidays have started yet."
"Hm?" John frowned slightly. This woman seemed to have her timeline confused. He replied patiently, "You're mistaken. The holidays have already begun."
"There's a fifth-year Hogwarts student living next door," Bathilda said skeptically. "He hasn't come home yet."
"Maybe something delayed him," John shrugged. "I've already been on holiday for a week… wait."
Thinking of a possibility, John's expression tightened. He hurriedly asked, "What's today's date?"
Bathilda replied, "May 3rd. I wouldn't get that wrong."
Hearing her answer, John's suspicion was confirmed. Slightly dazed, he murmured, "It seems what shifted wasn't my position."
Time was the problem.
The Hogwarts school year ended in mid-June, yet the current date had rolled back by more than a month.
Moreover…
It might be more than just a month.
John asked with some difficulty, "May I ask… what year is it?"
She was somewhat puzzled by his question, but Bathilda's dull instincts detected nothing unusual. She said, "Ninety-nine."
John was stunned. Had he gone to the future?
Then he heard Bathilda add, "1899. You seem rather muddle-headed yourself."
1899?
Nearly a hundred years backward?
John fell completely silent.
Bathilda complained slightly, "You certainly have a lot of questions."
"Sorry, one last question," John said with a bitter smile toward Bathilda. "Do you have a Time-Turner?"
…
Clearly, as a writer, Bathilda Bagshot had no connection with the Unspeakables.
John was taken in.
Because he had nowhere else to go.
Although he claimed to be a sixth-year Hogwarts student and not expelled, Bathilda seemed to treat it as mere stubborn pride.
He also learned the name of the person who had helped him—Bathilda Bagshot.
The name sounded somewhat familiar. John thought carefully but could not recall where he had heard it.
After all, his brain was not a computer that could store everything indefinitely.
Urg.. It's similar to the time I got transmigrated...
Or rather, in his current state, he simply could not remember.
Because he had just gone through the ordeal of being exiled by the entire magical world.
"Even if magic dislikes me this much, it won't happen a second time, right?"
Magic had its own rules. He broke them once and was exiled once. Fair enough.
He just had not expected that when he returned to the world, it would be the previous century.
Fortunately, John no longer needed to deal with Voldemort.
In this year, Voldemort had not even been born.
He settled down in Bathilda's house.
Although John could not see, His magic was still intact.
"Perhaps I can try to find my teacher."
The thought crossed his mind.
At this point in time, Nicolas Flamel was still alive and somewhere in the world.
But the moment the idea surfaced, John dismissed it himself.
There were taboos surrounding time magic.
Two of the most important rules:
One must not come into contact with one's past self.
One must not change anything in the past.
Someone had once done exactly that. The result was that the entire history of that family was altered, and the price paid was severe.
John had to be extremely cautious in this world.
Because if he did anything rash, he might change the entire future—perhaps even affect himself.
"Until I return, I need to proceed carefully."
He stayed in Bathilda's attic, his thoughts in turmoil.
Tup!
The sound of a drop of water hitting the floor caught John's attention.
He got up and walked out to the staircase.
His fingers tapped the railing.
The Supersensory Charm activated.
He 'saw' the location of the leak.
Raising his hand, he aimed at the spot.
Confidently, he said, "Reparo."
A streak of white light shot from John's palm, and then—Boom!
"What happened?" Bathilda came over, startled.
Staring at the skylight that now had a gaping hole blown through it, Bathilda was stunned.
John was equally stunned.
He clearly remembered casting a Repair Charm.
His fingers stiffly clenched and then relaxed.
"Until I get a new wand, I'd better not use magic recklessly."
John gave Bathilda a polite smile to cover his embarrassment.
Bathilda looked at the skylight that had been blasted through by what was clearly a Blasting Curse, then looked back at John's shy, awkward face.
In the end, the leak in Bathilda's house was fixed.
Yes—Bathilda fixed it.
She was still a witch, after all. If she had not usually been too lazy to deal with it, it would not have been leaking until now.
John's single Blasting Curse made Bathilda seriously consider whether her house might become even damper the next time it rained.
Still, Bathilda gave John a reminder—and a bit of advice for this boy she suspected had been expelled from Hogwarts.
For a wizard, it was always best to use a wand when casting.
Wandless magic was something that required extremely refined magical control.
"Well, I've become a failing student."
John felt helpless. He, the King of Slytherin, Hogwarts' perennial top student whom even Hermione could not shake... No one could even think that one day he would actually be treated like an underachiever. Worse, the kind who had been expelled.
If word got out, Malfoy would probably laugh himself to death.
In truth, even without Bathilda's warning, John had no intention of continuing to use magic.
If it went out of control again, he was afraid he might blow this place apart.
Until he obtained a new wand, John decided he would act like someone without magic.
And this time travel had brought even worse news.
The Silverwick Sword was gone.
_____
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