The devastation of the clearing lay behind them. Anakin Skywalker stood beside Dumbledore, studying the Elder Wand with unconcealed disdain.
"You intend to use that twig to transport us?" Anakin asked, his voice flat. "Is there no method of efficient travel in this world? No star charts, no jump drives?"
Dumbledore smiled, his eyes twinkling again, having recovered his composure after the display of terrestrial demolition. "Efficiency is a matter of perspective, Professor Skywalker. In our world, speed and distance are irrelevant to the power of a concentrated thought."
He did not elaborate, merely presenting a small, silver teaspoon which lay on the ground, still scarred from the Force impact. "Hold on, if you please. This will be slightly less comfortable than the transportation that brought you here."
Anakin scoffed at the mundane object but grasped the teaspoon with two fingers. A moment later, a sharp, violent hooking sensation struck his navel. It was not the smooth, immediate transition of the Force, nor the controlled slip of hyperspace. It felt like being squeezed through a narrow tube and then violently ejected.
He stumbled on landing, his mind reeling from the acute disorientation. The transition had been instantaneous, yes, but it felt messy, violating the natural order of movement.
"A method suitable for children or invalids," Anakin muttered, regaining his balance.
"Effective, nonetheless," Dumbledore replied, unperturbed. "You may find many of our methods inelegant, but rarely ineffective. Welcome, Professor. This is the Leaky Cauldron."
Dumbledore led Anakin through a grimy, dark pub and into a narrow, brick-lined courtyard. With a complex series of taps from the Elder Wand, the wall dissolved, revealing a vibrant, chaotic street packed with people, garish signs, and a pervasive, loud hum of magical energy.
Moving through the opening Anakin stepped onto the cobbled street. The Force here was deafening—a frantic, disorganized cacophony of minor spells, charms, and hurried, superficial emotions. Witches in bright robes floated shopping bags, cauldrons stirred themselves, and a group of children pressed their faces against a window displaying broomsticks.
Anakin stopped dead, taking in the scene. The chaos was overwhelming, yet the sheer volume of low-level energy usage was astonishing.
"The entire market vibrates with energy," Anakin observed, his gaze sharp, analyzing the energy signatures of every passing person. "But it is wasted, such simple uses of power, no finesse, it insults the very energy they use, the potential for so much more is ignored. They rely on what they have always known, what they are comfortable with, no testing, no experimenting."
"That is culture, Professor," Dumbledore murmured. "The ability to integrate magic into the everyday. We have a saying: 'A life without magic is muggle life. As for your input that we don't experiment, we have our spell crafters, though that profession is much diminished from ages past.'"
Anakin stared at Dumbledore for a moment, "and how many of these spell crafters survive their so-called experiments?"
Dumbledore looked off, avoiding Anakin's eyes, "not as many as I would like." he muttered.
They began walking slowly, Anakin letting the silence hang. Anakin watched a shopkeeper across the street use a simple flick of his finger and a muttered word 'Accio' to summon a heavy crate of books from a high shelf.
Anakin stopped again, focusing intensely on the residual energy. "The incantation... it is not the source of the power, but a focusing mechanism. A psychological discipline."
"Indeed," Dumbledore confirmed, pleased by the quick deduction. "The words and wand movement refine the raw, unshaped magical intent into a specific, predictable action."
"Predictable and inefficient," Anakin countered, gesturing dismissively toward the shopkeeper. "He used a complex vocalization and external tool to achieve what an attuned mind could do with a focused thought. He exerted more effort in the refinement than in the action itself. It is a system built for those with weak will or unstable connection."
Dumbledore smiled, navigating them past a vendor selling self-knitting sweaters. "Or a system built for safety, Professor. Your 'raw thought' dismantled a hillside. My shopkeeper wishes only to lift a box without accidentally imploding his shop."
Anakin conceded the point with a reluctant twitch of his lips. "Safety over capability. I understand the philosophy, if not the application. Yet with my 'methods' a skilled practitioner could control individual grains of sand or boulders the size of a house, we have no limits."
They walked past Gringotts Bank, its architecture imposing and solid, something in it's appearance and feel caught his attention. Anakin felt the powerful, dense protective enchantments surrounding the structure—magic that felt ancient and inherently different from the chaotic chatter of the street.
"The defenses here are substantial," Anakin noted, sensing the weight of the bank's wards. "That is not trivial magic. It is rooted, persistent, and requires a dedicated flow. That feels more like the disciplined energy structures I know, almost the same, yet different somehow."
Dumbledore looked over as Anakin trailed off and saw him lost in thought, his eyes were closed yet he moved through the crowd as easily as he did. Insanely curious about what he picked up from the bank Dumbledore put it to the back of his mind, noting to bring it up at a later stage.
"Ah, the ancient wards," Dumbledore sighed, interrupting Anakin's introspection. "Magic used for permanence, not parlor tricks. The goblins are masters of defensive structures. You will find that the deeper we delve, the more complex and powerful the use of magic becomes, often utilizing blood, ritual, and deep emotional resonance."
Anakin found this intriguing. "Ritual? Does that not strain the user, as the Dark Side does?"
"It does," Dumbledore confirmed, his voice sobering. "Which is why true, powerful Dark Magic—the kind that Voldemort uses—often leaves the user scarred, mutated, or unstable. The cost is too great for the mortal coil to bear. But those methods are precisely what you need to study, to understand how to counter them without destroying your own body."
Dumbledore then guided him to a cramped, dusty shop whose window displayed hundreds of boxes. Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands Since 382 B.C.
"Your first step into integration requires a wand," Dumbledore explained. "It is the conduit that allows focused spellcasting. Without one, you will struggle with even the simplest incantations here."
Anakin did not move. He stood, towering over the entrance, radiating cold refusal.
"A wand is unnecessary," Anakin stated, his voice absolute. "The demonstration in the forest proved that your methods place a barrier between the user and the raw energy. It acts as a crutch, preventing deeper access. I will not introduce a focal point that will corrupt my natural connection to the Force. I require no such inefficiency."
Dumbledore studied him for a long moment, a familiar amusement touching his eyes. "Very well, Professor. We shall proceed without one. If you later find the need for subtlety, the option remains."
They continued down the alley, drawing curious glances due to Dumbledore's fame and Anakin's stark, unfamiliar robes and intense presence.
As they passed a shop selling Quidditch supplies, a tall, impeccably dressed man, with long silver hair flowing down his back stepped out, nearly bumping into Anakin. He wore a sneer that Anakin instantly recognized—the entitled arrogance of a minor bureaucrat or petty noble.
The man, who recognized Dumbledore, ignored Anakin completely and focused his disdain on the Headmaster. "Dumbledore. Still fraternizing with the muggle-born filth, are we? I hear the school is turning into a common market."
Anakin's internal irritation spiked. He had faced planetary dictators and whinny politicians, he had faced the very manifestations of the force, yet this small, arrogant voice was so incredibly grating. It was the familiar sound of unnecessary tyranny, petty and disposable and so utterly convinced they were untouchable, the very same voice Palpatine used.
"I suggest you remove yourself from our path," Anakin said, his voice quiet, dangerous.
The man turned, momentarily taken aback by the height and intensity, but quickly recovered his petty bravado. "Who do you think you are? How dare you raise your voice to me, mind your place before I teach you some manners. Or maybe I should just show you just where you belong" His sneer deepened and raising his hand, he starting to form a dismissive curse.
Anakin acted not out of blind rage, but cold expediency. He had no time for this.
He did not raise a hand or shout an incantation. He simply focused his will. The man stopped mid-gesture, his arm freezing inches from his side. His eyes widened in absolute, silent horror, and his mouth snapped shut as if held by invisible wires.
Anakin had used the Force to execute a perfect, surgical hold: paralyzing the man's limbs and severing the physical connection needed to articulate a spell, while simultaneously constricting his vocal cords. The man was completely, physically muted and held rigid in place, his face a mask of silent terror.
Anakin took a single step past him, releasing the hold just enough for the man's eyes to track them.
"Your manners are unnecessary," Anakin stated calmly, walking on without another glance. "We have business."
Dumbledore caught up, falling into step beside Anakin, his expression a mixture of profound strategic interest and subtle delight. The man behind them crumpled to the ground, gasping.
"A fascinating demonstration of non-verbal spellcasting," Dumbledore observed. "And quite decisive. You knew precisely when to hold back."
Anakin's focus remained forward. "It was not a demonstration. It was an efficiency measure. That kind of small, predictable malice is beneath my notice. But his arrogance was an unnecessary delay."
Dumbledore nodded, a slight, knowing smile touching his lips. "Indeed. Though I suspect that particular family may not view it as a mere delay. Your methods, Professor Skywalker, will be immensely beneficial to the war, but they may cause significant collateral conflict amongst the pure-bloods who value their perceived dominion."
"Conflict," Anakin said simply, stepping out of the alley and toward the next stage of their journey. "I understand conflict."
After the silence of the humiliated wizard faded behind them, Anakin stopped at the boundary where the magical resonance of the alley began to bleed back into the mundane. He looked at the brick wall they were about to pass through.
"Dumbledore," Anakin said, his voice carrying a sharp, analytical edge. "This hidden enclave is an anomaly. You speak of this world as if it is the whole, yet these people live in antiquity. Parchment? Quills? Candles? Where I come from, even the most impoverished outposts utilize basic power cells and long-range communication arrays. This feels... stagnant."
Dumbledore paused, his hand on the brick. "The wizarding world is traditional, Professor Skywalker. Magic has a tendency to... interfere with more delicate mechanical and electronic advancements. In the presence of high concentrations of magic—such as at Hogwarts—the non-magical devices simply cease to function. We have found comfort in the old ways because they are reliable."
Anakin narrowed his eyes, a scoff nearly escaping him. "Interfere? That is a fundamental misunderstanding of the energy you wield. Your very reliance on reliability stymies your ability to innovate, if you stay complacent and don't push your boundaries how can you expect non magical people to adapt to a way of life from centuries prior. How long does it take new inductees to the magical world to adjust to your reliability?"
Anakin didn't look behind as he moved off and couldn't see Dumbledore lost in thought. He stepped through the wall, transitioning from the magical cobbled street back into the dim, dusty interior of the Leaky Cauldron, and then out onto Charing Cross Road.
______________________________________________________________
London hit him like a physical blow—not with power, but with clumsiness. Anakin stood on the sidewalk, watching a red double-decker bus roar past, its engine rattling with the violent vibration of internal combustion.
"This is their primary transport?" Anakin asked, his mechanical mind instantly deconstructing the sound. "They are burning liquid fossils to achieve sub-sonic ground travel. It's inefficient. The friction alone is a massive waste of energy."
Dumbledore walked up watching him, curious of his reation. "Most would find it a marvel of engineering, Professor."
"It is a relic," Anakin countered. "The energy I know—the Force—thrives alongside technology far more advanced than this. I have spent my life surrounded by droids with sentient processors and ships that can fold space itself. The Force did not 'interfere' with them; it was the wind beneath their wings. If your magic breaks these primitive machines, it is because your people are channeling it with a lack of control, or your machines are too fragile to handle the ambient pressure."
He walked toward a shop window displaying a basic television set and a bulky, beige computer. To the 1991 Londoner, this was the cutting edge. To Anakin, it looked like something salvaged from a scrap heap.
"You say magic and technology do not mix," Anakin continued, looking at his own hands—hands that were once metal, now flesh. "I suspect it is simply that your people have never tried to harmonize them. You treat the Force like a jealous god that demands you abandon the tool. In my experience, the tool and the Force are one."
He turned back to Dumbledore, his expression grimly resolute. "The lack of advanced technology means there is no easy exit. There are no starships here to repair, no arrays to hijack to reach the stars. This world hasn't even mastered basic repulsorlift; they are still tethered to the ground by wheels and chemical explosions."
"Which makes your study of our ways all the more vital," Dumbledore suggested softly. "If the path to the stars is not found in metal, perhaps it is found in the deeper mysteries of the energy that brought you here."
"Perhaps," Anakin replied, though his eyes remained fixed on the primitive skyline. "But I have never been one to rely solely on mysticism when a wrench and a power cell are available. I need to see the true scale of this world's limitation, Dumbledore. Alone."
Dumbledore raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. "London can be a confusing place for a newcomer, Professor."
"I have navigated Coruscant's lower levels and the wastes of Tatooine," Anakin said, his voice brooking no argument. "I can handle a city that still uses rubber tires. I will meet you at the inn—the Leaky Cauldron—by sundown."
Dumbledore studied him for a moment, then nodded, handing him a small pouch of "Muggle" currency he had prepared. "Very well. Explore as you must. But do try not to... dismantle anything essential."
Anakin spent the next several hours moving through London like a ghost. He ignored the historical monuments and the royal pageantry, instead gravitating toward the centers of logic.
He found himself at the Imperial College London, slipping into the back of a lecture hall. He sat in the shadows, watching a professor scrawl equations about internal combustion and fluid dynamics on a chalkboard.
To the students, these were the building blocks of the modern world. To Anakin, they were a primitive struggle to understand the basics of physics. He looked at their diagrams of "computers"—bulky boxes with green text and agonizingly slow processing speeds—and felt a wave of profound frustration.
They are crippled, he realized.
He walked through the university libraries, scanning texts on materials science and aerospace. He saw the blueprints for their "space shuttles"—chemical rockets that used immense amounts of volatile fuel just to barely pierce the atmosphere. There were no repulsorlifts. No ion engines. No inertial dampeners.
The realization hit him with the force of a physical blow: The separation was the cause.
In his galaxy, the Force was part of the atmosphere of innovation. Here, the most brilliant "Muggle" minds were trying to solve problems of friction and gravity using only crude matter, while the "Magical" minds were using the Force to fix broken tea cups and hide in the shadows.
If you applied the precise channeling of the magical world to the material logic of the scientific world, this planet wouldn't just be flying; it would be colonizing the solar system.
The wizards are holding them back, Anakin thought, his hands clenching into fists. By hiding, they have deprived this world of the energy needed to leap forward. And the Muggles, in their ignorance, have built a world of clunky, fragile machines that can't handle the very energy that could save them.
He saw a path. It was a long, arduous one, but it was there. If he could master the "Magic" of this world—if he could learn to weave the Force into matter using their visualization techniques—he could bridge the gap. He wouldn't just be looking for a ship to take him home. He would build the foundation of a civilization that could reach the stars.
He looked at a diagram of a primitive satellite in a textbook and tore the page out, tucking it into his robes.
"Inefficient," he whispered to the empty library aisle. "But not for long."
_________________________________________________________________________
As the sun began to dip below the London skyline, painting the smog in shades of orange and bruised purple, Anakin returned to the Leaky Cauldron. He found Dumbledore sitting in a quiet corner, sipping a glass of sherry.
The Headmaster looked up, noting the intense, focused fire in Anakin's eyes. It was no longer the look of a man who was lost; it was the look of a man who had found a project.
"You found what you were looking for, Professor?"
"Your people have a base of knowledge that could revolutionize everything I saw out there," Anakin said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "And those people out there have a grasp of logic that your 'traditions' lack. The separation is an inefficiency I find... offensive."
Dumbledore set his glass down, his expression grave. "It is a separation born of necessity, Anakin. Centuries ago, the non-magical world reacted to our presence with fire and fear. The Statute of Secrecy was not created to stunt progress; it was created to ensure our survival. Humans, I have found, rarely react well to what they cannot understand or control."
Anakin scoffed, the sound sharp in the quiet corner of the pub. "You hide because you fear their reaction? That is the logic of a victim, not a leader."
"It is the logic of a protector," Dumbledore countered gently. "Imagine the panic if the masses discovered tomorrow that their laws of physics were merely a suggestion to a select few."
"Then you don't show them 'magic,'" Anakin retorted, leaning forward. "You show them energy. You are treating this as a mystical secret when it should be treated as a resource. You speak of panic—panic happens when there is a vacuum of information. If you approached their leaders, their scientists, and integrated this energy slowly—starting with power generation, or medical advancement—under the backing of their own governments, the fear would be replaced by curiosity. By utility."
Dumbledore looked at him, startled by the sheer pragmatism of the suggestion. "You speak of a global, institutionalized integration. The political upheaval alone—"
"I have seen a galaxy of a million worlds governed by a single body," Anakin interrupted. "It is difficult, yes. It requires strength and a clear explanation of reality. But by staying in the shadows, you have created the very fear you claim to avoid. You've left them to stumble in the dark with primitive engines while you sit on the fire they need to reach the stars."
Anakin stood up, his height casting a long shadow over the table. "I will come to your school, Dumbledore. I will learn your magic. But I am not doing it just to teach children how to block a curse. I am going to see how your 'Force' can be integrated into this world's matter. I want to see how you channel energy so poorly that it breaks a machine—and then, I am going to show you how to do it correctly."
Dumbledore watched him, his expression unreadable. For the first time, he wondered if he hadn't just recruited a teacher, but invited a revolution into his castle.
"A bold vision, Professor Skywalker," Dumbledore said softly, rising to join him. "Though perhaps more dangerous than any Dark Lord. But for now, the carriage awaits. Let us see if Hogwarts can withstand your 'correct' methods."