Early June 1992, London.
The stench of filth in Knockturn Alley was now mixed with the scent of French perfume, making Frey D.
Scamander’s headache even worse.
“Oh~ I say~ fate~ ah!”
Singing a tune that would have been off-key even in his past life, he fantasized about a glorious future of making money, picking up girls, and traveling the world.
All the while, he nimbly pushed his way through the murky crowd, casually tossing a heavy black cloth bag toward a flustered French wizard standing off to the side.
“Here, catch. Your missing Matagot.”
Frey spoke in fluent French, but his eyes drifted past the man’s shoulder, alighting shameless and direct on a witch in a backless black gown standing outside Borgin and Burkes.
“Hold tight. Cash only, no favors. If you lose it again, whatever travel money you’ve got left won’t be enough to hire me a second time.”
The Frenchman gripped the top of the bag tightly and was about to offer his thanks when a deafening roar shattered the gloom of the alley.
“Frey! Stop making your damn deals! Get over here, this bastard’s gone insane!”
Near the open-air pool at the end of the alley, four adult wizards stood in a circle, red beams of restraint surging from their wand tips to pin down a fully grown Kelpie.
However, the kelp-covered behemoth was caught in a near-frenzied state.
With a sudden thrash of its tail, a massive wave shot up, mingled with sparks of shattering spells, blasting two of the wizards flat onto the ground.
Frey pulled out a pocket watch with a touch of impatience and checked the time.
Twenty minutes left until his appointment.
“Five Galleons, flat rate,” Frey said, his voice slightly raspy from irritation.
He was a born Dragon Animagus, but on yesterday’s cursed thunderous night, the massive beast within him had nearly ripped out of his flesh.
Right now, he had to crush something, count some Galleons, or ogle a few beauties just to suppress the apocalyptic urge surging inside him.
“Merlin’s beard! Five Galleons? Why don’t you go rob Gringotts!” bellowed one of the downed wizards.
“That’s the price right now.”
Frey stared coldly at the fractures forming along the binding charms, his gaze casually sweeping past the fluttering hem of a nearby witch’s dress.
“When it smashes your pool and breaks your ribs in the process, the price goes up to fifteen Galleons. Hurry up—your pathetic spell won’t last longer than a verse of my song.”
The vendor let out a near-desperate curse and tossed over five gleaming gold coins.
Frey caught them effortlessly.
The coins seemed to come alive, spinning soundlessly and rapidly between his left fingers in a captivating arc of gold.
“Locomandare!”
He lunged forward, pointing his wand at the custom bridle in the vendor’s hand.
With a quick dip of his wrist, he thrust it sharply toward the Kelpie’s head.
The bridle snapped firmly into place right over the Kelpie’s sensitive nasal cartilage.
The massive beast, capable of flipping a carriage, froze instantly, its pupils reflecting Frey’s shoulder-length fiery-red hair.
Its muscles trembled violently for a second before it collapsed limply by the edge of the pool, as docile as a tame donkey.
The crowd of onlookers burst into hushed chatter:
“That’s it?”
“What kind of spell was that? I’ve never even heard of it.”
The guard who climbed back up off the ground gave Frey a bewildered look.
“Strange. Why did that beast look at you like it was staring down a Hebridean Black?”
Frey snorted and scoffed internally, *All it took was a Placement Charm to slip the bridle on.
You idiots ignored the bridle and tried to wrestle it by force.
Serves you right that I got your money.*
Beside them, the Frenchman stared at Frey’s wand and marveled, “Oh, Merlin’s beard… 23.8 inches, yew wood with natural grain, intertwined with quadruple dragon heartstring cores… This is a true weapon, a masterpiece meant to control life and death…”
Frey glanced back at him and cracked his knuckles with a quiet click.
The Frenchman wisely scurried off before becoming a punching bag, and the guard sensibly shut his mouth as well.
The vendor muttered with lingering fear:
“Little Frey, your way with beasts is every bit as brilliant as your grandfather’s, but you’re far sharper than Old Newt…
“Or rather, far more slick.
“Seriously, you’re sixteen this year, aren’t you? Why didn’t you go to Hogwarts last year? With talent like yours, how could they have missed you?”
Frey tilted his head and vividly mimicked Newt’s eccentric yet gentle tone:
“‘My grandson, if you want to spend your life listening to people equate the name Scamander with badgers who blow up toilets, then go to Hogwarts. But if you’d rather ride a Graphorn across the Mongolian steppes and swap egg-hatching tips with a Chinese Fireball… fold your acceptance letter into a paper boat and let it float down the Danube. The world is far bigger than a single castle.'”
“Fine, you Scamanders have never been normal anyway,” the vendor shrugged impatiently.
“Though the Ministry of Magic has really gone mad these days—not allowing enrollment until fifteen, and forcing kids to undergo nine years of magical restraint training beforehand. Nothing like back in our day…”
Outside The Leaky Cauldron.
Though the sunlight remained stingy, Frey was already leaning lazily against the brick wall.
His head still throbbed slightly.
To keep himself occupied and soothe the restlessness of depleted magic, he resumed his old habit.
“Galleons for pounds, anyone? Rates are negotiable.”
Frey whispered low to every passing wizard who looked muggle-born, a cynical, rogue-like smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Frey, you’re still playing this game at a time like this? The Ministry of Magic is cracking down hard on illicit currency exchange. If you get locked up, Master Newt will have to break into Azkaban to drag you out.”
A crisp female voice rang in his ears, interrupting his thorough “inspection” of a red-haired witch’s receding back.
Frey pocketed his gold coins and narrowed his eyes at the brown-haired girl wearing a backpack in front of him.
“Frey, if your eyes wander anywhere else, I’m telling Master Newt.”
Hermione Granger stood at the entrance to Diagon Alley.
Frey had long realized that this timeline was somewhat different from the novels of his past life.
The Ministry of Magic stipulated that prior to enrolling at Hogwarts, muggle-born young witches and wizards had to undergo a nine-year “Magic Restraint Period” under the guidance of an experienced wizard.
And Hermione, fortunately, under the tutelage of the legendary wizard Newt, was no longer just the bookworm buried in library texts.
She exuded a sporty energy and a spirited, sharp presence.
Though she was still as bossy and naggy as ever.
“Oh, my dear Hermione. A year apart and you still have that awful temper. What, does Hogwarts not teach young witches how to act like ladies? Still, since you’re here, does that mean our big plan is ready to roll?”
“My dad must be insane.
He insisted on betting all his secret savings, saying he trusts the wisdom of the Scamander family.
“If you lose, Frey, you’ll be washing test tubes at my family’s clinic for the rest of your life.”
Hermione handed over an envelope.
Inside was the football betting slip she had asked her father, Mr.
Grant, to buy: European Championship winner, Denmark, odds 1 to 150.
Frey produced a thick stack of British pounds from his coat like a magic trick and gave it a casual flick.
“Here, the ten thousand pounds we agreed on. As long as that Danish fairytale comes true, I’ll never have to worry about money again.”
Hermione stared at the absurdly thick stack of pounds and didn’t reach out.
“I checked sports newspapers for a whole week.
Denmark didn’t even qualify for the finals!
They were only brought in at the last minute to replace Yugoslavia.
“Frey, you actually had my dad put money on a team that was dragged back from vacationing on the beach to play?”
“That’s the beauty of prophecy, Hermione.”
Frey leaned in close.
The increasingly mature masculine aura he exuded made Hermione instinctively blush and step back.
“Think back to last year. If I hadn’t told you how to handle that troll, you might still be lying in the hospital wing.”
Hermione parted her lips, unable to refute it.
“Think further,” Frey pressed his advantage.
“If I hadn’t told you the ways to pass the Philosopher’s Stone obstacles, did you first-year kids really think you could slip through challenges set by Dumbledore and the whole faculty so easily?
“That is the power of prophecy. I can see the finish line, and you only need to carry me there.”
Hermione fell into a long silence.
Knowing Frey as she did, the prophecy was very likely nonsense, but the fear on Halloween last year and the heart-stopping thrills of the Philosopher’s Stone obstacles had been completely real.
She snapped her head up, snatched part of the stack of money, and threw the rest back into Frey’s arms.
“Don’t bet all of it at once.
“I don’t spend that much money at school anyway, so I’ll cover part of it for you.
“If we win, we split the profits.
If we lose…
you can just pay me back whenever.
“I don’t want to see you go bankrupt and turn into a street beggar—or worse, resort to crime.”
Frey paused for a moment, then let out a roguish grin.
“If you insist, little housekeeper.
“Since I have you as my safety net, can I take this to mean you’re planning to stick with me for life?”
“Shut up! I’m not doing this for you! I’m doing this for my dad’s secret savings!” Hermione glared at him, though her tone softened slightly.
“Let me go. Master Newt is still waiting at the farm.”
“How are we getting there?”
“You ride your broom and carry me, of course. Don’t you have Floo powder vertigo? I checked tons of books at school and couldn’t find anything about that condition. I’ll definitely keep looking into it next year—there has to be a cure.”
Frey nodded and mounted his broom.
Naturally, he had no such thing as Floo powder vertigo.
He simply preferred taking his beautiful childhood friend soaring through the icy high sky—where, at the very least, no one else’s gaze could outshine his own greed.
And naturally, he didn’t know any real prophecies either.
Spouting nonsense was simply a transmigrator’s privilege.