“Avada…”
The dark wizard crawled with immense difficulty across the floor.
Clamping his wand tightly between his teeth, he slurred the beginnings of an incantation.
Shiro looked down at him with a cold, sidelong glance, completely unfazed by the threat of retaliation.
Attempting to channel magic through a wand held in one’s mouth carried a difficulty level second only to wandless and non-verbal casting.
If this dark wizard were truly capable of pulling off such a feat, he would at least be a seasoned charms master and wouldn’t have degraded to such a pathetic state.
The muffled syllables slipping past his lips were nothing more than the futile struggles of a dying man.
Unsurprisingly, no matter how many times the dark wizard tried to invoke the Unforgivable Curse, his wand failed to offer the slightest response.
After roughly ten agonizing minutes, the man’s low groans gradually dwindled to silence.
His complexion turned as pale as parchment, and the crimson flow from the severe puncture wound in his chest finally ceased altogether.
*It seems a wizard’s natural vitality is indeed superior to that of an ordinary human.
A normal person sustaining an injury of this magnitude wouldn’t have been able to carry on for nearly ten minutes.*
Then again, ordinary human biology wasn’t necessarily inferior across the board; this particular dark wizard had modified himself into something that was neither entirely human nor ghost.
There was no telling if he could even be classified as the same species as a standard wizard anymore.
Shiro exhaled a long, slow breath.
Among all the parallel versions of Shiro across the worlds, he was the very first to take a human life.
Fortunately, he felt no lingering aversion or psychological distress–if anything, the only prominent feeling he harbored was that the dark wizard’s dead face looked even more repulsive than it had alive.
Ding!
The blade of Death March let out a crisp, resonant chime, and a pitch-black, swirling vortex manifested at the very tip of the sword.
Shiro stepped closer to the lifeless corpse and positioned the dark vortex directly over the wizard’s head.
The surrounding space distorted violently for a fraction of a second before snapping back to equilibrium.
The dead wizard, along with every drop of spilled blood on the floorboards, was instantly vacuumed into the blade.
It truly was an indispensable, pristine tool for housekeeping and erasing all evidence of a crime.
“Come forth,” Shiro commanded, planting the tip of Death March perpendicular to the floor.
He immediately felt a noticeable draft on his spiritual energy reserves.
Streamers of pitch-black spiritual particles spilled downward from the blade, rapidly weaving together to reconstruct the silhouette of the dark wizard.
*Hmm…
compared to the Ugly Demon that Shiro Kamado summons in the Demon Slayer world, manifesting this dark wizard demands a considerably higher expenditure of spiritual energy,* Shiro analyzed internally.
He reasoned that this disparity stemmed from the inherent presence of active magic within the dark wizard’s anatomy.
In terms of raw energy density, a practitioner of magic undoubtedly possessed more substance than a low-level demon.
“State your name, and list every single spell you have mastered,” Shiro commanded, adjusting the dark wizard’s heavy hood back over his face to obscure his features.
Without explicit permission from Shiro, a puppet could never possess autonomous consciousness or independent thought, yet it retained flawless, mechanical access to all the memories and skills of its former life.
The puppet stood rigidly, recounting its identity and magical repertoire in a monotonous, clockwork cadence.
The dark wizard’s original name was Garifou Hunt.
Just as Shiro had deduced, he was an unorthodox, self-taught rogue wizard.
He had originally started out as an apprentice to another dark wizard, but unable to endure his master’s sadistic torments, he had eventually poisoned the man to death.
The spells he had managed to master were few and far between, and he wasn’t particularly exceptional at any of them.
As for his primary area of expertise–the grisly art of flesh-stitching and anatomical grafting–Shiro found it utterly repulsive and wanted absolutely nothing to do with it.
The sole saving grace that brought Shiro genuine satisfaction was the puppet’s mastery of one of the three Unforgivable Curses: Avada Kedavra, commonly known as the Killing Curse.
Provided the caster possessed sufficient magical reserves and a heart saturated with genuine, unadulterated murderous intent, the spell would bring instantaneous death to anyone it struck.
In the world of Harry Potter, it stood as the absolute pinnacle of lethal dark magic.
“Not bad.
At least it counts as a decent harvest.
By the way, do you happen to have any Galleons on your person?”
Shiro didn’t hold out much hope regarding this inquiry.
Wealthy dark wizards typically didn’t loiter around in such a disheveled, pathetic state as Carrefour.
Yes, Shiro found the dark wizard’s original name a bit too tedious to pronounce, so he casually rebranded him with a much smoother, more familiar title: Carrefour.
The fact that Carrefour had possessed the sheer audacity to target a young wizard on the verge of enrolling at Hogwarts–and inside the Leaky Cauldron, no less–proved he held absolutely zero respect for either Hogwarts or the Ministry of Magic.
Any dark wizard with an ounce of common sense would never commit such a reckless blunder.
Shiro truly couldn’t fathom how someone with such an intensely compromised brain could manage to accumulate any wealth.
To his surprise, Carrefour nodded stiffly and responded in a robotic tone, “I possess a total of four hundred Golden Galleons.
The vast majority is securely stored within Gringotts.”
Shiro’s eyes instantly illuminated with delight.
He immediately ordered Carrefour to visit Gringotts first thing in the morning to withdraw the entirety of his funds.
With this newfound fortune, he wouldn’t have to meticulously pinch pennies to purchase secondhand, battered textbooks.
He could even afford to pick out a high-quality pet of his own choosing.
“An excellent starter pack,” Shiro mused happily, collapsing back onto the bed.
The Zanpakutō reverted to its sealed Asauchi state, and he sheathed it carefully.
Deprived of the blade’s active spiritual support, Carrefour dissolved back into shimmering black particles and vanished into thin air.
Shiro wasn’t Ichigo Kurosaki; he couldn’t maintain a perpetual Shikai release while continuously draining his own spiritual essence to sustain external abilities.
Even Ichigo couldn’t fire off consecutive Getsuga Tenshōs indefinitely without risking being drained into a withered husk.
The following morning.
Armed with the gold supplied by Carrefour, Shiro settled his bill for the previous night’s lodging and extended his stay for an additional two months.
Since he had firmly resolved never to set foot in the orphanage again, residing at the Leaky Cauldron was the most pragmatic option available.
Whenever the need arose, he could simply step out into Diagon Alley to procure whatever items he required.
“Merlin’s beard!
Weren’t you supposed to visit Gringotts to exchange your muggle money today?
Where on earth did you get so many Galleons?”
Tom’s hands trembled slightly as he counted a stack of nearly one hundred Golden Galleons, staring at Shiro in sheer, unadulterated disbelief.
If anyone had told him a mere twelve hours ago that an unregistered, pre-first-year wizard could magically secure a hundred Galleons overnight, he would have laughed his teeth out.
Yet, the living, breathing proof was staring him right in the face, forcing him to accept reality.
“A thoroughly generous soul saw how pitiful my circumstances were and practically forced a massive pouch of Golden Galleons into my hands.
I tried to refuse, but he insisted I keep it.
It seems this world is truly filled with wonderful, helpful wizards after all,” Shiro explained, spreading his hands with an expression of absolute innocence.
He was, after all, just a young, un-enrolled wizard who didn’t possess the formidable, terrifying magic of a dark wizard.
Tom’s hand froze mid-pen stroke as he registered Shiro’s stay.
He couldn’t help but wonder why he had never encountered such a miraculous stroke of fortune in his entire life.
Then, glancing past Shiro’s shoulder, his eyes lingered briefly on the heavily cloaked Carrefour standing closely behind the boy.
Tom blinked, a wave of realization washing over him.
Had he truly misjudged the stranger last night?
It appeared the wizard who kept his face completely obscured wasn’t a villain at all, but rather an incredibly altruistic, kindly wizard who loved assisting the youth.
Shiro walked through the back door of the Leaky Cauldron, stepping out into a small, enclosed courtyard containing nothing but a dustbin and a solid brick wall.
Carrefour stepped forward, drawing his wand.
He tapped the brick wall gently three times–measuring three bricks up from the dustbin and two bricks across to the left.
The heavy, grinding sound of shifting masonry echoed through the courtyard as the bricks began to rapidly spin and rearrange themselves.
Within a matter of seconds, a small opening materialized in the center of the solid wall.
The aperture expanded swiftly, transforming into a grand, wide archway spacious enough for several people to walk through abreast.
Stretched out directly before them was the grandest commercial hub for London’s wizarding community–Diagon Alley.