Chapter 4: The Voice of Eternity
July 1991 cloaked Diagon Alley in sticky heat, and cobblestones warmed Evan's boots as he wove through the throng. At sixteen, he was a pro here, Flooed from St. Agnes' to stock up for his seventh year with robes, books, and potions gear packed and funded by Hogwarts odd jobs. He haggled at Slug & Jiggers over powdered unicorn horn, its shimmer catching the light while he tallied Galleons earned scrubbing brass in the trophy room and sorting library tomes. The shop hummed with witches swapping gossip over cauldron rims, kids pressing noses to Quality Quidditch Supplies, and owls hooting from stacked cages, so Evan breathed it in with the chaos a second skin after six years.
Mid-barter, a voice boomed in his skull, clear and vast, polished like a king's decree. "I have come to this world to grant you all a chance," it declared. "Your planet's future teeters on the brink of ruin, a truth plain yet unseen. Magic is your salvation, a gift once held by few. In my benevolence, I bestow it upon every soul on Earth. To aid you in the trials ahead, I raise a Wizards' Tower on each continent. Through them, you may sell spells and buy magical ingredients. Seize this gift, and prosper." It faded and left a hum in his ears.
The horn sack slipped and dusted the floor. Diagon Alley stilled with witches mid-sentence and a kid dropping a broom with a clatter, then buzzed with murmurs. Evan stumbled outside with his heart pounding and squinted past the rooftops. Near London, a tower rose with stone and light spiraling up, its peak lost in clouds miles off, a beacon in the haze. The air thrummed, and magic surged in his chest, wild and sharp.
He didn't gape. His Ravenclaw brain, six years of Quidditch dives and spell tweaks, snapped awake. "Sell spells? The Hogwarts curriculum, opportunity!" He Apparated with a crack of air and a lurching stomach from sixth-year lessons, then landed by the Thames where the Tower loomed stark. Doors marked "Sell" and "Buy" glowed with runes, no frills, just function, so he shoved through a "Sell" door, alone in a chamber of pulsing panels with privacy sealed and walls humming. A rune-lit slab waited.
"Hogwarts spells," he said with his wand up and voice steady despite the sweat on his neck. "Six years, about 250. Charms, Transfiguration, Defense, all of it." He poured it out with Lumos, Accio, Protego, Wingardium Leviosa, light streaming into the panel, every incantation from first-year feathers to sixth-year shields, years of notes, practice, and midnight trio debates. Incendio from second year's singed robes and Patronus from sixth's silver stag all spilled in. A chime rang with runes flashing: "Sell registered, you will receive 30% of the profit of each spell sold." Evan grinned and reasoned quick since worldwide Towers and billions buying meant a lot.
He Apparated back to Diagon Alley and popped into the crowd, dizzy but upright. A witch nearby blinked and muttered, "It's in my head, Incendio," then flicked her fingers, yet nothing sparked. Evan smirked since it was Tower-bought and mind-implanted, but wandless was a beast like his attic flops at St. Agnes'. The alley twitched with a Muggle levitating a coin, then dropping it with a yelp while a kid's sweets floated, then fell, but it wasn't chaos, just oddity. Wandless stayed hard, and wands were rare. Evan grabbed his supplies with scales, flies, and ink, Flooed to St. Agnes', and spent August watching his charmed Galleon glow as each pulse was a sale, a flood of wealth from Lumos to Expelliarmus. On September 1, 1991, he boarded the Express with scarlet steam swirling and sank into his seat with Lila and Theo bickering over frog cards. Hogwarts was his haven for one last ride.