Chapter 18: The Swiss Haven

July 1993 draped Evan Grayson's cottage near Ottery St Catchpole in a shimmering heat, the sun glinting off the porch's weathered planks as he leaned against the rail, wand tucked in his belt, the air alive with the chirp of grasshoppers and a faint dustiness wafting from the sun-scorched fields. The kitchen bore a wooden bowl from breakfast—apple slices and a crumbling biscuit, a knife sticky with juice—and a kettle sat cold by the hearth, but his mind stretched outward, restless for the road. Travel simmered in his thoughts, a pull born from whispers of Towers—one per continent, London's his gateway to Europe—and Switzerland tugged first, tales of stability where magic had settled smooth. He packed light, a rucksack with clothes, parchment, quill, and a pouch of Galleons, most of his fortune stashed as gold bars in Gringotts, a hedge against Aether's rise.

Theo and Lila Apparated onto the porch mid-morning, twin cracks slicing the stillness, Theo's oak wand from Hogwarts twirling in his fingers, Lila's hazel one glinting on her cursebreaker belt. "Heading out already?" Theo asked, squinting into the glare, his Enforcement coat flecked with road dust. Lila smirked, brushing sweat from her brow, "Chasing calm before the storm?" Evan hefted his rucksack, leather creaking under the strain, and nodded, "Switzerland's first—heard it's steady there, magic's locked in. Catch you when I'm back—don't get torched out there." Theo grinned, "Owl us, you prat." Lila nudged him, "Stay sharp." They clasped hands, brief and firm, then vanished with pops, leaving Evan in the sun's hum, the road a live wire in his chest.

He cast Transitor Celer, Eo, picturing London's Wizards' Tower by the Thames—one per continent, Europe's heart—shifting seventy miles in a soft hum, landing on cobblestones baked warm, the spire's shadow slicing the street. A Muggle fumbled nearby, sparks fizzing from his fingers like a broken charm, but Evan brushed past, stepping into the Tower's cool shade. The rune-panel flickered, a map of continents glowing—Europe's pin sharp in London—but he aimed farther, casting Transitor Celer again, Eo whispering St. Gallen in his mind, a Swiss village from a trader's tale. Hundreds of miles blurred, and he landed on a cobbled street, the village nestled against alpine slopes, no Tower here but a hum of magic woven into the air, steady and sure.

Switzerland gleamed under a noon sun, streets calm and orderly, wands common—Tower theory had spread wandmaking wide, loosening old grips—and Evan caught whispers: a hawk had downed a shepherd near Bern, talons crackling with power; a bear shredded a barn by Zurich, paws glowing blue. Magic wasn't chaos here, fused with life, and he squinted at a tram gliding past—no sparks, just a faint rune-glow on its frame, magic meshed with tech in a way Britain hadn't dreamed. A baker waved a wand, dough rising in a charmed oven, a Muggle machine humming beside it to knead more—magitech budding, a craft he'd only glimpsed in passing. He cast Visio Totus, Tardo, silver flooding his sight, the village square snapping 360°, a clock's rune-lit hands ticking slow and clear, no threats, just a stillness he was still wrapping his head around.

The countryside called, a test of this calm's edges, and he wandered St. Gallen's outskirts by late afternoon, wand loose in his hand, the air cooling with pine and dusk. A low howl cut the quiet, raw and laced with a crackle, and five wolves slunk from the trees, fur shimmering silver, eyes blazing amber, magic twisting them fierce. A farmer's tale echoed—heard a pack mauled a goat near Lucerne, claws sparking—and Evan cast Visio Totus, Tardo, silver washing his eyes, their lunge slowing to a creep, 360° sharp as their teeth flashed like steel. Scutum Latens flared blue as the lead wolf sprang, claws sparking off the shield, and he flicked Transitor Celer, Eo, shifting five yards right, landing by a stone wall, its moss damp under his palm.

The pack wheeled, snarling, and he snapped Perforo Acutus, Fodio, a silver bolt piercing the leader's flank, fur sizzling as it yelped, sharp but not lethal, a warning shot. Another lunged, jaws wide, and Scutum Latens held as he cast Stupefy, red stunning it mid-air, crashing limp with a thud that echoed off the barn. Two flanked, eyes glowing, and he spun Visio Totus again, their charge slow and clear, then Transitor Celer to their rear, Perforo Acutus lancing a third's leg, dropping it with a howl that rolled down the slope. The fourth charged, claws crackling, and Scutum Latens flared with Protego, shield solid, then Stupefy felled it, fur smoking as it hit the dirt. The last bolted, tail low into the trees, and Evan exhaled, Sanatio Fortis, Cura mending a shallow claw nick on his arm, blue glow sealing it fast as his breath steadied. A farmer peeked from a doorway, axe trembling, "Wolves've been wild since magic spread—thank you." Evan nodded, "Stable's got teeth, huh?" The man shrugged, "Aye, sometimes."

Back at the Three Broomsticks by nightfall, Apparating from St. Gallen's edge, Evan sank into a chair near the bar's open window, butterbeer cold in his hand, the chatter a soft drone under the evening's breeze. Switzerland's calm hid a bite—magic stable, tech fused, magitech stirring—but wolves showed chaos lingered beneath, a test his weave met head-on. The Towers loomed, one per continent, London's hum a stepping stone to more, and he sipped, the bar's murmur a fleeting rest before the road sang again.