Chapter 19: Shadows in Stability

July 1993 simmered over Evan Grayson's cottage near Ottery St Catchpole, the sun casting long shadows across the porch as he stood by the door, wand in his belt, the air humming with the rustle of leaves and a faint earthy warmth rising from the fields. The kitchen held a tin from breakfast—crumbs of oatcakes and a smear of jam—and a kettle sat cold by the hearth, but his mind was already on the move, restless for the road. Switzerland lingered from yesterday's taste—stable, magic woven into tech, a calm pierced by wolves—and he decided to linger there, explore its seams. His rucksack sat packed with clothes, parchment, quill, and a pouch of Galleons, most of his fortune gold bars in Gringotts, safe from Aether's creep.

He cast Transitor Celer, Eo, picturing St. Gallen's cobbled square, shifting hundreds of miles from London's Tower in a soft hum, landing by a fountain carved with runes that pulsed faintly under the noon sun. The village buzzed quiet, but he aimed for the city, casting again to Zurich's heart, landing in a bustling plaza ringed by stone buildings. Trams glided past, their frames etched with shimmering runes, magic humming alongside electric whirs—a fusion Britain hadn't touched. He booked a room at a hotel nearby, the Zürcher Stern, a narrow building with a façade of glass and wood, its clerk waving a wand to unlock his door, a keyless charm he'd only seen in whispers. The room overlooked the Limmat River, simple with a bed, desk, and a window framing the city's glow, a base for two months to probe this ordered world.

Days bled into weeks, Zurich unfolding in sharp contrast to England's fray. Streetlights flickered with rune-lit bulbs, glowing soft without flame, and vendors conjured goods—bread rising in charmed ovens, a Muggle press grinding coffee beside it, magitech budding in stalls. Wands flashed common, Tower theory spreading the craft beyond old gatekeepers, and Evan heard tales—a hawk had snagged a hiker near Basel, wings sparking; a bear had mauled a shed in Chur, claws glowing blue—hints of chaos tamed here. He cast Visio Totus, Tardo in a market, silver washing his eyes, a baker's wand-flick slowing to a crawl, 360° clear as runes pulsed on a tram's flank, no wildness to dodge. The Swiss had stitched magic into life, stable and seamless, a craft he was still wrapping his head around.

Two months in, late August shadowed the city, and Evan roamed a narrow street by the river, dusk painting the water gold. Footsteps echoed—four figures, no wands, faces tight with a scowl he'd seen in Muggle London, anger simmering raw. "Wizard filth," one spat, a burly man with fists clenched, "gatekeeping magic 'til the Towers forced it out." Another lunged, a knife glinting, and Evan cast Stupefy, red flashing to drop him mid-step, thudding limp on stone. Scutum Latens flared blue as a second swung a pipe, metal sparking off the shield, and Evan flicked Stupefy again, felling him with a groan. The third charged, fists wild, and Visio Totus slowed the blur, 360° sharp as Evan cast Stupefy, toppling him. The last bolted, but Transitor Celer, Eo shifted Evan ahead, Stupefy stunning him cold before he hit the corner.

He exhaled, heart steady, and bound them with a quick Incarcerous from Hogwarts days, ropes snapping tight. A Swiss patrol—wands out, uniforms rune-stitched—rounded the street, and Evan waved them over, "Caught 'em gatekeeping grudges." The lead officer, a wiry woman with a sharp nod, took them, "Muggle resentment's rare here—most blend now. Thanks." Evan watched them go, the knife's glint replaying in his skull. Scutum Latens had held, but physical blows sparked too close—its magic shield bent for spells, not steel. He needed better, and a flicker hit: a passive danger-sense spell, catching threats before they struck, a craft he was still learning to shape.

Back at the Zürcher Stern, he sat by the window, river lights glinting below, and grabbed parchment, sketching intent: a spell to hum low, sensing danger—blades, fists, spells—before it hit, passive like Scutum Latens but sharper. The Room of Requirement's lessons—Crafting the Arcane's grids, Wand and Will's will—whispered through, and he scratched a five-point arc: two sweeps up for range, a twist left for intent, a flick right for focus, a curve down to alert. Arithmancy stirred, numbers sprawling as he balanced sense against drain, aiming for a faint hum, Tier 4 maybe, a craft he'd hone back in England. The Swiss calm had teeth, and he'd sharpen his own before the road turned wilder.