In Roger's memories, vaguely yellowed by the passage of time, Harry Potter, the so-called 'Savior of the British Wizarding World' who had 'defeated' the Dark Lord, had received a hero's welcome when he first stepped into the Leaky Cauldron.
The moment Harry entered, silence fell, but only for an instant before it was replaced by an overwhelming clamor. Wizards and witches, young and old, swarmed to catch a glimpse of the boy who lived, eager to shake his hand, whisper words of admiration, or capture the moment in a hastily sketched photograph. The warmth of their reception was palpable, a vivid, almost surreal display of gratitude and reverence. It was as if life itself had momentarily erupted in celebration around him, filling the space with an electric buzz of awe and excitement.
For Roger, however, the experience was starkly different.
A brief silence did fall when he entered the Leaky Cauldron, but instead of being replaced by cheers and eager murmurs, it stretched into something deeper—something heavier. The very air seemed to solidify, pressing down on the patrons. A hush so complete settled over the pub that even the crackling of the fireplace and the clinking of glasses at the bar felt deafening in contrast.
Then, movement.
Not a rush forward, but a quiet, collective retreat. Those who were uninformed—those oblivious to who he was—reacted only to the imposing presence of Professor McGonagall at his side. The Head of Gryffindor House had long commanded the silent fear of former students who had shirked responsibilities during their school days. Some of them, now older and accustomed to the easy indulgences of pub life, instinctively lowered their heads and shuffled away, as though they had been caught red-handed in some mischief from decades past.
But those who knew—those who truly understood who Roger was—did not lower their heads. They stiffened. Their bodies froze, hands gripping chairs or tankards a little tighter. It was not the fear of a strict professor that held them in place; it was something much colder, something far more primal. The way a prey animal locks up at the sight of a predator.
With the conclusion of his trial, much of Roger's past had been declassified, becoming public knowledge. The records were staggering—over ninety confirmed kills by his hand, and an untold number who had perished indirectly because of his actions. War had a way of marking a person, and the wizarding world, so sheltered from the brutal efficiency of modern Muggle warfare, had recoiled in horror at the battlefield footage that had surfaced. Young wizards, raised in the relative comfort of magical society, had lost their appetite for days after witnessing the grotesque efficiency of death dealt in ways they had never imagined.
Yet, neither Professor McGonagall nor Roger paid any attention to the silence around them. Without hesitation, they crossed the room, moving toward the back of the Leaky Cauldron. With a gentle tap of her wand on the brick wall, the secret entrance unfolded, revealing the bustling heart of the British wizarding world—Diagon Alley.
A wave of noise crashed over Roger, in stark contrast to the eerie quiet just moments before. The streets were alive with movement, packed with wizards and witches draped in vibrant robes, haggling over cauldrons, potion ingredients, and the latest in enchanted brooms. Glowing magical signs flickered above various shops, their luminescence casting shimmering reflections across cobbled streets. The thick scent of parchment and ink from bookshops mingled with the alluring aroma of freshly baked pastries from a nearby vendor.
And yet, amidst all of this, Roger's first thought was not about the grandeur or the sheer scale of this hidden marketplace.
"Cognitive distortion... truly terrifying magic," he murmured under his breath.
Diagon Alley sat right in the heart of London, a city teeming with millions of Muggles, and yet none of them had the faintest clue that an entire section of their city map was simply... missing. The implications of such magic were staggering. If he had access to such spells during the war, survival would have been infinitely easier. No need for guerrilla tactics, no endless nights of movement through hostile terrain—just a simple act of concealment, and he could have disappeared entirely.
He began to understand, on a fundamental level, why wizards viewed Muggles with such casual indifference. When you held the power to bend perception, to manipulate reality so thoroughly, reverence for those who lacked such abilities could easily fade into disdain. And yet, Roger knew better than to underestimate anyone, regardless of magical ability. He had seen firsthand the destructive potential that Muggles wielded, the raw and ruthless efficiency of their war machines. Magic was not the only force in the world that could bring devastation.
Walking further into the alley, their first stop was Gringotts, the wizarding bank.
Hogwarts was a seven-year boarding school, and everything from tuition to textbooks, robes, and wands had to be paid for in wizarding currency. Muggle money held no value here—only Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts. Yet, not all students who received their Hogwarts letters came from established wizarding families. There were those, like Roger, who hailed from Muggle backgrounds and had no means of accessing the magical economy.
For students in such circumstances, Hogwarts provided an exchange system, allowing them to trade limited amounts of Muggle currency for wizarding funds at Gringotts. In cases of extreme financial difficulty, the Ministry of Magic even offered interest-free student loans to ensure that no magical child was deprived of an education due to poverty.
Fortunately, Roger did not need to rely on such assistance. Under the watchful eyes of goblins, he exchanged a modest sum of British pounds for Galleons—enough to cover the essentials with a small margin for personal expenses.
Their shopping continued without incident. A cauldron, school robes, a broomstick, and a wand—all acquired in quick succession. The last stop was Flourish and Blotts, the bookstore that housed an endless array of magical knowledge. After purchasing the required first-year textbooks, Roger lingered, browsing the shelves, scanning the spines of tomes filled with wisdom that stretched beyond the standard curriculum.
Professor McGonagall watched him with a curious expression. "Looking for something in particular?" she asked, noting his lingering presence.
Roger did not answer immediately. His gaze flicked from book to book, considering, calculating. Knowledge, he had learned, was as powerful as any spell. And in this world, where magic ruled, the right book could be a weapon of its own.
Finally, he reached for a volume bound in deep green leather, its title etched in fading gold. As he ran his fingers over the cover, he felt a small thrill—because despite the silence that followed him, despite the wary gazes and whispers, one truth remained certain: He was here.
And the magical world had no idea what to expect from him.
Secondly, other pets would require him to take care of their feeding, hydration, and hygiene, while an owl could reside in the Hogwarts West Tower owlery, where it would be cared for by the school. Over time, this choice would save Roger a significant amount of time and effort.
For his wand, Roger, like Harry Potter before him, visited Ollivander's Wand Shop, an establishment that had been crafting wands since 382 BC, around the era of the Chinese Zhou Dynasty. Despite the passage of centuries, it remained one of the three major wand manufacturers in Europe.
Ollivander, a master wandmaker, meticulously tested a variety of wands with Roger, carefully assessing compatibility. He presented him with an Applewood wand, favored by kind-hearted idealists and those who lived long lives. Then came Aspen, typically wielded by skilled duelists, followed by Maple, the choice of adventurous spirits. Hornbeam, suited for intuitive and honest individuals, and Hazel, ideal for those adept at managing emotions, were also considered. Lastly, Ollivander even offered an Elder wand, a rare and legendary artifact symbolizing extraordinary power, often associated with misfortune. Although all six of these wands resonated with Roger to some degree, none felt like a perfect fit.
A wand's compatibility with its wielder was crucial, directly influencing the precision and potency of spellcasting. A poorly matched wand could make even the simplest spells difficult to cast. Just when it seemed like no perfect match would be found, Ollivander produced a seventh wand.
The moment Roger grasped it, a wave of warmth spread through his body—an immediate, undeniable connection.
Ten inches, Fir wood, with a Unicorn tail hair core, designed for stability in spellcasting.
Fir wood was not particularly rare, but those who possessed such wands were often masters of their respective crafts—wizards and witches with unwavering patience, strong determination, and a clarity of purpose that only came after deep introspection. It was unusual for someone so young, yet to even begin their formal magical education, to exhibit such compatibility with Fir wood.
Ollivander, however, did not dwell on it for long. As one of the most esteemed wandmakers in Europe, with a lineage of craftsmanship dating back to ancient Greece, he had seen countless peculiarities over the centuries. Another mystery was simply part of his trade.
With his new wand secured, Roger proceeded to Flourish and Blotts, the renowned purveyor of magical books. As he flipped through his newly acquired textbooks, his brows furrowed slightly. Without hesitation, he turned his gaze toward the towering bookshelves, scanning their contents with quiet intensity.
"I want to buy some other magic books," he stated with a thirst for knowledge in his voice, answering Professor McGonagall's questioning look.
The professor, ever cautious, intervened immediately. "Roger, I know you are eager to learn, but delving into magic beyond your current ability is dangerous."
She gestured toward the stack of standard first-year textbooks. "Books like 'The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1' and 'A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration' have been carefully selected to ensure a safe and structured introduction to magic. They are designed to be approachable, and any failed spells will have minimal consequences. There is no need to seek anything more advanced."
Roger met her gaze, understanding her concern. She had spent years dealing with reckless students eager to push beyond their limits, often with disastrous results. It was natural for her to assume he was the same.
But she was mistaken.
"I'm not looking for more powerful magic," he explained. "What I want is a deeper understanding."
His voice carried a rare intensity as he continued, "I want books that comprehensively explore the nature of magic itself. Something that explains its evolution—from the ancient incantations of the past to the structured spellcasting of the modern era."
McGonagall regarded him for a long moment, measuring his sincerity. Finally, a small glimmer of approval flickered in her eyes. Roger's thirst for knowledge was not one of arrogance or recklessness—it was curiosity at its purest form.
And curiosity, when tempered with discipline, was the foundation of true master