[The Leaky Cauldron]
[Rohan POV]
It was around nine in the morning when I stepped into the Leaky Cauldron with a black briefcase in hand.
The pub was already packed.
Wizards and witches moved through the cramped space in hurried waves, conversations blending into one loud buzz. The smell of coffee, smoke, and old wood filled the air. Most people were either heading toward Diagon Alley or returning from it, brushing past each other without even looking up.
Which was exactly why this place was perfect for meetings.
No one paid attention to one more stranger in the crowd.
I walked calmly toward the back of the tavern and slid into an empty seat near the wall. From there, I had a clear view of the entrance and most of the room.
A waitress appeared a minute later and silently placed a cup of coffee in front of me before disappearing back into the crowd.
I took a slow sip while waiting.
I was here to meet Martin.
Calling him a "dealer" was the simplest way to describe him, though even that barely covered half of what he actually did. The man could get almost anything if you had enough money and patience. Information, artifacts, illegal ingredients, transportation, forged documents—he dealt in all of it.
The problem was actually meeting him.
Martin never stayed in one place for long, and he trusted nobody. To contact him, I had to ring a specific phone number, wait for a callback, then receive nothing more than a location and time before the line disconnected.
No names. No details.
This was the third time he had chosen the Leaky Cauldron for a meeting.
Honestly, I understood why.
During rush hour, hundreds of people passed through here every hour. It was the easiest place in magical Britain to disappear into a crowd.
I was still scanning the room when someone suddenly sat across from me.
A middle-aged woman dressed in dull brown robes placed a folded newspaper on the table with hurried movements. She looked irritated, like someone late for work.
Without looking directly at me, she muttered quietly,
"You brought the wrong potatoes."
I stared at her for a second before replying in an equally low voice.
"There were no right potatoes."
The woman's lips twitched upward.
"Good to see you again, kid."
I groaned quietly and leaned back in my chair.
"Was that really necessary? We've met multiple times already." I rubbed my forehead. "And why do we still need these ridiculous code words?"
Martin chuckled under the disguise.
"It's part of the job," he said casually. "Besides, it's one of a few things I enjoy."
I narrowed my eyes.
"And this?" I pointed at his current appearance. "Why are you disguised as a woman this time?"
Martin shrugged dramatically.
Because I prefer not getting caught." His tone sharpened slightly. "Especially after whatever the hell happened in Hogsmeade last time."
I blinked innocently.
"I already told you that was just a coincidence. Besides, what could a muggle like me even do?"
Martin let out a dry snort.
"Coincidence?" He leaned forward, lowering his voice. "In all my years working in this business, I've never seen an entire team of Unspeakables assigned to an investigation that fast." His eyes narrowed at me. "Listen, I don't care what my clients get involved in. That's not my job. But if you're about to drag me anywhere near something dangerous, the least you can do is give me a warning beforehand."
"I didn't do anything."
"Yeah," Martin muttered, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. "Keep telling yourself that."
For a few moments, silence settled between us.
Around us, the tavern remained as loud and chaotic as ever, yet the space at our table felt strangely still.
Eventually, Martin let out a long sigh and pushed the newspaper toward the centre of the table.
"Alright," he muttered. "Let's get to business."
I pulled the newspaper closer and quietly slipped a thick white envelope along with several Polaroid photographs inside it before pushing it back toward him.
Martin unfolded the paper just enough to peek inside.
The moment he saw the name written on the envelope, his expression changed slightly.
Nicolas Flamel.
His brows furrowed beneath the disguise.
I spoke before he could ask.
"I need that letter delivered to Sir Nicolas Flamel. As quickly as possible."
Martin slowly leaned in.
"That won't be easy," he admitted. "Last I heard, Flamel's gone into hiding."
"Yes," I replied calmly. "Which is why I came to you instead of sending an owl."
Martin tapped the envelope thoughtfully.
"Hm. Fair point." Then he looked at me again. "Still going to cost you."
"I expected that."
His fingers drummed against the table for a moment before he opened the photographs next.
The pictures showed several ancient swords, old scrolls sealed in protective containers, and a silver ring.
Martin's eyes narrowed.
"What exactly am I looking at here?"
"Items I want sold," I answered. "My sources say they're extremely valuable. Especially in the Middle East."
He flipped through the photos more carefully now.
"Last time it was gold," he muttered. "Now you're selling ancient treasures." His gaze slowly lifted toward me. "What exactly have you been doing lately?"
I smiled faintly.
"Let's just say I know people in magical places."
Martin stared at me for another second before exhaling through his nose.
"I can sell them," he finally said. "But this won't be quick. I'll need experts to verify authenticity first. Then I'll arrange a private auction—"
"No auctions."
He paused.
"What?"
"No auctions," I repeated firmly.
Martin frowned.
"That's how items like these are normally sold."
"And that's exactly the problem."
I leaned forward slightly.
"These artifacts are too unique. If rumors about them spread, people will start asking questions." My voice lowered further. "No public listings. No collectors gossiping. No attention."
Martin remained silent.
"Find experts you trust," I continued. "Then approach buyers privately. Wealthy ones. People who can buy everything at once."
I tapped one of the photos.
"If necessary, go directly to royal families."
That finally got a reaction out of him.
"The royals?" he repeated with amusement.
I ignored the look on his face.
"All I care about is discretion. And payment in U.S. dollars. Full payment."
Martin gave a low whistle and leaned back again.
"You really don't think small, do you?"
"I don't have the luxury to."
For a few seconds he simply studied me, probably trying to figure out whether I actually understood the value of what I was selling.
Eventually he folded the newspaper shut.
"I'll contact you within a day or two about Flamel," he said. "As for the artifacts… I'll handle it."
"Quickly," I added. "Don't drag things out trying to increase your cut."
Martin smirked.
"You wound me."
"You did it last time."
"That was business."
"This is business, too. Just faster."
He thought about it for a moment before nodding.
"Fine. Two weeks maximum."
"Good."
Martin stood up smoothly, picking up the briefcase beside him as naturally as if he had arrived carrying it.
Without another word, he walked away and disappeared into the sea of people moving through the tavern.
A few minutes later, I left as well.
Nobody paid attention to either of us.
By the time I returned home, exhaustion hit me like a truck.
The moment I entered my room, I collapsed onto the bed and stared blankly at the ceiling.
I hadn't slept properly since i came back.
Between decoding the Omega Records, handling the company work, preparing the artifacts, and writing the letter to Flamel, my body felt completely drained.
But despite the exhaustion, sleep didn't come immediately.
My mind kept returning to the letter.
The treasures didn't worry me. Martin was greedy, secretive, and annoying—but he was competent. He would handle the sale.
Nicolas Flamel was the real gamble.
Over the past months, ever since I decided to get the Super Soldier Serum, I had rewritten that letter countless times, trying to figure out the perfect approach. I needed him interested enough to respond… but not suspicious enough to disappear.
If he refused—
No.
I closed my eyes and forced the thought away.
There was no point in overthinking it now.
Everything depended on whether Nicolas Flamel replied.
With that final thought lingering in my mind, exhaustion finally dragged me into sleep.
===
[Flashback]
[Last Night]
[Rohan's Secret Attic]
It was already very late into the night by the time the house finally became quiet.
The lights downstairs were off, the dishes from dinner had already been cleaned, and Olivia had gone to sleep hours ago. Meanwhile, I was still awake in the attic, surrounded by piles and piles of newspapers.
The attic felt like an oven.
Several computers had been running nonstop for hours, filling the cramped room with heat. Their cooling fans whirred constantly, blending together into an annoying mechanical hum that made my head hurt. Sweat clung to my skin and dripped down my neck every few minutes.
I had already taken off all my clothes except my underwear while working.
The entire floor was a complete mess.
Old copies of the Daily Prophet were scattered everywhere around me. Some were stacked neatly, others were tossed carelessly into a corner after being scanned. Most of them dated back nearly four years. They had arrived while I was away, and Olivia had simply stored all of them here without suspecting anything.
The truth was I had to spend quite a lot on all the papers as Witches and Wizards normally used magic to dispose of their papers; there was no stock of old newspapers to buy as scrap. I had to contact a collector for them.
I grabbed another newspaper and slid it beneath the phone camera mounted above the desk. The AI quickly scanned the pages one after another while lines of text flashed across the monitor beside me.
Normally, I would have made someone else slowly digitise everything over weeks.
But this search was personal.
So I was doing it myself.
Another newspaper went under the scanner.
A second later, the AI voice spoke.
"Keyword found."
My tired eyes immediately lit up.
"Yes, finally—"
I quickly grabbed the paper and looked through the article.
Then my excitement disappeared almost instantly.
It was just another useless article.
Some random historian had written a book about Nicolas Flamel.
Nothing important.
"Useless..." I muttered while tossing the newspaper aside.
I reached for another stack and continued scanning.
At this point, I had been doing this for hours.
My goal was simple: gather as much information as possible about important figures before the main story officially started.
Dumbledore.
The Ministry.
Strange magical incidents.
And most importantly—
Nicolas Flamel.
Ever since I decided to recreate the Super Soldier Serum, there was already one person I wanted helping me make it.
Nicolas Flamel.
There were several reasons for that.
The first was simple.
I wanted to recreate the serum in the Harry Potter world instead of the MCU. Compared to the Marvel world, there were far fewer eyes watching things here. Keng alone made the MCU too dangerous for this kind of research.
The second reason...
If there was anyone in this world capable of understanding and recreating something as absurd as the Super Soldier Serum, it was probably the six-hundred-year-old alchemist who created the Philosopher's Stone.
The problem was getting him to agree.
And that was the hard part.
Over the past week, I had read almost everything publicly available about Nicolas and Perenelle Flamel.
The two of them were legends in magical France.
Not just famous.
Revered.
Students proudly talked about learning under Flamel. Alchemists practically worshipped him. Even internationally, his name carried enough weight that most wizards knew who he was immediately.
And yet, despite all that fame, very little was actually known about the Philosopher's Stone itself.
Most people only knew one thing:
Nicolas Flamel had created the legendary Elixir of Life.
That was it.
The existence of the actual Philosopher's Stone was treated almost like a secret.
I paused while feeding another newspaper into the scanner and leaned back in my chair tiredly.
Something about the entire Philosopher's Stone situation kept bothering me.
"Why did Flamel hand the Stone over to Dumbledore?" I muttered to myself while staring at the ceiling.
At first, the answer seemed obvious.
Dumbledore was powerful.
Dumbledore was trusted.
And most importantly—
Dumbledore was the only wizard Voldemort ever feared.
But the more I thought about it, the less sense it made.
Nicolas Flamel had protected the Stone successfully for over six hundred years.
Six hundred.
That meant surviving wars, dark lords, thieves, betrayals, and who knows how many attempts to steal it.
So why suddenly send it away now?
And not just anywhere.
He sent it all the way to Britain.
To Hogwarts.
France itself had powerful magical institutions. The French Ministry alone should have had enough resources to hide and protect the Stone.
So why trust Dumbledore instead?
One fact kept standing out in my mind.
The Gringotts break-in.
The moment the Stone was moved, someone found out about it almost immediately.
That meant information around Flamel was leaking.
Someone close to him could no longer be trusted.
And if Voldemort truly had agents infiltrating magical society through possessed servants like Quirrell...
Then, suddenly, trusting Dumbledore made more sense.
Because if Voldemort himself was after the Stone, then there was probably nobody safer than the one wizard he feared.
That explained part of it.
But not everything.
Quirrell, even possessed, was pathetic compared to the kinds of enemies Flamel must have dealt with during six centuries of life.
No.
There had to be another reason.
Just then, the AI alert sounded again.
I barely reacted at first.
At this point, I was expecting another useless article again.
But when I glanced at the headline, I suddenly paused.
This article mentioned Perenelle Flamel.
I quickly wiped the sweat from my forehead and sat down properly.
The article itself wasn't dramatic.
It simply mentioned that Perenelle Flamel had left a public event early because she was feeling unwell.
I frowned immediately.
"That's strange..."
The Elixir of Life should make diseases almost irrelevant for them.
I quickly checked the date.
Two years before the main story.
Interesting.
I immediately resumed scanning the newspapers with renewed focus.
Hours passed.
More useless articles.
Then finally—
Another hit.
This one was six months later.
The article mentioned that both Flamels had cancelled several public appearances.
My eyes narrowed slightly.
Then another article appeared later.
And finally—
I found something important.
It was a moving photograph taken from far away.
The picture showed Nicolas Flamel slowly pushing Perenelle Flamel in a wheelchair while both of them angrily pointed their wands toward the photographer.
I stared at the image silently.
Then suddenly everything clicked together in my head.
The Philosopher's Stone granted life.
Not youth.
That was the real problem.
Even in the Fantastic Beasts movie, Nicolas Flamel looked incredibly frail. Thin. Weak. Old.
The Stone kept them alive...
But their bodies still continued ageing.
And according to records from my old world, Nicolas was actually younger than Perenelle by several years.
Which meant—
Perenelle started deteriorating first.
And Nicolas was probably not far behind.
I slowly leaned back in my chair as the pieces finally came together.
Now I understood why Flamel accepted the destruction of the Stone so calmly later in the story.
What was the point of immortality if your body had already decayed?
At some point, eternal life would stop feeling like a blessing.
And start feeling like torture.
He had already accepted death by then.
And suddenly—
I realized I had something valuable.
Hope.
I immediately stood up from my chair so quickly it nearly fell backwards.
I rushed downstairs toward my desk and started writing the letter almost immediately.
If magical rejuvenation normally required dark magic...
Then what about science?
What about biology?
What about the Super Soldier research?
I quickly began writing.
Carefully.
Every single word mattered.
I fabricated a believable story about my injuries and how I had searched desperately for a cure. Then I mentioned discovering fragmented World War II research documents connected to experimental biological enhancement.
Finally, I asked for his expertise.
Not like a businessman.
Not like an equal.
But like someone desperate enough to seek out the greatest alchemist alive.
And attached to the letter—
I included several heavily redacted pages from the serum research.
Just enough to catch his attention.
Just enough to tempt him.
Because if my theory were correct...
The possibility of restoring youth to himself and Perenelle would be impossible for Nicolas Flamel to ignore. Use Science where magic failed.
By the time I finally finished writing the letter, my hands were slightly shaking from exhaustion.
My eyes burned badly from staring at screens and newspapers all night.
I slowly looked toward the attic window.
Outside, the dark sky was already beginning to brighten with the first light of dawn.
The sun was starting to rise.
I let out a long, exhausted sigh and rubbed my face tiredly.
I hadn't slept at all.