Harry stood frozen, the old witch's grip tightening like a iron shackle. He looked around frantically, but the "audience" offered no salvation. The wizards lining the street—men in tattered, soot-stained robes and women with eyes like cold flint—didn't lift a finger. They just watched from a distance, their faces twisted into malevolent grins. In their eyes, Harry wasn't a person; he was just a "piglet" waiting for the butcher's knife.
This was the unfiltered reality of Knockturn Alley. It wasn't just spooky; it was predatory.
Harry's panic shifted toward Sebastian, hoping for a rescue, but he found his mentor in an even worse position. Four wizards, looking like they hadn't bathed since the fall of Grindelwald, had stepped out from the shadows of a dilapidated apothecary to surround the man known today as "Jack."
They were shouting, their voices raspy and full of low-rent menace. They didn't just want a "guide fee"; they wanted blood and gold. Harry's heart sank. Sebastian is surrounded. Even he can't fight off four grown wizards and an old hag at the same time, can he?
Then, Sebastian spoke.
His voice wasn't loud, but it possessed a resonance that seemed to vibrate the very stones of the street. It was a voice of absolute, undeniable authority.
"I'm only going to say this once," Sebastian said, his eyes scanning the four men with a look of profound boredom. "Get. Out."
The street went silent for a heartbeat before erupting into mocking laughter. The four wizards doubled over, and even the bystanders giggled as if they'd just heard the funniest joke in London.
"Listen to this guy!" one of them wheezed, poking his wand toward Sebastian's chest. "You're surrounded by four of the meanest blokes in the Alley, and you're giving us orders? Brother, you've got a death wish."
"We just want to 'borrow' a few Galleons for a drink," another added, his grin missing several teeth. "Don't be stingy. It's better to lose your purse than to lose your teeth—or your life."
"Why are we talking?" the third one snapped, his patience snapping. He raised his wand, the tip glowing a sickly red. "I'll take it from his cold hands. Stupefy!"
In Sebastian's perception, the wizard's movement was agonizingly slow, like watching a snail try to win a sprint. He didn't even draw his wand yet. He simply took a half-step to the left. The red bolt of light grazed his shoulder and slammed into the fourth wizard standing behind him, who collapsed instantly.
Sebastian's voice turned ice-cold. "Since you've made your move, you can leave everything here."
Suddenly, the atmosphere changed. It was as if the air itself had become heavy, saturated with a pressure that made the lungs ache. Sebastian's magic began to radiate outward in visible, shimmering waves.
"Who do you think you are? Dumbledore?" the leader of the thugs snarled, but the words died in his throat.
The sneer on his face froze. To his heightened magical senses, the man in front of him had ceased to be a "skinny newcomer" and had transformed into a towering tidal wave. He felt like a tiny rowboat caught in a hurricane, the sheer weight of Sebastian's presence threatening to crush his ribs.
I was wrong, the wizard thought, his pupils shrinking to pinpricks. We didn't find a mark. We kicked a dragon's nest.
Fear, cold and paralyzing like a Great North serpent, coiled around his heart. Sweat poured down his face. He didn't even think about casting another spell; his brain was screaming one single word: ESCAPE.
He turned to run, abandoning his comrades without a second thought. But he didn't even make it a full step. His body stiffened, his muscles locking into place as if he'd been turned to stone. Due to his own momentum, he pitched forward and hit the pavement with a heavy thud.
A Petrification Spell? he wondered frantically. But he didn't speak! He didn't even move his wand!
Lying there, paralyzed on the cold cobbles, he saw the rest of his crew—and the old witch who had been clutching Harry—falling one by one, their bodies as rigid as statues. He felt a strange sense of relief. At least he wasn't the only idiot who had picked this fight.
Sebastian finally drew his wand. With a casual flick, he flipped the wizards over so they were lying on their backs, staring blankly at the dark sky. Then, he conjured a bottle of the Draught of Living Death. With precise, telekinetic movements, he sent a splash of the potion into each of their mouths.
"There," Sebastian said, looking satisfied. "These are our spoils. Let them have a long, dreamless sleep while we finish our business."
Harry stood there, blinking in shock. The speed, the fluidity, the absolute ease with which Sebastian had neutralized five threats was unlike anything he'd ever seen. Even the "Duel" with Lockhart felt like a playground game compared to this.
The bystanders who had been laughing moments ago were gone. They had scattered like rats in a cellar when the lights come on, fleeing into shops and bolting the doors. Some shopkeepers were even slamming their shutters shut, despite it being the middle of the day.
"Mr. Jack," Harry whispered, looking at the deserted street. "The shops... they're closing. Are they that scared of us?"
"They aren't scared of 'us,' Leo," Sebastian said, holstering his wand. "They are reacting to the pressure of my magic. Most wizards here live like bottom-feeders; when an apex predator swims by, they hide."
"Pressure?" Harry asked. He hadn't felt anything other than a slight chill.
Sebastian realized he'd shielded Harry from the brunt of the release. He smiled gently and lowered the barrier just a fraction.
For a second, Harry felt as if he were underwater. The air felt thick, vibrating with a hum that made his teeth ache. It wasn't a physical weight, but a mental one—an overwhelming sense of "standing before something vast."
"Can you feel it now?" Sebastian asked. "This is what an adult wizard senses when someone truly powerful lets go. Those thugs ran because they realized my level was beyond their comprehension."
Harry nodded, gasping a little as the pressure receded. "You mentioned levels... like the testing rock at the Dueling Club?"
"Exactly," Sebastian said, starting to walk again. With a flick of his wand, the unconscious thugs rose into the air, floating behind him like a grotesque string of balloons. "You've reached the level of a third-rate apprentice. But for adults, the scale changes. When your magical power hits Level 30, you trigger the 'Standing Tall at Thirty' effect."
Harry's eyes lit up. "Standing Tall at Thirty? Like the Muggle saying about being established in life?"
"In our world, it means something more literal," Sebastian explained. "When your magic reaches Level 30, your presence is enough to make an ordinary wizard stand up—out of respect or out of fear. You 'stand tall' because your magic commands the room."
"Is there a Level 40?" Harry asked, completely hooked.
"At Level 40, there is 'No More Confusion.' A mage at that level can see through illusions and deceptions; they are never confused by the chaos of war because their internal power acts as a compass."
Sebastian gestured to the floating wizards. "And at Level 50, one 'Knows the Will of Heaven.' A sorcerer at that level has such absolute dominion over the elements that the world itself seems to bend to their intent. Dumbledore, Voldemort... they play in those high altitudes."
Harry looked at his own hands, his mind racing. He was only an apprentice, miles away from being "settled" at thirty. It was a daunting thought, but also an exhilarating one. There was a ladder to climb, and Sebastian was showing him the rungs.
But Sebastian didn't let him dream for long. He stopped in front of a narrow, dark shop with no sign.
"Those heights are for another day, Leo," Sebastian said, his tone shifting back to that of a teacher. "Let's focus on the here and now. Tell me, what was the real lesson of the last five minutes? What did you learn from that old woman and those four idiots?"