The hunchbacked Old Tom, with his wrinkled face and toothless mouth, looked as evil as the dark wizards in Knockturn Alley. However, beneath the ugly appearance, there beat a warm heart.
Old Tom personally took Anton to the door of the Leaky Cauldron, taught him how to summon the 'Knight Bus', and waited with him for the magical car to materialize with a bang. He kindly patted Anton's head, "Best of luck, lad."
Anton, deeply touched by his kindness – a rare commodity in his recent travels – bowed his head, offering a grateful, "Thank you, Mr. Tom." Over the past two months, navigating the often-unforgiving wizarding world, he'd encountered far more scowls than smiles. Old Tom's wrinkled mouth, in that moment, seemed to mimic the gentle curve of a kindly grandfather. With a wave of his hand, the old wizard disappeared back into the bustling pub.
The Knight Bus, a behemoth resembling a particularly oversized double-decker bus, loomed before Anton. Its three stories towered over him, the interior visible through the windows revealing not rows of seats, but a surprisingly comfortable bed with brass columns, a candle holder casting a warm glow, and – a detail that sent a shiver down Anton's spine – a small, desiccated head hanging from the driver's cab. A relic, perhaps, from a South American head-shrinking ritual, a practice surprisingly popular among both dark and light wizards in Britain.
"Welcome aboard, mate!" boomed Stan Shunpike, the conductor, a young man whose jaunty uniform hat and infectious grin were as bright as a freshly-polished Nimbus 2000. "Stan Shunpike at your service! Wherever you fancy, as long as it's on solid ground.
Anton, still slightly shaken by the shrunken head, consulted his crumpled piece of parchment. "France," he announced, the name hanging heavy in the air.
Stan blinked. "France?" The sudden question clearly threw him. Anton realized his oversight; he hadn't considered the Knight Bus's limitations. He'd assumed its magical capabilities were limitless, like a Portkey. "How much is the fare?" he asked.
Stan's smile faltered. "It ain't just the fare, y'know. France… might not be doable, mate." He explained that the Knight Bus, a brainchild of Dugard Macphail, the British Minister of Magic, was still viewed with suspicion by some traditionalists, even considered a "Muggle insult" by a few. "French wizards… they ain't exactly open to the idea of a bus, y'know. Old-fashioned lot. France is right off the table, mate."
Anton stared back at the Leaky Cauldron, a knot of confusion tightening in his stomach. The thought of Old Tom misleading him stung.
He handed the slip of parchment to Stan. "Someone said you could take me here."
Stan examined it, a knowing glint in his eye. "Ah, that little island between countries! We can certainly manage that, mate." He grinned, returning the paper and efficiently stowing Anton's trunk. "Lucky you, little fella. We usually stick to land, y'know."
The driver, a wizened wizard with thick spectacles and a neatly trimmed beard, turned his head. "Them islanders protested, said the mainland's an island too! Why discriminate against 'em just 'cause they're smaller?" He shrugged good-naturedly. "So, we drive on water now, see?"
Stan chuckled. "We did promise to stay above water, after all."
Then the two inexplicably glanced at each other and exchanged smiles.
They exchanged a knowing look, a silent communication that left Anton slightly bewildered. He sometimes struggled to connect with the humour of foreign wizards; the nuances often eluded him. Besides, the whole situation felt unfair. Shouldn't those island wizards be able to travel to the French islands themselves?
Regardless, the journey was a go. The fare, surprisingly, was only fifteen Sickles.
"You'll be comfy here," Stan murmured, guiding Anton to an empty bed, helping him tuck his suitcase underneath before settling into an armchair beside the driver.
Unlike the romanticized depictions in fan fiction and films Anton had consumed in his past life, this Knight Bus ride was anything but smooth. The driver, far from skilled, seemed positively reckless. With a bone-jarring BANG, the bus lurched forward, a chaotic display of magical propulsion. It rampaged down the road, seemingly defying the laws of physics. Lampposts, mailboxes, bins, trees – even Muggle cars and pedestrians – leaped out of the way as the bus hurtled past, only to snap back into their original positions in its wake. It was spatial distortion on a grand scale.
He peered out the window, mesmerized by the distorted images flashing by. His two months spent with Fiennes, a wizard as eccentric as a grumpy gnome, had taught him to appreciate the subtle intricacies of magic, and this was a masterclass in uncontrolled chaos.
Suddenly, a familiar sight flashed past – a campsite frequented by traveling wizards. As the bus continued its chaotic journey, two cloaked figures, their faces obscured by shadows, whispered in a darkened alleyway, oblivious to the magical mayhem hurtling past. Leaning close to the window, he overheard a snippet of their conversation: "...leeches…potions…"
The Knight Bus, with surprising dexterity for its size, gracefully swerved around buildings that clearly belonged to the Ministry of Magic – a testament to its unique design and perhaps, a touch of enchanted maneuvering. It was a far cry from the clumsy, unpredictable ride he had initially experienced.
"Blimey, it's brilliant, innit?" Stan, the conductor, chuckled, his voice brimming with pride. "Most adult wizards Apparate or use broomsticks. We get a lot of young 'uns, though. Love seeing their faces," he added, a mischievous glint in his eye. The sheer astonishment on the faces of young, inexperienced wizards was clearly a source of great amusement for him.
Anton's eyes sparkled with curiosity. "Is there… magic involved?" he asked, his voice hushed with awe.
Stan's jovial expression faltered. Maintaining an air of mystery was clearly part of his job description. "Top-secret alchemical concoction from the Ministry, mate! Classified information!" he declared with a wink, his tone light but firm.
Anton nodded knowingly, a sly smile playing on his lips. The possibilities danced in his mind. Imagine combining this unique form of transportation with the speed and maneuverability of a flying broomstick! The potential for unparalleled travel efficiency, even a level of near-invisibility, was staggering. He made a mental note to research the Knight Bus's mechanics discreetly, perhaps even attempting to decipher its secrets. The potential was simply too alluring to ignore.
The journey continued, a blur of cityscapes, wild landscapes, and surprisingly, a stretch of open ocean. Finally, the bus arrived at its destination: a tiny island, so small it seemed barely more than a rock, dominated by a single, windswept tree and a quaint little cabin. The bus, in its haste, had parked precariously, half its body extending over the water's edge.
Stan gave a jaunty wave. "Cheerio, mate! Need us again? Just raise your wand, and we'll be there faster than a Snitch!"
With a resounding BANG, the Knight Bus vanished, leaving no trace but the lingering scent of burnt rubber and the echo of Stan's laughter.