Saruman

After touching down at the airport, enduring a half-hour wait, the plane finally soared into the sky. Following some quality playtime with his cousins, Artel sought refuge in a seat and shut his eyes for a brief respite.

As Artel dozed off, the plane hushed down considerably, and no one dared disturb him. While most were oblivious to Artel's wizarding abilities, they were well aware that he was the future Patriarch of the Shelby family.

Around half-past eight, the plane touched down at Geneva airport.

Jimmy and the crew had it all sorted out. A car awaited to ferry them to a city-center hotel. After disembarking, Artel and company shared a meal before he exchanged a few words with Michael and Jimmy, retiring to his solo quarters.

"Liechtenstein."

Artel secured the hotel room, adorned the air ring, and tapping into the vast magic coursing through his veins, he ventured into the realm of Apparition.

With a crackle, Artel reappeared in an unfamiliar mountain forest.

His appearance underwent a rapid transformation, evolving from an eleven-year-old lad to a towering elder with cascading gray hair and a lengthy beard, his wand morphing into a staff-like figure.

Any Lord of the Rings fan would easily recognize him — Head of the White Council Lord of Isengard, Saruman.

Artel inhaled deeply, quelling the discomfort from his first Transfiguration, then assessed his post-metamorphosis form.

Blessed with the dual talents of ring of power and ring of air Vilya, Artel's Transfiguration skills were peerless. Vilya's power granted him magical prowess on par with the Professors, ample for executing intricate Transfigurations.

"Looks like a success."

A subtle smirk at the corners of Artel's mouth hinted at his satisfaction. Scanning the surroundings, he identified the location as a mountain in Liechtenstein, its exact coordinates unknown.

His gaze spanned the landscape, settling on a distant city aglow with lights. In the blink of an eye, Artel materialized in an alley within the city.

Not far away, a inebriated man rubbed his eyes, grumbling as he retreated to the shelter beneath the bridge.

"Damn it, looks like it's gonna snow again tonight."

Artel had inquired with Malfoy at school and had specifically sought information on the Ministry of Magic in each country. Now, having confirmed from passersby that he was in Vaduz, the capital of Liechtenstein, he rose and headed toward an iron structure called "Self-Portrait" near a statue.

After performing a simple spell there, the statue responded to the magical energy. The stone beneath slowly parted, all while remaining unnoticed by those around.

Artel calmly traversed the passage, greeted by a new scene before him.

Unlike the Ministry of Magic in London, Liechtenstein's magical authority exuded an ancient charm. The interior buildings embraced the architectural style of ancient Rome. It being nighttime, the Ministry of Magic housed only a few occupants.

Approaching the inquiry desk, Artel found a woman in her thirties seated there.

"Hello, what can I help you with?"

The woman eyed Artel, possibly recognizing Saruman's appearance as that of a formidable wizard, prompting her to adopt a pleasant attitude.

"I'd like to know where the largest troll tribe is around here."

Artel inquired, scanning the table with several copies of the Daily Prophet and Liechtenstein travel notices providing guidelines and precautions.

"Troll tribe? Are you referring to the mountain troll tribe that attacked a wizard recently?"

The woman hesitated for a moment before posing a question:

"Are you from the International Confederation of Wizards? Or perhaps the Troll Protection Organization?"

The Ministry of Magic in Liechtenstein held a strained relationship with the mountain troll tribe. The first president of the International Confederation of Wizards had advocated against hunting trolls and championed troll rights. Consequently, the Ministry of Magic in Liechtenstein had even declined participation in the annual Wizarding Conference.

Some time back, a troublesome troll tribe launched yet another assault on the wizards. The Ministry of Magic in Liechtenstein had a plan to wipe them out, but the Wizards Federation intervened, and a bunch of troll enthusiasts denounced the operation. The pressure mounted, and the mission got axed.

However, the wizards residing in Liechtenstein weren't exactly sending love letters to the trolls.

"No, I've got a personal score to settle with those dimwits. If you can point me to their hideout, maybe by tomorrow morning, you'll find they've vanished," Artel replied, his tone carrying a hint of mystery.

The woman's eyes lit up at Artel's response. She glanced around and leaned in to whisper, "The troll tribe is holed up in the Grouse Mountains in the Rhaetian range. Here's the map."

From a drawer, she produced a travel guide with a detailed map of the mountains, complete with ominous warnings.

"But... even though I'm hoping someone wipes out those filthy creatures, I should caution you. There are plenty of mountain trolls in that tribe. Going alone might spell trouble..."

Artel studied the map carefully, then cast a soft smile at the woman. Slowly, he spoke, "Thanks for the heads-up, but I reckon I'm sufficient on my own. Perhaps tomorrow morning, you'll wake up to some good news. Oh, by the way, my name is Saruman."

Artel's voice, though aged, exuded an unexplainable majesty and power. He gave the woman a profound look, turned, and gracefully exited the Ministry of Magic, utilizing Displacement to vanish.

Watching Artel leave, the woman murmured to herself, "Saruman... Saruman... why have I never heard of him? Seems like some incredibly powerful wizard..."

.....

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