He finally understood the precise mechanics of the spell. As the incantation took hold, he felt a powerful tug, a wrenching force propelling him along the spell's luminescent beam. Then, with a jarring jolt, he landed, the sensation of displacement fading as quickly as it had begun.
For a moment, his mind was lost in a haze. Then, a jolt of realization shuddered through him. He felt aged, brittle, and weighed down by exhaustion. Summoning every ounce of will, he forced his eyes to open.
Standing before him was a boy—his own younger self.
He looked down at his new hands. The hair was a striking red, lighter than the Weasleys, shot through with a platinum sheen. His eyes were pale blue, his complexion fair. Except for the lack of freckles, he bore a remarkable resemblance to Ron Weasley. Were they related? The thought made sense now, explaining the boy's curious stare back in the alley.
But the triumph was short-lived. A sudden emptiness flooded his chest, like a taut rubber band snapping back instantly.
He had slammed back into his own body.
He gasped awake to find Fiennes leaning over him, forcing a goblet of thick, sweet-smelling liquid—mead or perhaps strong Firewhisky—down his throat. The old man's eyes held a terrifying, possessive light.
"Anton," he rasped. "You will be my most valued apprentice. Your… talent is invaluable."
Anton knew exactly what "invaluable" meant to a man like him. But strangely, the treatment improved. He was even shown to a small bedroom on the first floor—though his wand was promptly confiscated.
He slept for two days straight, his body and mind slowly recovering from the ordeal. A faint tingling lingered in his mind, a lingering reminder of having pushed his magical limits to the edge.
The old man had returned, his presence carrying the faint aroma of roasted lamb and ale. Anton's hunger intensified. He knew better than to expect a decent meal from him, so he prepared a simple bowl of stew, the sweat beading on his brow as he worked over the stove.
Sleep and food – the best restorative method for a weary young wizard.
Feeling better, he stepped out of the kitchen, only to be immediately cornered by the hawk-eyed wizard.
"Work," Fiennes snapped, pointing to a mountain of dried herbs piled in the corner.
"Only the leaves of Ditanny are useful," Fiennes instructed, a disturbing grin playing on his lips. "Cut away the roots. Trust me, boy… you do not want to know what severe ischemia feels like after drinking a badly brewed potion."
Anton stared, dumbfounded. "This… this is for me?"
"Once you harvest it," Fiennes continued, belching loudly and swaying where he stood, gripping the banister for balance, "mash it with Gurdyroot, add Salamander blood, and when it boils… throw in the leech."
He leaned in close, breath reeking of alcohol. "Hurry up, you useless waste of space! You've already wasted two days, and time is running out!"
With a muttered curse, Anton watched him lumber back upstairs.
Anton's jaw tightened. Fear coiled in his stomach. 'Is he planning to drink this himself?'
The ingredients were terrifying—cages of squeaking mice, wriggling caterpillars, and foul-smelling roots. He remembered all too well the last potion he'd swallowed; it had left him covered in blisters, burning up with fever and near death from dehydration.
"Patience," he breathed, forcing himself to calm down. Panic would only lead to mistakes.
He knew Fiennes was a monster. In just two months, Anton had witnessed him kill without mercy. The man had a habit of discarding apprentices, often for the slightest reason—a wrong look, a failed spell, or simply because he was in a bad mood.
Was he next?
Pulling on his gloves, he began grinding the herbs methodically. The fear and the cold reality of Fiennes's cruelty were crushed and buried deep within his heart, ground down just like the herbs in his mortar.
The recipe was staggeringly complex. Over thirty distinct ingredients, each demanding specific preparation—some sun-dried, others burned to ash, many requiring days of curing. It was a delicate, bewildering dance of timing and knowledge.
Fiennes reappeared, dragging a heavy iron structure behind him. He secured a middle-aged man to it, locking him in place.
"Tomorrow night is the full moon," he announced coldly. "You haven't much time."
This wasn't preparation for a beast; it was for Anton.
He bowed his head, stirring the cauldron with his wand. He felt the magic flow from him, sinking into the dark green liquid. Slowly, a deep crimson hue began to spread through the brew. As he worked, his mind focused on one thing—the Soul Charm. It was his only chance.
He possessed vast theoretical knowledge from books, but lacked practical experience. He knew the theories, yet struggled with the exact incantations and the emotional fuel required.
Did magic always need emotion? Could the Soul Curse be cast simply as an act of will? Could he swap bodies, grab a knife, and end it—sacrificing his own life to trap the monster in his body? The doubt gnawed at him; his practical skill was woefully thin.
Finally, it was done. Swirling at the bottom was a translucent, light-red liquid, shimmering with flecks of dark green light. It was terrifyingly beautiful.
"Aha!" Fiennes cackled, his eyes glued to the cauldron. "Exquisite quality. Only a heart steeped in malice could brew something so potent." He chuckled, a sound mixed with mockery and genuine praise. He raised his wand. "And what shall your reward be, my dear apprentice?"
"Crucio!"
The curse struck like lightning. Agony exploded in Anton's chest, invisible blades tearing through his flesh before he could even move. A raw, guttural scream tore from his throat.
He gritted his teeth, fingers digging into the cracked floorboards, forcing back the screams. His eyes, fixed on the ground, hardened with a terrifying resolve.
"Accio!"
His wand tore from his grasp and snapped neatly into Fiennes's hand. "Learn to accept your fate, boy. Obedience is a virtue."
Fiennes whistled tunelessly, sauntering over to his desk. He gathered his manuscripts and packed them away into a battered leather suitcase. Then he turned his attention to the man chained to the iron structure.
"Only the final step remains. My experiment is nearly complete."
The man glanced at Anton, still twitching on the floor, and let out a heavy sigh. "You shouldn't treat a child like that."
"It's rather fascinating, isn't it?" Fiennes chuckled. "You were caught red-handed trying to attack the lad."
"No," the man gasped, his voice strained with pain. "When I transform, I have no control. I had no wish to hurt anyone. I locked myself away, but someone broke the wards—they released me on purpose."
Fiennes hummed, sounding genuinely intrigued. "Interesting… you have piqued my curiosity."
"As a reward for your contribution to this grand experiment," he continued, picking up a quill, "I shall immortalize your name in my notes. What is your name?"
The man laughed, devoid of mirth. "Remus Lupin."
"A splendid name," Fiennes smiled, dipping his ink.
Anton lay twitching on the cold planks, and a spark of hope flared within him.
'Remus Lupin? One of the Marauders?'
This was no ordinary wizard. This was a man so skilled and trusted that Dumbledore himself had chosen him for the Order of the Phoenix. He wasn't a victim—he was a powerhouse. And a wizard of that calibre...he surely had a spare wand.