Anton burst from the doorway, glancing back at the building. He couldn't afford to linger; he had to leave quickly.
Deep in Knockturn Alley, shacks huddled by a murky lake. It was a slum, yet far more sinister. A witch stirred vile green potion, while children played with horrifyingly lifelike, desiccated dolls.
He hadn't gone far before feeling eyes upon him. "A child carrying gold in a den of wolves." At night, hauling a suitcase bigger than himself, he was the perfect target.
He paused, turning to face his pursuer – a gaunt figure with oversized eyes and head, his body withered, hair matted, teeth stained black and yellow.
Glancing at the other lurking figures, Anton adopted a bold front. "I am Alex Fiennes' apprentice," he announced loudly. "Any attempt to harm me, he will show you no mercy!"
He raised his wand, a burst of magical light erupting at the man's feet.
"The Imperius Curse!" the man shrieked, stumbling back. He stared at Anton for a moment before melting into the shadows. The other watchful eyes vanished.
The Imperius Curse, one of the Unforgivable Curses, sent a clear message: Anton possessed the power and skill of his formidable master.
He let out a shaky laugh, surveying his surroundings with a forced air of confidence. Underneath his robes, however, he was drenched in cold sweat.
'How thrilling!' he thought. The Imperius Curse was familiar; the Soul-Shifting Curse shared a similar magical signature, its power to manipulate minds readily apparent.
Emerging from Knockturn Alley into Diagon Alley, he made his way to the Leaky Cauldron, breathing a sigh of relief.
But doubt crept in. Where to go? Hogwarts was out of reach—no letter, no directions. The Leaky Cauldron required money, and he dared not open the suitcase here with its grisly contents.
Lupin, is an outcast, he realized the Weasleys were his best hope. Though not identical, his hair matched their signature red, and he even resembled Ron—perhaps distantly related. The only issue? He had no idea where they lived.
"What now?" Anton scanned the room. Alone in this strange world, he refused to despair. If he couldn't trust others, he'd rely on himself. First, he needed money.
The bar buzzed with conversation. Anton's gaze fell upon a distinctive figure: a colossal man, easily seven feet tall, whose face was almost entirely obscured by a thick mane of hair and a bushy beard, clad in a moleskin coat. Could it be Hagrid?
"Mr. Hagrid, your recklessness has landed you in this predicament. You should explain yourself to Dumbledore!" A wizard beside Hagrid spoke, sharp and disapproving.
Hagrid shifted uneasily. "Professor Snape, I…" He met Snape's piercing gaze, his lips moving silently before he hung his head. After a long pause, he rubbed his hands together nervously. "Professor Snape, it can be salvaged, you see. Please, help me. I can't fail Professor Dumbledore."
'Hagrid and Snape!' Anton's heart raced. He racked his brain, but knew they couldn't take him to Hogwarts, even if they wanted to.
He couldn't tell Snape—their hatred ran too deep. Nor could he trust Hagrid, whose loose tongue would ensure Snape found out eventually. His plan remained the same.
He crept to the corner and carefully opened the suitcase. Inside lay Fiennes, the dagger having severed his neck cleanly.
Lupin, pale and weak from the curse, leaned against the box, but offered a faint smile at Anton's approach.
Anton pressed a finger to his lips, then slipped inside the case. He grabbed a glass vial from the shelves and slipped out just as quietly.
Though poor in gold, Fiennes owned rare treasures—including Fluxweed, a vital ingredient for Polyjuice Potion.
Snape was whispering to Hagrid when a small hand outstretched, presented the vial. "Sir, do you require a weed?"
"No, thank you," Snape replied dismissively, his gaze, however, lingering on weed within the vial. A faint smirk touched his lips as he assessed Anton's slender frame. "Ten Sickles."
Anton was taken aback. "Ten Sickles? Do you think I can't afford ice cream or sweets?"
Snape's gaze was icy. "Your ill-fitting robes, your stained and patched clothing, your weary demeanor – all point to a life of hardship. This weed is clearly a common weed."
"You don't even know what it is," He continued, his voice laced with disdain. "No one in Diagon Alley or Knockturn Alley could acquire such an item."
"Ten Sickles. I'll take it for my collection."
Anton knew a layman wouldn't buy it, but Snape, a master potioneer, would recognize its worth instantly. Ten Sickles? Why so little?
He sighed, turning to Hagrid, who, despite his secret wealth, showed no interest in the Luxweeds.
"Even the famed potion master doesn't recognize a Fluxweed. Don't forget that," He shrugged, clutching the vial, and started to leave.
"Wait!" Snape called out.
A subtle smile touched Anton's lips.