Stepping out into the fresh air, he felt an enormous weight lift from his shoulders.
Around his neck hung the bronze medallion with the heavy vault key dangling beside it. Across his chest rested the sling pack, holding only the Fiennes's early journals.
His suitcase was still there, of course, but it was empty now. The crushing anxiety of carrying his entire life and fortune through a dangerous world was finally gone.
He made one last stop at Wiseacre's and purchased a sturdy backpack made of dragon hide.
It was a necessary expense.
About the size of a schoolbag, it was perfect for carrying standard textbooks. He decided to stock up on the basics. If he struggled to teach himself, at least when Lupin recovered, they would have proper materials to work from.
At Flourish and Blotts, Anton asked for the standard first-year curriculum. He browsed the shelves carefully and settled on three titles:
The Standard Book of Spells - Grade 1, Magical Theory, and Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection.
He was tempted by the herbology and potion books too, One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi and Magical Drafts and Potions, but they were simply too bulky to carry around.
The total came to nine Galleons.
It was a sobering amount. Even basic knowledge came at a premium in this world.
That was why places like Hogwarts were truly invaluable—they offered free access to entire libraries filled with knowledge. Anton couldn't help but daydream about it. Imagine sitting there, surrounded by books, warm and comfortable, never wanting to leave...
He checked his mental list.
Robe shop? No need. His robes were old and baggy, but they worked.
Ollivanders? Also out of the question. His wand functioned well enough.
Every coin counted now. He had to save as much as he could.
Having lived as an orphan in his past life, he knew better than anyone how to keep his desires in check.
Unless he wanted to sell off Fiennes's rare ingredients, his only real asset was the pouch of galleons Hagrid had given him. And with Lupin's treatment and future school fees looming over him, every Galleon had to be spent wisely.
Yet, despite his best intentions, he found himself drifting toward the Quidditch supplies shop.
A flying car was far too expensive and impractical. A broom, however, was like owning a motorcycle—fast, efficient, and best of all, it didn't need fuel.
Brooms were the ultimate obsession for young wizards. As he approached, he saw a crowd of children pressed against the glass, staring wide-eyed at a sleek, polished model gleaming inside.
A small plaque read: Nimbus 2000.
Watching their faces filled with pure longing, he saw the parents exchange knowing, helpless smiles. This was clearly a luxury far beyond the reach of ordinary families.
Anton had no intention of buying anything that fancy. He just wanted something that could fly.
Still, curiosity got the better of him. "How much is that one?" he asked.
"The latest model? Only two hundred Galleons, sir!" the owner beamed.
"!!!"
Anton froze. He considered himself practical, but he had never imagined a broomstick could cost that much!
Nope. Forget it. He'd rather stick to riding a motorcycle.
The shop was organized by brand: Firebolt, Comet, and Sweep.
Seeing Anton hesitate, the owner quickly tried to steer him towards something cheaper. "Perhaps the Nimbus 1000? Excellent value!"
Anton glanced at the price tag and grimaced. It was still way too steep.
"Mister," he said, pointing away. "These don't really look that impressive anyway. What are those hanging over there?"
Aside from the main brands, the shop was stocked with all kinds of other models.
"Oak handle, seven-nine," the man said proudly. "Built like a tank, handles gales perfectly. But she ain't built for speed. Perfect for a young wizard like yourself."
Anton cut straight to the point. "So... it flies slowly?"
The owner shrugged. "Safer that way, isn't it?"
'Safer?' Anton thought incredulously. 'If I'm on a broom, it's either to travel far or run for my life! How is slowly puttering around considered safe?'
"I want the fastest one you have," he stated firmly.
The owner stroked his greasy beard, a mischievous grin spreading across his face as he raised an eyebrow. "Aye, but you're still young, lad. You gotta learn... men shouldn't be too hasty, if ya catch my drift?"
Anton's face went dark.
I'm leaving.
Is this guy seriously flirting with a kid?
Seeing the boy's expression turn stormy, the owner quickly cleared his throat and moved on
"Right, well... if it's speed you want, look at the Firebursts. Blazing fast, they are. Only issue is, they struggle to climb high, and the response time is a bit... sluggish."
Everything had its downsides. Weighing his options—especially the need for a reliable escape tool—Anton finally made his choice.
"I'll take the Sweeping Eight-Star."
It was perfect for travel, and since it was standard equipment for Quidditch players, its reliability was guaranteed.
The Sweeping series ranged from One-Star up to Nine-Star, with each grade offering a noticeable jump in power.
The only drawback with the Eight-Star was its size—it was surprisingly short. In fact, when the owner stood holding it, the handle barely reached his shoulder, putting it at about Anton's eye level.
"Bit short, ain't it?" the owner admitted. "But toss in just a few more coins, and ya can have the brand new Nine-Star..."
Anton shook his head firmly. He wasn't interested.
"Right then! Grab it, hop on, and away ya go!" The owner demonstrated, swaying his hips suggestively as he explained the basics. "Dead simple really, no fancy tricks needed... unless ya plan on playin' professional, of course."
By the time Anton returned to the Leaky Cauldron, night had already fallen.
After a hearty meal, he slung his bag over his shoulder and headed for the door.
"Best not go wandering out at night, lad," Old Tom cautioned, speaking in that tone adults use to scare children. "The dark holds many dangers. Dark wizards, werewolves... even ghosts that go bump in the night."
Anton just smiled and shook his head.
Dangers? Perhaps. But as the late Professor Binns might have said, while ordinary people sleep, those with something to hide prefer the cover of darkness.
If you want to do something discreetly, night is always the best time.
In this world, if you could overcome the fear of darkness, the night offered one great advantage: solitude. There were no crowds, no prying eyes, and none of the complications that came with daytime travel.
And coincidentally, he had every intention of doing something less than lawful.
His goal was simple: to finally be rid of his deceased master's corpse.
Mounting his broom, he rose unsteadily into the night sky, scanning the ground below for a suitable spot. After flying for over half an hour, he recognized a place he knew well.
An old lumberjack's cabin on the edge of the forest.
It had been abandoned months ago, and judging by the overgrowth and dust, no one had set foot here since.
He opened his suitcase and carefully dragged the body out, laying it on the ground. He pulled out the vial given to him by Pedro and poured the liquid down the corpse's throat.
Anton gripped his broom tightly and stepped back, watching intently.
As the liquid seeped in, the body began to rapidly withered away, dissolving into fine, gray ash right before his eyes, leaving nothing behind but empty clothes and silence.
"Oh my god..."
Anton stared at the vial in his hand, shocked to find that there was still one-third of the potion left. He tightly sealed the cap and carefully stowed it in his pocket.
It resembled a wizard's version of Alkaline Hydrolysis
A strange, lingering weight lifted from his heart.
Logically, the vow should have been void, yet magic clung stubbornly to life. Only now, with Fiennes turned to dust, did the spell finally acknowledge its end and fade away completely.
But in that moment, the fine dust that was Fiennes began to glow, intertwined with writhing threads of dark green light.
A complex pattern of squares, curves, and runes materialized in the air.
"Damn it!" Anton reacted instantly. His fears were confirmed—the old man hadn't moved on. His soul lingered behind, existing now as nothing but a spectral form.
Simultaneously, the 'White Limb' on the suitcase blazed with the same eerie light, forming the shape of a spider.
It dissolved not with a bang, but into thick, silvery-green smoke that drifted upward to merge with the sigil.
The pattern twisted the air, revealing a translucent image of a small structure floating within the mist.