He had expected Ollivanders, but instead Fiennes led him deeper into the shadows, past Borgin and Burkes, until they stopped before a place that looked less like a shop and more like a chaotic junkyard.
Inside, the air was thick and stale. Rusted cauldrons were piled high, and in one corner, a sickly snake—large patches of its scales missing—lay coiled in a cage of rusted iron.
This time, Anton was not made to wait outside. They navigated the narrow aisles of junk to the counter, where a stout woman in voluminous robes greeted them with a smile that was far too wide.
"My dear Fiennes, how delightful to see you!"
Fiennes nodded sharply. "Do you still have that Wolfsbane Potion?"
The woman's smile grew. "It doesn't come cheap, you know. But what I have is the real thing—brewed personally by Severus Snape."
So his master was Fiennes. And hearing Snape's name gave Anton a strange, fleeting comfort—a familiar landmark in this alien world.
That feeling died instantly. His eyes fell on a shelf behind the counter: an ivory holder crammed with seven or eight worn-down wands. It looked exactly like a cheap plastic caddy full of dirty cutlery.
A cold knot formed in his stomach. This was nothing like the fancy, sacred ritual he'd read about. Nope, he was clearly just getting whatever was left over.
Fiennes didn't bother with pleasantries. He gestured impatiently at the holder. "Two of them. Take however many Galleons you need."
'Two?' Anton thought bitterly. 'Does he plan to eat with them?'
The woman refused, sparking a fierce, ugly haggle. In the end, a price was struck—but only after Fiennes surrendered one of his own old wands as part payment.
"Don't think I don't know you're robbing me blind!" Fiennes snarled. He snatched a handful of dried herbs from a nearby shelf and stuffed them into his pocket before storming out, cursing under his breath.
"Do come again!" the woman called cheerfully after him.
Further down the alley, the buildings gave way to open space, revealing a vast, murky lake. Along its muddy shores, ramshackle huts clung precariously to the water's edge.
Fiennes led him to a clearing hidden behind a wall of tangled, overgrown trees.
"The safe house is here," he murmured.
The moment the words left his mouth, a crooked, three-story building surged into existence right in front of Anton's face, its rough timber beams almost touching his nose. He stumbled back in shock.
Fiennes smiled proudly. "Inherited from my master. It is protected by the most powerful Disillusionment and Concealment charms ever devised. Unless you know exactly where to look, or are told the location, you will walk right past it without seeing a thing."
Anton stared, then caught on. "So it's always here… just invisible to everyone else?"
"Exactly," Fiennes nodded. "It is completely cut off from the world. A true sanctuary. No one can find it unless I allow them to."
Life at the safe house was marginally better than before, though still far from luxurious. They ate greasy cottage pie and thin wine, supplemented by large jars of sweet fruit wine stored in the cellar.
But the reality was grim: the pie was mostly crust and potato, with barely a trace of meat. It was barely enough to keep him alive.
Fiennes hauled out the iron cage containing the werewolf, dragging it clumsily across the ground. Anton watched, his earlier suspicion hardening into certainty. The man couldn't even be bothered to use Wingardium Leviosa.
'This is absurd!' Anton raged internally. 'He casts the Cruciatus Curse like it's nothing! One of the Unforgivables!' Then a colder thought struck him. 'Wait… he probably knows all three.'
Unaware of Anton's thoughts, Fiennes smirked. "The first spell I will teach you is a Dark Art—a derivative of the Imperius Curse. Very few understand how it works these days."
Anton gripped his new wand tightly, confused. "An advanced spell? First? Shouldn't we start with something simple? Like levitation or basic spells?"
Ignoring him completely, Fiennes strode to the cage and forced a vial down the throat of the man inside.
"Wolfsbane Potion," he explained coldly. "Taken a week before the full moon to suppress the change."
He turned his terrifying gaze back on Anton. "This week, you learn this spell. And if you even think about betraying me..." He raised his wand.
"You will know the full power of the Killing Curse." He leaned in close, his voice a venomous whisper. "And believe me… no one survives the Killing Curse!"
Anton wanted to snap back. 'Tell that to Harry Potter,' he thought. 'Or Voldemort, for that matter.'
But the words died in his throat, escaping only as a sigh.
'Then again... I'm not them.'
Mastering a curse on par with the Unforgivables in just one week? Under threat of death? It was insanity. It was obvious the old man intended to teach him nothing else.
Fiennes picked up his wand, demonstrating the movements, correcting Anton's stance with sharp, impatient taps.
"Three things make a spell work," he said, his teaching style surprisingly precise, a stark contrast to his usual madness. "First, the wand work. The angle must be perfect. Even a fraction of an inch wrong, and it fails."
"Second, the incantation. The tone, the rhythm, the breath control. Mispronounce one syllable, and it won't just fizzle—it will explode back in your face."
"Third, and most important… the emotion. Magic is fueled by will. It is the heart of the spell."
He broke down the words slowly. "Your intent dictates the power. For this spell, you need absolute, unshakeable resolve."
Anton frowned, thinking. "So… all Dark Magic needs hate or anger? This feels… different. It feels calm. Positive, almost."
Fiennes chuckled, a rare sound. "Who told you this was Dark Magic?" The amusement vanished instantly, replaced by ice. "Now practice. You have one week."
Anton knew better than to argue. He had learned the hard way how unpredictable this man was. One moment he was sweeping floors; the next, he was dodging a Stupefy that hit harder than it should have.
'Unshakeable resolve,' Anton repeated to himself. 'That sounds simple enough.' Though he wondered why, if it was so easy, the spell had been forgotten for centuries.
He closed his eyes to focus, but his mind betrayed him. A vision flashed: the full moon rising, Fiennes screaming at him to perform, his hands shaking, the spell failing again and again. He saw the old man's wand flare with that terrible emerald light, his face twisted in murderous rage, ready to end it all.
Anton's eyes snapped open.
His hand moved instinctively. He grabbed a vial of powdered Floo powder from the table, his other hand curling around the heavy kitchen knife he kept hidden nearby. A knife was a long shot, but it was his last resort.
But then, he raised his wand instead. A fierce, cold glint burned in his eyes.
"Animus Transferro!"
A brilliant flash of blue light erupted from the tip, slamming directly into Fiennes's chest.
The old man froze, staring down at his chest, his face a mask of utter shock.
"Impossible!"