Anton had anticipated a visit to Ollivander's, the prestigious wand shop in Diagon Alley. Instead, they delved deeper into the shadowed depths of Knockturn Alley, past the ominous façade of Borgin and Burkes, finally stopping before a shop that resembled a disorganized junkyard.
The interior was crammed with dilapidated potion cauldrons and a snake, its scales missing, confined within a rusty iron cage. This time, the old wizard didn't leave Anton to wait outside. They navigated the cluttered aisles, finally reaching a counter where a stout woman, clad in a voluminous wizarding robe, greeted them with an overly enthusiastic smile.
"My dear Fiennes, how delightful to see you!"
Fiennes nodded curtly. "Do you still have that Wolfsbane Potion?"
The shop owner's smile widened. "Wolfsbane isn't cheap, you know. But the ones I have are authentically brewed by Severus Snape himself."
So, the old man's name was Fiennes. Hearing Snape's name, a familiar touchstone in this unsettling world, offered Anton a sliver of comfort.
That comfort quickly evaporated. His eyes fell upon a shelf behind the counter, where a large ivory pen holder held a haphazard collection of seven or eight worn, used wands. The sight reminded him uncomfortably of a cheap, cluttered utensil holder, the kind found in any greasy spoon diner.
He had a foreboding feeling. This would be nothing like the elegant wand-choosing experience described in the books. He was, undeniably, in dire straits.
Fiennes haggled fiercely, impatiently gesturing toward the wand holder. "Two of your wands. Don't bother counting the Galleons."
'Two wand?' Anton thought grimly. Perhaps the old man always buys wands in pairs, to avoid needing a utensil for his meals in the future.
The shop owner, however, refused to comply. After a protracted and acrimonious negotiation, they settled on a price, sacrificing an old wand in the process.
"Don't think I don't know you're raking in the gold!" Fiennes snarled, snatching a handful of herbs from a nearby shelf and stuffing them into his robe pocket before storming out, muttering curses under his breath.
He exited the shop, his curses trailing behind him.
From behind the counter, the shop owner's cheerful voice followed. "Come again soon!"
Deeper into Knockturn Alley, the buildings thinned, giving way to a vast, murky lake. On its shores, haphazardly constructed dwellings clung precariously to the edge.
Fiennes led Anton to a secluded spot, hidden behind a cluster of overgrown trees. "The safe house is here," he murmured. As the words left his lips, a crooked, three-story building materialized before Anton, its rough-hewn timbers practically brushing his nose. He recoiled in surprise.
Fiennes beamed proudly. "Inherited from my master. It requires exceptionally potent, complex magic to manifest. Only those who know of its existence can see it."
Anton paused, then realized the implication. "So, if no one knows…it simply vanishes? Becomes…non-existent?"
"Precisely," Fiennes replied, a hint of sadness in his voice. "Unfortunately, I'm merely a poor apprentice, and I haven't mastered the necessary magic. It will vanish completely within eight or nine years."
Their meals at the safe house were a stark improvement over their previous fare, though hardly Hogwarts-worthy. Greasy cottage pie and a meager glass of wine were supplemented by an abundance of sweet fruit wine stored in the cellar.
However, the daily diet of pie and wine, barely oiled and devoid of meat, was hardly nourishing.
Fiennes retrieved the iron cage containing the werewolf, his clumsy handling further confirming Anton's suspicion that the wizard lacked mastery of basic levitation charms.
'This is ridiculous!' He thought. 'He knows the Cruciatus Curse, one of the Unforgivable Curses!' Then, a chilling realization dawned on him. 'No, he likely knows all three Unforgivable Curses!'
Fiennes, oblivious to Anton's internal turmoil, smirked. "The soul-shifting curse I'll teach you is a dark art, a branch of the Imperius Curse. Few understand it these days."
Anton, clutching his new wand tightly, was bewildered. "A soul-shifting curse? You're going to teach me that first? Shouldn't we start with something simpler?"
Ignoring Anton's apprehension, Fiennes callously administered a potion to the middle-aged man in the cage. "Wolfbane potion. Given a week before the full moon to prevent transformation."
"This week," He declared, "you learn this curse!" He leveled a chilling gaze at Anton. "And if you dare betray me…" He raised his wand. "You'll feel the full force of the Killing Curse."
"Believe me," He hissed, "no one survives the Killing Curse!"
Anton couldn't resist a retort. 'Ah, but Harry Potter survived it. And even Voldemort survived its rebound.'
Anton's protest devolved into a sigh. 'But I'm not him.'
The prospect of mastering a dark curse on par with the Unforgivable Curses within a week, under the threat of death, was ludicrous. It was clear the old man intended to teach him nothing else.
Fiennes picked up his wand, demonstrating the incantations, guiding Anton's hand, correcting his posture.
"To cast a spell successfully, three elements are crucial," Fiennes stated, his teaching style precise and to the point, a stark contrast to his erratic behavior. "First, the wand movements – even slight errors can cause failure, especially for novices."
"Second, the incantation. Tone and rhythm are paramount. A misplaced syllable could be the difference between success and a spectacular backfire."
"Third, the emotion. Your intent fuels the magic. It's the heart of the spell, the very essence."
He explained the soul-shifting incantation, dissecting each syllable. "Emotion, and the caster's will, directly impact the spell's power and success. For this spell, unwavering resolve is key."
Anton pondered for a moment and asked, "So, all dark magic requires negative emotions? This feels…positive."
Fiennes chuckled, a rare sound. "Who says this is dark magic?" His jovial expression vanished, replaced by a chilling coldness. "Practice. You have one week."
Anton, well-versed in his unpredictable mentor's mood swings, knew better than to turn his back. He'd learned that lesson the hard way, more than once. One minute, he was sweeping the floor; the next, he was on the receiving end of a surprisingly accurate (and somewhat painful) Stupefy.
"Unwavering resolve?" Anton mused. "Seems straightforward enough." He wondered why, if it was so simple, this spell had been lost to time.
He closed his eyes, a vision flashing before him: the full moon, a week hence, Fiennes screaming at him to perform the spell, his attempts failing miserably. Fiennes's wand blazed with emerald green light, his face a mask of terrifying fury, as if about to unleash a Killing Curse.
Anton's eyes snapped open. He grabbed a nearby vial of powdered Floo powder, his gaze locked on Fiennes. He produced a long-honed kitchen knife, a desperate plan forming in his mind. A knife fight was his last resort.
He raised his wand, a fierce glint in his eyes. "Animus Transferro!" A flash of blue light erupted from the wand tip, striking Fiennes's chest.
Fiennes stared, dumbfounded. "Impossible!"