The old man never lingered. With a lazy flick of his wand, the log cabin—once the home of a lone lumberjack—collapsed into splintered ruin.
"Hurry up," he urged, a predatory grin stretching across his face. "Let's be off, boy."
Anton scoffed. Destroying it was pointless—he'd never return. He was a practical man, after all.
He strained under the weight of the, worn leather case. Inside, expanded by magic, lay Fiennes's research and an iron cage holding a werewolf.
The suitcase itself wasn't heavy, but his body was still screaming from being chained up. Every step sent bolts of agony up his arms.
The old man glanced back, frowning. With a wave of his wand, he muttered, "Accio Fortis."
Anton's heart raced. A wave of cold air washed over him—and suddenly the case felt light as air, though his wrists still throbbed.
"Move it, boy!" the wizard snapped, his patience wearing thin.
Anton followed, eyes narrowing. He knew there were far better ways. Brackium Emendo could have healed his wrists instantly; Wingardium Leviosa would have lifted the case without a single touch.
Why use a charm that caused pain?
A bold thought struck him. Was it possible this old man was self-taught? Unrefined? Lacking the proper education of a formal schooling?
The idea was fascinating. If he was truly self-made, perhaps even capable of wandless magic, but ignorant of the standard spells...
Careful, Anton warned himself. One wrong move, and he was dead.
They trudged a mile down the mountain path until they reached the road. Waiting for them was a vintage car, gleaming emerald green, ready to carry them away.
Their journey ended before a grand bookstore on Charing Cross Road.
The car's owner stumbled out, looking dazed and confused, fumbling for his mobile phone as if waking from a trance.
"Darling, I'm so sorry I'm late! I saw something… unbelievable. One minute I was in the middle of nowhere, and now I'm right back in the city! No, I swear I haven't even left yet! Just listen—Hello? Hello?"
Beside him, the old man stepped out, moving swift and silent as a shadow. Anton heaved open the trunk and dragged out the massive suitcase.
They walked toward a shabby, unassuming pub standing right next to the store. The wizard's expensive robes seemed to render him invisible; a man walking by, shouting into his phone, nearly walked straight into him without even noticing. Above the door, the weathered sign read: The Leaky Cauldron.
The old man ignored the place completely. He brushed past the landlord, Tom, without a word and headed straight for the back courtyard. His wand tapped rhythmically against the bricks.
The wall, woven with powerful concealment charms, seemed to breathe and shift, revealing a hidden gap. Through it, the busy London street lay visible.
With a casual motion, the wizard moved a heavy trash bin aside and stepped through as if it were an open door.
Anton rolled his eyes. Everyone knew the proper way: count three bricks up, two across, then three taps. Moving the bin was crude, obvious, and dangerous—even for someone who dealt in Dark Arts, it was asking for attention.
But he followed, hauling the case behind him.
They didn't stay in Diagon Alley. The old man led the way into a narrow side passage. The atmosphere instantly changed; the sky darkened, the streets twisted, and the people passing by looked… wrong.
They had arrived in Knockturn Alley.
"Wait here!"
The man snatched the suitcase away. His old body moved with unnatural speed toward the first shop at the mouth of the alley.
Anton frowned. 'He's not even going to use magic to lift it?' was his first thought. His second was sharper, filled with suspicion. 'Why?'
Just then, a burst of noise came from the entrance. A group of children stood there, their bright red hair blazing like torches against the gloom, their voices echoing down the street.
'Weasleys,' he realized. 'Definitely Weasleys.'
"Mum, why don't you go grab some tea? We'll just pop into Madam Malkin's for our robes and get our wands, then meet you right back here!" Fred and George were doing their best to charm their mother.
Molly Weasley looked tempted, but her protective instincts won out. "Certainly not! I'm not letting you two out of my sight for a second!"
Behind them, a young boy stood apart—strikingly similar to Anton, with the same freckles and wide, anxious eyes. Sunlight caught his flame-red hair and glinted off the large, colorful lollipop clamped firmly in his hand.
"Bless me, what a dreadful place!" Mrs. Weasley shuddered, her eyes darting into the dark corners that seemed to hum with malice. "We are leaving this instant!"
She herded her sons away, grabbing the freckled boy along. "Ronald, come along! Stop daydreaming!"
But Ron didn't move. His gaze was locked firmly on the strange boy standing in the shadows.
"Ron Weasley," Anton whispered, a faint, knowing smile touching his lips as he stepped back deeper into the gloom.
The timeline was clear now. This was the year before Harry Potter entered Hogwarts. The twins were two years older, and their excitement over getting their wands confirmed it—this was the start of Harry's very first year.
Anton had already mapped out his escape plan. It seemed foolproof: walk up to Mrs. Weasley, tell her he was a child held prisoner by a Dark Wizard, and beg for help. With her sense of justice and motherly protectiveness, she would never turn him away.
Yet, hesitation held him back. The old man was too relaxed, too confident. It felt like a trap. The risk was still too high.
He rubbed his wrist absently, his fingers tracing the intricate mark etched into his skin—a strange combination of curves, a square, and runes that made no sense to him. He still had no idea what it meant.
His past life was a blur, almost non-existent. He couldn't remember his name, his age, or where he came from. He didn't know what safeguards the old man had placed on him, or what secrets were hidden in that mark.
But one truth was absolute: the only way to be truly safe was for the old man to be dead.
The old man emerged moments later. Anton schooled his face into a smile and lifted the heavy case.
"Come along, boy," the wizard said smoothly. "It is time we got you a wand."
'Damn it!' Anton seethed inwardly. 'Weren't you supposed to be broke? Where the hell are you getting the gold?'
The moment passed. Anton fell into step behind him, outwardly calm but his mind racing. He would bide his time. Sooner or later, the old man would slip up—and when he did, Anton would be ready.