Anton had assumed the old wizard would take him to Ollivanders in Diagon Alley.But no.

  They ventured deeper into Knockturn Alley instead, passing the towering fa?ade of Borgin and Burkes until they stopped in front of a shop that looked more like a junkyard than anything magical.

  A heap of battered cauldrons—likely salvaged from potion disasters—formed a precarious mountain by the door. On the other side, a rusty iron cage held a thick-bodied serpent, its scales dull and missing in patches.

  This time, the old wizard didn’t tell Anton to wait outside.

  He marched straight through the narrow aisles, fnked by towering shelves stacked haphazardly with grimy magical odds and ends, until they reached the counter. Behind it stood a plump woman swaddled in voluminous wizarding robes, her face creased in a smile that was almost too friendly.

  “Well, if it isn’t my dear Fiennes. Long time no see.”

  So that was his name. Fiennes.

  The old wizard gave a curt nod. “You got any Wolfsbane left?”

  The shopkeeper’s grin widened. “Wolfsbane isn’t cheap, you know. And mine? Brewed by none other than Professor Snape himself.”

  At the sound of Snape’s name, Anton’s heart jumped. In this terrifying, unfamiliar world, hearing a name he recognized felt like grabbing hold of something solid in a storm.

  But the comfort didn’t st.

  Behind the woman, Anton caught sight of a shelf—and a makeshift wand holder carved from ivory. Stuffed into it were seven or eight used wands, worn down at the grip, their cores long exposed and splintered at the ends.

  It looked disturbingly like the chopstick holder at a cheap noodle shop he used to go to.

  A sinking feeling crept into his stomach.

  So much for that elegant, once-in-a-lifetime wand-choosing moment from the books. The poetic tug of destiny, the fireworks of magical compatibility? Yeah, no. Not for him.

  Figures. He really was broke.

  Fiennes began haggling like his life depended on it, arguing over every st Knut. Finally, clearly fed up, he jabbed a finger toward the chopstick—I mean, wand—holder. “Give me two of those. And don’t you dare charge me for them.”

  Two? Seriously?

  Anton nearly choked. He was sorely tempted to ask if the old wizard wanted to pick out a matching pair—might as well be ready for ramen night.

  The shopkeeper didn’t agree, of course.

  Eventually, the standoff ended with her tossing in one battered wand for free—grudgingly.

  “You’re raking in Galleons and I know it!” Fiennes grumbled, snatching a handful of herbs from a nearby shelf and stuffing them into his robe pocket as he stormed off.

  The woman waved him out with a sugary smile. “Do come again!”

  They walked deeper into the alley’s shadowy maze. The buildings thinned out, grew scrappier, and then—after a sharp turn—a vast ke appeared, bck and still in the distance.

  Ramshackle huts clustered haphazardly along the keside, but the old wizard led Anton toward the farthest corner, to a patch of empty nd shadowed by tall trees.

  “There’s a safe house here,” Fiennes said simply.

  The moment he spoke, a crooked, three-story wooden house shimmered into view. Its warped siding materialized inches from Anton’s nose—he staggered back with a yelp.

  Fiennes grinned, clearly proud of himself. “Inherited this from my master. Took some very old, very complicated magic to construct. No one can see or enter unless they already know it's here.”

  Anton blinked, processing that. “So… if no one alive remembers this pce exists, it just… disappears?”

  “Exactly,” Fiennes said, casting a wistful gnce around the clearing. “Shame I never learned how to maintain the enchantments. I was a poor excuse for an apprentice, really. In ten years or so, it’ll fade.”

  Inside, things improved slightly. They had proper food now—well, sort of. A bowl of hand-pulled noodles slick with oil, and a thimble-sized cup of something sweet and alcoholic.

  There was a stockpile of that fruit wine in the celr. Anton didn’t know how long it’d st, but at least it was something.

  Still, meal after meal of wheat and grease with no sign of meat or vegetables? He was pretty sure his arteries were crying.

  Meanwhile, Fiennes had pulled out the iron cage again—yes, the one with the snake—and this time Anton noticed the wizard struggled to lift it. Really struggled.

  Wait. He didn’t know the Levitation Charm?

  What kind of dark wizard was this?

  This man could cast the Cruciatus Curse, probably knew all the Unforgivables… and he was out here manhandling cages like a Muggle?

  “Today,” Fiennes decred, “I’m going to teach you the Dispcement Charm. It’s a variant of the Soul Rend Curse. Extremely rare these days. Consider yourself lucky.”

  Anton clutched his secondhand wand, utterly lost.

  Wait—what?You’re just going to drop that on me? No basics? No Lumos? Not even Alohomora?

  Fiennes didn’t care.

  He shoved a vial of Wolfsbane through the bars to the man in the cage. “It needs to be taken a week before the full moon. Helps werewolves stay sane during transformation.”

  Then he turned back to Anton, eyes gleaming. “You have one week. Learn the charm. Or else.”

  His wand twitched, and a cold light gleamed at the tip.

  “Fail me,” he hissed, “and I’ll show you what the Killing Curse feels like.”

  “No one,” he added with a snarl, “survives the Killing Curse.”

  Yeah, right.

  Harry Potter survived. Voldemort, technically, survived too.

  But Anton wasn’t Harry. Or Voldemort.

  He sighed. One week. Learn a borderline Unforgivable spell or die trying. Fantastic.

  Fiennes had no intention of teaching him anything else. Just the Dispcement Charm. That was it.

  He demonstrated the wand motion first—sharp, angur, precise. Then came the pronunciation. Slow, deliberate sylbles.

  “Three things,” he said briskly. “Wand movement. Spellcasting. And intent.”

  “Intent?”

  “Magic is fueled by will. Emotion. Especially this spell. To cast it successfully, your heart must be filled with unwavering determination. A relentless drive forward.”

  Anton frowned. “Wait… that sounds like positive emotion. I thought dark magic came from hate, fear, anger—”

  Fiennes actually ughed.

  “Who told you this was dark magic?”

  His smile vanished just as quickly. “Get to work. You have seven days.”

  Anton didn’t argue. The man’s temper changed with the wind—he could be humming one moment and hexing the dishes the next.

  “Unwavering determination, huh?”

  That didn’t seem so hard.

  And yet… if it was so simple, why had the spell nearly vanished from wizarding knowledge?

  He closed his eyes.

  A vivid image rose in his mind: the full moon, one week from now. Fiennes shouting at him to cast the spell—again, again—and nothing working.

  Then, that dreadful moment. The wand in Fiennes’ hand glowing with a sickly green light. That face, twisted in rage and bloodlust.

  At that point, there’d be no turning back. Just survival. Barely.

  Anton imagined his hand diving into a bowl of powder. He’d throw it—blind the wizard—then leap with the boning knife he’d sharpened in secret, going for the throat in one desperate gamble.

  That was his final contingency pn.

  Murder. Or die.

  His eyes snapped open.

  He raised his wand.

  “Animus Exsolvo!”

  A fsh—blinding, electric blue—shot from the wand’s tip, arcing through the air and smming straight into the old wizard’s chest.

  Fiennes staggered back, eyes wide in disbelief.

  “How—how is that possible?”