Anton finally understood what the Soul Shift Charm actually did.

  The moment he cast the spell, it felt like a massive hook had tched onto his forehead and yanked him forward, dragging his mind straight along the glowing trajectory of the spell.

  Then—wham—it was like a fish leaping from water and plunging back in. The tension vanished in an instant, repced by a peculiar, surreal weightlessness.

  And just like that, he was somewhere else.

  He blinked, disoriented. His limbs felt ancient—weak, fragile, brittle to the core. Straining to lift his head, he saw a young wizard standing before him.

  Himself.

  He was looking at his own body.

  He and the old wizard had swapped bodies.

  Anton barely had time to process the shock before he finally got a good look at the vessel he’d nded in when he crossed over to this world.

  Red hair, though paler than the Weasleys'—almost ptinum where it caught the light. Clear blue eyes. Pale skin.

  No freckles, but... he did look a little like Ron.

  Cousins, maybe?

  He didn’t know. But at least now he understood why Ron had been staring at him back in Diagon Alley.

  Before he could examine himself further, a jarring emptiness ripped through his chest. Like a taut rubber band snapping back, his consciousness was flung violently out of the borrowed body and smmed back into his own.

  His eyes flew open.

  The old wizard was leaning over him, pouring a cup of fruit wine down his throat. His eyes gleamed like he was staring at a priceless artifact.

  “Cack cack cack! You’ll be my finest apprentice yet,” he crooned. “With talent like this, you’re going to be very useful.”

  Useful?

  Anton wasn’t sure how to feel about that, but at least the man’s tone had improved. He even gave him a room to rest in on the first floor.

  Though he did recim the old wand.

  Anton slept for two whole days.

  Even after waking, a dull ache lingered in his skull—maybe the backsh from casting magic well beyond his limit.

  His body still felt weak. He wanted nothing more than to curl back up in bed and pass out again.

  But his stomach had other ideas.

  He hadn’t eaten in two days. If he didn’t cook something soon, he was going to keel over.

  The old wizard had just returned—Anton could smell roast mb and butterbeer clinging to his robes.

  Fantastic. Someone’s had a proper meal.

  With a sigh, Anton gave up hope of being fed and made himself a simple bowl of hand-shaved noodles. He crouched beside the stove, scarfing them down, sweat dripping from his brow.

  Sleep and food. The two best remedies for the human body.

  He felt a little better. But the second he stepped out of the kitchen, the old wizard—hawk-eyed as ever—snatched him back and threw him into a mountain of herbs stacked in the corner.

  “Only use the leaves of the bloodrot pnt,” the old man instructed, watching him with an amused glint. “Not a single root hair. If you mess this up, you’ll bleed to death from the inside out.”

  Anton froze. “Wait... I’m the one drinking this?”

  “After you’ve crushed it with spotted tiger grass, toss it all into a base of fire samander blood,” the old wizard slurred, letting out a beer-ced burp. He stretched, caught himself on the stair railing, and staggered upward. “And hurry the hell up. You already cost me two days. If we miss the deadline, you're as good as dead.”

  He vanished up the stairs.

  Anton scowled after him. If it’s so urgent, why don’t you brew it yourself?

  So this potion was for him, was it? He eyed the chaotic pile of ingredients with growing unease. A cage full of rats. A wriggling cluster of caterpilrs.

  Yeah, this was going to be gross.

  It wasn’t his first time drinking a potion either. Once, he’d downed something slimy and bubbling that had left his body covered in blisters. Nearly died of dehydration.

  Stay calm, he told himself. One mistake and it’s over.

  The old wizard wasn’t exactly nurturing. In the past two months, Anton had seen him kill seven or eight people. And those were just the ones he knew about.

  He wouldn’t hesitate to kill his own apprentice. He’d already done it before. Once, apparently, just because he was in a bad mood.

  Anton slid on a pair of gloves and started crushing herbs in silence.

  Bit by bit, he mashed his fear and hatred into pulp, grinding it into a deep, quiet corner of his soul.

  The potion was a nightmare to brew—far more complicated than anything Anton had imagined. Over thirty ingredients, some needing to be dried in sunlight, others burned to ash. Several required precise waiting periods—twenty-four hours here, three days there.

  The old wizard had even hauled in a metal crucifix and chained a middle-aged man to it.

  “Tomorrow’s the full moon,” he said with a grin. “We’re on a tight schedule.”

  He wasn’t speaking to the werewolf. He was speaking to Anton.

  Anton lowered his head and kept stirring the potion with the old wand, feeling his magic siphon slowly into the thick, bubbling liquid.

  The dark green potion started to foam, viscous bubbles rising and bursting. Under the wand’s influence, faint red tendrils bloomed across the surface like blood in water.

  All the while, he kept his magic flowing and his mind working.

  The Soul Shift Charm was the only spell he truly knew. He remembered snippets of others from books and fanfics, but he didn’t know the proper wand movements—or even what emotions to channel.

  Do all spells require emotion? He wasn’t sure.

  Could Soul Shift be used as an attack?

  If he used it on the old wizard again, and in that brief instant inside the man’s body—grabbed the knife off the table and slit his own throat...

  Would that kill him? Or would the old man be reborn in his body, fresh and young?

  Anton didn’t know.

  He knew too little.

  Finally, the potion was done.

  Only a trace of pale red liquid remained at the bottom of the cauldron, flecked with sparkling green motes. It was—strangely—beautiful.

  The old wizard stared at it and let out a delighted ugh.

  “A brew this pure... The maker must be filled with malice,” he said, half teasing, half admiring.

  “Only the darkest intentions can produce such quality.” He drew his wand with a theatrical flourish. “Now then, what kind of reward should I give you?”

  “Crucio.”

  The curse hit before Anton could react.

  Agony exploded through his chest, a thousand knives fying his insides. He screamed, raw and broken.

  “Hrgh... hrghhh...” He clenched his fists against the floorboards, grinding his teeth, forcing the rest of the scream back down.

  His eyes burned. His vision blurred.

  Cold rage settled in his gut.

  “Expelliarmus!”

  The wand flew from his hand, nding neatly in the old wizard’s.

  “You really ought to learn to accept your fate,” the man said, whistling as he strolled over to his desk. He began tucking parchment and old notebooks into a battered suitcase.

  Then he turned to the man on the crucifix. “One step left. One step, and my experiment will be complete.”

  The man looked down at Anton, who was still twitching on the floor.

  “You shouldn’t treat a child like this,” he said softly.

  The old wizard chuckled. “Now that’s rich. You were caught attacking a student, remember?”

  “No. I lost control after transforming. Someone tampered with my door—let me out on purpose. I tried to lock myself up...” The man’s voice was raw, pain flickering in his eyes. “I didn’t want to hurt anyone.”

  The old wizard whistled again, slow and amused. “How touching.”

  “I'll put your name in the experiment notes. A fitting reward for your noble contribution. What's your name?”

  The man gave a bitter ugh. “Moony.”

  The wizard grinned. “Wonderful name.” He dipped his quill in ink.

  Anton’s eyes fred with recognition.

  Moony?

  No way.

  That was Remus Lupin.

  One of Dumbledore’s inner circle. A former Marauder. A member of the Order of the Phoenix.

  A dangerous werewolf—and an even more dangerous ally.

  Anton’s mind raced.

  If Lupin was here, if he was still alive and breathing, if there was even the slightest chance of escape—

  Then first, he was going to need a wand.