Anton finally understood the precise mechanics of the Soul Shifting Curse. As the incantation took hold, he felt a powerful tug, a wrenching force propelling him along the spell's luminescent beam. Then, with a jarring jolt, he landed, the sensation of displacement fading as quickly as it had begun.
A moment of disorientation, a mental blankness, followed by a shock that reverberated through his very being. An ancient, frail weariness emanated from the core of his existence. With a Herculean effort, he focused his vision. Before him stood a young wizard – a younger version of himself. He had successfully swapped bodies with the old man!
The sight of his new form was striking. He possessed a shock of red hair, lighter than the Weasley family's, with a subtle platinum sheen. His eyes were a pale blue, his complexion fair. Except for the lack of freckles, he bore a remarkable resemblance to Ron Weasley. Were they related? The thought lingered, a mystery adding to the already bizarre situation. He now understood Ron's earlier curious stares.
Before he had a chance to examine more closely, a feeling of emptiness flooded his heart, as if a very long rubber band had snapped him back into his original body in an instant. He opened his eyes to find Fiennes hovering over him, pouring a goblet of what smelled suspiciously like mead – or perhaps a potent Firewhisky – into his mouth. The old man's gaze held an almost possessive gleam. "Anton," Fiennes declared, "you will be my most valued apprentice. Your… talent is invaluable."
Anton wondered about the implications of being "invaluable" in this context. However, the old man's treatment had improved dramatically. He was even kindly shown to a small first-floor bedroom – though his wand was reclaimed.
Anton slept for two days, recovering slowly. A faint tingling remained in his mind, a residual effect of pushing his magical limits. Weakness clung to him, a persistent urge to return to slumber.
The old man had returned, his presence carrying the faint aroma of roasted lamb and ale. Anton's hunger intensified. He knew better than to expect a decent meal from Fiennes, so he prepared a simple bowl of stew, the sweat beading on his brow as he worked over the stove.
Sleep and food – the best restorative method for a weary wizard.
Feeling considerably better, Anton emerged from the kitchen only to be immediately summoned by the hawk-eyed Fiennes. His task? To process a mountain of herbs piled haphazardly in a corner.
"Only the leaves of Ditanny are usable," Fiennes instructed, his eyes gleaming with a disturbing mirth. "No roots, understand? Trust me, you wouldn't want to experience the joys of severe ischemia after ingesting a poorly prepared potion."
Anton stared, dumbfounded. "This… this is for me?"
"After harvesting," Fiennes continued, burping loudly mid-sentence and then swaying slightly as he grabbed the banister for support, "mash it with Gurdyroot, add it to salamander blood, and once it boils, toss in the leech." He slurred the last words, clearly intoxicated. "Hurry it up, you waste of space! You've already squandered two days, and time is running out."
With a mumbled curse, Fiennes lumbered upstairs.
Anton's lips tightened. He was terrified of failing. 'Is he going to drink this potion himself this time?' The chaotic jumble of ingredients before him – including a cage of squeaking mice and several caterpillars – filled him with dread. He'd once consumed a bizarre, viscous potion that had left him covered in blisters and near death from dehydration.
"Patience," he muttered to himself, taking a deep breath. Panic would only lead to mistakes.
Fiennes, he knew, was a dangerous man. In the short two months Anton had been his apprentice, he'd witnessed the cold-blooded murder of seven or eight individuals. Would he be next? The dark wizard had a history of disposing of apprentices, often for the most trivial reasons – a bad mood, a poorly brewed potion, a misplaced herb.
Donning gloves, he began methodically grounding the herbs, the fear and the cold knowledge of Fiennes's brutality slowly being pulverized and buried deep within his heart, much like the herbs themselves.
The potion's complexity was staggering. Over thirty different ingredients, each requiring specific treatment – sun exposure, incineration to ash, days of careful resting. The process was a bewildering dance of precise timing and arcane knowledge.
Fiennes reappeared, dragging a large metal crucifix and chaining a middle-aged man to it. "Tomorrow night is the full moon," he announced. "You haven't much time."
This wasn't for the werewolf, though. This was for Anton.
Anton bowed his head, silently stirring the potion with his old wand, feeling the magical energy flowing from the wand and into the brew. The dark green liquid bubbled, a hint of crimson spreading through it under the influence of his magic. As he channeled his power, his mind raced, focusing on the single, life-saving spell he knew: the Soul Shifting Curse.
Anton possessed theoretical knowledge of various spells gleaned from countless books, but lacked the practical understanding of incantations and the emotional resonance required for effective casting. He questioned whether emotion was even a universal requirement; could the Soul-Shifting Curse, for instance, function as a direct offensive spell? Could he, by shifting his soul into the old man, seize a knife and turn it upon himself, effectively sacrificing his own life to allow the old man to inhabit his younger body? The uncertainties gnawed at him; his knowledge of practical spellcraft was woefully inadequate.
Finally, the potion was complete. At the bottom of the cauldron, a shimmering pool of translucent, light red potion swirled, speckled with dark green stars – a mesmerizing, almost beautiful concoction.
"Aha!" Fiennes cackled, his eyes fixated on the potion. "Such exquisite quality. Only those steeped in malice could craft such a potent brew." He chuckled, a mixture of mockery and genuine admiration. He raised his wand. "And what shall your reward be, my dear apprentice?"
"Crucio!"
The Cruciatus Curse erupted, a searing bolt of pain that slammed into Anton's chest before he could react. Invisible knives sliced through his body, eliciting a scream of agony.
He clenched his teeth, gripping the cracked floorboards, suppressing further cries. His gaze, fixed on the ground, hardened with chilling intensity.
"Accio!"
His wand flew from his hand, landing neatly in Fiennes's grasp. "Learn to accept fate, boy. Obedience is a virtue."
Fiennes whistled, sauntered to his desk, gathered his manuscripts, and stowed them in a worn leather suitcase. He then turned to the middle-aged man chained to the crucifix. "Only the final step remains. My experiment nears completion."
The middle-aged man glanced at the paralyzed Anton, a sigh escaping his lips. "You shouldn't treat a child like that."
"It's rather fascinating, isn't it?" Fiennes chuckled. "You were apprehended solely for attempting to attack the young lad."
"No," the man's voice was strained, his eyes filled with pain. "Once transformed, I lose all control. I had no malicious intent. I locked myself away, but someone tampered with my confinement, deliberately releasing me to cause harm."
Fiennes whistled appreciatively. "Intriguing. You've piqued my interest."
"As a reward for your contribution to this grand experiment," He continued, "I shall include your name in my research. What is your name?"
The middle-aged man laughed bitterly. "Remus Lupin."
"A splendid name," Fiennes, smiled and picked up his quill.
Anton, twitching on the cold wooden floor, felt a flicker of hope ignite within him. 'Remus Lupin? One of the Marauders?' A man of such formidable skill and reputation that Dumbledore himself had chosen him for the Order of the Phoenix? This wasn't some weakling; this was a force to be reckoned with. And a man of Lupin's caliber…he might just have a spare wand.