Fiennes might have looked destitute, but he was far from poor. His suitcase bulged with rare books and priceless ingredients—treasures money couldn't buy. Like Hagrid, he cared little for luxury, hoarding only what held true magical value.
He, however, lacked that luxury. Destitute and homeless, he slept in the streets, terrified of waking penniless. He'd subsisted on meager stew and bread for two months, his health deteriorating. He needed nutritious food, essential for his growth.
The potion ingredients were inedible and difficult to sell. Diagon Alley wouldn't accept them; Knockturn Alley might, but at a pittance.
Snape seemed his only hope.
"I need to know its origin," Snape stated flatly.
Anton saw his opening. He returned to the table and set the jar down. "I harvested it myself."
Snape's eyes narrowed. "Fluxweed is notoriously difficult to harvest. It must be collected at the full moon, and only under specific conditions. You gathered this… alone?" He scrutinized Anton, shaking his head slightly.
While he tried not to judge by appearances, he knew that handling such ingredients required knowledge and precision. This was well beyond the capabilities of a child.
"I have my ways," Anton replied, sensing the skepticism. Leaning in, he lowered his voice. "It grows best near still water, but it's sensitive to touch. The trick is to cut it only when the moonlight touches it directly, using a silver blade. If you disturb it at the wrong time, the magical properties vanish instantly."
He wasn't lying; he had done the work himself. But the cost had been high. Despite Fiennes casting warming and shielding charms, the nights had been freezing, and the damp had seeped straight into his bones.
The worst part was the plant's natural magical instability—handling it while it was potent had left his hands numb and tingling, his vision swimming as if he were floating.
Even with Fiennes's strongest antidotes, Anton had spent eight days bedridden, shivering and dizzy, wondering if he would ever feel solid ground again.
Snape raised an eyebrow. "Ingenious."
Anton held out his hand. "Five hundred Galleons! That's my price, and it's yours."
A slight twitch at the corner of Snape's mouth revealed his interest. The price was more than fair. Even with a steady supply, Fluxweed harvested at the correct phase of the moon was incredibly difficult to source.
However…Snape didn't carry that much gold. Carrying five hundred Galleons was impractical, considering their weight and bulk. His daily expenses were far less.
However, five hundred Galleons was a vast sum. Snape did not carry that kind of weight around; it was impractical. A standard dragon blood cost only twelve Galleons, a basic wand seven, and even the most advanced textbooks rarely exceeded nine. Five hundred was the price of rare artifacts or dangerous trade goods—like a pint of Acromantula venom.
Speaking of which… Snape glanced toward Hagrid. The gamekeeper had recently brought him a full bucket of it, chattering excitedly about Aragog's colony thriving deep in the Forest.
"I 'ave it! I 'ave it!" Hagrid exclaimed, his eyes shining. He looked expectantly at Snape. "Professor, lend a 'and, would ya?"
Snape nodded, agreeing to their earlier discussion.
"Ah-ha!" Hagrid beamed, reaching into his pocket and producing a pouch of gold coins. He thrust it into Anton's arms. "Six 'undred, seven 'undred Galleons in there, mate?"
Anton shook his head, waving dismissively. "Enough."
Hagrid, overjoyed, grabbed Snape's arm. "Come on, Professor! Let's go!"
Anton quickly opened the pouch, his eyes dazzled by the glint of gold. When he looked up, Snape was already walking away, but Hagrid was beaming like the sun.
Anton called out, "Hagrid! I know where to find some really interesting creatures. Maybe I could write to you about them?"
"Ooh, yes!" Hagrid nodded enthusiastically. "Send me a letter, won't ya?"
And with that, he practically hauled a reluctant Snape away.
Anton happily slipped a few coins into his pocket, stowing the heavy pouch safely inside his suitcase. With this kind of money, the world was his oyster.
But then he felt it—the heavy weight of dozens of eyes fixed on him.
"It seems the show isn't over yet," he muttered. Several patrons were already pushing back their chairs, rising to their feet.
Suddenly, a heavy staff rapped sharply against the wooden floor. Old Tom, the landlord, stepped forward, his face like thunder.
"This is me pub! There'll be no trouble 'ere!" he roared.
The tension broke. Reluctantly, the onlookers sank back into their seats, though their eyes never left him.
Anton paid them no mind. He slapped a Galleon onto the counter. "A room, and some food. I want meat," he declared, patting his stomach. "And make it a double portion!"
A flicker of amusement softened Tom's grim expression. He lifted his lantern. "Room Eleven. Follow me, lad."
They navigated the narrow, shadowy corridor and climbed a creaking wooden staircase. Up on the second floor, a polished brass plaque marked the door.
Tom pushed it open, and Anton stepped inside. It was a world away from the gloom downstairs. Sunlight poured freely through the open window, bringing with it the warm scent of city air.
Leaning out, Anton looked down onto Charing Cross Road. Cars roared past, shoppers strolled by with bags in hand, and children played on the pavement.
To a Muggle, it was just a busy, noisy street, perhaps even a little gritty. But to Anton, breathing in that familiar air, it felt like home.
For two months, he had lived in the dark with Fiennes—trekking through desolate forests, hiding in caves, existing in places that felt stuck in the middle ages. Looking down at the modern world, he realized it wasn't so bad after all.
'In my past life, I was a programmer,' he thought. 'Maybe here... maybe here I can become something truly great.'
"It's not a bad spot 'round 'ere," Tom said, breaking his reverie. "I'll go and sort your grub for ya." He closed the door, leaving Anton alone.
Anton looked around. A soft bed, polished oak furniture, a crackling fire, and even a decent-sized bathroom. He walked over to the mirror above the sink.
"You look dreadful," the mirror spoke suddenly. "Perhaps a wash is in order?"
Anton studied his reflection: a shock of pale red hair framing the face of a slender ten-year-old, clad in robes that hung far too loose.
He smiled at the glass. "Even the mirrors talk here. To leave a world like this… just to go back to staring at a computer screen? That would be a tragedy, wouldn't it?"
The surface of the mirror rippled like water.
"And I," it replied smoothly, "am quite eager to see where your adventure leads."