The journey was over, but what lay ahead was a mystery.
Anton licked his dry lips. Since arriving in this world, he had known no peace, living constantly on the edge. It had taught him one harsh truth:
To survive, you must stop fearing death.
He opened the suitcase and carefully lifted Lupin out. His left hand tightened around his wand, hidden safely within his sleeve.
He raised his right hand and knocked.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
His heart hammered in rhythm with each knock.
After a long silence, measured footsteps approached. Locks clicked, chains rattled, and the door creaked open slowly.
There was no haggard witch, no pockmarked wizard, and certainly no goblin.
Standing there was a girl.
Her raven hair was perfectly arranged, her deep blue eyes cold and distant. She stood with impeccable poise, her slender hands folded demurely before her, draped in rich green silk. She looked delicate, yet proud as a peacock.
He raised an eyebrow. She looked every bit the noble—perhaps pure-blood. Fiennes had always sneered at such families, calling them decadent, but Anton suspected it was just envy.
He swallowed hard and checked the note again. Was this really where a goblin worked? He reminded himself that in this world, "goblin" meant something very different from the tales he knew.
"Mr. Pedro is busy," she spoke coolly. "You may wait inside."
"Thank you," Anton replied. "May I?"
She stepped aside, holding herself with impossible grace. "I am Anna Rosier."
Rosier!
A pure-blood family, without a doubt. Anton's jaw tightened. The Rosiers were infamous—firmly rooted in Dark Magic, loyal to Grindelwald and Voldemort alike. They were exactly the kind of people he needed to watch out for.
"Anton," he replied simply.
Anna held his gaze for a moment, then turned and glided away without another word.
'Typical,' Anton thought.'She gave her full name, expecting the same formality.' In these circles, etiquette was everything. In England, 'Anton' was often just a nickname for 'Anthony'—fine for friends, but lacking weight here.
He offered a faint, unapologetic smile.
Let her think what she liked.
His name was Anton. His surname in his past life had been Stilwell—an old and noble name, tracing back to royalty. Here, he carried it with the same quiet pride.
With effort, he dragged Lupin inside and laid him on an ornate oak chair. It pained him to see the beloved character brought so low.
Anton knew the curse well; Fiennes had used it on him every three days, yet it had felt like nothing. Was it simply ineffective against him?
But Lupin was different. He lay semi-conscious, his face ashen, eyelids fluttering as if trapped in a nightmare.
Anton frowned. If this continued, would it change the very course of the plot he knew so well?
If all else failed, he could write to Dumbledore. But the Headmaster hated Dark Magic. One look inside his trunk, and he would be lucky to escape Azkaban, let alone attend Hogwarts. To ask for help, he would have to abandon everything.
Anton weighed the choice silently, then sighed.
Lupin was suffering because he had protected him. You don't abandon the people who saved you.
Pedro was still absent, so he sat by the door and closed his eyes, recalling Fiennes's journal.
Madness or not, the Animus Charm was his only defense. It was similar to the Cruciatus Curse, but required a specific twist and flick of the wrist that felt unnatural to perform.
The only difference lay in the feeling required to cast it.
Fiennes had quoted the witch Aurora, writing just one word: Rebel!
Rebel against rules. Rebel against hierarchy. Rebel against life and death. Rebel against everything—including yourself. It required a darkness that ordinary people could not bear. No wonder she had gone mad.
But for him, it came naturally.
Wasn't he already a rebel? He rebelled against the fate that had thrown him into this world.
My life is my own.
His mind echoed with words he knew well:
"I want this day to never close its eyes; I want this ground to never hide my heart; I want all to see my purpose; and I want the gods themselves to vanish!"
This was no game. It was war against destiny.
Fate had never been kind to him. He accepted his poverty, his loneliness, his lack of talent—he accepted all of it.
But acceptance did not mean he was happy.
"Hahaha, Mr. Pedro, this is truly fascinating..."
A refined voice filled the room as a middle-aged man in a sharp three-piece suit entered. He stopped dead, his words catching in his throat as he met Anton's gaze—intense and burning.
"Mr. Rosier?" a shorter figure piped up, stepping into view.
It was him. Pedro.
Standing just over four feet tall, he was broad and stocky, with a massive head, a sharp beak of a nose, and pointed ears. He wore a brown suit over a pink waistcoat woven with gold thread, and a complex timepiece gleamed on his chest.
"Aha!" Pedro grinned sharply. "I know you!"
"You are Alex Fiennes's new apprentice!" he declared, eyeing Lupin then returning his gaze to Anton.
Anton narrowed his eyes. He remembered now. A dark, underground gathering in an old factory—a marketplace where wizards traded dangerous goods. That was where he had seen this goblin before.
This very goblin had bought the corpse of the Graphorn at a high price.
This was no saint.
And worse—he had seen Fiennes murder the witch standing right beside Pedro with a single curse. He still didn't understand their connection, but it was dark.
He took a slow breath, his fingers tightening around the wand hidden in his sleeve.