The cellar was dark and damp, its stone walls covered in moss. Two chains extended from a gap in the stone ceiling, suspending Anton's young body in mid-air. He panted like a broken bellows, staring at a small grille ventilation window in the corner. Sunlight filtered through the window, and tiny sprites danced in the beam of light.
"Crucio!"
The light of the spell flickered in the dim cellar.
"Urrghh!" Anton gritted his teeth, refusing to cry out in pain. His vision blurred, slowly fading.
How many Cruciatus curses had he endured? He couldn't remember, but he knew this time might be his last.
'I don't know if this is the world of Harry Potter,' he thought grimly, but 'I'm certainly not waiting for an owl from Hogwarts.'
The figure of the black-hooded wizard gradually vanished into the darkness within Anton's field of vision.
Anton exhaled, his heavy eyelids drooping as his head sank.
...
When he woke up again, he didn't know how much time had passed, but he felt a searing pain where the chains had been hanging. It felt like his bones were about to snap.
"Hahaha," he burst out laughing. "I'm not dead!"
Once again, he had survived the old wizard's deadly curses.
Two months ago, he'd arrived in this strange England, falling into the clutches of a dark wizard. "Apprentice" was a cruel jest; he was a test subject, werewolf bait, a punching bag, and a slave. He was the sole survivor amongst the old wizard's many failed experiments.
He'd escaped during one of the wizard's drunken stupors, fleeing for miles, the memory of the Cruciatus Curse a fresh wound, each pulse a searing stab. He'd been a pathetic sight, a whimpering transmigrator begging for mercy. The wizard, in a moment of bizarre generosity, had released him into the dark forest, a tempting morsel for the werewolf.
The results had been…successful. The wizard gained a fearsome beast, and Anton gained the dubious title of apprentice – an apprentice tortured for the slightest disobedience.
Creak~
A harsh groan echoed from the cellar door, long neglected and warped with age. A torrent of light flooded the chamber, making Anton's eyes water.
The filthy black robes of the wizard drifted closer, the voluminous hood obscuring his face save for a prominent, hooked nose. The old man extended pale, gnarled hands, revealing a ten-inch maroon wand, its tip gleaming faintly like a dragon's eye. With a flick of his wrist, the clasp on Anton's chains snapped open. He tumbled to the cold stone floor. The wizard chuckled, a dry, rasping sound like parchment crackling in a fire. "A surge of magical power, unchecked, unrestrained…a swift path to oblivion, my boy."
"You haven't even reached eleven, and the magic within you already threatens to consume you."
Anton remained silent, a wise choice. Although he hadn't read the Harry Potter books or watched the movies, he hadn't missed out on the internet. He'd learned the hard way that the fantasies of an all-powerful transmigrator were just that – fantasies. He rubbed his bruised wrist, the memory of the Cruciatus Curse a fresh ache.
"You are the most gifted of my apprentices," the wizard rasped. "Obey, and I will teach you to control this power."
Anton's heart leaped. He scrambled to his feet, feigning eagerness. "I…I…" he stammered, then found his voice. "Teacher, I was wrong!"
The wizard seemed satisfied with his performance. "Prepare a meal. And be mindful of the…bright mushrooms."
"There will be no next time, Teacher," Anton replied, his voice dripping with false remorse.
"Hmph," the wizard grunted, his form shimmering slightly before apparating away.
Anton squinted at the ground, a subtle smile playing on his lips. He didn't know the wizard's standing in the wider wizarding world, but he knew this: the man was vulnerable. His resources, painstakingly gathered, were clearly being used for…experiments.
'Only one wand?' Anton mused. 'If I could break it during a lesson…' The thought sent a thrill through him. Facing a powerless old man…the opportunity was tantalizing. But caution was paramount.
The poisoned stew had likely raised suspicion. Patience, Anton reminded himself. He had plenty of that.
He struggled up the cellar steps, the damp stone cold against his skin. Emerging into the forest, the sun broke through the mist, bathing the world in a pale, ethereal light.
He crept towards the kitchen, a ramshackle affair tucked into a corner of the walled yard. A flour sack, as shrunken as a deflated balloon, lay near the stove. The clay pot held a meager amount of animal fat; a pinch of salt was all that remained.
"This poor bastard!" He muttered, his voice a low growl.
The last time, the old wizard had grown tired of bread and stew and lost his temper. Anton had gone to the forest to pick mushrooms to feed him.
The last time the old wizard had tired of bread and stew, Anton had ventured into the forest, seeking…spices. He'd gathered a cluster of alluringly bright mushrooms, Amanita muscaria, their caps like crimson umbrellas. He'd seen them in documentaries, knew their effects: initial discomfort, followed by a potent, incurable slumber. A grim folk rhyme echoed in his mind: "Red cap, white spots, a deadly embrace, a final long nap in a forgotten place."
Anton was looking forward to the moment when he would bury the old man in the forest with his own hands.
Unfortunately, the old man possessed an uncanny ability to sniff out trouble. His attempts at subtle poisoning had been met with several excruciating Cruciatus Curses. "I didn't know! I'm just a child!" His pleas had been met with only more pain.
Why the sudden interest in teaching him magic? He didn't care; he wouldn't hesitate to betray this old man.
Skilled in cooking, Anton prepared a hearty stew, saving a small portion for himself. He knew the old man wouldn't allow him time to eat otherwise.
"Teacher, supper is ready."
The old man, his head buried in a stack of parchments, looked up. Without his hood, his white hair and beard were striking, framing a face etched with age. His light blue eyes, deep-set in their sockets, held an unnerving intensity.
He slowly turned, his gaze settling on Anton's grimy face. A long silence followed before he spoke. "Clean yourself. We're going to Knockturn Alley."
'Knockturn Alley!' Anton's eyes widened. He's already aware he was in the world of Harry Potter, he just didn't know what year it was now.
Since his arrival, he'd followed the wizard through desolate, forgotten corners of the countryside, avoiding contact with others whenever possible.
'It had to be the 1990's!' He silently prayed.
He hadn't been a huge fan as a child, but the timing was perfect. The first Dark Lord was imprisoned, the second was in hiding. Hogwarts…a haven of somewhat relative safety.
He was fed up of living on the edge of a knife.