Fiennes, despite his outwardly impoverished appearance, wasn't truly poor. His magically-expanded suitcase overflowed with rare books and invaluable potion ingredients – assets beyond monetary value. Like Hagrid, his needs were minimal; the intrinsic worth of his possessions far outweighed their market price.
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 chance. He returned, placing the vial on the table. "I caught it myself."
Snape's eyes widened. "Lacewing Flies are classified XX magical creatures. You caught them…alone?" He scrutinized Anton, shaking his head. While appearances shouldn't dictate judgment, magical prowess requires knowledge and experience. Catching Lacewing Flies was beyond Anton's capabilities.
"I have a method," Anton replied, sensing Snape's skepticism. Leaning closer, he whispered, "Lacewing Flies are attracted to the light of the moon. They gather in large numbers near the shores of freshwater lakes on moonlit nights. The trick is to use a special net made from moonstone fibers. The moonstone absorbs the moonlight, and the Lacewing Flies are drawn to it, making them easy to catch."
He wasn't lying; he'd personally extracted the wings. The cost? Despite Fiennes's suppressing charm, the Lacewing Flies had swarmed him, their stingers piercing his skin, leaving a trail of burning welts. The worst part? The stingers had a tendency to cause a tingling sensation and even levitation, making the extraction process a chaotic dance between pain and flight. Even with Fiennes's potent healing potions, Anton had spent eight agonizing days in bed, battling the lingering toxins, contemplating suicide.
Snape raised an eyebrow. "Ingenious."
Anton held out his hands, fingers spread wide. "Five hundred Galleons! Five hundred Galleons, and it's yours!"
A twitch at the corner of Snape's mouth betrayed his temptation. The price was reasonable; even with a steady supply of ingredients, Lacewing Flies were exceptionally rare.
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.
A standard dragon liver cost only three Galleons; a basic wand, seven; even an advanced potions textbook topped out at nine. Five hundred Galleons was reserved for high-end magical items and ingredients – a pair of fairy wings, perhaps, or five pints of Acromantula venom.
Speaking of Acromantula venom, Snape glanced at Hagrid. The groundskeeper had recently presented him with a bucket of the substance, excitedly reporting the thriving offspring of Aragog in the Forbidden 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, ecstatic, grabbed Snape's arm. "Come on, then!"
Anton eagerly opened the pouch, nearly blinded by the golden gleam. He looked up, but Snape had vanished. Hagrid's eyes shone with an almost golden light.
Anton quickly stopped them.
"Hagrid, I know where to find some adorable fluffy creatures. Perhaps I could write to you?"
Hagrid, delighted, nodded enthusiastically. "Send a letter, won't ya?"
He practically dragged Snape away.
Anton happily pocketed a few Galleons, securing the rest in his suitcase. With this fortune, he could go anywhere!
But then, he noticed the intense stares of the tavern patrons.
"It's over," he muttered, feeling the weight of their gazes. Some were rising from their seats.
A heavy knock echoed from the bar. Old Tom, the innkeeper, appeared, his face grim. "In me pub, no one can cause a ruckus!"
After a moment's hesitation, several patrons returned to their seats, their gaze still fixed on him.
Anton, unfazed, placed a Galleon on the counter. "A room and some food. I want meat," he requested, patting his stomach. "A double portion, please!"
Old Tom, a flicker of amusement in his eyes, raised a lantern. "Room eleven. Follow me, lad."
They traversed a narrow, dimly lit corridor, ascending a beautiful wooden staircase to a second-floor room. A brass plaque read "11."
Old Tom opened the door, revealing a stark contrast to the gloomy corridor. Sunlight streamed through an open window, carrying a gentle breeze.
From the window, Anton saw the bustling streets of Charing Cross Road in London. Cars sped by; girls strolled with shopping bags; children chased each other.
This Muggle street, with its constant traffic noise and exhaust fumes, would be considered low-rent by Muggle standards. But he inhaled deeply, a sense of familiarity washing over him.
For two months, he'd followed Fiennes to remote locations: desolate forests, hidden caves, and forgotten meeting places, feeling as though he'd traveled back centuries. He narrowed his eyes, a sudden longing for the Muggle world, a world that, in retrospect, didn't seem so bad.
In his previous life, he'd been a programmer; perhaps in this world, he could become a renowned, respected wizard.
"It's not a bad spot 'round 'ere. I'll go and sort your grub for ya," Old Tom interrupted, exiting, lantern in hand.
Anton surveyed the room: a comfortable bed, polished oak furniture, a crackling fireplace, and a surprisingly spacious bathroom. He entered, encountering a talking mirror. "You look dreadful. Perhaps a wash is in order?"
Anton examined his reflection: platinum-blonde red hair, a slender ten-year-old frame, and an ill-fitting wizard's robe.
He smiled at the mirror. "Even mirrors can talk. To abandon this wondrous world, to return to a computer screen…wouldn't that be a waste?"
The mirror rippled. "I, too, yearn for adventure."