The celr was damp and reeking of mold, with moss creeping like rot across the stone walls.

  Two rusted chains snaked from cracks in the stone, suspending Anton’s frail body mid-air.

  He was gasping like a broken bellows, every breath shallow and ragged. His dull eyes stared listlessly at the small, grated air vent in the corner, where a sliver of sunlight filtered through. Dust motes danced in the beam like tiny, mocking sprites.

  “Crucio!”

  The fsh of the curse lit up the celr, momentarily drowning it in red agony.

  “Ngh—!” Anton bit down hard on the pain, refusing to cry out. His vision blurred, darkening around the edges like a storm cloud rolling in.

  How many times had he taken the Cruciatus Curse now?

  He’d lost count. But this time… this time, he was sure he might actually die.

  I don’t know if this really is the world of Harry Potter, he thought dimly, but it’s starting to look like I’ll never live long enough to get that Hogwarts letter.

  The figure cloaked in bck robes and a deep hood began to fade into the shadows again, swallowed by the gloom.

  Anton let out a trembling breath. His eyelids drooped, heavy as stone. His head slumped forward.

  …

  He had no idea how long he’d been unconscious when he woke again—only that his shoulders, where the chains had held him, were abze with a biting, splintering pain.

  It felt like his bones were going to snap in half.

  But still… he ughed.

  A hoarse, wheezing ugh, almost manic. “Ha… I’m not dead.”

  He’d survived again. Somehow.

  Two months ago, he’d found himself in this warped version of Engnd, thrown headfirst into a nightmare of blood and spells. Officially, he was a “dark wizard’s apprentice.” In truth, he was an experimental subject, werewolf bait, human punching bag, and unpaid house-elf all rolled into one.

  He was also the only one of the old wizard’s many apprentices still breathing.

  Anton had once tried to escape—bolted while the old man was deep in his cups, ran miles through twisted forest paths. He thought he’d made it.

  That was when he got hit with his very first Cruciatus Curse.

  It felt like a dozen jagged knives tearing through his insides, over and over again.

  He’d screamed. He’d begged. Like a coward.

  Like a disgrace to transmigrators everywhere.

  The old wizard, in his infinite cruelty, forgave him. Then he sent Anton off into the woods alone to “lure” a werewolf. A particurly aggressive breed with a taste for young wizards.

  It worked splendidly.

  The old man got himself a strong, shaggy werewolf for his experiments.

  Anton got to live another day… as his “apprentice.” Which mostly meant getting hexed whenever the stew was too salty.

  Creaaaak—

  The heavy celr door groaned open, hinges shrieking from rust and age. Light poured in, stabbing at Anton’s eyes until tears spilled down his cheeks.

  The dark wizard descended, his filthy bck robes trailing behind him like oily smoke. His face was still obscured by a deep hood, but Anton could make out the hooked shape of his nose in profile.

  One skeletal hand reached out, pale and papery with age, holding a ten-inch wand of reddish brown wood.

  With a flick, the shackles untched.

  Anton dropped like a sack of potatoes.

  The old wizard peered down at him with cold amusement, voice rasping like gravel dragged across stone. “If a young wizard doesn’t learn to channel their magic through a wand after their first magical surge, they die. Quite messily.”

  He leaned closer, studying Anton. “You’re not even eleven, yet your magic is already boiling over.”

  So I’m about to go full Obscurial, huh? Anton thought grimly. He’d never read the Harry Potter books, never even watched the films, but he had read enough fanfiction and webnovels to know the rules of this world.

  Gone was the fantasy that all transmigrators were invincible. That illusion had shattered the first time he was hit with an Unforgivable Curse.

  Now, he just sat there, quietly rubbing his wrists.

  “You’re the most gifted of all my apprentices,” the old man said. “Obey me, and I’ll teach you magic.”

  Anton’s heart skipped.

  He scrambled upright, eyes shining with feigned eagerness. “I… I…”

  “Master, I was wrong. Please forgive me.”

  The old wizard looked pleased. “Go make dinner. And this time, try not to add any more of those colorful mushrooms.”

  Anton bowed his head reverently. “There won’t be a next time.”

  “Hmm.”

  With that, the old man drifted away like a wraith.

  Anton kept his eyes downcast, lips twitching into a faint smirk.

  He didn’t know how powerful this wizard really was by Hogwarts standards. But he knew one thing for sure—he was dirt poor. Most of the magical ingredients he scraped together were traded immediately for more materials. Precious few luxuries in this hovel.

  Which meant…

  He probably only owns one wand.

  Anton’s eyes gleamed.

  If I can snap it while he's teaching me...

  Maybe all I’ll have left to deal with is a frail old man with a bad temper.

  It was a chance.

  A long shot—but a chance.

  He'd have to be careful. Too careful. After the st stunt with the mushrooms, the old bastard was definitely watching him more closely now.

  Slow and steady.

  Anton exhaled slowly, steadying himself.

  He climbed the stone steps out of the celr, pushed open the heavy wooden door, and squinted into the blinding light. Sunlight pierced through the mist of the forest beyond, illuminating the tiny yard outside.

  He limped toward the makeshift kitchen tucked into a corner of the walled yard.

  A sack of flour y slumped on the counter—nearly empty. The jar of mutton fat was scraped clean. Even the salt tin had barely a pinch left in it.

  “Bloody cheapskate,” Anton muttered.

  Last time, the old man had grown sick of boiled dumplings and oil-drenched noodles, flying into a rage over the “ck of fvor.” Anton, tail between his legs, had scoured the forest for something—anything—to spice it up.

  He’d found a small patch of mushrooms. Beautiful, delicate little things that looked like they belonged in a fairy tale.

  He recognized them immediately.

  Fly agaric. Poisonous, yes—but subtle. A little diarrhea the next day. Nothing life-threatening.

  At first.

  By the third day?

  Death. Painful, irreversible, and uncurable death.

  He even remembered the grim little rhyme from some old video:Red cap, white stalk, eat it and you’re on the block. On the block, into the grave, under the hill so none can save.

  He was looking forward to burying the old man with his own hands.

  Unfortunately, even when Anton pyed it cool, even when he acted clueless, the old wizard had somehow sensed something was off.

  “I don’t know anything! I’m just a kid!” he’d pleaded.

  The man responded with several well-aimed Crucios.

  Anton still didn’t know why he was suddenly being taught spells now, but he didn’t trust it. Not for a second.

  He never assumed the worst by accident. He did it on purpose.

  He kneaded the dough, lit the fire, and poured on the fat with practiced ease.

  He made sure to eat a full bowl himself before bringing a smaller one to the house. If he didn’t eat first, the old man would never let him.

  “Dinner, Master,” he said evenly.

  The old wizard looked up from a stack of crinkled parchment. Without his hood, the full force of his aged features hit Anton—long white beard, hair like snow, sunken cheeks, and eyes like twin pale ice chips buried deep in their sockets.

  He stared at the noodles for a moment, then wordlessly took a spoonful.

  “We’ll be heading to Knockturn Alley after this,” he said.

  Anton’s heart stopped.

  Knockturn Alley!

  His eyes widened. That confirmed it.

  This really was the world of Harry Potter.

  He just didn’t know what year it was yet.

  Since arriving here, he’d been dragged from one isoted outskirt to another, never anywhere remotely civilized.

  Sometimes they’d stumble across strange gatherings—robed figures whispering in the woods. But Anton never dared speak a word to anyone.

  Please, he prayed, please let this be during Harry Potter’s time.

  It wasn’t that he liked the kid. He didn’t care about Harry.

  He just knew that if this was the right time period, then Voldemort—the first Dark Lord—was locked up in Azkaban, and the second one was still running for his life.

  Which meant Hogwarts was still open.

  And safe.

  And if Anton could just get there… just get in…

  He might finally be free of this miserable, terrifying, curse-filled existence.