Knife work and handling corpses are essential skills for any traveler—but Anton wanted nothing to do with either.
Apart from that first time when he'd hastily stuffed Fiennes's body into the suitcase, he never touched the corpse again. Even now, retrieving it required nothing more than his bare hands.
He was well aware that Fiennes's robes likely hid valuable treasures in their pockets, yet he refused to go near them.
This caution wasn't unfounded; it came from observing the old man himself. Even when seeking specific items from a body, Fiennes never laid a hand on it himself. He always made his apprentices do the dirty work.
Anton remembered it vividly. After one died, only two were left. Fiennes simply pointed at the more disposable boy and ordered him to check the body.
The boy searched the body and found nothing wrong, and cried that night, thinking he'd gotten lucky and survived.
But on the third night, a head grew out of his shoulder. It was the head of the dead old witch.
Countless bizarre and terrifying spells have survived since the ancient days of magic. Judged by today's standards, almost every single one of them would be classified as Dark Arts.
To wizards like Snape or McGonagall, such arts might seem worthless, but beyond the Ministry's reach, in the world's dark corners, they were deadly. This was the lawless realm of wandering wizards.
The more you learn, the deeper you sink; the deeper you sink, the more you crave knowledge. And sometimes, people simply vanish into it.
Realizing the danger, Anton leaped onto his broom and shot into the sky. Flying freely through the open air, he chanced a glance back—only to feel his heart stop.
Emerging from the dark green formation was Fiennes. But he was no longer flesh and blood; he was pale, faded, and translucent.
His tattered robes billowed faintly as if caught in an invisible breeze, and the head he held seemed to float weightlessly in his translucent hands, its gaze fixed intensely on Anton!
"What the actual fuck!" Anton yelled, instinctively flattening himself low on his broom and pushing it to the limit.
He had no idea that ghosts can't harm the living; all he knew was that his worst nightmare had come true. Fiennes had returned, and he fled in pure terror.
Yet terrifyingly, Fiennes was faster.
Normally ghosts stay in one spot, but this one zoomed freely—way quicker than a broom! He didn't fly smoothly though, just vanishing and popping back up in bursts.
And just like that, the chase dragged them deeper into the woods.
A broomstick's top speed is fixed; it does not grow faster with more magical power or effort.
Anton was immensely grateful he had chosen this one—without it, he would have been caught long ago.
But the relentless chase was wearing him down. Fiennes felt no exhaustion, being nothing but a ghost, yet Anton was growing heavy and tired.
The broom offered nothing but an invisible cushion of air; he had to cling on tightly with both hands just to stay aboard.
The high-speed wind lashed against his face like a whip, and his limbs were growing numb.
An hour had passed.
An hour of nonstop flight.
And still, the pursuit continued without mercy.
"Wait a minute... why the hell am I fleeing from a ghost?"
The realization hit him like lightning. His expression hardened instantly. He was fleeing in terror from something that couldn't even touch him!
He could fight back, but he wasn't sure what magic affected spirits or if his spells would even work. Casting while flying risked exhaustion or losing his grip entirely—it was too dangerous.
Britain was big, but it was still just an island. His plan was simple: lure it over the sea, where a ghost bound to land would be helpless.
Endurance always pays off.
Flying low over rough mining grounds, the jagged terrain slowed Fiennes down, his form flickering and glitching as he struggled to keep up.
Anton's eyes lit up.
His chance had finally arrived!
Twisting his broom around, he deliberately flew back toward the pursuing ghost, letting the gap close even shorter.
It was a calculated trap.
He dove low, skimming right over the jagged mining ground, then yanked the broom upward sharply, soaring away instantly.
But Fiennes behind him wasn't as agile.
SCREECH!
A harsh, grinding sound echoed as the spectral form snagged violently on the rocks and earth. Unable to avoid the obstacle, he was torn and shattered against the terrain.
Yet he reformed instantly, pressing on tirelessly.
"Haha!" Anton climbed high into the sky, his fear finally turning into wild adrenaline. "Hell yeah!"
He pressed down again.
Dive!
Without hesitation, Anton raised his wand and aimed.
"Immobulus!"
The spell struck instantly. Fiennes's pale form shuddered violently, flickering wildly, before freezing completely rigid in mid-air.
Trapped and unable to move a single inch, he could only scream in rage:
"You ungrateful wretch! After everything I taught you... you dare to turn on your own Master!"
Hovering safely in the air, Anton looked at him with a cold gaze.
He had known it was a ghost for a while now. There were many of them wandering the halls of Hogwarts.
If his memory served, they existed in a state between life and death. Wizards who died could choose to remain here or move on.
And the most important thing... they couldn't touch the living world at all.
They were completely harmless!
Most wizards choose to move on rather than linger in this strange limbo, where they aren't quite alive but aren't truly gone either.
Ghosts are merely pale echoes of the past. They can chill the air, but that is all—they cannot truly touch or change the world.
Even figures like Grindelwald or Voldemort would never stoop so low as to command such pitiful beings.
However, every field has its masters. Even if their overall power wasn't top-tier, they could be terrifyingly skilled in their own specific way.
"Not bad..." Even with all his hatred for Fiennes, he couldn't help but admit it.
And then it hit him—if Fiennes was stuck here, that meant all those treasures he'd hidden away in his Gringotts vault were truly up for grabs!
With the threat gone, it was time to move on.
Good riddance.
With a slight flick of his wrist, the broom arced gracefully through the air and carried him away into the distance.