There was no real bond between them anymore; Fiennes was nothing but a lingering shadow. Aside from endlessly droning scriptures in his ear, he was powerless to do anything else.
But now that Anton had stuffed his ears with cotton, even if the ghost suddenly materialized right out of the pages he was reading, he couldn't get a single reaction.
Fiennes could only glare, trying to freeze him with his gaze, but Anton stared right back unflinchingly. The intensity actually flustered the ghost, strange as it was for something without a heart.
Frustrated and defeated, Fiennes circled him a few times before finally drifting away through the wall.
The Leaky Cauldron was truly a place of magic. one step into the ordinary Muggle world, another into the mysteries of Diagon and Knockturn Alleys.
As soon as he was gone, Anton let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding.
"Oh god...oh god!"
He threw the journal aside and rushed to the bathroom, splashing cold water onto his face vigorously, as if trying to wash away the chill.
Looking at his reflection, he thought despairingly: 'I can't take this anymore!'
If this kept up, he figured he'd either grow a backbone—or dying of a heart attack. Honestly, he bet on dying. How had he missed what a mischievous pest Fiennes really was?
"Oh god!"
His fears were proven right.
Waking to find Fiennes hovering inches away, holding that grotesque severed head beside his pillow, Anton clamped his jaw until his teeth ached, forcing himself not to react.
While washing his hair, icy cold would suddenly run down his spine, making him rinse off in panic, though the mirror showed nothing but his own scared face.
Once, while he was using the toilet, Fiennes slowly rose up from the empty tub behind him, nearly scaring him to death on the spot.
But the worst part? Old Tom actually cooked a pot of boiled meat using Fiennes's recipe. And the whole time, the ghost was floating right inside the pot, head and hands submerged as if he were taking a bath!
Anton sat there, his face twitching uncontrollably as he mechanically picked at his food, not daring to look away.
Inside, though, he was screaming in agony.
'When will this end?' he thought miserably. 'I shouldn't have killed him... I really shouldn't have killed him.'
It felt like he was trapped in a nightmare that simply refused to end.
"I'll never kill again!" Fiennes had taught him cruelty and survival, but now Anton was learning the price of life the hard way.
Just one ghost was already unbearable.
But just imagine—what if, in the future, every meal was surrounded by a horde of ghosts with twisted, hideous faces...?
He frantically shook his head to banish the horrifying image.
And so, three days passed.
Late that night, unable to sleep, Anton lit the oil lamp and opened Fiennes's journal. He had already read it twice, memorizing every detail. Now, he focused entirely on memorizing the three essential elements of every spell.
He was studying harder than he ever had for the college entrance exams in his past life.
Apart from the Shield Charm, every spell recorded in the journal was pure Dark Magi, and each one was extraordinarily powerful.
They possessed terrifying lethality, dangerous not only to the enemy but to the caster himself.
Over three days, he learned that without the right emotion, spells either failed entirely or were barely strong enough to scratch the skin.
To succeed, he had to nurture those dark feelings deep within his soul. And to unleash them instantly, he had to stay in that state constantly. That was precisely why Dark Magic corrupted the mind.
How could anyone live with a heart constantly boiling with bloodlust? Endure that for a year, and anyone would become a cold-blooded monster.
Learning it was an exceedingly dangerous path. The wizarding world was right to condemn it.
Meanwhile, Fiennes drifted idly above the bed, casually tossing his severed head up and catching it—left hand, right hand—in a grotesque game of catch.
Anton forced himself to lie still, pulling the covers up, stubbornly pretending not to see a thing.
Instead, he sat by the window, letting the breeze cool his skin as he sipped his drink and recited the incantations.
This was a long war, and he was preparing himself patiently.
Slowly, he learned to accept the ghost's presence, deliberately acknowledging it. After all, with patience, perseverance, and focus, what was there truly to fear?
He refused to believe Fiennes could haunt him forever.
Let's give it one year. Just one year.
"No one can master it all," a voice suddenly whispered right against his ear.
He turned his head to see Fiennes had drifted outside the window, leaning in close.
"Haha," Anton chuckled confidently. "I'm almost done memorizing every single one."
"No, no, no," Fiennes chided, holding his severed head in one hand while wagging a finger with the other. "Memorizing is not understanding. Whether light or Dark, the more powerful the spell, the deeper the emotion it demands."
"You can't sustain hundreds of intense emotions simultaneously."
"You read my journal. You know about Aurora. She even studied Muggle psychology and split herself into dozens of personalities. It worked... but the cost was terrible."
He raised three fingers.
"True power in the Dark Arts comes from intent. To master a curse, you must become it; it takes root, twisting your soul, replacing your humanity with darkness. This is why few truly master more than a handful of curses—each demands a piece of you. To spread your dark will too thin risks shattering your mind, leaving you a husk consumed by the power you sought."
Anton sneered. "So that's why you cast the Cruciatus Curse so effortlessly, right?"
Fiennes fell silent for a moment, his pale face unreadable.
"You killed me," he said finally, his voice hollow. "You severed my head. Now I am forced to carry it like this... I believe that we are finally even."
'Even?' Anton seethed internally. The audacity!
Anton couldn't shake the feeling that the past two months hadn't just harmed him, but fundamentally reshaped him.
He wasn't sure if it was for better or worse, but he knew if his past self ever met the person he was now, they'd be strangers.
"I will never forgive you," he declared, his gaze fixed on the severed head. "Never!"
Forgive and forget? Not a chance.
Fiennes slowly shook his head, as if to disagree with his sentiment.
"I don't require your forgiveness," he stated, floating directly in front of Anton. "I simply wish to strike a deal with you."
Anton met his gaze with an indifferent smile, then tucked the journal back into his shoulder bag. Without another word, he walked past the ghost toward the bed.
"Not interested," he replied curtly, his back to Fiennes.
With that, he lay down, and pulled the covers up to his chin.
"..."
Fiennes sat by the bed, contemplating for a long while, but Anton paid him no mind.
His young body needed proper nourishment and rest.
After a while, he drifted off to sleep.