Chapter 1: Shadows Beneath the Brilliance
December 27th, 1992.
Christmas had just passed, and Oxford Street in London's West End was already bustling with activity. Crowds of Muggles, dressed in their new holiday clothes, filled the streets. Children laughed and chased each other, young friends met to exchange sincere New Year's blessings, and everyone's heart was filled with hope for a better life. Even the heavy, swirling snow couldn't dampen the smiles on their faces.
For wizards, Christmas was likewise the most important festival of the year, but their way of celebrating was vastly different from the Muggles'.
They preferred to stay indoors, listening to the crackle and pop of a fire roaring in the hearth. They would gather beneath a Christmas tree draped in silver frost and decorated with mistletoe, discussing Quidditch or the latest news from the Daily Prophet.
As a result, Diagon Alley, the heart of the wizarding commercial world, was always particularly desolate in the days leading up to the New Year. And that was to say nothing of Knockturn Alley, which was sparsely populated even on a busy day.
Rattle, rattle, CLANK!
Amos Blaine, his form concealed beneath a wide, black cloak, stepped off the Gringotts-style cart. Though his stomach was churning, he had a detached persona to maintain, so he could only project an air of calm indifference.
The air hung thick with the putrid stench of fermented slug slime steeping in rotten frog guts. The uneven ground was damp and slick. Rows of inverted torches floated in mid-air, casting an eerie, phosphorescent green glow that made the massive, fan-shaped cavern feel as spectral as the underworld.
Amos's eyes scanned the scene. Two hundred feet to his left, in the 'Pet' Market, a mountain troll nearly fifteen feet tall was slumped listlessly against the ground, its four limbs tightly bound by chains as thick as a man's arm. It was so still it almost blended into the dark rock wall behind it.
Its owner was a gap-toothed old witch from Moldova. She had brought the troll here hoping to sell it for a good price, which she desperately needed to treat her Dragon Pox.
Unfortunately for her, it had been for sale for two years now, and still, there were no takers.
At that moment, the old witch was leaning against one of her slave's massive toes, muttering and cursing at a large group of house-elves nearby, blaming them for polluting the environment.
They were a group of house-elves who had lost their masters and were now, technically, free.
Of course, using the word 'free' to describe a house-elf was like using the word 'beast' to describe a centaur; it was an insult, not a compliment.
These pitiful creatures had once belonged to minor wizarding families or obscure magical sects whose masters had, for one reason or another, been lost to the river of time. This left the elves forcibly freed. For a house-elf, having no master was a terrifying fate, for it stripped them of their very reason for being. So, the little creatures gathered here on their own accord, hoping to find a new master to serve.
But in truth, apart from a few Dark Wizards looking for living subjects to test their curses and potions on, no one ever paid them any mind.
The troll, however, was quite friendly with the elves. Amos had once personally witnessed the creature, mad with hunger, snatch up several of them with a single swipe of its hand, stuffing them into its mouth and crunching on them with sickening delight.
Besides the troll and the house-elves, in a 'Pet' Market that smelled worse than a public lavatory, you could find many other interesting specimens. For instance, centaurs exiled from their herds, Veela captured by chance (always a hot commodity), vampires locked in cages, or even Irish Leprechauns—all excellent living materials.
Basically, with the exception of highly regulated and taboo magical creatures like dragons and unicorns, you could find almost any known magical creature in existence for sale in this underworld market.
To his right, nestled against the cavern wall, the trade market retained a crude, medieval European style. However, the goods sold from the simple stalls laid out on the ground were anything but simple.
There were tomes of Dark Magic originating from Ancient Greece, potions that promised a massive boost in magical power but came with unspecified side effects, and alchemical devices capable of extinguishing life over a wide area in an instant. Compared to these items, the goods sold at Borgin and Burkes were little more than prank products for schoolboys. Here, Devil's Snare was only worthy of being a decorative potted plant.
Amos had even seen an Italian wizard selling a Cursed Seed of the Black Death, the very plague that had decimated Europe centuries ago. According to the seller, his version was weakened, but if it were to spread, wiping out an entire city of Muggles wouldn't be much of a problem.
Of course, the Cursed Seed carried a price tag that matched its devastating power. Otherwise, Amos might have actually been tempted to buy it, purely for research.
This was the shadow side of the wizarding world—a truly lawless place.
After a moment, feeling the nausea subside, Amos started walking toward the center of the cavern, gradually melting into the sparse crowd.
Most of the people here were cloaked in black, unwilling to show their true faces. Only a few reckless madmen and wizards just passing through Britain dared to expose themselves before the Ministry's hidden observers.
Yes, you heard that right.
Aurors were secretly stationed in this underworld beneath Knockturn Alley. However, their presence was merely to monitor and ensure that nothing too 'out of line' occurred, not to eradicate the place entirely. To do so would mean declaring war on every ancient magical sect and Dark Wizard remaining in Britain.
In the center of the cavern, a square area was enclosed by a low granite wall. This was the underworld's commission market. At one end of the enclosure stood a tall notice board made of Snakewood. Pinned to it were hundreds of parchment requests, each shimmering with the crimson glow of a magical contract, silently waiting for someone to accept their terms.
Amos stood before the board, his eyes scanning the glowing notices. Finding no commissions of value, he turned, found a stone bench, and sat down to wait for his contact.
Perhaps because of the approaching New Year, the area was nearly empty. The only other people in the vast space were two figures whispering to each other about ten feet away to his right.
One of them, an old wizard of about eighty dressed in a coarse, brown robe, his bald head covered in pustules and sores, looked up as Amos sat down.
He seemed to sneer at Amos's choice to hide his face behind a swirling vortex of distorted magic. The old wizard's lips peeled back to reveal two or three yellowed teeth, and a foul breath hissed from his mouth. His face was a terrifying sight: one half was as black and charred as burnt tree bark, while the other was covered in pink, writhing, tentacle-like growths of flesh.
However, when the old wizard's eyes fell upon the golden serpent embroidered on Amos's collar, his disgusting smile vanished. He gave a respectful nod and quickly looked away.
Amos, however, found himself intrigued by the old wizard's fascinating face.
If he wasn't mistaken, that was the kind of injury caused by a catastrophic backfire from a failed soul-splitting spell—the kind used to create a Horcrux.
And as far as Amos knew, there was only one thing that could slow the spread of such magical damage. The conversation he was now overhearing confirmed his suspicions.
"It's very difficult to get, and very dangerous," said the wizard across from the old man, a figure as thin as a bamboo pole. He carefully brought out a glass from beneath his black robe. Inside, a liquid shimmered with a silvery light, incredibly conspicuous in the gloom of the underworld. "You know there's only one place in all of Britain to find a unicorn!"
The old wizard understood the veiled threat perfectly. He let out a sharp, cold laugh and pulled a fist-sized chunk of Mithril from his own robes, tossing it onto the table.
"Of course, of course. Not many people here are willing to cross Dumbledore. I've been waiting for this for some time. You have courage, I admire that—"
Transactions in the underworld were always swift, with little room for haggling. If a deal couldn't be reached, one simply eliminated the other party.
Amos watched the old wizard with a flicker of amusement behind his distorted magical veil. He saw him take the glass, sniff it carefully, and then pour the contents into his mouth.
There was a crucial point to be made here.
Due to the shortcomings of traditional magical education, wizards from old sects could often become masters of one specific field, while remaining as frighteningly ignorant as a first-year apprentice in others. The school-based system of modern magical education was unlikely to produce any world-shaking talents, but it at least ensured a balanced foundation.
And a balanced knowledge was incredibly important.
After all, any competent Hogwarts student with a passing grade on their O.W.L.s would not have been fooled by a Confusing Concoction that had merely been transfigured and spiked with a couple of unicorn tail hairs.
Author's Note: Please save to your library and vote! Thank you!