Narrow and chilling.
That was Melvin's first impression of Knockturn Alley.
The street was nearly half the width of Diagon Alley, with shops crammed crookedly on either side, their low-hanging eaves blocking out the sunlight. The moment he stepped into the alley, the world dimmed, and a faint, clammy coldness enveloped him.
Dark, sticky sludge pooled in the corners of the walls, with mold spreading freely.
A slick, squelching sensation came from underfoot. Before Melvin could glance down, a sharp, grating voice pierced the air.
"Lost, are we, dear?"
An old witch seemed to materialize out of nowhere, standing before him.
Melvin caught a whiff of something foul, like rotting fish guts, emanating from the wicker basket she carried. It was covered with a burlap cloth, hiding its contents, but dark red liquid seeped through the gaps in the weave, dripping onto the cobblestones.
Unsure of her intentions or what kind of trade she was peddling, Melvin tossed a few silver Sickles into her basket. "Take me to Borgin and Burkes. If we get there smoothly, I'll pay the same again."
"Happy to serve," the witch replied, her face splitting into a grin that revealed moss-covered teeth. "This way, sir. With me leading, the rats in the gutters won't bother you."
Melvin knew to follow local customs and raised no objections.
He trailed her into an even narrower passage, the squelching sensation returning underfoot. Glancing down, he saw moss in the cracks of the stones and patches of dark, half-dried liquid—possibly animal blood.
The deeper they went, the darker it got.
Occasionally, cloaked figures hurried past, hoods pulled low, revealing only a glimpse of a chin or, in one case, scales.
As a commercial street, Knockturn Alley had shops open for business, though most lacked signs. Their windows displayed grim wares: neatly arranged shrunken heads, a black iron cage housing an eight-eyed giant spider, a troll hide stretched over a wooden frame, and a copper bell with a finger bone as its clapper.
Some shops had staff soliciting customers.
Wizards of indeterminate age lurked in doorways, their eerie gazes sizing up passersby, while whispers drifted from within.
Noticing Melvin's slight frown, the old witch lowered her voice. "Don't let them spook you. Those aren't Muggle or wizard heads and bones—just house-elf ones."
Melvin shifted his gaze. "How much farther?"
"Just past the candle shop."
The candle shop soon came into view, marked by an old wooden sign preserved with wax that encased dead flies. The faded lettering read: Knockturn Alley, No. 12.
Just beyond was Borgin and Burkes, the only shop with a clearly visible sign.
The witch pocketed seven more Sickles, her grin wide, the moss on her teeth a vibrant, watery green. "Need a guide back, sir? Just a few Knuts."
"No need."
"Happy shopping, then."
Melvin watched her basket-toting figure shuffle off, then glanced at the shop's sign. The black lacquered wood was pitted and scarred, the copper lettering stained with green verdigris. The last letter dangled precariously, swaying as if it might fall and brain a passerby.
The shop's window was caked with grime resembling crusted eye gunk, save for a small patch wiped clean by a hand. The glass was too aged to see through clearly.
Pushing open the door, a rusty bell gave a surprisingly crisp chime.
A string of bone ornaments hung on the doorframe—slender, hollow bones, likely from some bird's pelvis, clattering hollowly against the wood. Kerosene lamps dangled from the ceiling, their shades encrusted with dead insects, filling the room with a faint musty odor.
A stooped man with slicked-back, greasy hair appeared behind the counter. His squinting eyes scanned Melvin, noting a new face. When his gaze lingered on the ring on Melvin's left hand, a fawning smile spread across his face.
"Welcome, sir, from afar," he said, his voice as oily as his hair. "What may I call you?"
"William," Melvin replied evenly, borrowing the name of an Ilvermorny Pukwudgie.
"A pleasure, Mr. William. How can I assist you?"
"I need some items—things you can't find in regular shops."
Melvin's tone was cool as he wandered the aisles, casually inspecting the goods.
"Borgin and Burkes is the wise choice," Mr. Borgin said, stepping out from behind the counter, his voice dripping with charm. "This here is the Hand of Glory. Insert a candle, and only the holder can see its light—a favorite of thieves and rogues."
The item was a shriveled hand, including the forearm, its pale, desiccated flesh mounted on a base, the hand serving as a candelabra with fingers slightly curled.
Melvin feigned disdain. "Sounds like a cheap trick for thieves and lowlifes."
"It can have… unexpected uses," Borgin countered.
"Wrap it up, then."
"Pardon?" Borgin blinked.
"I said wrap it up. I'll take the Hand of Glory."
"But you haven't asked the price…"
"This is our first meeting, a show of my good faith," Melvin said, locking eyes with him. "I trust you'll match my sincerity, Mr. Borgin. Am I right?"
"My honor, sir," Borgin replied, meeting Melvin's dark, piercing gaze. He'd planned to name an exorbitant price but faltered, mumbling, "Forty-three Galleons. That's what I paid the Burkes ten years ago."
"Make it fifty," Melvin said softly. "We're not doing business just this once."
"Your generosity is appreciated," Borgin said, his tone notably more genuine.
"Now, let's see what else you've got."
The dim shop filled with Borgin's oily pitch, punctuated by Melvin's curt remarks.
"This is a hangman's rope. Three hundred years ago, a wizard turned Incarcerous into Dark Magic. Instead of binding, the ropes would hang enemies…"
"Clever Dark Magic. A hanging enemy can't cast spells, and without spells, they can't escape."
"Exactly. This rope's made from the skin of seven wizards and the hair of six witches, soaked in merperson blood under a full moon. Its curses fester, strangling sleeping wizards in the night."
"Any wizard with half a brain—or even a Muggle—could break free before choking."
"Here's an opal necklace, its ancient curse has claimed nineteen Muggle lives."
"The curse is nearly faded."
"A choking puppet, with ruby eyes. When someone lets their guard down, its fingers twitch toward their neck…"
"And an annoyed customer smashes it with a fist?"
"A Vanishing Cabinet, for hiding or transporting magical items."
"Where's its pair?"
"…"
Melvin didn't buy anything else, and Borgin could only offer a wry smile, unable to argue.
Knockturn Alley's existence was tacitly permitted by the Ministry of Magic—not because they couldn't control it, but because they chose not to. As long as the alley's "rats" didn't scurry out in broad daylight to provoke trouble, the Ministry's "cats" wouldn't chase them into the sewers. Dark wizards could operate here, provided they didn't harm wizards or Muggle outside.
Tucked deep in the alley, Borgin and Burkes had to mind the Ministry's reputation, avoiding openly selling overly dangerous Dark Magic items. What remained were novelties that sounded impressive but were laughably ineffective for serious curses or harm.
Finishing his pitch, Borgin's oily tone grew strained. "Our goods come from distinguished wizarding families—rare, ancient magical artifacts."
"I'm looking for something more… innovative."
Borgin paused. "Innovative?"
"Items blending magic and Muggle technology."
Melvin's voice was soft but clear. Borgin opened his mouth to object but froze under those dark eyes.
"Mr. William, I assure you, no deception here," Borgin said, his face flickering with hesitation. "Muggle have made some curious trinkets, and some wizards enjoy tinkering with them. Knockturn Alley used to sell things like glass candles with metal wicks that could be lit with magic, or bicycles, clocks…"
Melvin's interest piqued.
"But since Umbridge took over the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office, she's cracked down hard, treating it as her ticket to promotion. She'd lock up any wizard touching Muggle items in Azkaban if she could. No one dares deal in that trade now."
Melvin frowned, pressing, "No way around it?"
Borgin shook his head, hesitating.
After a moment's thought, the goodwill Melvin had built paid off. "No one's trading, but some wizards tinker for fun, sharing only with like-minded folk," Borgin said cautiously.
"Anything related to photography?"
"I can't say for sure," Borgin replied, shaking his head. "I know they're messing with Muggle items, but what exactly they're making? Only they know. If you're interested, I can make introductions."
New to London and without other contacts, Melvin agreed.
They exchanged contact details—anonymously, one-way.
Stepping out of Borgin and Burkes, Melvin felt reasonably satisfied. He hadn't found any must-have items, but the trip wasn't fruitless. At the very least, he'd learned some wizards were dabbling in Muggle technology.
For a soon-to-be Muggle Studies professor, that was promising news.
By evening, the sky had darkened.
Clutching a finely wrapped wooden box, Melvin retraced his steps through Knockturn Alley's narrow path.
Night fell faster than expected. Some shops had already shuttered, while others hung copper lanterns with flickering candles, their pale light making the street feel even eerier.
Knockturn Alley wasn't lively at night—Dark wizards were human, not nocturnal creatures.
Passing the shop selling eight-eyed spiders, Melvin slowed. He recalled that the next shop sold troll hides, but it had been replaced by a narrow lane, barely wide enough for two to walk abreast, flanked by brick walls.
After a moment's thought, he ventured in. The direction seemed right.
The lane grew quieter.
Turning a corner, Melvin stopped.
Two cloaked figures stood ahead, their boots grinding rat skulls into the cobblestone cracks.
A sound came from behind. Turning, he saw two more figures.
Brick walls hemmed him in on both sides—where they'd come from was anyone's guess.
"…"
So much for Knockturn Alley being a "commercial street."
Oddly, Melvin felt a flicker of relief.
Knockturn Alley was notorious for its Dark wizard population, but by day, it seemed tame—just creepy wares and no real menace. Borgin had been a rule-abiding merchant.
He'd thought the alley's Dark wizards maintained a delicate balance, turning it into a harmonious trade hub.
Apparently, the real business happened not in shops but in the depths of these lanes.
With no streetlights and no shops nearby, only faint moonlight illuminated the scene. Melvin studied the four Dark wizards.
They seemed seasoned, all wearing moleskin masks, their builds concealed by linen cloaks. Each reeked of dragon claw powder, a trick to throw off Aurors tracking by scent.
As Melvin sized them up, they studied him.
"New guest in Knockturn Alley, eh?" a raspy voice said from beneath a moleskin mask. "Borgin's shop isn't the only place worth visiting. Other goods are worth your coin."
"You're really here to do business?" Melvin asked.
"Money in one hand, goods in the other."
"What're you selling?"
"A map of Knockturn Alley."
"Here I thought you built this road and were charging a toll."
"Twelve Galleons per map."
"Bit steep, but not unreasonable."
"Minimum order, twelve maps."
"Bundling sales isn't a sustainable business model."
Melvin tried patience—fitting for a soon-to-be professor. "How about this: I'll buy one map for ten Sickles, a new customer discount. Throw in maps of other British wizarding villages, as detailed as possible."
"We only sell Knockturn Alley maps. No haggling."
"Then you're just robbers, aren't you?"
Melvin's patience ran thinner than expected, draining quickly. He glanced at the lane ahead and behind, then up at the sky.
The narrow passage left him flanked, a tricky spot.
The four shady "businessmen" sensed the deal breaking down, tightening their grips on their wands. The air grew tense.
Melvin noted their lack of dueling etiquette with mild disappointment. He opened the wooden box, recalling Borgin's words about the Hand of Glory: "It can have unexpected uses."