Reducto!
A ghostly blue beam shot forth.
Melvin flicked his wand, its tip meeting the curse head-on.
The blue beam struck the transparent shield conjured by his Protego, producing a dull metallic clang. The hastily cast Reducto lacked power, and with a deft twist of his wand, Melvin sent the curse hurtling back along its path, faster than before.
A slight jolt ran through his wrist.
The dark wizard in the moleskin mask dodged clumsily, while the other three quickly unleashed their own spells in a coordinated assault.
Stupefy!
Petrificus Totalus!
"…"
Melvin countered the incoming curses with ease, weaving through the onslaught from both front and back.
From their earlier conversation and the speed and skill of their spellcasting, he quickly assessed the group. The wizard in the moleskin mask was clearly the leader, with skill roughly on par with a Magical Congress Auror. The other three were average adult wizards at best—the kind who likely scraped through their Defense Against the Dark Arts classes at school.
It made Melvin muse to himself: even dark wizards from Hogwarts varied wildly in quality.
Still, facing four dark wizards in this environment was no small challenge.
The narrow alley offered no cover, with enemies on both sides. Spells flew straight at him, and he relied entirely on Protego to deflect them. One wand against four was, admittedly, a bit of a stretch.
But a wizard's duel wasn't a turn-based game. The constraints of the environment applied equally to both sides, and leveraging the surroundings was the key to gaining the upper hand. As a stage designer, Melvin knew better than anyone how to use his environment.
A subtle pulse of magic rippled along the brick walls on either side.
Boom…
A silent Transfiguration enveloped the walls. The bricks began to writhe, stretching like vines, and in moments, they sealed off the top of the alley.
As the last sliver of dim skylight vanished, the moleskin-masked leader caught a glimpse of Melvin's movements. He pulled a shriveled hand from a box—a relic with curled fingers cradling a single candle.
Melvin blew gently, and the flame flared to life, a pale white glow flickering briefly before fading.
Darkness swallowed the alley, engulfing everything.
The dark wizards quickly grasped Melvin's strategy but had no idea how to counter it—or stop him.
The alley was only a few feet wide, almost perfectly straight, with no cover but just enough space to dodge. Moments ago, with clear visibility, they could gang up on Melvin. Now, casting spells recklessly risked hitting their own allies.
A black curtain of shadow draped the alley, weighing heavily on the four dark wizards' minds. The air grew thick, their breathing—or perhaps their enemy's—audible in the stillness.
The leader's throat tightened.
Lumos!
A silver light flared as one dark wizard, unable to bear the tension, tried to illuminate the surroundings. But raising a wand to cast Lumos left them defenseless. Melvin had been waiting for just such a moment. The instant the light sparked, a silent Repelling Charm struck.
Bang.
The curse hit the wizard square in the chest, sending them crashing into the brick wall behind with a muffled thud.
The remaining three froze, their breaths catching. The silent spell gave no clue as to what had hit—only a flash of green light, and their comrade was silent.
Judging by the color, it could have been a Repelling Charm… or one of the Unforgivable Curses.
"…"
The leader took a deep breath, raising his wand to maintain a Protego, staring warily into the darkness ahead. His voice wavered as he spoke. "Sir, we're willing to pay for our ignorance and offense, if you'd only grant us your forgiveness."
Bang.
Another muffled thud, and a second comrade fell silent nearby.
The leader swallowed hard, his throat feeling as tight as a needle. He tried to speak, but only stammered incoherently.
"S-Sir… we… you…"
Click, click, click…
Soft footsteps echoed in the pitch-black alley, coming from ahead—or perhaps behind—like the approach of Death itself.
Huff… huff…
The steady breathing of a nearby comrade was clear, though reassuringly calm.
Sweat beaded on the leader's forehead. Then, a spark of inspiration struck.
"Sir! Sir! We can offer maps of every wizarding village in Britain! And Ireland, Belgium, Denmark… and, and! There's a wizarding island in Norway—we can get that too!"
"Oh?"
The voice came from right beside him. A pale candlelight flickered into existence, illuminating Melvin's curious expression. "What's the price this time?"
The light also revealed the alley. In the dim, blurry corners of his vision, the leader saw his unconscious comrades sprawled on the ground, their fates unclear.
The companion he thought had been standing beside him had long been replaced by the enemy lurking in the dark.
The leader's pupils contracted in shock, his heart nearly stopping. Standing next to Melvin, he glanced down at his fallen allies, lips trembling, unable to form words.
Melvin, unfazed, picked up the wooden box and tucked the Hand of Glory back inside. "So, what's the price for your maps?"
The leader opened his mouth, then gritted his teeth. "If you'll let me take them, sir, the maps are yours for free."
"I'm not in the business of trafficking wizards…"
Melvin shook his head. "Let's say twelve Galleons. But I'll need you to mark the size of these wizarding settlements, their population, and—if you can manage it—the ratio of pure-bloods to half-bloods, property prices, and average incomes."
"Huh?"
The dark wizard's mind blanked.
"I can pay upfront. Have the maps sent by owl to the Savoy Hotel…"
Melvin stepped closer, pressing his wand tip against the man's arm. "But to ensure the deal goes smoothly, we'll need to sign a contract."
Minutes later, dim daylight filtered back into the alley.
The moleskin-masked leader stood at the alley's mouth, clutching a coin purse. His three companions lay at his feet, sleeping soundly. Each had their left sleeve rolled up, revealing a blue stamp on their arm—a single-stroke ouroboros.
The figure who left the mark was already striding out of the alley.
Melvin reflected on the day's events, his steps brisk.
Though the encounter had its hiccups, the deal was struck successfully. Business, after all, was about haggling.
The stamp wasn't the Dark Mark—just a small curse, more for show than harm.
He glanced back at the alley's mouth.
Shadows flitted through the gloomy corners, accompanied by faint rustling. Sometimes it was an earless black Kneazle, sometimes a house-elf hauling a wooden crate. The nearest shop to the exit was an apothecary, its window lined with glass jars where eyeballs bobbed in purple potion.
Knockturn Alley was like a damp, forgotten intestine, curled in the crevices of London's brick walls, abandoned by Diagon Alley.
Half an hour later, the Leaky Cauldron.
The pub was at its liveliest, with wizards crowding the bar, hoisting pints of ale and eagerly discussing the day's events. The noise was deafening, enough to make ears ache.
Old Tom sat quietly in a corner, clutching a copy of The Daily Prophet, pretending to read intently.
Melvin ordered a butterbeer and, noticing Tom's demeanor, couldn't help but ask, "Tom, why're you hiding back here instead of tending to customers?"
"I'm in the depths of profound sorrow," Tom replied.
"…"
Melvin fell silent. Nearly two weeks in, he still wasn't used to the British wizards' way of conversing.
"Why the sorrow?"
"The Daily Prophet."
"What, is it shutting down?"
"No, no…" Tom shook his head, still holding the paper. "The Prophet's history is as old as the Leaky Cauldron. As long as there are wizards on this land, it'll never fold."
"Then what is it? An obituary for an old schoolmate or friend?"
"Nah, they don't have to run a pub—they'll probably outlive me."
"Not a peer, then. A family elder? A professor from your school days? Or maybe a childhood crush next door?" Melvin was particularly curious about that last one.
"Er…"
Seeing the guesses veering into absurd territory, Tom quickly clarified, "I'm upset because the paper printed news about me but didn't mention my name."
Melvin's interest piqued. He took the paper and scanned it, his eyes landing on the front-page headline—
Gringotts Break-In Investigation Ongoing
The investigation into this afternoon's illegal break-in at Gringotts continues. It is widely believed to be the work of unknown dark witches and wizards. Gringotts' goblins reiterated today that nothing was stolen. The vault searched by the intruders had, in fact, been emptied earlier that morning. A Gringotts goblin spokesperson stated this afternoon: "What was stored in the vault is no one's business. Please refrain from interfering."
Melvin studied the paper, then glanced at Tom, his expression thoughtful.
Tom sensed something off. "Oi, that's not what I meant! It's the story on the second page!"
Melvin flipped the page.
The Boy Who Lived Appears in the Wizarding World! Harry Potter Spotted in Diagon Alley Shopping for School Supplies
London: This morning, the Boy Who Lived, Harry Potter, accompanied by Hogwarts gamekeeper Rubeus Hagrid, made his first visit to Diagon Alley to purchase school supplies. The boy who defeated You-Know-Who as an infant officially reconnected with wizarding society on his eleventh birthday. At 10:15 a.m., a commotion erupted inside the Leaky Cauldron…
Tom sighed, muttering wistfully, "They mentioned the Leaky Cauldron, so why not say it was me who first spotted his lightning scar and shook his hand?"
"What, should they also mention Quirinius Quirrell as the second to shake his hand, and Dedalus Diggle as the third?"
"How'd you know that?" Tom looked puzzled. "I don't recall you being in the pub then."
"The whole bar's been talking about it. My ears are practically calloused from hearing it."
"It's Harry Potter, the boy who defeated You-Know-Who! Who wouldn't get excited hearing his name or seeing his face again?"
"Fair point. The pub's been busier than usual, too."
"Mostly because it's nearly the start of term."
"Yeah, term's about to begin."
Melvin sipped his butterbeer, its salty-sweet taste lingering.
A certain Muggle Studies professor was also about to start his new job.
Over the next month, the Prophet's front page continued to follow the Gringotts break-in, though with no breakthroughs.
The side columns, meanwhile, ran stories about Harry Potter's legendary tale. Rita Skeeter somehow dug up details on the Potter family, consulting dark magic experts to piece together what might have happened that fateful night years ago.
The stories were dramatic, even suggesting secret emotional ties between the Potters and You-Know-Who.
Old Tom, sitting at the bar with the paper, admired Rita Skeeter's courage for not shying away from You-Know-Who's name while spinning such tales.
Melvin, staying on Charing Cross Road, wandered between Diagon Alley and Knockturn Alley, seeking useful goods and gathering intriguing information.
Few patrons mentioned Professor Lewent anymore, but students and parents shopping with Hogwarts lists often spoke his name. Melvin could feel his magical power growing slowly as a result.
He hadn't yet figured out why, but that didn't stop him from reaping the benefits.
Late August, morning.
In a room on the second floor of the Savoy Hotel.
"Four ounces for a small-format photo…"
Melvin stared at the developing potion and photos on the table, frowning.
How small was "small-format"?
Did different qualities of developing potion require the same amount?
"Forget it—more won't hurt."
Giving up on overthinking, Melvin twisted open the oak stopper and poured the clear developing potion into the tray. He submerged the received photos and settled in to wait.
Setting the tray aside, he picked up the map documents and began flipping through them.
"Thetford in Wiltshire;
"Tintworth in Cornwall;
"Upper Flagley in Yorkshire;
…"
Britain had far more wizarding settlements than he'd expected.
And these were just the smaller ones, not counting major villages like Hogsmeade or Godric's Hollow.
Melvin set down the roughly sketched map and turned to the accompanying data sheets.
The small stack of parchment was handwritten, the script neat enough, with no ink blots—but no paragraphs or charts either. Extracting numbers from dense text was a chore.
Though the four dark wizards' skills were limited, their effort was commendable.
It didn't take Melvin long to organize the data into a table, neatly recorded in a nearby notebook.
Studying the table, he tapped the paper lightly, muttering, "Who said Britain only has three thousand wizards? Do they even understand the wizarding world?"
Not only were there more wizarding settlements than he'd imagined, but their populations were larger too. These small places housed hundreds, even thousands, of wizards. Factoring in families and relatives, the numbers were staggering.
No wonder Britain was a wizarding powerhouse.
The photos in the developing potion began to blur at the edges, their colors softening. The borders trembled briefly, and the figures within started to move.
Pedestrians in the images wore eclectic styles—medieval robes, steam-era jackets, Victorian dresses—people from different eras walking the same street. The shops lining the roads were equally mismatched, some with shiny new signs, others weathered and old.
Honeydukes Sweetshop
Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop
…