Knockturn Alley.
As the largest black-market wizarding street in Britain's magical world, it was nearly as famous as Diagon Alley itself. Even Hogwarts students knew how dangerous it was.
Of course, compared to Diagon Alley, this place was far darker and filthier.
Many Dark wizards loitered in the alley. They wore tattered robes and stank like beggars — though in truth, most of them were little better. Compared to them, even Snape could be considered clean and tidy.
These Dark wizards spent their days wandering the alleys or lying in corners, their eyes hidden beneath matted hair as they sized up every passerby.
If they were lucky enough to spot a young witch or wizard who had wandered in by mistake — that was a rare treat.
To many Dark wizards obsessed with forbidden arts, young wizards were the finest kind of prey.
Of course, devouring them outright would be wasteful. Wizards themselves were valuable ingredients for dark experiments — just like certain magical creatures.
And though the Ministry of Magic was fully aware of what Knockturn Alley had become, it lacked both the power and the will to clean it up.
It wasn't only because many pure-blood families and even Ministry officials secretly dealt with these Dark wizards; more importantly, Knockturn Alley's existence served a purpose — it kept all this filth concentrated in one place.
Like a rubbish dump, it was better to contain the garbage here than to let it scatter across the country.
Wrapped tightly in his cloak, Igor Karkaroff wrinkled his nose in disgust as he walked. He stepped cautiously, as though terrified of brushing against something filthy.
So many years had passed since he'd last been in Britain, and Knockturn Alley still reeked as horribly as ever. What made it worse were the filthy, low-born wretches staring at him so boldly, like predators sizing up their prey.
Vile creatures.
Ignoring the stares, Karkaroff followed his memory toward an old apothecary.
The moment he pushed open the door, a nauseating wave of potion fumes hit him in the face.
The shop was dimly lit, its shelves crammed with cheap brews — many clearly failed batches, judging by the stench.
No one who did business here dared display genuine goods openly, and customers usually came seeking contraband anyway.
Without glancing at the shelves, Karkaroff headed straight for the counter.
Behind it sat a hunched old witch with sparse gray hair and a face that looked as if it had been splashed with acid.
"What do you want?"
Her eyelids drooped lazily, her voice rasping like smoke scraping a pipe.
"Polyjuice Potion," Karkaroff said in a low voice.
"Ninety Galleons. Twenty down, come back in a month to collect," the witch replied without looking up.
Ninety Galleons wasn't cheap, but the ingredients for Polyjuice were costly — and few could brew it properly.
"I need it now — and the effect must last at least three hours."
Karkaroff was no fool. In Knockturn Alley, cheap imitations were everywhere. Depending on quality, Polyjuice Potion could last anywhere from ten minutes to twelve hours. If you didn't know better, you might end up with a worthless batch that barely worked for fifteen minutes — and no one would take responsibility afterward.
The witch studied him for a few seconds, then said coolly, "That'll cost extra. Immediate stock doesn't come cheap."
Freshly brewed Polyjuice was difficult to make and even harder to preserve, so of course the price would skyrocket — especially here in Knockturn Alley.
"— Five hundred Galleons."
Five hundred?!
Karkaroff almost stopped breathing.
The Daily Prophet's Grand Prize was only seven hundred Galleons — and this crone dared charge five hundred for one potion? Robbery!
Then again, this was Knockturn Alley.
Though furious, Karkaroff restrained himself. Five hundred Galleons was steep, but hardly beyond him. As Durmstrang's Headmaster, he had siphoned off plenty from the Scandinavian Ministry.
Without hesitation, he threw a heavy pouch of Galleons onto the counter.
"Fetch it. And if the quality's poor—" He raised his wand, his threat unmistakable.
The witch didn't even flinch, calmly counting the coins. She'd had wands pointed at her head countless times before; such displays didn't scare her anymore.
After confirming the gold was real and the amount correct, she grinned, limped into the back room, and soon returned holding a small bottle.
"Polyjuice Potion. Effective for four hours. Just add a piece of the person's body — a hair, fingernail, whatever." She chuckled nastily.
Karkaroff didn't respond. He pretended to inspect the potion carefully.
In truth, he wasn't skilled enough to judge its quality — but the one inside his sleeve was.
From within the folds of his robe, a black snake with a small notch on its head silently poked out its tongue.
'Barely three hours at best,' came Voldemort's cold voice directly inside Karkaroff's mind. 'But it will do.'
The serpent withdrew again, hiding beneath the sleeve.
Satisfied, Karkaroff pocketed the potion without arguing over the time.
'Karkaroff… someone's following you.'
Voldemort's whisper echoed in his mind once more.
"Rest assured, my Lord," Karkaroff replied under his breath. "I've already noticed them."
Of course he had. He wasn't Durmstrang's Headmaster for nothing.
"Those filthy rats dare stalk us? I'll take care of every one of them."
'Excellent,' Voldemort hissed approvingly. 'I nearly forgot — you are not like that fool Quirrell. Dispose of them quickly, then bring me Harry Potter's blood. I can hardly wait to live again.'
(End of Chapter)