December 27, 1992.
Christmas had just passed, and Oxford Street in London's West End was already teeming with life. Piles of Muggles dressed in brand-new clothes spilled onto the pavements. Children ran around laughing and shrieking, young people meeting up exchanged heartfelt New Year's greetings, and everyone carried in their hearts a hope for a better life — a hope that not even the swirling heavy snowfall could extinguish from their faces.
For wizards, Christmas was likewise the most important holiday of the year, but the way wizarding families celebrated it was completely different from that of Muggles.
They preferred to stay indoors in the warm, listening to the crackling and popping of the fire in the hearth, sitting beneath a Christmas tree adorned with silver frost and mistletoe, discussing Quidditch or the latest news.
As a result, Diagon Alley — the commercial heart of the wizarding world — always felt especially desolate in the days around New Year, to say nothing of Knockturn Alley, which was sparsely populated even on an ordinary day.
Clank, clank, thud!
Alan stepped down from one of the small Gringotts-style carts, his entire body concealed beneath a voluminous black cloak. Even though his stomach was still roiling violently, in order to maintain his aloof persona he could only force himself to appear calm and unruffled.
The air was thick with the putrid stench of fermented slug mucus soaked with rotting frog entrails. The uneven ground was slick and wet. Rows of inverted torches floated neatly in mid-air, their pale greenish flames casting an eerie, ghostly glow over the enormous fan-shaped underground cavern.
Alan's gaze swept around. Two hundred feet to his left, in the "pet" market, a fifteen-foot-tall troll sat slumped listlessly on the ground, its four limbs shackled by iron chains as thick as soup bowls. It was so still it almost blended into the pitch-black rock wall behind it.
Its owner was a gap-toothed old witch from Moldova who had brought the creature here hoping to sell it for a good price — money she could then use to treat the dragon pox ravaging her body.
Unfortunately, it had already been on sale for two years and still no one was interested.
At that moment the old witch was leaning against the troll's toes, hurling abuse at a large cluster of house-elves nearby, accusing them of polluting the environment.
They were a group of house-elves who had lost their masters and thus gained their "freedom."
Of course, describing house-elves as "free" was about as accurate — and as welcome — as calling centaurs "beasts."
Most of these pitiful little creatures had once belonged to small wizarding families or obscure magical traditions. Their masters had vanished into the river of time for various reasons, leaving the elves forcibly "liberated."
For a house-elf, having no master was a terrifying thing — it was almost equivalent to having their very reason for existence stripped away. So the little ones had gathered here of their own accord, hoping to find a new master.
But truthfully, aside from a few Dark wizards who needed living subjects to test curses and potions, almost no one paid them any attention.
The troll, on the other hand, was quite "friendly" toward the house-elves. Alan had once personally witnessed that starving-mad troll slap several of them flat, stuff them into its mouth, and crunch them down with obvious relish.
Besides trolls and house-elves, in this "pet" market that smelled not much better than a toilet, one could also encounter many other interesting specimens: centaurs who had lost the protection of their herd, captured veela, vampires locked in cages, or Irish leprechauns — all excellent living research material.
Basically, aside from especially taboo magical creatures like dragons and unicorns, almost every currently existing magical beast in the wizarding world could be found in the underground pet market.
On the right side, beneath the cavern wall, the trading bazaar still retained the crude aesthetic of medieval Europe. Yet the goods casually laid out on the ground stalls were far from innocent.
Books of black magic originating from ancient Greece, potions that dramatically increased magical power but came with unclear and dangerous side effects, alchemical objects capable of instantly wiping out life on a large scale — compared to these things, the merchandise sold at Borgin and Burkes could only be considered prank toys for young wizards. Devil's Snare here was only fit to be used as a decorative potted plant.
Alan had even seen, at the stall of an Italian wizard, a curse-seed of the Black Death that had once ravaged all of Europe. According to the seller, the version he had was a weakened strain — but if released, wiping out the Muggle population of an entire city would not be particularly difficult.
Naturally, the curse-seed carried a price as astonishing as its effects; otherwise Alan might actually have been tempted to buy it for study.
And this was the dark underbelly of the magical world — a true lawless zone.
After a while, feeling slightly better, Alan began walking toward the center of the cavern, gradually blending into the sparse crowd.
Most of the people moving about here wore black robes and had no desire to show their true faces.
Only a few reckless lunatics — or wizards merely passing through Britain — dared show themselves in front of the Aurors secretly stationed here for surveillance.
Yes, you heard correctly.
The underground world of Knockturn Alley did have Aurors secretly posted — but their purpose was only to monitor that nothing too outrageous happened here, not to eliminate the place. Unless the Ministry of Magic wanted to declare war on every surviving ancient magical lineage and Dark wizard in Britain.
At the very center of the cavern was a square area enclosed by low granite walls — the commission market of the underground world. At one end of the enclosure stood a tall notice board. On the snakewood panel were pasted hundreds of commission notices, each shimmering with the crimson glow of magical contracts, quietly waiting for someone to tear them down.
Alan stood beneath the board and scanned once around. Finding no commissions of interest, he turned, found a stone bench, and sat down to wait for his trading partner.
Perhaps because of the New Year, there were hardly any people here either. In the vast area, only two individuals stood about ten feet behind and to his right, whispering to each other.
One of them — an eighty-something-year-old wizard wearing a coarse brown sackcloth robe, his bald head covered in oozing pustules and scabs — heard the movement and raised his head to glance at Alan.
Apparently disdainful of the way Alan hid his true appearance behind a swirling vortex of distorting magic, the old man bared a mouth containing only three or four yellowed teeth, hissing out foul breath. One half of his face looked like charred old tree bark; the other half sprouted tender pink, tentacle-like fleshy tendrils that writhed madly. The overall effect was utterly grotesque.
But when the old wizard noticed the golden serpent embroidered at Alan's collar, he immediately restrained his revolting grin, gave a polite nod, and looked away.
Alan, however, found the old wizard's interesting face rather intriguing.
If he guessed correctly, that damage had been caused by a failed soul-splitting curse during the creation of a Horcrux, resulting in severe magical backlash.
As far as Alan knew, only one substance could temporarily halt the spread of such curse damage — and the conversation that followed between the two men confirmed his suspicion.
"Very hard to get, and very dangerous. You should know there's only one place in all of Britain where you can find a unicorn!"
The skinny wizard opposite the old man drew a glass vial out from beneath his black robes. Inside, a silvery liquid glimmered brightly — extremely conspicuous in the dim underground world. He spoke cautiously.
The old wizard understood the implication. He let out a shrill, mocking laugh, then pulled a fist-sized lump of pure mithril from his own robes and tossed it onto the table.
"Of course, of course. Even here, not many people are willing to touch Dumbledore's bad side. I've been waiting for this for quite a while. You've got guts — I admire that—"
Transactions in the underground world were always straightforward; haggling was rare. If talks really broke down, one simply killed the other party.
Alan watched the old wizard with interest. When he saw the man take the glass vial, give it a careful sniff, and then pour the contents down his throat, a trace of amusement flickered across the face hidden behind the hazy light and shadow.
One thing had to be mentioned here.
Because of the gaps in traditional magical education, lineage wizards could often become extraordinarily proficient in one narrow field while remaining as ignorant as a brand-new student in many others. Modern school-based magical education might not produce many geniuses, but at least it produced balance.
Balanced knowledge was extremely important.
At the very least, in the current transaction, any Hogwarts student who had achieved an acceptable O.W.L. level would never have been fooled by a Confusing Concoction laced with two unicorn hairs and disguised with a Transfiguration charm.
TL/N : Drop Powerstones!!