27 December 1992.
Just after Christmas, Oxford Street in London's West End was bustling with people — crowds of Muggles taking to the streets in brand-new clothes. Children laughed and played, young people exchanged sincere New Year's greetings, and each carried a hope for a better life in their hearts. Even the heavy snowfall could not extinguish the smiles on their faces.
For wizards, Christmas is equally the most important holiday of the year, though wizarding families celebrate it quite differently from Muggles.
They prefer to stay indoors, warm and comfortable, listening to the crackle of flames in the fireplace. Beneath Christmas trees glittering with silver frost and hanging trinkets, they sit together discussing Quidditch or the latest wizarding news.
Therefore, Diagon Alley—the commercial hub of the wizarding world—is always particularly quiet during the New Year, not to mention the already desolate Knockturn Alley.
*Boo-boo, boo-boo, click!*
Amosta, hidden beneath a wide black cloak, stepped down from the same carriage that had arrived at Gringotts. Even though his stomach churned uneasily, in order to maintain his calm, indifferent demeanor, he forced his composure.
The stench of fermented slug mucus and rotting frog entrails floated through the air. The uneven ground was damp, rows of inverted torches hung neatly in midair, and green flames glowed dimly, casting an eerie light across the vast, fan-shaped underground cavern. It was as gloomy as a crypt.
Amosta's eyes widened as he looked to his left. About two hundred feet away, in the "pet market," a fifteen-foot-tall giant monster was slumped weakly on the ground, its limbs bound tightly by thick iron chains. It almost blended into the dark rock wall.
Its owner, an old, sharp-toothed witch from Moldova, had brought it here hoping to sell the beast for a good price—enough to afford treatment for her dragon pox. But alas, it had been two years and still no one was interested.
At that moment, the old witch was leaning on the creature's toes, screaming at a large group of nearby house-elves, accusing them of polluting the area.
They were house-elves who had lost their masters—and thus their purpose.
Of course, using the word "freedom" to describe elves is as absurd as using "beast" to describe centaurs; it will never win gratitude.
Most of these poor creatures had once belonged to minor wizarding families or obscure magical institutions. After their masters vanished in the river of time for one reason or another, the elves were forced into unwanted freedom. Having no master is a terrible thing for a house-elf, as it strips them of the very meaning of existence. Thus, they gathered here, hoping to find new masters.
But honestly, aside from dark wizards seeking living materials for spells or potions, almost no one paid them any attention.
The giant monster, in contrast, was not particularly kind to them. Amosta had once seen it slap several starving elves to death and eat them with obvious delight.
Besides monsters and elves, many other strange beings could be found in this foul-smelling "pet" market—centaurs who had lost their tribes, imprisoned vampires, captured Veela (always in high demand), and Irish dwarfs considered premium material for dark experiments.
Essentially, with the exception of highly restricted magical creatures like dragons and unicorns, nearly all manner of living beings in the wizarding world could be found here.
The trading area beneath the rock wall on the right retained a crude, medieval European style, though the goods laid out on the ground were far from simple curiosities.
Here were black magic tomes dating back to ancient Greece, potions that could greatly enhance magical power but with unknown side effects, and alchemical items capable of destroying life on a massive scale. Compared with these, even the goods in Borgin and Burkes looked like toys for curious Hogwarts students.
Amosta had once seen the curse seed of the Black Death, said to have wiped out Europe's population centuries ago, being sold by an Italian wizard. The seller claimed that the curse had weakened over time, but even so, it could still annihilate an entire Muggle city.
Naturally, the spell seed came with a price matching its power. Otherwise, Amosta would have bought it for study.
This was the dark side of the wizarding world—a truly lawless domain.
After a while, feeling somewhat recovered, Amosta walked toward the center of the cavern and quietly blended into the sparse crowd.
Most of the people wandering here wore black robes, hiding their faces. Only a few reckless lunatics or passing wizards from England dared show themselves openly, even with agents from the Ministry of Magic quietly observing from the shadows.
Yes, you heard correctly.
The Ministry had indeed stationed agents in Knockturn Alley, but their job was merely to ensure that nothing *too* extraordinary occurred—not to dismantle it. After all, the Ministry wasn't foolish enough to spark an all-out war with the many ancient wizarding factions still active in Britain.
At the center of the cavern stood a courtyard enclosed by a low granite wall—the underworld's commission market. A tall signboard stood at one end, covered with hundreds of parchment scrolls sealed by glowing red magic contracts, waiting for someone daring enough to take them.
Amosta glanced over them but found no suitable commissions, so he turned back and sat on a cold stone bench to wait for his contact.
Because of the New Year's season, the place was nearly deserted. Only two figures stood about ten feet to his right, whispering to each other.
One wore a rough brown robe, and his bald head was covered with pustules and scabs. He looked about eighty years old. When he noticed Amosta watching, he glanced back disdainfully.
He sneered, baring a mouth with only a few yellowed teeth. The foul breath he exhaled hung heavy in the air. Half his face was dark and charred like burnt bark, while the other half writhed with small, pinkish granules that pulsed like tiny tentacles—disgusting to behold.
But when the old wizard noticed the golden serpent embroidered on Amosta's collar, he quickly restrained himself, nodding politely before turning away.
Amosta found the man's grotesque features oddly interesting.
If he guessed correctly, the damage to the man's face came from a failed Horcrux ritual—a rebound from the soul-splitting curse itself.
As far as Amosta knew, there was only one thing capable of slowing such magical decay, and the next words exchanged between the two wizards confirmed his suspicion.
"Very difficult to handle, and extremely dangerous. You do know where to find unicorns in Britain?"
The thin wizard opposite him drew a glass vial from beneath his cloak. Inside shimmered a silvery liquid, its glow standing out even in this dreary underground world.
The old wizard immediately understood. He sneered sharply and pulled from his robe a chunk of mithril the size of a fist, tossing it onto the table.
"Of course. Even here, few would dare meddle with Dumbledore's kind. I've been waiting for this. You've got courage—I'll give you that."
Business deals in the underworld are always straightforward. If an agreement can't be reached, killing the other party is the usual alternative.
Amosta observed the exchange with interest. When he saw the old wizard sniff the glass, then drink it down in one swallow, his face shifted slightly, almost playfully.
It's worth noting that because of shortcomings in traditional magical education, many school-taught wizards grow extremely skilled in one area while remaining dangerously ignorant in others—like apprentices dabbling beyond their depth.
Modern magical education, however, promotes balance.
Knowledge equilibrium matters greatly.
At least in the case of this transaction, any competent Hogwarts student at O.W.L. level would have recognized the "confusion potion" easily—one tainted with just two unicorn feathers.