The Shadow Beneath the Brilliance

December 27, 1992.

Christmas had just passed, and Oxford Street in London's West End was already teeming with people. Crowds of Muggles in brand-new clothes took to the streets. Children laughed and played, young people meeting up exchanged sincere New Year's wishes, and everyone carried hopes for a better life in their hearts. Not even the steadily falling snow could wipe the smiles from their faces.

For wizards, Christmas was likewise one of the most important holidays of the year, but wizarding families celebrated it in ways utterly different from Muggles.

They preferred to stay in warm rooms, listening to the crackle of flames in the fireplace, sitting beneath Christmas trees frosted with silver and decorated with mistletoe, discussing Quidditch or recent news.

Thus, Diagon Alley, the center of wizarding commerce, was always especially deserted during the days around New Year's, let alone Knockturn Alley, which was sparsely populated even on ordinary days.

Clang, clang, click!

Amosta, his entire body concealed beneath a voluminous black cloak, stepped down from a Gringotts-style cart. Though his stomach was churning, he could only maintain an air of calm indifference in order to preserve his cold persona.

The air reeked of fermented slug mucus soaking rotten frog entrails. The uneven ground was damp and slick, while rows of inverted torches floated neatly in midair. Their faint green flames cast the enormous fan-shaped underground cavern in a ghostly, sinister light.

Amosta's gaze swept around. Two hundred feet to his left, in the "pet" market, a Troll standing a full fifteen feet tall sat limply on the ground, its limbs tightly bound by chains as thick as bowls. It almost blended into the black rock wall behind it.

Its owner was a gap-toothed old witch from Moldova. She had brought it here in hopes of selling the Troll for a good price, so she could use the money to treat her Dragon Pox.

But unfortunately, it had been up for sale for two years already, and no one had shown any interest.

At that moment, the old witch leaned against the slave's toe, cursing at a large group of House-elves nearby and damning them for polluting the environment.

They were House-elves who had lost their masters and gained their freedom.

Of course, describing House-elves as "free" was no different from calling Centaurs "beasts." Gratitude was the last thing such words would earn.

Most of these pitiful little creatures had once belonged to minor wizarding families or Secret Witchcraft sects. Their masters had vanished into the river of time for one reason or another, leaving the House-elves forcibly granted their freedom.

Having no master was a terrifying thing for House-elves. It practically stripped them of their reason for existing. So, the little creatures had gathered here of their own accord, hoping to find new masters for themselves.

But honestly, aside from Dark Wizards who needed living materials to test the effects of Charms and Potions, ordinary people generally paid them no attention.

The Troll, however, was very friendly toward the House-elves. Amosta had once personally seen that starving, frenzied Troll swat several of them to death with one hand, then stuff them into its mouth and crunch away with great relish.

Besides Trolls and House-elves, the "pet" market, which smelled about as pleasant as a toilet, had plenty of other interesting creatures: Centaurs who had lost the protection of their herds, accidentally captured Veela—hot commodities—Vampires locked in cages, and Irish leprechauns, all excellent living materials.

Basically, aside from especially taboo magical creatures like Dragons and Unicorns, one could find most magical creatures still existing in the wizarding world at the underground pet market.

The trading market beneath the rock wall on the right still retained the crude style of medieval Europe. However, the items laid casually on the stalls were anything but simple.

Books recording Dark Magic originating in Ancient Greece, Potions that could greatly enhance one's magical power but had unknown side effects, alchemical items capable of instantly erasing life across a vast area—in short, compared to those things, the goods sold at Borgin and Burkes were merely prank products favored by young wizards. Devil's Snare was fit for nothing more than decorative potted plants here.

Amosta had even seen the curse seed of the Black Death curse that had once slaughtered all of Europe, in the hands of an Italian wizard. According to the wizard selling it, the curse in his possession had been weakened, but if it spread, wiping out a city of Muggles would not be much of a problem.

Naturally, the curse seed carried a staggering price to match its effects. Otherwise, Amosta truly would have liked to buy it and study it.

And this was the dark side of the magical world—a true land without law.

After a while, when he felt somewhat better, Amosta started walking toward the center of the cavern, gradually merging into the sparse crowd.

Most people active here wore black robes and did not wish others to see their true faces.

Only a small number of unrestrained lunatics and wizards merely passing through Britain dared show their faces before the Ministry of Magic's undercover observers.

Yes, you heard that right.

Aurors were secretly stationed in Knockturn Alley's underground world. However, their purpose was only to ensure that nothing "excessive" happened here, not to wipe the place out—unless the Ministry of Magic wished to declare war on every surviving ancient wizarding sect in Britain, as well as the Dark Wizards.

At the center of the cavern was a square area enclosed by low granite walls: the underground world's commission market. At one end of the enclosure stood a tall notice board. Hundreds of commission letters, glowing with crimson magical contract light, were posted on the Snakewood board, quietly waiting for someone to tear them down.

Amosta stood beneath the board and looked it over. Finding no worthwhile commissions, he turned around, found a stone bench, and sat down to wait for his contact.

Perhaps because the New Year was approaching, there were few people here as well. In the vast area, only two people ten feet away to the rear right were whispering to each other.

One of them was an old wizard who appeared to be eighty years old. He wore a brown burlap robe, and his bald scalp was covered in pustules and scabies. Hearing movement, he raised his head and glanced at Amosta.

Apparently disdainful of Amosta's practice of hiding his true face beneath a distorted vortex of magical power, he bared a mouth containing only two or three yellow teeth and snickered, spraying foul breath. His face was terrifying: one half blackened like the bark of an old tree after being charred, the other covered in pink, tentacle-like fleshy sprouts writhing madly.

But when the old wizard noticed the golden serpent embroidered on Amosta's collar, he quickly restrained his disgusting grin, nodded politely, and looked away.

Amosta, on the other hand, found the old wizard's interesting face somewhat intriguing.

If he had guessed correctly, those injuries were likely caused by severe magical backlash after failing to cast the Charm that split the soul while creating a Horcrux.

As far as Amosta knew, only one thing could slow the spread of the damage caused by that Charm, and the conversation between the two men soon confirmed his guess.

"It's very difficult to obtain, and extremely dangerous. You should know where in all of Britain Unicorns can be found!"

The skinny wizard opposite the old man took a glass from beneath his black robe. The silvery liquid inside gleamed conspicuously in the dim underground world as he spoke with great care.

The old wizard understood what he meant. He let out a piercing sneer and likewise pulled a fist-sized chunk of Mithril from his robes, tossing it onto the table.

"Of course, of course. Even here, not many people are willing to provoke Dumbledore. I've been waiting for this for some time. You have courage. I admire that—"

Deals in the underground world had always been straightforward, with little haggling. If an agreement truly could not be reached, one simply killed the other party.

Amosta watched the old wizard with great interest. When he saw him take the glass, sniff it carefully, then pour it into his mouth, a hint of amusement appeared on the face concealed behind the blurred light and shadow.

There was one thing that had to be mentioned here.

Because traditional magical education had its flaws, sect wizards could often become extraordinarily proficient in one area while remaining as frighteningly ignorant in another as apprentices who had only just encountered magic. Modern magical education centered on schools might not produce many truly astonishing talents, but at least it was balanced.

A balanced breadth of knowledge was extremely important.

At the very least, in the transaction before them, any Hogwarts student qualified at O.W.L. level would not have been fooled by Draught of Living Death altered with Transfiguration and two Unicorn hairs.

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