The figure's shadow stretched long under the streetlamp, like a Big-Headed Bone Burier sliding along the wall. Something felt off to Harry.
Professor Levent taught Muggle Studies. He wouldn't even stay in a room at the Leaky Cauldron—he'd rather pay for a proper Muggle hotel suite. Knockturn Alley was filthy, crawling with dark wizards and shady deals. So why was the professor heading there in the middle of the night?
Harry grabbed his Invisibility Cloak, pushed open the window, and jumped. A quick Levitation Charm slowed his fall until his feet touched the pavement.
Moonlight slanted across the street, turning everything into a misty, forest-like glow. The whole block was bathed in cold silver light. Shop shadows stretched across the cobblestones. The figure moved quickly, vanishing where light met darkness.
Harry glanced around. No one else was out. The pub crowd was still glued to the Quidditch replay, and Gringotts sat dark in the distance. It felt like the street belonged only to him and Professor Levent.
He found it strange, but stayed quiet.
Once the cloak was on, he hugged the wall, careful not to be spotted by other wizards. He knew perfectly well the Invisibility Cloak didn't work on Professor Levent.
The professor's route was deliberate. He turned down a couple of side alleys and headed straight into the depths of Knockturn Alley. His gray-black cloak blended perfectly with the narrow, notorious street.
Harry couldn't figure out why Levent would come here at night. Even shady deals could happen during the day—Malfoy and his father did their black-market business in broad daylight.
On impulse, Harry pulled the cloak tighter and followed at a careful distance. The two of them slipped into Knockturn Alley one after the other, like a pair of wanted criminals who couldn't risk being seen.
Knock… knock… knock…
Professor Levent stopped in front of a shop. The sudden knocking shattered the alley's silence, sounding harsh, like a crow's raspy cry.
Harry felt several hidden gazes prickling in the darkness. He didn't dare make a sound, barely even breathed. The shop door opened. A low exchange happened between the wizard inside and the professor. After confirming identities, Levent stepped in.
Creeeeak…
The rusty brass hinges groaned as the door swung shut again.
Harry waited a moment, then crept closer and studied the sign above the door and the walls on either side. Knockturn Alley shops rarely had proper signs, but they usually had house numbers. Borgin and Burkes was at 13B, for example.
Knockturn Alley 17B – Atlas Printing
"Atlas Printing…" Harry scratched his head and muttered, "What do they sell here?"
"Illegal prints mostly—wizard village maps, pirated books, that sort of thing," a witch's voice answered from behind him.
Harry's breath caught. A chill raced up his spine. He jerked like a fish fighting for its life, fear giving him a burst of strength. He whipped out his wand and spun around.
An old witch stood there, wrinkled and bent, a wicker basket on her left arm filled with something that looked disturbingly like a plate of dead fingernails. She squinted at Harry under the cloak and gave an ugly smile, revealing teeth covered in moss.
"You—"
Before Harry could speak, the old witch's hidden right hand flicked forward, scattering a handful of white powder.
The sweet scent hit his lungs. Harry instinctively held his breath, but it was already too late. His thoughts grew fuzzy. His body wouldn't obey. The witch's figure doubled and blurred.
The Invisibility Cloak slipped off. Harry slumped against the wall and slid to the ground, darkness swallowing everything.
The dose must have been light. Even with his eyes closed, he could still faintly hear and smell.
Knock… knock… knock… The witch was rapping on the door.
Hurried footsteps approached. A man's voice sounded irritated. "We're closed for the night. Come back tomorrow."
"Who wants your cheap books? I caught a little thief for you."
The old witch snapped back, "Acting all high and mighty like you're running a legitimate business. Didn't even notice a kid sneaking up in an Invisibility Cloak. He's yours now. The cloak's mine."
"A little thief?"
Someone roughly pulled off Harry's glasses and pried his eyelids open for a quick look. "Looks like a student. I can't decide. Wait here—I'll get… the gentleman to take a look."
After that, Harry lost consciousness completely.
...
In the basement of 17B Knockturn Alley, the young professor sat in a Muggle swivel chair, wearing a faint smile as he studied the printing workshop with interest.
The place held both Muggle books and magazines and wizard pirated editions. Their main business was maps of wizarding villages. The current bestseller lay on the table:
A Traveler's Guide to Wizarding Britain
"The old witch has been sent away. She'll keep her mouth shut and stay quiet about tonight. Harry Potter is locked in the empty room upstairs, exactly as you instructed. It won't interfere with your plans this evening."
A middle-aged wizard pushed the door open. His rolled-up sleeves revealed strong arms marked with a simple Ouroboros tattoo. His voice was rough as he continued, "The sewer tunnel connects directly to the shop. My lads and I will clean up and leave right away so we don't disturb your meeting."
"Old friends catching up—won't you sit and chat for a bit?" Melvin smiled, a flicker of memory in his eyes. "The first time I came to Knockturn Alley I didn't know my way around. Ran into you lot and ended up doing very profitable business."
"We're grateful too, Professor. You got us out of the gutter. No more sneaking around doing dirty work, and we made enough to open this printing shop."
The middle-aged wizard sounded nostalgic. "In a few more months we might have saved enough to move to Diagon Alley and finally leave this sewer behind."
Three years earlier, when Melvin first stepped into Knockturn Alley, he'd left Borgin and Burkes and immediately run into this gang of would-be robbers. Their leader had worn a mole-skin mask back then.
Communication had been difficult at first, but after a calm talk they struck a deal: the gang would gather information on wizarding villages across Britain and sell it to Melvin.
Later, once the Mirror Club formed, they also handled some distribution work for the Club.
Recently they'd settled down and opened this printing workshop, handling a mix of legal and shady jobs. The Traveler's Guide had ridden the wave of the Quidditch World Cup final and sold tens of thousands of copies.
"You should think carefully," Melvin said. "Once you move to Diagon Alley, some of your current business will be off-limits."
"Less profit is fine. At least we won't have to look over our shoulders anymore."
The middle-aged wizard bowed slightly, respectful. "We didn't have a choice before. Had to touch that stuff."
Melvin tapped the table lightly with his fingers. The man felt a sudden heat on his arm. He looked down. The Ouroboros tattoo began to devour itself, the simple drawing twisting until it shrank to a dot and vanished completely.
The man swallowed hard. "Professor Levent?"
"Our cooperation is over, isn't it?" Melvin said with a smile.
Back then Melvin had only recently left Ilvermorny. Even after months in the theater, his understanding of dark magic was still shallow. The Ouroboros mark had been a crude imitation of the Dark Mark—nothing more than a simple warning branded on these dark wizards.
Now the deal was finished and Melvin had his own true Ouroboros mark. The old contract could end.
After the man's figure disappeared through the doorway, Melvin picked up the travel guide again and waited quietly for the guest who would soon arrive.
...
Some time later, Harry jolted awake with a start. His body jerked, knocking over the wooden chair he'd been leaning against. He was in a small, windowless room.
Everything was pitch black. He couldn't hear anyone else breathing. Harry forced himself to breathe slowly and stay calm while he assessed the situation.
The loud clatter of the falling chair should have been obvious, yet no hurried footsteps came from outside. That meant no one was guarding the door—at least for now, he was safe.
They hadn't even tied him up.
Harry bent down to feel for the chair and instead touched a thin, cool layer of silky fabric—smooth and soft.
"The Invisibility Cloak?"
A thought struck him. He patted his pockets. His eleven-inch holly wand was still there. "They left my wand too."
Knockturn Alley dark wizards weren't usually this polite.
It had to be Professor Levent who'd rescued him.
Harry fell silent. His cheeks and ears grew warm—embarrassment, shame, a little fear, and a trace of relief all mixed together.
This was the downside of acting on impulse. In the heat of the moment it had felt exciting, like playing detective uncovering dark secrets. Now, after getting knocked out and waking up, his common sense was back online and he realized he'd done something incredibly stupid—again—and made the professor clean up his mess.
At least it was Professor Levent…
Harry shook his head, pushing the strange thought away. He pulled out his wand and cast Lumos. The soft glow lit up the room.
Now that he knew he wasn't in immediate danger, the panic eased. Professor Levent had put him here for a reason. After the night's earlier mistake, Harry wasn't about to start blasting unlocking charms and running around. He didn't want to ruin whatever serious business the professor was handling.
He looked around. The room was mostly empty. In one corner stood a small Mirror—cheap quartz-crystal model, household size, no Floo connection.
Beside it sat a porcelain bottle sealed with a rubber stopper. Inside swirled a thread of silver memory, glowing with soft silvery light.
Harry couldn't figure out why the professor would lock him in a room with a Mirror and leave the memory completely unguarded, as if inviting him to watch it.
He uncorked the bottle and poured the silver mist inside.
Stepping back, Harry watched the Mirror's surface ripple. Colors and shapes began to fill in.
A spacious but dimly lit wizarding shop appeared. In front of a stone fireplace stood rows of shelves displaying withered hands, bloodstained playing cards, and glassy, motionless eyeballs. Grimacing masks hung on the walls. Human bones of every kind sat on the counter.
Behind the counter of Borgin and Burkes—not Mr. Borgin himself, but another, younger wizard who didn't look nearly as old, hunched, or oily.
Caractacus Burke?
The thought flashed through Harry's mind. Thanks to Hermione's endless explanations and Sirius's pure-blood history lessons, he now knew quite a bit about these old family businesses.
Mr. Burke was polishing a length of reddish-black rope, picking out lice and bloodstains, while he lectured the handsome young shop assistant beside him.
Harry's eyes widened. That handsome face, that perfectly measured smile—it was unmistakably a young Tom Riddle.
"Don't underestimate the job, Tom," Mr. Burke said slowly. "We need to know the exact value of every item. When a customer sells, we drive the price down. When they buy, we drive it up. Buy low, sell high—that's a real skill."
"Sir, I don't have your experience or knowledge yet," Tom replied with a flattering smile.
Mr. Burke's grin widened and his teaching speed picked up, clearly pleased. "That comes with time. Remember the locket Mrs. Smith bought a while back?"
"Slytherin's locket?" Tom's smile faded slightly.
"Yes. The Gaunt family's youngest daughter was pregnant and couldn't even afford bread. I bought that priceless Slytherin locket from the desperate Merope Gaunt for a mere ten Galleons…"
Mr. Burke kept bragging about his business acumen, completely missing how Tom's face darkened, his breathing slowed, and his eyes narrowed like a snake ready to strike.
Mr. Burke… he's probably still alive, right?
Harry watched Tom's ugly expression and wondered silently.
"That Hepzibah Smith is a descendant of Helga Hufflepuff—the Hogwarts founder. Yes, that Hufflepuff. Their vaults are stuffed with Galleons. Rent from their fields and shops keeps pouring in. They can keep living like kings for centuries."
Mr. Burke passed on his people-reading wisdom. "She has a soft spot for good-looking young wizards like you. That's your advantage…"
He set the rope aside and gave an order. "Go see Mrs. Smith. Tell her this set of goblin-made armor is at least four hundred Galleons. If you close the deal, I'll give you a cut."
"Yes, sir," Tom said, bowing his head.
"..."