Sparkling powder dropped into the flames and exploded. Green fire roared upward, licking from the soles of his boots all the way to the crown of his head and swallowing him whole.
He clamped his eyes shut on instinct, but it was already too late—the green light burned straight through his eyelids and turned the whole world a scalding emerald, like he'd sunk to the bottom of a summer lake at high noon.
Then the spinning hit. Not the normal kind. It felt like a giant hand had grabbed the back of his neck and wrung him out like a soaked towel.
The floor vanished. The stones at the bottom of the fireplace disappeared. All that was left under his feet was flame and rushing wind. His arms stayed pinned to his sides while the brick walls whipped past in a blur—he wasn't moving past them; he was falling, plunging down an endless chimney, faster and faster.
The world narrowed into a tunnel of linked fireplaces racing backward. Every opening flashed like a window: one-second glimpses of living rooms, kitchens, bedrooms, all streaking by.
He knew the Floo Network was carrying him somewhere. He just had zero control. He was a leaf caught in a gale, tossed into a river he couldn't see, with no idea when—or if—it would ever stop.
Right when he thought he couldn't take another second, the fireplace spat him out.
He hit the floor on his knees, gasping. It took a long moment before he could push himself up.
Gray flagstones under his boots. A low arched ceiling overhead. He stood in a wide, empty room. Behind him the green flames settled back to ordinary orange.
He'd never been here before. Through the doorway lay a narrow courtyard stacked with empty wine barrels and moldy crates. This had to be the Leaky Cauldron's back parlor. He could just make out the noisy chatter from the front room.
"Black?"
The voice came from the shadows.
Julien spun, wand already in his palm.
A middle-aged man stepped forward—slightly hunched, pale face, sharp eyes glinting under a hood.
"No need to worry. This is still the Leaky Cauldron, after all." The man's tone was casual. He reached under his gray cloak and held out a small badge: a withered rose entwined with stars.
"Rosier family?" Julien asked carefully.
"Lady Ophelia sent me." The man's voice carried the rough scrape of someone who'd spent years on the streets.
"This is the Portkey. It stores indefinitely and only activates when you trigger it." He handed over something that looked like an old button, its material impossible to identify. "Crush it to activate. Lasts seven minutes, straight to the rose garden in Hogsmeade. Holds up to five people."
Julien took the button and slipped it into his bag.
"And this." The man reached again and produced a crystal vial. Inside, pale golden liquid swirled slowly, like frozen aurora.
"A variant of the Tears of Eternity. Came up from the North through my channels."
"Ophelia asked you to bring this too?"
"No. I picked this job up from the Vilakati tribe myself. Their goods don't go straight to the Rosiers—bad blood there."
"You've got quite the client list," Julien said, impressed.
"Job done. Heard you're heading into Knockturn Alley. Good luck." The man stepped back and melted into the shadows.
Julien steadied his breathing, pulled out one of the Weasley twins' appearance-altering candies, and popped it in his mouth. Durian flavor. Not bad.
If anyone had been watching, they would have seen Julien's features shift just enough: eyes narrower and longer, nose wider, eyebrows arched higher, mouth jutting forward a fraction, ears sticking out a bit more. The changes were small, but together they made him look like an entirely different person.
He circled around to the Leaky Cauldron's front room, ignored old Tom's startled glance, and stepped out into Diagon Alley.
It wasn't raining in London, and the street was still busy. After a few quick turns, Julien reached an alley entrance no one seemed to linger near.
The sign read Knockturn Alley.
He took a deep breath and walked in.
The air here was nothing like Diagon Alley. It wasn't fresh magic—it was old, fermented, thick with too many secrets.
Light came from hanging sources in the narrow strip of sky above, bathing everything in a sickly tint.
Most shops had no signs, just strange symbols: skulls, snakes, crossed wands, and older marks Julien couldn't read.
He moved down the cramped street, boots sticking slightly to something wet that might have been blood or old potion residue.
Pedestrians were scarce, but every one wore a cloak and watched from under a hood with calculating eyes.
No greetings. No eye contact. Just calculations—of value, of threat, of timing.
From the moment he entered Knockturn Alley, Julien knew two wizards were following him. They'd come from different directions, not coordinated, but both clearly sizing up the same easy mark.
He didn't panic. He kept walking at the same steady pace. On the way here he'd stuck several protective charms he'd brewed in the Room of Requirement to his skin—confident they could block a couple of nasty curses. His combat reflexes had already been tested against the Room's training dummies.
Following Aberforth's directions, Julien turned into a dim side passage. It was a dead end. The two men behind him slowed at the mouth of the alley, talking in low voices, apparently deciding how to split their catch.
Past a dripping archway and two shops that looked like they sold cursed dolls, Julien reached the end of the lane.
The shop at the dead end had no clear sign.
Or rather, it once had one—a heavy black iron plaque. The name had been worn away by rust and time, leaving only a few blurred letters that caught the moonlight with a cold glint. Faintly, one could make out "Graves."
The double oak doors were so dark they looked black, unpainted, their exposed grain like rows of dried scars.
The lower half of the doors was carved with hair-fine magical runes. At a glance they might have been natural cracks, but a quick Lumos showed them wriggling like living things, slowly crawling from one spot to another.
Julien forced his eyes away and pushed the door open.
No bell rang. The bells here didn't chime for customers—they only warned the owner.
Inside, the shop stretched deeper than it looked. Shelves ran underground and vanished into greenish gloom. The air carried a cloyingly sweet, almost rotten scent—like expired perfume mixed with preservative.
"Welcome, dear—oh? Little customer."
A witch who looked in her thirties lifted her head from behind the counter and studied him.
She wasn't wearing robes but a blue velvet gown, her caramel-colored hair loose. Her smile was bright and warm.
Except she was still mixing a green solution in a transparent beaker, where a human eyeball bobbed slowly up and down.
"Are you Miss Seraphina Graves?"
"Miss," the woman corrected, still smiling. "So you're not lost, little guy? What can I do for you? Or should I chase off the two outside for a hundred Galleons?"
"A hundred Galleons?"
"Worth every Knut, isn't it?" She leaned forward, giggling, but her wine-red pupils gleamed with something seductive, cold, and very dangerous.