“Avada…”
A vicious incantation echoed from the depths of the alley, followed by a blinding flash of green that illuminated its darkened entrance.
“Heh.
Looks like Davis’s getting even better at the Dark Arts.”
Concealed in a shadowy corner of Knockturn Alley, a wizard wrapped in a black cloak watched the light fade, his voice tinged with reluctant envy.
That chilling brilliance spoke of a mastery he had yet to achieve.
His companion nodded, then cast a wary glance toward the alley.
“Keep your voice down.
We should leave.
Davis won’t spare us just because we’re in the same line of work.”
Among the dark wizards who frequented Knockturn Alley, Davis had earned quite a reputation.
Even here, few robbers were brazen enough to conduct their business with their faces uncovered.
Some suspected he had altered his appearance through Transfiguration and that “Davis” was nothing more than an alias.
Nobody, however, felt particularly inclined to investigate.
A dark wizard who had repeatedly slipped through the Aurors’ fingers was hardly someone to trifle with.
The two were still lamenting their lost opportunity when a cloaked figure emerged from the alley, his face hidden in shadow.
He was tossing Davis’s money pouch in one hand.
The coins inside jingled with every movement, producing a sound enticing enough to make both men swallow.
The stranger lingered for a moment, apparently waiting to see whether either of them would approach.
When neither moved, a faint sigh escaped from beneath his hood, and he vanished with a crack.
“Calcifer, get some hot water ready for me.”
Hermes pushed open the door and stepped into a tidy, comfortable room.
After hanging his cloak on the rack beside the entrance, he crossed to the fireplace and added a few logs.
He casually tossed the money pouch into the flames, picked up the teapot warming beside the hearth, and carried it to the table.
A cup of hot tea soon chased away the chill he had brought in from outside.
A cabinet nearby displayed an assortment of trophies and certificates.
Among them was one bearing the words “Outstanding Graduate of Durmstrang Institute of Magic” accompanied by a lifelike portrait of Hermes.
His gaze lingered on it, and memories of the past eighteen years rose to the surface.
He had been reborn into a wizarding family in Norway, with a ball of living flame as his companion.
Perhaps it was his contract with Calcifer that had given him such remarkable magical talent.
Whatever the reason, he had shown extraordinary promise from an early age, and his acceptance letter from Durmstrang Institute had arrived when he was eleven.
As one of Europe’s three great wizarding schools, Durmstrang was renowned for its instruction in the Dark Arts and its strong traditions of duelling and martial magic.
For Hermes, it had been an excellent place to learn.
With the magical legacy Calcifer had brought with him, he had steadily built a reputation at a school where strength commanded respect.
Not long ago, he had graduated and made his way to London.
After all, what reader of Harry Potter could resist taking an interest in the Boy Who Lived, especially once they had enough strength to look after themselves?
“Hermes!”
The fire behind him suddenly flared, interrupting his thoughts.
A disgruntled face formed among the flames, and Calcifer lifted the money pouch Hermes had thrown into the hearth.
“You can’t keep leaving me here!”
He punctuated his complaint by biting down on the pouch.
Calcifer had been curious about the British wizarding world ever since Hermes had described it to him.
Yet since their departure from school, Hermes had not taken him out even once.
After spending three whole days confined to the fireplace, his patience was wearing thin.
As the pouch burned, a tendril of black mist twisted out of it with a piercing screech.
“Hmph.
A pathetic little curse.”
Calcifer’s flames closed around the mist and consumed it.
Then, manipulating the pouch as though his fire were a pair of hands, he opened it and tipped the coins into the hearth.
“Tsk, tsk…”
He surveyed the meagre collection of gold among the silver and bronze, sounding thoroughly unimpressed.
“Why is it mostly Sickles and Knuts?”
“There could have been more,” Hermes replied with a regretful sigh.
“Unfortunately, those other two dark wizards turned out to be rather timid.”
Calcifer sorted the coins into neat piles beside the fire.
Hermes frowned at the results, set down his cup, and walked over to the hearth.
A beckoning gesture sent the few Galleons flying toward him.
Still wreathed in Calcifer’s flames, they slipped neatly into his pocket.
“You can have the rest.”
Calcifer gave him a resentful look before opening his mouth and swallowing the remaining Sickles and Knuts in a single gulp.
“By the way,” he said, apparently remembering something, “did you get the potion ingredient you needed?”
“I did.”
Hermes took out a small glass vial and held it up.
A pupa rested inside.
“A death’s-head hawk-moth pupa.
I practically had to search the whole of Knockturn Alley for this little thing.”
“Why?” Calcifer blinked at him.
“I thought you said you could buy anything there, even things you weren’t supposed to have.”
“You can,” Hermes said with a sigh.
“As long as you’re willing to let those hyenas rob you blind.”
The prices some of those merchants demanded were little better than daylight robbery.
It was only because he had spent so long searching for a reasonable offer that he had attracted the attention of that reckless dark wizard.
Of course, the money pouch he had deliberately left hanging in plain sight at his waist might also have had something to do with it.
Hermes tucked the vial away and crossed to the window, looking down at the witches and wizards bustling past below.
He had only recently arrived in London and had yet to find somewhere permanent to settle.
For now, he had linked the Moving Castle’s blue-marked doorway to a guest room at the Leaky Cauldron.
It was a convenient enough arrangement until he found something better.
“Did you get some British pounds as well?” Calcifer asked.
Drawn by the voices drifting through the window, he laboriously shifted the logs beneath him and edged toward the front of the hearth, trying to catch a glimpse of the world outside.
Unfortunately, the fireplace was too far from the window, and no amount of stretching could make him tall enough.
He could hear the bustle of the street, but all he could see was the wooden window frame.
“Yes.
I’ve already been to Gringotts.”
Hermes took one last look outside, closed the window, and turned toward the stairs.
He needed a hot bath.
Whatever else could be said for Knockturn Alley, the place was even filthier than he had expected.