Three days later.
Deep within Knockturn Alley, there was a tavern without a sign.
From the outside, it was merely an iron door set into a moldy brick wall, with a crooked skull decoration nailed to it, its eye sockets stuffed with two greenish glass beads.
Aaron pushed open the door and stepped inside.
The light inside the tavern was as dim as if it were perpetually twilight.
A few candles hung from iron chains on the ceiling, their flames flickering and casting long, distorted shadows of everyone present.
The air was thick with a mixture of cheap ale, sweat, and the bitter smell of some burnt, unidentified herb.
Seven or eight wooden tables were scattered throughout the tavern, occupied by a dozen or so wizards in dark robes.
Some wore hoods that obscured half their faces, some kept their wands on the tabletop within easy reach, and others simply stabbed their daggers into the edge of the tables to use as utensils.
When Aaron walked in, the two nearest wizards flicked their eyelids up, saw he was a child barely ten years old, and lowered their heads again.
“You’ve got the wrong place, kid,” a bald wizard closest to the door mumbled around his pipe, his tone lazy.
Aaron ignored him and headed straight for the innermost corner of the tavern.
That particular table was deliberately set in an alcove between two pillars—providing terrible visibility but a highly concealed position.
Behind the table sat a burly man: “Scarface Grey.”
The origin of the name was obvious at a glance.
He had a scar stretching from his right temple down to his jaw.
The scar was old and white, pulling the corner of his right eye down by half an inch, making his face look as if it were permanently wearing a twisted, sinister smirk.
On the table before Grey lay a glass of dark brown liquor and an unlit cigar.
Both of his hands were tucked beneath the table, highly likely gripping his wand.
Griphook stood beside the table, hunched over, looking like a punching bag.
Seeing Aaron approach, Griphook quickly went up to meet him and lowered his voice, “Mr. Klein, this is…”
“I know.” Aaron sat down opposite Grey.
Grey sized him up for three seconds.
“You’re the one who wants to buy fire salamanders?” Grey’s voice was coarse, like he had sandpaper permanently lodged in his throat.
“Yes.”
“How old are you?”
“Does that matter?”
The corner of Grey’s mouth—or rather, the angle pulled by the scar—tilted upward.
He yanked two iron cages from beneath the table and slammed them onto the surface with two heavy thuds.
The cages were small, each about a foot square, with rusty iron bars.
A layer of graying straw lined the bottom.
Inside, two fire salamanders curled up.
Aaron glanced at them.
They were in terrible condition.
Fire salamanders were natural fire-based magical creatures; their skin should have been a vibrant orange-red, covered with a layer of flowing, micro-scale flames.
That was their life fire, which maintained their body temperature and magical circulation.
Yet the skin of the two fire salamanders before him was as dull as charred wood, with no flames on their surface.
On the front leg of one of them was a thumb-sized black wound, the surrounding skin cracked and curled back—a scar left behind after its fire magic had been forcibly drained.
The other was slightly better off, but not by much.
A third of its tail had been severed, the stump sealed with some cheap coagulating potion.
It was a sloppy job; brown pus seeped from between the potion and the wound.
Both fire salamanders breathed in shallow, rapid gasps.
“A bit rough around the edges,” Grey said, spreading his hands in an “I can’t help it” gesture.
“You know how hard fire salamanders are to get. These two were intercepted from Romania. They were on the road for half a month; it’s a miracle they’re even alive.”
“How much?”
Grey held up five fingers.
“Five hundred Galleons.”
Beside them, Griphook sucked in a breath of cold air.
He secretly tugged at Aaron’s sleeve and lowered his voice.
“Sir, this price is absurd. For two half-dead fire salamanders, the going rate is eighty Galleons at most…”
Grey’s gaze swept over Griphook, looking at him as if he were a talkative fly.
“Going rate?” Grey sneered, tapping the iron cage with his fingernail.
“Shorty, this is Knockturn Alley, not your Gringotts counter. There’s no going rate here, only my price.”
He turned back to Aaron, narrowing his eyes.
“Five hundred Galleons, cash on delivery. Think it’s too expensive? Go apply for a legal fire salamander breeding license from the Ministry of Magic. It should only take you about three years.”
Aaron looked at the fire salamanders in the cage.
Sensing his gaze, one of them painstakingly lifted its head.
Its cloudy eyes met Aaron’s, and the residual sparks in its pupils flickered.
It was an instinctive reaction.
Just like the Horned Snake, just like the Demiguise.
Divine aura had a natural appeal to all living things, especially those that were injured and weak.
They could sense the protection and healing contained within that power.
The fire salamander’s mouth twitched, letting out an almost imperceptible whimper.
Aaron withdrew his gaze and looked at Grey.
“Thirty Silver Sickles.”
The air in the tavern froze for a second.
Grey’s smirk vanished.
“What did you say?”
“Two half-dead fire salamanders, their fire magic drained, and their wounds sloppily sealed with cheap potion,” Aaron said, his voice neither fast nor slow.
“They won’t live past three days. You won’t find a buyer, because anyone who knows their stuff can see they’re ruined. Thirty Silver Sickles is my offer.”
Grey’s right hand slipped out from under the table.
In his hand, he held a thick, dark wand, its tip pointing directly at Aaron.
“Kid,” Grey growled, the scar on his face looking exceptionally grotesque in the dim candlelight.
“Are you sure you know where you are?”
The wizards at the other tables looked up, and several reached for their wands.
Griphook took a step back, nearly stumbling to the floor.
Aaron sat in his chair, completely still.
He looked Grey in the eye.
That was all it took.
Grey’s smirk was still plastered on his face, but his body seized up uncontrollably the moment Aaron’s gaze fell upon him.
There was no fear in those grayish-blue eyes, no tension, not even any trace of human emotion.
Only calmness.
An infinitely profound, condescending calmness, like looking down upon ants.
Grey had done black-market business for fifteen years.
He had seen Death Eaters, werewolves, and escapees driven mad by Azkaban.
His position in Knockturn Alley was not built on the strength of his magic, but on his instinct for danger, which was sharper than anyone else’s. The source of this chapter is g.com.
Right now, his instincts were screaming frantically: *Run.
Run.
Do not look this thing in the eye.*
Aaron stood up.
He did not draw a wand, nor did he chant a spell.
He simply rose from his chair and took a single step forward.
One step.
The divine majesty, now integrated with the Resonator, instantly enveloped the entire tavern.
Silent, invisible, without any visual effects.
But Grey felt it.
Starting from the soles of his feet, a cold, intangible pressure crept up his spine, vertebra by vertebra.
His muscles tightened involuntarily, his teeth chattered, and his wand suddenly felt a hundred pounds heavier—unholdable.
The wand slipped from his grasp, clattered against the tabletop, bounced once, and rolled onto the floor.
Grey did not pick it up.
He couldn’t.
His hands were shaking uncontrollably—not an ordinary tremble, but a shudder rising from the depths of his soul that even sheer willpower could not suppress.
Cold sweat broke out on his forehead, trickling down along the scar and dripping onto the table.
He did not dare to breathe.
All the dark wizards in the tavern fell silent.
No one drew their wands, no one spoke, and no one even breathed.
The pipe slipped from the mouth of the bald wizard closest to the door; without even looking, he slumped onto the table, burying his face in his arms.
The entire tavern was as quiet as a tomb.
Aaron fished several Silver Sickles out of his pocket and lined them up on the table, one by one.
*Clink.
Clink.
Clink.*
Every sound was as crisp as a nail being driven into a coffin.
“They’re mine.”
He picked up the two iron cages and turned to walk toward the door.
The reaction of the two fire salamanders in the cages was the complete opposite of the tavern’s patrons.
They were not shaking.
They huddled close to the cage doors, trying desperately to get nearer to Aaron, a faint spark of fire lighting up in their cloudy eyes.
Aaron pulled open the iron door, letting the sunlight pour in from outside.
He stepped over the threshold.
Behind him, the dozen vicious dark wizards remained frozen in their rigid postures like a collection of petrified statues.
Cold sweat had completely soaked Grey’s shirt.
He waited a full minute, confirming the pressure had entirely dissipated, before he dared reach down to retrieve his wand.
When his fingers touched it, he found his hand was still trembling.
“Boss Grey…” a wizard in the corner finally spoke, his voice weak.
“That… who was that kid?”
Grey said nothing.
He stared down at the Silver Sickles on the table, his lips twitching for a long while before he managed to squeeze out a single sentence:
“Don’t ask. And don’t look into it.”