Hogwarts: The Way Home

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December 27, 1992.

Christmas had just passed, and Oxford Street in London’s West End was already bustling with people. Piles of Muggles, dressed in new clothes, walked onto the street. Children laughed and played, young people met up and exchanged sincere New Year’s greetings. Everyone’s heart harbored aspirations for a beautiful life, and even the heavily falling snow couldn’t extinguish the smiles on their faces.

For wizards, Christmas was equally the most important holiday of the year, but the way wizarding families celebrated Christmas was completely different from Muggles.

They preferred to stay indoors, listening to the crackling fire in the fireplace, sitting under a Christmas tree adorned with silver frost and mistletoe, discussing Quidditch or the latest news.

Therefore, Diagon Alley, as the wizarding commercial center, always felt particularly lonely during the New Year. Not to mention Knockturn Alley, which was sparsely populated even on weekdays.

Clang, clang, click!Amostas, concealed within a large black cloak, stepped down from a Gringotts-style trolley. Even with his stomach churning, he maintained a nonchalant demeanor to preserve his aloof persona.

The air was thick with the foul stench of fermented slug slime steeped in rotting frog guts. The uneven ground was damp, and rows of inverted torches hung neatly in mid-air. Their glowing green light illuminated this vast, fan-shaped underground cavern, making it eerie as a ghost’s domain.

Amostas’s gaze roamed. To his left, two hundred feet away in the ‘pet’ market, a fifteen-foot tall troll, its four limbs tightly bound by iron chains as thick as bowls, sat limply on the ground, almost merging with the dark rock wall.

Its owner was a toothless old witch from Moldova who had brought it here, hoping to sell the troll for a good price so she could use the money to treat her Dragon Pox.

But unfortunately, it had been for sale for two years, and no one was interested.

At this moment, the old witch leaned against the slave’s toes, scolding a large group of house-elves for polluting the environment.

These were house-elves who had lost their masters and gained their freedom.

Of course, using the word ‘freedom’ to describe house-elves was as insulting as using ‘beasts’ to describe centaurs; it certainly wouldn’t be met with gratitude.

Most of these pitiful little creatures had belonged to small wizarding families or obscure magical factions. Their masters had vanished into the river of time for various reasons, thereby forcing the house-elves to gain freedom.

Having no master was a terrifying thing for house-elves; it almost stripped them of their existential value. Therefore, the little creatures spontaneously gathered here, hoping to find new masters.

But honestly, aside from some dark wizards who needed live subjects to experiment with spells and potions, generally no one bothered with them.

The troll, however, was very friendly to the house-elves. Amostas had personally witnessed the maddened troll swatting several house-elves with one hand and crunching them down with immense enjoyment.

Besides trolls and house-elves, in the ‘pet’ market, which smelled like a toilet, you could also see many other interesting creatures. For example, centaurs who had lost their herds, accidentally captured Veela (highly sought after), vampires locked in cages, or leprechauns, all very good live materials.

Basically, excluding particularly sensitive magical creatures like dragons and unicorns, you could find most existing magical creatures in the underground pet market.

To the right, at the base of the rock wall, the trading market still maintained the rustic style of medieval Europe. However, the items sold on the randomly arranged stalls were not so simple.

Black magic books originating from ancient Greece, potions that greatly increased magical power but had unclear side effects, alchemy items that could instantly annihilate life on a large scale—in short, compared to those things, the goods sold at Borgin and Burkes could only be considered prank products beloved by young wizards. Devil’s Snare here was only fit to be used as ornamental potted plants.

Amostas had even seen the curse seed of the Black Death, which had slaughtered all of Europe back then, from an Italian wizard. According to the wizard selling it, the curse in his hand had been weakened, but if it spread, killing a city full of Muggles wouldn’t be a big problem.

Of course, the curse seed had an astonishing price matching its effect; otherwise, Amostas would genuinely have wanted to buy it for research.

And this was the dark side of the wizarding world, a true land without law.

After a long while, feeling better, Amostas began to walk towards the center of the cavern, gradually merging into the sparse crowd.

Most of the people active here wore black robes, not wishing to reveal their true faces.

Only a few reckless madmen and wizards who were merely passing through Britain occasionally dared to show their faces before the Ministry of Magic’s undercover surveillance personnel.

Yes, you heard that right.

Knockturn Alley’s underground world had Aurors secretly stationed there. However, their presence was only to monitor that no ‘outrageous’ events occurred, and not for suppression. Unless, of course, the Ministry of Magic wanted to go to war with all the remaining ancient British wizarding factions and dark wizards.

A rectangular area in the center of the cavern, enclosed by low granite walls, was the underground world’s commission market. A tall notice board stood at one end of the courtyard wall. On the snakewood board were hundreds of commission requests, gleaming with the crimson magical contract light, quietly waiting for someone to take them down.

Amostas stood under the board, scanning around. Finding no valuable commissions, he turned and found a stone stool to sit on, waiting for his trading counterpart to arrive.

Perhaps due to the New Year, there were few people here. In the vast area, only two people were whispering to each other about ten feet behind him to the right.

One of them, an eighty-year-old wizard dressed in a brown hemp robe, with a bald head full of pustules and scabs, looked up at Amostas when he heard the movement.

He seemed to disdain Amostas’s method of hiding his true face behind a distorted magical vortex. He bared his mouth, which only had a few yellow teeth left, and hissed out foul-smelling breath. His face, half scorched black like charred old tree bark and half covered in pink, squirming flesh buds like tentacles, was truly grotesque.

However, when the old wizard noticed the golden snake embroidered on Amostas’s collar, he quickly reined in his disgusting smile, politely nodded, and then averted his gaze.

Amostas, on the other hand, found the old wizard’s interesting face somewhat intriguing.

If he guessed correctly, that was probably damage caused by a failed soul-cutting spell during the creation of a Horcrux, resulting in a severe magical backlash.

According to Amostas’s knowledge, only one thing could temporarily slow the spread of such magical damage, and the subsequent conversation between the two confirmed his guess.

“It’s very difficult and very dangerous. You should know that unicorns can only be found in one place in all of Britain!”

The wizard opposite the old wizard, thin as a bamboo stick, took out a glass from under his black robe. Inside the glass, a shimmering silver liquid glowed brightly in the dim underground world. He spoke cautiously.

The old wizard understood what he meant. He let out a sharp, cold laugh, and similarly pulled out a fist-sized piece of mithril from his robe, throwing it onto the table.“Of course, of course. Even here, not many people are willing to offend Dumbledore. I’ve been waiting for this for some time. You have courage; I admire you—”

Transactions in the underground world were always straightforward, with little haggling. If a deal truly couldn’t be made, they would simply eliminate the other party.

Amostas watched the old wizard with interest. When he saw him take the glass, sniff it carefully, and then pour it into his mouth, Amostas’s face, obscured by the blurry light, showed a hint of amusement.

Here, one thing must be mentioned:

Due to the flaws in traditional magical education, factional wizards often became extremely proficient in one area, but terrifyingly ignorant in another, like an apprentice just starting magic. And modern magical education, delivered through schools, had a high probability of not producing any astonishing talents, but at least it was balanced.

Balanced knowledge was very important.

At least the current transaction, any qualified student at the Hogwarts O.W.L.s level would not be fooled by a bewildering potion that had undergone a Transfiguration spell and had two unicorn feathers added to it.