"Let me see your secret!"
In the shadows between Diagon Alley and Knockturn Alley, a young wizard extended his wand mercilessly, forcibly prying open a Goblin's mind. The goblin's guttural scream was quickly muffled by a silencing charm, its clawed hands twitching uselessly as foreign memories flooded the intruder's consciousness.
Not long ago, Voldemort had arrived in Knockturn Alley.
This was where the darkest wizards in the British magical world gathered. Though separated from the prosperous Diagon Alley by only a thin wall, the two places were as different as day and night.
Diagon Alley thrived with vibrant life—witches and wizards bustling between shops, colorful signs creaking in the breeze, the scent of fresh ink and cauldron smoke hanging in the air.
Knockturn Alley, by contrast, was filthy and reeked of decay. The cobblestones were slick with grime, the air thick with the stench of rotting refuse, spilled potions, and unwashed robes.
Flickering green lanterns cast sickly shadows that seemed to crawl along the narrow walls like living things.
The wizards who lingered here were so disreputable they could hardly be called proper Dark Wizards. Rather than wizards, they were more like scavenging vultures, fighting over rotting remains—petty thieves, desperate addicts, and failed practitioners of the Dark Arts who clung to the alley like mold on damp stone.
They eyed every passerby with hungry, calculating glances, ready to sell anything or anyone for the right price.
Of course, that only applied to the drifters. Those who managed to establish themselves in Knockturn Alley were far from ordinary. Power, cunning, and old blood still commanded respect here, even if it wore a shabby cloak.
A notable example was Borgin and Burkes.
Its owner, Caractacus Burke, was a member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Though he appeared disheveled with his greasy hair and threadbare robes, even the Malfoys addressed him respectfully as "Mister."
Even during the strictest Ministry crackdowns on Dark artifacts, he could still openly trade in forbidden magical items discreetly brought in by the Malfoys. The shop's dusty windows hid treasures that could ruin reputations or end lives with a single whispered incantation.
Not to mention, Tom Riddle himself had once worked there as an apprentice. Of course, his intentions had never been pure.
He had used the opportunity to carefully select valuable objects suitable for turning into Horcruxes—objects that would one day anchor his soul and grant him the immortality he craved.
This time, however, Voldemort had no interest in Borgin and Burkes. He needed Dragon blood, or better yet, Unicorn blood, to prolong the miserable existence of his current body.
The weak, borrowed form he inhabited was fading faster than he had anticipated.
Every movement sent dull aches through his limbs, and the constant drain on his magic was becoming intolerable. He required something potent—something ancient and powerful—to stabilize this vessel until he could claim something far worthier.
There were many potion shops in Knockturn Alley, but the most renowned was Travers' Potion Shop.
The Travers family, also among the Sacred Twenty-Eight, was one of the few that had endured the turbulent currents of time without faltering.
Their knowledge of forbidden ingredients and lethal brews had been passed down through generations like a poisonous heirloom.
The shop's owner was an ancient, hunched witch. Her face was covered in liver spots, her skin layered and sagging like melted wax, her eyelids drooping so low that her pupils were barely visible.
Simply standing there, she gave off the aura of a corpse that had not yet realized it was dead.
The air inside the shop was heavy with the mingled scents of dried herbs, acrid fumes, and something metallic that lingered on the tongue.
In fact, the Travers Voldemort remembered from fifty years ago had looked exactly the same—unchanged, timeless in her decrepitude. He did not find this strange.
In the wizarding world, many possessed methods to extend their lives. While few reached the heights of Nicolas Flamel, who had lived for centuries, wizards nearing two hundred years of age were not unheard of. Otherwise, Snape would not have claimed that Potions could allow one to defy death.
Voldemort, however, disdained such methods. To him, aging was merely another form of death—slow, humiliating, and inevitable. What he sought was not just immortality, but eternal power. A body that would never weaken, a soul that would never fade. Anything less was beneath him.
"What can I get for you?" the old Mrs. Travers asked slowly upon noticing him. Her voice was a dry rasp, like parchment scraping against parchment.
Her movements were sluggish, as if she might fall apart at any moment. "Polyjuice Potion? Felix Felicis? I also have other restricted brews, though the price—"
"I need one ounce of Dragon blood," Voldemort said hoarsely, in a low and commanding way.
"Dragon blood?" Mrs. Travers seemed slightly surprised. Her drooping eyelids lifted a fraction as she examined him more closely. She had not expected someone to come here for a raw ingredient rather than a finished potion.
"You look familiar," she said after a pause, tilting her head with the creak of old bones. "What is your surname, child?"
"Walls," Riddle replied casually, offering the alias without hesitation.
"Walls…" She thought for a moment, her cloudy eyes narrowing, then shook her head, unable to recall anything. In the end, she dismissed it. A name meant nothing as long as he was a paying customer.
"Only Dragon blood?"
"If you have it, Unicorn blood would be better," Voldemort added, his tone sharpening with barely concealed hunger.
This time, her surprise deepened. Her cloudy eyes became more visible as her eyelids lifted further, revealing a glint of shrewd interest.
"Unicorn blood? You are not planning to drink it, are you?"
"From your tone, it seems you have some," Voldemort said, a dangerous glint flashing in his eyes.
"I did not, originally. But you are fortunate. Not long ago, a smuggled young Unicorn came into my possession. A beautiful creature, though it could not be saved. I drained its blood and stripped its fur," Mrs. Travers said with a low, eerie chuckle that echoed unpleasantly in the dim shop.
"Give it to me," Voldemort said eagerly, the words slipping out sharper than he intended. The mere thought of the silver blood sent a thrill through his decaying form.
Mrs. Travers slowly brought out a large bottle filled with shimmering silver liquid. It glowed with an ethereal light, casting faint, dancing reflections across the cluttered shelves.
"Look at it. Beautiful, isn't it? But the blood of a Unicorn that dies in hatred carries a Curse. It leaves the drinker in a half-dead state. I intended to use it for poison brewing. Still, if you want it, the price is two hundred and fifty-eight Galleons."
She did not care what he planned to do with it. The warning was merely a courtesy, given that he seemed vaguely familiar.
Voldemort cared even less. The Galleons were not his to begin with, and the Curse would not trouble him. His soul was already fractured beyond repair; one more curse was nothing.
Naturally, he would not drink it here. The act itself was painful, and he had no intention of exposing weakness before a stranger.
In truth, Voldemort trusted no one, not even his own followers. Betrayal was always a possibility, and he had learned long ago that solitude was the only true safety.
With the blood in hand, he prepared to find a secluded place to consume it.
But the moment he stepped out of Knockturn Alley, he sensed something was wrong.
The Goblins were unusually tense. Their usual surly confidence had been replaced by sharp, watchful eyes and hurried movements. Hushed whispers passed between.
It was obvious from the state of Gringotts Wizarding Bank. The bank's defenses had been reinforced. Though its security had increased significantly after the incident two years prior, this level of alert was unprecedented. It was as if they were actively preventing wizards from entering. Heavy iron gates stood partially closed, and goblin guards clutched their weapons with white-knuckled grips.
Perhaps for the first time in centuries, Gringotts had closed its doors to outsiders.
Several wizards attempting to conduct business were turned away with curt, nervous refusals, and even some Goblins quietly slipped away into secluded corners, their ears twitching with unease.
Voldemort immediately realized that something major had happened inside the bank. Linking it to the conflict in the Scottish Highlands not long ago, the answer came easily.
Ancient Magic.
It seemed the person he had been searching for all this time was finally within reach.
His pupils dilated, filled with desire and murderous intent, like a venomous serpent locking onto its prey, intent not only on striking, but on devouring it whole.