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A Knockturn Alley Wizard by Wembricken

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It starts like this.

The date is long since forgotten, but the year is 1966. Contrary to standard dramatic meeting prerequisites, it is not raining. It is not even cold or foggy, or especially windy. It is a dull sort of day, grey and boring and destined like all other grey and boring days to be forgotten as soon as it is done. It is a day for housecleaning and homework and dreary conversations about what a wet winter it is expected to be. It is not a day for meetings in dark places to discuss dark things.

And at first, this particular meeting does not seem exceptional at all.

“The new regulations on moonstone imports are going to be the death of me,” says one man to another. “Do you know how many potions need a touch of powdered moonstone?”

“Lots, probably,” says the other man. “So you’re actually abiding by regulations now?”

“Well no, of course not,” the first man smirks indulgently. He is a short man with messy, slowly receding hair the colour of pepper and a week’s stubble bristling about his cheeks, and he smirks with a practised ease that makes the expression especially effective. “But it’s the principle, isn’t it? New Department of International Nonsense is going to ruin this country, you watch.”

“I will,” the second man returns.

“Anyhow, I’ve got that Throat-Closing Draught that Fenewick Cambridge wanted. Make sure he doesn’t pay with leprechaun gold this time, though, or I’ll jinx him myself.”

He hands over a dusty bottle containing a brown-grey liquid. And so they talk for awhile about Fenewick Cambridge and his affinity for poisons that constrict the breathing. Their chosen place of meeting is hardly going to object to such a grisly subject. It is a grubby little pub, all dust and dirt and cobwebs. The low ceiling encourages bowed heads and whispered voices and the inch of dirt that clings to the floorboards gives the distinct impression of having been left there to better soak up spilled bodily fluids.

After awhile, the first man breaks off describing the possibilities for Fenewick Cambridge’s newest procured potion and thumps the table, his red cheeks abruptly flushing.

“I almost forgot. Have you heard about this character who’s been lurking around Knockturn Alley?”

The second man is thin and his face is framed by great quantities of grey hair. He leans forward, his brows lifting. “No?”

The first nods. “Oh yes, not a few of my people have mentioned him. The Dark Lord, he calls himself. Hardly much for an alias.”

“That’s original,” the second snorts, pulling an expression that makes his thin, grumpy face look even grumpier. “What’s he about?”

“Oh, the usual. Wizards ought to rule over Muggles, etc etc. Fair enough, he’s got a point, of course, but I’d put money on him just being some young thing looking for attention. Comes out of nowhere and starts calling himself the Dark Lord? Who does he think he is? Might’ve had the decency to come up with a false name that wasn’t quite so melodramatic. I’ve a dodgy feeling about him, though. Might threaten to upset my business if he starts getting people all fanatical, like.”

“You think he’s after your business?”

“After it? No, no, no. But threatening it, oh yes. All these young upstarts, they come out of the woodwork touting their high ideals and for a time it’s enough to sell a few extra Muggle-hexing kits, but then the Ministry, in all its wisdom, panics. Merlin forbid the Muggles find out about us! Guarantee it, this Dark Lord fellow sticks around just long enough to create a stir that shuts down my business for an uncomfortable space of time.”

The other man frowns. “That’s assuming a lot.”

“Pfft,” says the first. “Every new upstart thinks he can be another Grindelwald, thinks he can create the next ’45. Ho now, there’s an idea.” His brows suddenly lift and his eyes light up. “Don’t suppose you could get your brother to deal with this?”

“Deal with it?” says the second, looking disgusted.

“Sure “ Dark magic and that, right up his corridor. He could…tip off a few of his friends and put this Dark Lord out of business before the Ministry shuts down mine.”

“Oh please, Charlie. I doubt my brother would oblige for the sake of your business. Even if I wanted to talk to him, he’s too many high ideas to touch anything to do with us.”

“Well, don’t put it that way, of course. But paint this fellow as a real threat, a real Dark wizard and the like. Let your brother take on the mantle of hero again. He loves that. You could just, you know, slip it into a casual conversation,” says Charlie hopefully.

“We don’t have casual conversations.”

“Could you conjure one up for the right price?”

The other man is silent for a time, blue eyes staring sullenly at his companion. Finally, looking very disgruntled as he peers over his smudged glasses, he sighs and leans forward. “Fine then. Does he have a real name or is it just the ‘Dark Lord’?”

Charlie smirks, thumping the table again. “Good! I’ve only heard him called the Dark Lord and that rubbish myself, but Burke says he heard tell that he was also calling himself ‘Voldemort’. Merlin’s Beard, can you believe that? What a ridiculous name. No self-respecting aspiring Dark wizard styles himself with such a frilly name. Sounds French to me, so I can’t say his apparent penchant for vanity and attention is terribly surprising.”

Outside, the day is still grey and boring, but many years from now, when both men reflect upon this particular meeting, they will agree.

It should have been raining.