Harry Potter and the Ties that Bind

Chapter 10

Knockturn Alley. Home to the seedier side of Diagon Alley. Here, in this filthy, downtrodden street, where the scent of decay hung thick in the air and the denizens looked like they would sooner stab you than help you, anything you wanted that couldn't be purchased through legal channels was available...

... for a price.

Harry Potter strode down the street, his entire form cloaked in a veil of darkness. Pitch black robes billowed around his body. The spell cast on his hood, a form of wandless enchanting, masked his face and allowed only his mouth and eyes to be seen. He would have also spelled his eyes to glow bloody crimson, but for some reason, magic didn't work on his eyes, just as he couldn't use magic on his scar.

Several people tried coming up to him when he walked in their vicinity, but one glare from his glowing green eyes and they scurried off, their legs taking them as far from him as they could. Snorting derisively, he continued on his way.

Harry's destination was an antiquated shop that had seen better days. Stains covered the front glass window, along with cracks that spread out from a single point, making him wonder how the window hadn't shattered already. Grime covered the walls, blackish and with mold growing along the bottom. A strange scent hung in the air, coming from behind the scratched door, and reminding Harry of decay. He wrinkled his nose.

The door creaked on rusted hinges as he pushed it open. Stepping inside revealed an interior every bit as foul as the exterior. Dirty wooden floorboards groaned as he walked. A cracked and stained ceiling made him wonder if roof might come down on top of him.

The room wasn't empty. Shelves lined the walls, and each one was filled with any number of strange items and artifacts—werewolf hands, a griffin's beak, orbs glowing with dark luminescence. Arrayed around the room itself sat items that were too large to fit on a shelf. A dresser sat in one space, ancient-looking and decrepit, its once glossy finished now cracked and dull. Several feet from him, the remains of what looked like an acromantula lay, inert and unmoving. Harry didn't think it was real—he couldn't sense any magic—but it looked realistic enough.

"Ah," a scratchy voice said behind him, "if it init the youngin'. What can I be doin' fer you today?"

Harry turned around, his cloak swishing, and glared at the man from beneath his hood.

The person who stood before him wasn't old, but he didn't look young either. Lips had peeled back over yellow teeth gums stained black. Sunken eyes peered out from underneath a fringe of muddy-looking hair, their dark irises glimmering with hints of madness. The man walked with a noticeable stoop, his gait halting as if he'd lost a toe and had to relearn how to walk.

"You know why I'm here. Is my wand ready?"

Harry had commissioned this man to make Sirius a new wand. He wasn't as good a wand maker as Ollivander, but then, few wand makers were that good. Ollivander was one of the top wand makers in the world, while this man likely didn't even register in the top 2,000 list.

That was the price one paid for illegally crafted wands. This man was a black market wand seller. He sold wands to dark families who wanted to teach their children how to perform magic before they went to Hogwarts. None of the wands he made were of very high quality. However, all of the wands he made didn't have the trace on them, the magic spell that the Ministry used to detect magic.

"Ah, yes, yer wand is ready. If you'll be waitin' here, I'll bring it right out."

The man lumbered through a door in the back. Harry waited, his foot tapping impatiently. It was a fortunately short wait, and when the man came back out, he was carrying a black box, which was worn and cracked, the wood having long since lost its luster due to age.