The slide had turned into a long, damp trek through a rough-hewn earth tunnel. For nearly half an hour, Alister followed the twins, the light of his wand illuminating the low ceiling and the spiders scuttling away from the intrusion. Finally, the path began to slope upward, ending at a wooden trapdoor.
"Here we are," Fred whispered, extinguishing his wand light. "Listen for footsteps."
They waited a moment in the darkness, hearing the faint, muffled thud of movement above them and the distant chime of a shop bell. When silence fell, George pushed the trapdoor up. It creaked open, revealing a dimly lit cellar stacked high with crates and barrels.
The air that rushed down to meet them wasn't damp or dusty; it was thick with a heavy, intoxicating sweetness. It smelled of warm caramel, melting chocolate, and the sharp tang of peppermint.
"Welcome to Honeydukes," George whispered, climbing out and offering a hand to Alister.
They emerged from behind a stack of crates labeled Jelly Slugs - Do Not Shake. Alister dusted off his robes and followed the twins up a narrow wooden staircase. They slipped through a curtain behind the counter, timing their movement perfectly to avoid the gaze of the shopkeeper, a large, bald man who was busy restocking a shelf of Exploding Bonbons.
They stepped out into the shop proper, and Alister blinked.
If the cellar had smelled sweet, the shop was an assault on the senses. Shelves reached from the floor to the ceiling, packed with jars of every shape and color.
There were creamy chunks of nougat, shimmering pink squares of coconut ice, fat, honey-colored toffees, and hundreds of different kinds of chocolate in neat rows. There was a large barrel of Every Flavor Beans, and another of Fizzing Whizzbees, the levitating sherbet balls that the twins had mentioned.
This was Edible Alchemy—low-tier potions work packaged as joy. It was a frivolous use of magic, perhaps, but a profitable one.
"Try to look innocent," Fred muttered, grabbing a handful of Pepper Imps from a jar and tossing a sickle on the counter as they breezed past.
They pushed open the door and stepped out into the village of Hogsmeade.
The contrast to the dark, enclosed tunnel was stark. Hogsmeade was a picture-book village, bathed in the golden light of the afternoon sun. The main street was lined with thatched cottages and shops, their windows glowing with inviting warmth even in the daylight. Trees with leaves turning the copper and gold of autumn lined the cobblestone street.
But to Alister, it was more than just a pretty view.
Unlike Diagon Alley, which felt like a frantic marketplace squeezed into London, Hogsmeade felt like a place where magic had seeped into the very foundations. The air tasted cleaner, sharper. There were no Muggles here, no need for the constant, draining magical wards to hide from non-magical eyes. The village breathed freely.
"The only all-wizarding village in Britain," George said, noticing Alister's scanning gaze. He gestured down the street. "That's The Three Broomsticks—best Butterbeer you'll ever taste. And over there," he pointed to a shop with a red and violent-orange frontage, "Zonko's Joke Shop."
"We need to stop at Zonko's," Fred added seriously. "Strategic resupply."
Alister nodded, taking in the layout. There was a post office filled with hundreds of owls, a quill shop, and a clothing store. But his eyes were drawn to the darker, narrower alleyways branching off the main street, where the shadows stretched a little longer. That was where the real business would be done later.
"Lead the way," Alister said. "Show me everything."
They walked down the winding cobblestone street, the autumn sun casting long shadows across the quaint storefronts. They attracted a few glances from passing witches and wizards, but no one looked twice.
Before leaving the castle, the twins had insisted on a quick transfiguration of their outer robes—turning the school crests and distinct Hogwarts cut into plain, common wizarding wear. To the casual observer, they were just three village boys out for an errand.
t quickly became apparent, however, that Fred and George were not just visitors; they were practically fixtures of the village.
"Alright there, lads?" a wizard sweeping the front of the Gladrags Wizardwear called out as they passed.
"Top of the morning, Mr. Poddmore!" Fred called back cheerfully.
"Keeping out of trouble, I hope?" a witch selling flowers asked with a knowing smile.
"Always, Mrs. Spud!" George replied with a grin that suggested the exact opposite.
Alister observed this with quiet interest. The twins were apparently regular visitors to the village, always sneaking away from the castle.
Their first destination was unmistakable. Located near the end of the high street was a shop so vibrant it seemed to vibrate against the more sedate buildings around it. The paint was a violent clash of red and orange, and the windows were packed with spinning, whizzing, and exploding contraptions.
Zonko's Joke Shop.
They stepped inside, and the gold Alister had given them—coins that hadn't even had time to warm up in their pockets—were immediately put to work.
The shop was a sensory overload of noise and smell. There were shelves stacked with Dungbombs, baskets overflowing with Hiccup Sweets, and a glass counter displaying Nose-Biting Teacups.
Fred and George didn't browse; they raided.
"Two boxes of Dr. Filibuster's Fabulous Wet-Start, No-Heat Fireworks," Fred ordered, slamming a handful of Sickles onto the counter.
"And a crate of Whizzing Worms," George added, piling on the rest of the currency. "Plus a dozen Frog Spawn Soaps."
_______________________________________
The rest of the afternoon was a whirlwind tour of Hogsmeade. With their bags from Zonko's rattling with every step, the twins led Alister past the Post Office, where hundreds of owls hooted softly in the rafters, and Dervish and Banges, where magical instruments of all kinds whirred and clicked in the window.
Finally, as the afternoon light began to take on the golden hue of approaching dusk, they reached their final destination: The Three Broomsticks.
It was the heart of the village, a warm, crowded inn that smelled of woodsmoke and sweet drinks. They pushed their way inside, the noise of laughter and clinking mugs washing over them.
Alister noted the diverse clientele—wizards in travel cloaks, hags huddled in corners, and locals enjoying a pint. It was the perfect place for collecting information.
They managed to squeeze into a booth near the back. Fred and George, looking confident, signaled for the landlady.
"Three Butterbeers, please, Rosmerta!" Fred called out with a charming grin. "And keep them cold!"
Madam Rosmerta, a curvy woman with a pretty face and eyes that missed absolutely nothing, bustled over. She looked down at the twins, her hands on her hips. Despite their plain robes and confident demeanor, she didn't buy it for a second.
"Nice try, boys," she said, her voice sharp but amused. "I know Molly Weasley's sons when I see them, uniform or not. And I know for a fact you aren't old enough for the hard stuff yet."
"Hard stuff?" George protested, feigning shock. "It's just Butterbeer, Rosmerta! Practically a health drink!"
"It's mild alcohol," she corrected, not budging an inch. "And strictly regulated for underage wizards without a guardian. You'll have pumpkin juice, or you'll have water. Take your pick."
She bustled away before they could argue further, returning a moment later with three tall glasses of iced pumpkin juice.
Fred and George slumped in their seats, grumbling into their glasses.
"Tyranny," Fred muttered. "Absolute tyranny."
"We're basically adults," George agreed, looking mournfully at a wizard at the next table enjoying a foaming tankard. "The injustice of it all."
While the twins bickered about the unfairness of wizarding liquor laws, Alister just sat back taking a sip of his juice.
A bar was not just a place to drink; it was a nexus of gossip, secrets, and business dealings.
He filtered out the complaints about the Ministry, the arguments about Quidditch scores, and the gossip about neighbors. Soon enough he heard what he needed from the hushed conversation taking place in a dark corner booth behind him.
Alister finished his juice in one long draught and set the glass down with a definitive clink.
"Drink up," he said to the twins, cutting through their debate about whether they could transfigure the juice into ale. "We're leaving."
"Already?" Fred asked, looking at his half-finished drink.
"The sun is setting," Alister replied, standing up and checking the window where the light was fading into a deep purple.
The twins exchanged a confused look but they didn't argue. They downed their drinks and followed him out.
The sun had dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in bruises of purple and black. Alister stopped abruptly in the middle of the street, the cheerful glow of the shop windows fading behind them.
"You two go back first," Alister said, his voice leaving no room for argument. "I have one more errand to run. Alone."
Fred and George paused, looking at the darkening street and then back at him. They were curious—intensely so—but.
"Right," Fred said, shrugging. "Don't get lost, snakelet."
"And don't get eaten," George added. "Filch will start patrolling soon."
They turned and headed back toward Honeydukes, disappearing into the twilight. Alister watched them go until they were out of sight, then immediately turned on his heel and walked in the opposite direction.
He moved away from the main thoroughfare, slipping into the narrow, winding alleys he had noted earlier. Here, the charming cobblestones gave way to cracked earth and damp shadows. The air grew colder, smelling of mildew and stagnant magic. Following the snippets of conversation he had overheard in the pub, he navigated the labyrinth until he found it.
It was a shop that seemed to repel the light. The windows were grime-streaked and blackened, offering no view inside. The sign above the door was so weathered it was illegible, but the aura radiating from the building was unmistakable. It was a cold, sticky feeling, a silent warning to the uninvited.
Alister stopped in the shadows. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a simple, black cloth mask. He secured it over his face, hiding his features completely.
He stepped forward and pushed the door open. It swung inward with a piercing, rusted screech that grated on the nerves.
The interior was dim, lit only by a few sputtering candles that smelled of tallow. The shop was cramped, filled with shelves of peculiar, bone-like artifacts and jars of murky liquid. Standing behind a high, scarred counter was a gloomy man with sunken eyes and sallow skin. He looked up as the bell chimed, his gaze suspicious and unwelcoming.
Alister ignored him completely. He didn't offer a greeting, nor did he shrink away from the shopkeeper's glare. He walked straight past the counter to the back of the shop where the bookshelves stood, his posture radiating a cold, dismissive arrogance.
He stood before the shelves, his eyes narrowing behind the mask casting a silent, wandless spell. A subtle ripple of energy passed over his eyes. To an observer, nothing had changed, but to Alister, the world shifted. The darkness of the shop peeled away, revealing the magical auras clinging to the objects.
He scanned the books. Immediately, his vision was assaulted by plumes of metaphysical smoke.
Some books emitted a thick, oily black smoke that smelled, even through his magical sight, of rotting meat. Others pulsed with a jagged, crimson light that felt like a fresh wound. Alister sneered beneath his mask.
These were books on Ritualistic Dark Magic—the "dirty" arts. They relied on sacrifice, self-mutilation, and grotesque ingredients to achieve power. While his Tier 3 magic power and the World Core connection would render him immune to their corrupting effects, he had no interest in them. They were crude, disgusting, and inefficient.
He bypassed the shelves dripping with black and crimson energy, his gaze searching for something else. He was looking for Dark Theory—combat magic, curses, and forbidden knowledge that relied on intent and power rather than blood and gore.
Finally, his eyes landed on a row of books near the bottom. They didn't smoke or bleed. Instead, they were wrapped in a cold, grey aura, sharp and dense like steel.
(END OF CHAPTER)
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