Harry's smile didn't just fade; it practically evaporated. He felt like a student who had just reached the climax of a thrilling mystery novel, only to find the last fifty pages had been ripped out.
"Wait, what about sixty?" Harry blurted out, his voice echoing in the deserted, damp street. "And seventy? You can't just stop at fifty, Jack! If fifty is 'Knowing the Will of Heaven,' what happens when a wizard hits seventy? Do they become gods?"
Sebastian didn't answer immediately. He just kept walking, the string of unconscious, floating thugs bobbing along behind him like a macabre parade. The silence stretched for nearly thirty seconds, long enough for Harry to start feeling self-conscious about his enthusiasm.
Finally, Sebastian turned slightly, a meaningful smile playing on his lips. "When you get to those heights, Harry, the air gets very thin. Let's worry about you reaching thirty before we start discussing the divine. Now, back to the matter at hand. Tell me: as a 'graduate' of the last ten minutes, what is your primary takeaway from this experience?"
Harry stammered, his mind racing through a million impressions. "I... uh... that Knockturn Alley is a death trap? That little wizards shouldn't even be allowed within a mile of this place?"
Sebastian stopped and looked at Harry, his expression turning grave but educational. "Think deeper, Leo. Why were you targeted? Out of all the people moving through these shadows, why did that old woman pick you, and why did those four idiots ignore everyone else to surround us?"
"Because they're evil?" Harry offered, though he knew it was the wrong answer. "Because I was just... there?"
Sebastian gestured toward a group of witches and wizards further down the street. "Look at them. Really look at them. How are they different from the people in Diagon Alley?"
Harry paused, squinting through the gloom. Gradually, the patterns began to emerge. In Diagon Alley, people strolled. They window-shopped. They laughed, they licked ice cream, and they carried their wands tucked away in their pockets or holsters.
Here, the pedestrians moved with a frantic, twitchy purpose. Most were alone. The few witches Harry saw were walking with their heads down, their hands white-knuckled around the handles of their bags—or the hilts of their wands. Some men were so heavily hooded that only their eyes were visible, glowing like embers in the dark. No one was looking at the scenery; everyone was looking at everyone else.
Harry looked down at his own posture—the way he had been goggling at the shriveled heads and the cursed books like he was on a school field trip.
"I acted like a tourist," Harry whispered, realization dawning on him. "I walked in here like a complete novice. I looked... easy to bully."
"Exactly," Sebastian said, and for a second, he reached out as if to ruffle Harry's hair, only to pull back when he remembered he was looking at a chubby twenty-year-old man instead of a twelve-year-old boy. "In an unfamiliar or hostile environment, never act like a beginner. If you smell like a lamb, the hyenas will find you. These thugs aren't masterminds; they're opportunists. They saw a 'fat, happy' novice and a 'thin, aimless' companion and thought they'd hit the jackpot."
Sebastian's voice took on a sharper edge. "In many parts of the world, there is no line between 'dark' and 'ordinary' wizards. They mingle. They wait for unfamiliar faces. If you look like you don't belong, you'll lose your gold. If you look like you can't fight, you'll lose your life."
"But those guys," Harry gestured to the floating thugs. "They looked so... obvious. Ragged robes, crazy eyes. Surely I can just avoid people who look like that?"
Sebastian let out a soft, pitying chuckle. "By that logic, almost everyone on this street is a Dark Wizard. But look closer. Most of these 'scary' people are just poor. They live here because the rent is cheap and the Ministry doesn't ask questions. They act tough because if they didn't, they wouldn't survive the walk to the grocer."
He pointed a long finger at the leader of the thugs floating in the air. "These men? They're amateurs. Real Dark Wizards don't wear rags and scream in the street. They look like gentlemen. They look like 'good people.' And unlike these idiots, a real Dark Wizard won't give you a warning or ask for your money. They'll end you before you even realize they've drawn their wand."
Harry shivered. The "Dark Side" was becoming a lot more complicated than he had imagined.
"Which brings me to the next question," Sebastian continued. "What would you have done if I hadn't stepped in? How would you have used your wand?"
"I... I would have drawn it and told her to back off!" Harry said defensively.
"With which hand?"
"My right hand!" Harry shouted, certain of this one. "It still hurts where she grabbed me."
Sebastian's smile turned ambiguous, almost mocking. Harry opened his mouth to argue, then froze. His right arm was the one the witch had clamped onto with her vice-like grip. If he had tried to reach for his wand in his right pocket, she would have felt the movement instantly. She could have snapped his wrist or jammed a knife into his ribs before his hand even touched the wood.
Harry's face fell. "I... I couldn't have pulled it out. She had me pinned."
"Bingo," Sebastian said. "A practical lesson in physical control. If you rely solely on your dominant hand and a piece of wood, you are one grab away from being helpless. This is why we train in wordless magic, wandless magic, or at the very least, dual-handed proficiency. But the safest approach? Don't let them get close enough to touch you in the first place."
Harry nodded slowly, processing the flood of information. Don't look like a novice. Don't let them close. Be ready to fight without a wand.
"But Jack," Harry asked, looking at a particularly grim-looking shop called The Coffin House. "If this place is so bad, why does the Ministry let it stay open? Why not just send in the Aurors and turn the whole street into a park?"
Sebastian sighed, a sound full of weary cynicism. "The Ministry doesn't manage Knockturn Alley because they can't... and because they don't want to."
"What do you mean?"
"Think about it, Harry. This is a 'gray zone.' There are things sold here that high-ranking Ministry officials need but can't be seen buying in Diagon Alley. It's a convenient black market for the powerful. Secondly, the Ministry likes having all the 'rats' in one cellar. If they cleared out Knockturn today, the dark wizards wouldn't disappear; they'd just scatter to the four corners of England, making them impossible to track. Here, the Aurors know exactly where the rot is."
Sebastian lowered his voice. "And finally... look at the ownership. These shops might look like ruins, but many of them are owned through shell companies by the 'Noble and Most Ancient' houses. This street generates a massive amount of untaxed wealth for the pure-blood elite. If the Minister tried to shut it down, he'd find himself out of a job by breakfast."
Harry felt a cold knot in his stomach. The "Savior" of the wizarding world was starting to realize that the government he was supposed to save was built on a foundation of compromise and corruption.
"It's a balance of convenience, Leo," Sebastian said, his tone returning to a lighter note. "Now, enough politics. We've reached the end of the lesson."
He stopped in front of a shop that looked significantly larger and more established than the others, though no less sinister. A sign hung above the door, its gold lettering chipped and faded: Borgin and Burkes.
The window was filled with a dizzying array of artifacts—a withered hand on a cushion, a deck of bloodstained cards, and a massive black cabinet that seemed to swallow the light around it.
"Is this it?" Harry whispered, reading the name. "Borgin and Burkes?"
"This is it," Sebastian said, his eyes gleaming with a strange intensity. "The premiere destination for things that shouldn't exist. Let's see if we can find you something truly... unforgettable."