Harry Potter: The Golden Viper

0685 Market

Sizzle—

The molten wax dripped down from the nearly extinguished candle that shook unsteadily on the edge of the coffee table. The scalding wax made a sharp hissing sound the instant it collided with the wooden surface. Amidst a few wisps of black smoke, a pungent burnt odor permeated the room.

Aeschylus extended his arm in a precise arc and from the tip of his wand a concentrated beam of dark green light flung out. The spell streaked across the short distance between them before disappearing into the body of the Muggle who had remained standing rigid as a coat rack in the corner.

Instantly, the two upturned pupils on the Muggle's haggard face suddenly began to violently sway left and right, up and down, bulging out to a degree that would make one worry the eyeballs might fall out of their sockets at any moment!

As the eyeballs swung, complex patterns of magic runes gradually formed on the whites of the Muggle's eyes. These lines also twisted and swayed with the movement of the eyeballs, like writhing black worms burrowing into the eye sockets.

Yet such a gruesome sight did not cause Jasna to show any reaction. She quietly observed the scene.

After the magic runes fully took shape, all the lines completely merged into the whites of the Muggle's eyes under the dim light. Immediately following, the Muggle, who had been standing still in the corner since Jasna entered the room, began to move. He took stiff steps, one by one, towards the bed. Under the gaze of the two, he climbed onto the bed and even pulled the covers over himself.

"You can't possibly expect this to—" Jasna began, her skepticism evident in her tone, but before she could complete her sentence, Aeschylus abruptly cut her off.

"Of course, I don't expect this to take out Watson or Dumbledore—" Aeschylus replied with an elaborately casual shrug of his shoulders and an artificially lighthearted tone. "Just giving them some amusement, that's all—"

Contrary to the careless façade he maintained, Aeschylus was operating with significantly more caution than Jasna had initially credited him with. Before making any move toward the exit, he took out his wand once more and began precisely 'tidying' the room.

Of course, he wasn't cleaning up the sanitation, but rather erasing all traces he had left behind in this room.

"What are you doing?" Jasna inquired, observing his unexpectedly thorough precautions with mild surprise.

Without pausing in his methodical cleansing, Aeschylus reached into an inner pocket of his jacket and took out a small glass bottle and pulled out the cork stopper, allowing purple fumes to waft up from inside.

The purple fumes rapidly expanded upon meeting the air, filling the entire room in the blink of an eye.

Witnessing this alarming outpouring of potentially toxic substance, Jasna reacted and without any hesitation raised her wand in a fluid, circular motion around her head, silently conjuring a Bubble-Head Charm.

A transparent sphere of magically purified air immediately covered her entire head, creating a barrier between her body and the suspicious purple vapor that now permeated their surroundings, which by all appearances seemed to be of a toxic or else hazardous nature.

"We all know what those powerful wizards are capable of—" Aeschylus said cryptically as the purple smoke continued its invasion, rolling over every surface, seeping into every absorbent material, and infiltrating the smallest gaps in the floorboards and wall joints.

After approximately fifteen seconds of this comprehensive saturation, an equally amazing transformation occurred. The purple color began to fade rapidly, not dissipating as normal smoke would, but seemingly dissolving directly into the substance of the objects it had contacted—the walls, floor, furniture, and even the enchanted Muggle on the bed. Within moments, all visible traces of the mysterious vapor had vanished completely, as if it had never existed.

Aeschylus surveyed the result of this unusual procedure with a satisfied nod of his head, "With this, they won't be able to find a single clue—"

Though Jasna generally understood the nature and purpose of her companion's actions, she maintained her air of dismissive superiority. "We could have just used Fiendfyre to burn everything clean—"

"That would only leave an even bigger loophole. Don't forget what Watson specializes in—" Aeschylus countered offhandedly.

With attention to detail, Aeschylus conducted one final, complete visual sweep of the room, meticulously confirming that no evidence remained that might indicate their presence or activities. Satisfied with his inspection, he finally followed Jasna out.

Outside, the feeble light from the moon on the horizon was unable to pierce the deep night. In the dark gutters on both side of the narrow alleyway, some of the melted snow gathered, forming black trickles - the heavy sound of flowing water was like ghosts weeping.

Aeschylus and Jasna stood motionless outside the door, their silhouettes barely distinguishable from the surrounding darkness. In complete silence, they gazed contemplatively at the building they had just exited.

After a long while, Aeschylus withdrew his gaze, his eyes sweeping over the surrounding houses that were just as dilapidated as the one he had been residing in recently. For some reason, the carefree smile that usually hung on the corners of his mouth was gone, replaced by a hint of deep, gloomy haze in his eyes.

"To freedom--" Aeschylus suddenly said.

Standing beside him, Jasna's expression was solemn. "To freedom--"

Then, with two soft pops, the two figures vanished, disappearing in this seemingly forgotten by time, refugee area.

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The moment Bryan once again donned the black cloak, pulling its deep hood forward to hide his face, his cheeks disappeared behind the swirling vortex of magical energy that served as his disguise.

After the transformation, his breathing immediately altered, becoming rapid and deep, as if he had abruptly transitioned from a stifling, oxygen-depleted environment into the refreshing atmosphere of an ancient, primeval forest. Involuntarily, he expelled several forceful exhalations, his body seemingly desperate to purge itself of some accumulated toxicity that had built up during his time without the mask.

But coming back to his senses, Bryan laughed at himself in self-mockery.

If others ever discovered that the vice chairman of the International Confederation of Wizards, the honorary vice president of the Anti-Dark Arts Alliance, the senior advisor to the British Ministry of Magic, and the head of the Student Safety Office at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry—the renowned Bryan Watson—was simultaneously a figure who spent his days pondering how to return becoming a dark wizard, then everyone's eyeballs would likely pop out from shock.

However, the path was his own choice, so there was nothing to complain about.

There was no true freedom to do as one pleased in the world, whether in the world above ground or the underground world. Both had their own set of rules. Even the strong who made the rules would ultimately be constrained by the rules they set. Only someone like Voldemort, who had completely abandoned reason and gone utterly mad, would hope for a world in eternal chaos.

His contemplative trance was interrupted by a harsh noise. The underground world of Knockturn Alley at night was even more "prosperous" than during the day. Green flames frequently flashed in the fireplaces on either wall of the cave, with wizards in black cloaks continuously joining the nocturnal revelry.

Kakus Fawley had "clocked out", but Bryan's purpose this time was not him either. Glancing at the group of house-elves who had healed from their scars and forgotten the pain, gathering here once more, Bryan started walking towards the underground market.

The black market was well-known for its paradoxical nature—a place where genuinely rare and valuable artifacts could be discovered alongside masterfully crafted fakes so convincing that even experts might be deceived.

Success or failure in such an environment depended entirely upon one's personal ability to discern genuineness from fraud.

Each day, countless people would be thoroughly swindled, losing significant sums of money or valuable trade goods to clever deception. Similarly, the fortunate few with keen eyes or specialized knowledge would occasionally encounter genuine treasures being sold at a fraction of their true worth by ignorant vendors, thereby making striking profits through their judgement.

However, regardless of whether one fell victim to sophisticated scheme or benefited from an advantageous transaction, an undisputable rule ruled all business in this shadow economy: one must accept the consequences of one's decisions.

It was absolutely forbidden to return and confront a seller after discovering you had been cheated, just as vendors were prohibited from reclaiming goods they later realized had been sold far below their actual value. The enforcement of this principle was not simply a matter of custom but of survival; without it, lethal magical duels would erupt with such frequency that the marketplace would fall into unmanageable chaos, making it completely impossible to do business.

While the trading market operated according to this relatively straightforward principle, the adjacent commission market—where services rather than goods were exchanged—functioned under considerably more complex conditions.

It was common for clients and contractors to engage in schemes of mutual betrayal and double-crossing. This inherent instability in service transactions was why the specialized intermediaries like Fawley—brokers who facilitated commissions while providing a thin layer of accountability came into being.

"Ah, long time no see, Mr. Viper!"

The exclamation came from behind a makeshift stall where a few wooden sticks and planks supporting several uneven planks served as a display exterior. Managing this dilapidated stall was a severely hunched elderly man whose scalp gleamed with complete baldness under the flickering magical lights of the underground market.

Upon recognizing the distinguishing magical vortex that obscured the face of the approaching customer, the vendor's eyes widened dramatically, his facial features twisted in an expression of unconcealed astonishment, which he made a poor attempt to disguise.

In the unforgiving ecosystem of the magical underground world, people who had once been active but then disappeared for long period of time were generally assumed to have met violent ends—either through betrayal, capture by authorities, or the countless other hazards related to illegal magical activities.

Someone like Viper who hadn't shown up for over a year - people thought he had probably long returned to hell's embrace.

But after the initial surprise passed, the stall owner nimbly stood up from his three-legged stool, striving to straighten his back. The old man, with a crooked eye and missing teeth, his neck still revealing a large black blemish, showed a look of delight on his face. Viper might be "notorious" in the commission market, but in the trading market here, he was known for his generous spending!

"What can I do for you, Mr. Viper?" The shopkeeper said respectfully, his eyes revealing his longing for shiny gold Galleons.

"Verrence--" Viper did not respond to the shopkeeper's enthusiastic greeting. He just stood in front of the stall, silently looking at the strange oddities laid out on it under the shopkeeper's eager gaze.

To call the goods here as "strange oddities" was, in fact, no exaggeration at all.

On the wooden boards, about the size of four desks pushed together, were quite a few odds and ends. There was a palm-sized, broken sculpture in ancient Greek style; a deathly pale vampire fang as long as an adult's index finger; a necklace strung together with dozens of bat heads; a dried goblin head with a hideous face...oh no, a house-elf head. Bryan even spotted a bronze coffin, and its entire body was filled with corrosive green gleam.

It wasn't until the shopkeeper waited so long that his heart grew anxious, he was unable to resist speaking up, that Viper finally said in an aged, hoarse voice, his tone revealing coldness and disdain, "What's this, Verrence?"

Viper moved his gaze from the items on the stall, looking down on the shopkeeper with his obscured face, "It's only been a few days, and you're already switching to selling junk now?"

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