In a quiet corner of the courtyard beneath the west tower, a gaggle of second and third years had gathered—eyes wide, voices hushed, and pockets suspiciously lighter than usual.

"That'll be two Sickles for the full set, or one Sickle for just the 'Boil Incident' highlight reel," Fred Weasley announced cheerfully, holding up a tiny enchanted glass orb that pulsed with swirling crimson.

George leaned in, grinning. "Limited stock. Trauma Roulette: Live and Uncensored."

The orb flickered, showing a glimpse of Marcus Flint wailing as his boils erupted like cursed fireworks, Angelina Johnson's shriek mid-cast, and Oliver Wood's panicked face moments before everything got worse.

"Can't believe this is legal," a second-year Hufflepuff muttered, but still handed over a couple of Sickles.

Fred gave a mock bow. "Educational material, madam. The ministry should be paying us."

"Wait—how come the upper years in Professor Greengrass's class can use Reparo to heal living things? Isn't that just for broken objects? Is this a fake recording?"

"No, it's real," came a new voice—cool and composed.

All heads turned to a Ravenclaw girl sitting nearby with a thick book on magical theory open on her lap. Her Prefect badge glinted faintly in the sun. "Professor Greengrass modified the wand movement."

"Modified?" asked the Slytherin 1st year.

She nodded. "Normally, Reparo is a sharp clockwise flick followed by a downward sweep. But if you change the flick into a half-spiral—tight, slow—and angle your wand upward at the end, it stops targeting inanimate integrity and instead redirects to cellular structure."

Everyone stared.

"…What?"

"It repairs tissue. Slowly, and only superficially, but it works. I saw it myself during last week's audit. He made a student heal his own cut."

"That's… insane."

"It's brilliant," the Ravenclaw corrected, turning another page. "Reparo is a Class-3 Restorative Construct spell. The theory was always there, just unused."

There was a long silence. Then, as if on cue, a ripple of murmurs spread through the group.

"Now I regret not auditing for his classes—"

"I'm signing up."

"Do you think he takes bribes?"

...

Sagres took advantage of his free time to visit Diagon Alley, passing through the Leaky Cauldron's damp archway and stepping into the bustling crowd.

The sign for the Magical Menagerie creaked in the breeze.

"Hmm.." He squinted, scanning the display window, where several Murtlaps gnawed listlessly on leaves.

"Care for one? Or perhaps you're looking for ingredients?" The shopkeeper poked his head out from behind the counter, rubbing his hands enthusiastically. "Complete Murtlap fur makes excellent anti-jinx gloves…"

Sagres picked up a stinger with two fingers, examining it in the sunlight. "Mixed with other things?"

"What are you saying!" the shopkeeper exclaimed, quickly snatching the item from his hand. "These are top-grade materials — I guarantee you won't find better anywhere in Britain…"

Sagres raised an eyebrow, casually rummaging through the shelves before finally selecting half a dried Murtlap spine.

It had what he needed and hadn't been dyed with any strange fluorescent powder. Just normal merchandise.

"How much for this?"

"Ah, dear customer, you have excellent taste. This is the torso of a Murtlap King. Took a lot of effort to hunt it down—cost the lives of two wizards! And this half-torso has been meticulously prepared by Goblins, even its skin is—"

"Just tell me the price," Sagres interrupted, tired of the rambling. It was just an ordinary Murtlap spine—probably worth only a few Galleons.

"Uh, the price, well, quite affordable… only 3000 Galleons!"

"Which way is Gringotts?"

"Eh? This way, sir. Do you not have enough money?" The shopkeeper's eyes lit up with enthusiasm.

"I mean, why don't you just rob Gringotts?"

Sagres rolled his eyes—a rare sight—and turned to leave.

"..."

Did they really think he was a fool? Just because he was handsome, did his face also scream "idiot"?

"Hey, s-sir, wait a moment…" The shopkeeper quickly grabbed his robe. "The price is negotiable. How about 300 Galleons? Consider it a friendly gesture, a special price just for you!"

Sagres didn't slow down, continuing to head for the door.

"Oh, come on…" The shopkeeper grabbed the edge of his robes again. "Consider yourself lucky! I'm retiring to Germany soon, not planning to keep this shop open. How about 30 Galleons? I really can't go any lower—I'd be losing money!"

Sagres still didn't look back, and fine beads of sweat formed on the shopkeeper's forehead.

"Alright, alright, you win! Three Galleons—just three! I swear that's the cost price."

Sagres finally stopped and slowly turned around. "One Galleon."

He added firmly, "Or let it rot in your shop."

"Merlin's soggy stockings, you're too stingy! One Galleon doesn't even cover shipping!"

Sagres turned again. "Heh~ Then keep it as your shop's treasure!"

"Alright, alright, 1 Galleon it is," the shopkeeper finally conceded.

However—

"Too late. Now I'm only willing to pay 5 Sickles."

The shopkeeper stared at Sagres in disbelief, his lips and fingers trembling, speechless for a long moment.

Sagres met his gaze expressionlessly. At last, the shopkeeper looked up at the sky and let out a long, defeated sigh.

"Fine, 5 Sickles it is. Give me the money!"

Sagres smiled, pulled five silver Sickles from his pocket, and handed them over.

As he turned and headed toward Knockturn Alley, he could still faintly hear the shopkeeper's curses and the laughter of onlookers.

The moment he stepped into Knockturn Alley, the putrid air closed in around him like thick, sticky liquid.

The shop windows on either side displayed disturbing items: eyeballs floating in yellowish liquid, shriveled hands that seemed to scream silently, and rows of glass jars filled with suspicious fluids.

Sagres's boots squelched unpleasantly as he stepped through the sewage-slicked path.

He carefully examined each storefront until finally spotting a wooden sign bearing the name he was looking for.

Sagres pushed open the creaking wooden door of Midnight Animals, ignoring the dying groan of the doorbell.

The shop reeked of decay, mixed with the sharp scent of herbs. A hunchbacked old witch looked up from behind the counter, her greasy hair matted and clumped.

"Do you sell materials related to Madagascats?"

Sagres got straight to the point, his eyes scanning the dusty wooden shelves on both sides.

"What? Oh, yes…"

The old witch's cloudy eyes suddenly gleamed. "I'm the only one in all of Britain who has the real thing!"

She grinned, revealing several blackened teeth.

Sagres noted that the last vendor had claimed the same thing, but he still asked calmly, "Do you have any live ones? Let me see."

The old witch mysteriously pulled a glass jar covered with a black cloth from beneath the counter.

She first stuck her head under the cloth, and after a moment, cautiously lifted it — inside was a pitch-black cat curled up tightly, with unusually long limbs and oversized ears.

It looked healthy enough.

Just as Sagres leaned down to examine it more closely, the old witch abruptly covered it again. "Too dangerous! Last time, a customer nearly got his eyes scratched out!"

"Mn-nh, I need some whiskers," he said, looking up, his tone calm.

"Just a moment…"

The old witch lifted a curtain and disappeared into the back room, rummaging for a while before shuffling back out.

"I've got about an ounce here. How much do you want?"

Sagres glanced at the whiskers in the bottle, his eyes narrowing slightly.

"You're wasting my time. Understand?"

The old witch had actually tried to fool him with fakes.

Sagres moved a finger, and the woman froze instantly. He snapped his fingers again, uncovering the jar beneath the black cloth.

His expression darkened. Inside the now-exposed glass jar, the so-called "Madagascar Cat" was twisting and warping, transforming from a black cat into a shapeless puddle of slime.

"A Boggart…" Sagres said coldly, a small flame sparking to life within the bottle. "How creative."

"Wait! I can explain—" the shopkeeper began, but her voice was abruptly cut off as Sagres waved his hand, and the wooden shelves on either side erupted into flames.

He walked slowly through the burning shop, his slender fingers calmly picking out several bottles of dragon's blood and moonstone powder from the shelves—genuine materials that would serve as compensation for his wasted time.

At last, Sagres adjusted his cuffs, reflecting on everything that had happened that day, and muttered to himself, "Forget it. Next time I'll just post a commission on Bronze Feather."

It might take a few extra days, but at least it would spare him from dealing with liars and swindlers.

With that thought, he walked straight out the door. Only then did the shopkeeper dare to rush outside, shouting for help to put out the fire—while the Dark Wizards in the alley turned their eyes away, silently giving her shop a wide berth.

_______

12 Advance Chaps—P@treon/DarkDevil1