The air was filled with an indescribable scent, like rotting vines intertwined with red-hot metal, mixed with the metallic tang of old ink.
A damp smell, a mixture of rust and an unidentifiable cloying decay, assailed Morin's nostrils.
This scent was starkly different from the spices, parchment, and new wand wood of Diagon Alley; it was viscous, cold, like an invisible film enveloping every inch of air.
Just three steps in, his soles picked up something sticky—residue from potions spilled last night mixed with gutter sewage, black-green, making a 'squish' sound when stepped on, with a glimpse of half a dried bat wing floating within.
The flagstones were long worn into potholes, their crevices packed with grey-black sludge.
Occasionally, rat-sized shadows scurried past, but closer inspection revealed them not to be rats, but deformed, three-eyed crawling insects, which a passing Black-robed figure flattened with a foot, emitting a burnt plastic-like smell, without him even raising an eyelid.
The houses on either side were crookedly jammed together, their plaster peeling like festering sores, revealing blackened bricks underneath.
In a window next door, several skinned, unknown plants silently writhed in glass jars, the green liquid at the bottom bubbling.
The windowpanes were almost certainly cracked, covered with a perpetually un-wipeable layer of grime, and the light filtering through was equally grotesque—
Not the warm yellow of Diagon Alley, but deep green, dark red, or a pale white tinged with the color of a corpse's mottling.
A shop sign hung loosely, its wood riddled with wormholes, the three large characters carved into it, presumably the shop's name, long since blurred, though the final stroke was drawn out, like a congealed bloodstain.
The pervasive smell in the air could churn one's stomach.
A sour, putrid stench—likely a mix of uncleaned biological organs piled in the corner, a rusty, metallic blood smell, and a sulfuric acidity reminiscent of rotten eggs—
It was from the workshop at the end of the alley that brewed Dark Arts potions; a decrepit old Witch always squatted by the entrance, clutching a slime-covered bone, muttering incomprehensible words to passersby.
Black-robed figures drifted through the alley, mostly with heads bowed, their hood brims pulled low to obscure half their faces, their robes sweeping the ground as they walked, stirring up more dust.
Occasionally, two would meet, their voices hushed to a mosquito's hum, fingers gesturing within their sleeves, the traded items never seen by a third eye—
Mostly illicit junk; Morin accidentally glimpsed a glowing eyeball, still twitching, sealed in a glass bottle.
By the roadside, a somewhat decently dressed man stood before a shop, haggling with the proprietor.
The shopkeeper was a Witch with a coarse face and nails painted purplish-black, tapping a blood-stained hand against the display window:
"This Dragon hide is very fresh, just skinned last week, want a sniff? It even has a bit of Dragon musk..."
The man frowned and leaned closer, poking at some un-scraped fur on the hide, his gaze a mix of revulsion and greed.
At the end of the alley, trash was piled half a man's height; someone had thrown in a severed hand, wearing a rusty ring, as several large black flies buzzed around it.
A Wandering Wizards, thin as a stick, emerged from the rubbish heap, clutching a piece of moldy bread; a Black-robed figure passed by, startling him into quickly retracting his neck before he ducked back into the filth.
The wind swept in from the alley's entrance, carrying a stronger, foul stench, making the tattered banners of the shops sway.
No one covered their nose, no one frowned; only an occasional cough could be heard.
This was Knockturn Alley, like a stew that had simmered for centuries, and also the other side of the Wizarding World, where all the dirt, putrefaction, and malice were brewed within.
Morin had now reached the entrance of Knockturn Alley, the edge of his black robe almost merging with the viscous shadow at the alley's mouth.
Since transmigrating, Morin had not stepped out of his Dark Arts shop.
He had only arrived in this world half a month ago, but the Werewolf's letter and Riddle's threat compelled him to make some changes.
Morin's gaze swept over the crowd, his eyes as calm as the frozen Black Lake.
His footsteps were light, falling on the uneven flagstones, which seemed steeped in filth, making almost no sound.
This was not intentional, but a long-standing habit of his former self—like a snake gliding over the ground, silent yet with deadly precision.
Several Wizards in tattered cloaks quickly lowered their heads, pretending to examine the gutter at their feet; they could feel that invisible pressure.
The alley was not empty, but the atmosphere was eerily silent.
No one laughed loudly; even when conversing, voices were hushed, indistinct words squeezed through clenched teeth, faces filled with wariness and distrust.
Passersby's eyes would quickly dart over the other person, then swiftly move away, as if a prolonged look would invite some malevolent spirit.
After only a few steps, a sharp quarrel pierced the viscous air of the alley.
Two Wizards were shoving each other over a rusty metal box; one tall, thin man's robe was torn open, revealing an arm covered in black scales—evidently some Dark Arts or a curse.
"I saw it first!" the short, stout Wizard shrieked, a wisp of black smoke rising from the tip of his wand.
"Seeing it makes it yours?" the tall, thin man sneered, "In Knockturn Alley, it's about who has tougher bones—"
His words were cut short.
Morin walked precisely between them, the wind stirred by his black robe sweeping through the gap.
A cold magic, like an invisible wall, instantly separated the two.
The tall, thin man's wrist bent backward grotesquely, while the short, stout Wizard was lifted by an unseen hand, his feet dangling in mid-air, his face turning purple from lack of breath.
The surrounding clamor abruptly died down. Several people who had been whispering in a corner stopped, their gazes a mix of fear and vigilance.
Morin didn't even glance back at them. He simply paused, tilted his head slightly, and softly said to the void:
"Foolish."
His voice wasn't loud, but it was like a piece of ice dropped into boiling water, silencing the entire alley for a moment.
The short, stout Wizard, suspended in mid-air, suddenly fell to the ground with a 'thud,' curling up and clutching his stomach;
The tall, thin man, clutching his wrist, stumbled backward, his face pale, crashing into a nearby stall, scattering several jars of unknown powders onto the ground, releasing a pungent odor.
Because Morin was completely wrapped up, many Wizards in Knockturn Alley believed him to be a new face.
As soon as he entered the alley, Morin could feel several gazes brazenly prying at him.
This was a regular occurrence in Knockturn Alley; not every Wizard could smoothly enter here.
As for this pair of Wizards, they were a notorious Dark Wizard duo in Knockturn Alley, often feigning arguments to ambush unsuspecting passing Wizards.
Morin had initially been a bit apprehensive, but he hadn't expected the two to be so weak before him, unable to even withstand a minor hex.
Those who had just been wary of each other automatically cleared a path for him; the stalls that had been in the middle of the road seemed to grow legs, silently shifting to either side.
A Witch carrying a black cloth-wrapped package accidentally bumped Morin's arm, turning pale with fright, but she merely bowed quickly and hurried away, not daring to utter an apology—
In Knockturn Alley, excessive humility can sometimes be more dangerous than offense.