"You dare—!"
In many stories, the ending is written the moment the first word is spoken. A howl of raw fury suddenly tore through the gloom of the Underworld, a sound so sharp and agonizing it rivaled a werewolf's scream at the full moon.
"To play me—!"
Three seconds after consuming the Confusing Concoction, the old wizard slammed his hands onto the table. The dense cluster of pustules and sores on his scalp shifted violently from red to purple, then to a bruised, oily black. They began to bubble and churn like a cauldron of unstable potion. The fleshy protrusions on his face quivered with excitement, elongating and twisting as if desperate to tear themselves free from his skin.
"The great—!"
The old wizard's voice rose and fell in a rhythmic, manic cadence, his rage boiling over. He hoisted a short, thick cane topped with a massive gemstone, his knuckles white as he prepared to unleash a devastating curse upon the man who had cheated him.
But his hubris was his undoing. He had forgotten—or perhaps ignored—that his body could no longer contain the volatile, malevolent magic within. The act of channeling a spell was the final spark in a powder keg. His chaotic magic surged backward, and like a wax figure thrust into a furnace, he began to liquefy. From the crown of his head down to his boots, his form collapsed into itself.
In a heartbeat, what had been a living, breathing wizard was reduced to a steaming pile of black, viscous sludge on the cavern floor.
"Forgive me. The great... what, exactly?"
The reed-thin swindler let out a jagged, mocking laugh. He snatched the lump of mithril from the table, shoving it deep into his robes. He stepped toward the puddle of filth, peering down with a smirk, and fished out the old man's discarded wand. He held it up to the flickering green torchlight, admiring the ruby embedded in its hilt.
Even through the magical distortion of his own hood, Amossta could feel the man's smug satisfaction radiating outward.
The swindler suddenly felt the weight of a stare. He snapped his head toward Amossta, his expression darkening as he suspected a rival looking to jump his claim.
"In a place like this, greed and curiosity are the quickest ways to lose your head, Golden Viper," he hissed, his voice a low threat. "Don't think tearing through a few mangy curs in the past makes you untouchable here."
Amossta let out a dry, contemptuous chuckle. He looked down at the sludge for a moment before a rasping, aged voice emerged from his hood.
"I appreciate the warning, Mr. Liar. But it seems you've forgotten one thing. Beyond greed and curiosity, there is a third killer: carelessness."
"What?"
In the split second the swindler hesitated, a terrifying shadow erupted from the pile of sludge. It was a black, ethereal phantom with eyes like burning coals—a literal specter of death. It hovered in the air, its jaw unhinging as it shrieked at the man.
"Embrace death with me, you shameless cur!"
The phantom was beyond anything the swindler understood. He didn't even think to fight; he spun on his heel to flee. But the Underworld was a cage, every inch of its air bound by an Anti-Apparition Jinx, and the nearest Floo-connected fireplace was at least half a mile away.
He didn't even make it past the low granite wall. The massive, reaper-like shadow dived from the ceiling, its maw lined with jagged teeth. It swallowed the man whole, muffling his scream in a shroud of darkness.
Crunch. Snap. Slurp.
The sickening sound of grinding bone echoed through the courtyard. A mixture of white bone fragments and gray matter spilled out like a macabre stream, staining the floor. Amossta's brow furrowed beneath his hood at the overwhelming, metallic stench of fresh blood.
The old wizard's reaper-form was merely a death rattle, a final spasm of magic that could not endure. Having claimed its vengeance, the shadow began to fade. Before vanishing entirely, it turned its hollow gaze toward Amossta, its voice thick with resentment.
"You knew it was fake. You didn't warn me!"
"Why do you blame others for your own stupidity?" Amossta replied coldly. "I suggest you vanish before I develop a professional interest in your current state. Unless, of course, you'd prefer to spend the next few decades in a glass jar before I finally send you to hell."
The shadow had no retort. It sighed—a weary, hollow sound—and took one last look at the world of the living before dissolving into nothingness, finally stepping into the veil.
A few bystanders had paused to watch the commotion, but none looked surprised. No one approached to ask questions or demand justice. Just as the swindler had said: in this lawless land, curiosity was a death sentence.
A streak of silver light cut through the dim air. Amossta summoned the mithril from the pile of remains, the metal still covered in teeth marks. He cast a quick Scourgify, wiped it clean, and tucked it into his robes with a sense of quiet satisfaction.
With a sharp snap of his fingers, a plume of golden magical fire erupted over the sludge and the mangled remains of the swindler. Within seconds, the flames consumed every trace of the struggle, leaving the floor pristine.
Since he had taken the man's payment, the least he could do was settle his final affairs. He called it "civic duty."
"It seems I've missed quite a show, Mr. Golden Viper?"
Amossta tilted his head toward the voice. A middle-aged wizard with fair hair and calm, dark eyes stood beneath the notice board, a polite smile on his face.
"Or perhaps you were lucky enough to avoid a mess," Amossta replied, his tone flat.
The newcomer was Carcus Foley, a well-known broker in the Underworld and a scion of the Foley family—one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight.
The Foleys had once been titans of the Wizarding World. At their peak, they had occupied the highest seats of power, with family heads even serving as Minister for Magic. They were the definition of the elite.
However, the family's glory had shattered under Hector Foley. Hector had lacked the vision to see the changing tides; he had ignored the warnings of Albus Dumbledore and grossly underestimated the destruction Gellert Grindelwald would bring to Britain and Europe. The resulting fallout had seen him ousted by a furious public.
Stripped of their political shield, the Foleys had withered, eventually vanishing from the upper echelons of society. For generations, they had tried to claw their way back to the center of the stage, but every path they took led to a dead end. Because at the end of every path stood a shadow they could not bypass.
Albus Dumbledore had never actively moved against the diminished Foleys. But the Wizarding World did not forget. They remembered that it was a Foley's arrogance that had led to the staggering death tolls during the war against Grindelwald.
Fifty years had passed. The public's rage had cooled to embers, but Albus Dumbledore was still alive.
The current leaders at the Ministry of Magic treated the old man at Hogwarts with the utmost caution. They saw no reason to risk offending the greatest wizard of the age for the sake of a family that should have stayed in the history books.
Left with no choice, the Foleys had turned to the darkness. They had sent out the most capable of their remaining youth—Carcus—to labor in the Underworld. He bore the risk of exposure and retaliation, quietly amassing wealth and influence, waiting for the one chance to lead his family back into the light.