As Harry left Ollivanders, he walked down the bustling streets with an air of intrigue. By this time, he'd already been in the Alley for several hours, and breakfast seemed days ago.

Just then, a delicious smell wafted through the air. Harry turned around and saw a street vendor selling some sort of meat on a skewer. Once he'd approached the stand, he saw a sign written in fiery red letters:

Dragon Fire Skewers
So hot you'll breathe fire!
3 Sickles each.

Hm, this could be interesting, he thought as he looked at the flaming sticks. "How hot are these, really?"

The vendor, a wiry old man with greying hair, chuckled. "Too hot for you, I reckon. How about a cooling charm to keep the heat down?"

Harry scowled. "I can handle it." He handed over a few Sickles and was given a skewer in return.

"All right, then, if you're sure..."

The moment Harry set the intimidating food on his tongue, his mouth lit up with flames—literally. He was breathing actual fire out of his mouth! In addition to the literal flames he was breathing, the taste was extraordinary—a mixture of smoky meat and spicy pepper, perfect for after a day full of shopping.

As he walked down Diagon Alley, occasionally shooting flames from his mouth, he spotted another street vendor. This one exuded a sweet, nutty aroma that drew him in. A young woman with a kind smile was serving caramelised peanuts at the stand.

Finishing his skewer, he approached. "Panic Peanuts?" she offered with cheer.

He frowned. "What makes them panicky?"

Instead of answering, she handed him one. He eyed it suspiciously for a moment before deciding to bite the bullet, as the Muggles say.

The second it touched his tongue, a rush of adrenaline shot through him. "Woah!" he exclaimed, his eyes wide in amazement.

The woman laughed at his stunned expression. After paying her a couple of Sickles, he wandered further into the alley, a bounce in his step as the adrenaline-filled peanuts kicked in.

As he continued his walk, he approached many more stands.

Metamorpho Pies
Filling changes with every bite!

This was one of them: pies that started with a meat filling and, by the time Harry was finished, had switched to pumpkin!

Broomstick Buns
Delicious treats in the shape of your favourite sport!

This was another: savoury buns shaped like broomsticks. Harry had a beef and cheese one.

After an hour of trying different street foods, something in the window of a shop caught Harry's eye. In the grimy display window down a nearby alley sat a beautiful silver necklace. He couldn't help but wander over in an almost dazed state.

A tinkling jingle sounded somewhere in the shop as he opened the door. He browsed the different jewellery for a moment before he found it—the necklace he'd seen. It was even more beautiful up close. Hanging from the blackened silver chain was a flower pendant, one he immediately felt drawn to.

Under the display, there stood a metal plaque. The words engraved on it read:

Nightshade’s Embrace Necklace
Forged in silver's gleam, the nightshade blooms, quiet yet deadly. Its petals hold a subtle promise, dark as twilight—an embrace not easily escaped. Those who wear it may feel its pull, a whispering grip on the weak of will, tightening with every breath. Beauty veils danger in this piece, meant for those who tread close to shadow’s edge.

A voice shocked him out of his daze. "Hello, deary," said an old woman behind him. She gave off an aura that told him she wasn't one to mess with, nor was she one to hand out mercies like candy.

"Hello," he said once he'd found his voice. "I'd like to buy this necklace, please."

The woman's eyes gleamed with a shine no enemy would want to see—a predatory gleam. "Of course, deary. Let me pack that up for you." Her words were woven with deceit. Harry felt the back of his neck prickle with unease.

As he paid her the ten Galleons required, she gave him a toothy grin. Her yellow teeth, chipped and jagged, did nothing to ease the cold fear creeping up his spine.

Once he'd paid, the old woman waved him out of the shop. As he walked through the dark, grimy streets, he couldn't help but think he'd gotten more than he'd bargained for—not in a good way either.

"What's that you've got there?"

Harry froze. The voice came from behind, snarly and rough. He turned stiffly. The man before him looked more beast than human, his heavily scarred face adorned with a wolfish grin that didn't quite reach his amber eyes.

Something about him was deeply wrong. Harry couldn't quite place what, just that it was very, very wrong. The man's eyes glinted with a predatory nature as he repeated, "What's that you've got there?" His hot breath smattered Harry's face.

Harry did his best to keep his emotionless mask strong. "None of your business," he replied shortly, taking an almost subconscious step back.

The man's grin widened, showing off his fang-like yellow teeth.

"Oh, but I think it is. How about you give me that necklace, and you walk away in one piece?" he leered.

Harry weighed his options, but the answer was clear.

"No. I don't think I will."

The man huffed—a mix of snarl and laugh. "You've chosen the hard way, then?"

Before Harry had a chance to react, the man whipped out his wand and jabbed it into Harry's neck.

Harry's breath hitched. He gasped as the man twisted it, further pushing it into his neck. The man sneered as he whispered a spell Harry didn't know.

All went black.

~•~•~•~

Just minutes later, Harry blearily opened his eyes. Memories flooded back, and he shot up. Upon seeing his surroundings, he was surprised to find the man from earlier writhing on the ground, Harry's necklace wrapped tightly around his neck. His hands pulled at it but failed to unravel the tight chain.

Harry thought back to when he bought it—the plaque that had been in front of it, the poem engraved on it:

Forged in silver's gleam, the nightshade blooms, quiet yet deadly. Its petals hold a subtle promise, dark as twilight—an embrace not easily escaped. Those who wear it may feel its pull, a whispering grip on the weak of will, tightening with every breath. Beauty veils danger in this piece, meant for those who tread close to shadow’s edge.

He smirked as he got up, his head still pounding from whatever curse the man had used.

"Well, well, well, not so tough now, huh?" he taunted as he stood over him.

The man looked at Harry with fear in his wide eyes, all traces of his cocky demeanour gone in the face of a painful death.

Harry gave the man a sharp kick in the side. The man winced slightly. Harry felt the sweet taste of power.

"See, I could just leave you here—unable to breathe, struggling until the light fades from your eyes..."

The man couldn't do anything but stare as Harry decided his fate.

"However, I won't."

Amusement tinged Harry's whispers as he knelt closer, breathing in the smell of fear. The man's eyes flickered, life draining from them as Harry took the man's wand.

He unclasped the necklace just as the man began to end his struggle—almost succumbing, but not quite.

Ki whispered something in Harry's ear: "Tell him he owes you a life debt now." Harry blinked but did as he was told.

The man, still gasping for air, stood up frightfully. His eyes widened with the knowledge that Harry was right as he turned tail and ran back to whatever dingy alley he'd come from. Harry had won, and they both knew it.

As Harry left the small street, he noticed the street name. Hanging above the entrance was a rusty sign stating:

Knockturn Alley.

~•~•~•~

A bell tinkled somewhere in the back of the shop as he entered Ollivanders for the second time that day.

"Mr Ollivander?" he called as he stepped through the door. "It has been an hour, has it not? My wand should be ready."

His voice held a dangerous undertone, daring not to be ignored.

The old wandmaker reluctantly walked from the back, a royal-looking black velvet box trembling in his grasp.

"Ah, Mr Potter," he started, his voice shaking slightly even as he attempted to steady it. "Your wand is r-ready."

Harry strolled to the counter where Ollivander stood. He exerted an air of confidence, a dark, haunting presence that made Ollivander shiver. His boots clacked on the wooden floor, echoing in the stillness of the library-like shop.

With trembling hands, Ollivander handed him the box.

"Holly and thestral hair, eleven inches, nice and supple."

Harry took it with a grace that exceeded his age. He opened it, his smirk widening as he saw the treasure inside.

The wand lay nestled in the plush velvet lining, its rich mahogany hue drawing his eyes like a magnet. It was 11 inches long, with an elegant taper that suggested both beauty and power. The wood was darker than anything he had seen before—an almost obsidian shade that absorbed the light around it, making the wand appear as if it were carved from the very essence of shadows.

Intricate patterns danced along the surface, faintly glimmering in the dim light—swirls that resembled spectral wings, ethereal and ghostly, telling tales of the unseen forces contained within.

But the most striking feature was the spiral indent that wound down the wand’s length—a continuous groove that created a mesmerising twist, inviting the eye to follow its path. The spiral was both an artistic flourish and a representation of the winding journey Harry had embarked upon—one filled with dark turns and unexpected revelations.

Harry could almost feel a pulse of energy emanating from it, a resonant thrum that spoke to the depths of his soul, connecting him to the thestral hair core hidden beneath the surface.

He grasped the wand, it felt perfectly balanced in his hand, as if it had been made just for him. The sensation was intoxicating—a blend of anticipation and darkness.

As he raised it, the wand seemed to hum with power, the spiral indent catching the light in such a way that it created an illusion of movement, like a winding path leading into the unknown. It whispered secrets of magic long forgotten, urging him to explore the depths of his newfound abilities.

Harry’s smirk deepened as he turned the wand over, admiring how the dark wood gleamed, embodying the shift in his own journey.

This was not just a wand; it was a tool forged in shadow.

"It’s perfect," Harry purred, his voice a whisper of awe as he spun the wand around in his hand.

He turned his attention back to the frail Ollivander. The man looked at him, his eyes shining with fear, along with something else—admiration.

"You... will do great things, Harry Potter," Ollivander started, his voice quiet but heard like a siren in the silent room. "Things... most would call terrible, but... they will be great."

Harry flashed the wandmaker a smile, his teeth glinting like the shine on a knife's blade.

"Thank you, Mr Ollivander."

With that, he turned, striding to the door, wand in hand. Ollivander watched as the young boy took his leave—a wraith released into a world that had wronged him.

A/N
I'm curious, anyone got any theories about anything yet?