A/N: This is the prologue for the sequel to "Tomorrow is Promised to No One." It is also the only thing I have written for this story. So, I don't want you to think that you are suddenly going to be getting updates quickly. It could be a couple of weeks or it could be months before I have enough of this story written to start publishing it in earnest.

Still, I hope you'll enjoy this story as much as you enjoyed some of my previous efforts!

Thanks for reading!

March 20, 2007

Knockturn Alley

He walked through the streets, alone as usual. Despite the late hour, the cobblestone road lit up like a Christmas tree, the full moon hanging overhead. Thankfully, the hood that covered his head cast a shadow over the front of his face, hiding his identity from anyone who may have been looking out their windows in the middle of the night.

Unlike Diagon Alley, which was a center of commerce and trade only, people lived on Knockturn Alley, cramming into tiny one bedroom flats that looked out over the road. These were the people forgotten by the rest of England, the rest of the wizarding world, tossed aside because of the kind of magic they associated with.

Even though he favored those people against those "holier than thou" heroes of the Second Wizarding War, he had no interest in being seen by anyone except for his target that evening. So, he pulled his hood even further over his head and dragged his cloak tight as he marched down the lane. Despite the fact that summer was only a few days away, a strange chill hovered in the air, a familiar feeling to those who frequented Knockturn Alley.

As he walked, he passed Borgin and Burkes, the center of Knockturn Alley and the most famous shop on the road. As usual, the light was still on, the cantankerous old man who ran the shop working until the wee hours of the morning. On beyond that shop was Cobb and Webb's as well as Ye Olde Curiosity Shop, a pair of shops operated by the Bulstrode family.

He had been inside Cobb and Webb's only once at the behest of his employer and the shop's actual owner. Despite the items inside, he couldn't say that it had been an enjoyable experience.

After all, no one had seen Webb since.

On the opposite side of the brick road was Dystyl Phaelanges, a shop dedicated to the sale of cursed bones, with The Spiny Serpent next door. Even his employer had never been inside the Spiny Serpent, as it opened its doors for only the wealthiest and most influential of clients.

Then there was Tallow and Hemp Toxic Tapers, a shop that specializes in the sale of toxic candles, which was operated by the same old hag who ran Shyverwretch's Venoms and Poisons.

Clearly, the woman, whose entire family had died in a number of mysterious ways, had an affinity for toxins and deadly draughts.

The last shop on the row, and his target for the evening, was Moribund's, a hotel and restaurant operated by an old man named Balthazar Cuffe, the older brother of former Daily Prophet Chief Editor, Barnabas Cuffe. The owner of the hotel, like every other shop that he had walked by that evening, was his employer. While his employer's name (whatever it was) would likely not appear on the paperwork for any of these shops, there was no question that they were the sole proprietor of Knockturn Alley and he was their distributor and, at times, their enforcer.

Without knocking, he walked in the front door, knowing that Cuffe would be waiting for him, despite the time of his arrival. Sure enough, when he walked in the door, Balthazar Cuffe was seated at one of the tables in the dining room, a glass of Flint Firewhiskey sitting at the empty chair across from him.

The man took in his surroundings as he moved towards the table. The hotel was, frankly, in a state of near disrepair. At this point, it may have been worth it to simply tear the building down a start over. Despite the peeling paint on the walls and the cobwebs in the corners of the ceiling, however, he was able to see that every single room was booked for the evening, according to the lack of keys at the receptionist's desk to the left of the front door.

Of course, people that did business in Knockturn Alley rarely wanted people to know that they were doing business there at all. So even if the hotel was constantly at risk of collapsing in on itself, people would choose to stay there rather than wandering in from the other shithole lodge nearby, The Leaky Cauldron.

Plus, anyone who did business in Knockturn Alley hated the owner of the Cauldron, that Weasley shit who owned the joke shop, and would rather be caught dead than found in a place like that.

When the man took the empty chair across from Cuffe, he was pleased to see that the hotel manager appeared to be quite frightened, a good sign for tonight's negotiations. Reaching forward, the man picked up the glass in front of him before looking at the bottle of Flint Firewhiskey in front of him.

"I always hated that shite." he growled.

"My apologies, Mr. Flint." Cuffe said in an oily voice. "I assumed-"

"You assumed incorrectly." Marcus Flint replied, steel in his own voice to counter the slippery nature of his drinking partner. "Just like you assumed that my employer wouldn't know that you had been stealing from him."

Immediately, any sense of civility between the two men went out the window. As evidenced by the state of his hotel, Balthazar Cuffe was notorious for cheating and shortchanging anyone and everyone he worked with. He charged outrageous rates for a room but hadn't performed a single update on the place in nearly ten years.

But you could do that with the other shopkeepers in Knockturn Alley. It is how the game is played, after all.

But Flint's employer was not the man to try and screw with.

"I resent any suggestion that I have taken anything." Cuffe replied with a growl.

"It wasn't a suggestion." Flint countered. "You brought in over forty thousand Galleons in revenue last month. My employer has requested a twelve percent cut of your monthly revenue. Yet, when I collected last week, you only gave me four thousand Galleons."

"That's because I only brought in thirty-four thousand Galleons." Cuffe replied.

"That's the number that you reported to the Ministry." Flint said. "Don't think that my employer is stupid enough to believe that you didn't hide some of that money away. We know that you took roughly ten thousand Galleons to your vault the day before you made your monthly report to the Ministry. We also know that about half of the room that you say are booked are actually being rented by witches and wizards that are wanted in half a dozen different countries and we both know that you charge double for those rooms but only report the original rate."

"If you say so." Cuffe scoffed.

"I do say so. My employer says so." Flint growled. "This is now the fourth time in five months that I've had to come down here and convince you to cough up the money you owe."

"I pay that money for protection. I own this establishment. I don't owe anything!" Cuffe shouted, accenting his last words by standing and pounding a fist on the table.

For a moment, the two men locked eyes before Flint broke away, snickering under his breath for a moment before he could no longer restrain himself, laughter bursting from his mouth and echoing off the corners of the room.

"What is so funny?" Cuffe snapped.

"SIt down." Flint said, barely fighting through his laughter.

"This is my establishment. I give the orders around here."

Suddenly, Flint's wand was in his hand. With a quick flick of his wrist, Cuffe was forced back into his chair, conjured ropes tying him to it as he struggled away from the bonds. Finally, one of the napkins from the table floated through the air and shoved itself into Cuffe's mouth before a shred of the ratty tablecloth tore away from the rest and wrapped itself around Cuffe's head, gagging him.

"I told you to sit down." Flint smirked as he stood, grabbing the bottle of Flint Firewhiskey. Flint took a large swig of the liquid, feeling the familiar burn of his family's liquor slide down his throat before he suddenly turned the bottle upside down, emptying its contents onto Cuffe's head.

"I've been told to make an example out of you." Flint whispered in Cuffe's ear, the smell of firewhiskey only barely masking the sweat pouring out of Cuffe. "People need to see what happens when you cross him. People need to see that he won't take no for an answer. Four times in five months is one time too many apparently."

Flint stood and marched about ten meters away from where Balthazar Cuffe sat, his eyes nearly bulging out of his sockets as he fought against his bindings, screaming from behind the fabric covering his mouth.

"The Demon sends his regards."

As Cuffe screamed as loud as he could, desperately begging for his life through the tablecloth cover his mouth, Flint raised his wand and aimed it at the table in front of where Cuffe sat, lighting the table ablaze. The sound of the flames and the heat of the fire swelled immediately, causing Cuffe to try and drag the chair away from the fire.

Unfortunately, all he succeeded in doing was falling over backwards, his pant leg dragging through the flames as he fell so that by the time he hit the floor, his right leg was already on fire. As Cuffe screamed and pleaded wordlessly, the flames grew, covering not just his entire body but a massive section of the dining room. Flint knew that with as old and as broken as the hotel was, it would likely be up in flames in only a matter of moments.

So, Marcus Flint walked out of the front door, fire already starting to climb the walls to the second and third floors of the hotel. Within less than ten minutes, the entire hotel would be covered in flames.

In an hour, it would collapse in on itself.

All the while, Marcus Flint stood in the middle of Knockturn Alley as its residents flooded the streets to watch Moribund's go up in flames. Everyone knew who Marcus Flint was and they knew who he represented. They knew that he was the one who had set the fire and they knew why he had done it.

Any one of them could have reported him to the Ministry of Magic and he would have certainly lived out of the rest of his days in a cell in Azkaban.

But no one did. Instead, when the hotel finally collapsed, the message having finally been sent in its entirety, Marcus simply turned and walked away from the burning wreckage, the crowd parting for him as he went. No one spoke to him. No one dared even look at him.

They knew that the Demon protected him and because of that, no one would dare touch him.

No one.