As soon as he saw his clients disappear into the alleyway of London, Vincent pushed open the heavy, old wooden door. He heard the sharp sound of the door slamming against the frame and watched as the orderly sequence of demonic runes lit up one by one. A faint smile appeared on his face, knowing that the next time he opened it, the door would take him anywhere except London.
The wood was covered with intricate patterns of continuous lines that wrapped around the entire door frame. Inside, larger runes were drawn in three interwoven circles, all connected to a large central crystal, a gleaming purple gem that shimmered almost hypnotically. This crystal contained demonic essences, serving as the energy to fuel the complex magical mechanisms of the door. He couldn't have been prouder of his creation.
He walked back to the counter and noticed Helena engrossed in reading a compendium of potions. He decided not to interrupt her.
Meanwhile, in the private room inside the Greengrass mansion, Vincent's original body, a three-year-old boy with white hair, was sitting on a large bed against the wall. He summoned a demonic grimoire, opened it to the first page, and communicated mentally. "Grimoire, was the demonic connection with the client successful?"
Words began to appear on the blank page."Yes, Pilar. The connection to Lord Smith's soul is active."
Vincent nodded slightly, thoughtful."Is it already possible to estimate how many demonic essences his soul can generate daily?"
"Hm, probably between 20 and 40 demonic essences per day," replied the grimoire, with new words appearing while the previous ones faded away.
Satisfied, he concluded mentally: "Excellent, considering he is not a magical being or has a special soul." This was contract number 33 of the Apothecary, and the daily earnings were estimated at 1,431 essences, or 522,315 annually. A very high amount, considering the two years of prior active work, tormenting and feeding off the dreams of various magical and common people, he had accumulated only 500,000 essences, of which 380,000 were consumed in the battle against Voldemort, nearly bankrupting him.
Vincent needed more efficient methods to accumulate demonic essence, preferably something that didn't rely on the mental strength required to maintain his illusory clones. The answer came through the demonic contracts: he could anchor a connection to people's souls and passively absorb the demonic essence they generated.
The idea of offering miracles in exchange for these contracts was a semi-facade. In truth, he could demand favors from clients if necessary, and at the same time, expand his influence over prominent figures: businessmen, politicians, or even desperate individuals, like the homeless, terminally ill, and orphans. There was always a use for these interested parties, either for passive essence gain or future favors.
The Apothecary was the result of long planning. He needed to operate discreetly to avoid being tracked again by the Ministry of Magic. Their tracking system worked especially well in areas outside the magical world; it was like placing hundreds of yellow balls with just one red ball in the center, and it would immediately stand out. But what if you placed your yellow ball among hundreds of other yellow ones? Yes, tracking became difficult.
To behave like "yellow balls," he needed a place that was within the magical world but could go anywhere else. The solution was the magical door, which allowed clients to enter the shop without the magic being traced. Furthermore, he opted for potions, a less conspicuous magical category. Still, even with these precautions, there were risks involved.
If miracles became too common, with people regrowing limbs, winning the lottery, famous models falling in love with nobodies, or other absurdities that drew attention, it would certainly attract unwanted attention.
In the worst-case scenario, if the Apothecary were investigated, the clients would never be able to trace Vincent. He changed his face with every contract, and the mark he placed on clients' souls was complex, far superior to the one Voldemort used and, so far, had never been detected. As for Helena, she was impossible to track in the magical world and took care of the clients, allowing Vincent to focus on finding the right people.
Even though finding and serving the right kind of client was laborious, and building the Apothecary had consumed almost all his remaining essences, between carving protective demonic runes, performing material consecration rituals, and searching for rare catalysts, the effort had been worth it. He could now scale his operation to generate large profits with minimal effort, which he found especially pleasant.
Vincent closed the grimoire, which immediately transformed into a necklace with a miniature version. His attention was drawn to another of his illusory clones, who was in the ritual room. Not exactly in the ritual itself, but in a room next to it, where rare materials, piles of gold, jewels, and coins from various parts of the world were stored. It was an inconceivable fortune, and he took pride in never having worked for a single cent. Everything had been "borrowed" to never be returned. But that was beside the point.
He set aside a generous sum of galleons and left. He needed to buy replacements for the potions used in the Apothecary.
Next to a modest house, almost isolated from the city, it was surrounded by bushes and old trees. The ground was covered with a well-maintained lawn, with flowers and various unfamiliar herbs scattered around, as well as a large separate greenhouse. No inattentive gaze would notice the magic protecting the place, making it invisible to non-magicals.
In the flower garden, ethereal butterflies began to appear, their spectral purple hue flickering: one, two, ten, until they transformed into a swarm of hundreds. At some point, they gathered together, forming the silhouette of a human body. A short, stocky man with dark skin, green eyes, and a rounded nose appeared, dressed in a slim Italian suit in shades of salmon and dark brown.
The first thing he noticed was two children curiously watching him. Vincent already knew them and expected an avalanche of questions.
"How did you do that, sir?" one of the boys asked.
The other added, "Could you teach us that magic?"
"Mom has already started teaching us about magical plants, but not magical ones," the first boy quickly said.
The twin continued, "She told us we can't use magic until we're 11 and go to Hogwarts."
"But what she doesn't know is that we use magic sometimes. Dough fell from the tree, and the ground turned to rubber..."
Vincent, unable to intervene earlier, spoke firmly: "They've arrived, boys. Can you take me to your mother?" And threw a gold galleon for the two to split.
The first smiled. "Of course..."
"She's in the greenhouse..." the other added.
"Let's go."
Vincent watched them with interest and asked, "Why do you always finish each other's sentences? How do you do that?"
Before they could answer, they were interrupted by Amelia Rookwood, the owner of the house. She was a woman in her early thirties, almost forty, with brown hair and dark eyes. Despite her age, she still carried much of the charm of her youth, a characteristic of wizards, who aged more slowly.
"Boys, stop bothering the gentleman and go play!" she shouted.
"But Mom, he hasn't taught us the butterfly trick yet!" the twins responded in unison.
"Enough! Go, now!"
Once the children moved away, she lowered her voice, visibly tired. "Sorry, Mr. Wolf Keeper, they seem to have infinite energy."
"No problem," Vincent replied with a smile. "Now that you're here, I don't want to waste much time. Can you prepare these potions for me?" He handed her a small list.
She read it carefully: "Skele-Gro potion, nutritious potion, water restoration... live dragonflies..." After finishing, she looked back at the short man, who exuded a mystical aura. Vincent always seemed to have a different face when he came, and she had gotten used to the various names he used, simply calling him the Wolf Keeper.
"I have some of these ingredients in stock, but some potions will take at least a week to prepare, following your standards. While I prepare the ones I already have, would you like some tea?"
"Sure, I have about 20 minutes," he replied as she guided him to the living room. The room was decorated with a leather sofa, wooden floors, lamps, and vibrant orange walls adorned with yellow flower patterns. "A bit intense for my taste, but it gives the room a welcoming feel. Not so bad."
Soon, Amelia returned with a teapot and a pair of cups. "Excuse me."
The fruity scent filled the room. Vincent took the cup, lightly blew on the steam, and brought it to his lips, savoring the bittersweet taste. "Tangerine... An interesting flavor."
She smiled, pleased with his reaction. "Yes, a witch friend from the Amazon brought me these fruits. What do you think?"
"It's great, thank you."
While he enjoyed the tea, Amelia left and came back with a package of potions, placing it on the table next to Vincent, then settled on another sofa. "I'm glad you liked it. It was actually an experimental recipe."
They talked more while drinking, and soon Vincent asked, "Ma'am, what's the price for these potions, along with the ones I ordered?"
She smiled and replied, "It's free for you, after all you've done for our family, and what you did with my husband."
Vincent, with a firm tone, said, "Let's not discuss that again. Your husband's debt will be settled eventually. I'm buying your potions like any other customer."
She nodded in agreement and responded promptly, "The ingredients cost about 135 galleons, and the market price for these potions would be around 300 galleons."
Vincent took out an exact amount of 500 galleons and handed it to her.
He checked the potion bottles, satisfied, and stood up, saying, "The extra amount is for you to not say a word about the potions I acquired here. I'll return next week. Thank you very much, Mrs. Rookwood."
After saying their goodbyes, Vincent's body began to transform into butterflies once again, which scattered, carrying him to the realms of dreams — a space created by the collective consciousness, where all were connected, yet at the same time, existed nowhere.