Contrary to popular belief, Knockturn Alley was not a perpetually dismal corner of the Wizard World. Though it was true that the breath of winter rode upon the back of every breeze that swept those streets, and it had consequently been made the law of the locals to dress each morning for snowfall, the kingdom of the damned could not always avoid the sun’s prying rays. The autumn season was upon London, and yet summer’s golden hues still glittered off of the frost-adorned windows and shop signs, each fleck of ice acting as a prism which reflected the brilliant light throughout the Alley. It was ironic, that the cold that had once painted those streets in grey now forwarded the sun’s attempts to ‘brighten things up a bit’ – and simultaneously foiled Vito Dee Symon’s efforts to encase his castle in a fatal chill.
Vito thought himself to be anything but ordinary; a belief which could be supported with ease by nothing more than his existence. But the displeasure that he’d experienced upon waltzing from his nightclub and onto the familiar cobblestone street to discover the present state of the weather was borderline stereotypical of the villain. Nonetheless, it was with narrowed eyes and a threatening frown that the poltergeist swayed away from Satan’s. His polished, Italian shoes clicked off of the street with his every step, leaving behind him a trail of frost so thick as to conceal the stone beneath entirely from view. He extended a hand at his side and tickled the glass of the adjacent apothecary’s door with flicking fingertips, dusting the surface in a quickly spreading chill which, when it had reached the door frame, violently cracked the glass down it’s center.
But his kingdom did not possess the dark shadows or the eerie feel that he’d grown so fond of. These days… Vito regarded the sort with an exaggerated roll of his eyes; these were the days that Vito preferred to remain behind the walls of his dimly-lit nightclub to exist amongst the sinners and the cigarette smoke – a luxury which would have to patiently await his return while he fulfilled the day’s purpose. He had grown hungry and lustful in the absence of his usual redheaded plaything, whom he had slaughtered unintentionally the previous week when he had succumbed to his craving for blood. Thus, the morning belonged to the hunt – and the sun, as Vito scowled, slithering amongst the only remaining shadows that he could find.
It would be a long morning.