Chapter 79: Mr. Borgin's Guess

Although Harold had always treated Borgin and Burkes as a landmark, he had never actually been inside. When he pushed open the door, everything was pitch-black. In the corners, faint crimson glows flickered intermittently with his movements, giving an unsettling feeling. A decaying stench clung to the air, sticky like cobwebs. But as Harold raised his wand in front of him, the feeling instantly vanished. "Come out," Harold said, waving his wand. "Lumos Maxima!" A silver-white orb of light burst tenfold in size, blooming like a sun above the shop. The Lumos Maxima charm was essentially an enhanced version of Lumos, capable of illuminating a much wider area and even dispersing weaker dark creatures and curses. It was a favorite tool among Aurors. But if the spell was cast with Silvermane, and the location happened to be a dark magic shop, that changed everything. The wand's Sanctified and Purify – Doubled effectiveness against curses and dark creatures traits were unleashed to the fullest. It was like pouring boiling water on a frozen lake—crackling sounds echoed everywhere. A bloodstained stack of cards spontaneously burst into flames. A nearby glass eyeball rapidly filled with throbbing veins. Bones on the counter began to fracture, and the clattering of splintering echoed all around. Even the sinister masks on the walls seemed to twist in pain and agony. "Stop! Stop that right now!" Clang! A metal statue near the counter split down the middle, and a hunched, crooked man crawled out, staring at Harold in terror. "You..." Harold adjusted his tone swiftly. "How surprising, Mr. Borgin. You're still alive?" Caractacus Borgin, still haunted by the flash of green light and his brush with death, felt his legs buckle. Cold sweat dripped steadily from his forehead. As the owner of a black magic goods store, Borgin was no stranger to the underbelly of the wizarding world—fugitives, werewolves, vampires, poisoners... they were all regulars. He even maintained shady ties with former Death Eaters. But not even all those dangerous characters combined could compare to the dread he had felt when that curse washed over him. A wide-range Avada Kedavra that instantly killed six adult wizards? That defied everything he understood about dark magic. Even the Dark Lord himself couldn't do that—at least, not without casting the curse individually each time. Wait a second... did the caster even say the incantation out loud? He thought so, vaguely... but the voice had sounded familiar. Eerily so. Before he could pin it down, the lethal spell seemed to detect his presence and shot toward him. Had he not been hiding inside a suit of enchanted armor, he'd probably be corpse number seven. Harold, meanwhile, had also spotted a blown-out hole in a nearby metal statue. That must've been what absorbed the final killing curse. He wasn't surprised. By then, the spell had thinned to the width of a thread—no wonder it had fizzled out. But Borgin clearly misunderstood. Which was exactly what Harold had hoped for—Borgin was deeply rooted in Knockturn Alley and would definitely know something. "You should already know what I'm going to ask," Harold said, intensifying the light from his wand. The bloodstained deck of cards disintegrated to ash under the glare. "My cursed cards! Fifteen Galleons!" Borgin whimpered, clutching his chest like he couldn't breathe from the heartbreak. "Stop it, Ollivander brat!" The sight of his Galleons going up in smoke seemed to snap Borgin out of his terror. He glared at Harold, lips trembling. "This has nothing to do with me. Don't push your luck!" "No relation? Then explain why they chose your storefront to attack me?" Harold narrowed his eyes. Borgin's face darkened. He wanted to know the same thing. Why had those lunatics picked his doorstep of all places? He'd nearly died for it! Tonight had been a nightmare. He suspected he'd be waking in a cold sweat for many nights, haunted by the image of that eerie, sentient killing curse. "Tell me what you know," Harold said, dialing back the pressure. He lowered his wand's light to a regular Lumos. "What do I get out of it?" Borgin snapped, reverting to instinct. Even if he was going to die here tonight, his principles wouldn't break. Plus, now that the terror was wearing off, he'd remembered something else: the six dead men had only shown up in Knockturn Alley a month ago. No one would miss them. But Borgin and Burkes was a cornerstone—it connected to the Floo network, and his death would draw Ministry attention. That would mean Aurors sniffing around, and that wouldn't be good for Harold either. Besides, Borgin had run this shop for decades. This was his turf. Even if that boy had unnatural power, he wasn't helpless. Casually, Borgin sidestepped toward his left. "I'll take only one item from those six outside. The rest is yours," Harold said without missing a beat, pointing behind him. "Deal!" Borgin croaked, almost too quickly. "They're Death Eaters. From North America." "What?" Harold's expression didn't change. "Why would Death Eaters come for me? Shouldn't they be chasing Harry Potter?" "It's about wands," Borgin said with a sneer. "They've gathered a pack of werewolves—quite a lot of them." Now it clicked. Werewolves couldn't retain their clothes or wands when they transformed during the full moon—unlike Animagi, they had no control. Most lost their wands frequently and couldn't afford new ones. Nor could they show up in Diagon Alley without being arrested. "So they want to arm the werewolves? For what?" Harold frowned. "To assassinate Dumbledore? Or Potter?" "That, I don't know," Borgin said. "But think about what happened last month at Hogwarts." "What do you mean?" "The Gringotts vault break-in. And Quirinus Quirrell acting strangely..." Borgin's tone darkened. "Sometimes a rumor alone is enough to drive people insane." At that, his expression turned even weirder. He'd just remembered where he'd heard that voice before. Thirteen years ago, it had haunted every wizard in Britain like a living curse—so much so that they couldn't even say his name aloud, only referring to him as He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. As unbelievable as it sounded, memory didn't lie. That voice earlier... it was identical. Borgin stole another glance at Harold, and a dreadful suspicion crept into his mind. His hunched body sank even lower in deference. (End of Chapter)