Chapter 79: Borgin

Although he had always treated Borgin and Burkes as a landmark, Silven had never been here before.

Pushing open the door, he found the interior pitch-black, with occasional dim red glows flickering in the corners, pulsing faintly as he moved, making him deeply uneasy.

The air was thick with a decaying stench, sticky as spiderwebs; Silven raised his wand before him, and the sensation vanished instantly.

“Come out.” Silven said, waving his wand.

“Lumos Maxima!”

The silver-white orb at the wand’s tip expanded tenfold, appearing above the shop like a miniature sun.

Lumos Maxima was an upgraded version of the Lighting Charm, capable of illuminating larger spaces and dispelling weaker dark creatures and curses—it was one of the Aurors’ most common techniques.

But if this spell was cast by Silven, and in a dark arts shop, the situation was entirely different.

The [Sacred] and [Purifying] properties were pushed to their extreme, like pouring a pot of boiling water onto a frozen lake, as a continuous hissing echoed all around.

A stack of bloodstained playing cards burst into flame out of thin air; the glass eyeballs beside them rapidly filled with bulging veins; bones on the counter cracked one after another with sharp snapping sounds.

Even the grotesque masks on the walls gradually twisted into expressions of agonized struggle.

“Stop! Stop at once!”

With a clang, a metal statue beside the counter split cleanly in two, and a hunched, stooped man crawled out, staring at Silven with terror.

“You…” Silven quickly adjusted his tone, “surprising, Mr. Borgin—you’re still alive?”

Caractacus Borgin once again recalled the fleeting green light and the sensation of narrowly escaping death; his legs went weak, and cold sweat dripped steadily from his forehead.

As the owner of a dark arts shop, Borgin had long grown accustomed to dealing with the darkest figures in the magical world—outlaws, werewolves, vampires, poison dealers—all regulars here.

He had even maintained murky ties with former Death Eaters.

But all these dangerous figures combined, appearing before him at once, could not match the chill that the previous spell had stirred in his heart.

It could kill instantly.

Borgin had seen the one whose name could not be spoken—not once, but many times; when he wished to kill two enemies, he had to utter “Avada Kedavra” twice.

Wait—did he just cast a spell?

It seemed he did, but the voice felt oddly familiar, as if he had heard it somewhere before.

Yet before he could recall further, that strange Killing Curse—like it had eyes—spotted him hiding in the shadows and shot straight toward him.

Had he not been hiding inside a magical suit of armor, afraid of being discovered, the number of dead wizards today would have risen from six to seven.

At that moment, Silven also noticed a hole blown open in the metal statue—it must have absorbed the final Killing Curse.

Silven found this unsurprising; by then, the Killing Curse’s beam had thinned to nearly a thread, so its deflection was hardly remarkable.

But Borgin seemed to have misunderstood something.

That was precisely the outcome Silven wanted—Borgin, as the local kingpin of Knockturn Alley, must know something.

“You know what I want to ask, don’t you?” Silven’s wand glowed brighter; the bloodstained playing cards could no longer hold out and turned to ash.

“My cursed cards! Fifteen Galleons!” Borgin whimpered, clutching his chest, heartbroken and breathless.

“Stop, you boy of Ollivander!” The vanished Galleons seemed to dispel the fear of the Killing Curse; Borgin glared at Silven, his lips trembling, “This has nothing to do with me—don’t push too far!”

“Nothing to do with you? Then explain why they chose to attack me right outside your shop?” Silven narrowed his eyes.

Borgin’s face turned ashen; he wanted to know that too—why had those lunatics targeted the space outside his shop?

He had nearly died because of it!

Everything that happened tonight felt like a nightmare, and for a long time to come, he would likely wake screaming from the memory of that eerie, self-targeting Killing Curse.

“Tell me what you know,” Silven said, no longer pressing hard; he switched the Lumos Maxima to a simple Lumos.

“What’s in it for me?” Borgin blurted out, his expression shifting.

Even if he died here today, pierced through the chest by a Killing Curse, his principles would not change.

And as he gradually emerged from the shadow of the Killing Curse, another thought occurred to him.

The six dead wizards had appeared in Knockturn Alley only a month ago; such people were too common—no one would notice if they vanished suddenly.

But Borgin and Burkes connected to Knockturn Alley’s Floo Network, a position of critical importance; if he died, Knockturn Alley would descend into chaos, and the Ministry would certainly not stand idly by—Auror intervention would bring no benefit to this Ollivander boy.

Moreover, Borgin and Burkes had operated in Knockturn Alley for decades—this was his territory; even if the opponent possessed unimaginable methods, he was no helpless lamb.

Borgin subtly shifted one step to the left.

“Those six people outside…” Silven feigned not noticing his movement, pointing toward the door, “I’ll take only one item from each—the rest are yours. Deal?”

“Done!” Borgin said in a greasy tone, as if afraid Silven might change his mind.

“They’re Death Eaters—from North America.”

“Hmm?” Silven’s expression didn’t change, “Why would Death Eaters come after me? Shouldn’t they be after Harry Potter?”

“For wands,” Borgin hissed. “They’ve gathered a large number of werewolves.”

Silven understood at once.

Werewolves transformed during the full moon; unlike Animagi, this involuntary transformation didn’t allow magic to coat clothing or wands.

Thus, most werewolves lost their wands through frequent transformations, couldn’t afford new ones, and dared not openly appear in Diagon Alley—forced to rely on brutal hand-to-hand combat.

“Providing wands to werewolves—what do they intend to do?” Silven asked, unable to suppress his curiosity. “Assassinate Dumbledore? Or Harry Potter?”

“I don’t know,” Borgin said. “But you might recall what happened at Hogwarts last month.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Gringotts vault robbery,” Borgin dropped his slick tone, “and Quirinus Quirrell’s strange behavior… sometimes even a mere suspicion is enough to drive some people mad.”

As he spoke, Borgin’s expression grew increasingly strange.

He remembered whose voice that had been!

Thirteen years ago, that same voice—like an inescapable curse—had haunted every British wizard’s mind, so much so they dared not speak the name, calling him only “You-Know-Who.”

Though the answer was impossible to believe, memory never lied; the voice just now matched exactly what he remembered.

Borgin glanced at Silven again, his thoughts shifting rapidly; his face changed again and again, his hunched frame sinking even lower.

(End of Chapter)