Chapter 79: Old Borgin's Guess, Someone from the Past (Please Subscribe)

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

He pushed open the door; inside it was pitch black, save for a few faint, flickering dark-red glimmers in the corners that pulsed faintly as he moved, putting one thoroughly on edge.

A moldering, cobweb-thick stench hung in the air. Silven raised his wand before him, and the feeling vanished at once.

"Come out," Silven said, giving his wand a wave.

"Brackium Emendo!"

The silver-white orb at the wand's tip swelled tenfold in an instant, hanging above the shop like a small sun.

Brackium Emendo — a sort of upgraded Lumos. It lit up a far greater area while also driving off relatively minor dark creatures and curses; one of the Aurors' most commonly used techniques.

But when the one casting it was Silvermane, and the location was a Dark magic shop, the situation took on a rather different complexion.

The properties of 【Holy】 and 【Purify】 were pushed to their absolute limit, like pouring a kettle of boiling water onto a frozen lake; a constant sizzling filled the air around him.

A stack of bloodstained cards burst into flame of their own accord; the glass eyeballs beside them, glassy and still a moment ago, rapidly filled with blue veins; the various bones on the counter began to crack one after another, snap-snap-snap ringing out in turn.

Even the savage masks on the wall gradually twisted from ferocity into agonized struggle.

"Stop! Stop, please!"

With a clang, a metal statue beside the counter split clean in two, and a hunched, stooped man crawled out from within, fixing Silven with a look of pure terror.

"You—" Silven quickly adjusted his tone. "What a surprise, Mr. Borgin. You're actually still alive?"

Caractacus Burke's mind flashed back to that streak of green light a moment ago, and the sensation of brushing past death itself. His legs went weak; cold sweat dripped, drop by drop, from his forehead.

As the proprietor of a shop of Dark magical items, Borgin had long been accustomed to dealing with the Wizarding World's most shadowy clientele — fugitives, werewolves, vampires, poison merchants — all of them regulars here.

He had even kept up a less-than-clean line of communication with former Death Eaters.

But all those dangerous figures put together, appearing before him at once, still could not match the chill that spell had just struck into his heart.

It could kill in an instant.

Borgin had met the man whose name must not be spoken — more than once. When that man wanted to kill two enemies, he still had to chant Avada Kedavra twice.

Wait — had he actually cast a spell just now?

It seemed he had, but that voice had sounded oddly familiar, as if he'd heard it somewhere before.

Only, before he could think it through properly, that uncanny Avada Kedavra had seemed to grow eyes of its own, spotted him lurking in the shadows, and flown straight at him.

If he hadn't been so afraid of being discovered that he'd been hiding inside a suit of enchanted armor the whole time, the number of wizards killed today might have risen from six to seven.

At that moment, Silven also happened to notice a hole blown open in that metal statue — that must have been the thing that had cancelled out the final Avada Kedavra.

Silven didn't find it strange. By that point the light of the Avada Kedavra had already narrowed almost to a single thread; it wasn't at all surprising that it could be cancelled.

Only, Borgin seemed to have misunderstood something.

Which happened to be exactly the result Silven had been hoping for — as the local bigwig of Knockturn Alley, Borgin was bound to know something.

"You should know what I'm about to ask," Silven said. The light on his wand flared brighter, and the bloodstained deck of cards could bear it no longer, burning to ash.

"My cursed cards — fifteen Galleons!" Borgin whimpered, clutching his chest with both hands, heartbroken beyond breath.

"Enough, Ollivander boy." The prospect of losing his Galleons seemed to have scattered the terror left by the Avada Kedavra. Borgin stared at Silven, his lips trembling faintly. "Tonight's business has nothing to do with me — don't push it!"

"Nothing to do with you?" Silven narrowed his eyes. "Then can you explain why they chose to come at me right outside your shop?"

Borgin's face went ashen. He wanted to know that himself — why on earth had those lunatics set on this exact spot outside his shop?

He'd nearly lost his life over it!

Everything that had happened tonight felt like a nightmare, and for a long time to come he feared he would wake in a panic from dreams of that uncanny Avada Kedavra that could seek out its own target.

"Tell me what you know." Silven didn't press too hard, and of his own accord swapped the Brackium Emendo for a Lumos.

"What's in it for me!" Borgin's face changed and the words burst out of him.

Even if he were to die here today, an Avada Kedavra through the chest, his principles could not change.

And as he gradually sobered from the shadow of the Avada Kedavra, another thought occurred to him.

The six slain wizards had only appeared in Knockturn Alley a month ago — there were far too many of that sort around; even if they suddenly vanished, no one would care.

But his Borgin & Burkes was connected to the Knockturn Alley Floo Network; its position was vital. If he died, Knockturn Alley would fall into chaos, and the Ministry of Magic would not sit idly by — Auror involvement would do this Ollivander boy no good either.

Besides, Borgin & Burkes had been open in Knockturn Alley for decades; this was his home turf. Even if the other party really did have some unfathomable trick up his sleeve, he was no lamb led to the slaughter.

Borgin shifted a step to the left, as if by accident.

"Those six outside—" Silven pretended not to notice the little movement, pointed outside and said, "I'll only take one thing off each of them; the rest is yours. How about it."

"Done!" Borgin said in an oily voice, as if afraid Silven might change his mind.

"They're Death Eaters. From North America."

"Mm?" Silven's expression didn't change. "What do Death Eaters want with me? Shouldn't they be going after Harry Potter?"

"For wands," Borgin said in a sinister tone. "They've won over a pack of werewolves — quite a few of them."

Silven understood at once.

Werewolves transformed on the night of the full moon. Unlike Animagi, that involuntary transformation did not let their magic extend to their clothes or their wands.

As a result, most werewolves lost their wands through repeated transformations, couldn't afford new ones, and certainly didn't dare show their faces openly in Diagon Alley — they had no choice but to rely on brute force.

"Supplying werewolves with wands — what are they after?" Silven couldn't help asking. "Assassinating Dumbledore? Or Harry Potter?"

"That I don't know," Borgin said. "But you might try recalling what happened at Hogwarts last month."

"What do you mean?"

"The Gringotts break-in," Borgin dropped his oily tone. "And Quirinus Quirrell's strange behavior… some things, even as mere guesses, are enough to drive certain people mad."

At this, Borgin's expression grew stranger and stranger.

He remembered whose voice that had been!

Thirteen years ago, it had been that very voice — like a curse that would not lift, a nightmare hanging over every British wizard's heart, so much so that they did not dare speak the owner's name, and could only use "the Dark Lord" in its place.

Though the answer was almost impossible for him to accept, memory did not lie — the voice just now was exactly the same as the one in his memory.

Borgin glanced at Silven again. Something seemed to occur to him; his face shifted color again and again, and his already stooped frame hunched a few degrees lower.

(End of this chapter)