"Click—"
Morin accidentally snapped the last charred residue from the bottom of the cauldron with silver tweezers—
The thing was still wriggling slightly, emitting a strange smell of sulfur mixed with rotten nuts—
When he dropped it into the lead storage box, his knuckles turned white from the effort.
The basement was cold and damp, and the fluorescent moss growing in the cracks of the stone made his profile flicker, as Borgin's lingering memories surged in his mind.
Morin finally had to admit that his whimsical idea had failed once again, and he slowly emerged from the basement, seemingly still a bit unwilling.
The stairs creaked, each step groaning.
The shop on the first floor was filled with the scent of aged parchment and rusty metal, as sunlight diagonally cut through the dust, illuminating the crooked Dark Arts objects on the shelves:
Divination crystal balls wrapped in chains, daggers covered in blood writing, glass jars containing the eyeballs of unknown creatures.
Just then, the window rattled loudly, as if the force was enough to shatter the thin glass.
Morin frowned as he looked over; an orange-yellow owl was fiercely flapping its powerful wings against the window frame, its copper beak anxiously pecking at the wooden frame.
The owl's feathers were disheveled, as if its owner had something urgent.
"I hope Finn hasn't offended another distinguished guest."
He mumbled as he pulled back the latch, and the owl immediately flapped in, its claws nearly catching on a Venomous Tentacula potted plant on the display shelf.
The parchment in the envelope carried the pungent smell unique to magic ink.
When Morin unfolded it, the edges of the paper curled slightly, and Hepzibah Smith's death news unexpectedly jumped into his eyes, causing his pupils to constrict.
Almost seventeen years had passed since he bought that locket for ten Galleons from Riddle's mother at a low price.
He leaned against the counter, rubbing his temples, his fingertips pressing against the throbbing veins.
In Borgin's memories, Hepzibah always wore velvet robes adorned with jewels, her chin held high when she spoke, like a proud, plump peacock.
As a regular customer of the shop, the original owner's impression of her was neither bad nor good.
A wealthy and discerning lady, she always made Mr. Borgin both happy and troubled every time she visited the shop.
Of course, the handsome and excellent former Hogwarts Head Boy—Mr. Tom Riddle—easily gained Mrs. Smith's trust and favor.
Of course, now there was one more thing—this lady's life.
"Boss? You don't look so good."
Finn stood at the doorway, holding a stack of old books tied with twine, and his sister Lina peeked out, a dried laurel leaf tucked into her flaxen braid.
This Werewolf brother and sister were living reasonably well in Knockturn Alley now.
After all, even if one searched all of Knockturn Alley, it would be impossible to find anyone who dared to offend Caractacus Burke.
Moreover, their Werewolf status, even if discovered in Knockturn Alley, didn't matter—
The Werewolf race was known for being worthless yet strong, and if one accidentally got bitten, it would be a huge loss.
Only brainless fools would provoke a Werewolf.
At this moment, the two exchanged knowing glances, having clearly noticed the opened letter in Morin's hand.
"Miss Smith is dead." Morin slapped the letter on the counter, "The Ministry of Magic wants me to testify this afternoon."
Lina's expression immediately became serious, showing an incredulous look:
"You mean that old lady who always used a silver snuffbox every time she came? I remember last time she even wanted to buy that ancient Egyptian pendant—"
"She always looked at the boss with that 'bottom of the cauldron' gaze." Finn interjected, lowering his voice, "Do you think it could be a crime of passion? I've seen it in Muggle newspapers..."
Morin couldn't be bothered with Finn, grabbing a ring from the counter and throwing it at them; Finn agilely dodged, and the ring hit the doorpost with a dull thud.
"Take this ring and find my cousin Herbert," he said coldly, "Don't come back without my orders."
The siblings ran off, laughing, and the shop door slammed shut behind them.
Morin stared at the empty doorway, his fingers unconsciously caressing the carvings on the edge of the counter.
— — — — — —
The Department of Magical Law Enforcement's interrogation room, though not as cold as Borgin's basement, was more oppressive.
Faded copies of the International Statute of Secrecy hung on the stone walls, and the interrogator, with a sharp stubble beard, sat in a high-backed chair, his silver-rimmed glasses reflecting the light from the magic torches hanging on the walls.
"When was the last time you saw Hepzibah Smith?"
"The thirteenth of last month," Morin leaned back in his chair, his tone as flat as if he were reporting shop inventory; he was the last Wizard to be interrogated today—
"She came to inquire about a pendant; I felt the price wasn't right, so I didn't sell it."
"Did she show any abnormalities? Like mentioning someone?"
"No."
As Morin lied, his fingertips in his sleeve clutched a translucent blue ring—
It had a calming charm on it, which could effectively prevent spells like Legilimency.
"She only complained that the pudding made by her House-elf was too sweet."
Morin's preparation seemed a bit superfluous, as no one really cared whether he was lying or not.
The interrogator's quill scratched on the parchment, the spreading ink stains resembling ever-expanding smudges.
A muffled cry came from next door; it was the House-elf Hokey.
The once well-dressed House-elf was being held by two Wizards, her gray skin wrinkled in pain, repeatedly screaming, "I poisoned my mistress."
Morin glanced through the crack in the door and saw that Hokey's eyes were bloodshot, her pupils dilated—
Those were typical symptoms of memory tampering, yet the foolish Ministry of Magic officials took it as further strong evidence of an elderly House-elf's mental derangement.
"It's undoubtedly an accident."
The interrogator put away the parchment, his tone as light as if discussing the weather,
"A senile House-elf mistook poison for icing sugar; such an incident is rare in the history of the entire Wizarding World, it's just a pity for Miss Smith."
Morin said nothing, his nails digging into his arm, his lips pressed tightly together.
Not long after, this hasty interrogation concluded.
The Ministry of Magic Wizards were busy organizing files, and the fire in the fireplace crackled.
When Morin walked out of the Ministry of Magic, dusk was deepening.
Not far away, Minister Morin was surrounded by a group of Wizards in luxurious robes, their golden cufflinks glinting in the setting sun.
He was telling a joke about the Muggle Prime Minister, and a loud burst of laughter erupted around him.
Morin stood at the bottom of the steps, watching those people pat each other on the shoulders, remembering that Hepzibah had seemed as respectable as them in life.
By the time he returned to Knockturn Alley, it was already quite dark.
Morin lit a Lumos charm, and a pale blue glow spread along the ceiling, illuminating the silent objects on the shelves.
He sat in the armchair behind the counter, and Borgin's memories surged like a tide:
His first use of magic at age seven, setting a Muggle barn on fire; his immersion in the Dark Arts at fifteen; his spirited takeover of the shop at nineteen... These memories repeatedly washed over "Morin."
Sometimes, Morin himself couldn't distinguish whether he was "Borgin" or "Morin."
He closed his eyes, clearly recalling the scene when Riddle applied for a job with "him."
A handsome boy stood in the shadows, a polite smile on his lips, but his eyes were like a frozen lake, devoid of any warmth.
Morin closed his eyes, and his heart sank to rock bottom with them—
Tom Riddle must have known everything—
Including that Borgin had bought the locket from Merope for only ten Galleons.
All it would take was a simple Legilimency on Hepzibah.
One day, Riddle would return as Lord Voldemort; the Ministry of Magic couldn't be relied upon, pure-blood families would only cling to the strong, and Finn and Lina were too weak... Morin looked out at the deepening night, coldness and unease intertwined in his veins.
How could Lord Voldemort allow a Dark Wizard to live who had tricked his mother out of a precious Slytherin heirloom for only ten Galleons and knew everything about him?
Morin let go of his last shred of hope, smiling with relief.
Then let's try it, Lord Voldemort.
Kill me, if you can.