In recent months, Wizards passing Borgin and Burkes couldn't help but steal a few glances.
The dilapidated wooden door of Borgin and Burkes still creaked, but pushing it open no longer revealed Mr. Borgin, that mature and experienced man with several large jeweled rings on his fingers—
Now standing behind the counter were a pair of young Werewolf siblings.
However, Finn and Lina clearly hadn't figured out the ropes of the Dark Arts business yet.
When a Wizard in black robes inquired about a dagger covered in runes, Finn's face turned red, and he stammered out an absurdly high price, unable to explain why.
Lina, though cleverer, always struggled to control her emotions.
She would show looks of fright when customers presented some ghastly Dark Arts items.
Consequently, the old regulars, accustomed to haggling with Borgin, gradually turned away. The shop's brass doorbell rang less and less, though Lina had managed to cultivate the poisonous tentacle potted plants on the shelves to a thriving state.
At this moment, the afternoon sun struggled to squeeze through the dusty skylight, casting a dim yellow band of light on the floor.
Finn, who had been idle for several hours, was sprawled on the counter, his golden hair disheveled and drooping, his drool almost dripping onto an open magic book;
Lina, meanwhile, was listlessly wiping a glass jar containing a shriveled skull with a rag, her eyelids constantly fighting to stay open.
"Bang!"
A burst of green flame suddenly erupted from the fireplace, and the siblings froze as if struck by Petrificus Totalus, then abruptly jumped up, frantically straightening their clothes.
Morin's figure emerged from the flames, his robes still clinging with a bit of basement dirt. He patted his cuffs, his gaze sweeping over the empty shop, his face expressionless.
"Mr. Borgin," Lina spoke first, her voice carrying a subtle tremor, "You… you've finally come out."
Finn nodded vigorously behind her, his eyes involuntarily darting towards the ledger on the counter—the most recent entries on it were pitifully sparse.
Morin waved his hand and walked straight to the counter.
He was indifferent to the shop's quietness; the clinking Galleons were less important to him than a few newly deciphered pages of "Ancient Roman Advanced Dark Arts" manuscript from the basement.
Over the past two months, he had practically turned over every Dark Arts book accumulated by the Burke Family for generations.
From the most basic minor hexes to complex advanced Dark Arts, Morin had mastered all the magic spells he could access in a very short time.
However, Morin couldn't be happy at all; he irritably waved his wand, as if shooing away bothersome gnats.
The Burke Family's collection of books had been almost worn out by him. From "On the Advanced Forms of Dark Arts" to "Complete Ancient Blood Curses," he could recite theoretical knowledge backward, but the power of the spells he cast always remained at the level of an ordinary adult Wizard.
It was like a chef with a peerless recipe but only a wood-fired stove; no matter how good the recipe, it couldn't produce the intended flavor.
magic power.
He thought of this word again.
Not the kind of "stamina" consumed when casting spells, but the power that truly determines the upper limit of a spell.
Dumbledore could blast several Dark Wizards away with a simple Expelliarmus, and his epic battle with Grindelwald nearly destroyed half of the Wizarding World.
This was certainly not due to mastery of spells, but to innate talent and long-term accumulation, resulting in an unfathomable reserve of magic power.
And he, Morin, occupying Borgin's pure-blood body, only had enough magic power to barely support the framework of advanced spells, like a Castle built with thin bamboo sticks, swaying with every gust of wind.
He slumped onto the cold stone floor, the back of his head resting against the cold wall.
Fragments of Borgin's memory once again churned in his mind:
At seven, he first used magic to light the barn, the flames as weak as candlelight; at fifteen, he dueled other young Wizards, and a single "Impedimenta" from his opponent knocked him to the ground… This body's talent was inherently mediocre. The so-called Dark Arts master was merely a facade propped up by generations of accumulated spell knowledge and acquired magical techniques.
Despair, like the chill of the basement, seeped into his bones little by little.
Was he destined to be only a mediocre Wizard?
Under the hidden fatal threat, such strength would only make him cannon fodder in the future.
This feeling of powerlessness made him irritable—
He knew clearly that in a real duel, the intensity of spells often decided everything; no amount of skill was useful in the face of an absolute difference in magic power.
Just then, Lina's voice came from the stairwell, with a hint of hesitation:
"Boss, the morning's The Daily Prophet, would you like to see it?"
Morin, flustered, initially wanted to refuse, but inexplicably agreed—a newspaper to relieve boredom would be good.
When the newspaper was handed down, it still had a white owl feather stuck to it.
He casually flipped through it, mostly Ministry of Magic's whitewashed rhetoric, boring gossip, and wanted posters for Grindelwald's remnants—
The front page was still tracking reports on Grindelwald's remaining forces, the exaggerated adjectives making him frown.
He quickly turned the pages, all of them innocuous social news—
A certain Muggle prime minister had been hit with Confundo again, and Diagon Alley's candy store had launched new licorice wands.
A year had passed since that decisive duel, and the Wizarding World was trying to forget that dark period, unaware that another era of turmoil had already begun to sprout.
Suddenly, his finger paused in the corner of the social section.
An inconspicuous short message, titled "Grindelwald's Remnants Apprehended, Obscurus Remains Found."
The content roughly mentioned that Grindelwald had once kept several Obscuruses, using the Dark power within them for assassinations. These poor children ultimately died from uncontrolled magic power.
"Obscurus…"
Morin whispered the word.
He had seen this term in the family library, referring to young Wizards who, due to violent trauma, suppressed their own magic power, ultimately giving rise to an Obscurus.
An Obscurus is an extremely unstable Dark power, like a bomb ready to explode at any moment, yet it also possesses the destructive power to devour everything—
Even the youngest Obscurus, when it erupts, can easily tear through an adult Wizard's defenses.
An idea exploded in his mind like a spark.
What if… what if this power could be controlled?
Obscuruses usually don't live long and are fragile children; historically, no adult Wizard has ever been able to control an Obscurus.
But what if he could?
That power, which even Grindelwald had to rely on, if it were at his disposal… He could even feel his fingertips tingling slightly with excitement.
This might be the key to breaking through the bottleneck.
magic power reserves cannot be forced, but the existence of an Obscurus, like a "cheat," might allow his spell power to undergo a qualitative leap.
Finn watched his boss's expression change unpredictably, sometimes frowning deeply, sometimes a strange arc forming at the corner of his mouth, and couldn't help but nudge Lina's arm, whispering:
"The boss isn't going crazy from losing too much money, is he?"
Lina was also a bit worried and was about to speak up and admit her mistakes, but then Morin suddenly looked up, his eyes gleaming with an unusual light.
He didn't look at them again, walking directly to the fireplace and grabbing a handful of Floo powder.
"Watch the shop."
Leaving this hurried remark, he threw the Floo powder into the flames, and green flames instantly shot up.
Finn and Lina exchanged glances, only to see Morin's figure disappear once again into the flickering flames.