Lina had a nightmare.
She sat up abruptly, her coarse nightgown soaked with cold sweat, clinging to her back like wet paper.
The attic was pitch black, with only a sliver of moonlight filtering through a hole in the roof, illuminating the dust motes floating in the air.
The scenes from her dream still swirled before her eyes:
Her father's eyes wide open, his body covered in wounds, crimson blood splattering on the flagstones, as the traitors, led by Cole, laughed wildly.
And at the end of that bloody scene, Mr. Borgin's face slowly turned, the edge of his black robe dripping with water, his eye sockets empty, only a continuous flow of grey-green viscous fluid with the scent of seaweed.
The scene shifted, and she dreamt again of herself and Finn in this shop filled with Dark Arts objects, unable to even find the door.
"Lina?"
Finn's voice came from the other side of the attic, with his characteristic hoarseness, yet steady.
He sat up, the moonlight illuminating his sharply defined profile,
and the old scar above his left eyebrow, a scratch from a Werewolf—a mark left to protect her when they were still in the tribe.
"N-nothing."
Lina's voice was still trembling; she clutched the quilt tightly, her knuckles white.
"Is it because of Mr. Borgin?" Finn's tone deepened.
Lina nodded, then quickly shook her head.
She couldn't explain the eerie feeling.
After Mr. Borgin returned from Azkaban yesterday, he seemed utterly soulless.
When Finn went to the basement to deliver dinner, he came back pale, only saying, "The boss is weird."
And Lina herself, in the evening, went to the counter to fetch a roll of anti-pest parchment, and happened to see "Mr. Borgin" standing with his back to her in front of the stone wall, his posture as stiff as a stone statue.
His eyes were fixed on the skull specimen on the wall, muttering repeatedly, "Bars... cold..." His fingers clawed at the tabletop, and there was some grey-green moss embedded in his fingernails.
He was like a wind-up puppet, only capable of repeating simple commands, his eyes terrifyingly vacant.
"Mr. Borgin?" she whispered at the time.
The person slowly turned around, his movements like rusty gears grinding. His gaze was fixed on her hand, and he suddenly spoke, his voice flat like an unrippled sheet of ice:
"Your nails... do they grow long? During the full moon."
Lina was so startled she nearly crumpled the parchment in her hand.
Mr. Borgin knew they were Werewolves and had a magic contract with their father. He also needed two agile helpers who weren't afraid of Dark Arts objects; this was an unspoken understanding among them.
What chilled her even more was that she glimpsed some damp, grey-green substance on "Mr. Borgin's" cuff.
But soon, "Mr. Borgin" seemed to forget his previous question, continuing to scratch at the tabletop, repeating some nonsensical words... Suddenly, a "clatter" from downstairs interrupted Lina's thoughts, followed by a "creak" as the stone door to the basement opened.
Lina and Finn exchanged glances, both seeing tension in the other's eyes.
Finn was the first to get up, grabbing his wand, and mouthed "stay put" to Lina, then cautiously moved towards the staircase.
Lina bit her lip, but still followed him.
The stairs were steep, groaning with every step.
As they neared the first floor, they heard a familiar voice—Mr. Borgin was cursing under his breath, as if he had tripped over something.
"Damn 'Screaming Mandrake', if you dare bite my cloak again, I'll boil you in a cauldron for three days!"
"What is this? A Blood Quill! Heavens! My dragon-hide coat!"
Lina's heart pounded, both nervous and with a strange sense of anticipation.
She followed Finn to the bend in the stairs and saw Mr. Borgin standing at the counter, bending down to pick up a quill that had fallen to the floor, its tip still dripping dark red ink.
"What are you doing standing there?" Morin looked up, his gaze sweeping over the siblings at the staircase, his disgust clearly audible in his tone.
"Finn, go get that box of shoddy Sneakoscopes from upstairs. Old Jerry from Diagon Alley said he'd pick them up today."
"I'm going!" The tension on Finn's face instantly eased, and he even couldn't help but grin.
He re-tucked his wand into his waistband and, as he turned to run back to the attic, his footsteps were light and quick.
Lina slowly walked to the counter, watching Morin open the ledger, the quill making a heavy cross next to the entry for "Venomous Tentacula Seeds," with a note beside it: "Too slow growing, change supplier next time."
Sunlight streamed through the cobweb-filled window, casting shifting light and shadow on his face; he still looked as cold as ever, but Lina felt a tightness in her throat and a sting in her nose.
Morin had no mind to pay attention to the siblings; after dealing with the ledger, he resumed his hands-off approach, leaving the shop to them.
He returned to the basement, troubled by how to deal with Selwyn:
If he simply dumped the body in the wilderness, he would probably be invited for tea by the Ministry of Magic the next day, and Malfoy wouldn't be able to protect him either.
Keeping him in the shop and looking at him every day was a bit unsettling; he wasn't some beauty, so there was no need for a golden cage.
However, simply discarding Selwyn would indeed be a waste, after all, Selwyn's remaining sanity had long been gnawed away by the Dementors in Azkaban, making him effortless to control with Imperio.
As long as he wasn't too far away, he could make Selwyn act completely according to his will, even more useful than a House-elf.
For matters he found inconvenient to investigate personally, such as the movements of Lord Voldemort and his Death Eater subordinates, having Selwyn gather information would be perfect.
However, this would make dealing with the situation a bit troublesome.
Morin decided to temporarily set this matter aside; having survived his ordeal, he now just wanted to get some proper rest
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