"We've arrived."
Sebastian gave a light flick of his wrist, and the string of unconscious wizards floating behind him settled into a neat, decorative row just beside the antique shop's heavy iron-studded door. It was a bizarre sight—five grown men slumped like discarded marionettes against the soot-stained brickwork. Sebastian did this with a cold, surgical precision, ensuring that no "well-meaning" passerby or rival gang would try to intervene and complicate their afternoon.
The oppressive hum of Sebastian's magic, which had been vibrating through the alley like a live wire, finally began to simmer down. He turned to Harry, his gaze sharp.
"Listen closely, Leo," Sebastian said, his voice dropping into a low, cautionary register. "This shop isn't like Flourish and Blotts. The items here don't just sit on shelves; some of them hunt. They carry curses that can rot the bone before you even feel the sting. Keep your hands in your pockets. Look with your eyes, not your fingers."
Harry nodded, his throat tight. He followed Sebastian through the creaking door, and the bell above them gave a dull, rusted chime that sounded more like a warning than a welcome.
The interior of Borgin and Burkes was the antithesis of the bright, mahogany-scented boutiques of Diagon Alley. It was narrow, cramped, and smelled of old dust, formaldehyde, and something metallic that Harry couldn't quite place—perhaps dried blood. The lighting was dim, provided by a few flickering candles that seemed to struggle against the encroaching shadows.
Harry scanned the room, his stomach doing a slow flip. Nothing here belonged on a Hogwarts supply list.
On a velvet cushion sat a withered, blackened hand, its fingers curled as if it had died mid-reach, still grasping for a throat. Nearby, a glass case held a single, oversized glass eye that seemed to track Harry's movement with a cold, predatory intelligence. Then there was the necklace—a magnificent, heavy piece of opal and silver with a crudely scrawled sign: DO NOT TOUCH. EXTREMELY CURSED. HAS CLAIMED THE LIVES OF NINETEEN MUGGLE OWNERS TO DATE.
Harry stared at it. Who would even buy that? he wondered. Is it for someone you hate? Or do Dark Wizards just have a very different definition of 'fashionable'?
Menacing masks with hollow eyes stared down from the walls, and the counter was a grisly mosaic of human bones and tarnished silver. Rusty, tooth-edged instruments hung from the ceiling, swaying slightly in a draft that shouldn't have been there.
Harry swallowed hard, the sound loud in the oppressive silence. If Sebastian weren't standing right there, Harry would have bolted for the door. The idea of receiving a "birthday present" from this graveyard of artifacts was starting to feel like a very bad omen.
Behind the counter stood a man who looked like he had been grown in a cellar. Mr. Borgin was thin, stooped, and had a face that seemed perpetually caught between a sneer and a cringe. To Harry, he looked like the embodiment of every "unapproachable" villain in a storybook.
In reality, Mr. Borgin was currently experiencing a level of terror that was making his knees shake.
Borgin was a man who survived by sensing the "temperature" of the magical world. When Sebastian had unleashed his aura outside, Borgin had felt the shift through the very foundations of his shop. He'd tried to ignore it—the first rule of Knockturn Alley was to mind your own business—but then the source of that power had stopped right at his doorstep.
Through the grime-streaked window, Borgin had seen the "thin man" and his "fat companion" casually park a row of paralyzed wizards against his wall. Who is this monster? Borgin thought, his face turning a sickly shade of green. Is he an experimentalist? An assassin? Is he here for the debt I owe the Malfoys?
He prayed to every dark deity he knew that they were just resting, but Merlin wasn't listening today. The door opened, and the two strangers stepped into his domain.
Borgin instantly transformed. He plastered a wide, oily smile across his face and hurried around the counter, bowing so low his nose nearly touched the dusty floor.
"Sir! A thousand welcomes to Borgin and Burkes! Truly, an honor to have such... distinguished guests," Borgin squeaked, his eyes darting toward Sebastian's wand hand. "How may I be of service? We have the finest curiosities in London, I assure you."
Sebastian smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "My name is Jack, and this is Leo. We're travelers, Mr. Borgin. We've seen the wonders of the East and the relics of the South, but we've heard that your shop holds treasures that even kings would envy. You won't give us a cold reception, will you?"
Borgin felt a wave of relief. They're buyers. If they were buyers, there was a chance he'd live to see tomorrow. "Cold? Never! Please, allow me to give you the personal tour."
For the next twenty minutes, Borgin became a fawning museum guide, describing the grisly history of every cursed mirror and poisoned dagger in the shop. Finally, Sebastian stopped in front of the withered hand.
"Mr. Borgin, let's have a look at this," Sebastian said, gesturing with his chin.
"Ah! The Hand of Glory!" Borgin chirped, snatching the object up and buffing it with his sleeve before presenting it like a diamond. "A masterpiece, Mr. Jack. Truly, the best friend of any professional who prefers to work... unnoticed. Place a candle in its grip, and it gives light only to the holder. In a pitch-black room, you see everyone, but to them, you are a ghost in the dark."
"A ghost?" Sebastian's voice dropped an octave, turning dangerously cold. "So, you think my friend and I look like common thieves? Like the sort who need a candle to rob a house?"
Borgin's heart nearly stopped. "No! No, no! Merlin's beard, I didn't mean that at all! I only meant... that a man of your profound perspective would appreciate its tactical utility! It's a collector's piece!"
Sebastian let the silence hang for a moment, letting Borgin sweat, before he chuckled softly. "Relax, Mr. Borgin. I'm a very kind man. I don't hold a grudge over a poor choice of words."
He looked around the shop, his eyes landing on a tall, ornate black cabinet tucked away in the corner. It looked lonely, its twin nowhere to be seen. "I'll take the Hand. And I'll take that damaged Vanishing Cabinet as well. Give me a price for the pair."
Borgin blinked. The cabinet? It had been sitting there for years, a useless piece of furniture without its partner. But his merchant instincts were hard to kill. He looked at Sebastian, then at the wizards paralyzed outside, and tried to find a balance between greed and survival.
"The Hand is a rare find... five hundred Galleons," Borgin said tentatively. "The Vanishing Cabinet... even in its current state, is an antique of immense value... three hundred. Eight hundred Galleons for the set."
Sebastian didn't say a word. He just stared at Borgin. The air in the shop began to grow heavy again, the candles flickering violently.
Borgin's survival instinct screamed. He knows I'm overcharging. Don't be an idiot, Borgin!
"Of course!" Borgin corrected himself, his voice jumping an octave. "That's the price for... ordinary customers. For a wizard of your obvious stature, I must offer a professional discount. Fifty percent! No, wait... as a gesture of goodwill for our new friendship, let's say... two hundred and fifty Galleons for everything?"
Harry's jaw nearly hit the floor. He knew enough about wizarding money to know that 250 Galleons for a high-level Dark artifact and a Vanishing Cabinet was an absolute steal. A Vanishing Cabinet alone, if functional, was worth thousands. Sebastian was essentially robbing the man with a smile.
However, Sebastian's brow furrowed. He seemed insulted by the number.
Borgin panicked. Is it too high? Too low? Does he think I'm mocking him? He was about to offer it for a hundred when Sebastian spoke.
"Two hundred and forty-nine," Sebastian said firmly.
Borgin paused. "I... beg your pardon?"
"I don't like round numbers, Mr. Borgin. Two hundred and forty-nine Galleons. If you agree, pack them up. If not..." Sebastian glanced toward the door.
"Agreed! Completely agreed!" Borgin shouted, diving for some heavy brown paper and twine. "A magnificent bargain, sir! Truly, you have the eye of a master!"
Harry watched as the items were wrapped. He knew why Sebastian wanted the cabinet—there was another one just like it hidden in a room at Hogwarts. This wasn't just a birthday present; it was a strategic back door into the castle.
As they walked out of the shop, the "balloons" of unconscious wizards still in tow, Harry looked at the package in his arms.
"Twenty-one days till my birthday," Harry muttered. "And I've already got a 'thief's hand' and a 'broken portal.' My life is getting very weird, Professor."
"Weird is just another word for 'interesting,' Harry," Sebastian replied, steering him back toward the sunlight of Diagon Alley. "Now, let's go home. We have a cabinet to fix."