Knockturn Alley - Borgin and Burkes
The shop bell gave a dull, mournful chime as Ernst pushed the door open.
The air inside was cold and smelled of sulfur and old dust.
Shadows clung to the corners, hiding things that skittered.
Ernst walked past the glass display cases.
He saw a withered hand on a cushion (the Hand of Glory), a necklace of opals that seemed to whisper, and jars containing things that should not be preserved.
"Charming," Ernst muttered, keeping his hands in his pockets.
He scanned the items with his enhanced vision, noting the faint radioactive decay of dark magic curses on almost everything.
"Touching the merchandise is ill-advised," a voice oiled its way out of the back room.
Mr. Borgin emerged.
He was a stooped man with greasy hair and eyes that constantly calculated value.
"Welcome, sir," Borgin said, eyeing Ernst's fine clothes.
"I see you have an eye for the... unique."
"I have an eye for quality," Ernst corrected.
"And this is a junk shop. Cursed trinkets for tourists."
Borgin's smile tightened.
"I assure you, Borgin and Burkes carries only the finest dark artifacts in Britain."
"Then stop wasting my time with the window dressing," Ernst said. He snapped his fingers.
Azazel stepped forward and placed the silver briefcase on the counter.
He flipped the latches.
Inside, thanks to the Extension Charm, lay a mountain of gold.
Tens of thousands of Galleons glittered in the dim light.
Borgin's breath hitched.
He reached out a trembling hand, but Azazel slammed the case shut.
"I am not here for trinkets," Ernst said, sliding a piece of parchment across the counter.
"I am here for raw materials."
Borgin read the list. His face went pale.
Dragon liver (Hebridean Black). Phoenix ash. Basilisk venom. Acromantula silk.
"These... these are restricted Class A tradables," Borgin stammered.
"The Ministry would send us both to Azkaban for even discussing this. I am a legitimate businessman, "
"You are a fence," Ernst cut him off.
"And I am a man with deep pockets and no patience. I don't care where you get them. I don't care who you bribe. Get the items."
Borgin looked at the briefcase, then at the list.
Greed warred with fear.
"I cannot hand these over in the shop," Borgin whispered.
"The Aurors watch the floo network."
"Dead drops," Ernst proposed.
"I will provide coordinates. You leave the package, I leave the gold. No face-to-face. No trail."
He gestured to Azazel, who pulled a heavy bag of coins, two thousand Galleons, from the case and dropped it on the counter.
"A deposit," Ernst said.
"To grease the wheels."
Borgin grabbed the bag, weighing it.
The fear vanished, replaced by hunger.
"Seven days," Borgin promised, a sheen of sweat on his lip.
"I will need time to contact my... suppliers."
"Seven days," Ernst agreed, turning to leave.
"Wait!" Borgin called out, his voice syrupy.
"Please, sir. Such a transaction deserves a toast. A rare vintage of mead I acquired from a goblin estate."
He clapped his hands.
A ragged house-elf popped into existence, holding a tray with three glasses.
Ernst paused. He looked at Borgin, then at the elf.
The creature was trembling, its large eyes darting nervously to the glasses.
Ernst focused his enhanced perception on the liquid. He zoomed in on the molecular structure.
Ethanol. Sugar. Honey. And... Acromantula Venom.
Colorless. Odorless. Fatal in seconds.
Borgin intended to kill them and keep the briefcase.
Ernst smiled, a cold, sharp expression. He took two glasses.
He handed one to Azazel, tapping his pinky finger against the glass in a specific rhythm, their code for 'Contaminated.'
Azazel's expression didn't change.
He took the glass.
"To partnership," Ernst said, raising the poison.
"To partnership," Borgin echoed, his eyes gleaming with anticipation.
Ernst downed the drink in one gulp.
Azazel did the same.
Borgin watched, waiting for the choking, the spasms, the death.
Five seconds passed. Ten.
Ernst placed the empty glass on the counter with a solid clink.
"A bold vintage. A little heavy on the neurotoxin, though."
Borgin froze. "I... I don't..."
"Acromantula venom," Ernst analyzed, wiping his lips.
"Expensive. You must really want that gold."
"How are you alive?" Borgin gasped, reaching for his wand under the counter.
"Biology," Ernst said.
"I isolated the liquid in my esophagus using a telekinetic membrane. I didn't swallow it; I shelved it."
Next to him, Azazel opened his mouth.
A small portal opened in his throat, and he spat the venom directly onto the floor, where it hissed and burned a hole in the wood.
"Elf!" Borgin shrieked.
"Kill them!"
The house-elf raised its fingers to snap, to summon magic that could crush bones.
Snap.
Ernst was faster. He clicked his own fingers.
A wave of psionic energy hit the elf, locking its motor functions.
It froze mid-snap, paralyzed.
"Azazel," Ernst ordered.
Azazel waved a hand.
A cube of distorted space, a dimensional barrier, formed around the elf, trapping it in a glass-like prison.
Ernst leaned over the counter, grabbing Borgin by his greasy lapels and pulling him close.
"Mr. Borgin," Ernst whispered.
"You tried to poison a very powerful man with spider spit. That was a calculation error."
He threw the shopkeeper back into the shelves.
Borgin crashed into a display of skulls, whimpering.\
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