The morning was cloaked in gloom. Though the day had technically begun, the sky was so thick with dark, low-hanging clouds that it seemed perpetual twilight. The promise of rain hung heavily in the air—an oppressive stillness before a storm. Yet despite the dreary weather, Lucius Malfoy and his son Draco had left Malfoy Manor early, their silver-headed walking sticks tapping smartly on the cobblestone as they moved with purpose toward their destination.
They did not, however, head straight for the bright and bustling Diagon Alley, where respectable wizards shopped for cauldrons, owls, and spellbooks. Instead, Lucius guided Draco down a narrow side passage that curved away like a dark vein branching from a healthy artery. The change was immediate—light dimmed, laughter vanished, and the faint hum of conversation from Diagon Alley dissolved into silence.
Here the air felt heavier, fouled by dampness and age. The stones were slick, the walls too close together. Even the flickering signs above the shops seemed to lean inward, as if conspiring to block out the sun entirely.
Draco wrinkled his nose, his usual aristocratic boredom deepening into disdain. "Father," he said, suppressing a yawn, "what are we doing here? This place hardly looks... suitable." His pale eyes drifted from one decrepit storefront to another.
Lucius's voice was calm, deliberate, and faintly amused. "We're attending to a few minor matters," he replied.
Draco smirked. "Just say you're selling off a few questionable items. There's no need to be so—euphemistic."
Lucius did not rise to the bait. His expression remained perfectly smooth, though the faint tightening at the corner of his mouth suggested disapproval. Draco, however, continued to observe his surroundings with morbid curiosity.
The shops were strange and unsettling. In one window, a massive cage of spiders sat glinting in the gloom—their slick black bodies crawling over each other in a living, shifting carpet of legs. Draco shuddered involuntarily and turned away, only to catch sight of another store displaying what appeared to be poison-infused candles, their wax tinted sickly green. The thought of their use made him grimace. Assassination tools? he wondered. Or just morbid decoration for those who fancy themselves darkly sophisticated?
Above one particularly shadowed doorway hung an old, cracked wooden sign. Painted upon it was the image of a single large black spider, its body worn and faded from years of neglect. The words carved below were unmistakable:
Knockturn Alley.
Draco's lips curled into a half-smile. "So that's where we are."
Lucius said nothing. He merely adjusted the cuff of his elegant cloak and continued forward with the silent assurance of someone who had walked this path many times before.
They soon arrived at one of the largest shops on the street—a gloomy establishment whose windows were caked with grime and whose front door hung slightly crooked on its hinges. A small, peeling sign above the entrance read:
Borgin and Burke's.
Through the glass, Draco could see shelves lined with shadowy shapes and gleaming artifacts. Across the alley, another shop displayed a row of shrunken heads, their tiny, twisted faces frozen in eternal grimaces.
"Draco," Lucius said quietly as they approached the door, "once we are inside, do not touch anything without asking. You are aware of how... dangerous some of these items can be."
"Of course, Father," Draco replied, though a flicker of excitement betrayed him. Dark objects, forbidden artifacts—these were the things Hogwarts professors warned students never to approach. But warnings often only made such mysteries more tempting.
Lucius opened the door, and a small bell chimed—a thin, eerie sound. The air inside was musty and cold, thick with the scent of dust and something metallic, like dried blood. Shadows clung to every corner.
Lucius strode to the counter with his usual grace, his presence immediately commanding the room. Draco, meanwhile, wandered off to inspect the surroundings, careful not to get too close to anything.
Everywhere he looked, there were curiosities both fascinating and grotesque. A shelf held skulls of varying sizes—some human, others disturbingly not. In a glass case sat a withered hand, shriveled and pale, resting on a faded velvet cushion as if it were a prized jewel. Beside it lay a deck of blood-stained playing cards, their surfaces sticky with age, and a dull, motionless glass eyeball that seemed almost alive in its stillness.
Masks with grotesque grins hung along the walls, leering down at intruders. The counter was cluttered with bones and cracked relics, and from the ceiling dangled rusted instruments whose purpose Draco could not—and did not want to—guess. Everything was coated in a fine layer of dust, as though the shop itself were buried under centuries of neglect.
After a moment, a bell behind the counter jingled softly, and from the shadows emerged a hunched man with greasy black hair slicked straight back. His long fingers fidgeted nervously as he straightened his stained waistcoat.
"Ah—Mr. Malfoy," the man said, his voice thin and oily.
Lucius greeted him with a curt nod. He withdrew a folded parchment from his cloak and began speaking in low tones. Their conversation was hushed, filled with the faint clink of coins and the dry rustle of paper. Draco quickly lost interest; haggling over prices did not appeal to him.
Instead, he continued his slow exploration of the shop. Though he feigned indifference, his curiosity was growing. He imagined stories behind each object—the curses sealed within them, the wizards who had once owned them, and the dark power some might still contain.
At last, the murmured negotiation came to an end. Lucius and the shopkeeper seemed to have reached an agreement.
"Ah, young Mr. Malfoy," the hunched man said suddenly, sidling toward Draco with an ingratiating smile. "Anything here catch your fancy? Perhaps something to complement your father's impeccable taste?"
Draco raised an eyebrow, unsure whether to be amused or insulted.
Before he could respond, the man plucked the withered hand from its cushion and held it out reverently. "This, for instance! A truly rare treasure—the Hand of Glory. Simply insert a candle into its grasp, and its light will be visible only to the holder. A perfect companion for... more discreet adventures." He gave a knowing grin.
Lucius's cold voice cut through the air like a blade. "My son has no need for such trinkets. He was at the top of his class at Hogwarts last term. His future lies within the Ministry of Magic, not in petty thievery."
The shopkeeper, Mr. Borgin, chuckled weakly and lowered the hand back onto its cushion. "Of course, Mr. Malfoy, of course. A bright young wizard indeed. I only thought—well—he might appreciate a bit of... craftsmanship."
"Quite unnecessary," Lucius said flatly.
Mr. Borgin bowed deeply, his greasy hair nearly brushing the counter. "Then perhaps there is something else the Malfoy family requires?"
Lucius's pale eyes surveyed the room. "How much for that cabinet?" he asked, gesturing toward a large, black cabinet standing against the far wall. Its surface was polished but old, its twin doors carved with swirling patterns that seemed to shift when one stared too long.
Borgin's expression brightened instantly. "Ah! You have a keen eye, sir! That piece—"
"You say that to everyone," Lucius interrupted, his tone icy. "Name your price."
The shopkeeper hesitated, then held up several fingers. Lucius let out a short, disdainful laugh.
"Tomorrow," Lucius said coolly, "I will expect you at my estate to collect the items we discussed. If you bring the cabinet along, perhaps you'll be permitted a glimpse of my private collection."
The implication was clear: future business awaited, provided Borgin behaved wisely.
Borgin hesitated only a moment before nodding eagerly. "Of course, Mr. Malfoy. I shall bring it myself."
Lucius turned sharply toward the door. "Draco," he said, his tone brooking no delay, "we're leaving."
Draco lingered a moment longer, then approached the counter once more. "Mr. Borgin," he said quietly, his voice curious and careful, "may I ask you something?"
The shopkeeper straightened slightly. "But of course, young sir. I'm always happy to assist a Malfoy."
Draco's expression grew thoughtful. "Do you happen to know someone named Tom Riddle?"
At the sound of that name, a flicker of recognition crossed Borgin's face. For a heartbeat he said nothing, his eyes half-closing as if sifting through memories long buried.
Finally, he sighed. "Ah... Tom Riddle. Yes, indeed. The finest employee this shop ever had. Brilliant, talented, meticulous. A pity he left us. I never quite understood why." His tone carried a note of wistful admiration—and something darker beneath.
Draco nodded slowly. "I saw his name on a trophy at Hogwarts. I'd heard he once worked here." He allowed a faint smile. "He must have been exceptional."
Borgin returned the smile, though it didn't reach his eyes. "And I daresay you'll surpass him, Mr. Malfoy. The future belongs to those with ambition—and you have that in abundance."
"Thank you," Draco said, his voice polite but guarded. Then he turned briskly and hurried after his father, his cloak swirling behind him.
The bell above the door jingled again, and the Malfoys vanished into the dim light of Knockturn Alley.
For a long moment, Borgin stood motionless in the gloom, staring after them. Then his gaze drifted toward the black cabinet against the wall—the one Lucius had promised to take off his hands.
The shop was silent, the air thick with dust and secrets.
Then, almost imperceptibly, the cabinet trembled.
A faint, muffled sound echoed from within, as though something—or someone—were stirring inside. But when Borgin turned sharply toward it, the shop was still once more. Only the dim candlelight flickered across the carvings, and the shadows whispered along the walls.
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