Although he had always used Borgin and Burkes as a landmark, Robert had never actually been inside the shop before.
Pushing open the door, he was met with utter darkness. Only a few faint, dark red lights flickered occasionally in the corners, casting eerie glimmers that followed his movements. It was profoundly unsettling.
The air reeked of decay, sticky and clinging like spiderwebs. Robert raised his wand in front of him, and the oppressive feeling instantly dissipated.
"Come out," he said, waving his wand.
"Intense Light!"
The silver-white orb at the tip of his wand expanded tenfold in an instant, rising above the shop like a miniature sun.
The Intense Light Charm was a powerful upgrade to the standard Lumos spell. While it served the same function of illumination, it also had the additional effect of dispelling weak dark creatures and lesser curses. It was one of the most commonly used spells among Aurors.
However, when cast by someone like Robert—and especially in a place steeped in dark magic like Borgin and Burkes—the effects were far from ordinary.
The spell's properties of Holy and Purification surged to their peak, as if a pot of boiling water had been poured over a frozen lake. Hissing sounds erupted from all directions.
A stack of bloodstained playing cards spontaneously burst into flames. A dull glass eyeball next to them filled with crimson veins, twitching grotesquely. Various bones scattered across the counter began to fracture, the sounds of snapping and cracking echoing throughout the space.
Even the grotesque masks hanging on the walls contorted, their cruel sneers twisting into grimaces of pain and struggle.
"Stop! Stop it, quickly!"
With a loud metallic clang, a statue near the counter split cleanly down the middle. From within crawled a hunched figure, his eyes wide with terror as he stared at Robert.
"You…" Robert adjusted his tone, somewhat surprised. "Mr. Borgin, you're still alive?"
Caractacus Borgin wiped the cold sweat from his brow, still shaken by what had just happened. The flash of green light, the brush with death—it had left him weak at the knees.
As the owner of a notorious dark magic shop, Borgin was no stranger to danger. He regularly dealt with the dregs of the magical world: outlaws, werewolves, vampires, potion smugglers—all were frequent customers.
He had even maintained shadowy connections with former Death Eaters.
But none of them—not all of them combined—had ever made him feel the kind of dread that magic just had.
A wide-range Killing Curse capable of instantly striking down six wizards—this defied everything Borgin knew about the dark arts. Even the Dark Lord himself, the one who struck fear into the entire wizarding world more than a decade ago, couldn't perform something like that.
Borgin had seen that terrifying figure—the one whose name still inspired silence—and he remembered how even he had to utter "Avada Kedavra" twice when dispatching two enemies.
Wait... had Robert even spoken the incantation?
He thought so, but the voice felt oddly familiar, like an echo from long ago.
Before he could piece it together, the bizarre Killing Curse had snaked through the darkness, as though it had eyes, and had headed directly for where he had been hiding.
If he hadn't concealed himself inside a magically reinforced metal statue, he might have been the seventh victim that night.
Robert's gaze fell upon the cracked hole in the statue—it had absorbed the tail end of the spell, neutralizing it. That made sense; the Killing Curse's energy had been nearly depleted by then. It wasn't strange that the protection had held.
But Borgin clearly misunderstood something, and Robert was content to let him believe it.
As the de facto ruler of Knockturn Alley, Borgin surely knew something useful.
"You know what I'm here for, don't you?" Robert said, his wand glowing even brighter. The flaming cards turned to ash in the growing light.
"My cursed cards… Fifteen galleons!" Borgin wailed, clutching his chest as if in mourning.
"Stop this, you Ollivander brat!" The pain of lost profits seemed to revive his spirit. Borgin glared at Robert, though his lips still trembled. "This has nothing to do with me. Don't go overboard!"
"Nothing to do with you? Then why did they choose to ambush me in front of your shop?" Robert narrowed his eyes.
Borgin's face paled. He wanted to know the same thing. Why had that group of lunatics picked his doorstep?
He had nearly died for nothing!
The entire night had been a nightmare. For months, perhaps years to come, he would be haunted by that targeted, intelligent Killing Curse.
"Tell me what you know," Robert said, lowering the spell from Intense Light to Lumos.
"What's in it for me?" Borgin's tone sharpened instantly. Even with death looming, his principles didn't budge.
Besides, as he recovered from the terror, he recalled something else.
The six wizards outside had only appeared in Knockturn Alley about a month ago. Their kind came and went all the time. If they disappeared, no one would ask questions.
But he—Borgin—owned the only shop in Knockturn Alley connected to the Floo Network. His death would throw the whole area into chaos, and the Ministry would certainly intervene. Aurors descending upon Knockturn Alley would be trouble for everyone—including this Ollivander descendant.
And this was his turf. Borgin and Burkes had stood here for decades. Even if Robert was powerful, he wasn't invincible.
Borgin shifted subtly to the left.
Robert pretended not to notice. Instead, he pointed toward the bodies outside. "I'll take one item from them. The rest is yours. Deal?"
"Deal!" Borgin said eagerly, afraid Robert might change his mind.
"They're Death Eaters," he added, his voice oily. "From North America."
"Hmm?" Robert raised an eyebrow. "Why would Death Eaters come after me? Shouldn't they be chasing Harry Potter?"
"They're after wands," Borgin explained. "They've rallied a group of werewolves—quite a few of them."
Robert immediately grasped the implications.
Werewolves transform during the full moon. Unlike Animagi, they can't magically protect their clothes or wands during transformation.
Most werewolves lose their wands during these shifts. They can't afford new ones and can't appear openly in Diagon Alley. They rely instead on brute strength.
"Giving wands to werewolves… What are they planning?" Robert muttered. "To assassinate Dumbledore? Or Harry?"
"That, I don't know," Borgin replied. "But think back to last month's events at Hogwarts."
"What do you mean?"
"The robbery at Gringotts," Borgin said, his tone now serious. "And Quirinus Quirrell's strange behavior… Even rumors—if just guesses—can drive people mad."
His expression grew increasingly twisted.
He suddenly remembered where he'd heard that voice before.
Thirteen years ago, that voice had haunted every wizard in England like a plague. No one dared to speak its name; they used titles instead—He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.
It couldn't be. The idea was absurd.
But memory doesn't lie.
The voice was the same.
Borgin looked at Robert again. His gaze shifted, uncertain, flickering between fear and disbelief. His already hunched posture sank even lower, as if trying to vanish into the floor.
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