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Chapter 27 - Chapter 27: Bad for Borgin and Burkes’ Reputation

Fear of death is a perfectly normal thing.

No matter how grand your ambitions are in youth, no matter how many legendary feats you accomplish—whether you're King Arthur or Merlin—when you're young, you might boldly claim that death is just another great adventure. But wizards are only wizards, not gods.

As old age creeps in, your body weakens, your mind grows foggy, and the shadow of death looms closer. Even the wisest will feel a shiver of dread, lying awake at night, hearing Death's footsteps in the dark, tossing and turning, unable to sleep.

Right now, in the Headmaster's office, the person fearing death was Dumbledore.

For a fleeting moment, the shadowy raven thought this legendary wizard didn't seem quite so powerful anymore.

The realization startled him, but only for a second before he accepted it.

Because sixty years ago, on the night he first stepped into Hogwarts' Great Hall, he had already tasted that same fear. He was more far-sighted than Dumbledore, wiser too, never wasting his talents or time. From his student days, he poured everything into finding a way to conquer death—and he succeeded.

"When Lady Ravenclaw was gravely ill in her later years, even the most skilled Healers couldn't ease her suffering. So she abandoned the idea of a cure and turned to searching for magic that could transcend life and death…"

The shadowy raven spoke eagerly, almost chattering on.

Dumbledore listened in silence.

"As Ravenclaw herself said, wisdom is the greatest treasure. Her intellect soon unraveled the mysteries of life and soul, discovering the path to immortality…"

The raven's raspy voice wove its tale, watching Dumbledore closely as it spoke.

Though it had already seen through the old wizard's thoughts, the raven had no interest in recruiting or controlling him.

It only wanted to manipulate his fear and desires to achieve its goal, then savor the despair on that old face when it met the Killing Curse, mocking him all the while.

"Is that so?" Dumbledore's expression remained calm, betraying no hint of belief or doubt. "Rowena Ravenclaw was a woman of extraordinary wisdom, but if I recall correctly, she died of her illness. It doesn't seem like she ever crossed into the realm of life–

The old wizard's composure irritated the raven. 

This old fool, even on the brink of death, still puts on this nauseating act of calm! He's clearly terrified of dying, yet he pretends to be so collected—it's disgusting! He should be groveling, begging for the hope of immortality.

"I don't know the details. It's been ages since anyone spoke to me. I'm just a diadem, after all," the raven said, growing impatient, struggling to keep the scarlet glint in its eyes in check.

A thousand years ago, the other Hogwarts founders had left one by one. Young Helena Ravenclaw, desperate for her mother's wisdom, foolishly believed it came from the diadem. While Rowena was weakened by illness, Helena stole the diadem and fled Hogwarts, eventually being tracked down in an Albanian forest.

Barro, a wizard who loved Helena, accidentally killed her during the pursuit.

Both returned to Hogwarts as ghosts—Helena as the Grey Lady, haunting Ravenclaw Tower, and Barro as the Bloody Baron, lingering in the Slytherin dungeons.

For a millennium, the sapphire diadem remained hidden in a hollow tree in that Albanian forest.

During his time at Hogwarts, the raven learned the Grey Lady's identity. He wormed his way into her trust, coaxing the diadem's location from her ghostly lips. After retrieving it, he casually killed a local Muggle and turned the diadem into his fifth Horcrux.

In a way, he hadn't lied to Dumbledore. The secret to immortality was tied to the diadem.

"…"

Dumbledore stayed silent.

As Headmaster, he'd learned many secrets from Armando Dippet and the portraits of past headmasters, including the identities of the Grey Lady and the Bloody Baron. He'd spoken with them before, but those conversations were brief, never delving into the truth of events from a thousand years ago.

On one hand, it was a private family matter, and he didn't feel it was his place to pry. On the other, he assumed Ravenclaw's relic, like Hufflepuff's cup or Slytherin's locket, was long gone from Hogwarts.

Over the centuries, who knew where such artifacts had ended up? Perhaps tucked away in some old witch's attic or displayed in an unmarked shop window in Knockturn Alley.

Combining what he knew of Voldemort with the raven's story, Dumbledore quickly pieced together the truth in his mind, pinpointing when Voldemort had hidden the diadem—

The night Tom Riddle returned to Hogwarts to apply for the Defense Against the Dark Arts post.

Back then, Tom was young, undefeated, leading a loyal band of dark wizards, brimming with arrogance and careless about hiding his intentions.

The diadem had been turned into a Horcrux around that time.

Dumbledore's gaze deepened as he looked at the shadowy raven.

"…"

The room fell silent, the quiet stretching on, heavy and unbearable. The raven couldn't stand it.

Damn it, why does he still have that look? Whether he believed or doubted, the raven hated that condescending, scrutinizing stare. He's just a scared old wizard afraid of death—why does he act like he's got everything figured out?

The raven studied him suspiciously, unsure how much he believed, and couldn't resist adding, "My last stored memory is of someone tapping into the power within the diadem. Maybe it was Helena, maybe another wizard. They used Ravenclaw's unfinished research to call back souls that should've passed on, preserving them as ghosts."

"Calling back souls… to become ghosts?" Dumbledore echoed, staring at the raven for several seconds.

That look unnerved the raven. He'd seen it before—first in 1937, at Wool's Orphanage, a gaze that seemed to pierce through every secret.

But he also caught a flicker of emotion in the old wizard, subtle but real.

The raven paused, then tested further. "Turning into a ghost is incredibly complex, almost impossible under natural conditions. You've probably wondered why, with so many wizards dying full of regret and longing, only a handful linger as ghosts…"

Dumbledore stayed quiet. He had wondered about that.

Long ago.

The raven's voice dropped to a whisper. "Ravenclaw's research bridged life and death. It could extend the lives of the living and, for the dead, call back their souls. With the right approach, even bringing someone back to life isn't impossible."

For a moment, Dumbledore faltered, a bright face flashing in his mind, his heart trembling. A shadow of deep blue flickered in his eyes.

The raven suddenly laughed, its illusory beak unchanging, but the mirth gleamed through its scarlet eyes.

Got you, Dumbledore.

Some stubborn, old-fashioned wizards were like this. The fear of their own death didn't break them—they embraced the idea of death as an adventure. What haunted them was the death of others. Loved ones, perhaps. Friends.

Dumbledore was exactly that kind of wizard.

"All you need to do is wear the diadem and lend me a sliver of your magic. You'll gain wisdom to rival Ravenclaw's, and the mysteries of life and death will unfold before you…"

"…"

Dumbledore's eyes lowered, glancing at the raven. He'd planned to keep stringing it along for more information, but suddenly, he lost patience. With a casual flick of his wand, the misty figure in the air dissolved. The raven's form melted like wax, its scarlet eyes vanishing, leaving nothing behind.

With a soft click, the diadem fell back into its place, the wooden box snapping shut.

From its perch on the shelf, the Sorting Hat blinked at the box, puzzled by the sudden turn of events, its dark eyes wide with surprise.

In the dim, quiet room, Dumbledore slowly sank back into his chair.

The raven's tempting words still echoed in his ears. He wasn't sure if they were lies spun on the spot or if Ravenclaw's research into recalling souls was real.

But he was certain of one thing: it was a trap laid by Voldemort to ensnare him.

And the bait was dangerously sweet.

Dumbledore took a deep breath, closing his eyes slowly.

"Ariana…"

Thanks to being dragged out for a late-night stroll by the Headmaster, a certain Muggle Studies professor overslept.

By the time Melvin finished washing up and headed downstairs, breakfast was long over. He had to settle for a staff meal in the kitchens, where the house-elves were overly enthusiastic, serving a lavish spread with freshly baked bread. He left feeling a bit too full.

Stepping out into the entrance hall, Melvin glanced at the scenery. The treetops at the edge of the Forbidden Forest were tinged with yellow, the shrubs drooping, no longer the vibrant green of last week. But the sunlight still shone brightly.

Autumn had arrived.

Little witches and wizards in their black robes dotted the grounds, their laughter echoing from the Quidditch pitch and the shores of the Black Lake. The students were enjoying the second weekend of the school year.

Passing through the gates carved with winged boars, Melvin walked a bit further to a secluded stone platform. He drew his wand from his inner pocket, gave it a gentle flick, and with a sharp crack, he vanished from the path to Hogsmeade.

Pop.

A muffled sound echoed in a narrow, forgotten alley in Knockturn Alley.

Melvin's feet landed on the damp, grimy cobblestones of this shadowy corner of central London. The familiar sticky sensation underfoot could've been moss or rotting, dried-up scraps—hard to tell.

This was his second visit, and he was prepared.

He smoothed his collar, and a quick Transfiguration spell rippled over his clothes. His wool-polyester suit morphed into a linen cloak, the collar extending into a wide, concealing hood. The hem fell naturally, covering his legs, stopping just shy of the ground.

With a quick adjustment and a grim expression, Melvin blended right into the neighborhood—a seasoned Knockturn Alley dark wizard at first glance.

Following the same route as last time, he wove through the alleys and soon arrived at Number 12, Knockturn Alley. He glanced up at the tarnished, green-rusted copper sign and stepped inside.

A crisp bell jingled above the door.

A hunched, middle-aged wizard appeared behind the counter, his brows furrowed tightly. His gaze, peering through greasy strands of hair, studied the mysterious, hooded figure at the door. His eyes lingered on the serpent-entwined ring on Melvin's left hand, his expression complicated.

"What, Mr. Borgin, don't recognize me?" Melvin pulled back his hood, offering a warm smile.

"It's because I recognized you that I'm in a bind…" Borgin's brows knotted further, his voice strained. "I'm not sure if I should call you Mr. Williams or Professor Levent."

"You've figured it out, then?"

"I pop into the Leaky Cauldron for a drink now and then. Word travels fast there…" Borgin's oily voice sounded forced, avoiding Melvin's eyes. "Old Tom and some of the regulars mentioned Hogwarts has a new Muggle Studies professor. And since you changed your owl post address to Hogsmeade before term started, it wasn't hard to put two and two together."

"Fair enough. I'm a Hogwarts professor, but that shouldn't affect our business, right?"

"I suppose you're right," Borgin said, forcing a smile that looked more like a grimace.

A Hogwarts professor was a figure of status, while they were the cockroaches of Knockturn Alley, the rats in the gutters, the cautionary tales in classrooms. The two worlds weren't supposed to mix—at least not openly.

There'd once been a prominent Death Eater who operated freely in Knockturn Alley years ago, brewing and selling potions, even taking on orders for banned substances. His prices were steep, his attitude worse, but business with him was reliable.

Then he became Hogwarts' Potions Master. No more open potion sales, no more banned orders. You needed a referral, had to supply your own ingredients, and his fees skyrocketed. If a brew failed, tough luck—no refunds.

That was the gap status created.

If Professor Levent had shown up today as he had the first time, hooded and discreet, they could've done business with a wink and a nod.

But now? A Hogwarts professor shopping at Borgin and Burkes? If word got out, it'd tarnish the professor's reputation—and Borgin and Burkes' even more.

Not to mention, Borgin was supposed to introduce this professor to a dark wizard gathering. Every time he thought about it, his vision went dark.

As Borgin wrestled with his inner turmoil, the young professor's voice cut through from the doorway.

"Those items you showed me last time—are they still available? I'd like to buy them all."

!!

Suddenly, Borgin's vision cleared, and his smile brightened.

The golden glow of Galleons was dazzling!

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