In a shop deep within Knockturn Alley, the green flames in the fireplace had, at some point, faded to a gentle orange, the fire licking the edges of the firewood, casting flickering light spots on the stone walls, yet unable to dispel the thick, unyielding shadow in the corner.
Finn instinctively pulled Lina behind him; her shoulders were still trembling slightly, and in her palm, she clutched a silver badge symbolizing a clan elder—
This was the only relic old Harris had left his children besides the broken boot that served as a Portkey.
Morin, sitting in the armchair, hadn't moved for a long time.
He held a wand made of acacia wood between his fingers, its shaft sprayed with intertwining silver lines that shimmered in the firelight, his gaze fixed on the ominous, black-mist-emitting book on his lap.
The pages occasionally turned on their own, making a soft rustling sound, like a silent whisper, yet possessing a certain enchantment.
It wasn't until just now that the book suddenly snapped shut, and Morin raised his eyes.
After being stared at for a few seconds, Finn realized that the Wizard before him seemed to have something to say to them.
Morin's fingertips tapped gently on his knee, the rhythm as slow as sand slipping through an hourglass.
He didn't look at the distressed siblings, his gaze fixed on the flickering flames in the fireplace, his voice not loud, yet like a stone dropped into still water, it clearly penetrated the silence of the room:
"You're probably wondering why your father would have you run to Knockturn Alley to seek help from a Dark Wizard."
Finn pressed his lips together, his Adam's apple bobbing. Lina's fingers clenched even tighter, her nails almost digging into his clothes.
They knew their father had made a contract with this Wizard—
A few days ago, after their father Harris had a premonition of impending disaster, he had given them his final instructions.
But the dull ache of losing their father still weighed like a boulder on their chests; they didn't want to speak, only waited in silence, their hearts churning with grief, yet also wanting to hear Morin reveal more details.
After all, Dark Wizards in Knockturn Alley typically viewed Werewolf cubs as ingredients for cauldrons, not as objects needing protection.
Morin finally looked up.
His eyes were exceptionally deep, like hidden rivers, showing no emotion even in the reflection of the fireplace's light:
"This is not out of kindness, or sympathy."
He paused, the tapping of his fingertips stopped, as if he were weighing his words,
"Just as you may vaguely sense, I am merely a down-and-out Dark Wizard forced to fulfill a contract."
"A contract?" Finn couldn't help but ask, his voice hoarse as if abraded by sandpaper.
"Mm." Morin responded, his fingertips casually tracing the spine of the book on his lap, "With your father, Harris."
His gaze briefly lingered on Lina's face; the child was biting her lip, trying hard not to let tears fall, so he shifted his eyes away, his tone as flat as if discussing the weather,
"Ah, yes, many years ago, he once saved my life."
Morin quickly ended the topic, not elaborating on the scene, nor showing any nostalgia or regret, only continuing:
"The terms of the contract are simple—as long as you are alive, and your feet are still on London soil, I must do my utmost to ensure your safety."
Finn's heart skipped a beat, as if squeezed by an invisible hand.
He had originally thought this protection was temporary, a powerful Wizard's momentary whim, and the contract perhaps just a vague promise.
He hadn't expected such strict terms behind it, like an invisible chain, one end tied to them, the other binding this unfathomable Wizard.
"What about Cole?" Finn suddenly looked up, his nails almost digging into his palms, "He killed my father, you..."
Morin seemed to find Finn's words somewhat amusing, a faint curve appearing at the corner of his mouth, quick as the flicker of a candle, making one wonder if it was an illusion.
"In Knockturn Alley, compassion is rarer than Phoenix droppings."
Morin stood up, the hem of his robe sweeping the carpet, stirring an imperceptible breeze, and the scattered pile of parchment on the table corner suddenly rolled into a neat scroll on its own.
He walked to the oak table, picked up the acacia wood wand, and casually twirled it between his fingers; as the wand tip cut through the air, it left a trail of tiny silver stars,
"Although I deeply sympathize with Harris's misfortune..."
The word "misfortune" was like a needle, piercing Lina's forced calm.
She sharply sniffled, and tears finally swirled down from her reddened eyes, but she stubbornly kept her head up, not letting any more fall.
Both siblings were trembling, not from fear of the stone room's chill, but from anger—
Cole's drooling face reappeared before their eyes, his claw tips still stained with their father's blood.
"But sympathy solves nothing."
Morin's voice abruptly interrupted their churning thoughts, still in that flat tone, yet carrying an undeniable resolve,
"I'm sorry, both of you. I cannot help you seek revenge, nor do I have an obligation to do so.
It wasn't written in the contract."
Finn's head shot up, the light in his eyes instantly dimming like a stomped-out spark.
He had harbored a sliver of fantasy that Morin might, out of gratitude for his father saving his life, help them eliminate Cole.
Now, it seemed he had been too naive.
"As long as you leave London, and step out of my sight,"
Morin's gaze swept over them, cold as the ice on a London lake in early winter,
"Whether you seek revenge on Cole or hide in a cave on the wilderness will be of no concern to me."
After he finished speaking, he didn't look at the silent siblings, but simply tapped lightly with his wand.
The empty cup on the table floated up on its own, settling steadily under the barrel in the corner, then gurgled as it filled with butterbeer, foam spilling over the rim before receding back in.
"So, that means,"
Finn took a deep breath, trying to make his voice sound steady, though his fingertips were white from clenching,
"As long as we stay in London, Cole won't find us?"
"That requires you to be obedient."
Morin's tone lightened a bit as he picked up the cup of butterbeer and took a sip.
"I will take some necessary coercive measures—without my permission, you can't go anywhere."
Lina's crying finally broke through, turning into suppressed whimpers, like a wounded young animal.
She lowered her head, her shoulders shaking, tears soaking Finn's cuff, warm at first, then quickly turning cold.
Finn raised a hand and patted her back, sighing, words of comfort catching in his throat.
Morin seemed disinclined to continue the conversation.
He waved his wand, and the snake-patterned book opened by itself, floating before him, its pages rustling as if searching for a particular one.
"The contract is settled."
His attention had returned to the pages, his voice becoming somewhat indistinct,
"Food is in the kitchen, the bread is warm, and there's raspberry jam.
You'll stay in the attic tonight, remember to be well-behaved, and don't touch anything in the basement besides the doorknob—the anti-transfiguration spell there isn't very friendly to Werewolves."
Finn pulled Lina up and thanked him.
Just as the siblings were helping each other up the spiral staircase to the attic, Lina suddenly stopped, her small body stiffening, then she asked in a voice as faint as a mosquito's buzz:
"Mr. Borgin... will the contract be in effect indefinitely, or is there a time limit?"
Morin's fingers paused on the book, seemingly falling into a kind of silence.
After a moment, the familiar indifferent tone came from behind the chair:
"Either you voluntarily leave London, or... I die."
The last three words were like three cold stones, heavily striking the siblings' hearts.
Lina flinched, shrinking her neck, and clutched Finn's hand as if burned.
Finn also felt a chill down the back of his neck; he looked back, Morin was already completely immersed in the book, the firelight casting deep shadows on his profile, the sharp outline of his nose like it was carved, his expression unreadable.
"Don't worry," Morin seemed to sense their fear, adding without looking up, "I'm not going to die yet."
He tapped the table with his wand, and a plate of golden-brown baked bread appeared out of thin air, floating gently upwards.
"Eat, get your strength back, then you'll have the energy to think about the future."
Finn led Lina to the table and picked up a piece of bread. The warm sensation came from his fingertips, carrying the aroma of butter.
He secretly glanced at Morin, who seemed to be completely engrossed in his book, the firelight casting flickering shadows on his face, his expression unreadable.
Lina broke free from her brother's hand, hugging her knees as she sat on a small stool in the corner of the second floor, staring blankly, tears still silently falling.
Finn picked up a piece of bread and took a bite, finding it tasteless.
So this was the only path their father had left them after his death—a temporary safe haven within London, which could end at any moment.
Outside the window, several nocturnal creatures howled, sharp and eerie, carrying the peculiar scent of decay unique to Knockturn Alley.
Finn looked at his sister's pale little face, constantly reassuring himself.
At least for now, they were safe. He thought.
At least in London, under the watchful eye of this Wizard bound by contract, they still had time to breathe, time to grow, and then... to seek revenge.
The attic door wasn't fully closed, and through the gap, Finn could still see the flickering candlelight in the living room down the stairs.
Morin was still sitting there reading, his posture motionless, like a silent stone statue, only the occasional turning of a page and the dancing flames in the fireplace proving that he was still alive, still fulfilling that contract, whose beginning and end were unknown.