It was late at night, and while the students were fast asleep in their dormitories, the lights in Dumbledore's office were still burning.
Dumbledore held a Hogwarts acceptance letter and a train ticket for Platform 9¾ in his hand. Professor McGonagall was there, wearing her pointed wizard's hat, along with the other three Heads of House.
"Professor Dumbledore, about that last child today..."
Dumbledore placed the two items on his desk. "I know, Professor McGonagall. I know. But this letter and this ticket... they are genuine."
Tom, the landlord of the Leaky Cauldron, had written to Dumbledore about a peculiar incident.
A boy named Rey Faest had been mugged in Knockturn Alley but managed to escape. In the process, unexplained traces of Dark Magic had appeared.
This had initially made Dumbledore suspicious. Was it a sign of Voldemort—Tom Riddle—returning?
But suspicion aside, what Dumbledore hadn't expected was that Rey Faest was a child with no record in the Book of Admittance or the Quill of Acceptance.
"Are you certain? Every student at Hogwarts has been recorded by the Quill and the Book from the moment their magic first manifested. In all these years, there has never been a mistake. Why would this child suddenly appear out of nowhere?"
Filius Flitwick, the diminutive, white-haired Head of Ravenclaw, was naturally concerned.
The Quill and the Book were overseen by Professor McGonagall as Deputy Headmistress. Flitwick certainly didn't believe the error lay with her.
"Perhaps someone used a powerful charm to erase the boy's name?"
Snape's face betrayed no emotion as he suggested the possibility.
"The Quill and the Book were enchanted by the four founders themselves. Their purpose is to record every magical child born in this country."
"Setting aside the question of who would have the power to tamper with such ancient magic... what would be the motive? And even if his name isn't in the Book, he still received an acceptance letter."
It was a baffling mystery. Dumbledore's words plunged the room into thoughtful silence.
"Professors, we are forgetting one 'person' who also has the authority to issue acceptance letters."
Dumbledore's quiet statement immediately drew surprised looks from everyone.
New student admissions had always been handled automatically by the Quill and the Book, processed by Professor McGonagall. It had worked flawlessly for centuries. For Dumbledore to suggest there was another authority was shocking.
"The 'person' I speak of... is Hogwarts itself."
Hogwarts Castle was a magical entity, practically alive. To say it possessed a consciousness of its own wouldn't be an exaggeration.
When Dumbledore said this, the four Heads of House, including McGonagall, found it incredible. Yet, Dumbledore wasn't wrong. In a way, Hogwarts certainly had the right to issue its own invitations.
Though the castle was a magical construct, the idea of it autonomously sending out a letter was mind-boggling.
But then again, no matter how incredible it seemed, it only proved that the four founders who breathed life into the castle were truly extraordinary wizards.
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While the four Heads of House were analyzing the origins of an acceptance letter in the Headmaster's office, someone else was tirelessly studying a dark artifact in Borgin and Burkes, deep within Knockturn Alley.
Caractacus Burke. A small, withered old man, and the true owner of Borgin and Burkes.
He rarely appeared in the shop anymore. The last time he had been seen there was when he hired Tom Riddle as a shop assistant.
Before that, he had appeared to purchase Slytherin's locket from Tom Riddle's mother.
Nowadays, most of the shop's business was handled by his servant, Borgin.
Of course, most people assumed Borgin was a co-owner.
At this moment, Caractacus Burke was sitting in a basement lit by a single candle, staring at five incomplete, desiccated corpses laid out before him.
Dry, mummified corpses. And very fresh ones at that. Their frozen expressions were twisted in terror. Even in their dried state, anyone could see they had died a horrific death.
Their hands were reaching desperately upward, like drowning men.
Drowning men who have been turned into mummies. It was a contradiction, yet here were five of them right in front of him.
They were incomplete. They had been found half a month ago, lying in an alleyway in Knockturn Alley. They were frozen in their current postures, but parts of their bodies had fused with the hard cobblestones of the street.
Those parts were simply gone. No matter how much the clean-up crew dug, they couldn't find the missing limbs. None of the five corpses were whole.
This was the work of Dark Magic. But Burke, a man deeply versed in the Dark Arts and possessing vast knowledge, had no idea what specific spell had caused this.
"Have you found out who they were trying to rob?"
Caractacus Burke's voice was devoid of emotion, making Borgin, who stood nearby with his head bowed, shudder.
"No, Master. It was getting dark. Those were the only vagrants at the entrance to the alley. By the time anyone else arrived at the scene, only their bodies remained."
The trembling Borgin's answer clearly didn't satisfy the old man. "Borgin, I may not appear in the shop often, but do not forget... you are merely a servant here."
The cold, raspy voice made Borgin, a man known for his greed, drop to his knees with a thud. "Master, the Seer's divination offered no clues. Whoever they were trying to rob... whatever magic was used... it blocked any vision of the event."
"Useless! You greedy, incompetent wretch. These men were alley trash. If they had the guts to rob someone, who else could it be but a child?"
Caractacus Burke shouted, causing Borgin to recoil in terror. He was petrified of his master.
The diminutive Burke wasn't much taller than the kneeling Borgin.
But this little old man radiated an aura of the abyss. It felt as though Borgin's life hung on his every whim.
"Then, Master... what do you suggest?"
"Damn it, Borgin, do you want to keep this job or not? Use that dung-filled head of yours! If it was a child, they must be attending Hogwarts. If you still don't know what to do next, I may have to end your superfluous existence. After all, for a Muggle-born Squib, your lifespan has already far exceeded its natural limits."
Terrified, Borgin crawled forward on the floor, kissing Burke's shoes like a dog. His submissiveness was absolute; he was truly a well-trained pet.
"Master, rest assured. I will find the child. Just as I lured Tom Riddle, I will bring him before you."
"Heh. You spineless worm. You didn't lure Tom. That boy came to us on his own. If you fail again, I won't hesitate to replace you with another. The world is not short of Squibs... and there are plenty who would do anything to live as long as you have."
Caractacus Burke kicked Borgin aside and turned to leave. His black robes rippled like ink or smoke, and with a blur, he vanished into thin air.
In the large basement, Borgin, the supposed owner of the shop, was left kneeling on the floor. He stared fearfully at the spot where Burke had disappeared. After confirming multiple times that his master was truly gone, he slowly climbed to his feet.
Just then, a knock echoed from the shop upstairs.
The sudden sound nearly gave the already on-edge Borgin a heart attack.
For Borgin and Burkes, the real, profitable transactions usually happened at night.
Because most of what they traded were Dark Arts artifacts that could never see the light of day.
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