"It was just an illusion," Borgin said, casually pointing to a grimy crystal ball on a nearby shelf. "Got it in a few days ago. Want it? No returns, no exchanges."
"I'll pass," Lupin said, sniffing as his frost-reddened face twitched. "I'm looking for Wolfsbane Potion. Other shops don't have it—I heard from a werewolf you might still have a few bottles…"
"Greyback tip you off?" Borgin smirked, like he was in on some gossip. "He sold them to me. Some dimwits thought Wolfsbane could convince that lunatic not to bite. Ha!"
Borgin let out a creepy, mocking laugh.
Greyback was a nutcase—biting people even in human form. As a werewolf, you could say he was oddly "disciplined."
"No, a friend," Lupin said, his voice dripping with disgust at Greyback's name.
"Let me check…" Borgin ducked behind the shelves.
Lupin glanced around, sniffing again. Cohen figured he'd caught a whiff of something—werewolf wizards had sharper noses, and Cohen probably didn't smell like he belonged here. The faint scent of Christmas donut frosting still clung to him.
"Thirty Galleons," Borgin announced, returning with a sealed, filthy bottle of potion and plunking it on the counter.
"Can I pay later?" Lupin asked. "I need it for a new job next month—"
"No cash, no deal," Borgin snapped, his face icing over.
"Only werewolves buy Wolfsbane," Lupin reasoned. "It's about to expire, isn't it?"
"Collateral," Borgin said, narrowing his eyes. "I don't trust a werewolf's word."
Lupin rummaged in his pocket, pulling out an old photo and a worn pocket watch—its magical aura strong from frequent recharging. He tucked the photo back but left the watch.
Cohen spotted the Black family crest. Probably a Christmas gift from Sirius to Lupin way back when.
"Black family," Lupin said. "Don't sell it—I'll come back to reclaim it."
"Two years," Borgin agreed, taking the watch and sealing the deal.
Lupin grabbed the potion and slipped out into the night. Cohen reappeared.
"I hate selling to werewolves," Borgin muttered, spitting on the floor. "Never know when they'll croak in a ditch—starved, killed by wizards, or torn apart by their own kind…"
"He'll find work," Cohen said, raising an eyebrow. "Maybe next year's Defense Against the Dark Arts professor at Hogwarts. Not my circus, though. Back to the Silver Key—still at 77 Knockturn Alley?"
"That address is seven years old," Borgin replied. "They moved out back then, sold off a bunch of stuff."
He gestured to a pile of junk near the southeast corner of the shop.
"Cabinets, chairs, potion ingredients up top," Borgin listed. "Take what you want—charge it to the Burke family's half."
Cohen wandered over to the Silver Key leftovers.
The standout was an old wooden cabinet—big, square, roomy enough for a few adults. Its paint had long flaked off, exposing dark wood underneath.
Why did it look so familiar?
"Vanishing Cabinet," Borgin said. "Stuff you shove in disappears. Sometimes rotten food or old student books pop out."
"Interesting," Cohen replied, keeping its purpose to himself.
A Vanishing Cabinet tied to the Silver Key? So why was there one at Hogwarts? Had they infiltrated the school?
Either way, Cohen planned to take it. A portal that bypassed Hogwarts' protections wasn't something to leave lying around.
His eyes shifted to the table.
It was covered in intricate knife carvings, the exposed wood stained with dark red—someone had drenched it in blood, giving it a seriously unsettling vibe.
Weirdly, it didn't reek of blood. Instead, there was a faint…
"Sweetness?"
Cohen caught a sugary scent, like the frosting from his donuts earlier.
Unicorn hair? Amortentia?
Compared to the Vanishing Cabinet and the blood-and-love-potion-soaked table, the jars on it seemed tame—mostly pickled magical creature parts, maybe some human bits, but nothing too wild.
"So, I'll take it all?" Cohen asked.
Borgin didn't object, just quietly jotted it down.
Today's haul went on the tab of Cohen's great-great-grandfather, Caractacus Burke.
Sure, the Silver Key had moved out, but Cohen wasn't done for the night.
This little group had a massive underground warehouse, and it wasn't the kind of thing they'd just abandon. Either the current shop owner didn't know it was there, or they were still using it.
Magic left traces—and that table's carvings didn't look like alchemy. More like some superstitious ritual pattern.
The Silver Key might've etched the same stuff all over the underground floors. Fanatics like them wouldn't miss a chance to leave their mark.
It was late now, and Knockturn Alley was deserted—no shadows, no movement.
Cohen trekked deeper until he spotted the magic candle shop.
**Everlasting Candle Emporium**
It was lit up, too. The shopkeeper—a shriveled old man with white hair—was dozing on a makeshift rag bed in the corner, next to a crackling stove.
**[Soul Strength: 22]**
"Snore…"
The guy's snoring was deafening, drowning out the creak of Cohen pushing the door open.
A shop like this surviving in Knockturn Alley without getting robbed was bizarre, but Cohen stayed invisible—no issue there.
Shelves held bundles of candles tied with rope—ten Sickles a bunch. They were clearly shoddier than Hogwarts' stock; some were even cracked.
Calling it the "Everlasting Candle Emporium" was a stretch. Beyond the everlasting ones, there were odd-shaped candles tucked in corners—some like human finger bones, others red pillars that looked like congealed blood. Cohen sensed faint souls in them, though most were only three or four points strong.
Knockturn Alley sure wasn't for normal folks to set up shop.
"Who's there?"
The old man jolted awake as Cohen slipped past him toward the back door.
He scanned the room, saw nothing, and flopped back down.
Cohen waited a beat, then eased the back door open.
Behind it was a small warehouse—and not just for storage.
Half the room, about the size of the shop, was stacked with candle crates. The other half had a stove, and a flimsy wooden partition marked off a tiny bathroom.
Small but fully equipped. No obvious trapdoor, though—the entrance to the underground was hidden.
Cohen traced the faint magical residue on the floor. Not under the crate stack, not behind the kitchen cabinets…
"The bathroom? Does magic always have to be *this* gross?" Cohen grumbled to himself.
The only spot with lingering camouflage magic was inside that bathroom cubicle.
Good news? It wasn't like some Ministry entrances where you had to flush yourself down a toilet. After some tinkering, a door appeared on the brick wall.
Beyond it, a winding staircase descended, flanked by green torchlights that flickered like motion sensors—straight out of a dungeon crawler.
Cohen checked that the old man wasn't tailing him, then stepped into the underground entrance.
The bathroom was right over the door. If the old guy built it, he knew the warehouse was there.
But he hadn't stashed goods down here—just piled them around his cooking and bathroom space.
Either he was a clueless new tenant who hadn't touched anything, or this warehouse wasn't fit for storage.
Cohen reached the bottom of the stairs, stepping into a pitch-black, cavernous basement.
"Lumos."
His wand tip flared to life.
He saw why the old man didn't use this "warehouse."
Blood. Splattered on the walls, streaked across the floor in thick, dark red trails—like something had dragged bodies around. Not in circles, though; the marks were just so messy it looked that way at first.
Cohen studied the trails. They led to the blank walls—no doors in sight.
But as he got closer and the light hit them, chained doors materialized one by one.
The drag marks pointed straight to what lay beyond.
No soul strength readings through the doors—whatever killed here was long gone.
It'd left with the Silver Key, abandoning the mess.
Mundungus had mentioned seeing lots of locked doors, too, but the Silver Key folks wouldn't let him near them.
What was behind them?
Cohen picked a door and tried to crack it.
"Alohomora."
No dice—a magical barrier blocked it.
He hadn't wanted to go this hard.
Cohen sighed. Guess it was time for the big one.
"Avada Kedavra!"
A flash of green light, a blast of breaking chains, and the lock was toast.
**(End of Chapter)**