Chapter 2 - Borgin And Burkes

The heavy, sickening crack of apparition echoed through the narrow space as I materialised in a pitch-black alcove near the far perimeter of Knockturn Alley. I’d deliberately created a sound when I appariting. As Apparating  without a sound is a skill most dont bother top master it can be an identifying feature.

I deliberately avoided the entrance nearest Diagon Alley. Too many Ministry personnel and nosy Aurors frequented the main thoroughfare. Nosy buggers, the lot of them. Always looking for an excuse to meddle in affairs that didn't concern them.

Stepping out into the alley itself, the shift in atmosphere was instant and suffocating. Knockturn Alley was a dark, dingy part of the magical world, smelling of damp stone, rotting wood, and copper. Unidentifiable, scurrying creatures darted across the muddy cobblestones—most likely escapees from some hag's cauldron or an apothecary's back-room cage.

Wizards and witches who looked barely distinguishable from street beggars leaned against the damp brickwork, their eyes glinting greedily from beneath frayed hoods.

You would think that walking into a place like this wearing a bespoke cloak with shimmering silver embroidery would make me a walking target. In reality, it was the ultimate deterrent. The denizens of Knockturn Alley were desperate, but they weren't stupid. Wizards were inherently eccentric; even when trying to hide, they couldn't help standing out. But walking into the underbelly of magical London dressed like I was sent a very clear message: I am confident, I am dangerous, and I am itching for an excuse.

In this world, the distinction between the average wizard and a noble was vast. The common populace tended to coast on whatever basic magic they scraped together at Hogwarts or other lesser institutes, settling into comfortable routines for the rest of their lives. Nobles, however, had the weight of lineage and expectation on their shoulders. From childhood, we were pushed to master magic far beyond the standard curriculum, often matching or exceeding a full-fledged Auror before ever reaching adulthood.

Dozens of desperate eyes tracked my progress as I strolled down the alley, but my pulse didn't so much as spike. I had spent countless hours training, honing my magic to ensure I could achieve my goals. If any of these scalawags decided to test me, I was more than confident in my ability to wipe the floor with them and walk away without a scratch.

I stopped before the familiar, dilapidated storefront of Borgin and Burkes, pushing the heavy oak door open.

A sharp brass bell chimed overhead, echoing through the dimly lit shop filled with shrunken heads, spiked instruments, and sinister artifacts. From the curtained doorway at the back, a stooped, pale man emerged, rubbing his hands together.

"Ah..." Borgin purred, his greasy hair clinging to his scalp. "If it isn't my mysterious friend. Here for your goods, I presume?"

Without waiting for an answer, Borgin reached behind the glass display counter and retrieved two carefully wrapped parcels, placing them down between us with a subtle thud. He drew back the parchment covering to reveal a thick, leather-bound tome and an ornate velvet jewelry box.

"A man of taste," Borgin said, sporting a yellowed, crooking grin that was uncanny enough to send a slight shiver down my spine.

I ignored his unnerving demeanor and leaned over the counter to inspect the haul. The leather cover of the tome was unadorned, save for a single word stamped in faded gold lettering across the spine: Eromancy.

An extremely Illegal magical art. Used to create chaos in the late 1800’s

Inside the velvet box rested a silver ring, intricate and heavy, pulsed with a faint, hypnotic resonance.

"It was no easy feat tracking these down, my friend," Borgin continued, leaning heavily against the glass. "Any wizard who acquires such relics would find themselves hard-pressed to part with them. In the end, I had to contact an old wizard in the depths of Russia. He had no use for them anymore—age had caught up with him, and his... parts... no longer functioned as they once did. Abusing dangerous potions to fix the problem only made it worse." Borgin let out a dry, raspy chuckle. "Even then, it took a considerable stack of Galleons to convince him."

I kept my gaze fixed on the ring, my posture perfectly still under the dark cloak.

Borgin leaned in a little closer, his grin widening with sly curiosity. "So... tell me, sir. Do you have a Veela you're planning to seduce? Buying a tome on sex magic and a ring specially crafted to reflect a Veela's lust aura back at them is a very specific endeavor..."

Beneath the shadowy veil of my hood, my silver eyes glowed brightly through the darkness as I prepared my response.

"We both know how this works, Borgin," I said, my modulated voice coming out as a heavy, echoing growl that seemed to vibrate the glass of the display cases around us. "I don't ask how you acquired the items, you don't ask what I need them for, and I pay you exceedingly well."

Borgin held up his pale, skeletal hands in a placating gesture, though the slick grin didn't entirely vanish from his face. "Of course, of course! Merely an old man's curiosity, my lord. No offense intended."

He smoothly backed down, not daring to push a customer who dropped heavy pouches of Galleons as if the gold were worthless dirt.

Beneath the shadow of my hood, my glowing silver eyes narrowed slightly. I was under no illusions here; Borgin was a crafty vulture, and I was almost certain he’d already pieced together who I was. In British magical high society, the young Heir to the Ancient and Noble House of Buer was hard to miss—especially with my close ties to the Malfoys and my rather distinct physical traits.

Still, there was a vast difference between a shrewd guess and concrete proof. Keeping this layer of theatrical anonymity meant that even if the old fool eventually ran afoul of a rival dark wizard or ended up under Veritaserum during an Auror raid, he had nothing tangible to give them. And if rumors ever did start floating back to the Ministry. Deny, deny, deny. A shadowy figure in a cloak could be anyone with enough gold to commission custom enchantments.

"The price, Borgin," I demanded softly, cutting off any further attempts at small talk.

"Five thousand Galleons for the pair," Borgin replied smoothly, resting his yellowed fingertips on the counter. "A bargain, considering the diplomatic... complications of smuggling forbidden texts out of Mother Russia."

It was an exorbitant markup—he was easily pocketing a three-thousand-Galleon profit—but I didn't care to haggle. Time was far more valuable than gold. And time has been very good to my vaults.

I reached inside my cloak, pulled out a heavy leather coin purse heavy with Undetectable Extension Charms, and tossed it onto the counter. It landed with a dense, metallic clunk. Borgin’s eyes practically turned into gold coins as he snatched it up, quickly untying the drawstring to peer inside. The magical sheen of row upon row of stacked Galleons reflected in his dark pupils.

"A pleasure doing business with you, as always," Borgin purred, sliding the tome and the velvet box across the wood toward me.

I picked up the heavy ring, slipping it carefully into a concealed inner pocket before taking the ancient tome on Eromancy. The moment my gloved fingers brushed the spine, a faint, prickling shiver ran along my back, anticipation.

With both items secured, I turned on my heel, the obsidian fabric of my cloak swirling silently behind me.

"Until next time, Mr. Borgin," I rumbled, not waiting for his bow as I pushed open the door, the shop's brass bell chiming once more as I stepped back out into the dreary, dangerous air of Knockturn Alley.

Phase one was complete.

Stepping out of Borgin and Burkes, I pulled my cloak tighter around my shoulders, keeping my pace steady as I made my way toward the boundary of Knockturn Alley. Oppressive wards hung heavy in the air here, designed to anchor space and prevent anyone from Apparating directly into or out of the dark market's commercial heart. Just a few more yards to the perimeter line.

As my boots clicked against the slimy cobblestones, my mind drifted to the horizon of the coming year.

This term would mark my seventh and final year at Hogwarts. Seven years honing my magical skills all in preparation for this year, And it was going to be a momentous year, too—the long-awaited revival of the Triwizard Tournament.

I couldn't help the small grin that formed beneath the obscured shadows of my hood. I thoroughly enjoyed this new life. The authority, the magic, the wealth, the sheer freedom—I loved every bit of it. And I was damned if I’d let anyone tear it down.

Certainly not Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. The meddling old fool with too many names had spent decades playing grandmaster on a chessboard made of living people, sacrificing pawns left and right for his mysterious 'Greater Good.' He wasn't going to manipulate my life, nor was I going to play by his rules.

And then there was Tom Riddle. That snakelike abomination who dared to call himself a Dark Lord—a shattered soul clinging to life through unnatural means. I mean who would be so foolish as to actually tear their very soul in two, let alone seven parts. The thought of Voldemort fully reviving and plunging the British magical world into another mindless civil war was unacceptable. It threatened my peace, my wealth, and my long-term goals.

No-one, no-one messes with my goals.

If you want something done right, you do it yourself. That required me to begin hunting down Tom’s Horcruxes. Before the Triwizard Tournament could draw to its chaotic close, I intended to locate and neutralize as many of those foul soul-fragments as possible. Without his anchors, the 'immortal' Dark Lord would just be another mortal shade waiting to be put down permanently.

I'll partake in this tournament, acquire the portkey, and then kill the creature while still weak.

Crossing the invisible boundary line where the anti-Apparition wards ended, I felt the familiar ambient magic relinquish its grip on space.

With a silent twist of my body and a crack that echoed off the alley walls, I vanished into the ether.

With a loud crack, I materialized smoothly in the grand foyer of Buer Manor. The ancient wards surrounding the estate recognized my magical signature instantly, parting like silk to allow my entry straight past the outer perimeter defences.

Without breaking stride, I unclasped the heavy obsidian cloak, letting the shifting shadow veil fade and the glowing silver light in my hood extinguish as I folded the garment over my arm.

I walked through the vaulted marble corridors, past the portraits of my ancestors who merely tipped their heads in silent, respectful acknowledgment as their sole living heir passed by. My destination was my sanctuary: my personal library and study.

Pushing open the heavy mahogany doors, I breathed in the familiar, comforting scent of old parchment, leather bindings, and polished oak. I crossed the room toward my massive desk, taking the dark leather-bound tome of Eromancy out from my robes to set it down alongside the velvet ring box.

Just as my fingers hovered over the dark leather spine to place it down, a sharp, composed voice cut through the quiet of the room from behind me.

“Ingris Buer.”