Friday 2 October 2020

In which the narrator learns what became of his first anachronometrical creation and gives an account of the commencement of his reprehensible career.

I was slumped on the mattress picking at a hangnail when Ms Mbewe came in. My hand was crackling, magic building up like static. There was a time when I would have yearned for this sensation, but now it was merely irritating. In the first few weeks after coming off the potions I'd felt weak, like when I'd been recovering from Dragon Pox in Azkaban, but even that had faded and I felt nothing, not boredom, not depression, just an accepting passivity that was quite unlike my usual self. It would have bothered me, had anything been capable of breaking through my apathy.

"Potter's son is back, and Scorpius Malfoy," said Ms Mbewe. "They used the Time-Turner to go back and try to save the life of Cedric Diggory."

"Kids these days," I said, nonplussed. "What would they know about that? That all happened a long time before they were even born. Why would they care, really? I mean, obviously he didn't deserve to die, but a lot of people met untimely deaths in the war. Why was Diggory so special?" As I said it, I realised that they would have gone back to a time just before the murder. Maybe they could have stopped me, if we'd crossed paths.

"It is baffling," Ms Mbewe agreed.

"Are they going to be punished?" I asked.

"Professor McGonagall has put them in detention for the rest of the year, I believe."

"Wow," I said. "Is that it? No criminal charges?"

"No," Ms Mbewe said. "Although I believe they have been banned from visiting Hogsmeade."

I laughed. "Think you can get my sentence down to something like that?"

"I will do my best, Mr Nott. They did not return with the Time-Turner, so the case against you may yet fall apart."

"They didn't come back with it? But then where is it?"

"Nobody knows. I think they are dredging the lake for it at Hogwarts."

"The lake? Why?"

"They were found there, Albus and Scorpius. They had apparently been interfering with the second task in the Triwizard Tournament."

"Were they?" I asked. "Did they change anything?"

"Not as far as I'm aware," Ms Mbewe said.

"That's the problem," I said. "Our whole world might be different to what it was, and we wouldn't know. I'd like to speak to them..."

"Well, you can't," Ms Mbewe said firmly. "To ask to speak with these boys about the very same illegal artefact you are trying to distance yourself from? It would be highly suspicious. I am sure Potter would not allow it anyway."

"I know, I know," I said. "It's just that it's very interesting." In some ways I really hated that what I did was illegal. If I'd been granted the backing of the Department of Mysteries, I'd have all the access I needed to information. I'd be paid a decent salary, rather than having to hawk my work to greedy middlemen and vain aristocrats who had only a vague notion of its potential. I'd be able to sign my work as something I took pride in. I'd be celebrated for my great discoveries, not incarcerated. But they didn't want me. However well I did on my exams, however many original and brilliant papers I wrote, or spells I invented, they would never want me. Not because of anything I'd actually done, but because of who my father was, and what I stood for, even though I had never wanted to stand for anything.

I hadn't intended to get into the illegal artefact trade when I'd been released from Azkaban; I'd just sort of fallen into it. I'd applied for legitimate jobs, naively hoping that someone would hire me despite my family and my crimes and my time in prison. I'd met someone who really seemed to believe in me and for a while that spurred me on. I used my real name; I already knew from experience that a pseudonym would always be found out sooner or later and I'd decided I was ready to stand up and claim my past. I'd purchased a speedy new owl, who I'd named Dot, and I'd send her off each day, laden with parchment applications, and each day she would return, usually with nothing at all, but sometimes with a letter that would make my heart sink. I'd read every letter through anyway, in case there was any hope to be gleaned from them, but although the tone was invariably soothing, the letters made it clear that further attempts to communicate would not be dealt with so politely:

Thank you for your application... unfortunately after careful consideration I regret to inform you that we will not be progressing your application further for this position... we regret to inform you that you have not been successful on this occasion... after reviewing your skills and experience, we do not feel that you would be a good fit... a number of other applicants more closely matched our requirements... due to the unprecedented number of qualified applicants we are unable to provide specific details on the reasons behind this decision... thank you for the time and effort you spent on your application... we wish you every success with your future career plans.

After five months of obsessively rewriting my CV and crafting individual covering letters, I'd still failed to get even a single interview. Most places hadn't even bothered to send me a rejection owl.

By chance, I met a goblin in Knockturn Alley willing to pay cash for fungible curses: nothing too tricky, in all likelihood they were being used to secure some privately held trove of valuables. I didn't ask too many questions though, because I knew it must be illegal. I didn't go back right away, and I didn't tell anyone I was thinking about it.

I suppose I'd always known that the relationship wasn't going to work out, that I was too damaged and difficult to love. When the inevitable breakup happened a couple of weeks later, I went back to the bar in Knockturn Alley with a box of my best curses and came away with two hundred and fifty galleons and a promise to buy anything else I could produce. After months of rejection, it was the best feeling in the world.

I sold curses for cash in hand for a little while, but it didn't take me long to realise that the goblin was just affixing my curses to boxes, bottles and various other vessels and making a huge profit on them: that was where the real money was. I started creating my own jinxed jewellery boxes, before branching out into other items. I had a go at talking skulls, bottled tempests, medallions that brought great powers to their wearers. My stuff got more and more experimental and I found that my work was getting a reputation.

I looked round for different buyers, and Borgin cut me the best deal. I'd known him since I was a kid. Working for Borgin there was more pressure though. He knew his stuff, so there was no cutting corners, and he had other people working for him who I held in greatest awe. This was magic at its most dazzling, endlessly inventive and technically brilliant. Each new invention raised the stakes for everyone else; it was addictive and I was in my element. Apart from Borgin, nobody knew who I was. The success of my work was mine alone and had nothing to do with my name.

It was more than a job; it was an all-consuming passion. I seldom left my house, and when I did it was in the service of some new project. It was the closest I'd come to real happiness since I was a boy.