Chapter Two – Walking in the Rain

Antonin followed Thorfinn out of the block of flats, his hands buried deep into the pockets of his coat. High collared and black, it was deeply reminiscent of something Severus Snape would have worn, if he had lived long enough to see the defeat of his old Master. Heading to the right along the street, Thorfinn was hunched slightly as the wind battered him from all sides. Although he had long legs, Antonin struggled to catch up, with the onslaught of weather. He found himself wishing that he owned an umbrella. At least his thick boots would protect him.

"So are you going to tell me where we're going or not?" he asked, as rain splattered his face.

"Not yet, you never know who's listening," Thorfinn replied, checking behind him. Muggles still hurried past on their way home, some small children whining about the water leaking into their shoes. "I only found out about this place today when I was at work."

"And whereabouts did you hear about it?"

The pair turned onto a main street, where advertisements screamed at them from all angles. Taxis, buses and motorbikes whizzed past, sending gutter water onto the pavement. Walking beneath the awnings of tourist stores and restaurants, Thorfinn pulled a ragged piece of parchment from his jacket pocket, studying it closely. Nodding, he stuffed it back, grasped Antonin's sleeve and urged him forwards, down a dark alley littered with crumpled, soggy cardboard boxes and vegetable peelings. Antonin resisted the urge to hold his nose, as they plunged on, before emerging onto another well-lit street.

"The sooner your parole is up, the better. We could have Apparated and stayed dry by now," Antonin grumbled.

"One more month, mate. I'm lucky it wasn't life. I think that judge likes blondes. Went easy on me, and on the Malfoys." Thorfinn glanced at shining shop windows as they passed, brushing his wet hair out of his face. "And we could have, but you've become a coward with your wand. Hiding it away, like a girl hides her diary! You'd only have splinched us, anyway."

"Knowing my luck, there'd be a trace on it or something." Antonin caught sight of himself in the windows as they waited at a traffic light. His rich brown hair hung to his shoulders, and it could do with trim. Raising a hand to his face, he thought about heading home and attacking his five o'clock shadow with a razor. At least, he looked presentable, compared to some of these Muggles. A boy beside Antonin had trousers that seemed to bag around the buttocks.

"They stop at seventeen, you should be fine!"

"Fine? Fine? I was a Death Eater for our Master since the early days at Hogwarts. I wouldn't put it past the Ministry to have done something about our wands by now."

"You're hardly page one of the Prophet anymore! In fact, I can't remember the last time I saw you in it! So you can test it later then, can't you?" Thorfinn smiled brightly, moving around a group of scantily dressed Muggle women. He wolf whistled, and the women giggled, gently shoving each other back and forth. The girl in the red and white dress winked at Antonin, and he glared in response. She scurried back towards her friends.

"What do you mean, test it? You, my friend, are not making much sense."

Thorfinn stopped to check the sign above the street, before crossing the junction, and turning left into the heart of the West End. He didn't reply to Antonin, until they were stood outside an empty ramshackle theatre. The theatre was unlit, the posters proclaiming a cast list that was long since dead and the production no longer running – in fact, it was doubtful that anyone had ever heard of it before. Graffiti was sprayed across the tarnished handles. No one seemed to pay the pair any attention – Muggles moved around them in worlds of their own.

"Do you remember the blunder in the Battle of Mysteries? When Black died and then the secret was out?" Thorfinn said softly.

Antonin bared his teeth as if he were little more than a dog. Thorfinn knew that topic was off limits, access denied, and all the rest of the silly sayings that had ever existed.

"Calm down, Ant. I'm just asking, that's all. No need to bite my head off."

"And your point about it is?" Antonin tried to tug the collar of his coat tighter about him. By now, he felt as if he had been stood under a shower – he was sure he resembled a drowned rat by now. Or even Wormtail, the Master rest his soul.

Thorfinn jerked his head towards the theatre. "She's in there."

"What-"

"Can I help you gentlemen?" a slimy voice said. Antonin stared down at a stooped figure, and the upturned face of Mr Borgin. He looked as dastardly as ever. His hair was slicked back with what Antonin supposed was grease, and a large red spot was noticeable on the side of his nose. His clothes looked worse for wear, with what looked like hand sewn patches in the knees of the trousers. His shirt front was rumpled as if he had slept in it - there was even a dried glob of brown near the button. Antonin felt disgusted.

"Two for the special showing, my good man," Thorfinn said, tossing the older man two golden Galleons. Mr Borgin grabbed them greedily. Antonin wouldn't have been surprised if he had bitten them to check if they were made of chocolate.

"Special show? What are you wasting your wages on now?" Antonin turned to his friend. "Thorfinn, you will tell me what is happening, or you will regret that I was your one Patronus call after your probationary meeting. You're lucky I could still understand the old code."

"They still think I'm on good terms with dear mumsy. If they did the research properly, they'd know she died ages ago. Anyway, this is actually an auction house. It's for people like us."

"Wizards or-"

"Wizards of the darkest abilities and powers, Mr Dolohov," Mr Borgin said, inclining his head. "I would doff my hat to you, if I were wearing one. It is so good to see you so... Alive."

Antonin nodded his thanks to the store owner.

Mr Borgin thrust a cluster of parchment into the hands of the two men, and ushered them towards the theatre doors. They opened of their own accord, permitting them access to the darkness within. Once the doors were closed, and Mr Borgin had replaced the enchantments on the inner handles, candles slowly burned into life, creating a warm, almost cheerful glow. They were scattered on the floor, throwing shapes across the walls.

"Follow me gentlemen." Mr Borgin nodded and headed for a set of carpeted stairs to the left of the entry hall.

Antonin and Thorfinn did as they were told, dust rising as they walked. Muffled sounds were coming closer and closer, until they were stood in an old bar area. The drinks bottles were dusty, barely any liquor remaining, but several wizards and an odd looking witch were milling around, talking in quiet tones. They looked up at Antonin and Thorfinn's entrance, raising their right hands to touch their left forearms, in a gesture of greetings.

"The auction will begin shortly, lady and gentleman." Mr Borgin nodded to the crowd and headed back downstairs to the foyer.

Antonin settled himself at the bar, leaning against the still sticky countertop. He sighed as he turned to his friend. "Thorfinn, if you don't explain, you'll find yourself wishing you were dead."

Thorfinn grinned. "Like I said, this is an auction house. They have all sorts on offer – money, cursed artefacts that have been procured from the Master know's where. And tonight, one night only, they're selling…" He paused, his grin spreading wider. "Witches."

"What do you mean-"

"Witches, Ant, the likes of which you can only dream of. The highest bid wins, and then she's yours to take away. To do with whatever you and your little black heart desires."

"And you think I'd want to bid on one? That I cannot get a date or something? Why have you really brought me here?"

"Come on, you answer all those quiz questions on Channel Four, but you can't connect the dots with something as simple as this?" Thorfinn held up his hand, and began to fold his fingers down. "Number one, the battle of mysteries. Number two, the dreams I know you have. Number three, she is in there."

Antonin opened his mouth to reply, but never got the chance. The doors leading to the theatre seats creaked open, and someone banged a ceremonial gong three times.

The auction was beginning.