Chapter Three – Lot Number
There was many an excited mutter as the crowd made their way through the open doors and into the seats. Antonin and Thorfinn followed the others along a threadbare carpet, down an equally shabby set of steep stairs, and into the stalls. Seats were broken up by long aisles, lined with silver framed, lit lanterns. The light made the whole area much warmer, and here the wizards started to break off into their own groups, apart from the witch. She had pushed others aside so she could sit, front and centre for the whole spectacle. She had a dark coloured pixie haircut and gleaming eyes as she crossed her legs, her long nails gently scratching at the wool of her tights.
Antonin and Thorfinn took seats towards the end of a row, Antonin thinking it would be the quickest escape route, should anything happen to him. The seat was uncomfortable – tiny nails broke out of the chair arms, trying to catch the fabric of his coat. The springs in the seat stuck up awkwardly, but at least they didn't stick in any unfortunate places. There was also little room for his legs – Antonin felt like he was being folded in half. He knew he was tall by many standards, but this was just proving ridiculous.
"Will you stop jostling and sit still? You're worse than a child." Thorfinn, on the other hand, simply settled in his seat, all the while looking as if he did this sort of thing all too often. He unbuttoned his jacket a little and settled back, as casual as could be.
Antonin resisted sticking his tongue out at the comment, but instead cast his gaze at the others around him. He didn't recognise anyone. In fact, many of them looked quite well to do, as if they were successful businessmen. Many dropped their gazes from others, as if they shouldn't be seen here at all. Antonin reckoned many shouldn't be. This was the kind of thing that the new Minister for Magic, that damned Auror Kingsley Shacklebolt, would stamp out, if he knew about it anyway.
By the looks of it, he didn't.
"Thorfinn, how often do these auctions take place?" Antonin asked.
"I don't know, like I said I heard about this today. Suppose it's like a pop-up shop kind of thing. Probably moves location and has all sorts of spells and enchantments on it. I was at Gringotts – one of the goblins was talking about something, that they should have someone represent them for the item. So I did what any cleaner would do." Thorfinn grinned. "I carried on cleaning, just a bit closer to them. Didn't take a genius to put two and two together, especially when they just kept right on chatting... And then this bloody goblin with a head the size of a bloody peanut says that they're even selling flesh tonight. Fresh witch and-"
The aisle lights dimmed, and on stage, the thick heavy, musty, stained curtain began to rise, cutting off what Thorfinn had to say.
A small podium stood lonely on the stage. No items or witches were to be seen, although Antonin could see the joins of the stage, where pieces would come away or rotate, like on those quiz shows he saw. There was no backdrop on the stage, showing the audience behind the scenes – ropes, a wooden gangplank and boxes of disused props and costumes.
Mr Borgin emerged onto the stage from the wings, the tip of his wand glowing lightly. He pointed it at his throat, rasped out, "Sonorous", and positioned himself at the podium.
"Good evening, lady and gentlemen. Welcome to Borgin and Burkes austere auction. I am your host for the evening. If you don't know me, my name is Mr Borgin, and you can find our store in Knockturn Alley, just off Diagon Alley. We specialise in the dark and in the unknown, offering our services to those who have ever needed them." Mr Borgin paused and adjusted his shirt. "Tonight we have some treats in store for you, including our special items this evening. Yes, that's right lady and gentlemen, we have procured not one, not two, but three Mudblood witches!"
There was much muttering in the crowd, and Antonin grasped the arm of his chair tightly.
"Let's begin our auction with Lot Number One – a broken chandelier from the Brook family estate." Mr Borgin pointed to the side of the stage.
A young, equally greasy looking, man walked out, the chandelier before him. He called out in a clear voice, "Showing here."
Mr Borgin commanded the attention once more. "Shall we start the bidding, lady and gentlemen?"
Antonin felt as if he had drifted off to sleep. His eyes hurt, and his neck felt stiff. He had pins and needles in both feet, and he was certain that his bottom had fallen asleep. Reams of items were displayed in the auction, and each time, the price seemed to be rising higher and higher. He had consulted the parchment many times over in the dim lights, but each time he looked, it just blared out the same advertisements for stores in Knockturn Alley, Borgin and Burkes included. He could recite them from heart if someone asked him to.
He was considering walking out, leaving Thorfinn to it, but curiosity kept him seated. He needed to find out, needed to know if she was truly here. If the wild child was to be offered up as little more than meat at one of these Muggle supermarkets.
His dreams were of her.
She was in those long corridors at the Ministry, running from him. Every so often, she would dart down an aisle, peek her head out, grin in the most mischievous of ways, and start running again. Every time Antonin reached her and took her in his arms, she would cry out in pain. Purple flames – the flames of his spell – would surround her, burning through her clothes, leaving her in mere scraps that concealed her modesty. She reached for his face, trying to pull him to her, and each time their lips met, she would vanish.
Antonin would wake, drenched in sweat. Those dreams had tortured him since he had met her for the first time in the Battle of Mysteries, and when he was interned back in Azkaban after his Master failed to kill the boy Potter and old man Dumbledore, the dreams continued to persist him. They were the only things to keep him going…
"Lot Number 101, lady and gentlemen. Our final witch of the evening, I present to you a rare find. A wonder to all, and well known for her friendship with the Boy Who Lived. Assisting the Ministry and all around her, nicknamed the cleverest witch of her age by deceased werewolf traitor, Remus Lupin – although she's not too smart, if she was caught!" Mr Borgin broke off to grin unpleasantly. "Lot Number 101, the Mudblood, Hermione Granger."
"Showing here," the young man called out, and there she was.
