At a quarter to eight every morning, John Herncastle left his cottage to walk a mile down the tree-lined Chesterton Road to the Sir Leander Coffeehouse, an establishment that looked like it was transplanted from a quieter part of the country, where he passed an hour or two reading books, conversing with colleagues, and leisurely sipping from a pot of Darjeeling while eating nothing. Though he was as garrulous as Professor Slughorn, Herncastle's manner of conversation recalled one simultaneously to the monotony of Professor Binns and the queer intellectual zeal of Ezekiel Tansley.
After breakfast, Herncastle would walk another mile down Chesterton Road and turn right into High Street, a bustling place where one saw all the elements of the Cambridge of 1940: the faculty of its university, who synthesised priestly dignity with the eccentricity of the over-studious; the university's students, chattering with all the volubility proper to young men who knew they were the best of their generation; the uniformed men of the RAF, taciturn and purposeful, drawn to Cambridgeshire's civic nucleus from its many airfields like Indians of the warrior caste drawn to defend a sacred temple from along the Ganges; and evacuees from the great Southern cities, coalesced in family units conjoined by hands and encumbered with suitcases, who marvelled much more at this historic city than any of the preceding characters. Here Herncastle would enter a quaint post office, where he, an industrious scholar, always had letters to receive and send.
His morning would terminate with a walk home, where he would attend to the flowerbed in his small patch of garden with a watering can and a pair of shears.
"How does he endure this life?" Alexius Lestrange asked one day, spying on Herncastle trimming his hedges from across the road with Tom's enchanted magnifying glass. "Such a sterile existence, even for a muggle."
Herncastle always prepared his own lunch, and though he sometimes had guests over, his midday meal was more often than not a solitary affair. His afternoons were always his own, during which he would at some point shower, for he always left his home at half past four with his long grey hair much more sleek and personable than it was in the morning. Dinner was always at the University Arms Hotel, an old, grey behemoth of a building whose interior was more amiable than its façade; this and the post office were equidistant from Herncastle's home.
Whether the professor had any plans after dinner was portended by what he wore when he left the house in the late afternoon. If he was ever to go to the university's many theatres, bars, or clubhouses for a late night diversion, he would, unfailingly, make his half past four departure armoured in a tweed jacket and a large, grey chequered Scottish scarf, articles which, for summer in the East of England, struck the Slytherin boys as horribly oppressive.
Finally, Herncastle was among the not-insubstantial fraction of professors who did not attend church. Indeed, on the first Sunday he was in Cambridge, Tom noticed that the professor skived communion, and assumed that he was merely recuperating from the inebriation of his Saturday night; upon his second Sunday in the city, Tom construed the professor's continued absence as mere inattentiveness—a negligence brought on by indolence or forgetfulness or something of the sort—until on the third Sunday, Tom, observing Herncastle go again to the Sir Leander Coffeehouse rather than any of the many picturesque chapels that littered the ancient city, realised that the professor was, like himself, what the common, credulous muggle would have called 'a sceptic'.
But Tom was not a sceptic. There was not a single muscle in his body that was sceptical; he was full of absolute certainties and burning convictions. Man was made in the image of God, if God existed at all—a certainty—and Tom, being more god-like than other men, was therefore permitted to behave like God—to do what thou wilt—a conviction. Tom knew that Mary would immensely appreciate Herncastle's dagger as a gift—a certainty—and therefore felt the necessity of appropriating it for her—a conviction. The strangeness of this conviction, consisting in Tom's simultaneous anger towards his sister and his wish to appease whatever sorrow his anger provoked in her (he could do anything but abate his fury), only strengthened his certainty that his course was the right one.
"Tom!" Thane hissed, snatching Tom's shoulder. "He's leaving without his scarf."
Snapped out of his revelries, Tom took his magnifying glass from the older boy's hand and saw, through its swamp green lens, Herncastle emerge leisurely from his hovel, wearing nothing but a white shirt and dark cotton trousers whose suspenders tightly strapped his shoulders.
"We have two hours," said Tom. "Long enough to search half the house, if not more. We'll return for the rest tomorrow if need be."
The pair of older boys nodded. They had already discussed and rehearsed their burglary many times; nothing more needed to be said. Tom and Thane cast muggle-repelling charms on each other, before both turned their wands on Alexius, who had yet to master this indispensable charm. A few minutes were allowed to pass to ensure Herncastle would not return for a forgotten handkerchief. Then, the boys, under the capricious summer sun that shone in the early evening with more calefaction than the Scottish winter sun could have emanated at noon, crossed the road, where not a single muggle cast a glance at them in all their sartorial abnormality.
Thane was posted as a lookout in Herncastle's modest garden. He stomped on a snail and ground it to muck under his shoe.
Tom pointed his wand at the cottage's door. "Alohomora."
"Filthy place," Alexius Lestrange muttered.
Tom simply said, "It could be worse."
The boys divided their labour. Alexius searched the front yard, foyer, and bedroom, while Tom searched the backyard, kitchen, and attic. With the aid of deconstructo and reparo, their search was fivefold more efficacious than a muggle investigator's could have been. Some time passed. Even though the curtains were drawn, Tom perceived the sun's westward descent in the growing sharpness of the shadows of Herncastle's old furniture. He went about his work with an efficient tranquillity; he knew that the dagger was close. He felt a strong presence of magic in the house.
Yet the dagger was not in the backyard, kitchen, bathroom, or attic. Tom had searched each spot twice. He reconvened with Alexius in the Foyer.
"No, luck Tom," said the older boy.
"How can that be?" Tom asked sharply. "I found nothing either."
"Perhaps Herncastle keeps it on him—"
"Don't be ridiculous," said Tom. "We'd've seen it on him if he did. It's definitely here—don't you feel its presence?"
"Its presence?" Alexius asked derisively.
Tom straightened his shirt. "Never mind that. I forget your magical sensitivity is inferior to mine. Let's search again; you search my rooms, and I yours."
Alexius embarked on his new task with a grunt. Tom went to Herncastle's bedroom, and beheld nothing short of Herncastle's soul, exteriorised—the room was so disorderly and cramped that it would not have been habitable were it not an exoskeleton for the spiritual essence of its only resident. A rather small room already, it contained what a chamber twice its size could not have appropriately fitted: a shabby single bed, its sheets undone; a wide, overflowing bookshelf that reached the ceiling; a huge disassembled telescope resting on a star chart; several ceramic vases on the floor, inscribed with primitive symbols; a huge stone slab carved with Norse letters leaning against the wall; a rickety old desk covered in open books, documents, pictures of historical artefacts, jars of dried flowers, old teacups, and plates; and a gramophone, standing tall amidst a haphazard pile of records.
There was also, strangely, a mannequin sporting a Great War uniform, complete with gas mask and rifle—Herncastle hadn't struck Tom as a soldier. Then again, all the muggle men of Herncastle's generation had fought; it was a pity that more of them hadn't died.
What startled Tom the most about this little room was the magic that suffused the air—magic so potent and damp that it was almost difficult to breath. Tom scowled in disbelief. How could Alexius not have felt the very substance that coursed through his blood abound in this room? But Tom's incredulity at Alexius' astounding magical insensibility last only a moment—it was quickly replaced by excitement—the dagger was definitely in this room.
Yet Tom searched and searched; took apart everything; cracked even the walls open to examine their innards—all to no avail. The room began to get very dark; night had fallen. The dagger was as elusive to him as honesty was to his capricious sister. Alexius rapped on the door.
"No luck, Tom. I bet the dagger's not even here. Who knows what could've happened to the damn thing in sixty years. Plus Herncastle's sure to return within the hour."
"It must be here, in some hidden nook or cranny. Perhaps Herncastle put it beneath the floorboards. Plan B shall be our recourse—we must interrogate Herncastle," Tom replied, unwavering in his determination.
"If the Ministry were to become aware..." Alexius trailed off, apprehensive.
"I have faith in Thane's obliviatory skills. Besides, The Trace hasn't troubled us all summer. Why should it begin to do so now?"
"We would be the talk of The Daily Prophet if we were apprehended," Alexius mused, relishing the possibility of infamy.
As Tom traced his finger along the edge of the record on Herncastle's gramophone, he instructed Alexius, "Go inform Thane that Plan B is in motion. You and he shall await Herncastle's arrival and apprehend him. I shall conduct one final search of the premises."
The older boy gave a blithe nod and walked away. Tom did go for another amble around the house but, already knowing where the dagger could not have been, only searched perfunctorily. Soon enough, he found himself returned to Herncastle's bedroom. With nothing else to do but wait, he decided to examine the gramophone. It was a fine machine; its brass horn, recently polished, shone like gold. Tom read the record that lay still on its turntable;
Deutsche
Grammophon
Cembalokonzert Nr. 1 D-Moll BWV 1052: I. Allegro
[J. S. Bach]
HELMUT WALCHA
mit den Berliner Philharmonikern
A strange memory came to Tom: Mary had wanted a gramophone when she was nine. He had explained to her stealing such an appliance was one thing; using and maintaining it at the orphanage would have been another. Nonetheless that night they stole a gramophone from a music shop in London, had a good time with it at Abney Park, and threw it into the Thames the next morning. Thus Tom knew how to operate the machine; he wound up the handle, removed the brake, and upon seeing the record begin to spin, gently placed the needle on it.
The music began with force. Lively, complex, and unrelentingly proud, the harpsichord led the orchestra like Grindelwald led the Freimagier. Although the machine crackled, this enhanced its charm—phones and radios crackled too—it was as though the music was being played live, somewhere, for the pleasure of its sole listener on the other side of the horn. Tom lay enraptured on Herncastle's bed and leisurely stretched out his arms. The elegant vigour of the music reminded him of St. Paul's.
Then, the door banged open. A terrified middle-aged scholarly was shoved roughly through it. Falling to the floor, he was followed by a pair of excited teenage boys.
Tom did not stop the music; he thought it suited the occasion.
"He claims to know nothing of the dagger," Alexius spat, yanking on the man's ear with ferocity. "A spineless, soulless worm! Get up, now!"
Tom deduced that Herncastle had been silenced when he failed to respond. "Finite Incantatem," he lazily waved his hand across Herncastle's mouth, undoing the spell. The man looked at Tom in terror and reverence, no longer panting like a dehydrated dog now that he could speak.
Tom produced a page torn from Prendergast's 25th Dragoons scrapbook and unfolded it. "Where is this dagger, Mr. Herncastle?"
"I swear, lad—I've never seen your ancient Vedic dagger—I would damn well remember if I saw something of that make."
"Remember harder!" spat Alexius, promptly giving Herncastle's face three slaps, left right left. "The dagger's worth more than your life—and your muggle father was a damned beast for ever laying his filthy paws on it."
"My lads, I beseech you—I, too, once dabbled in the o-occult—it's terribly impressive that you—"
Thane struck Herncastle in the chest with a rolling pin he took from the kitchen. "You know nothing of magic. Do not speak of it again."
Before the professor could recuperate from his last blow, Alexius smacked him in the face with a book.
Tom regarded the comportment of his companions—he had not seen either of them so energised in days—and thought that this must have been how the German soldiers treated their Polish prisoners, before executing them. The harpsichord cared neither for the suffering of Poles nor that of Herncastle.
"I believe, Thane, that we will have to examine his mind directly," said Tom, all the while holding the professor's petrified gaze. "The honour's yours."
"Superb," Thane gave Tom a sultry look, before turning to the professor. "Well? Get yourself on the chair."
Without waiting for the man to obey this command, Alexius wrenched Herncastle from the floor like a gnome uprooting a dormant mandrake, and shoved him into his chair. Thane conjured rope to bind his wrists against the armrests and his ankles against the supports.
"Stop, please, what are you—"
"Quiet. Legilimens."
It was the first time Tom observed the process of legilimency. The scene was terribly dramatic; there was no doubt as to who was the mind-reader, and who, the mind being read. Thane, whose eyes were wide open but completely white, was fixed in space like a form in stone, his expression one of statuesque determination. Herncastle, whose eyes were also white and void of its pupils, had sunken into his chair like a drunken man, while a steady stream of saliva trickled from his gaping mouth. The harpsichord, a victorious instrument, was partial to Thane.
Tom leaned against the wall to enjoy the music and the intoxicating concentration of magic in the room. He gazed about at Herncastle's peculiar bits and bobs—at the huge stone slab covered in Norse letters leaning on the wall, the ceramic pots engraved with primitive symbols, and all the pictures of historical artefacts that littered the desk—before a wild thought came to him.
The room pulsated with magic—there were strange relics everywhere in it—could it really be? The harpsichord seemed to think so. The gas mask on Herncastle's Great War uniform seemed to think so, too.
Tom opened Thane's rucksack. "Accio Spellman's Syllabary." The book came into Tom's hands. He flicked through it, looking back and forth between the infinite drawings of symbols in it and the artefacts in the room. It did not take him long to find a correspondence—a rune under 'magi-architectural engraftments', showing many small circles above a wide, concave line (supposedly a bucket collecting rain), corresponded exactly to the primitive carving on one of the ceramic vases. The Rainwater Bowl measured magic—if it sensed a certain amount or type of magical activity, it would activate some sort of spell.
Stepping towards the vase whose clay was a discoloured yellow like that of old parchment, Tom picked it up and—feeling heat emanate from the engraved Rainwater Bowl on it—quickly put it back down. The rune was active. It was registering their magic. It registered Thane's active legilimency on Herncastle; it surely registered the innumerable deconstructos and reparos Tom and Alexius had cast in the last two hours; and it registered Tom's levitation of Spellman's Syllabary above his hand.
Disconcerted by the presence of an unexpected second magical artefact in the room, Tom turned his eyes to the old stone slab leaning on the wall; the letters on it appeared to reflect the moonlight that sieved through the blinds a little too brightly. Tom flicked through Spellman's Syllabary again, and, very soon, his dark eyes widened in terrible consternation.
"Alex, something's wrong," whispered Tom.
It was rare for Tom to speak with such fear. Alexius perked up. "What's the matter?"
"The artefacts in this room are all magical."
Following Tom's gaze, Alexius's eyes turned to the small assembly of ceramics in the corner of the room; then to the stone slab with glowing letters; then to the disassembled telescope atop a star chart whose letters likewise dimly shone; and finally back to Tom.
Tom raised a hand. "Wait. Do you smell that?"
The room smelled of burnt porridge. The scent was becoming more and more noticeable. Tom pinched his nose; it was a stench that reminded him of Wool's.
Alexius responded to Tom's question with one of his own. "Do you see that?"
Following Alexius' finger, Tom beheld the drool trickling fluidly—quite unnaturally—out of Herncastle's mouth onto the floor, where it made a perfect, glowing line all the way to the Rainwater Bowl vase—whose rune glowed radiantly.
Overwhelmed by the sight of all these things and the rancid smell of burnt porridge, it took Tom a moment to notice that the room, like an oven, was slowly but surely heating up. The gramophone's vibrations distorted in the air—the harpsichord's indomitable will was at last bent by something—the music turned malicious, unmusical. Tom felt his blood turn cold.
"We need to leave, now."
Heeding the severity of Tom's tone, Alexius gave Thane a violent shake. Thane remained in his legilimenic trance, so Tom shoved him onto the floor. The legilimency was broken; Thane woke with a rude fright and Herncastle quivered like a fish trapped on a boat, making gurgling sounds all the while.
"Tom! What the hell?"
"We have to go, there's no time!" Tom barged against the door with all the physical and magical might he could muster—but it was as though he was a frog trying to break open a cauldron.
Scrutinising the luminescent runes all over the room, Thane said, "Shit."
"Shit indeed!" yelled Alexius, who banged against the windows to no avail. "Apparition—apparate us, Thane—side-long—"
As soon as Thane drew his wand, he lowered it and said, "No use—something's blocking us—"
The music stopped. Tom felt as though he was in the mouth of a huge dog. The room's heat pierced his skin and compelled him to sweat like a horse.
Herncastle, panting and coughing but at last soberly conscious, joined the cacophony of noises. "What on Earth—"
"Silencio!" roared Alexius. "It's the runes—destroy them!"
Tom shoved Alexius. "Don't! You'll aggravate them!"
Thane had taken to casting increasingly dark and desperate explosive curses against the walls, which was not only impenetrable but seemed to reinforce itself upon every hit taken. Alexius yelled imprecation after imprecation, and conjured a small wave of water into the air to fall back onto himself and cool him down. Tom, in his turn, clasped his hands together and tried to think—
The room was the design of another wizard; that much was certain. Another wizard who had trapped them like rats—
He could not die like this. The barriers of the room, including the window, were physically indestructible.
He was too strong, and too young, to die. Who would love Mary in his place?
Thane and Alexius attacked the cursed room with curses; Herncastle writhed in his chair in silent agony. Unsure of whether it would help, Tom snatched the gas mask from Herncastle's mannequin and put it on his face. He could not die; what would they say? In two years Mary would be a prefect, and she would tearfully tell new Slytherin girls, my brother was brilliant at Defence Against the Dark Arts; he was brilliant at everything, really; but I was always better at transfiguration. Transfiguration. Transfiguration, yes! Perhaps he could transfigure his mask to enable him to breathe—but how?
Alexius had ripped the blinds from the windows; the full moon, now high in the sky, flooded Chesterton Road with ghostly rays. Tom had never felt such a stronger desire to be on the other side of a window.
The windows were, to the innermost fibres of their glass, inoculated against physical and magical force. But where curses and charms sought to force their magic through an object with surgical consecutivity—skin first, then flesh, then bone—transfiguration began with essence. Tom recalled a sentimental platitude of Professor Dumbledore's—to transfigure is never to force, but rather to suggest. Perhaps—
"Liquifors vitrosa!"
Tom watched as crystal-blue light gushed forth from his wand, metamorphosing into water as it traversed the air, splattering onto the window and turning it into water. Splashes sounded on either side of the casement; animated by their will to self-preservation, the boys jumped out of where the window had been, and, sprinting like rabid dogs, darted across the road and up the bushy hill where they had camped that morning. The spell that saved their life was one used, almost exclusively, by Venetian glassmakers—Mary used it to ornament the butterflies she transfigured out of firewood. For a moment, an overwhelming tenderness for his sister overcame Tom—he would see her beautiful face yet another day. Her voice, her scent, her skin—all of it resided in the world of the living. Then reality returned to Tom; soaking in water and panting for breath, he removed his ridiculous gas mask. Instinctively he cast the muggle-repelling charm on Thane, an act Thane instinctively reciprocated.
"Incendi—"
Tom slapped Alexius' wand out of his hand. "No fire. We can't be seen."
"We're drenched like drowned rats!"
Tom refused to grace Alexius' childish protest with a response.
Alexius, nonetheless, persisted. "Well bloody say something will you Tom? What the hell was all that?"
"I just saved your life, you ungrateful git. Don't make me regret it."
"Herncastle's going to die!"
For a moment, none of the boys said a word. The gravity of Alexius' exclamation, which would have sounded the same if its object was his own father rather than some silly bookish muggle, made Tom suddenly feel very old. They had, directly or indirectly, murdered a man. Tom felt a fleeting impulse to fall on his knees and implore God to deliver him from the justice of the world.
At last, Thane broke the silence.
"Who cares?" he asked as he took off his wet shirt, content to flaunt his pale chest before the pale moon. "Look there."
Across the road, a mass of muggles had coalesced around Herncastle's house. They were shouting and calling for help. Tom's spell had ended; the windows returned and Herncastle, or perhaps what was left of him, was evidently still magically affixed to his chair; two men sought uselessly to smash his window open with tennis rackets, while a third slammed himself again and again at the door, likewise to no avail. It did not elude Tom that none of the muggles looked towards their side of the road; no one had witnessed their escape.
The crowd of muggles accrued and accrued, like ants around an enchanted pebble under which a capricious magical child had lodged one of their comrades.
Then, it all exploded—fire, screams, appeals to Heaven.
Tom's dark eyes shone as though reflecting the fireworks of Peking or Tokyo on the eve of the Lunar New Year. What unfolded before him, and within him, was pure sublimity, pure will to power. A huge blast of fire detonated the entirety of Herncastle's house; pieces of flaming wall and ceiling flew in every direction like giant embers, and a perfectly circular halo of expanding flames, like the belt of Saturn rapidly expanding, spread in a spiral with the grace of a pirouetting dancer to engulf all the amassed muggles. The air was punctured with screams and the scent of charred pork, and soon there remained nothing but this scent and the crackling of a giant fireplace.
But Tom woke from his revelry. Charred corpses littered the road like fallen leaves lined autumn paths. Herncastle's house smouldered like the two stars in collision; its flames billowed so high in the air that the night sky was tinctured with an afternoon-like orange. None of it was beautiful to Tom anymore; dreadful realisations and feverish, mad thoughts raced his mind. The Ministry would undoubtedly launch an investigation into the matter. The Daily Prophet would pick it up. Professor Dumbledore would look upon Herncastle's house in the manner he looked upon the imprints of The Lamb—Tom would be suspected—Ms. Cole would testify before the Wizengamot—he would be punished—then Mary would be punished, by association—perhaps they would be allowed to share a cell, in Azkaban—but not if he escaped the country—not if he went to the continent, and enlisted in Grindelwald's forces—he knew that the Freimagier recruited magical orphans—
Thane placed a hand on Tom's shoulder. "Look, someone's come."
Before the burning house there stood a robed, hooded, hunchbacked form—almost a figuration of the Grim Reaper without his scythe—except he was, quite clearly, a wizard. The wizard who just nearly killed them. Tom's blood rush to his head; anger, then hatred, drove away all of his fear.
He sprinted down the hill. Alexius and Thane, either from having just underwent the same internal alchemy that he did, or simply imitating his motions out of pure stupefaction, followed him.
Trying to catch the figure off guard, Tom drew his wand and yelled, "Serpens mallēsempra!"
The figure, refusing to even turn to face his attacker, jolted his wand into the air and wordlessly summoned a spear to fall from the sky and impale Tom's snake like a thunderbolt. Before Tom could react, the man, whose face was still unseen, sent a small, glowing purple orb into the air—an orb the size of a quaffle—which transformed into five smaller, still shining violet spheroids that spread themselves apart in equidistant spaces, before all hurling themselves at Tom.
"Protego!" roared Thane. "Accio wizard!"
The hooded figure was sent flying towards them as though hurled forth by an invisible giant. Alexius, too, joined the fray. "Flagellicorpus!"
The figure, narrowly dodging Alexius curse, retaliated with another wordless spell—several disembodied eyeballs, complete with rancid, fleshly wings, materialised in front of his wand, and flew towards the Slytherin boys like a flock of irate songbirds.
"Calixifors aviculae!" yelled Tom, transforming all the airborne chimaeras into teacups in one swoop—as they loudly smashed onto the floor, he sent their shattered, porcelain remains flying towards the figure.
Although this attack was parried by the figure summoning a huge, shrieking bodiless mouth that vacuumed all of Tom's projectiles, it was enough of a distraction to enable Thane and Alexius to gain a decisive advantage in the fight. Thane snapped his fingers, summoning a wolf made of green smoke to charge at the figure—and while the figure fended off this emerald beast of smog, Alexius got behind him and kicked him in the groin.
The figure bellowed in pain.
"Expelliarmus!" yelled Thane. The figure's wand was sent flying into the air.
"Serpens mallēsempra!" shouted Tom. A telephone-pole sized brick-headed snake lashed out of his wand and struck the figure in the head. The man, who a few moments ago had just performed such potently dreadful magic, now fell to the floor with an undignified thump. Tom rushed forward to his unconscious body and felt his pulse; the man was alive—a grudgingly desirable outcome. There was a chance dead muggles sent one before the Wizengamot; but a dead wizard portended Azkaban.
Muggle cars were heard in the distance. The Slytherin boys had no time to savour the sweetness of victory; Thane and Tom quickly cast muggle-repelling charms on each other, on Alexius, and on the unconscious man, before fleeing with the latter's body unceremoniously dragged by a conjured rope tied around his ankles.
The boys found themselves in a park; unsure of whether to camp there for the night or whether they ought to go farther (Aurors would surely arrive soon), they enchanted a perimeter of muggle-repulsion around a quartet of trees. Their unconscious adversary's body was thrown between two trees, whereupon Thane conjured pairs of handcuffs to bind his legs and arms together.
"Lumos," said Tom. Illuminated, the figure proved a rather unimpressive sight; plump around the waist like an adult man, he was otherwise of a rather diminutive size—a little taller than Tom but shorter than both Thane and Alexius. His robes that had made such a sinister impression upon Tom earlier in the night, were but nondescript rags. Besides his magic that had nearly killed Tom twice in the evening, there was only one other remarkable thing about the man—his hood, which obscured his face with pure blackness.
Thane recognised the charm that gave the wizard his mystique. He drew his wand, pointed it at the opaque hood, and sent its misty blackness dissipating in coils of smoke.
The revealed face was disappointing. A man in his late twenties, his face was certainly not handsome, although it was not unsightly, either—it was merely unkempt and, Tom realised with a frown, rather imbecilic. His brown hair was filthy; long, matted, and knotty like a nest made by a sick bird. His expression was one of indignant disbelief; the crumpled brows on his forehead reflected animalistic shrewdness more than they did intelligent guile. Altogether, Tom could tell at once that the man had been mediocre at Hogwarts.
Disappointment and frustration rose in Tom's chest. He had nearly been killed by an utterly unremarkable adult wizard—he, the most promising pupil Professor Merrythought had seen in decades. It infuriated him that he could squash an intelligent muggle man such as Herncastle like a beetle, but not swat a stupid magical man like the dormant malcontent before him like a fly. There was still much to learn—too much to learn. Time felt, as it always did to Tom, like sand rapidly slipping through his fingers.
"Why, what a surprise," murmured Thane, tracing his finger down a filthy knotted strand of the man's hair. "It's Mr. Borgin."
"Who?" asked Tom.
"A rather nasty fellow," Thane said playfully, squeezing Mr. Borgin's nose. "He's like Herncastle—he collects nice magical things. Though of course, unlike Herncastle, he understands what he collects."
Glaring daggers at the unconscious man, Alexius chimed in. "He must've taken the dagger from Herncastle then."
"Obviously," said Tom, whose mind raced wildly. "Obliviated him, too, and set a snare for whoever would come looking next. It's lucky his runes had been gathering dust for so long."
"We should kill him," Alexius said solemnly.
"Did a bludger hit your head, Lestrange?" asked Thane.
"He tried to kill us! Are you going to just accept that?"
"Do you know what happen when a wizard well-connected in Knockturn Alley goes missing? His associates will go look for him."
"Then what are we to do?"
Tom snapped his fingers. "Don't forget why we're here; for the dagger. Rennervate him."
Alexius looked at Tom incredulously. Thane, on the other hand, understood Tom's meaning, and pointed his wand at Mr. Borgin. "Wands out, lads. Three, two, one … Rennervate!"
Tom was reminded of the time he resuscitated Abraxas Malfoy a year ago; but where Abraxas weakly convulsed and gasped, Mr. Borgin gurgled violently and thrashed about like a fish. As he stabilised into wakefulness, Mr. Borgin discovered three wands pointed at him, and no wand in his own holster.
"Don't move," Tom said firmly.
"Ah, worry not lad. I won't, I won't," murmured Mr. Borgin, quite calm and still.
It was clearly not the first time the man found himself at wandpoint. Tom understood that he was dealing with a veteran troublemaker; from the glances they gave Tom, Thane and Alexius also appeared to apprehend this unfortunate fact.
"Youse must be very clever lads, to've escaped my enchantments alive," Mr. Borgin continued. "Youse all look mighty proper, too—Blacks, Malfoys, Fawleys, ain't yeh?"
"Mr. Borgin," said Tom, clenching his teeth as he suppressed an urge to blast the man into cherry-coloured fleshy sawdust, "you know that we are here for the dagger of Tippoo Sultaun."
"Tippoo Sultaun!" Mr. Borgin yelled with laughter. "That's what 'em muggles call it indeed."
"Oh?" asked Tom, twisting his wand. "What's its proper name, then?"
"It's a fragment of an aeon long past, boy, is what it is," came the voice of the man at wandpoint.
Mr. Borgin was sent into a revelry by his own suddenly melodious voice. He digressed on the history of the magical world. While the wizard shares the world with varyingly humanoid creatures—goblins, centaurs, house elves, and the like—the ancient world abounded in intelligent magical life of all shapes and sizes. In ancient India there were kingdoms of men ruled by mage-emperors worshipped as Gods, alongside domains of equal majesty presided over by creatures such as nagas, elephant-men, and gigantic birds that hatch from eggs, mid-air, after their mothers lay them in flight. But these creatures, like demons, harpies, and minotaurs in old Europe, were gradually exterminated by their physically inferior but more magically rounded counterpart, the wizard.
The war of annihilation against the nagas was waged by an Indian mage-emperor called Janamejaya, driven singularly by a desire to avenge his father, who had been killed by none other than the great naga king Takshaka. Although the trident-wielding nagas were capable of bending the very atmosphere to their will—they could channel thunderstorms, floods, and great gales of wind against their enemies—the wizard was unique in his ability to access every form of magic. Though the wizard is born weak—for magical and muggle babies are alike in incarnating utter vulnerability—he is a creature of pure potentiality, and thereby the king of the magical kingdom. Thus Janamejaya brought devastation upon the nagas; in a duel against the great naga king Takshaka, who stood as tall as a mountain and spat flying snakes from his mouth, he shattered the terrible naga's trident into a hundred pieces with his great runic sword.
In the midst of this grand duel, in which Takshaka conjured an apocalyptic storm that would hide the sun for days and ravage many cities along the Ganges, a shard of his shattered trident—the tip of its central prong—grew wings and flew to the top of Mount Kailash, a most sacred mountain in Tibet, whereupon it developed itself into a dagger, and went into hibernation to await the coming of a new worthy master—the dagger with the eerily forged serpentine handle that Tippoo Sultaun fought with to his death; that Warren Herncastle pilfered for £850 in 1879; that Mr. Borgin blew up over twenty muggles just to hide; that Tom intended on bequeathing to his fickle, beautiful sister.
"Well, I can't deny that you're a mighty good storyteller," said Alexius, jabbing his wand at the recumbent man's throat. "But let's cut to the chase, hand over that dagger before I accidentally slip and slit your throat."
Tom was of the same mind as Alexius; while Mr. Borgin's tale was indeed a beguiling one, Tom's instincts as a historian killed his suspension of disbelief. There were too many details, all of them too unequivocally presented, for the story to be true. Yet this did not dissuade his attraction to the dagger whatsoever—if anything, it only raised Tom's appetite for it—for it was clear that even Mr. Borgin could not account for its origin.
"I said," repeated Alexius, pulling Mr. Borgin's ear, "hand over the dagger."
Mr. Borgin's voice regressed into the vulgar tone it had taken when the boys first resuscitated him. "Don't see why I oughta do that."
Alexius thrust his wand into Mr. Borgin's neck and made him to gag. "I'll kill you myself—"
"Don't mind my friend," Tom said quickly, as he smacked Alexius's hand. "He's rather irritable, though this might be on account of you trying to kill us half an hour ago. But you failed to kill us, and now everything's become complicated. The Aurors will come soon and find us in the memories of muggles; we'll be interrogated, and what can we do, but reveal the whole truth of our wrongdoings and yours alike, Mr. Borgin?"
Although Mr. Borgin said nothing, there was neither fear nor concealment on his face; his expression was, in that grave moment, contemplative and daydreaming. That was not what Tom hoped for.
"Our intentions are aligned, Mr. Borgin. Give us the dagger, and the Ministry won't trouble you."
"They won't trouble me either way, lad. I know a chap in the Department of Magical Accidents, an officer of sorts. He'll label this an attack by Grindelwald; that's what them higher-ups want anyhow."
"This does not pertain to the dagger."
"But it does. Youse oughta be grateful. I'm savin' your hides for free."
"Only to save yourself. We would not have gotten into any trouble if it weren't for you." Tom, though he was much relieved by Mr. Borgin's simple resolution to their most pressing problem, presented the latter a smile with no kindness in it. "As I said, Mr. Borgin—our intentions align. If you do not work with us, we'll do everything we can to make life hard for you."
Mr. Borgin quieted again. Tom's persistence appeared to irritate him. But then he gave a long sigh and change his expression into that of an optimistic salesman's. Tom eyed him warily.
"Hogwarts boys, aren't youse? Slytherins too, I'd wager. Like meself. I've proposition for you lads, listen around, it's a simple one: there's a heirloom belonging to a girl that I want. Steal it, and I'll give you the dagger for it."
"Whose?" Alexius asked.
"Dunno, but she's gotta be a pureblood or a half-blood," replied Mr. Borgin with a shrug.
"Real helpful, that," scoffed Alexius. "You remember anything else, or do we have to hex it out of you?"
"To which house does she belong?" asked Tom.
"Don't know."
Alexius scoffed. "If I hexed your testicles, would you remember?"
"Let me draw it for you lads, that'd be easier—there's a box in my pocket with my drawing materials within—"
"How dainty," sneered Alexius.
Tom retrieved the featureless wooden box from Mr. Borgin's robe pocket. It wasn't even large enough to hold a harmonica. "This?"
It did not budge as Tom sought to prise it with his fingers.
"Tap it with your wand."
Nothing happened; Tom felt not even the faintest sensation of magic as he followed this instruction. "What's the trick here, Mr. Borgin?"
"Tap it with my wand."
Thane handed Tom Mr. Borgin's wand. Again, nothing happened—albeit this time Tom felt the uniquely unpleasant sense that accompanied using the noncompliant wand of an inferior wizard.
Mr. Borgin clicked his tongue. "Give it here, I'll have to tap it myself."
Alexius scoffed. "Very cunning, Borgin—Tom, no, what are you doing—"
Even Thane protested Tom's move. "Don't—"
Returning Mr. Borgin his wand, Tom merely said, "Don't try anything, sir."
It would have been mistaken for Mr. Borgin to try anything indeed, for the three Slytherin boys had never held their wands with such firmness as they did in that moment, pointing them towards the man who, wisely, used his reacquired weapon only to tap his box of drawing materials before returning it to Tom.
Mr. Borgin's box was a clever contraption. After the lid opened, a long, thin plank of wood—as thin as a clipboard—extended several inches; upon it materialised a sheet of parchment and a quill with a transparent purple vane. Mr. Borgin must have been an experienced artist, for he drew with great poise and efficiency. The quill's ink changed colour according to his will. Soon enough, the drawing was complete. Detaching the sketch from the clipboard-box, Mr. Borgin proudly blew on it and handed it to Tom.
Both Thane and Alexius turned their gazes to Mr. Borgin's curious drawing. Upon examining it, Tom laughed in disbelief. It was Ilaria Greengrass's necklace.
