Death and Domain - Chapter 18

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I wanted to keep marveling at what I had accomplished as the body in the mirror moved like it was my own, but I also didn't want to traumatize myself anymore than necessary, so I quickly covered myself with the closest piece of fabric I could find.

Turned out getting the person's blood didn't translate to getting their clothes too.

Still, the results were better than I expected. I flexed my hand in front of my body and, in the mirror, watched as Flavius flexed his. It was a strange sensation, like I was wearing a bodysuit that was taller and wider than me, yet it still answered to my commands as if we were a single being.

Unlike the Polyjuice potion, which physically altered your own body to match the owner of the hair you used, my enchanted ring projected a solid, hard-light image over my body. In fact, I used the initial enchantment—the one that 'read' the blood—as the basis for the enchantments of the projector I'd sold to Mr. Dervish.

That had been the easy part, though. It had taken me days to slowly add other enchantments to the ring that could stabilize the projection over my body and transplant the projection's senses into my own. That and a few other special features, too.

My smile morphed into a determined frown. I could do so much with this, and that included discreetly gathering more information around Rowle and his associates. How many doors could be opened with the right blood?

But tonight, my mission was something a bit more personal. In a world with horcrux-making immortal dark lords, soul magic would have been my ace. Worst of all, it was supposed to be mine. By right. Being Octavian came with enough drawbacks already. I wouldn't let go of my one blessing so easily.

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It hadn't been hard to suss out to whom Flavius sold the family's books. I wasn't able to follow him anywhere—since he always had Forley or Dispey take him, but while I could barely get the old elf to speak to me properly, Dipsey had blabbed the story of her entire life after a bit of buttering her up.

She probably didn't even realize she'd told me all about Flavius' usual hangouts and whereabouts.

In reality, I wouldn't have needed her help either way, as his choice of buyer would have been the first place I would have looked into. Borgin and Burkes—a little shop in Knockturn Alley operated by Mr. Borgin, a dealer in the questionable and the outright damning. That is to say, anything related to the dark arts.

It needn't be said that the Ministry classified any form of soul magic as extremely dark.

From my hiding spot in a shadowy alcove the next alley over, I looked out toward the shop's entrance, waiting for the latest customer to finally leave. I'd left the house without wearing the ring—even taking the Knight bus so the elves wouldn't know where I was going, but at this point, it was Flavius' bulky frame that hid beneath a black cloak, the hood pulled over so only the lower part of my face peeked out.

I didn't want to risk being seen as Octavian here. Both to avoid association with the place, but also because a fifth year student would seem like an easy target to anyone without good intentions in mind, and I didn't feel like getting mugged in the wizarding world.

Now, despite what reading Harry Potter led me to believe, Knockturn Alley wasn't the decrepit, grime-filled cesspool the Weasleys made out to be.

Well, it wasn't only that.

I had certainly seen my share of shady folks loitering around on my way here, and more than one severed head on a shop front display too. But a great part of this side of the alley held pleasant apartment buildings and thriving businesses of all sorts, from small legal firms to mom-and-pop restaurants and, yes, the occasional ghoulish shop selling anything from human skin to books bound in human skin.

Borgin and Burkes was a good example of the former. The store occupied an entire four-storey brick building, the shop front nearly covered in display windows framed by plates of dark green iron that reminded me of a suspension bridge. And though I couldn't see much inside, the first floor seemed clean and well-lit by candles and chandeliers.

All in all, it looked like an inviting store.

Thankfully, I didn't have to wait for long to find out. The pair of cloaked individuals that'd gone inside came out of the store a few minutes later, looked to both sides, and soon disappeared into a side alley. Gathering my own cloak close around me, I followed the same procedure as I stepped out of the alcove, checking around me to make sure no one was particularly watching for me.

A hurried couple moving from one alley to the other there. A short, pudgy man walking hand in hand with a beautiful witch going into what must be a brothel. A filth-covered hag sprawled in a corner, eyes glassy and distant. In all, everyone that walked by looked more intent in going about their own business than being caught taking too keen an interest in someone else's.

Knockturn Alley wasn't the kind of place to foster the openly nosey.

Standing tall, I strode across the dusty alley toward Borgin and Burkes, projecting as much assurance as I could muster. A few passersby chanced a quick glance at me, but they were just as quick to look down and hurry their steps. Good.

Life is a perpetual game of chicken, I remembered my first boss in the business saying after he took me under his wing. I thought it was funny at first, but I slowly realized he was generally right. People tend to notice confidence before anything else: the shoulders, the cadence of your steps, the set of your face. It's an instinctual thing, really.

Unfortunately, I lost most of that confidence as soon as I stepped inside the store.

The man I assumed to be Mr. Borgin took one look at me and his face twisted into a scowl. "And what are you doing here?"

I faltered for a moment, before clearing my throat. "Mr. Borgin, I would—"

"Oh, it's Mr. Borgin now, is it?" He cut in, one hand hovering at his side. Octavian had seen that stance before, in the only duel he'd seen at the Slytherin dueling strip. "At least you're not drunk again, you bumbling fool."

If he'd been talking about me, I might've gotten heated at the way he was speaking. But it just so happened that I thoroughly agreed with him in how he saw Flavius. So I raised both hands in a conciliatory manner. "I don't mean to cause any trouble," I said calmly.

In my mind, I tried to piece things together before the situation got out of control. Did Flavius do something stupid before or after selling the books? He hadn't been drunk when he got home the day he sold them, I remembered that much. A day when he was sober tended to stand out given his track record.

Mr. Borgin frowned at my words, doubt clear in his expression. I tried to swallow the dryness in my throat as I realized I was in enemy territory here. Mr. Borgin stood behind a long counter with no apparent exit or gate into the shop floor, where shelfs brimming with dark objects ran the length of the store.

Despite all the lighting, there was a dark cast to the place. Everything felt foul here. The air was heavy, an oppressive blanket pushing down on me, crawling over my skin like maggots. To my right, an Aztec vase depicting the ritualistic slaughter of a babe sat beside a small, bladeless dagger under a glass case. To my left, a three-fingered skeletal hand held onto a human heart still beating as if alive. And on the wall behind the counter, a large book stood open over a shelf, the parchment cracking with age, incomprehensible words written in red ink.

I bit on the inside of my cheek and steeled myself. "I'm here about the books I sold you," I told him, "that's all."

It must have looked like quite a scene, a giant of a man like Flavius acting so contrite to the diminutive Borgin.

"What of it?" The man scoffed. "The deal is done, isn't it? Even after all the mess you caused stumbling into my store, breaking that baba yaga's skull, scaring off my customers. I still bought the books, no? And with just one condition: to never see your face again. You have some nerve, I'll give you that."

I jumped on the opening. "You're right. And you'll never see me again, either. I swear. I just want to get the books back. The ones belonging to my family. I wasn't in the right state of mind when I made that decision."

"You never are, from what I hear." Mr. Borgin shook his head. "Doesn't matter, anyway. No returns, that's store policy. Both for buying and selling."

I held back the loud fuck I wanted to scream. "That's… unfortunate," I said through gritted teeth. And despite knowing I likely didn't have the money for it—at least not yet, I offered: "Then I'll buy them from you. At your store's price. I know you for a fair man."

I didn't. But a little bit of flattery could find me some wiggle room.

"No chance," he said firmly, and I regretted the compliment immediately. Cunt.

"But—"

"No buts!" Mr. Borgin waved a hand at me. He sounded more annoyed than anything now. "What's done is done. Those are going to the next auct—" His jaw clicked shut. An angry red crept up his neck toward his scruffed face. Furious eyes narrowed at me. "See! There you go causing trouble again. And for me, now. Gah!" he exploded, slapping both hands down on the table. "I told you before. Leave!"

His reaction baffled me for a moment, but all I could focus on was the rebuttal. The hand at my side balled into a fist. I couldn't leave without those books. Wouldn't leave. Still, I couldn't act the fool. I didn't have the power to force him to give them to me, not with that tall counter between us.

But… could I bluff here? Force him to reconsider at wand point, even if nothing useful could come out of it? No, the right question was: Did I even have any other choice?

"You misunderstood me, Mr. Borgin." With a flick of the wrist, my wand jumped to my hand from its holster around my forearm, then rose toward the shopkeeper. I had practiced it a hundred times to replace the movement of going for my gun. "I will rip your insides and take them from over your broken body, if necessary."

Instead of panicking as I expected, or even going for his own wand, Mr. Borgin burst into laughter. His shoulders shook, anger suddenly twisting into humor. "Oh, that's rich. That's…" He laughed again, hard enough tears shone in his eyes.

I stood there, petrified in a mixture of confusion and apprehension. How had I been so easily read?

When Mr. Borgin was done cackling, he wiped the tears with the sleeve of his robes. "Oh, that's good, that's great. I needed that. At least you're entertaining, Flavius Prince." Then that humor in him turned icy. Still, instead of a wand, he waved a finger at me. "Let me give you a warning, eh? Today, I'll be generous. I won't tell my people that you threatened me, and you'll walk away, yes? For the laugh you provided. But if you think you of all people can intimidate me after everything…"

I opened my mouth, tried to speak, and closed it again.

"Oh you don't remember, do you?" More laughter. "You big, drunken fool." More mockery in his voice. "You tried this act the day you stumbled into my store, waving that piece of wood around like a sword. But you couldn't do magic if you had the dark lord's own wand and grew Merlin's white beard at the same time, could you? Yeah, you told me that as I dragged you out of my store. Honestly, I should charge you to keep that a secret. How about a knut, eh? That's all the information about you is worth, and—"

The air stilled around me, and I couldn't hear anything else he said. Just the thundering of my heart, the blood pumping in my ears. I felt like someone had cut my strings, and I became a puppet who couldn't move.

Flavius was like me. No—Octavian was like Flavius. Whatever it was that impeded my magic ran in the family.

What in the world was going on?