Chapter 8: Doing Business
Narrow and cold.
This was Melvin’s first impression of Knockturn Alley.
The road was nearly half as narrow as Diagon Alley, with shops crookedly squeezed along both sides, their eaves hanging extremely low, blocking out the sunlight. The moment he stepped into the alley’s entrance, his vision darkened, and a faint chill enveloped his entire body.
The corners of the walls were clogged with thick, blackened sludge, with mold spots freely spreading.
A sticky sensation came from underfoot. Before Melvin could lower his head to check, a shrill, piercing voice suddenly rang in his ear.
“Lost, dear?”
An old witch emerged from somewhere, standing in front of him.
Melvin caught a whiff of rotten fish guts. Looking down, he saw it came from the wicker basket slung over her arm, covered with a layer of coarse cloth that hid the contents. Only dark red liquid seeping from the gaps in the weave was visible, dripping onto the stone slabs one by one.
Unclear of the witch’s intentions or what business she was in, Melvin tossed a few silver sickles into the basket: “Take me to Borgin and Burkes. If we arrive smoothly, the rest of the payment will be the same amount.”
“Happy to serve you.”
The old witch squeezed a brilliant smile onto her face, revealing teeth grown over with moss: “This way. With me guiding you, the rats in the gutters won’t bother you.”
Melvin understood the principle of when in Rome, and had no objections.
Following behind the old witch into an even narrower alleyway, the sticky sensation returned underfoot. He looked down to see moss in the stone cracks and some half-dried, dark sticky fluid, like blood from some animal.
The deeper they went, the darker the view became.
Occasionally, pedestrians wrapped in robes hurried past, hoods pulled very low, revealing only a small section of chin or scales.
As a commercial street, Knockturn Alley also had shops open for business along both sides, mostly without signboards, just displaying goods in the shop windows, such as neatly arranged shrunken heads, Acromantulas in black iron cages, troll hide stretched on wooden frames, copper bells with finger bones as clappers…
Some shops even had shop assistants soliciting customers.
A wizard of indeterminable age huddled in a doorway, his sinister gaze scanning up and down, with whispers coming from inside.
Seeing him frown slightly, the old witch lowered her voice to explain: “Don’t be scared by them. Those aren’t Muggle or wizard heads and finger bones—just house-elf ones.”
Melvin withdrew his gaze: “How much farther?”
“Just past that candle shop.”
The candle shop soon came into view, with an old wooden street sign hanging in front, melted wax encasing fly corpses that preserved it, faintly revealing the words: Knockturn Alley 12.
Further ahead was Borgin and Burkes, the only shop in Knockturn Alley with a clear signboard.
The old witch received 7 silver sickles as the final payment, her smile brilliant, the moss on her teeth fresh and green: “Need me to guide you back, sir? Just a few Knuts.”
“No need.”
“Happy shopping.”
Melvin watched the figure with the wicker basket recede into the distance, then looked up at the shop signboard. The black painted wooden sign was pitted and uneven, the copper lettering corroded with green rust, the last letter drooping downward and swaying slightly, as if ready to fall and hit a passerby at any moment.
The shop window glass was caked with filth like crusted eye boogers, with only a handprint-smudged clear patch in the middle. Unfortunately, the aged glass made the goods inside indistinct.
Pushing open the shop door, the rusty copper bell rang fairly crisply.
A string of bone ornaments hung on the doorframe, slender and hollow—likely the shame bones of some bird—clinking hollowly against the door. Kerosene lamps hung from the ceiling, their shades accumulated with insect corpses, and a faint moldy smell permeated the room.
A hunched, stooped man appeared behind the counter, running a hand through his oily, gleaming hair, squinting as he sized Melvin up and down. Noticing it was a new face he’d never seen before, he immediately perked up. When his gaze swept over the ring on Melvin’s left hand and lingered briefly, he revealed a fawning smile.
“Welcome, sir from afar. How should I address you?” His tone was oilier than his hair.
“William.”
Melvin’s expression didn’t change. It was the name of a Pukwudgie from Ilvermorny.
“Honored Mr. William, it’s a pleasure to meet you. How may I assist you?”
“I need some items, the kind not sold outside.”
Melvin’s tone was indifferent. Instead of approaching the counter, he casually strolled the aisles between shelves, eyeing the shop’s goods.
“Borgin and Burkes is your wise choice.” Mr. Borgin stepped out from behind the counter, his oily tone introducing it: “The one before you is called the Hand of Glory. Light a candle in it, and only the holder sees the glow— a thief’s or burglar’s best friend.”
It was a withered hand, including forearm and palm, the skin pale and shriveled. The arm formed the base and handle, the palm the candlestick, with five fingers slightly curled.
Melvin deliberately made a disgusted expression: “Sounds like a lowly toy for thieves or burglars.”
“It can occasionally have unexpected uses.”
“Then wrap it up for me.”
“What?” Mr. Borgin was stunned.
“I said wrap it up. I want this Hand of Glory.”
“But you haven’t asked the price…”
“First meeting, consider it my sincerity. I trust Mr. Borgin will show equal sincerity.” Melvin turned to stare into his eyes. “Don’t you think?”
“My honor, sir.”
Mr. Borgin looked into those pitch-black, deep eyes. As he prepared to quote a high price for a hefty profit, he suddenly found himself at a loss for words, stammering for a few seconds before gruffly saying: “Forty-three Galleons. That’s what I paid when I took it over from the Burke family ten years ago.”
“Fifty, Mr. Borgin. We’ll do more business than this.” Melvin said softly.
“Bless your generosity.” Mr. Borgin’s tone grew much more sincere.
“Now let’s continue and see what other interesting things the shop has.”
The dim shop once again filled with the oily tone, occasionally interspersed with brief comments.
“This is the Hanged Man’s Noose. Three hundred years ago, a wizard turned the Impedimenta Charm into Dark Magic. The thick rope from the wand no longer binds and impedes enemies but suspends them…”
“A fine piece of Dark Magic. Suspended enemies can’t cast spells, and unable to cast means unable to escape.”
“Yes, this noose’s raw material is those hanged wizards: skins from 7 male wizards, hair from 6 witches, tanned in mermaid blood on a full moon night. The magic of resentment and curses ferments, allowing it to quietly coil around a sleeping wizard’s neck at night, putting them to eternal sleep.”
“Any wizard of normal intelligence, even a Muggle, should break free before being strangled.”
“Take a look at this: the Opal Necklace. An ancient, vicious curse has already claimed 19 Muggle lives.”
“The curse on it is almost faded.”
“Suffocating Puppet, rubies embedded in its eye sockets. Whenever someone lets their guard down in front of it, its fingers twitch toward the customer’s nape…”
“Then an annoyed person smashes it with a fist?”
“Vanishing Cabinet, a cabinet that can vanish and reappear items, used for hiding or transporting magical items.”
“Where’s the other half?”
“…”
Picking and choosing, Melvin bought nothing else, and Mr. Borgin could only give a wry smile, unable to retort.
Knockturn Alley’s development to this day had some tacit approval from the Ministry of Magic—not that they couldn’t regulate it, but they didn’t want to strictly.
As long as the rats in the gutters didn’t brazenly come out in broad daylight to provoke, the house cats wouldn’t chase them into the sewers. As long as these Dark Wizards didn’t go outside to harm wizards and Muggles, the Aurors wouldn’t pursue relentlessly.
Borgin and Burkes, hidden deep in Knockturn Alley, also had to consider the Ministry’s face and didn’t dare openly sell excessively dangerous Dark Magic items. The rest just sounded impressive; actually using them to curse and harm wizards would only end in farce.
After introducing the last item, Mr. Borgin’s oily tone grew strained and dry as he added: “Our shop’s goods are all heirlooms from outstanding wizarding families—rare and ancient magical creations.”
“But I need something more novel.”
Mr. Borgin was taken aback, probing: “You mean?”
“Creations combining magic and Muggle technology.”
Melvin’s voice was soft but clear in Mr. Borgin’s ears. He instinctively wanted to refuse, but saw those pitch-black eyes again.
“Mr. William, I have no deception or concealment toward you.”
Hesitation and struggle flickered on Mr. Borgin’s face: “Muggles have indeed made many interesting gadgets. Some wizards like these things, keen on modifying their gadgets. Knockturn Alley used to sell them, like Muggle glass candles with metal wicks that ignite with magic power, and similar ones like bicycles, alarm clocks…”
Melvin was very interested.
“But after that Umbridge took over the Office for the Misuse of Magic, she tightened scrutiny on these things, treating it as her ticket to promotion. She wanted to throw every wizard touching Muggle stuff into Azkaban. No one dares do this business now.”
Melvin frowned slightly, persistently asking: “No way at all?”
Mr. Borgin shook his head, hesitating to speak.
After thinking for a few seconds, the previously built sincerity and goodwill took effect. He hesitated before saying: “It’s just that no one’s doing business. Some wizards purely hobby it, tinkering privately and only trading with like-minded…”
“Anything related to photography?”
“I can’t give you accurate news right now.” Mr. Borgin shook his head. “I only know they’re tinkering with Muggle objects—what specifically they’re studying or what they’ve made, only they know… If you need that, I can make introductions for you.”
Melvin had only been in London a short time and didn’t know other brokers here, so he could only agree.
They exchanged contact methods—one-way anonymous ones.
Leaving Borgin and Burkes, Melvin was in a fairly good mood. Though this shopping trip didn’t yield thrilling finds, it wasn’t without gain. Even if he ended up empty-handed, at least he now knew a group of wizards had begun engaging with Muggle technology.
For a Muggle Studies professor not yet onboarded, it was good news.
At dusk, the sky darkened.
Melvin carried the exquisitely packaged wooden box, walking back along Knockturn Alley’s somewhat narrow road.
Nightfall came a bit faster than expected. Some shops along the streets had closed, while others hung copper lamps with burning candles inside. The pallid lights failed to illuminate the road and only made it seem more sinister.
Nighttime Knockturn Alley wasn’t lively. Dark Wizards were human too, with no nocturnal habits.
Passing the shop selling Acromantulas, Melvin slowed. He remembered that past this shop was one selling troll hide, but now it had become a narrow alley barely wide enough for two abreast, flanked by brick walls.
Melvin thought for a moment, then entered anyway. At least the general direction was right.
The alleyway grew even quieter.
Rounding the corner, Melvin stopped.
Two cloaked figures stood ahead, their boot soles grinding rat skulls from the stone cracks.
A sound came from behind. Looking back, two more figures had appeared.
Brick walls on both sides—who knew where they’d come from.
“…”
He’d thought Knockturn Alley was really a commercial street.
Melvin felt a bit relieved.
Knockturn Alley was known for Dark Wizards gathering, but by day it seemed ordinary. Aside from scary-looking goods, nothing seemed formidable. Mr. Borgin was just a rule-abiding businessman.
He’d thought the Dark Wizards mutually deterred each other into a delicate balance, turning Knockturn Alley into a harmonious street.
He hadn’t expected the main business not to be in shops, but deep in alleyways.
Knockturn Alley had no streetlights, no shops front or back, only faint twilight to light it. Melvin observed the four Dark Wizards.
They all seemed seasoned veterans, wearing mole skin masks, figures concealed in linen cloaks, each emanating the scent of dragon claw powder to evade Auror scent-tracking.
While Melvin observed the four, they sized him up too.
“Heard there’s a new customer in Knockturn Alley?”
A raspy voice rose from under a mole skin mask: “Knockturn Alley isn’t just old Borgin’s shop. Other goods are worth buying too.”
“You’re really here to do business?”
“Money up front, goods on delivery.”
“What are you selling?”
“Maps of Knockturn Alley.”
“I thought you built this road and wanted a toll.”
“12 Galleons each.”
“A bit pricey, but not unacceptable.”
“Sold in lots of 12.”
“Bundling isn’t sustainable business.”
Melvin patiently persuaded. He was about to start as a professor—patience was good: “How about this: I buy one map for 10 Sickles, as new customer discount. You throw in maps of other wizarding villages in Britain, marked as detailed as possible.”
“We only sell Knockturn Alley maps. We never haggle.”
“So you’re bandits then…”
Melvin realized his patience was thinner than expected and quickly ran out. He tilted his head to glance down the alley front and back, then up.
The whole passage was narrow and long—tricky to be attacked from both sides.
The four unruly businessmen ahead and behind sensed the negotiation’s collapse, gripped their wands tightly, and the atmosphere grew tense.
Seeing they didn’t even follow duelling etiquette, Melvin felt slightly disappointed inside. He reached to open the wooden box, recalling Mr. Borgin’s introduction:
“It can occasionally have unexpected uses.”
