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How did you know?" Borgin's voice was a low, suspicious rasp, his greasy smile gone, replaced by the hard, flat expression of a cornered animal.
He stared at the small girl who stood calmly in his den of dark wonders. The air in the shop was thick with the dust of ages and the faint, cloying smell of blood and regret that clung to the cursed objects lining the walls.
"My shop is a legitimate business," he lied, his voice a practiced, oily purr. "All items are fully declared with the Ministry. There are no contraband artifacts here."
Hermione just nodded, a look of profound, almost pitying understanding on her face. "Of course," she said. "In that case, you won't mind if my associate comes in to verify. He's just outside. Arthur Weasley. Head of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office, but he's been on special assignment lately, leading raids on old pure-blood manors. He's in a terrible mood today, something about a cursed toaster. I'm sure he'd be delighted to tear your shop apart, inch by inch."
She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Or… you could save yourself the trouble. You give me the contraband that Lucius Malfoy just dropped off, and I, as a personal favor to you, will tell Mr. Weasley that my information was mistaken and that you are a model citizen. He and I are very close. Think of the goodwill you'd be generating at the Ministry."
She was offering him a deal, but it was presented like a threat wrapped in a business proposal. It was, in its own way, a work of art.
Borgin's eyes twitched. He knew the Weasley name. He knew of the raids. The girl's bluff was terrifyingly plausible. If he was caught, the fines would be ruinous, but worse, the wrath of a slighted Lucius Malfoy would be a death sentence. He was trapped.
A dark, murderous glint appeared in his eyes. He glanced at a cursed opal necklace on a nearby shelf, an item that had claimed the lives of nineteen Muggles. It would be so easy…
Hermione saw the look and didn't even flinch. "I wouldn't, if I were you," she said, her voice as calm as a frozen lake. "At least twenty people in this alley saw me walk into your shop. I am a second-year student at Hogwarts. A Gryffindor. If I were to vanish from this place, who do you think would come looking for me first? The Ministry Aurors… or Albus Dumbledore?"
The name hit Borgin like a physical blow. He shuddered. Dumbledore. The one wizard in the world more terrifying than the Dark Lord himself.
He looked at the girl again. The Hogwarts uniform. The Gryffindor crest. The fearless, almost bored expression in her eyes. And then, a memory, a whisper from the dark corners of the wizarding underworld, clicked into place. Hogwarts… a first-year girl… Quirrell…
"You…" he breathed, his eyes widening in a dawning, horrified realization. "You're Hermione Granger."
"Oh?" Hermione blinked, genuinely surprised. "You've heard of me?" Oops, she thought. This could be a complication.
Borgin didn't answer. His mind was a whirlwind of frantic calculation. The official story was that she had defeated Quirrell in a duel. But his sources, the ones who dealt in secrets and shadows, whispered a different, far more terrifying tale. They said it wasn't just Quirrell she had faced. It was Quirrell possessed by the shade of the Dark Lord himself. And she had destroyed him.
In that single, profound moment of clarity, Borgin's entire business philosophy underwent a radical transformation. He was not looking at a child. He was looking at the future. He was looking at a power that could rival Dumbledore, a force that had already stared into the abyss and made the abyss blink. And what was a single box of Lucius Malfoy's second-rate dark artifacts compared to the opportunity to get in on the ground floor of the next magical dynasty?
The greasy, hostile shopkeeper vanished, replaced by a fawning, obsequious servant.
"Miss Granger!" he exclaimed, his voice now full of a warm, sycophantic cheer. "Of course! A gift! Please, consider it a token of my esteem, a small welcome present to a rising star in our world." He bustled behind the counter and retrieved a heavy, rune-carved box, placing it in her hands with a reverent bow. "Please, remember Borgin and Burkes. We take anything. And for a valued client such as yourself, the rates will always be… favorable."
He was practically beaming at her. Hermione was so thrown by the sudden, 180-degree shift in his demeanor that she just stared at him, completely bewildered.
A minute later, she walked out of the shop, the heavy box in her hands, her mind still struggling to process what had just happened.
Harry was waiting for her just outside the door, his face a mask of pale, conflicted horror. He had seen the whole thing through the grimy shop window.
"You…" he began, looking at the box in her hands, a million accusations dying on his lips. He had just watched his best friend, the girl who had saved his life, calmly and ruthlessly blackmail a man.
"Justice was served," Hermione said simply, not a hint of shame in her voice. "Please, call me a friend of the common good."
But… but you're keeping the box! Harry screamed in his head. You didn't say you were going to give it to Mr. Weasley! And since when do you know the Traceless Extension Charm? He watched, his cheek twitching, as she casually dropped the large, heavy box into her tiny schoolbag, where it disappeared without a sound.
He had so many questions. But he looked at the cold, calm expression in her eyes, and he thought of the troll, of the professor, of the sheer, terrifying power she wielded so casually, and he wisely decided to keep his mouth shut.
Hermione, for her part, was just as confused. Her plan had been for a hostile negotiation, maybe a few well-placed threats, a bit of magical intimidation. She hadn't been prepared for the cheerful, enthusiastic compliance. Weird, she thought, shrugging it off. Maybe he was just really impressed by my argument about having friends in high places.
She couldn't have known that her own, rapidly growing legend was now a more powerful weapon than any curse she could cast.
As she sorted through the priceless alchemical materials in the box—powdered Bicorn horn, Boomslang skin, a vial of what looked suspiciously like mermaid tears—she felt a surge of triumphant glee. Thank you for your generous donation, Lucius, she thought with a wicked smirk. I'll be sure to put it to good use.
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