Chapter 8: Doing Business
Narrow and gloomy.
That was Melvin's first impression of Knockturn Alley.
The street was barely half as wide as Diagon Alley, with crooked shops crowding both sides. The eaves hung so low that sunlight barely reached the ground. The moment he stepped in, his vision dimmed, and a chill crept over his entire body.
The walls were streaked with sticky black grime, mold spreading freely in the corners.
He felt something tacky underfoot, and before he could look down, a shrill voice echoed beside his ear.
"Are you lost, dearie?"
A wizened witch appeared out of nowhere, blocking his path.
Melvin caught a stench of fish of rotting fish entrails, to be precise. Looking down, he saw it came from the wicker basket she carried. The basket was covered with a linen cloth, hiding its contents, but dark red liquid oozed through the weave, dripping onto the cobblestones below.
Unconcerned with her motives, Melvin tossed a few silver Sickles into the basket. "Take me to Borgin and Burke's. If I get there unharmed, you can keep the rest."
"At your service," the old woman said with a broad, moss-toothed grin. "This way, sir. I'll make sure those sewer rats don't trouble you."
Melvin, who prided himself on respecting local customs, made no objection.
Following her down an even narrower lane, he again felt the sticky sensation beneath his boots. Looking down, he saw moss sprouting between the stones, and dark, half-dried stains that might well have been animal blood.
The deeper they went, the darker it became.
Now and then, cloaked figures hurried past, hoods drawn so low that only a chin or a patch of scales was visible.
As a commercial street, Knockturn Alley had shops on both sides. Few bore signs, and those that did displayed grim curiosities: carefully arranged shrunken heads, giant acromantulas in iron cages, troll hides stretched on wooden frames, brass bells with finger-bone clappers...
Some shops even had staff lurking in their doorways, whispering to potential customers.
A wizard of indeterminate age crouched in one archway, his eyes sharp yet hollow, while faint murmurs came from within.
Seeing Melvin's slight frown, the old witch lowered her voice. "Don't be afraid! Those aren't Muggle or wizard heads nor human bones. They're house-elf parts."
Melvin looked away. "How much farther?"
"Right past that candle shop."
The candle shop appeared almost immediately, its signboard preserved by the wax of dead flies barely legible: Knockturn Alley No. 12.
Beyond it stood Borgin and Burke's, the only shop on the street with a clear sign.
The witch took her final payment of seven silver Sickles, smiling radiantly the moss on her teeth a gentle shade of green. "Would you like me to escort you back, sir? A few copper Knuts would do."
"No, thank you."
"Happy shopping, then."
Melvin watched her vanish into the shadows, then raised his gaze to the store sign. The black lacquer was pitted and peeling, and the brass letters, stained with green rust, were tilted one hanging loose as if ready to fall and strike passersby.
The shop window was clouded with filth, like dried eye mucus, save for one small smear of clarity where someone's hand had wiped it. Even so, the old glass made it hard to see the items inside.
As he opened the door, a rusty brass bell jangled sharply.
A string of bird bones hung from the frame, their hollow centers clattering dully against the wood. Several kerosene lamps dangled from the ceiling, their shades clogged with dead insects, filling the room with a faint smell of mold and decay.
A stooped man emerged from behind the counter, slicking back his lank hair. He squinted at Melvin, studying him up and down. The moment he spotted an unfamiliar face, he brightened his eyes flicking briefly to the ring on Melvin's left hand before curling into a servile smile.
"Welcome, traveler. And what may I call you?" His tone was oilier than his hair.
"William," Melvin said calmly. It was the name of a Pukwudgie back at Ilvermorny.
"Dear Mr. William, a pleasure indeed. What can I help you find today?"
"I need something that can't be bought anywhere else," Melvin replied lightly. He didn't approach the counter but wandered between the shelves, examining the merchandise.
"Ah, Borgin and Burke's is the wisest choice you could have made," the man said, eager to please. "For instance this beauty here is called the Hand of Glory. Place a candle in its grasp, and only the holder shall see its light. A dear friend to thieves and burglars alike."
It was a withered hand, still attached to part of its forearm, the skin pale and shriveled. The arm formed the base, while the palm served as the holder, the five fingers curled just enough to cradle a candle.
Melvin feigned disgust. "Sounds like something for gutter criminals."
"Ah, but sometimes even such things have... unexpected uses."
"Then wrap it for me."
"What?" Borgin blinked.
"I said wrap it up. I'll take the Hand of Glory."
"But you haven't even asked the price "
"Consider this my show of sincerity, as it's our first transaction. I'm sure Mr. Borgin will be just as sincere." Melvin turned and met his gaze. "Won't you?"
"Of course, sir."
Caught in those dark, steady eyes, Borgin hesitated, then muttered, "Forty-three Galleons. That's the price I once charged the Bulstrodes ten years ago."
"Fifty, Mr. Borgin. This won't be our last deal."
"I appreciate your generosity." Borgin's tone softened, more genuine now.
"Good. Let's see what other curiosities you have."
The rough voice echoed through the dim shop, punctuated by occasional remarks.
"This is a Hanging Rope three hundred years ago, a wizard turned the spell Quick Bind into dark magic. The rope no longer ties or restrains it suspends."
"Excellent piece of work. While suspended, the victim can't cast spells and that alone seals their fate."
"Yes, this rope was woven from the skins of seven wizards and the hair of six witches, all hanged. It was soaked in mermaid blood under a full moon. Resentment and curse fermented within it it can silently coil around a sleeping wizard's neck and let him 'rest forever.'"
Any wizard with half a brain or even a Muggle would wake up before being strangled.
"Here, a cursed opal necklace claimed nineteen Muggle lives."
"The curse is nearly spent."
"This choking marionette, with rubies for eyes let your guard down, and its fingers will aim right for your nape..."
"And then someone smashes it to pieces, I suppose?"
"The Vanishing Cabinet able to make objects disappear and reappear, perfect for hiding or transporting magical goods."
"Where's the other half?"
"..."
When Melvin finished browsing, he bought nothing else. Borgin simply gave a bitter smile, unable to argue.
Knockturn Alley, for all its infamy, was more tolerated than forbidden by the Ministry of Magic. Not because they couldn't control it but because they didn't want to.
So long as the sewer rats stayed underground, the house cats wouldn't chase them into the dark. As long as dark wizards didn't start murdering wizards or Muggles in daylight, the Aurors would look the other way.
Borgin and Burke's, nestled deep in the Alley, had to maintain appearances. They dared not openly sell truly dangerous dark artifacts. Most of what remained merely sounded sinister more joke than threat.
After presenting the last item, Borgin's polished tone grew hoarse. "All our wares are rare magical relics, passed down by noble wizarding families."
"I need something a bit... newer."
Borgin froze. "What do you mean?"
"Something that combines magic and Muggle technology."
Melvin's voice was soft, but Borgin understood perfectly. He opened his mouth to protest then met those eyes again.
"Mr. William, I swear I'm not hiding anything."
Borgin's face twisted with hesitation. "Muggles make many fascinating devices. Some wizards enjoy tinkering with them modifying them for magic. Knockturn Alley used to sell such curios glass candles with metal wicks that lit by magic, bicycles, alarm clocks..."
Melvin's interest was piqued.
"But ever since Umbridge took over the Misuse of Magic Office, she's cracked down hard. Calls it her 'great reform.' She'd throw any wizard who so much as touches a Muggle object straight into Azkaban. So, no one dares anymore."
Melvin frowned slightly. "There must be someone still doing it."
Borgin shook his head, then paused.
After a long silence, he sighed. "Not as a business. A few hobbyists, perhaps. They work privately only share their craft with those who understand."
"Do they work with photographic materials?"
"I can't give details," Borgin said quickly. "But yes, they've dabbled in Muggle equipment. What exactly they've built, only they know. If you're truly interested, I could... make an introduction."
Melvin, new to London and short on contacts, agreed.
They exchanged contact information one-way, anonymous.
Melvin left Borgin and Burke's in good spirits. Though he hadn't found what he wanted, the trip hadn't been fruitless. At least now he knew there were wizards experimenting with Muggle technology.
Good news for a soon-to-be Muggle Studies professor.
By dusk, the sky was dimming fast.
Clutching the finely wrapped wooden box, Melvin retraced his steps through the narrow lanes of Knockturn Alley.
Night fell faster than expected. Some shops had already shuttered; others hung copper lamps with flickering candles that barely lit the street, making it feel even eerier.
Knockturn Alley was rarely crowded after dark. Even dark wizards needed sleep.
Passing a shop that once sold troll hides, Melvin slowed. Now the space beside it was a narrow side alley just wide enough for two to walk abreast. After a moment's thought, he entered; it seemed to head the right way.
The silence deepened with every step.
Turning a corner, Melvin stopped.
Two hooded figures stood ahead, their boots crunching on rat skulls embedded in the cobbles.
A sound behind made him glance back two more figures had appeared, boxing him in.
"..."
Melvin sighed.
He'd thought Knockturn Alley merely looked dangerous its menace a kind of theater, its merchants playing at intimidation. Borgin, at least, had seemed respectable enough.
Apparently, the real business took place in the shadows.
The alley had no streetlights; only the faint twilight reached this far.
Four masked wizards surrounded him, veterans by the look of them, wearing moleskin masks and linen cloaks. Each reeked faintly of dragon claw dust a scent charm used to confuse Auror trackers.
As Melvin studied them, they studied him.
"Heard there's a new customer in Knockturn Alley," rasped one. "Old Borgin's not the only merchant around. Plenty of other deals worth your coin. You here to do business?"
"Cash on delivery," Melvin replied evenly.
"What're you selling?"
"A map of Knockturn Alley."
"I thought you built the street yourselves and now you want a toll?"
"Twelve Galleons each."
"A bit steep, but acceptable."
"Minimum order, twelve copies."
"Bulk sales aren't a sustainable business model," Melvin said patiently. "Tell you what I'll buy one for ten Sickles, new-customer discount. Add maps of other magical villages across Britain, marked with more detail."
"We only sell Knockturn Alley maps. And we don't haggle."
"So you're not robbers, then?"
Melvin realized his patience was thinner than he'd thought. He tilted his head, gauging the narrow space, then looked up.
The alley was long and tight hardly ideal for a fight with enemies on both sides.
The four "entrepreneurs," sensing the deal collapsing, tightened their grips on their wands. The tension thickened.
Melvin sighed inwardly. Not even proper dueling etiquette.
He reached for the wooden box, recalling Borgin's words
Sometimes, it can have... unexpected effects.
(End of Chapter)