Night gradually receded, and the morning light slowly crept over the lowest rooftops, like unfurled, graying paper.
The shadows in the alley still stubbornly clung to the corners, doorways, and crooked roofs.
The clamor of Knockturn Alley seemed to be blocked by some invisible barrier outside the stone house.
Only an occasional faint sound, indistinguishable as breaking glass or metal scraping, seeped through the window cracks, swirled in the silent air, and then silently dissipated.
The kitchen candlelight flickered, stretching the Werewolf siblings' shadows long against the rough stone wall, like two curled-up small beasts.
Lina had cried herself to sleep, leaning against Finn's arm, her breathing gradually steadying, though unshed tears still clung to her eyelashes, glinting faintly in the firelight.
Finn was not sleepy.
He looked down at his sister's pale little face, then glanced at the slightly ajar door.
The firelight in the living room still flickered, Morin's figure framed by the doorway, motionless, with only the occasional soft rustle of the snake-skin book, like a slow heartbeat.
Just yesterday, he was the offspring of the Werewolf elder, but now he was a homeless dog fleeing in disarray.
He had thought that Borgin, the Wizard who had been saved by his father, would become a trustworthy ally, but that hope vanished with Morin's attitude.
Contract, transaction, not responsibility and friendship.
Finn stroked the somewhat worn and cracked stone wall, pressing his slightly bitter lips together.
He looked down at his sister's pale little face, then glanced at the slightly ajar door.
The firelight in the living room still flickered, Morin's figure framed by the doorway, motionless, with only the occasional soft rustle of the snake-skin book, like a slow heartbeat.
Finn grew up in a Werewolf settlement, hearing only various legends about Wizards.
The best among them were beings who could summon wind and rain with a flick of their wands, easily tearing apart the strongest Werewolves, while Werewolves were regarded as filthy beasts and outcasts.
However, Mr. Borgin, who took them in, while not so kind, seemed to lack these prejudices.
Mr. Borgin was like a stone steeped in ice water, possessing only coldness and indifference.
"Grrr..."
Lina's stomach let out a soft rumble, and she frowned in her sleep, snuggling closer into Finn's arms.
Finn picked up the remaining rock-hard slice of bread from the table, broke off a small piece, dabbed some jam on it, and tentatively offered it to her mouth.
Lina instinctively opened her mouth, chewing in small bites, her eyes still closed, her long eyelashes trembling.
The sweet scent of raspberry jam diffused, somewhat dispelling the chill in the stone house.
Finn watched her swallow, and the spark of hope that Morin had extinguished in his heart quietly reignited.
He had to kill Cole.
Not only to avenge his father's death, but also for the only family he had left in this world—his sister Lina.
He was her older brother; he had to bear this responsibility. He couldn't let his sister continue to live such a life of constant fear.
Cole's wrinkled face reappeared before his eyes—
His murky eyes were full of greed, and drops of blood from his claw tips splattered on the flagstones, blooming into a small dark red flower.
The thud of his father falling echoed like a heavy hammer against Finn's eardrums, still buzzing.
Borgin said he wouldn't help with revenge because it wasn't in the contract.
But what wasn't in the contract didn't mean they couldn't do it themselves.
He couldn't bear this wandering, dependent life of an escapee for another moment.
He had to protect Lina, and he had to avenge his father.
Just then, a very soft "hiss" suddenly came from the room, like a snake flicking its tongue, or the sound of leather rubbing.
Without warning, the scrying mirror on Morin's table chimed.
Finn instantly tensed, pulling Lina behind him, holding his breath as he looked towards the crack in the door.
But Borgin's reaction was even faster than Finn's—
Almost simultaneously with the scrying mirror chiming, Morin's fingertips were still paused on the line "Blood Curse Backlash Cases," but his body had already tensed like a drawn bowstring.
The next second, his acacia wood wand slid from his sleeve into his palm with a "swish."
His movement was as swift as a shadow—his wrist twisted, and the wand tip was already pointing steadily forward, an ominous pale green glow stirring at its tip.
Morin's pupils contracted slightly, his gaze sweeping over the shadows of the alley entrance like a hawk.
"May I come in?" A clear female voice was heard from outside the dilapidated wooden door.
Morin's tensed shoulders suddenly slumped, and the green light at the wand tip vanished like a snuffed candle.
"Tsk." Morin gave a self-deprecating laugh, his wrist flicking deftly, and the wand slid back into the leather sheath at his waist, down his sleeve.
With a soft "click," like a pebble falling into a deep ditch, the wooden door opened.
A tingling itch ran up his wrist. Morin shook his hand and closed the book, "The Origins of Medieval Dark Arts," cover up—Morin was pained to find that in his haste, he had pinched a deep crease into the pages.
"Creak—"
The sound of the shop door opening was like old bones rubbing, accompanied by a crisp, uncharacteristic jingle of silver Bells.
Morin didn't even lift his eyelids, muttering:
"Damn it, another little brat has wandered in... These Werewolf cubs haven't even wiped away their tears yet, and this isn't an orphanage."
The scrying mirror on the table flickered helplessly, seemingly telling its owner that it also didn't know the unexpected visitor would be a little girl.
Morin casually looked up, then suddenly narrowed his eyes—
This was not the usual kind of wild child wearing patched cloaks seen in the alley.
The girl before him was at most sixteen or seventeen, with an impeccably neat golden bun, a small, silver snake-shaped hairpin tucked into her temple, glinting coldly in the dim light.
The dark green cloak she wore clearly looked expensive, with an exquisite family crest embroidered on the collar—it was the House of Black's emblem.
Most striking was the small velvet clutch bag she held, with a glittering golden chain attached, clearly holding many Galleons.
"Evelyn Astley Black,"
Morin recognized the young lady at a glance; after all, it was rare to find a pureblood Wizard whose name the original Borgin didn't know.
Moreover, Caractacus Burke's cousin, Herbert Borgin's wife, Belvina Black, was from the House of Black.
The impatience on Morin's face instantly vanished as if swept away by a spell.
He adjusted his tie, plastered what he considered a kindly fake smile on his face, and instinctively bowed slightly.
"Oh! Isn't this the young lady of the House of Black?"
Morin exaggeratedly raised an eyebrow, showing a respect unsuited to the girl's age and status.
"What wind has blown such a distinguished guest to my humble abode? Please, come in, come in! Don't dirty your shoes—"
"Swish, swish," Morin again pulled out his wand, and several finely crafted rugs unfurled onto the floor out of thin air.
The Werewolf siblings beside him were so shocked their mouths hung open—the mysterious and powerful image of Mr. Borgin in their minds was utterly shattered.
However, at this moment, Morin had no time to maintain any image; he was already praising his goods with various flowery words to retain this young patron.