Several months passed in a flash.
The early summer sunlight, like crushed gold leaf, finally pierced through the gloom that had hung over London all winter.
The snow on the main roads softened in the sun, and the icicles hanging from the eaves dripped, forming trickles that snaked through the cracks in the flagstones—
But this warm current was cut off as soon as it reached the entrance of Knockturn Alley, as if by an invisible barrier.
The alley still reeked of damp mildew and a rust-like chill, with dark green moss creeping between the mottled wall plaster.
Occasionally, a Black-robed figure would slink along the wall, their footsteps as hushed as a thief's, intensifying the deathly silence of this street.
The wooden door of Borgin and Burkes was ajar, and when a customer occasionally visited, the creak of the turning door hinge was exceptionally clear in the alley.
Unlike the gloom outside, the shop actually had a touch of warmth inside:
Sunlight filtered through the dusty windowpanes, casting skewed patches of light on the floor, illuminating the motes of dust floating in the air.
Morin leaned behind the counter, his fingertips unconsciously tapping the tabletop—
On it lay an old notebook with its cover worn off, a "textbook" of spells he had compiled for Finn and Lina, drawing from Borgin's original memories and his own understanding.
After all, having grown up in a Werewolf tribe, the two lacked even the most basic magic knowledge, and the magic books in the bookstore were like hieroglyphs to them.
"Impedimenta!" Finn's shout rattled the windowpanes.
The boy had probably poured all his strength into his voice, waving his wand like a fire poker, but not even a spark emerged from the tip.
The spider on the wall did stop this time, but not because it was hit by a spell—
Instead, it swayed along its web, rubbing a slender leg near its feelers, as if scratching an itch caused by Finn's spit.
Lina, on the other hand, behaved in complete contrast to her brother, pointing her wand at the spider and then muttering incessantly in a low voice.
Morin rubbed his forehead.
After several months of training, he found that the magic talent of the Werewolf siblings was indeed not outstanding—
Finn always treated spells like a charge, while Lina, as if afraid of disturbing the air, whispered her incantations like a mosquito's hum.
But there was no choice; bound by the contract, he had to find a way to give the Werewolf siblings some self-preservation ability.
After all, in a place like Knockturn Alley, the claws and teeth of young Werewolves couldn't protect themselves.
So Morin could only find a way to teach them some simple and practical magic.
"Stop."
Morin stood up, his leather shoes making a dull thud on the floor.
Finn's hand stiffened, his wand clattering to the ground, his face as red as a sun-baked apple.
Lina quickly put her hands behind her back, her eyelashes lowered, the tips of her ears flushed pink.
"Finn," Morin picked up the wand and handed it to him, tapping the back of the boy's hand with his fingertips,
"With that gesture, do you want to nail the poor spider to the wall, or do you want to bow to the portrait of Merlin on the wall?
Relax your wrist, point the wand at the target—magic is guided by intent, not shouted out."
He demonstrated a standard Impediment Jinx gesture, his wand tip tracing a neat arc, "And you, Lina."
The girl suddenly looked up, her eyes showing the startled panic of a young deer.
"I have emphasized to you many times that the most important thing in learning new spells is confidence.
Many times, as long as you are confident in your magic, even if you make a mistake in your understanding of the spell, you may still cast the correct spell…
The power of a spell is half in the wand, and half comes from within."
Morin softened his tone, "If you don't even believe you can stop the spider, why should magic listen to you? Try again, louder."
Lina bit her lip and raised her wand again. This time she took a deep breath, her voice still trembling slightly, but much clearer than before: "Im-Impedimenta."
A faint white light finally flashed from the wand tip, and the spider's movement paused for half a second.
"Very good."
Just as Morin was about to praise her, the shop door was suddenly pushed open. A cold wind, carrying a few dead leaves, swept in, making the notebook on the table rustle.
Finn and Lina immediately reflexively put away their wands and straightened their backs, ready to greet the guest—
Having spent a long time in Knockturn Alley, they had long learned to act according to Morin's expression.
But when Morin's gaze fell on the person at the door, his brow furrowed almost imperceptibly, and then he raised his hand to stop the Werewolf siblings who wanted to step forward.
"This is Mr. Tom Riddle."
Morin's voice showed no anomaly, "An excellent graduate of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and your senior."
The young man at the door wore a well-pressed dark robe, his black hair meticulously combed, and a perfectly appropriate smile on his pale face.
His eyes were a very deep black, like two bottomless ancient wells, carrying a scrutinizing focus when they fell on someone, but quickly turning into a gentle smile.
Upon hearing the introduction, he nodded slightly, his demeanor impeccably elegant.
"Hello, Mr. Riddle."
As soon as Finn and Lina heard that Mr. Riddle was also an employee of the shop, they looked at Riddle with curious eyes, then shook hands with him one by one and briefly introduced themselves.
"Is there something, Tom?"
Morin waited with a slight smile for the young people to finish their pleasantries, then asked.
"It's like this, Mr. Borgin, no offense, and although I've enjoyed working with you immensely, you know—
My ideal job is to return to my alma mater, Hogwarts, and secure a teaching position there, so I plan to take a few days off to prepare for an important interview."
Tom Riddle's tone was respectful and humble, perfectly measured.
"Of course." Morin's face creased into a polite smile, "It's good for young people to have ambitions, and Borgin and Burkes will always welcome you."
He paused, then casually glanced towards the back room.
"By the way, regarding Finn and Lina, you must have noticed something, and I hope you won't spread it around."
Riddle's smile stiffened for a moment, a flicker of inquiry quickly passing through his eyes.
Morin saw it clearly, and this was also his purpose—
He wanted Riddle to mistakenly believe that he had two dangerous Werewolves under him, and that these two Werewolves now even held wands—
It was easy to kill a reclusive Dark Arts shop owner in Knockturn Alley, but to move against three Dark Wizards who were wary of each other yet also watched out for each other, one would have to think twice.
After all, Riddle didn't know the Werewolf siblings' half-baked magic foundation, and they were only holding wands because they had forgotten to put them away after practicing the Impediment Jinx.
"Of course, I will keep Mr. Borgin's secret, after all, I owe Mr. Borgin a lot for his care these days." Riddle quickly regained his composure,
"Then I'll take my leave."
Although Finn and Lina were curious about what Riddle had noticed, they said nothing, chattering as they saw Riddle out the door, uttering polite remarks such as "If you have any difficulties, Senior, just say the word."
Morin leaned against the door, watching Riddle's back disappear into the shadows of the alley entrance, his heart slowly sinking.
Riddle had been a bit off lately.
Before, the boy always lingered in the shop under the guise of organizing antiques, his eyes scanning every collection like a periscope, especially those old items imbued with Dark Arts aura.
But in these past few weeks, he had been much more subdued, sometimes staring out the window, a faint, almost mocking smile even playing on his lips.
Morin suddenly remembered a few days ago, when Riddle had inquired about Hepzibah Smith.
Although that old woman was vain and foolish, she was ultimately just an innocent person who possessed Slytherin's locket and Hufflepuff's cup.
He originally didn't want to get involved.
This was the original plot, Riddle's inevitable path to becoming Lord Voldemort; as an outsider, why should he meddle in this muddy water?
But the tapping of his fingertips on the counter grew faster and faster—no matter how annoying Hepzibah was, she was still a human life.
Finally, Morin sighed, grabbed the cloak hanging by the door, and instructed Finn and Lina to stay put in the shop.
If there was danger, they were to twist the basement doorknob three times, then hide inside and wait for him to return.
Not long after, Morin appeared out of thin air in front of a grand, ivy-covered mansion on the outskirts of London.
The door knocker was made of brass, gleaming coldly in the twilight.
Morin took a deep breath and raised his hand to knock on the door.
"Takus!"
Hepzibah Smith, who opened the door, wore a lace-trimmed silk nightgown, her face adorned with an exaggerated smile, her jewel bracelet jingling on her wrist,
"Come in quickly! Hokey just roasted veal chops, you've come at the perfect time."
Her perfume was overpoweringly strong; Morin, suppressing his discomfort, bowed slightly for a hand-kiss, his fingertips quickly touching her wrinkled hand: "My pleasure, Hepzibah."
The dining table was covered with a stiffly starched white tablecloth, and the silver cutlery was polished to a shine.
Hepzibah handed Morin a plate piled high with sandwiches, butter dripping down the bread crusts: "Try some? Hokey's cooking is first-rate."
"No, I'm already stuffed to the brim."
Morin pushed the plate away, lowering his voice,
"I heard reliable news that Grindelwald's remnants are after you."
Hepzibah paused, her hand scooping soup, and raised an eyebrow at him: "Oh? What are they after me for?"
"Those founder's relics you possess." Morin stared into her eyes,
"They believe that by obtaining those items, they can rebuild their power and rescue their master.
I advise you to donate those things to the Ministry of Magic or Hogwarts, to avoid disaster through financial loss."
Morin was entirely well-intentioned, as he couldn't think of anyone other than Dumbledore who could safely guard these two treasures from Lord Voldemort.
Hepzibah suddenly laughed, her laughter like fingernails scraping glass:
"Takus, do you take me for those brainless fools you've tricked?
Don't forget, my dear Takus, Slytherin's locket, you sold it to me at a high price back then.
What, now you want to help the esteemed Headmaster Dippet reclaim the Hogwarts founder's relics without spending a single Galleon?"
Morin's face darkened.
He had forgotten this woman's vanity, and he had forgotten the image of Borgin in the minds of most Wizards.
"I hope you take my warning seriously, don't forget what business I'm in."
Borgin earnestly advised, but to the plump woman opposite him, it sounded more like a threat.
The two quickly fell silent.
After politely eating some food, Morin stood up, bade Hepzibah farewell, and ended this terrible conversation.
"Farewell, Takus."
Hepzibah waved her hand, not even bothering with polite words of retention.
As Morin walked out of the mansion, the evening wind, carrying a chill, blew against his face.
He looked back at the house, which was lit with warm yellow light.
"That's my last act of kindness, Hepzibah."
When he returned to the shop, it was already empty. Finn and Lina had already gone upstairs to rest.
Morin didn't light a lamp, fumbling his way down the stairs to the basement in the dark.
The basement was piled with strange old items and magic books, and the air was filled with the smell of dust and decaying wood.
He slumped into a worn armchair, the darkness surging like a tide, engulfing him whole.
Hepzibah's foolishness, Riddle's ruthlessness, the Werewolf siblings' troubles… countless thoughts swirled in Morin's mind.
He thought of his life before transmigration, a nine-to-five job, weekends spent lying on the sofa watching TV, a life as bland as plain water.
But now, he had come to this bizarre magic world, constantly at risk of being drawn into danger, even his attempts to warn others to save their lives were seen as having ulterior motives.
"Sigh…"
A tired sigh echoed in the empty basement, quickly swallowed by the darkness, leaving no trace of an echo.
The moonlight from outside shone through the small vent window, casting a pale patch of light on the ground, like an unvisited tombstone.