Malfoy Manor in 1946 still d a hint of post-war gloom, like black velvet soaked in rain.
Leaden-grey clouds hung low over the yew hedges, and the snake-shaped shrubs, trimmed precisely, swayed slightly in the wind, as if they might flick out their tongues at any moment.
The carriage rolled over the obsidian-paved driveway, the sound of wheels rubbing against gravel muffled by magic in the wind—
Evidently, the carriage had been enchanted with a "Silencing Charm," ensuring both decorum and that no secrets would be leaked to passing Muggles or House-elves.
In Borgin's memory, Malfoy Manor was always filled with two scents—expensive Dragon's Blood perfume and an lingering arrogance.
Indeed, as he stepped onto the white jade steps, he saw a House-elf named Kreacher, wearing two small silver rings on his ears, but with a very rigid demeanor.
Upon seeing Morin, he immediately made a respectful gesture.
"Mr. Borgin." The silver rings glinted in the dim doorway. "Master Abraxas is waiting for you in the study."
Stepping through the main door, the previously dim corridor instantly lit up with magic lamps, and portraits of the House of Malfoy's past patriarchs hung on the walls.
At this moment, they were squinting, disapprovingly scrutinizing this uninvited guest who had disturbed their rest.
Norwegian cedar burned in the fireplace of the west wing study, its smoky scent mingling with the aroma of Dragon's Blood perfume.
Abraxas Malfoy sat behind a massive ebony desk, his silver-grey hair impeccably combed, and the snake-shaped ring on his finger gleamed coldly under the crystal lamp.
His father, Augustin Malfoy, was advanced in age and had long since ceased managing family affairs.
However, it seemed that Abraxas Malfoy, despite his youth, had already mastered his father's habit of looking down on people, not even offering a welcome to Borgin.
"Takus," Abraxas's voice was not loud, but it carried an undeniable authority, "that batch of silver tableware you asked me to consign to Muggles last time was found by the Ministry of Magic to have residual curses—don't tell me you didn't know."
Morin sat down in the velvet chair opposite him, his posture as relaxed as if he were in his own shop:
"That small curse would, at most, make the user sneeze a few extra times, Abraxas.
Compared to that bottle of 'Laughing Potion' your father Augustin added to the French Ministry of Magic's foreign Minister's champagne, what is this?"
Abraxas's lips twitched, a hint of cunning in his smile:
"But in fact, that potion was later proven to be an ordinary exhilarant, and my father's actions were merely out of good intentions."
Pure-blood family greetings were always like this: first, a few jabs at each other, then a slow return to the main topic.
The Firewhisky brought by Kreacher shimmered amber in the crystal glass, and Morin took a sip, deliberately letting the liquor's spiciness linger on his tongue for a moment.
"Speak, Takus."
Abraxas put down his glass, scoffing.
"I don't imagine you came to the Manor to discuss whether the ingredients for an exhilarant were excessive.
Honestly, the way you just spoke sounded exactly like a Weasley demanding an explanation."
Morin put down his glass, no longer beating around the bush with Malfoy.
He traced a circle on the rim of the glass: "I want to go to Azkaban."
The air in the study instantly solidified.
After a few seconds, Abraxas sneered, as if he had heard a ridiculous joke:
"Azkaban? The Dementors there are far more troublesome than those scoundrels in Knockturn Alley.
Do you intend to peddle your Dark Arts objects to the prisoners?"
"No." Morin's voice was soft, yet it carried a strange firmness, "I want to see Ignatius Selwyn."
Abraxas's eyebrows rose.
Ignatius Selwyn, a Dark Wizard thrown into Azkaban after Grindelwald's downfall, charged with manipulating Inferi to attack Muggles, robbery, and endangering public safety, among other crimes.
"Selwyn?" Abraxas's fingers tapped lightly on the desk, "Are your grievances with him worth dealing with those uniformed idiots?"
"Grievances?" Morin suddenly laughed, his laughter perfectly laced with a hint of malice,
"I just want to see if that idiot, who always said 'the Borgin family can't even master the art of cursing,' will cry for his mother in front of a Dementor."
Abraxas scoffed: "For such a trivial matter? Borgin, you're becoming more and more like those Muggles who look for trouble."
"Perhaps." Morin didn't retort, merely looking at Augustin, "When Grindelwald fell, I helped deal with quite a few idiots who spread rumors about the House of Malfoy.
Abraxas, pure-bloods must help each other, mustn't they?"
Abraxas fell silent.
He stared at Morin for a long time, as if trying to find in Morin's eyes the ambition to unleash Dementors and subvert the Wizarding World.
But he quickly found his idea ridiculous; firstly, the Dementors' danger was not enough to overthrow the Ministry of Magic, and secondly, he had known Borgin for at least twenty years and knew him inside and out.
The light from the crystal lamp cast deep shadows on his face, and the ancestors in the family portraits seemed to be whispering.
Finally, he slowly nodded: "The Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Bulstrode, is a friend of the House of Malfoy; I will try to get him to help, but—"
He paused, his tone sharpening, "If you cause any trouble in there, it will have nothing to do with the esteemed Malfoy."
"Of course." Morin raised his glass and toasted Abraxas,
"I'm merely going to 'visit' an old acquaintance; relax, young man."
Three days later, Morin stood on a barren reef, looking around.
The sea wind, carrying salt, lashed his face, like being cut by countless tiny knives.
"Is this Azkaban?"
Just as Morin was wondering why there were no prison-like buildings around, Bulstrode then picked up an inconspicuous rusty nail from the ground, and Morin realized it must be a Portkey.
Lionel Bulstrode stood beside him, the Ministry of Magic official's double-breasted robe stained with seawater, his expression like he had swallowed a slug, his tone filled with disgust for a Dark Wizard wanting to visit a Wizard prison:
"Mr. Borgin, although Abraxas praised you as Merlin reincarnated, I must warn you—
Azkaban's walls are built of despair, and Dementors don't like strangers, especially strangers with 'purpose.'"
Morin didn't respond, ignoring Bulstrode's warning, and cheerfully hummed a tune.
As if his visit to Azkaban was merely to mock an old rival in distress—
"Ready?" Bulstrode's voice held a hint of ignored displeasure.
Morin nodded, reaching out to grasp the nail.
As the cold sensation reached his fingertips, a powerful pull seized him, and the surrounding scenery instantly twisted and spun; the salty taste of the sea wind was replaced by a stronger, mixed scent of fear and decay.
When he regained his footing, he was already in a dim corridor.
There were no windows on the stone walls, only the flickering shadows cast by torches, and grey mist floated in the air—
That was the Dementors' aura, like countless cold hands, trying to sift through his memories.
"Stay close," Bulstrode's voice held an almost imperceptible tremor, the two Aurors beside him already gripping their wands, "Don't make eye contact with any prisoner, don't stop, and certainly don't try to cast spells—any magical fluctuation could provoke a Dementor riot."
Morin followed behind them, his gaze involuntarily sweeping over the cells on either side.
Behind the iron bars, prisoners huddled like withered plants, their eyes hollow as if gouged out, their mouths uttering meaningless gibberish.
Dementors floated at the end of the corridor, their long, slender fingers extending from under their black robes, swaying gently, as if judging which "snack" was more delicious.
"Here we are." Bulstrode stopped in front of a cell.
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