Borgin and Burkes dominated Knockturn Alley like a squat, malevolent spider at the center of its web. Its grimy windows displayed only the faintest glint of sinister treasures inside: cursed necklaces, blood-stained daggers, glass cases of shriveled hands that still twitched when no one was looking.
The shop dealt exclusively in the darkest end of the magical market—objects that could kill, maim, or enslave with a single careless touch.
Mr. Borgin himself bought anything strange and sinister, no questions asked, and his ledger had probably recorded more crimes than the Ministry's Department of Magical Law Enforcement.
Decades earlier, a brilliant but already twisted Tom Riddle had worked here after Hogwarts, quietly pocketing two irreplaceable Founders' heirlooms on his final day: Helga Hufflepuff's small golden cup and Salazar Slytherin's heavy silver locket. Both would later become Horcruxes. The memory made Roger's skin crawl as he stepped across the threshold.
The interior smelled of old parchment, rust, and something faintly rotten.
Shelves sagged under the weight of forbidden tomes, shrunken heads muttered insults under their breath, and a Hand of Glory flickered weakly in its case, waiting for an owner wicked enough to awaken it fully.
For most wizards, the hardest part of shopping here was telling real artefacts from clever fakes and negotiating prices without being fleeced. Roger's Bio-computer stripped away both problems instantly—scanning aura signatures, cross-referencing against every Dark Arts text he'd ever read—but he still refused to touch anything.
Ancient curses didn't care how clever your tech was; one accidental brush and he could end up a twitching husk or simply dead.
"I want research notes on the Cruciatus Curse," he said without preamble.
In Knockturn Alley, you learned fast: speak little, give away nothing, project quiet menace. The sort of people who frequented these shops didn't attack unless they thought you were easy meat.
Mr. Borgin peered over the counter, small eyes glinting like wet pebbles. "Family too busy to come themselves, are they? Sending the little heir on errands?"
Roger gave a single, curt nod. "Hurry up. I don't have all day."
Borgin studied him again—the unfamiliar face, the obviously expensive Hogwarts robes (self-cleaning silk, custom cut, the kind only old money could afford without blinking), the boy's calm, almost bored posture.
Another pure-blood brat playing at darkness, he decided. Dangerous to insult, lucrative to serve. He flashed a thin, yellow-toothed smile that held no warmth whatsoever.
"Studious young gentleman. Your parents must be proud. Give my regards to your father."
My father? Roger kept his expression blank while inwardly rolling his eyes. Whatever fantasy Borgin had spun—some shadowy patriarch from the Sacred Twenty-Eight sending his son on a discreet errand—Roger had no intention of correcting it.
He waited in silence as Borgin rummaged behind the counter, shoving aside piles of cursed jewellery, cracked crystal balls, and scrolls that hissed faintly when disturbed.
The shop bell gave a dull jangle. Another customer entered and had to wait.
The newcomer's cloak was patched in several places, though clean and carefully mended. He looked young—early thirties at most—yet his light-brown hair was already threaded with premature grey.
His face was pale, drawn, exhausted; dark shadows ringed kind but weary eyes. A thin scar curved across one cheek.
Remus Lupin.
The Bio-computer supplied the match instantly.
Werewolf. Marauder. James Potter's best friend. Shunned by most of wizarding society because of his condition, he'd spent years scraping by on menial jobs and charity until Dumbledore offered him the Defence post in Harry's third year.
What on earth was he doing in Borgin and Burkes?
"Three hundred Galleons, if you please." Borgin finally produced a thin, tattered notebook, its leather cover cracked and stained.
Roger opened it, skimmed a page of spidery handwriting detailing pain-threshold experiments, then let the Bio-computer run its verification.
Authentic. He counted out the coins from an Undetectable Extension pouch and slid them across the counter.
Borgin pocketed the gold with greedy speed. "Anything else catch your eye, young sir?"
Roger was already turning toward the door. "No."
"Have a browse, then. I'll be here." Borgin lost interest in the remaining customer and slumped back into his chair.
Lupin, who had been quietly examining a shelf of tarnished silver rings, spoke up. "Why did he get good service, but you haven't even glanced at me?"
Borgin glanced from Roger's pristine robes to Lupin's threadbare cloak and gave a harsh, barking laugh. "Because your clothes are like that.. and because in five minutes that boy just handed me three hundred Galleons. You… take your time."
Roger stepped back into the alley. The change was immediate: the air grew colder, heavier, smelling of damp stone, cheap incense, and unwashed robes. Within seconds he felt eyes latch onto him—several pairs, predatory and patient.
One black-robed figure peeled away from a doorway and began following openly, boots scraping the cobbles.
Roger glanced down at himself: ten years old, custom silk uniform screaming wealth, fresh from the biggest Dark shop in the alley. He might as well have been wearing a sign that read "Rob Me."
"Attacking a child is rather low, don't you think?"
The calm voice came from behind. The follower spun.
"Mind your own bloody business, mate! Meddlers die young!"
The shout was the match to dry tinder. Shadows shifted; four more figures detached from walls and alcoves, wands already in hand, boxing the lane.
"Run, child!" Lupin stepped forward, drawing a scarred wand and planting himself between Roger and the closing circle.
"Expelliarmus!" A red flash scorched the stones at the leader's feet—warning shot.
The black-robed wizard snarled and retaliated with a jet of sickly green light. Cruciatus. Weak, poorly focused, the colour pale and flickering compared to true mastery, but still agony if it connected.
Roger's Bio-computer catalogued it instantly: wand angle, incantation cadence, magical density—all data points refining future models.
Lupin batted the curse aside with a conjured shield, then fired three swift streaks of white light—Petrificus Totalus.
The leader dodged, laughing. "Backup's here, lads!" The circle tightened.
One of the newcomers leered at Roger's robes. "Pure-blood lamb in silk. Strip him quick and we've got hundreds of Galleons—long as we don't kill the brat."
"You really should have run," Lupin murmured, never taking his eyes off the wands pointed at them.
"Thank you," Roger said quietly, "but I think you could use some help."
He raised his wand in a smooth, almost casual arc. Five emerald-green streaks lashed out.
"Imperio!" several of the thugs shrieked, stumbling backward in panic.
A child casting multiple Imperius Curses? Even most adult Dark wizards couldn't manage that without breaking a sweat.
One streak connected. The struck man gave a strangled squeak, shrank, and dropped to the stones as a scrawny brown rat.
"It's just bloody Transfiguration!" someone yelled.
"Undo Jeffry, you little freak!" the leader roared, backing up.
"What kind of sick spell looks that much like Imperio? We're out—now!"
They Disapparated in sharp cracks, vanishing into the deeper dark of the alley.
Roger tapped the rat once. Pop. The terrified wizard reappeared, sprawled and shaking.
Lupin didn't hesitate. "Expelliarmus!" The man's wand flew into his hand.
Silence returned, broken only by distant dripping water and the ragged breathing of the downed thug.
Lupin lowered his wand, turned, and offered Roger a tired but genuinely warm smile. "Hello. I'm Remus Lupin. That was… brilliant. Truly brilliant."