Vincent's gaze swept over Mr. Borgin's rigid face. "Let me describe him. That person, that maker—perhaps he was lonely, perhaps he believed himself misunderstood by this mediocre world.
He possessed some skill that was not particularly profound, yet special enough to crudely fuse primal emotions such as pain and fear with some material vessel.
But he needed materials—special materials. Not the inferior goods found everywhere in Knockturn Alley. He needed something that could amplify pain, so he came here, to London's most famous underground magical market. He found you, or a channel like you."
Vincent turned to look at the strange items in the display cabinet. "You, Caractacus, smelled profit—and trouble. You sold the maker certain things, things you knew came from improper sources and had dangerous effects, but happened to suit his needs."
He bent slightly, studying the unidentified pulsating organ in the display case. "You told yourself it was just a transaction. One was willing to buy, the other willing to sell. You didn't ask what the maker intended to do, and you didn't want to know."
Mr. Borgin's breathing grew heavy, and more cold sweat beaded on his forehead.
"But now, there's a problem." Vincent straightened, his tone turning icy. "His creations have begun appearing where they shouldn't. He caught my attention. He led me to Knockturn Alley, to your shop."
He turned toward Mr. Borgin's bloodless face. "Perhaps the Ministry of Magic won't trace this cursed aura back here, but I will return. And I'll bring some friends—friends you would never expect."
Friends? Who would dare call themselves a friend of the Dark Lord of this new age? Those Dementors working with him? Or the elderly Wizards' Purity Party leaders he had rescued from Eckstag Prison in Germany?
Mr. Borgin instinctively held his breath. Though Vincent