Knockturn Alley.
Borgin Burke expressionlessly crumpled the Daily Prophet into a ball and stuffed it precisely into a glass jar containing a shrunken head.
The newspaper plugged the head's mouth.
Inside the jar, the shriveled head shook violently, spewing muffled curses that sounded like bursting bubbles:
"Merlin's stinking socks! This is more disgusting than a blood curse! Werewolves can be cured now? Where will you find such obedient little wolf cubs after this, Mr. Burke? Kill that meddling Holmes!"
Borgin Burke lightly tapped the cold glass wall of the jar with a fingertip, producing a crisp knock.
The curve of his mouth was more cutting than the most crooked venomous snake's fang in the shop.
"Formalin has rotted your brain, not mine."
"Didn't you see whose handiwork this was? There's something deeply strange about that boy. I don't want any trouble."
"If he wants to teach those beasts to eat with silver forks, let him."
Borgin Burke turned toward the shadows, lowering his voice further with the certainty of someone expecting a good show.
"Just wait. That fellow never makes a losing deal."
Deep in Knockturn Alley, the door hinges of the Erumpent the Leaky Cauldron groaned.
A witch wearing snake-shaped earrings slammed a Skull Goblet onto an oak table, splashing liquor.
"A bookish little badger wants to turn Greyback's pack into pet dogs wagging their tails for scraps?"
Her hoarse laughter sounded like two pieces of sandpaper rubbing together.
In the shadows of a corner, a hooded figure slowly raised his head.
The shadow cast by the edge of his hood just covered the upper half of his face, leaving only a pair of eyes that remained sharp in the dim light.
He addressed the person across the table in a low voice with a gravel-worn texture.
"Did you