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"I need... an alchemical item capable of tracking a specific person's whereabouts based on memory. The more precise—and the fewer the distance limitations—the better."
At this request, Borgin's eyebrows twitched almost imperceptibly. A sharp glint flashed behind his spectacles.
He slowly turned around. Instead of answering immediately, he looked the hooded leader up and down with an appraising gaze, as if weighing the request against the depth of his purse.
"An alchemical item for tracking people based on memory..." Borgin drawled, repeating the phrase as his fingers tapped lightly against the counter with a tock-tock sound.
"That is a rather... sensitive demand. If such a tool exists, its creation would undoubtedly be extremely complex, and the materials exceptionally rare."
As he spoke, he bent down and rummaged through an ancient cabinet beneath the counter.
The door let out a sharp, creaking squeak.
A moment later, he carefully retrieved an object and placed it on the counter.
It was an ancient-looking, somewhat crude brass basin.
The basin was about a foot in diameter, its edges tinged with dark green patina. The bottom and inner surface were engraved with intricate, densely packed runes.
Its appearance bore a certain resemblance to the Pensieve in the Hogwarts Headmaster's office.
"The Memory-Tracking Basin," Borgin said, a hint of pride in his voice as he gently wiped the rim with a piece of velvet cloth.
"An alchemical masterpiece as old as the Pensieve itself. Said to be the final work of a Middle Ages alchemical master. The method of its creation has long been lost—what remains are all antiques."
He lifted his gaze toward the cloaked figure and raised three fingers.
"Currently, in the entire British magical world, this is the last one in my possession. So... the price is three thousand Galleons."
"Three thousand Galleons?!" the hooded figure exclaimed despite himself. Even through the altered voice, the shock was unmistakable.
Outrageous. That price was practically robbery. That many Galleons could support an ordinary wizarding family for years.
"Lower it," the figure said coldly.
"Apologies." Borgin smiled thinly, spreading his hands. There was no sincerity in it—and no room for negotiation.
"Small business. Scarcity determines value. You understand the worth of this item. If you find it unsuitable..." He paused deliberately, his gaze drifting toward several shadowed corners of the shop—and the oddly shaped rings on his fingers. "...or if you wish to try other methods... I am fully prepared to oblige."
He left the sentence unfinished, but the threat was unmistakable.
To survive for years in a place as treacherous as Knockturn Alley, Borgin & Burkes had to possess hidden defenses and trump cards. Otherwise, it would have been swallowed whole long ago.
Attempting to seize it by force might cost far more than three thousand Galleons.
The cloaked figure fell silent. The shadows beneath his hood seemed to deepen.
He could tell Borgin wasn't bluffing.
Time ticked by. The air in the shop grew heavy, almost suffocating.
At last, as if vengeance outweighed the sting of the price, he spoke slowly, his voice even drier than before:
"I want to inspect the item."
"Be my guest." Borgin gestured casually, though his body shifted slightly, one hand resting just beneath the counter.
The cloaked figure motioned for the companion behind him to step forward.
But Borgin spoke again, his gaze fixed sharply.
"You. Do it."
Damn it. The figure cursed inwardly.
This old fox was sharper than expected.
After a brief pause, he stepped forward himself.
Reaching out, he placed his hand on the cool rim of the brass basin.
Then, taking a steady breath, he lowered his head and submerged his face into the faintly glowing runes at its center.
The silver runes flared to life instantly, spinning like a miniature galaxy, emitting a low hum.
He concentrated, forcing himself to recall the image of his target.
The surface of the basin churned like disturbed water, then gradually stilled.
A scene emerged.
It showed the interior of Borgin & Burkes—clearly, even capturing Borgin himself. Beside it, a line of shimmering text appeared, displaying the shop's exact address in Knockturn Alley.
It works. And it's incredibly precise.
The cloaked figure lifted his head. The image dissipated.
"No problem."
Though the target had been Borgin himself—and the old fox surely had anti-tracking measures in place—the basin still revealed the exact address. That alone proved its effectiveness.
The deal was made.
With visible reluctance, the cloaked figure produced a leather pouch enchanted with an Undetectable Extension Charm and pushed it across the counter.
Borgin took it without even opening it, simply nodding in satisfaction.
"Payment received. May you... find your target smoothly."
The two cloaked figures said nothing further. Taking the basin, they left Borgin & Burkes and disappeared into the darkness of Knockturn Alley.
Deep within a remote forest somewhere in Britain stood a dilapidated ancient stone fortress.
This was their temporary base.
Torches burned along the walls, their flickering flames casting long, distorted shadows.
"Seven," the cloaked leader said, placing the brass basin on a rough stone table. "Try it. Find that brat."
"Yes, Boss."
Seven stepped forward and lowered his head into the Memory-Tracking Basin. The runes lit up once more.
He focused intensely, clearing his mind as he tried to reconstruct the figure from that night.
A wizard far too young, yet frighteningly ruthless.
The image of a flaming sword. Precise, lethal spells. That eerie intuition, as if he could predict danger itself.
Fragments of memory tumbled through his mind.
The silver light in the basin swirled, the runes flickering as if processing the information.
But seconds passed.
No image appeared.
Instead, the light grew unstable, flickered erratically—and then faded.
The basin returned to complete stillness.
Blank.
Seven: "...?!"
He jerked his head up, disbelief written all over his face.
"Boss... it's blank."
Panic crept into his voice.
"How is that possible? My memory of that kid is crystal clear!"
"Memory not precise enough?" the leader asked.
"No! Absolutely not!" Seven snapped. Gritting his teeth, he said, "I'll try again."
He plunged his head back into the basin, straining harder, forcing every detail of Lynn into focus.
The result was the same.
A brief flicker—and then nothing.
Utter emptiness.
Seven's face went pale. Sweat beaded on his forehead.
The basin had worked perfectly on Borgin.
So why not on that kid?
"There were two targets that night," the leader said slowly. "Try the other one."
Seven's eyes lit up.
Right. The other one.
Not as vivid—but still worth trying.
He focused again, recalling the second figure.
This time, the basin reacted immediately.
A clear image formed—a spacious villa with a garden, modern and comfortable in design.
Beside it, a precise address appeared, down to the house number.
"Boss! Found it!" Seven growled, excitement rising in his voice. "The other kid's home! The address is exact!"
The cloaked leader leaned in, studying the image carefully.
The shadows beneath his hood seemed to ripple.
"Good..."
He straightened slowly.
"At least the three thousand Galleons weren't wasted."
"Call Two, Three, Four, Five, and Six."
"We're going to pay that boy a visit."
His voice dropped, filled with cold fury.
"I'll make him understand what it means to offend the wrong people."
"I'll make him watch as his home is destroyed... as his loved ones suffer..."
"And then—"
"I'll repay him a hundredfold. A thousandfold."
"I'll show him what true living hell looks like."