January 3, 1946.
Only a few days after Christmas, London, as a metropolis, was already bustling with people; Muggles and Wizards were still immersed in the joy of the holiday.
Yes, not just Muggles, but Wizards too—
Although Morin found it hard to imagine that Wizards, who considered themselves noble, would enjoy the same holiday as Muggles, it was true. Most Wizards disliked Muggles but enjoyed relaxation and holidays.
As for why Morin knew clearly that these days were Christmas, it was because he had received numerous invitations to Christmas dinners in mid-December.
However, as an undocumented person who had transmigrated, Morin naturally declined all invitations.
Of course, the invitations were not as forceful as they seemed.
Although most pure-blood Wizards were related, it was clear that not all pure-bloods were willing to invite a dangerous Dark Wizard who peddled illegal items to celebrate Christmas.
In fact, if it weren't for Riddle, this outstanding employee, Morin, as the sole direct descendant of an old pure-blood family and a Dark Wizard, would have had no worries at all.
After all, ever since Grindelwald was imprisoned in Nurmengard, the Ministry of Magic had intensified its search for Dark Wizards and Dark Arts items.
Therefore, even Knockturn Alley was quite safe.
But at the same time, Morin held a rather pessimistic skepticism about his own combat effectiveness:
If a Dark Wizard suddenly ambushed him, it would be a question whether he could successfully draw his wand from his pocket before falling to the ground after being hit.
As Morin thought, he stood behind the counter, polishing an obsidian dagger inlaid with scarlet opals with a worn deerskin cloth.
His fingers were long and his nails neatly trimmed. His movements were incredibly steady, as if he wasn't holding a dark creation that could burn the skin, but merely a glass of expensive wine that needed careful handling.
His hair, like greasy raven feathers, clung to his pale forehead, and his eyes appeared even more turbid in the dim light, revealing the peculiar indifference of someone who had dealt with forbidden magic and filth for many years.
The shop was filled with an lingering musty smell from Knockturn Alley outside, like old blood scabs mixed with the scent of rotting vines.
The window panes were completely covered by heavy black cloth, and the only light came from a few spherical lamps hanging from the ceiling, emitting a faint green glow, illuminating the twisted metal objects on the shelves, bottled murky liquids, and dried claws nailed to the walls, making them seem to writhe like living things.
After Morin finished polishing the dagger and had nothing else to do, the shop was so quiet that he could hear the echo of his own heartbeat, until a rapid flapping sound broke the silence.
Morin frowned.
Wizards living in Knockturn Alley wouldn't choose owls to deliver messages; they often had more covert methods.
And owls wouldn't approach the depths of Knockturn Alley, let alone his window, which was enchanted with repelling and warning spells.
The last time Morin saw an owl was before Christmas.
Morin gestured lightly, and as the curtain slowly rolled up, a raptor with feathers as black as tar and a body larger than a normal owl was staring at the window pane with its amber, emotionless eyes, clutching a parchment scroll tied with rough twine in its talons.
Morin waved his hand silently, and a small trapdoor on the window automatically popped open.
The owl flew in without hesitation, landed on the counter, and roughly dropped the parchment scroll in front of Yaxley, then tilted its head, as if waiting for something.
Morin ignored it and picked up the scroll. The parchment was hard and rough, with irregular tears at the edges, as if ripped from something larger.
There was no wax seal on it, only tied with a wolf's hair stained with dark smudges.
The moment he saw the wolf's hair, Morin's eyes flickered, as if remembering something.
His face showed a mixture of wariness, disgust, and a hint of almost imperceptible solemnity.
He tore off the wolf's hair and unrolled the parchment.
The handwriting on the paper was scrawled and frantic, as if written with some dark liquid, and the edges had already begun to blacken, as if it could decay into powder at any moment.
"Dear Tarkus," the opening salutation was simple and direct,
"By the time you receive this letter, I am already dead. Those fools, blinded by greed and stupidity, took everything from me, including my life. I had long anticipated this day."
Morin's fingers tightened slightly, and the parchment immediately let out a friction sound of unbearable strain.
"My only concern is my children, Finn and Lina. They should not pay the price for my failure, but the new rulers will not spare them—
There is no mercy in a Werewolf's dictionary; this is a truth we learn in the cradle.
Therefore, my children will go to London under my arrangement."
"I trust you remember the covenant between us," the subsequent handwriting was even more forceful, even tearing the parchment,
"Many years ago, you owed me a favor and swore an oath with ancient magic. Now, I demand that you fulfill it. Protect them, at least let them survive and escape the pursuit. This is my last request, and it is your obligation."
The signature was a scrawled, claw-mark-like inscription: "Harris".
Morin stared at the signature for a long time, his face devoid of any expression.
Covenant.
Morin slowly recalled Borgin's past.
That was in the forests of Albania; at that time, Borgin was still an impulsive and adventurous young man.
After a bloody conflict with a Vampire clan, he was forced to seek refuge with the local Werewolf clan.
And after that, on a whim, he swore an oath with this Werewolf elder named Harris.
It was a quite ancient Dark Arts covenant, using the life force of both parties as collateral. One party could make a non-fatal request, and the other party had to fulfill it, with only death being able to break the covenant's bonds.
At that time, young Mr. Borgin could not have imagined that barely a decade later, that shrewd and powerful Werewolf elder would die in his own lair, and on his deathbed, entrust his children to a human Wizard in London, thousands of miles away.
And Borgin at that time was far from as seasoned and cautious as he would be a decade later, and with a grateful heart, he impulsively signed a covenant with strict magical efficacy.
At this thought, Morin couldn't help but curse under his breath, his voice hoarse like rusted metal scraping.
Werewolves—filthy, barbaric, uncontrollable creatures.
Borgin never liked dealing with them, let alone getting involved in their internal power struggles.
But a covenant is a covenant, especially an ancient magical covenant that involves the soul. The price of breaking it was enough to make even the most powerful Dark Wizard shudder.
Morin shook his head, shaking off the emotions that had suddenly surged with the original owner's memories, and gazed out the window, then saw nothing—