Chapter 133: The Great Knockturn Alley Adventure (Part 1)

"Huh?"

"Stupefy."

Cohen shot a stunning spell at Mundungus without hesitation.

This guy used to be one of Dumbledore's informants, and Cohen wasn't about to let him walk away just like that. The memory had to go—couldn't risk Dumbledore getting the wrong idea about him.

"Earl, ever heard of something called the Silver Key Gathering?" Cohen asked Earl after wiping Mundungus's memory clean.

"I'm not God," Earl replied. "You can't just throw a random name at me and expect me to know everything about it. Even an owl's got its limits."

"We'll figure it out soon enough." Cohen summoned some ropes with a flick of his wand and tied Mundungus up tight. "I'm heading to 77 Knockturn Alley like he mentioned—gotta check it out before the holidays are over."

"They're probably not at 77 Knockturn Alley anymore," Earl warned suddenly. "The dragon liver shop shut down. It's a magic candle store now."

"What if it's just a front?" Cohen speculated. "In Mundungus's memory, they've got a warehouse underground. The shop up top is just for show."

Whatever was going on with that storefront, Cohen wasn't canceling the trip. He'd never been to Knockturn Alley before, after all.

---

"Damn it, I knew I forgot something."

The night after Christmas, Cohen transfigured a pillow into a "sleeping Cohen" to fool any family check-ins. Then he realized a major problem.

He'd forgotten to practice Apparition. Blame it on the basilisks and Voldemort—Cohen had been so caught up in saving those two giant snakes and making sure Voldemort's plans didn't kill any students that he hadn't even thought about needing Apparition during the Christmas break.

Now he had no choice… it was back to the Knight Bus.

Cohen climbed out the window. Second floor? No big deal—he wouldn't die from that fall.

*Thud.*

He hit the ground with a muffled noise. His parents and grandma were chatting loudly in the living room, oblivious to the sound outside.

It was a weird feeling—standing out in the snowy night, peering through the window at the cozy scene inside. Almost like Voldemort sneaking up on the Potters that night. Cohen shook his head. Too many dark comparisons. He wasn't anything like No-Nose. If Cohen pushed open the door next to him, he'd get hugs and worried questions from his family. Voldemort? Screams and curses aimed straight at his face.

Cohen picked a spot a little ways from the house, stepped to the road, and held out his wand toward the street.

With a sharp screech, a bright purple triple-decker bus materialized in front of him.

"Hey there!"

The door banged open. The old, forgetful conductor was gone—replaced by a young guy, maybe eighteen or nineteen, with big, flapping ears and a few pimples dotting his face.

"Welcome aboard the Knight Bus—emergency transport for…"

The same long-winded spiel Cohen had heard last time, word for word.

"I'm Stan Shunpike, your conductor today," the guy said cheerfully, reaching for Cohen's suitcase.

"Nah, I've got it," Cohen said, keeping the case to himself. He paid up like a pro. "To the Leaky Cauldron. Add a hot chocolate."

"You lost?" Stan asked—the exact same line the last conductor had used.

"I remember him!" Ernie Prang, the driver, wiped his thick, bottle-cap glasses and squinted at Cohen through the rearview mirror. "Dek Maff!"

"Yep, that's right! Good memory, driver. Way better than that last conductor, Tuck, or whatever his name was," Cohen said with a nod.

Honestly, this bus felt like it could run itself as long as someone floored the gas. No need for a driver to care about the destination.

After another bumpy ride, Cohen finally stepped off in front of the Leaky Cauldron.

"Need any help, kid?" Tom, the innkeeper, called out.

"No thanks," Cohen replied politely.

Seriously, with a friendly Dementor like him, Cohen couldn't figure out why those Aurors held such a grudge. Sure, he'd killed a few people, worked with Voldemort, hung out in sketchy places, and kept dangerous magical creatures—but he was a good guy! Well, a good *monster*, anyway.

Unlike Edward with his lousy memory, Cohen had memorized the "password" to Diagon Alley's wall after just one visit last year. He tapped a brick with his wand, and the path opened up.

Diagon Alley in the snowy night had a charm all its own. Some shops still open late hadn't taken down their Christmas decorations yet. Multicolored lights reflected off the snow piles, making them look like giant scoops of mixed-flavor ice cream. A few stores had snowmen out front—animated ones, conjured by magic. They danced and shouted ads at passersby, though Cohen figured it wasn't helping business. The few people out this late were actively avoiding those shops, probably scared the snowmen might latch onto them.

The entrance to Knockturn Alley was down a hidden side street off Diagon Alley, a stark contrast to the warm, festive vibe. The paths here were narrow, the storefronts dark and rundown. The few lit-up shops glowed faintly with dim, yellowish oil lamps, making the place feel even creepier.

Cohen counted the peeling, rotting door signs as he headed deeper into the alley. Number 77 should be pretty far back.

Along the way, he paused in front of another shop.

**Borgin and Burkes.**

Technically, the Burke family probably owned a share of this place—it was founded by ancestors of the Borgin and Burke lines. But whether the stingy Mr. Borgin running it now would admit that was another question.

Since he was here anyway, Cohen figured he'd pop in. Not to claim any family inheritance this time, but maybe he could dig up some info on the Silver Key Gathering.

*Creak—*

He pushed the door open. The shop was still open, candles flickering with faint light.

**[Soul Strength: 16 (31-15) (Curse)]**

Borgin slinked out from behind a shelf stacked with bones, looking like a ghost himself. He was a hunched middle-aged man with greasy hair and an even greasier voice.

"Who're you?"

Borgin fixed his cloudy eyes on Cohen.

"Buying something?"

A sale was a sale, after all.

"Just looking around," Cohen said.

Borgin's dramatic entrance might scare off thrill-seeking students poking around Knockturn Alley, but Cohen wasn't one to flinch. If anything, he was tempted to turn into a Dementor and give Borgin a scare right back.

"Whose little heir are you?" Borgin asked, eyeing Cohen's clothes and the magically humming suitcase. "Flint? Nott? Rowle?"

"Burke," Cohen said, meeting Borgin's murky gaze. "Cohen Burke."

The name made Borgin freeze for a second before anger flared in his eyes.

"I'm not joking around," Borgin said darkly.

"Neither am I."

Cohen took a sip of Borgin's emotions. The chill from his soul made Borgin stumble back, slamming into the counter. He stared at Cohen, gripping the edge.

"You're that experiment…"

"I'd rather people start with 'Are you a Dementor?'" Cohen said. "But yeah, I am."

"If you're here to take half the shop's worth, go ahead," Borgin said, calming himself and slipping back into his usual demeanor. "I don't mess with those 'grand plans.'"

He shuffled behind the desk, pulled out a tattered old ledger from a drawer, and slid it toward Cohen.

"You mean the Burke family's goal with that experiment?" Cohen asked, flipping through the book.

"They're all dead. I don't plan on joining them," Borgin muttered. "Not for a few years, at least."

"I'm not here tonight for money," Cohen said. "Just poking around. And I've got a question for you."

"What's that?" Borgin asked.

"Ever heard of the Silver Key?" Cohen asked, pausing on a page from seven years back. It stood out—every transaction listed "Silver Key" as the buyer. Items? "Old furniture" and "dragon liver." Obvious fakes for Ministry audits. No antique cabinet was worth 300 Galleons, and no dragon liver went for seven Galleons an ounce. When taxes were high enough, the Ministry just skimmed the profits and didn't dig deeper.

"A bunch of lunatics, no different from the nuts at Burke Manor," Borgin said, clearly familiar with them. "They're chasing some vague nonsense about the 'source of magic.'"

"Source of magic?" Cohen frowned. "Like crossbreeding or something?"

"I don't study it. I just buy and sell," Borgin said. His eyes flicked past Cohen to the window, where someone was approaching. "Shh—someone's coming."

Cohen glanced back through the glass. A figure with graying light brown hair, dressed in a patched-up robe that screamed poverty even in the dim night. Looking sickly—probably from the full moon just past.

Remus Lupin.

**[Soul Strength: 39]**

Better to stay out of sight.

Cohen quickly sucked the soul from a field mouse in his pocket, vanishing instantly. No way Lupin could memorize a stranger's face through a window in a few seconds.

Borgin blinked at Cohen's sudden disappearance but recovered fast—years of dodging inspections had honed his poker face.

"Hello," Lupin said cautiously as he stepped inside and approached Borgin. "I'm looking to buy something. Do you have—wait, was there a kid standing here just a second ago?"

**(End of Chapter)**