Stop Probing…
11: Chapter 11: Vengeful Spirit!
Stop Probing…
“Impossible?!
How the hell are you still alive?!” The younger boy’s voice cracked with disbelief.
“Forget it!” the older boy roared.
“Just do it!
Hit him again—now!” The next instant— BOOM!!!!
A deafening explosion tore through the shop.
The shockwave ripped outward from the back room so violently that Borgin, still haggling behind the counter, finally realized strangers had entered his store.
Not that there was much “store” left to speak of.
The entire interior had been punched straight through.
Shelves of dark artifacts, display cases, even part of the ceiling—everything along one straight line had been obliterated.
A glowing, heat-hazed tunnel now ran through the middle of Borgin & Burkes.
The floor was scorched black.
The air itself sizzled.
At the far end of that destruction, only one person remained standing.
The soot-covered man.
Thorne stared down at his own hands, expression blank, like he couldn’t quite believe what had just happened.
“…This…” “…I did this?” Thorne’s first coherent thought was that his “shopping trip” to Diagon Alley had gone completely to shit.
First the goddamn Floo Network had spat him out of a fireplace like a cannonball and coated him in coal dust.
His already-ragged clothes were now completely ruined.
He looked exactly like one of the vagrants who haunted Knockturn Alley.
His mood had already been foul.
When he finally lifted his head and took in the scene, his expression grew even more complicated.
Two very familiar figures stood in front of him.
No—two bugs.
Thorne had seen this kind before, out on the edges of Hallownest.
Packs of greedy little “thief bugs” that swarmed anything valuable and stripped it bare.
He’d even traded with one once.
A spider friend had warned him: as long as those annoying little bastards were still crawling around, nothing left out in the open was ever truly safe.
Still… They weren’t stealing his stuff.
Thorne hadn’t planned on getting involved.
He’d been about to ask for directions to the Leaky Cauldron—Hagrid was supposed to meet him there.
But these two bugs—people—had attacked him without a single word.
The curse hadn’t even been that strong.
It knocked him flying and gave him a bloody nose, nothing more.
But Thorne figured they still needed a lesson.
Then reality hit him.
They had wands.
He didn’t even have his bone nail.
Go in swinging bare-handed?
That would be idiotic.
But he did have spells.
Thorne acted.
And the result was the smoking ruin in front of him now.
He looked at the gaping hole through the shop, then down at his hands again.
The corner of his mouth twitched.
“…Why the fuck is this spell so stupidly strong in the real world?!” Vengeful Spirit.
Condense the soul inside your body, stir up all the rage and pain already living there, and unleash it as raw destructive force in a single, violent burst.
Back in Hallownest it had been nothing special—just a basic tool for blasting paths open.
A chatty old snail who guarded the ancestors’ graves had taught it to him.
Thorne had picked up plenty of tricks from snails over the years, but this was the only one a living snail had personally handed down.
When he’d used it on bugs back then, it had never been this powerful.
Thorne stood in the wreckage, brow furrowed.
The younger thief bug was gone from the waist up.
He hadn’t even had time to scream.
The older one had lost his wand and his entire right arm.
He was sprawled on the floor, howling in agony.
A fat, overstuffed wallet had tumbled from his coat and rolled to a stop right at Thorne’s boots.
The shop looked like a bomb had gone off.
Shattered shelves, overturned counters, scorched stone, and the sharp tang of lingering magic in the air.
In the doorway stood a completely shell-shocked cricket and another thief bug frozen in terror.
Outside, more bugs were already craning their necks to stare, whispering.
Thorne glanced at his hands, then at the disaster zone.
“…Did I accidentally scale the damn thing up?
So the power scaled with it?” He was still turning the question over when a sharp voice cut through the smoke.
“Petrificus Totalus!” Thorne looked up.
The cricket had his wand raised.
The spell slammed into the last standing thief bug and dropped him like a felled tree.
The cricket snorted, voice cold.
“Really?
You little shits actually tried to rob me?” He shot a glare at the gawking crowd outside.
The onlookers scattered instantly, pretending they’d seen nothing.
The cricket took a slow breath, smoothed his expression, and turned to Thorne with a sudden, oily smile.
“Sir… thank you.
Truly.
You handled those rats for me.” Thorne blinked at the abrupt shift in tone.
“Uh… you’re not gonna think I’m with them?” “Of course not.” The cricket waved both hands, all smooth reassurance.
“Happens all the time.
People heading for the Leaky Cauldron take a wrong turn and end up here.
Other shops deal with it constantly.” Thorne nodded slowly.
Right.
So this guy had seen this movie before.
As long as he wasn’t being lumped in with the thieves, fine.
He looked around at the mess on the floor.
“So… do we need to call the Aurors or something?
For these… bugs.
People.” The cricket shook his head so fast it was almost comical.
“No no no, no need to trouble yourself at all.
I’ll clean this up.
You just go on about your day.” As he spoke, he bent down, picked up the fat wallet that had rolled to Thorne’s feet, and pressed it firmly into his hands.
Thorne didn’t even get a chance to react before he was being hustled toward the door.
By the time his brain caught up, he was standing on the street outside Knockturn Alley.
The shop door clicked shut behind him.
He looked down at the wallet in his hands, then up at the gloomy alley.
“…Does this count as accidentally being a hero?” Borgin watched until Thorne’s silhouette vanished at the alley mouth.
Only then did he wipe the cold sweat from his forehead.
He turned back to survey the destruction.
Shattered displays.
Burned stone.
The sharp smell of scorched magic still hanging in the air.
A shiver ran down his spine.
Merlin’s beard.
A wizard like that had just wandered into his shop.
One spell.
That kind of damage.
And he hadn’t even used a wand.
Borgin swallowed hard.
That level of power was several steps above most Aurors.
Terrifying.
Absolutely terrifying.
He just hoped he’d never see the man again.
Thank Merlin he’d played it smart and hadn’t let himself get shaken down.
He shook his head, forced his hands to stop trembling, and started cleaning up the wreckage.
A few minutes later— “Sir.” Borgin froze mid-motion.
He turned slowly, stiffly.
Thorne was standing in the doorway again.
…He came back.
Borgin’s stomach dropped.
“…Sir.
Is there something else you need?” Thorne rubbed the back of his neck, looking genuinely awkward.
“Uh, sorry.
I forgot to ask earlier.
The thing is—” “I’ve got three thousand Galleons in the safe.
I can hand it over right now.” Borgin blurted it out before he could stop himself.
Thorne’s eyes went wide.
He waved both hands frantically.
“No—no no no, that’s not it!
I’m not here for money!” Borgin’s stare grew even more suspicious.
Thorne rushed to explain.
“I just need directions.
How do I get to the Leaky Cauldron?
I’m supposed to meet someone there.” Borgin studied Thorne’s face for several long seconds.
The sincere, slightly lost expression.
Then a strange, complicated look crossed his own.
“Sir… please stop probing me.” “There really is only three thousand Galleons in the shop.” Thorne: “…” He dragged a hand down his face.
“No, I’m actually just asking for directions.
I don’t know where the Leaky Cauldron is.” Borgin’s eyes slowly lost focus.
Silence.
Finally he let out a long, defeated sigh.
“…Fine.
You win.
You’ve probed it out of me.” “Under the counter… there’s another thousand Galleons.” Thorne’s jaw dropped.
“No no no!
You’ve got it all wrong!
I’m not robbing you!” Borgin looked at him like a man who had accepted his fate.
“Sir.
Stop probing.
Please.” “In the British wizarding world—even if someone doesn’t know where their own mother lives, nobody doesn’t know where the Leaky Cauldron is!!”