"Hepzibah Smith?" Harry asked. "What's so special about her?"
"It's she," Borgin corrected. "Even among pure-blood nobility, Hepzibah's lineage is one to be respected. She descends from Helga Hufflepuff, one of Hogwarts' four founders, and she's also an avid collector of rare magical artifacts."
"A collector of rare magical artifacts?" Harry echoed. "A customer of your shop?"
"Indeed," Borgin said with a knowing smile, catching Harry's drift. "Ancestors are one thing, descendants another… Besides, back in Hufflepuff's time, many spells weren't even considered Dark Magic yet."
"Let's get back to Voldemort," Harry said.
"Of course, my lord," Borgin replied. "To sum it up, before the Dark Lord disappeared, he was quite close to Hepzibah… Oh, don't look at me like that. I must say, the Dark Lord was incredibly charming and knew exactly how to win over witches, young or old." Borgin let out a sly chuckle. Truth be told, he'd kept these secrets buried for years, never daring to speak of them.
But things were different now.
To be honest, spilling the Dark Lord's private secrets was rather amusing—at least, it was something he'd never have dared to do when Voldemort was at the height of his power.
"And then Hepzibah died?" Harry had already started piecing things together when he heard about her Hufflepuff lineage.
"Yes, not even a week after the Dark Lord resigned, Hepzibah died suddenly. They say she was murdered by her house-elf, but—" Borgin grinned, "how could a house-elf betray its master? Those foolish little creatures would rather die for their owners. I suspect you've already guessed the truth."
"The Imperius Curse?" Harry said, understanding dawning.
On that point, Borgin was slightly mistaken. There were rare cases—perhaps one in a million—where a house-elf might defy its master and choose a new one they felt more loyalty toward, like Harry's devoted steward, Alfred.
"I believe it was the Imperius Curse," Borgin nodded.
"And the reason?"
"Hepzibah was a great collector," Borgin said seriously. "She only collected true antiques or the rarest of items. After attending her funeral, I visited her home and noticed that her two most prized possessions were missing—a golden cup passed down from her ancestor, Hufflepuff, and a locket, a treasure of Slytherin."
"Ha, relics of two Hogwarts founders?" Harry's mind flashed to Ravenclaw's diadem, and he almost laughed.
There was no doubt about it—Voldemort had turned Hufflepuff's cup and Slytherin's locket into Horcruxes.
Suddenly stumbling upon clues to two Horcruxes lifted Harry's spirits. Borgin had unwittingly done him a great service.
That left only Gryffindor's sword untouched by Voldemort's corruption among the founders' relics. As Hogwarts' headmaster, Harry had already secured custodianship of the sword.
Now, he just needed to track down the cup and the locket.
"Yes, I believe the Dark Lord used the Imperius Curse to control Hepzibah's house-elf, killed her, and then stole the founders' relics," Borgin said respectfully. "Was my information useful, my lord?"
"Very," Harry nodded. "You're a clever man, Borgin. Dumbledore told me you never got involved with truly dangerous dark dealings."
"…Dumbledore was right," Borgin said, forcing a smile. "For someone in my line of work, nothing is more important than caution and safety."
"Voldemort isn't dead," Harry interrupted suddenly. "Since you claim to be an expert in appraising Dark Magic artifacts, you must have heard of Horcruxes, haven't you?"
"…Yes, my lord," Borgin said dryly, but then his eyes widened as realization hit. "You mean—?!"
"Exactly what you're thinking. Hepzibah's two treasures have likely been turned into Voldemort's Horcruxes," Harry said with a smile. "Thank you for the information. I hope your shop keeps running… And if you come across any leads about the cup or the locket, let me know. I'll be at Hogwarts."
"Don't worry, I'll make it worth your while," Harry added, hearing the faint sound of Apparition outside. Glancing at the shop's interior, he said, "You know what to say, don't you?"
"Of course, my lord," Borgin said, his smile looking more like a grimace. "Rest assured, I won't say a word out of line."
"Good," Harry nodded. The next moment, he lifted the Anti-Apparition Jinx and vanished from the shop.
Immediately after, three figures Apparated into Borgin's shop—Aurors from the Ministry of Magic. The leader, upon landing, pointed his wand warily at Borgin.
"Is that—Fiendfyre?!" the lead Auror exclaimed, eyes wide with shock. "What's going on, Borgin?"
"Nothing at all!" Borgin snapped, a bit of frustration creeping into his voice as he faced the tardy Aurors. "Just a dangerous artifact that got out of hand."
"Out of hand?"
"Yes, out of hand."
A shrewd man like Borgin would never say anything to stir trouble. The fact that he'd once served under Voldemort, witnessed the Dark Lord's lowest moments, and still managed to survive his reign—keeping his shop open through those perilous times—spoke volumes about his cunning.
How Borgin would handle the Aurors was no longer Harry's concern. He trusted that after this encounter, Borgin fully understood the gravity of what he'd done and the difference between Harry, Dumbledore, and Voldemort.
As a dealer in dangerous magical artifacts, Harry was confident Borgin had the time and connections to gather information about the Horcruxes… if only to save his own skin.
For now, Harry turned to divination.
He located Hepzibah's grave. Though it felt deeply wrong, to find Hufflepuff's cup and Slytherin's locket, Harry dug up her tomb on a quiet, moonless night.
Hepzibah's body, buried for decades, had long decomposed into a few brittle bones. After muttering apologies, Harry selected the smallest bone—a medium for his divination.
No matter how Voldemort had stolen the cup and locket, Hepzibah had been their owner in life, and as her most cherished possessions, they had likely been by her side for years.
Simple divination wouldn't reveal the exact locations of the cup and locket, but with this bone, tied to Hepzibah through mystical significance, Harry could trace their current whereabouts.
In a brazier, he lit herbs and ground the bone into powder, sprinkling it into the flames. This time, he used pyromancy.
"…O ever-present flames… tell me…"
"…Tell me… where are Hufflepuff's cup and Slytherin's locket now…?"
"…Tell me…"
Staring into the flickering flames, Harry saw a small fireplace in a dusty, dilapidated room. Tattered cloth and grimy objects littered the space, with dust coating tables and sofas. Where was this?
The vision offered little clarity. From the shifting, illusory images, Harry could only discern an old house. Despite the dust, the table's ornate carvings and the objects' faded grandeur hinted at their value.
Before he could glean more, the flames shifted again. This time, they revealed a cavern filled with treasure.
Piles of Galleons, dazzling jewels, and countless objects of unknown purpose were stacked together. Amid it all, a small, two-handled golden cup sat unremarkably on a shelf, blending into the hoard.
With a whoosh, the flames extinguished, leaving only wisps of smoke curling from the ashes.
"…A pure-blood's vault? Or… Gringotts?"
Recalling the visions, Harry fell into deep thought.
He'd likely need to ask Dumbledore to view these memories in the Pensieve. Hopefully, the old wizard's experience would uncover some clue.
But before Harry could summon Dumbledore back to Hogwarts, Professor McGonagall found him. Unlike her usual composed demeanor, today she looked… distinctly displeased.
"Headmaster Potter," McGonagall said coolly, "may I ask where you've been?"
"Er, I was just—"
"Do you recall the promises you made before taking this position?"
Before Harry could finish, McGonagall placed a stack of documents on his desk and continued.
"…Of course I do. Please, Professor, take a seat. Would you like something to drink?" McGonagall's tone made Harry uneasy, and he quickly gestured for her to sit on the sofa.
"Thank you, but I'm not thirsty," McGonagall said, sitting ramrod straight and fixing Harry with a piercing stare. "Headmaster Potter, I understand the headmaster's office is still under repair, and I fully appreciate that great wizards like you and Albus always have more pressing matters to attend to."
"No, not at all," Harry said quickly. "There's no need for that tone, Professor. You're one of my most respected teachers. Just call me Harry—like you call Dumbledore Albus."
"…Very well, Harry," McGonagall said after a few seconds, her expression softening slightly. She sighed heavily. "I understand the world outside is teeming with rogue elemental spirits, and I know your expertise in such matters. But, Harry, you're Hogwarts' headmaster. In your first year, your focus should be on the students. Their grades are the school's top priority."
"What do you mean?" Harry asked, not quite following.
"I mean that Madam Marchbanks from the Wizarding Examinations Authority is about to arrive with her staff," McGonagall said, rubbing her temples. "The term is nearly over. Fifth-years are preparing for their O.W.L.s, and seventh-years for their N.E.W.T.s."
"I know this is unreasonable, but Harry, most wizards out there won't care that you've only been headmaster for less than half a term. They'll only know that this graduating class is under your leadership, and their results—"
McGonagall trailed off.
"I get it," Harry said, rubbing his chin. "But there's not much to change, is there? Students who've mastered the material will do fine, and those who haven't can't improve much by cramming now."
"At the very least, you need to be here when the examiners arrive, Harry," McGonagall said flatly. "You're the headmaster."
"What about Dumbledore—"
"When Albus was headmaster, he oversaw both exams alongside Madam Marchbanks every year."
"Alright, don't be upset. I'll be here. I won't go anywhere," Harry promised quickly.
"You'd better not."
With that stern remark, McGonagall turned and left for her office in the castle, which had mercifully escaped major damage during the war.
If she hadn't come to deliver those documents for Harry to sign, she wouldn't have even noticed the new headmaster had slipped away.
Harry didn't mind her anger. In fact, he was genuinely grateful for her handling the administrative tasks that should've been his burden. Without her, he couldn't imagine the chaos his life would be.
Sighing quietly, Harry began sorting through the papers on his desk.
"Hm?"
He picked up a letter bearing a blue crest with two crossed golden wands—the emblem of Beauxbatons Academy of Magic. The elegant, flowing French signature on the envelope revealed the sender: Olympe Maxime.
The headmistress of Beauxbatons.
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