Slipping through the hidden door, Adrian was surprised to find that it did not lead to a room but to a narrow spiral staircase descending steeply into the underground.
The walls on either side were lined with ancient, grime-covered murals that came to life with unsettling sounds—low moans of pain, echoing wails of despair, piercing shrieks reminiscent of Cruciatus torture, and the spine-crawling screech of nails scraping a blackboard. The cacophony merged with the flickering green torchlight lining the corridor, casting eerie shadows that twisted and danced across the stone walls like spectres.
Adrian treaded as quietly as possible, following Mr. Borgin—hunched and shuffling—down the creaky wooden stairs. They stopped before a thick vermilion door reinforced with black iron bands. With a push from the crooked shopkeeper, the door creaked open. Before Adrian could take in the room, there was a sharp clicking sound, and his surroundings were suddenly awash in cold, unforgiving white light. Everything inside became starkly visible.
It was a storage vault—windowless and sterile. The room ahead was lined with grotesque magical oddities. Along the back wall, various preserved creatures floated in viscous fluids—flayed mandrakes, acromantula legs, and even a severed grindylow arm.
To the left, a tall set of iron-framed cubbyholes stretched to the ceiling, filled with odd scrolls, bound grimoires, and spell-cursed trinkets wrapped in silk or burlap. In the opposite corner, stacked bronze chests gleamed faintly beneath layers of dust. A long silver table extended beneath the enchanted light orbs above, its surface cluttered with unsettling curiosities: a shrunken hand encased in glass (likely a Hand of Glory), a bloodstained deck of Gobstones cards, a dull, cloudy glass eye twitching faintly in its case. Potion vials of every imaginable hue stood on wrought-iron racks beside glass beakers and jars, bubbling with unknown brews.
Adrian's gaze snapped toward the far end of the table—his pulse surged. Nestled carelessly among a cluster of cloudy Prophecy Orbs on a wooden shelf was a dark blue glass sphere. It gleamed faintly with an inner glow, and the system's alert confirmed what he already suspected: this was the Magic Orb of the Goddess of Fortune.
Mr. Borgin, having turned on the enchantments, now seated himself at the long worktable. With practiced ease, he placed the cursed opal necklace from earlier on the velvet tray. He opened a drawer, donned a pair of dark dragon-hide gloves, and uncorked a purple vial from the rack beside him, clearly preparing for a magical analysis of the object's curse properties.
Adrian crouched, hoping to edge closer unseen. But the moment he crossed the threshold into the vault, a blinding silver light burst from the enchanted stone archway. It was a hidden detection charm. The light bathed the room in warning, and the concealment spell on Adrian's robes shattered.
Mr. Borgin reacted instantly—his wand appeared in a flick of his wrist. "Intestino Exsolvo! Intestino Exsolvo!" he shouted with shocking precision, the notorious Intestinal Expulsion Curse streaking toward Adrian in twin arcs of sickly green.
Adrian dropped low behind a wrought-iron shelf just in time. The curses struck behind him, exploding on contact. Bottles shattered, glass rained down, and black sludge from burst vials soaked the floor. One skull fell from its shelf with a clunk and its jaw opened in a silent scream.
Though he'd braced himself for the possibility that Borgin might resort to Unforgivable Curses, it seemed the shopkeeper still feared Azkaban enough to use lesser—but no less cruel—dark spells. Yet that didn't make them any less dangerous. Borgin's choice was still lethal.
The curse Borgin used had a storied past. It was created by Urquhart Lachlan—a sixteenth-century dark spell inventor whose portrait still hung in the Dai Llewellyn Ward of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, a place Adrian had once visited with his mother, Morgan le Fay, during her work with the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. Though Adrian hadn't researched the spell in detail yet, he knew enough: it forced a victim's intestines from the body—though whether they exited from above or below remained disturbingly unclear.
He clenched his wand tighter. Now was not the time for academic curiosity.
To avoid the incoming curse, Adrian remained crouched behind the cover. Rather than rising, he dropped to all fours and lunged at Mr. Borgin like a beast, hands and feet propelling him forward. The suddenness of the charge caught the shopkeeper off guard. For a terrifying second, Borgin genuinely believed he was being attacked by a werewolf—or worse, a vampire. After all, both creatures delivered incurable bites—lycanthropy through werewolf attacks and vampirism through blood infection. (Author's Note: Vampiric bites being incurable is established in J.K. Rowling's W.O.M.B.A.T. test materials.)
Startled and unwilling to risk infection, Mr. Borgin immediately dropped his wand and aborted the Poison Hex he'd been preparing. He recoiled in alarm, scrambling backward across the cold stone floor.
Meanwhile, Adrian, well aware that what he was doing bordered on criminal intrusion, had no intention of harming anyone. His objective wasn't Mr. Borgin—it was the Magic Orb on the shelf. With quick reflexes, he darted toward the wooden display, snatched the dark blue orb into his hand, and sprinted for the door.
"Locomotor Wibbly! Petrificus Totalus!" Borgin bellowed, now steadying himself as he regained his stance and began hurling spell after spell. Leg-Locker and Jelly-Legs jinxes shot out like rapid-fire hexes, each aiming to paralyze Adrian's limbs and prevent escape.
But the corridor was narrow, and Adrian's physical conditioning—thanks to the McLean Method body training he'd practiced since childhood—gave him a significant edge. He ducked, flipped, and vaulted like a Niffler in a gold vault, slipping past the incoming curses with uncanny agility. Just before he reached the top of the stairs, however, he missed the sudden sprout of enchanted vines from the staircase rail—a classic Devil's Snare defense mechanism disguised as trim.
Though he leapt at the last second and evaded entanglement, Adrian failed to block a Stupefy that burst silently from Borgin's wand behind him.
Fortunately, the magical protection woven into Adrian's custom-tailored Wizard Robes—purchased during his earlier quest in Knockturn Alley—absorbed the blunt of the Stunning Spell. Though momentarily winded, he remained conscious. The unexpected resistance left Borgin stunned for a second time. Cursing under his breath, the shopkeeper conjured a short-range Protego barrier, a transparent magical shield forming before him for defense.
This brief pause gave Adrian just the window he needed. Bursting from the top of the stairwell, he triggered the emergency activation charm on his MiaoMiao Wizard Robes—a rare magical item imbued with single-use escape spells—and vanished from the corridor in a blink.
He emerged moments later in the dazzling sunlight of Diagon Alley, breathless but safe. The shadows of Knockturn Alley, with its foul aura and haunted corridors, were now behind him. Adrian walked briskly away, sunlight streaking across his shoulders. Given that the only victim in this incident was Borgin—a notorious dark artifact trafficker—Adrian felt little guilt. He told himself that one day, once he had the strength to defend himself properly, he'd pay back this debt. Somehow.
"Congratulations to the host for obtaining the Magic Orb of the Goddess of Fortune," the system intoned in his mind. "This artifact can dispel certain classes of curses and lingering magical effects. Remaining mission time: 13 hours and 43 minutes."
Time was running short. Adrian pulled up the mental quest map—his eyes widened in disbelief. The second target, the Cursed Zombie, had moved again. But this time, it was showing up in the Muggle world—specifically, Baker Street Station in central London.
Acting fast, Adrian hailed a taxi to the nearest Underground stop and transferred trains toward Baker Street. Upon arrival, he immediately recognized the historic site. Mounted near the platform entrance was a burnished copper nameplate: "This platform is part of the world's first underground railway, opened in 1863."
Unlike most London Tube platforms plastered with advertisements, Baker Street had preserved its history. Posters above the seating areas vividly portrayed scenes from the Victorian-era launch of the Underground, transforming the platform into a living museum of Muggle transit.
But Adrian didn't have the luxury of lingering. His eyes flicked back to the map—the zombie's icon had moved again.
For a second, he hesitated. Should he keep pursuing? The target was mobile now, and tracking it in the Muggle world without exposure would be risky.
Then, as he glanced down at the small fold-out subway guide he'd grabbed earlier—a typical London Underground map, printed just a bit longer than B5 size—his thoughts sharpened. The zombie's movement was not random. The icon was moving in exact sync with the Tube lines.
"They're using the Muggle Underground?" Adrian whispered in disbelief.