Chapter 63

Neville leaned against a wall in Borgin and Burkes, flipping through a book of rare curses. The descriptions were in Old English, dating from Chaucer's time, and the calligraphy was so ornate as to render the text incomprehensible. But the illustrations were clear enough. Positively gruesome. Neville turned the book sideways to look at a painting of a man who had been turned inside out. Unseen by Neville, Old Borgin bowed his customer out of the shop, and then dropping the obsequious manner reserved for customers, wheeled on Neville.

"I must ask you to put that down, boy, unless you've got the money to pay for it." Neville placed the book back on the shelf.

"How much is it?"

"Don't waste my time. Let's just say it's more than you can afford. Let me show you something that's more in your price range."

"I didn't come here to buy. I've got something to sell."

Borgin smirked. Every now and again he had to dash the hopes of an ignorant young man or woman who brought in what was sincerely believed to be a valuable dark object, when it was nothing more sinister than an old spitoon.

"Let's see it, then."

Neville removed the backpack from his shoulders, and reaching inside, pulled out a package. Borgin jumped back as Neville dumped the severed head of Nagini on a table. He stared closely at the object, and satisfied that it was unlikely to revive, Borgin approached it, wand out.

"Very unusual," said the shop keeper. "Obviously the creature was a large example of her kind, judging by the size of the head. And fanged, too: unheard of for a snake of this size." Although Borgin had never seen a serpent of this species before, it was nonetheless familiar. He searched his memory, trying to recall where he had read a description of the creature.

"Yes. Yes. I think I've heard of this type before. The only other one belongs to a wizard we shall not name. Where did you get her?"

"I took her from Voldemort."

"Liar! And how dare you speak his name in this place!"

"You've not heard the news, then?"

"What news?" asked Borgin sharply.

"Voldemort is defeated. All his followers but two are dead. Voldemort himself is still alive, but he was badly injured in his duel with Harry Potter. He's at St. Mungo's."

There was no need for Borgin to debate with the boy. It was too easy to ascertain whether the boy was telling the truth; no need to offend him further. Borgin raised his wand.

"I'll find out soon enough how you came by the snake's head. Provenancio!"

The charm was one Borgin used almost daily to determine an object's history. A yellow light jumped from his wand to the snake's head, enveloping it. It turned a deep scarlet, and then the head turned an inky black before resuming its natural colour.

"You killed it yourself, and acquired it by right of conquest. How did you manage that?"

"I used the killing curse.

"The indigo is a sign of the darkest of dark objects. But it's just a snake. What does it conceal?"

"Nothing, now. But when it lived, it was a Horcrux, and held part of Voldemort's soul."

Borgin appeared to think for a moment.

"I'll give you twenty galleons."

Neville laughed.

"You must think I'm that woman your partner bought the Slytherin Locket from for ten galleons."

Borgin turned pale.

"How do you know about that?"

"The same way I know that you used to employ Voldemort, in the days when he was just Tom Riddle. Now do you want to have a serious discussion about price? I know it's hard to talk price when an object is priceless, but let's do our best."

A long bargaining session ensued. In the end, Neville relinquished Nagini, receiving not gold in exchange, but instead a bank draft drawn on Gringott's, the sale price far exceeding the ready cash kept in the shop's strong box. Neville shook hands with Borgin, and turned to go. The shop keeper stopped him.

"You say Potter defeated the Dark Lord in a duel."

"Yes."

"How did Voldemort take his defeat?" For years Borgin had lived in mortal terror of Voldemort and his Death Eaters, and was eager to hear how his former employee had borne being bested by a boy.

Neville paused, seeking the right phrase.

"How did Voldemort take it? He could barely contain himself."

Neville looked around, and satisfied he was unobserved, entered Saint Mungo's through the store front window. He was now the owner of a considerable sum on deposit at Gringott's. Having taking care of both business and pleasure, it was duty's turn. Neville had not seen his parents since the Christmas holidays. He, like Harry and rest of his friends, would not be returning to Hogwarts for a few days, and Neville was making good use of his free time. If his parents were having a more or less lucid day, he would stay with them. If not, he would return to Diagon Alley for some shopping.

A regular visitor to St. Mungo's, Neville noted the unusual amount of activity as he made his way to the ward which housed his parents. They had lived in the same hospital rooms for all almost all of Neville's life, having been tortured into insanity years before. The clock above the ward's entrance was just striking eleven as he arrived: visiting hours were about to begin. The eleventh chime sounded, but the doors to the ward did not open. Neville looked across at the waiting room's only other occupant, an elderly wizard. The man looked back, seeking the same answer from Neville that Neville sought from him. Neville stood, shrugged and then knocked on the doors to the ward. There was no answer. Puzzled, Neville looked into the corridor outside, and saw the same busy bustle of nurses, healers, the injured and their relatives that he'd observed on his way in: a busy day at Saint Mungo's. He turned when he heard the doors to the ward open behind him. An apprentice healer stood in the doorway.