The air in the basement was thick with a damp, musty smell, mixed with old wood and an indescribable, rusty, waterlogged tang.
The only light source came from a precarious brass lamp hanging overhead, its dim, yellow glow barely illuminating a few dust-covered wooden crates piled in a corner, and a rough oak table in the center of the room.
Morin stood on one side of the table, the hem of his dark green silk dressing gown almost dragging on the floor, yet completely free of any stains—a simple cleaning charm could achieve that.
What he was more concerned with at the moment was the trembling figure on the other side of the table.
Selwyn.
A loyal follower of Grindelwald, an Azkaban prisoner, formerly his stand-in, and now the "trouble" he needed to deal with.
The man was hunched in a hard wooden chair, wearing a clearly ill-fitting velvet coat belonging to Borgin.
His hair was like a clump of dry grass, and his face was covered with wrinkles of varying depths, marks etched by prolonged despair and fear.
His eyes were large but hollow, like two dry wells, only trembling ever so slightly when Morin's gaze swept over him, like a plucked string, yet emitting no sound.
Imperio had been voluntarily lifted by Morin.
Before lifting it, Morin could clearly feel his will, like an invisible thread, firmly tied to Selwyn's consciousness.
But this thread was not as reliable as he had imagined.
Three days ago, when Selwyn, under the guise of "Borgin," returned to London, he even stumbled out of nowhere on the porch when he was "escorted" home by officials sent by the Ministry of Magic.
Although Selwyn quickly used a Disillusionment Charm to make the official believe it was uneven ground, this small incident was enough to sound the alarm.
Azkaban's Dementors had almost drained Selwyn's soul, which made him more susceptible to Imperio than ordinary people—
This was why Morin chose him.
But this also meant that Morin only got a shell of a body, almost devoid of self-awareness, clumsy even when carrying out the simplest instructions.
Over time, he would forget the habits of "Borgin" that Morin had taught him, fall into prolonged stupors when asked about certain details, and even show a bewildered expression at the unfamiliar face in the mirror.
"Look up, Selwyn."
Morin's voice was not loud, but it carried an undeniable penetrative power, breaking the dead silence of the basement.
The man in the chair mechanically lifted his head, his hollow gaze meeting Morin's eyes.
There was no fear, no submission, only a dead, chaotic blankness—and therein lay the problem.
Imperio could force him to obey commands, but it couldn't give him the ability to "act."
A true Borgin, even if cowardly, should possess the arrogance and cunning of a pure-blood family, not be like this, like a puppet with its spring removed.
Morin extended his hand, his fingertips wreathed in a faint, grayish-black mist—the power of "Turbidity."
Ever since he successfully materialized fear into this power, which lay between the destructiveness of an Obscurus and the despair of a Dementor, in Azkaban's cell, it had become his sharpest weapon and his most secret trump card.
"You've been in Azkaban too long," Morin said softly, his gaze falling on Selwyn's trembling fingers, "So long that you've almost forgotten how to breathe like a 'person.' Imperio can make you move, make you speak, but it's not enough... nowhere near enough."
The gray mist at his fingertips drifted gently, like a living little snake, slowly moving towards Selwyn's cheek.
The moment the mist touched the man's skin, Selwyn's body twitched violently, a guttural sound escaping his throat, as if something within him had been ignited.
For the first time, there was something other than emptiness in his eyes—a mixture of pain, terror, and extreme revulsion, like sludge at the bottom of a pond suddenly stirred up.
This was the power of "Turbidity" stimulating his remaining nerves; the fear and despair, suppressed to the extreme by the Dementors, were now being squeezed out by Morin, little by little, like a sponge.
"Relax, Selwyn." Morin's voice carried a strange soothing quality; his will, through Imperio and the power of "Turbidity," acted on Selwyn simultaneously, "I'm not trying to hurt you... at least, not entirely."
What he wanted to do was reshape.
Using the threads of Imperio as a skeleton, and the power of "Turbidity" as an adhesive, to reassemble Selwyn's dilapidated shell into a qualified "vessel."
He needed Selwyn not just to obey, but to mimic, to react, and to display the appropriate emotions when necessary—even if those emotions were fake.
The grayish-black mist gradually enveloped Selwyn's entire body,
like a custom-made second skin.
The man's body began to tremble violently, his teeth chattering, and large beads of cold sweat seeped from his forehead, quickly drenching his hair.
His eyes struggled, resisted, but Imperio was like an invisible wall, confining all his rebellion to the deepest recesses of his consciousness.
Morin could feel Selwyn's consciousness being permeated and eroded by "Turbidity" little by little.
Selwyn's own memories, emotions, and even his pride and fear as a Wizard, were being crushed and reshaped under the influence of this power.
They were no longer independent entities, but had become the raw material for constructing another identity.
Selwyn's already numb mind immediately collapsed upon contact with that power; "Turbidity" took over this body.
"You are Moran Kevin..."
"You are a Wandering Wizard..."
"You dislike the Ministry of Magic, but you hate the followers of the Dark Lord even more..."
"You are relieved by the Dark Lord's failure, but dare not show it..."
"Your favorite drink is mead, and you drink a glass every night..."
These details were fabricated by Morin, intended to make the Moran personality completely overwrite Selwyn's original memories.
Time passed slowly, and in the basement, only Selwyn's suppressed gasps and Morin's low murmurs remained.
The brass lamp swayed more and more violently, its light flickering, casting Morin's expression in an ambiguous glow.
His eyes gleamed with an almost fanatical light; his obsession with Dark Arts was almost ingrained in Borgin's bones.
When the last wisp of "Turbidity" mist was absorbed by Selwyn's body, Morin stopped.
He withdrew his hand, the grayish-black receding from his fingertips, revealing pale and slender fingers.
Selwyn's trembling slowly subsided.
He hung his head, his chest heaving violently, as if he had just woken from a long nightmare.
After a long while, he slowly lifted his head.
This time, his gaze had changed.
It was no longer completely hollow, nor did it hold the previous numbness and struggle.
Something new had entered those eyes—bravery and shrewdness, and a scrutinizing look, characteristic of a Wandering Wizard, tinged with suspicion and wariness towards everything around him.
"Master."
Selwyn spoke, his voice hoarse like sandpaper rubbing wood, but his tone carried a fluent, almost natural reverence, no longer the mechanical, halting response from before.
Morin nodded slightly, a hint of satisfaction crossing his mind.
He walked to the table, picked up an apple, and with a gentle tap of his wand tip, the apple peel spiraled off.
"Kevin," Morin handed over the peeled apple, "Tell me, who am I?"
Selwyn took the apple, his movements still a bit stiff, but already much smoother than before.
He looked down at the apple, then up at Morin, his eyes displaying a timely hint of confusion and apprehension—
That was the common expression of a Wandering Wizard facing a Wizard more powerful than himself.
"You are the great Mr. Borgin, who bestowed upon me the power of 'Turbidity' and a new life."
He answered, his tone precise and accurate.
"Very good." Morin smiled, a smile that seemed somewhat inscrutable in the dim yellow light, "Now, tell me, who are you?"
Selwyn's gaze flickered; he instinctively straightened his already hunched back.
"I am Moran Kevin." He said, his voice strong and firm, "A Wandering Wizard."
Morin watched him, slowly clapping his hands.
The light of the brass lamp danced in his eyes, reflecting the turbid and cold darkness within, like the night sky of Azkaban.
"Perfect." He whispered, "Now, Kevin, it's time for you to take the stage and perform."
The basement door slowly closed behind him, locking the damp, musty smell and the freshly completed "masterpiece" together in the darkness.
Upstairs, Moran Kevin's life, guided by Morin's script, was beginning to unfold through a reshaped soul.
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