When Maurice stepped out of the bronze doors of Gringotts, his hand was weighed down by a satisfyingly heavy velvet sack.
"The custor service in there was frankly appalling," Harold grumbled, adjusting his cuffs. "And that business with the scales? Why on earth would they weigh paper banknotes against gold coins to determine value? It defies all economic logic."
Just monts ago, a surly goblin had placed Harold's ten fifty pound notes on one side of a brass scale and a pile of gold coins on the other. Against all laws of physics, the scale had balanced perfectly without so much as a tremor.
"Magic, presumably," Maurice said simply. He hefted the money bag, enjoying the lodic clink of Galleons crashing against one another. "At least they actually gave us the gold. Stop complaining."
"Is that real gold?" Harold asked, eyeing the bag suspiciously.
"I doubt it," Maurice lied smoothly, not wanting Harold to get any ideas. "Now, it's ti for so shopping. Do you want to buy a souvenir while we are here?"
Harold looked surprised. "I can?"
"Mm," Maurice replied with a nonchalant shrug. "It is your money, after all."
Maurice adhered to a simple philosophy... if one accepts a gift, one must be prepared to pay the price. In this case, Harold's money was the gift, and his continued sanity was the price.
"Where to first, then?" Harold asked.
He was completely out of his depth, forced to rely entirely on an eleven year old boy for guidance. Looking around at the witches and wizards bustling about in pointed hats and multicolored cloaks, Harold felt distinctly like a lamb that had wandered into a wolves' den during dinner ti.
Maurice thought for a mont. "Follow ."
In truth, Maurice had only one real objective for this second trip to Diagon Alley.
It was the skeleton.
Specifically, the skeleton he had seen yesterday in the corner of the second hand robe shop. He did not know why, but the dusty set of bones had stuck in his mind like a splinter. It was not just a morbid curiosity; he felt a strange, magnetic pull toward it. If possible, he wanted to buy it.
This was exactly why he had dragged Harold along. Buying a human skeleton was generally considered inappropriate behavior for an eleven year old, but a grown man could pass it off as eccentricity.
Maurice led Harold back to the dusty storefront of the second hand robe shop.
Seeing the shabby sign, Harold stopped in his tracks, confused. "I thought you bought your uniform yesterday."
"Do not speak," Maurice hissed, keeping his voice low as he tugged on Harold's sleeve. "Just co inside... and rember to stick to the plan."
"Wait." Harold looked panic stricken. "Plan? What plan? We have a plan?"
Before Harold could voice his mounting concern, Maurice had already dragged him through the door.
Maurice marched straight to the corner where the skeleton had stood. He stopped dead. The corner was occupied, but not by the bones. Instead, a perfectly ordinary wooden mannequin stood there, draped in a moth eaten Hufflepuff robe.
"Can I help you, dears?"
The shopkeeper, the sa bespectacled old woman from yesterday, shuffled over. She peered closely at Maurice, her eyes widening behind thick lenses. "Oh, it is you again. The boy from yesterday... surely there is not a problem with the robes already?"
"No, the robes are fine," Maurice said, shaking his head. "I was just wondering... where did the skeleton go? The one that was standing right here."
"The skeleton?"
The shopkeeper paused, looking genuinely surprised that a child would ask about such a thing. "Ah, that. That belongs to my son. He loves tinkering with that sort of rubbish. Sotis he brings his projects to the shop to store them, but I made him take it back yesterday. Why? You are not... interested in it, are you?"
She pushed her glasses up her nose, giving Maurice a look of concern. "That is not a toy, young man."
Maurice imdiately adopted a shy, innocent expression. He subtly kicked Harold in the shin.
"Actually, it is my uncle who is interested," Maurice said sweetly. "He has a passion for unique anatomical structures."
Harold, still nursing his bruised shin, took a second to process the cue. eting Maurice's expectant glare, he quickly straightened his back and cleared his throat.
"Ah, yes. Quite right," Harold stamred, trying to sound authoritative. "Fascinating piece. The... er... tibial curvature was exquisite."
The shopkeeper looked skeptically at Harold's sharp muggle suit, then back at Maurice. "Well, that is unexpected. I did not think Muggles went in for that sort of thing..."
"We are not Muggles," Maurice lied without blinking. "We just appreciate their fashion sensibilities. It is very avant garde."
"If you say so. Looks like bad taste to ," the shopkeeper muttered, eyeing Harold's tie with disdain. "Well, if you really want the skeleton, you will have to talk to my son. I can give you his address."
Harold gave a stiff, polite bow. "That would be most helpful, madam."
"It is no trouble. My son might actually be happy to see a custor, though heaven knows why he chose that location..."
Grumbling to herself, she pulled a scrap of parchnt from a drawer and scribbled sothing down with a ragged quill. Harold took the note, glanced at it, and handed it to Maurice.
Ezra Frick, Basent, Twenty one Knockturn Alley.
That was all it said.
Maurice narrowed his eyes. He had heard Professor McGonagall ntion Knockturn Alley. If Diagon Alley was the high street, Knockturn Alley was the gutter. It was the place where the sun did not shine, literally and taphorically... a haven for the Dark Arts and items that polite society preferred to ignore.
In short, a black market.
"It is not a nice place, mind you," the shopkeeper said, her face clouding with worry. "I tell him it is dangerous, but does he listen? No."
"We will pay him a visit," Maurice said seriously, pocketing the note. "Do not worry."
"Tell him to eat a proper al for once," she called out as they left.
Back on the bustling, sunlit street, Harold exhaled a breath he seed to have been holding for ten minutes.
"So," Harold asked, adjusting his jacket, "are we going to this Knockturn Alley place?"
"I have no desire to die today," Maurice replied dryly.
He was not stupid. Dragging a clueless Muggle and a first year student into a dark wizarding alley was a recipe for disaster. Maurice did not know exactly how dangerous it was, but he knew enough to know that caution was the better part of valor. Besides, he had the address now. Ezra Frick was not going anywhere.
Harold blinked, processing the rejection. "Is it... dangerous?"
"Violent duels can break out there over a spilt drink," Maurice said, intentionally exaggerating to keep Harold in line. "Strangers wandering in are usually stripped of their valuables and turned into teapots."
"Teapots?" Harold looked horrified. "Right. No Knockturn Alley then. Where to next?"
Maurice looked toward a shop further down the street, where cages hung outside filled with hooting birds.
"I need to buy an owl."
"An owl?" Harold sputtered. "Why on earth do you want a bird of prey? Can you not get a hamster?"
"It is for the post," Maurice explained. "I have the funds now, and it is a necessity for school."
"Wizards use owls to deliver mail?" Harold looked at the sky, as if expecting to be bombarded by falling letters. "That is the most inefficient system I have ever heard of."
By the ti he finished his sentence, they were standing in front of Eeylops Owl Emporium.
Through the glass, hundreds of pairs of jewel like eyes watched them. So blinked slowly, while others swiveled their heads with unnerving precision.
Maurice pushed the door open. A bell chid softly, and they were imdiately hit with the warm, dry scent of straw, feathers, and mouse treats.
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