Zafirah Harrowbolt sauntered down the wide, open space of Diagon Alley. An early winter sun had just moments ago peeked above the higgledy-piggledy rooftops, pouring an orange light onto the street’s cobblestones, which shone wet with dew. Only a mere few other witches and wizards bustled past, going about the beginning of their ridiculously long day.

A week had past since Zafirah had started working in Hamlett’s Magical Repair. By now she’d settled into the rigmarole of dealing with mostly dim-witted and often snotty customers, cleaning all the surfaces in the shop which seemed to perpetually pick up ferocious amounts of dust, and of course, being very, very bored.