"I still can't believe you're moving out," Sirius said as he weaved through the bustling Diagon Alley, snowflakes falling and melting on the fur trim of his cloak. "I thought we had a good thing going."
Harry put his slightly undersized hand over his chest. "It's not you, it's me. I need some space to find myself, alright?"
Sirius barked a laugh. "You're breaking my heart."
Harry was about to reply, but a flash in the corner of his vision distracted him. Across the street, a man in a flat cap was fiddling with a bulky camera hanging off his neck. Their eyes met, and the man scooted behind a gaggle of teenagers heading in the opposite direction. Harry irately adjusted his pointy hat; so it hadn't been enough to escape attention.
"Your heart?" he exclaimed in a puff of steam. A sideways glance revealed the cap-clad man trailing them with head ducked low, and Harry's suspicion became conviction. "How do you think I felt when you left me to have your way with the Bulgarian cheerleading squad?"
"Say what?" Sirius stared at him, but to his credit, when Harry winked and jutted his chin toward the reporter, he caught on at once. "At least they were women. Do I need to remind you of your episode with the goats and peanut butter?"
"You prick," he murmured. Out loud, he said, "This isn't really the place. Let's talk after we get home."
Standing on his tiptoes, he looked around exaggeratedly before walking off with Sirius in tow. When he next peeked over his shoulder, the flat cap was bobbing away through the crowd, its owner no doubt ecstatic about the scoop.
Sirius snickered as he scanned the alley behind them. "What was it, the Daily Prophet again? Do you reckon they bought it?"
"Wouldn't put it past them," Harry said, chortling. "Although you pushed it too far. I give you a dozen nubile veela, and you repay me with goats?"
"First thing that came to mind." Sirius did not sound contrite in the least. "In my defense, you do have some weird tastes."
He narrowed his eyes. "If they run an article calling me a goat diddler, I'm suing you for defamation."
Sirius waved dismissively. "Oh, lighten up. The papers said the same thing about Aberforth, and he went on to live his life without a care in the world."
"If I had whiskey for breakfast, I wouldn't care either."
Sirius chuckled. "True enough."
They walked down the winding street until the snowy-white spire of the Gringotts Bank came into view. Motioning him to follow, Sirius descended a set of worn stairs between two crooked buildings and entered an alleyway permanently shaded by overhanging eaves.
"Keep your eyes peeled," Sirius instructed as they walked. "It's unlikely that anyone'll mess with two adult wizards, but it can happen if you look like an easy mark."
"Right," he said, stretching up to peer over Sirius's shoulder. It wasn't often that he visited the hive of scum and villainy that was Knockturn Alley.
Sirius considered him. "You're rubbernecking like a tourist. Try to look tough, like you belong."
He pursed his lips and frowned. "Like this?"
Sirius opened his mouth as though to speak, then choked and turned away. "Forget what I said. Just act natural."
"Oi! What's wrong with my tough look?"
Sirius laughed and shook his head. Scowling, Harry tugged down the brim of his hat and tailed him through the narrow passage, underneath a brick archway, and into the alley proper.
The smell hit him first: a pungent mixture of frying grease, cloying herbs, and rotting fish. The upper floors of the sooty buildings jettied out precariously over the filthy street. Hawkers huddled beneath as if afraid to step into the paltry daylight, their stalls exuding some of the less-offensive odors. It was hard to believe the vibrant storefronts of Diagon Alley were less than a hundred yards away—although, given the wizards' inclination to tamper with space, the real distance might have been ten times that.
Sirius inhaled deeply. "Ah, this takes me back. My dear mother used to bring me and Regulus along when she picked up her commissions from Dystyl Phaelanges. No one polishes a clavicle like old Mortimer, she used to say."
Whatever this Mortimer sold, Harry decided it was better for his sanity not to know. "Don't tell me you're getting nostalgic. This place smells worse than Uncle Vernon after curry night."
"It's not that bad over on the other end." Sirius glanced in passing at a scribbled sign above a rusty cage swarming with tarantulas that read '7 Sickles ea.'. "What a rip-off. Anyway, this side's where the rougher crowd congregates. Think werewolves and vampires rather than snooty Dark wizards."
"Non-humans," he muttered, taking a closer look at a cowled figure behind the nearest stall. The enchantments on his spectacles penetrated the shadows, exposing a leprous countenance with yellowish eyes and a bulbous nose. Looking away, he asked in an undertone, "Do all hags eat human flesh?"
His godfather spared him a glance. "If they can get their grubby hands on it, sure. Animal innards are good enough to keep them going though."
He cast another furtive look at the hag, then yelped and stumbled as the tip of his boot wedged into a mud-filled hole between the cobblestones. The hag cackled shrilly.
"Somebody should fix that," he said petulantly, stomping his foot to shake off the mud.
Sirius snorted. "Would you want to work as a causeymaker in this place?"
"Good point." He hastened to catch up, now paying more attention to the pavement.
The street bent sharply and extended parallel to Diagon Alley until curving out of sight again in the distance. The pavement grew wider, and the air more palatable. Hooded figures skulked between the buildings, their hands stuffed down their pockets and their eyes glinting in the shadows. Harry schooled his face into his best don't-mess-with-me expression.
A door below a fading sign depicting a Nundu with two horns on its head creaked open, belching out pipe smoke and the stench of sour ale. A scruffy man in threadbare robes staggered into the middle of the street, his bloodshot eyes passing over Harry and Sirius without recognition.
Harry gave the drunkard a wide berth, but the man still managed to stumble into him with a slurred oath. The drunkard's legs seemed to give out, and he clutched the front of Harry's robes to stay upright.
"Gerroff!" Harry gripped the swaying drunkard by his shoulders to steady him.
"S'ncere 'pologies, guv," the man said, leaning on him heavily. "Had a bit t'much t'drink."
The fumes wafting off him had been enough of an indication. Wrinkling his nose, Harry shoved him away. "Right, just be on your bloody way."
The drunkard gave him a gap-toothed smile and wheeled around, only to freeze when Sirius's wand pressed to his neck.
"Not so fast, mate."
Harry furrowed his brows. "It's no big deal, really—"
"You're too naive." Sirius dug his wand into the hollow of the man's throat. "Hand it back, unless you want to puke up yesterday's breakfast."
The drunkard gulped convulsively. "D-didn't mean anything by it!" His hand slipped behind the lapel of his robes and emerged cupping a drawstring pouch. It was made of brown leather and appeared to be stuffed with coin. On closer inspection, it looked exactly like...
"You sneaky git!" Harry patted himself down, and sure enough, didn't feel the usual bulge under his robes. Snatching the pouch, he deposited it into his inner pocket and drew his wand. "There's this Aztec curse that I've been dying to try—"
"Begging your forgiveness, good sir!" cried the pickpocket. "Me wife passed a year ago, and I gots four mouths to feed at home! Me nan is down with spattergroit and needs potions!"
"Right, and you had to sell your kidney to pay the rent, and your Crup's sick with Dragon Pox." Sirius jerked his chin. "Bugger off. Next time you stick your fingers in our pockets you lose them."
"Bless you, m'lord!" The pickpocket edged backward, bowing profusely, then pivoted and scurried off.
Sirius slowly lowered his wand. "Told you to keep your eyes peeled."
"Yeah, yeah." Harry watched morosely as the pickpocket retreated with a much surer gait than he had exhibited earlier. "It would've never happened if I still had my... you-know-what."
Pocketing his wand, Sirius proceeded down the street. "Fancy giving the Animagus Express another go? Maybe you can find yourself another pathetic form to kill."
"I don't know..." He didn't feel like going anywhere near that dratted potion, but then again, there weren't many options left. "Maybe after Cedric's had his turn."
Sirius shrugged. "Suit yourself. If we get our hands on the ayahuasca, I can as easily whip up enough for two people as for one."
He grunted noncommittally, his fingers wrapped around the wand in his expanded pocket, and his eyes darting left and right. Most loiterers averted their gaze when he looked at them. He must've been getting that tough look down pat.
Sirius halted before a glass storefront so murky you couldn't discern the dark shapes behind it. "We're here."
Harry tilted his head back to read the sign—'Caldwell's Curious Curios'—and followed his godfather inside. Given their errand, he had expected an apothecary, but at first glance through his fogged-up glasses, the store's wares ranged from dusty antiques to outright rubbish. Pungent oil lamps illuminated the interior as daylight had no hope of penetrating the grimy windows on the sunniest of days.
A bell somewhere in the depths of the establishment announced their arrival. Sirius clearly did not trust it to do the job, because he bellowed, "Cal! Customers!" He dropped his voice. "Poor sod's ears have been troubling him lately."
When the rotund shopkeeper lumbered in from the back, Harry could wager a guess as to why. Tufts of grey hair sprouted from his ears, and his unkempt beard rivaled Hagrid's in shagginess, lending him a dwarf-like look. His deep-set eyes squinted at Harry, then at Sirius.
"Ah, Mr. Black. Here to peruse the vintage issues of Saucy Sorceress again?"
Sirius shot Harry a furtive look. "I don't know what you're on about, you old Knut-pincher." He coughed. "No, we're here on a different matter. Have you received any goods from your Brazilian contact lately?"
"You're in luck," wheezed Cal. "A shipment came through just days ago. Twelve Sickles per ounce."
Sirius drew himself up. "That's highway robbery! I paid half that last time."
"A growing portion of our shipments have been getting impounded. Risks have to be taken into account." Caldwell produced an embroidered handkerchief and mopped the beads of perspiration off his forehead.
As Sirius entered a loud negotiation with the shopkeeper, Harry lost interest and wandered off through the winding aisles. He waved off his godfather's warning not to touch anything with affront. He wasn't a child, for god's sake.
Baubles and trinkets of all sorts jostled for space on the dusty shelves. A puffing gizmo that would have looked at home in Dumbledore's office sat next to a crystal dodecahedron. A scuffed case held a set of Quidditch balls featuring a Quaffle-sized Snitch and a Snitch-sized Quaffle. Broomsticks lined one wall, ranging in length from just a foot to something that Hagrid could use to take Madam Maxime out for a romantic flight. Several overhead shelves burst with books, some spines dusty and others gleaming as though freshly swept.
He pulled one out at random and opened it in the middle. The letters swam across the yellowing pages before coalescing into neat paragraphs.
The dim lighting of the shop proved inadequate for reading, forcing the young man to hunch over the pages. His brow knitted in confusion. What was the book about? He had picked it by chance, yet it appeared to be narrating his own perspective...
Harry raised his head and glanced around. Was someone playing a joke on him? His curiosity took the better of him, and he went back to reading. The words below the paragraph where he had left off rearranged before his eyes.
His mind awhirl, the man refocused on the mysterious book. The muffled voices of his godfather and the shopkeeper faded into the background. The yellowing pages consumed his vision, and he felt as though he was drifting in a void where only he and the volume in his hands existed. He tried to look up again, but to his growing horror, he found his gaze glued to the pages, his eyes devouring the text of their own accord.
Suddenly, he sensed an ominous presence behind him. It made no sound nor did it disturb the dusty air, but he knew with a terrible certainty that it was there and that it had come for him. His fingers trembled as—
His pulse racing, he snapped the book shut and whirled around. No terrible monster lurked between the cramped aisles. He glanced down at the cover, which read 'Tailored Terrors by Thanus Talbott'.
Chuckling nervously, he shoved the book back into its place and returned to the front of the shop. Sirius was counting off silvery coins into the shopkeeper's sweaty palm. Harry's gaze meandered to an array of wall-mounted clocks, some working and some not, then to a shelf below, atop which assorted statuettes piled haphazardly.
He walked up for a closer look at a jade figurine of a shapely woman with a serpentine lower half. Perhaps a foot tall, it was carved with meticulous attention to detail: the long tail arched gracefully, every minute scale perfectly defined, elongated fangs protruded between delicate lips, the nails tapered into fine points, and he even made out a tiny piercing in the bellybutton above where scales gave way to skin. The only thing detracting from the appeal was the pain and anger reflected in the woman's face.
"All done," Sirius said, startling him. "Find something you like?"
Harry gestured at the shelf. "Maybe. I thought you said lamias didn't exist?" He eyed the fin-like ears projecting behind the woman's head. "Although this might be more of a naga."
"I keep telling you, those are nothing but Muggle legends," Sirius said with a glance at the figurine. "Heh, nice tits. Too bad they're wasted on a snake."
He gave his godfather a pitying look. What a plebeian.
"Young sir has an eye for quality," Caldwell puffed, shuffling up to them. "Knowing this piece will be in good hands, I shall part with it for a measly price of three Galleons."
"Do you know who made it?" Harry asked. "It's beautiful—the craftsmanship, I mean." Despite the statuette's splendid detail, there wasn't a single chip nor blemish in sight, so it couldn't be very old. Perhaps he could commission whoever carved it to make figurines for his business.
"The name of the artisan is lost to history," Caldwell said. "The statuette was gifted to the First emperor of the Ming dynasty upon his ascendance to the throne. A very rare antique—a steal at the price."
Sirius snorted. "Cal hasn't a clue who made it. His suppliers—think Dung's sort—bring the stuff in, and he foists it off on the next sucker to fall for his spiel."
"You're a fence!" Harry blurted out, more impressed than anything.
Caldwell placed a doughy hand over his chest. "Slander and lies, sir! I run a respectable business, I do. Now, will you be purchasing the item or not?"
Harry contemplated the figurine. He was not into antiques, but he had never seen anything like it, whether in the Muggle world or wizarding. If only the poor naga did not look so tormented... It almost hurt him to look at her contorted expression.
On an impulse, he closed his eyes and reached out with his mind. The shop around was so rife with insubstantial tendrils of enchantments that it was difficult to distinguish between them. He slowly extended his hands toward the figurine.
His consciousness touched... an existence. The smell of brine and seaweed filled his nose, and the sloshing of waves entered his ears. The existence felt as vast and ancient as the ocean, dormant but not entirely asleep, drifting at the edge of a dream. He delved in. His breath caught in surprise when the figurine appeared in his mind's eye, its jade surface fracturing and sloughing off like an eggshell, aquamarine hair billowing out, sinuous body swaying in a mesmerizing dance—
"Sir. Sir!" A wheezy voice intruded into the vision. "Please pay before pawing the merchandise."
His eyes flew open. He looked confusedly at Caldwell, then at the figurine he now clutched with both hands. Gasping, he let go, and it clattered to the table.
"Watch it, now! If the statuette is damaged in any way, you will be charged—"
"I want it," he said.
Caldwell halted mid-tirade. "Excellent choice, young sir! I never once doubted you were a discerning customer."
"Hold your Hippogriffs," Sirius said, frowning. "Cal, lend me your Curse-Breaker Specs. Don't give me that look, everyone in your occupation owns a pair or two."
Caldwell's shoulders drooped. "If Mr. Black insists, certainly." He tried to turn around, but his potbelly nearly knocked over a precarious stack of foreign magazines. Huffing and puffing, he backpedaled until the aisle widened enough to accommodate his girth.
"I don't like how you acted back there," Sirius said to Harry's questioning glance. "Better safe than sorry when it comes to these things."
Harry swallowed back his protest. In retrospect, there was something odd about the figurine, yet somehow he knew in his heart of hearts that the existence he had sensed did not mean him harm.
Heavy footfalls and wheezing breath heralded the shopkeeper's return. Squeezing up to them, he thrust out what looked like a pair of antique welding goggles.
Sirius slipped them on, blinked owlishly behind the thick lenses, and stooped over the figurine. Humming, he adjusted the goggles as he regarded it from different angles. Harry tapped his foot in wait.
"Well, it won't melt your flesh or drain your blood," Sirius said, straightening up. "I think."
Harry rolled his eyes. "That's your professional opinion?"
"Hey, I might not be a Curse-Breaker, but I can recognize stuff you should steer clear from. Comes with the family name." Sirius pulled off the goggles and rubbed his eyes. "The auras of curses tend toward primary colors. This one's sort of milky, without the saw-toothed edges that would indicate any outward-aimed nastiness. The thing's definitely magic, but it isn't bespelled to inflict harm."
"Good enough for me." He produced his money pouch. Whatever secrets the figurine held, he would discover them in due time.
Sirius leveled his gaze at him. "I won't tell you not to buy it, but take precautions after you bring it home. Put it in one of my mother's display cabinets, those were built to hold cursed items."
"I'll be careful," he said, handing Caldwell three golden coins. By the time haggling crossed his mind, the money had already disappeared in the shopkeeper's pockets.
As he reverently picked up the figurine, its tiny jade eyes seemed to soften as though it was happy to be in his possession. He smiled. Caldwell was right: for such a work of art, three Galleons was a steal.
