Chapter 22 - Holiday shopping
Chapter Twenty Two- Holiday shopping
“Blimey, Albie!” James exclaimed as he stepped into the dim room. “Can’t you at least open a window?” His voice carried a note of exasperation as he flicked on the ceiling lamp. The dark wooden floor, paired with the deep pine-green tapestry and drawn black curtains, made the room feel even gloomier.
From beneath the heavy Slytherin-green blanket draped over the older, dark-wooden poster bed, Albus let out a faint grumble. His response was too muffled for James to make out.
James raised an eyebrow at the bed frame. “When did you change the color?” he asked.
“I asked Kreacher to do it,” Albus muttered bitterly from under the blanket. “And don’t call me that.”
“Someone woke up on the wrong side—though I suppose you always do,” James teased, far too loudly. He narrowly dodged the pillow Albus hurled at his face.
“Merlin—” James exclaimed, putting his Quidditch reflexes to use. “I thought we were past needing polite lies,” he added, mockingly mimicking Albus’s usual tone and eyeroll. “The green looks wonderful ,” he said with a grin, ducking as another pillow flew his way.
A mess of black hair emerged from beneath the blanket, followed by a pale face etched with dark circles under haunted eyes. “Says the one whose room looks like a Gryffindor mascot exploded,” Albus retorted flatly.
James grimaced at the mental image. “Blimey, you look awful—might need to borrow some of Mum’s makeup,” he remarked, wincing at Albus’s disheveled appearance.
“How kind,” Albus replied with biting sarcasm, his face twisting into a mocking grimace.
“I always am!” James shot back with irritating energy, ignoring the jab entirely. “Come on, Al, get up! Or we’ll be late!” With that, he left, still in his pajamas, leaving the door ajar.
Albus groaned as irritation flared. For a fleeting moment, he considered burrowing back into his makeshift sanctuary of warmth. But the thought of their mother storming in—or worse, dragging him out—drove him to his feet.
Reluctantly, he shuffled across the cold wooden floorboards to his bathroom. As he lazily peeled off his clothes, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror.
He looked worse than horrid. His hollowed cheeks and gaunt frame made his features unnervingly striking. The golden tan of his skin had faded, replaced by a sickly, sallow tone with an olive undertone. Sharp ribs jutted out, and fresh scars overlapped older ones, a grim patchwork on his once-unblemished skin. His deep, shadowed eyes stared back at him, haunted and accusing.
With a sharp breath, he forced his gaze away. A new fire burned within him, as hot as the scalding shower water that followed. It wasn’t anger—no, it was something deeper, more corrosive. A resentment taking root, sinking deeper than ever before.
++++
The holiday spirit was in full swing in Diagon Alley as shoppers hurried to check off the last items on their gift lists. The Potters moved through the bustling crowd, which seemed to pause just to stare at them. Today, their father had come along, and Albus couldn’t help but think there was a hidden reason for it—whether it had to do with the rising political tensions in the British wizen community or simply to keep a closer eye on him . Either way, Albus knew he could slip away unnoticed eventually, and he was fairly certain his father wouldn’t be able to blend in with the crowd as easily to follow him. Yet, it was almost like His father anticipated Albus’s attempt to sneak off, walking especially close to him, which only fueled Albus’s irritation. No matter, an opportunity would come. Albus had some shopping he wanted to keep private from his family.
He glanced at his mother, suspecting she was the real reason their father had tagged along. She was still worried after the last time they’d gone shopping and Albus had disappeared for a while. This time, they had been given a strict lecture about not wandering off alone, and if they needed to, they were to go in pairs.
“Can I and Lily go off on our own? We need to get your presents,” Albus said, attempting to sound casual, though not too far from his usual tone.
Ginny shot a glance at Harry, who looked like he was ready to refuse. Albus quickly turned to Lily, giving her a look.
“Come on, Dad! We’re just going to be in the main square,” Lily said brightly, managing to sway him as usual. She was, after all, their father's favourite. Harry relented, giving them an hour to shop alone.
“Let’s head to the Magical Menagerie,” Albus said after they had picked out some presents for their parents, wanting to waste no time.
“What, Allie? You’re going to buy my present with me there?” Lily teased, a grin tugging at her lips.
“Please, Lils, you already know what I’m getting you. Might as well help me pick it out,” he replied. “But I need you to stall afterward. There’s something I need to do on my own.”
Lily raised an eyebrow. “Dad said we’re not supposed to go off alone.”
“Which is why I need you to stall,” Albus said condescendingly, rolling his eyes.
Lily’s playful tone shifted to something more serious. “Allie, I don’t want to lie to them too much. I’m fine covering for you with the Scorpius thing—”
He cut her off “this is a Scorpius ‘thing’, we made a plan to meet up.” He lied.
His sister seemed to relax. “Then I can come!” she beamed.
“No, i want to be alone–” Albus resorted
Lily grinned as she lowered her voice conspiratorially, “What are you going to snog–”
Albus glared at her, yet fixed his gaze as he cut her off. “I just don't want my little sister with me when I'm meeting my friend.” Albus resorted.
Lily gave him a childish pointed look “Then you can’t see each other!” She said simply as she started to walk faster, head raised.
“Aren’t you annoyed that they’re so overprotective? I just want to meet a friend alone.” he made it a point to say friend.
“It’s not a great time for that, Al,” she said, sounding more like their parents than he liked.
“Not you too, Lily. You don’t have to believe everything they say,” Albus muttered, his irritation growing.
“They know best, Allie.” Lily said confidently
“They don’t. Not always. Look at how they handled things with Scorpius.”
“That’s different,” Lily replied sternly.
“It’s really not. I can handle myself, and so can you. There’s no danger in being alone in Diagon Alley.”
She shook her head “I can't, Mum and Dad said—”
“We’re wasting time,” Albus said, cutting off the conversation as they entered the store. Just as he expected, Lily’s focus was immediately drawn to the snake enclosures, her eyes lighting up with childlike excitement. She practically bounced over to them, scanning the small, noodle-like creatures.
Albus, on the other hand, approached a shop assistant. “Do you have Magical Rattlesnakes? Preferably an albino female,” he asked, his voice flat and detached from the earlier tension.
“Yes! We actually just got a new ship—” the assistant began, but Albus impatiently waved his hand, cutting them off. He didn’t care for the chatter. They should just do their job without the constant rambling.
The two moved closer to where Lily stood, already captivated by the small snakes. The assistant, undeterred by Albus’s dismissal, continued, “We have a whole batch of them, three are female.”
Albus nodded curtly. “You heard that, Lily? Pick one.”
“It’s so hard to choose!” she squirreled, her eyes darting between the delicate snakes.
Albus turned back to the shopkeeper, his tone business-like. “We’ll take one, along with all the necessary snake care and feed.”
Lily, still engrossed in the choice, piped up, “I want a magical enclosure that’s bigger on the inside.”
The assistant began listing all the different types of enclosures, but Albus’s mind was already elsewhere.
"Lils," Albus interrupted her quiet focus, his voice cutting through the sound of bustling shoppers. "I'll be back in a bit. Just saw some Housemates over there by the owls. Take your time picking, alright?"
Lily barely glanced up from the enclosure, her attention fully captured by the snakes within. "Sure" she murmured absentmindedly, already lost in her world of creatures.
Predictable. Albus smirked inwardly, knowing how easily his sister could become absorbed when it came to anything involving magical creatures, especially ones she was about to bring home. If he timed it right, he could slip away, make his purchases, and return before she even realised how much time had passed.
Quickening his pace, Albus weaved through the crowded alley, the swirl of voices and laughter creating the perfect cover for his escape. Diagon Alley was alive with activity—students making last-minute purchases for term, parents herding their children through the shops, and vendors shouting their wares. But none of it slowed him down. He moved swiftly, expertly avoiding any familiar faces.
His destination was a small, unassuming apothecary tucked into the far end of the alley. The place had an air of age about it, dust and shadow clinging to its corners, as though it had seen centuries of secrets pass through its doors. Shelves sagged under the weight of vials and jars, each one labeled in cramped, precise handwriting. The scent of herbs and parchment filled the air, blending into an oddly comforting aroma. It wasn’t didn't seem to be a popular shop, which suited Albus just fine.
Shaking the snow off his cloak, Albus approached the counter, a thick pane of glass separated him from the shopkeeper like one of those older sweet shops. The shopkeeper, an elderly wizard, had deep-set eyes that seemed to have witnessed more than their fair share of strange requests. His robes were decades out of date and style, and his gaze held something that hinted at more than a simple apothecary owner.
His destination was a small, unassuming apothecary nestled at the far end of the alley. The shop exuded an air of age, with dust and shadows clinging stubbornly to its corners, as though centuries of secrets had seeped into the very woodwork. Shelves sagged under the weight of vials and jars, each labeled in cramped, precise handwriting. The mingled scents of herbs and aged parchment filled the air, forming an oddly comforting aroma. It didn’t seem to attract much foot traffic, which suited Albus just fine.
Shaking snow from his cloak, Albus stepped inside and approached the counter. A thick pane of glass separated him from the shopkeeper, reminiscent of the old-fashioned sweet shops he'd visited as a child. The shopkeeper, an elderly wizard with deep-set eyes and robes decades out of style, studied him with a gaze that hinted at far more than a simple apothecary’s expertise.
“Do you stock scar paste?” Albus asked, his tone clipped and direct. He was tired of buying it from Nott, who kept raising the price.
The shopkeeper’s expression tightened, almost offended. “I don’t stock ,” he said sharply. “I brew everything fresh.”
“Of course,” Albus replied smoothly, undeterred by the man’s prickly demeanor. “I’ll take the strongest you’ve got.”
The old wizard raised a questioning eyebrow. For a moment, Albus felt the slightest tremor through his spinner, an instinctive sense of being watched or probed. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes—any sign of impatience could get him thrown out. Instead, he let his gaze wander over the shelves, mentally cataloging the ingredients and potions on display. “Do you also carry growth and nutrition potions?” he asked casually, though his tone was deliberate.
The shopkeeper’s gaze sharpened. Growth and nutrition potions were restricted, requiring either a prescription or an adult wizard’s signature. Albus knew most students resorted to Knockturn Alley for such things. If this apothecary had them, it would save him a riskier trip. Yet, as he glanced around the shadowy shop, he doubted how strictly the rules were followed here.
The shopkeeper didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he scrutinized Albus with renewed interest, weighing him carefully. The silence stretched, heavy and oppressive, as though the air itself were closing in.
Finally, the old wizard gave a slow nod. “Do you have a prescription?” he asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.
Albus forced a boyish smile, his lips curling just enough to seem disarming. “I’m picking it up for my mum,” he said, injecting a touch of youthful innocence into his voice. He scrunched his face, feigning confusion. “She didn’t mention anything about needing a prescription.”
The shopkeeper’s eyes narrowed, skepticism evident. Still, he nodded curtly. “It’ll cost more—got to cover the fee,” he said dismissively, flicking his wand with a practiced motion.
Albus returned the nod, his expression polite, though inwardly he bristled. He knew perfectly well there was no such “fee.” The price hike was a thinly veiled extortion for the risk of bypassing regulations. Yet he had little choice; growth potions were strictly controlled, and students like him weren’t supposed to access them at all.
“Thank you,” Albus said, his voice smooth as he forced a poised smile. Relief seeped into his posture as he let his shoulders relax slightly. Yet even as he accepted the old man’s terms, his sharp eyes followed every flick of the wand, studying the spellwork with meticulous care.
The shopkeeper moved with practiced precision, his hands steady as he gathered vials and jars. Each container glimmered faintly under the dim light, the contents inside casting subtle hues of color. It didn’t escape Albus’s notice that the wizard seemed annoyed by his watchful gaze, so he let his eyes wander again. His attention briefly snagged on a dusty shelf holding faded potion labels. Some names he recognized, though a few were obscure enough to make him wonder whether they were still legal—or if the Ministry had simply forgotten they existed.
When the shopkeeper returned, he placed a small collection of salves and potions on the counter with meticulous care. “How much do you need?” he asked, his eyes flicking toward the galleons Albus had casually poured out earlier.
Albus considered for a moment, tapping a finger against the counter. “Depends on how effective they are. How much will that get me?” He gestured lazily to the pile of coins.
The shopkeeper didn’t hesitate, his calculating gaze moving between Albus and the money. “A month’s supply of the scar paste, if applied daily. Half a month of the growth and nutrition potion.”
Nodding thoughtfully, Albus said, “Let’s make it four months’ worth of the paste.” He wasn’t about to risk running out mid-term—not with the likelihood of things getting even more challenging. The thought of enduring another spell-inflicted injury without proper treatment was enough to make him preemptive.
“How long does one need to take the potion before it starts working?” he asked, his tone casual as his sharp eyes tracked the shopkeeper’s wandwork. More jars of the scar paste floated from the shelves, landing softly on the counter.
“These are of an older variety,” the shopkeeper replied, his voice turning more serious. “Stronger than the watered-down nonsense you’d find at bigger shops. Two drops mixed into another liquid, twice a day for nearly a month. Beyond that, you’ll need to pause for at least a month before resuming. Overuse will only build resistance—and weaken your results.” He gave Albus a long, appraising look. “Though in your case, you might need two months to see a noticeable difference. But remember: one month on, one month off.”
Albus bit back a retort at the man's veiled judgment but nodded curtly instead. He watched as the vials floated forward, each filled from a larger container before sealing themselves with corks. The packaging wrapped itself around the jars with crisp efficiency, settling neatly on the counter.
The shopkeeper’s expectant gaze followed, and Albus responded with a composed smile, letting a few more coins tumble from his coin pouch. The older man counted them with practiced ease before flicking his wand. A small business card flew from a nearby drawer and landed on the counter.
“If your mum needs a restock,” the shopkeeper said with a hint of amusement in his voice.
Albus pocketed the card with a polite nod, gathering the neatly packed bundle into his bag. “Thank you,” he said, his tone poised and unreadable. With the transaction complete, he turned briskly and headed for the door.
The cold hit him harder as he stepped outside, the snowfall thickening with every passing moment. Fat flakes clung to his cloak, melting into dark patches as he trudged down the slick cobblestones. Albus tightened his Slytherin-green scarf around his neck, the fabric shielding him from the biting chill. His breath fogged the air in steady puffs as he cast a glance over his shoulder, scanning the bustling crowd with practiced care. Shoppers moved briskly, huddled against the winter’s grip, their faces blurred by the storm.
Satisfied that no one had taken notice of him, he slipped into the shadows of the alley. Here, the noise of Diagon Alley faded into a distant hum, replaced by the muffled crunch of his boots against the snow.
His destination was clear: A’s Athenæum. The name alone sent a faint thrill through his chest, though he couldn’t tell if it was excitement or trepidation. The shop had lingered in his thoughts for weeks, an itch he couldn’t quite scratch. He knew—deep down—that returning was reckless, especially doing it now and its close proximity to Knockturn Alley, but the pull was undeniable.
He needed answers—not half-truths or fragmented knowledge, but real, tangible answers. The book his magic had drawn him to felt like a call to action, a summons he couldn’t ignore. Yet it had offered only hypothetical solutions, empty promises that confirmed the worst of his fears: there was no cure for a blood curse.
Still, something gnawed at him. A relentless hunger, stoked by the very magic that had guided him, pushed him to delve deeper, to uncover what lay hidden. It was like an itch that refused to be scratched, an insistent pull that told him there was more—there had to be more.
And if anyone could help him, if anyone could provide the answers he sought, it was that Shopkeeper.
Without hesitation, Albus stepped inside. The warmth of the shop enveloped him immediately, and the shift in atmosphere was palpable. The noise of the bustling street vanished as the door clicked shut behind him, replaced by the soft crackle of a fire somewhere in the back of the shop and the faint, almost hypnotic scent of parchment and incense. Yet, something more lingered in the air. The magic here felt alive—tangible, like threads of energy weaving through the space. Albus’s skin prickled at the sensation, as if the magic were aware of his presence, brushing against him in greeting—or perhaps in warning.
The shop was lit by a low, golden glow that flickered like candle flames, casting long, wavering shadows along the rows of shelves. It struck him as odd, the dimness making it difficult to read the titles of the books and tomes, but perhaps that was intentional. There was something secretive about this place, a deliberate obscurity that demanded one search for knowledge rather than stumble upon it.
Albus’s gaze swept the room, expecting the shopkeeper to materialize from the shadows at any moment. But, just like before, the shop appeared empty.
He exhaled slowly, focusing his senses. Over the past months, he had grown more adept at perceiving the subtle differences in magical energy. Objects carried a quiet, stagnant pulse, steady and unchanging, while living beings held something more fluid, more volatile. Albus tuned in to the shop’s magic, letting the vibrations guide him; There was no signature that told the sign of a living presence. Interesting. Perhaps the shopkeeper was using enchanted jewellery or another form of concealment—wouldn’t be surprising in a place like this. It seemed fitting, given the mysterious aura she liked to project.
With no sign of her yet, Albus let his instincts guide him. He wandered down the rows of shelves, fingers brushing lightly over the spines of books and tomes, feeling the soft pull of magic in some of them. His hand lingered on a few that seemed to hum faintly under his touch, but none of them called out as strongly as before.
Closing his eyes for a moment, he tried something else—focusing inward. He reached out to his own magic, trying to see if it would lead him like it had the first time. The sensation was strange, a mixture of surrender and control as he felt the faint tug of something deeper in the shop, pulling him forward.
Albus' stomach fluttered as the familiar pull of magic stirred within him, faint yet undeniable. It was the same undercurrent he’d felt before—like a thread connecting him to something deeper, something waiting to be found. His steps moved unconsciously in time with the rhythm of that magic, guiding him through the aisles. He let it lead him, surrendering to the sensation of being pulled toward something unknown yet significant.
His shoes brushed against the base of a bookcase, and the feeling sharpened. Albus opened his eyes, his gaze immediately drawn to a shelf just above eye level. Without hesitation, he reached up and pulled down a tome bound in dark, weathered leather. The title, etched in silver letters, shimmered faintly in the dim light:
Obscure and Undetected Curses: A Encyclopedia.
Albus's fingers tightened around the spine of the weathered spellbook, the weight of it solid in his hands, a smirk letting unto his features. The book was not extraordinary. It was an old tome, sure, but outwardly unremarkable for a book on curses, yet the magic felt anything but. It intrigued him. Albus opened the book, the pages stiff from age, releasing a faint scent of dust and ink, yet the magic radiating from it, magic that made Albus feel a bit overwhelmed as he closed the book.
The voice, thick with a French accent, drifted through the air, smooth yet unsettling. Albus froze, his pulse quickening as the woman rounded him, coming into view with a graceful ease. Her gaze flickering down to the spellbook in his hands. Interestingly he felt no magical aura.
“Ah, Obscure and Undetected Curses , a classic,” she mused, her voice lilting with a soft, almost melodic amusement. Her lips curved into a faint smile, as though recalling a private joke. “A favorite of mine... very nostalgic. Though I would strongly advise against attempting the particularly nasty little spellwork on page 147. That one caused me quite a hassle once.”
She glanced down at him, her eyes sharp and glinting with mischief, before tilting her head ever so slightly. A confident grin spread across her face—poised, almost unnervingly beautiful—as if she found the entire exchange both amusing and entertaining.
“Then again,” she added, her tone playful, “who knows? You might find it easier to wield.”
Her words hung in the air, light but laced with an undercurrent of intrigue. Albus caught the gleam in her eye—a knowing look that seemed to test him, to weigh him.
He raised an eyebrow but chose not to comment on how she had appeared so suddenly or how effortlessly she seemed to slip into his space. It was, after all, part of the peculiar charm of this place—a detail he had come to expect, even if he wouldn’t admit to liking it. Most wizen thrived on their mysterious airs, and begrudgingly, Albus found himself drawn to this particular version of it.
“Oh?” he finally replied, his tone carrying just the right balance of curiosity and skepticism. His fingers moved deftly over the worn edges of the book, flipping through the brittle pages until they landed on the infamous 147.
The curse described on the page was both obscure and disturbingly brutal, forcing him to suppress a grimace. He could feel her eyes on him, a playful amusement lingering in her expression as she leaned slightly over the tome, her dark hair cascading in soft waves that framed her face. She tucked a stray strand behind her ear, her movements deliberate and poised.
“Told you. Quite a nasty one,” she murmured, her grin widening as she studied his reaction.
Albus was uncomfortably aware of how close she was—close enough for the faint scent of her perfume to reach him, a rich, warm blend that was almost alluring. He didn’t feel fear or dread, only a flicker of embarrassment and a newfound, disconcerting awareness of himself under her piercing gaze. His own eyes stayed stubbornly fixed on the page, though the tips of his ears burned with a heat he blamed entirely on the thick scarf around his neck.
“Not sure what use I’d have for it,” he said simply, breaking the tension as he tried to wrap his head around the intricacies of the curse. It seemed excessive, even for him.
Her grin turned striking, her features sharp and deliberate as if she relished the effect her presence had on him. “Hopefully, none. My curiosity got the better of me, but as they say—curiosity killed the kneazle,” she said, her voice rich and sweet, carrying the trace of a French accent.
Albus felt his cheeks heat further, the scent of her perfume curling around him. He smirked despite himself. “But satisfaction brought it back, no?”
Her eyes gleamed as her grin softened into something almost approving. “Exactly,” she replied smoothly, straightening up with an elegant ease that left him with the distinct feeling she’d won some unspoken exchange.
“Have you been here the whole time?” he asked intrigued and made his gaze meet hers again.
“Well, the shop is open isnt it mon petit?” she said with a smile that sent a shiver down his spine.
“Well, I wonder—You always seem to come when I find a book, is there some spellwork that notifies you when someone touches one?” he asked.
“Curious little thing–” she said with a glimpse of an intrigue in her eyes. Then she spinned around “I'm afraid that’s a trade secret.” she said lightly. “Now let’s pack this book, If you feel satisfied?” she looked back over her shoulder and smiled at him, waiting for a response.
Albus looked down at the book and closed. “Actually I’m looking for a book about wards, especially focused on warding objects.” He continued “none dark—Hogwarts dorm friendly.” He clarified a bit too quickly–Which earned him a grin from the shopkeeper, which made his cheeks flush even more.
She led him towards another part of the book store and with a flicker of her wand another book shot out from the bookcase and handed in his hands. “This one should check your boxes, otherwise there is another–But it’s more advanced, and certainly would be considered dark-leaning, though not too dark for a certain dorm I imagine” She said with a professional smile as she eyed the Slytherin green scarf around his neck.
He nodded at her, looking down at the book in his hands. before starting to follow her over to the counter.
The shopkeeper began to work, flickering her wand and casting the usual glamour spell over books.
Albus took a deep breath before he spoke. “I know why my magic guided me to the book this summer,” Albus said, his voice steady despite the weight of his revelation.
The shopkeeper paused mid-motion As a somber expression crossed her face, her eyes narrowing with genuine concern as she lowered her wand. “I’m sorry, mon petit, ” she said softly, her voice tinged with regret. “I had hoped you wouldn’t.”
A knot tightened in Albus’s stomach, twisting with apprehension. “It’s not me that is afflicted—” he began, though his breath hitched. The vulnerability of the moment caught him off guard. The woman leaned back against the desk behind the counter, her posture relaxed yet attentive, offering him the space to speak.
He took a deep breath, steadying himself. The act of saying it aloud felt like turning it into reality. “It’s someone close to me. Someone in their family, I believe,” he admitted hesitantly, his words trembling as they hung in the air. His eyes flickered toward the woman, almost as if hoping for her to say something—anything—that could make the truth feel less heavy. Their gazes met, and for a moment, she simply sighed, a sound of sympathy and understanding. Then, pushing off from the desk, she straightened and gestured for him to follow. “Follow me” she said, her tone calm but firm, as she moved towards a door Albus had never noticed before.
She opened it and led him through to a room unlike any part of the shop he’d seen before. Albus’s gaze roamed over the space, his dread and curiosity blending in equal measure. It looked like a study—warm and inviting, with a crackling fire in a large hearth that could accommodate a Floo setup. A cosy sofa and armchairs were arranged before it, and behind them stood an old mahogany desk, piled high with books, scrolls, and letters. The floor shared the same organized chaos, a scattered array of papers that somehow didn’t feel out of place.
On one wall, a staircase was embedded into a towering bookcase, leading up to what seemed to be living quarters. Albus followed her to the sofa, where she gestured for him to sit. With a flick of her wand, a tea set floated to the small table before them, pouring steaming tea into delicate cups.
“Strawberry,” she said with a smile. “I know—it’s winter, but it’s my favorite no matter the season.”
Albus nodded absently, his eyes wandering the room. The warmth of the space was hard to reconcile with the gnawing unease in his chest. He wrapped his hands around the teacup, the heat seeping into his skin and soothing his nerves, though his mind raced to maintain the emotional shield he clung to.
“Excuse the mess,” she said, leaning back into the sofa. Her voice was calm and unhurried, easing some of the tension that gripped him. “This is a private space. I don’t entertain guests here often, but I thought it would suit the conversation better.”
“I don’t mind,” Albus murmured. The teacup felt reassuring in his grasp, its warmth anchoring him even as his thoughts churned.
The tea set responded to her wandless magic, the spout tilting as her cup refilled itself. She raised it to her lips with practiced ease, the motion so casual it didn’t feel performative. Albus’s eyes followed the movement, his usual awe of such skill dampened by the gravity of the moment. Yet her presence and the soft hum of the fire had a grounding effect, chipping away at his guard as he prepared to continue.
“Tell me,” she said, her voice warm and filled with an understanding that was almost intoxicating. “Is it in its late stages?”
Albus looked down at his cup, then took a sip, the warmth of the tea grounding him even as his mind raced, trying to figure out which words to use, how much to reveal. He tilted his head slightly, her gaze meeting his. There was a glint of sympathy in her eyes, but beneath it, something else lingered—something that connected with him in a way he couldn’t explain.
“I’m not sure,” he began, his voice barely above a whisper. “I believe it’s starting to become more severe.” The enormity of the situation pressed down on him, and he clenched his jaw to keep himself from breaking.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice soft with sincerity. It wrapped around him like a comforting blanket. She didn’t press him further; instead, she let him take the lead, which, in a strange way, made him feel understood.
“Is there really nothing? Nothing that could be done?” His voice cracked, betraying the turmoil he was struggling to contain inside.
Her eyes softened, and her demeanor shifted, taking on a gravity that made her seem almost regal in her empathy. “Magic can work wonders, but it is not without its limits.”
Albus absorbed her words, letting the weight of them settle over him. “There’s a lot we don’t know... There might be a cure.” The words came out uncertain, almost as if he were trying to convince himself more than anyone else. It was a last hope, something to cling to, a reassurance that, despite everything, it might not be as bad as it seemed. Maybe with time, they would find a way.
“I feel it inside me. My magic is—there has to be a way, and I need to find it.” he uttered into space.
Ella watched him for a long moment, her expression shifting from concern to something that seemed like resignation. After a pause, she nodded slowly. “There is research on the topic, as you know from the book.”
Albus nodded, his mind spinning, trying to remember what the book said. “Blood curses, also known as blood maledictions... are bound by blood, and passed through generations, but it’s a mystery who will be afflicted. Sometimes, there will be generations without a single member being afflicted.”
“And others where there is a loss every generation, or ones where a whole generation is afflicted,” she continued.
He tightened his jaw at the injustice of it, the cruelty of never knowing when it might make itself known. “The writers believe that it’s a form of ultimate revenge or vengeance.”
She nodded in agreement. “It’s the most popular theory in research circles, but also the most disliked. It would shed an entirely new light on the families and legacies suffering from them, victims turned into villains”
Albus’s voice grew grim as he continued, “The book—it described the curse as a mark, a mark of the family’s so-called sins. A legacy that can never be erased, never forgotten.”
“The writer of that book believed the cure lies in the families remembering the reason for the curse,” she said, her tone quiet but resolute.
“Which is just another way of saying there is none,” Albus replied bitterly. “Hope is lost if we’ve lost the history, lost what our ancestors did.”
She nodded slowly, her expression thoughtful. “Even if our lives are short—not as short as Muggles, but short enough—we forget. We lose knowledge. But magic... Magic never forgets.”
“If magic never forgets... there could be another way to find a cure.” Albus’s words were firm, yet they carried a thread of doubt that tangled his thoughts.
She hesitated for a moment before her eyes met his, steady and unyielding. “From what I understand, there is a researcher—Sallow. He’s come the closest to a real cure.” She paused, her gaze drifting toward the front of the room, as if gathering her thoughts. “Though his reputation is awful. He’s steeped in unethical studies and experiments, so much so that he’s long been cast out of respectable circles.”
Albus furrowed his brow, intrigued despite the caution in her words. “Is he still active?”
Her answer was brief, yet heavy. “Yes.”
His eyes locked onto the bookcase in front of him, his mind racing with possibilities. “How can I reach him?” he asked, shifting his gaze back to hers with an expectant intensity.
“He doesn’t just reply to anyone,” she said, her tone laced with a quiet warning.
Albus nodded, settling back into the plush sofa with the cup still in his hands, his fingers absentmindedly tracing the rim. “A blood curse has never been cured,” she continued, her voice softening as the weight of the truth sank in. “But I can help you contact him. If he responds, I’ll send you a letter.”
Albus sat straighter, a flicker of excitement igniting within him. The quiet hope he had been clinging to suddenly felt more tangible. “How much?” he asked, the words spilling out almost impulsively. His voice betrayed his age, the eagerness of youth rising to the surface.
She laughed lightly, a soft, melodic sound that seemed to fill the space between them. With a graceful turn, she placed one hand on her hip, her gaze playful yet calculating. The way she moved was effortlessly confident, every motion deliberate and assured. "See it more as a favor,” she said, her tone warm, yet tinged with a certain coolness. “As I can’t promise any results.”
Albus’s cheeks tinged with a faint blush as he looked at her, the heat of his embarrassment mingling with his determination. But it was hard to focus entirely on his own words with the way she stood before him, the way she seemed to command the room with just the subtle movement of her body. Her posture—straight, unyielding—spoke volumes of her confidence, an easy allure that seemed to radiate from her. “I understand that. I’m not a naïve child,” he said, his voice steady despite the slight flush.
She moved across the room toward her desk, her steps measured and deliberate, as though she knew the weight of her presence. Albus watched her, his gaze following the fluid grace with which she navigated the space. Her fingers grazed the edge of the desk as she swept over the papers, a simple action that somehow seemed imbued with an elegance that made the air feel thicker. "The book; the one that your magic guided you to this time, I hope it will be useful."
"I just wish I could get some practice in before going back to Hogwarts."
“Don’t you live in a wizarding home?” she asked, her eyes still scanning the papers before her, but the slight raise of her brow suggested she was already weighing his words carefully.
“I do,” he said. Her gaze rose, locking with his, a spark of something unspoken passing between them as her brow lifted. Albus felt the need to explain himself, the urgency of his desire to be understood making his words come out more quickly than he intended. “My family is strict on us performing magic while underage.”
She nodded, barely a flicker of reaction, then returned her attention to the papers scattered across the desk. It was as though the weight of her focus was all-encompassing, and Albus couldn’t help but find himself drawn in by it.
“It’s ridiculous,” he muttered under his breath, frustration creeping in.
She glanced up from the papers, meeting his gaze for a fleeting moment before returning to her work. “You can work around it. At least there shouldn’t be a problem with the trace, as the magic of the house will hide it from detection.” She tilted her head slightly, and Albus watched as she flipped through a few more papers with smooth, calculated movements, her hands never hesitating. “Your only worry then is the wand history and hiding it from your parents.”
Her words held an edge of amusement, though her tone was still focused, almost clinical. The way she said it—like a riddle just within reach of being solved—made Albus feel both intrigued and unsettled. “One is easier than the other,” she added, almost as an afterthought, her eyes never leaving her task.
Albus’s breath caught as he realized just how much power she held over this conversation, her unspoken confidence adding layers of meaning to every word she said.
“Wand history?” he asked, a bit perplexed. He had never heard the term before, though he had seen flickers of the notion, as older years seemed to cast a triad of normal charms after a particularly nasty curse.
She nodded, her movements smooth and deliberate, almost like a dance as she began to explain. “The trace is not individualistic; such a charm would be too complex. The trace picks up on magic around an underage witch or wizard through their wands, which are registered to the Ministry. Old, generational houses usually have protection against the trace, like those Muggle telephones and Wi-Fi signals; it simply cuts off the connection. Though the spells can still be seen through wand histories.” She leaned back on her desk with an effortless grace, her fingers lightly resting on the edge of the paper, her posture perfectly balanced. There was a confidence in her that made it clear she belonged in this role. It wasn’t just the words she spoke—it was the way she carried herself, a sort of quiet command in her every movement.
As she spoke, she shifted slightly, crossing one leg over the other, and Albus found himself momentarily distracted by the fluidity of her motions, the elegance with which she seemed to navigate the space around her. Even in a mundane moment, she exuded a calm intensity, as though the world were hers to understand. She glanced at the paper she was holding, and a subtle, almost mischievous smile tugged at the corners of her lips before she lowered it, her eyes locking with his.
“So then what?” he asked, his voice coming out more breathless than intended, and he forced his gaze away, not wanting to appear as transfixed as he felt.
“There is a way to remove it—the trace outside of the home and sever the wand's connection to the Ministry, which cuts off the wand history—making the spells used non-traceable.”
“How? Is it a spell?” he asked, his curiosity piqued. He had known the trace was removed once one reached seventeen—but wand history? This was the first time he had heard that the Ministry kept records, and the thought both unsettled and intrigued him.
Her eyes brightened at the question, and for a brief moment, the professional mask slipped, replaced by a glint of something far more enigmatic. “Ah,” she said, her voice lowering, almost like a whisper shared between old friends, “Don’t even think about it; one must be a master at spellwork, and give years to the craft to even try.”
Albus felt the shift in the air, as if the room itself had leaned in closer. Her words wrapped around him with an intensity that both unsettled and intrigued him. “So, some kind of spellbreaker?” he asked, his voice steady despite the rapid flicker of curiosity igniting inside him.
She nodded, a knowing gleam in her eyes that spoke volumes. As she stopped looking through the letters, she turned toward him fully, her posture straightening as though she had just stepped into the very heart of her element. The way she carried herself—so assured, so deliberate—made Albus feel as though the room had suddenly grown smaller, as if her presence filled every inch of it. “Exactly. They must possess the ability to untangle the magic woven into the trace. But be cautious—finding a skilled spellbreaker isn’t easy.”
Her words, while practical, were wrapped in an air of danger, making his pulse quicken despite himself. Albus smirked, trying to suppress the quickened beat of his heart, his mind racing with possibilities. “Somehow, I have a feeling you know someone who can help.”
Her lips curved into a smile, slow and knowing, as if the question had been one she was expecting all along. The smile, though small, was confident and teasing, making him feel as though he were standing on the edge of something far greater than the conversation. “I do. A lady, a bit peculiar, but an incredible spellmaker and breaker.”
“So how can I find her?” Albus asked, leaning forward slightly, unable to resist the pull of her words.
The shopkeeper flicked her wand with a fluid, almost absent grace. A piece of paper shot out from a drawer, landing neatly in front of him as if guided by an invisible hand. She looked at him, her gaze sharpening like a blade, her presence growing even more magnetic. “It has a point-me charm,” she said, her voice low but deliberate, each word seeming to carry weight far beyond its simple meaning. “It will pull you toward the shop.”
Albus reached for the card, the cool edge of it sending a small thrill through him. But as he lifted his gaze to her, her eyes were focused entirely on him, sharp and unwavering. “I must warn you, mon petit,” she continued, the words slipping from her lips like silk, “keep your hood up if you decide to find her.”
Albus nodded, his mind quickly piecing it together. The business had to be tucked away somewhere hidden, far from the bustling crowds. It could only be in Knockturn Alley.
“Say that Ella sent you,” she added, her smile turning a bit softer, more personal, as Albus picked up the charmed paper, feeling the weight of it in his hand.
“Thank you,” he said earnestly, meeting her gaze, which held a quiet understanding as if she had just entrusted him with something important.
She smiled back, warm and genuine, her presence still filling the room even as she moved toward the door. “Come on,” she said, her voice soft but commanding, as though urging him to embrace the path ahead. “Let’s get you moving, hmm?”
Albus tucked the business card into his pocket, feeling the coolness of it press against his side. He followed her, a growing sense of anticipation swirling in his chest. He could already see the steps he needed to take, each one closer to unraveling what he sought. After he paid for his books and stood at the door, ready to leave, Ella called out to him one last time.
“Remember, you are always welcome here,” she said, her voice sincere, almost like a promise, as though offering more than just her help.
Albus turned back, meeting her gaze once more. He offered a smile in return, before stepping out into the cold December air. The chill nipped at his skin, but it was nothing compared to the fire of his thoughts, already spiraling toward Knockturn Alley.