Saturday 21st, closing time


Norman’s heart was in his throat. His hand gripped and regripped his short chestnut wand, fingers restless and palms sweaty. He had rechecked his shoelaces thrice in the last ten minutes, run through the plan in his mind a dozen more times. There were too many people still in the Alley. His blue gaze darted left and right, willing the Saturday closing time lull to begin as it had the week before. The point at which the shopper was long home, and too early for the evening drinker. He wished he had his pipe, but he’d left it at home as one less thing to carry.

Shoelaces.
    Check
Wand
    Check
Belt
    Check
Expandable bag
    Check
Knife
    Check
Forgetfulness Potion …?

Norman’s hands flew to the pockets of his coat, left hand thumb coming to rest on the stopper. He exhaled a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. Good decision to wear the coat rather than a cloak. Kept his legs unhindered by excess cloth, and the pockets could hide all multitude of sins.

The Alley had fallen suspiciously silent. The heavy Gringotts doors had sealed shut a while ago, signalling the end of the day’s trading. Norman rocked back on one foot and then sprang forward, across the cobbles, moving swiftly and as inconspicuously as possible into the shadows on the opposite side. He took half a breath and held it as he reached for the door, freezing the bell above it before it could ring, and slid noiselessly inside.

The air was filled with dust. A magic spell collected it as it came off the lathe and twirled it up to the rafters were hung a conical catch-all. Tamzin, with a scarf over her nose and mouth, and gloves on her hands was working twin wands out of the same cherry bough one pointed left and one pointed right. An intricate instrument balanced lightly between her finger and thumb and its touch gradually removed the excess to reveal the beginnings of two identical wands. The lathe whistled and whirred.

A few minutes ago, the sign in the window has slipped over to 'Closed For Now' on its own, leaving Tamzin to the flow of her craft of wand-making.

It was then that she hit a not and the lathe shuddered. "Arresto Momentum," she incanted, and the turning wood stopped immediately but without jar or recoil. With another utterance, the white-blonde witch melted away and turned into a fluffy white cat with violet eyes. She hopped from stool to table to shelf, her nose and whiskers working, looking for the No-Knot oil. Not finding it where she thought she'd left it, she trotted off from the backroom towards the front of the shop, taking the high road along the jangling creaky old shelving.

She wondered now if she'd not unloaded the delivery and the box was still sitting under the front counter.

The air inside the shop was still, as if Norman had stepped into a very strict library. The shop itself was narrow. Some customers might have called it shabby, but Norman had lived in worse than shabby, and had far lower standards. On the shelves above him were thousands of narrow boxes piled neatly right up to the ceiling on lines and lines of shelves.

Norman’s eyes weren’t up on the ceiling though. His eyes were on the magical till nestled paces into the shop. A till that would be full of the day’s takings. A child’s want at least seven galleons, an adult’s well over ten, detailing and crafting charged extra. He exhaled and inhaled twice, ears keen to the silence of the shop before he stole across the floorboards, boots charmed featherweight.

The lines of wood polishes, cloths and other wand care items stacked beneath the counter tinged the air with sickly beeswax. Biting his bottom lip, and stealing a glance left and right, Norman hunched over the till behind the counter, and with his left, keyed in an amount on the golden keys. Each press sent an affirmative clunk into the library silence, and made Norman’s fingers adjust his wand grip again and again.


The till’s drawer came open, knuts, sickles and galleons sloshing towards him. Norman’s eyes widened, and without delay he held the expandable bag beneath it, and waved his wand with his right. With a wobble and a shake, the coins in the till’s drawer began to levitate…

At the sudden noise, the white cat sprang straight into the air, fluffed up to twice her size, and let out an ear-splitting shriek. She clawed for purchase as she tried to stop from falling. Her tail swung wildly for balance, and her claws made bright gold marks in the well patina'd wood of the highest shelves. She ended up a shelf or two down and as soon as she had her feet, she gave her shoulder a few licks.  The noise, it had been the till. A loud jangling clank with a harmony of tinkling bells and the rattle of coin, it couldn't be anything else.

No idea what might have caused it to animate, Tamzin hurried up to investigate. Perhaps a draft had blown down from the shelf a particularly spiteful wand and it had sputtered out a spell. Which had never happened before. Because wands don't cast on their own. Tamzin's whiskers twitched and her ears perked up. What could it possibly be?

And then she smelled him! There was a man in the shop! Scrubbly and grubbly and snatching! He was looting her till! Tamzin arrived hissing and spitting puffed up as big and nasty as she could be.

The coins lifted sluggishly at first, then with almost liquid momentum began to flow out of the till and into the bag. Perfection like that took more than an ounce of concentration, so the white cat landing on the counter did wonders. Coins scattered in all directions and Norman shot the cat a venomous look.

He’d grown up surrounded by all manner of animals (and some unauthorised cross-breeds) so a fluffy white cat was nothing to Norman Shufflebottom. He only worried for all the noise it was making. Scowling at this snowy interruption, he yanked open a cupboard below the counter, pungent with beeswax polish. Then grasping the cat firmly round the middle, he attempted to shove it inside before it brought anyone out onto the shop floor.

Oh, the wrath of an angry wandmaker, oh the ire of an irate feline! All transgressors would be laid low! Tamzin flipped and squirmed as only a deadly-sharp cat could do and as soon as she caught her breath, she transformed back into herself!

A full-grown woman swelled to form in the burglar's hands in the space behind the counter, still kicking and clawing. It wasn't at all graceful and Tamzin's head collided with something very hard, and so too her elbow.

"Scoundrel! Get your hands off me! Get out of my shop! Get out!"

Her wand was still tight in her hand, but without her feet, bearings, or sense of what was up or down, she couldn't get a spell off even if she had the presence of mind of what to cast! Who'd dare invade her space!? Her sanctum! Their ancient institution of Ollivanders!

Crap! It wasn’t just a cat! The white fluffball grew and morphed and twisted and turned, gaining weight until its hindlegs were long enough to touch the floor. It happened oh-so-quickly that Norman barely had time to half-step back. There was a hip there an elbow down there, heels on toes and a knee - MERLIN. That brought tears to the eyes.

“Scoundrel! Get your hands off me! Get out of my shop! Get out!”

They wrestled, galleons sprinkling further. The heavy bag already full of some of the takings hit the floorboards with a heavy clink.

Forward and back between the narrow space between the counter and the shelves behind. Wand boxes wobbled, dust shook down from cracks. It was as if the counter and shelves were moving closer together, the more this futile battle progressed.

When at last Norman tussled his arm free from Tamzin’s flailing limbs, his wand let off a bang, narrowly missing the crown of her head. It instead upset the spindly chair on the shop floor, which clattered to the ground, a leg splintered.

“Outta the way ’n ya wun’t ge’ hur’!” Norman growled, boldly shouldering Tamzin away from the till.

Tamzin fell backwards at the shove, and she cried out startled, hurt, and furious. She was beginning to panic now the initial shock was wearing off. She was more vulnerable than she'd been since being treated in the muggle hospital - no, more even! There no one was attacking her! Her breaths started to come fast and shallow and it was suddenly hard to find her voice.

"Help...!" she tried and was frustrated at how weak it sounded. She tried again and again and was soon shouting full voice, crawling and scooting away from the invader.  "Help! HELP! HELP!"

She had some idea of where she'd ended up - some of the commotion had made the front door bell twinkle. "Samsamara," she shouted and the front door of the shop burst open, nearly off its hinges. Then she flung off as many red sparks out the door as she could muster, though her voice was hoarse and shaking.

The magical red sparks, the universal alert, flew out the door and shot into the air, bursting in the night sky.

Donnan strolled down the darkened street of Diagon Alley in a warm cloak, on his way home from volunteering at St. Mungo's. They were short of help due to the magical measles crisis, and he'd spent the past few hours directing wixes to the proper floors and grumbling at those who were simply panicked. It didn't really matter if he caught it. He'd stay at home and catch up on his reading (like he did most nights).

He took a few deep breaths, savoring the chill in the air, ignoring the damp that made his bones ache, and happy to have the pavement to himself for a few minutes. He liked the early evening best in Diagon when the shop doors were closing and people were hurrying home. He could relax out here. A few more turns, and he'd be at the side alley of row homes where he lived.

Behind him, something thudded inside one of the shops. His steps slowed and he glanced back. He gripped his takeaway bag guiltily as if his nephew Duncan would pop around the corner and chastise him for resorting to burgers again.

Donnan shrugged and continued on his way. Magic made noise, wixes were hasty in closing. At the Ministry back in December, his ex-wife Marianne had commented on it - the noise, the rushing about! He'd joked that they were both getting old, that they were lucky to hear it to complain about it, and she'd smiled and it had been like it had been so many years ago.

Then she'd gotten quiet, and he'd remembered that she was wasn't used to the magical world anymore.

Another crash.

Donnan paused on the empty street.

Was he imagining that? He took a few steps backwards, his hand moving to his wand in his pocket.

BAM!

The shop doors banged open, giving him a start. Red sparks flew out and into the sky.

Shit. His heart raced. He glanced around the street but only spotted a few startled wixes coming out of a pub. Too far away.

Wait, and do the sensible thing?

No, he gritted his teeth.

Only barely registering the shop - Ollivander's - and dropping the takeaway in his hand onto the pavement, Donnan stepped carefully towards the open door, adjusting his cloak collar around his neck.

He stopped just inside the shop where a lone light flickered above the incredibly tall shelves. Wand boxes had fallen. Dust permeated the air, making his throat itch.

Donnan's brow furrowed, his breath coming quickly, as he turned the corner where he knew the register was. He'd run a bookstore for long enough to understand where most trouble took place. He opened his mouth, about to call out.

Tamzin Ollivander lay on the ground.

Tamzin! He recognized her like he recognized most of the shop owners in Diagon. She was one of the friendlier sorts he often spotted at Alohomocha.

He looked at the man by the till. His expression darkened and he raised his wand.

Come on, it had only been a decade or two since he'd needed to defend anyone or himself...

"Petrificus Totalus," he spat out, aiming at the unknown wizard.

Keep it simple, stupid.

Blast and damn it! The witch was yelling now, yelling for help and he’d missed her by inches. There was nothing for it - he had to grab all he could and do a runner. Norman was good at runners. (He’d left enough girlfriends…)

So as Tamzin flung open the door, Norman scooped an armful of wands into the bag, and with another wave of his wand, the galleons leapt back in obediently. God bless his Hogwarts charms teacher.

“No, no, no!” Norman echoed to the red sparks flying off through the door. “Bah, why do you go an’ do that?!”

With a rash wave of his wand, more boxes crashed off the shelves behind the counter and into Norman’s extendable bag, which bulged.

“Petrificus Totalus!” The good samaritan was an old guy in the doorway. Norman only got a glimpse of him as he shot down behind the counter. The hex bounced on the top and ricocheted into the shelves behind Norman, bringing more dusty wands down on his hiding place.

“Aaaachooo!” Norman batted wands off his head and sneezed explosively in the dust. Why did she not dust the bloody place?! He wiped his nose on his sleeve, smearing sweaty dust across his face. Norman’s eyes popped up behind the counter, and slung his wand up.

“Expulso!”

The Ollivanders front window exploded into smithereens.

Things began exploding around her! The precious wands clattered in piles to the floor, bursting forth from their carefully labeled boxes. Galleons and galleons, hours and hours, uncountable value tossed down like sticks! Tamzin covered her head against the avalanche and cried out. Her family's work! She wasn't harmed, but she may as well have. Uncle Ollivander would never trust her again! His poor heart!

"Blaggard! Stop him! Stop him!" Tamzin shouted at the wizard who'd come to her rescue. Too fast to be Aurors unless one had just happened to chance, so it must be a neighbor.

Then Tamzin sucked in a breath and transformed into her Animagus form, the quick and nimble and whispered fluffy white cat. She shot towards the door, bounding over toppled boxes, and scaled the tall man in the door like he was an oak tree. She gripped his shoulder and hissed and spat at the intruder.

Glass shattered. Donnan gave a start and ducked, flinging his arms around his head and turning his face away. Glass pinged off of the dusty shelves and rained down next to the window frame. A few glass shards stuck to his cloak. How was Tamzin, buried underneath the boxes?

"Blaggard...!"

Tamzin was up! Tamzin was not hurt!

The wizard was running off with a bag! Donnan raised his wand at his back.

"What the hell!" Donnan grumbled in alarm as a fluffy white demon crawled up his cloak and sank its claws into his shoulder, hissing and spitting at the wizard getting away.

"Get off of me!" He shouted again, completely distracted.

The red sparks had alerted them to the disturbance. Ollivanders on Diagon Alley. The tiny, extremely cramped and well stocked wandmakers where every young witch and wizard made at least one visit when it was their turn to go to Hogwarts. Ed had been 4 times. He’d been brought for his older brother’s wand, and a few years later, his own. More recently, he’d had the pleasure of taking his own two oldest children. Who in the world would hit Ollivanders?

“Raine,” Pratt had already chosen who he’d take. He wanted to see how she’d handle such an investigation. “c’mon lass!”

They didn’t come through the floo because that could disturb evidence. So they flooed out of the ministry and apparated to the Leaky Cauldron. Their response time was pretty quick. Aurors were always pretty quick.

They were running through Diagon Alley in their crimson robes when a spell shot from the window, the glass smashing and shooting out into the street. “Get out o’the way!” Pratt shouted at a few passersby who just stood there staring into the shock, dumbfounded.

Once outside the shop, Ed stopped at the door, wand out. There was a tall wizard with a bloody cat on him. Not what he’d expected.
“Drop yer wand, Sir.”

His Healer had been right all along. The stress was going to give him a goddamn heart attack. A red-robed Auror and one mini-Red appeared in the doorway, shouting orders.

"Alright, alright!" Donnan dropped his wand with a shaky hand. What were they doing, standing there?

"It's not me, you fool! He went that way!" He pointed at the retreating man with the bag.

Raine had jumped at the chance to actually do something when Pratt summoned her, near to the end of a shift that was otherwise rather uneventful. Red curls pulled back into a bun and wand already in hand, she wasn't disappointed when they got to Diagon Alley - Ollivander's! The front had exploded!

A brief moment of nostalgic grief eclipsed her urgency but Pratt was quick to apprehend the wizard who was standing before the shop, a white cat clinging to him for life. What...?

            "Drop yer wand, Sir."
     "It's not me, you fool! He went that way!"

"On it!" Raine was already ducking into the shop, wary of debris from the explosion. "There!" she glanced at the Head auror for a second as if to point at the gangly figure already making his way out the back, and then she remembered herself. Shit! He was getting away! There were wand boxes everywhere and the whole place was a mess.

Swiftly, she twisted her wand - and the short dark robed witch was suddenly a Caracal cat, leaping over the piles of boxes and broken shelves, nimble and sprightly.