Chapter Text
Chatter filled the private dining room in the Leaky Cauldron as businesspeople from Diagon Alley filtered in. Madam Malkin made her way to the refreshment table, got herself a scone and a cup of punch, and looked around for a seat. Mr. Twilfitt and Madam Tatting were on opposite sides of the room, meaning they were in the midst of another spat. Best to avoid them both. She saw Madam Potage from the cauldron shop and waved, and Potage waved back, gesturing for her to come over.
“What do you suppose this meeting is about?” Malkin asked, sliding into the chair across from her.
“More security, I hope. You will not believe what that Mundungus Fletcher tried on me this time.”
Before Malkin could ask, someone tapped the side of a glass for attention, and the chatter slowed to a stop as Mr. Fawley, the owner of their shop buildings, stood up at the front of the room.
“All right, everyone,” he said. “I’m sure you’re all tired after long days and want to get home, so I’ll keep things quick. There have been some legal changes in the last few days. As a result, the, uh, anti-werewolf and anti-vampire wards on your buildings are coming down, uh, tonight.”
The room exploded in protests. Fawley stood silently, not bothering to argue.
“This is absolutely outrageous,” Madam Tatting said, her voice carrying over the din. “You can’t do this. We have contracts.”
“If you look at your lease, you will find it says nothing guaranteeing the wards. They have always been for the protection of my own property, and they no longer serve that purpose.”
“Will there at least be more security?”
Fawley swallowed in a way that made his Adam’s apple jerk in his throat. “There will be more hit-wizards on Diagon, yes.”
“That’s not good enough,” Mr. Eeylops said. “You know Ollivander was kidnapped right from his shop a year ago, and now you want to strip what little protection we have? I won’t stand for it; I’ll move my shop to Hogsmeade.”
“You’ll find it’s exactly the same in Hogsmeade,” Fawley said. “It’s the same everywhere. If you can find somewhere that’s leaving the wards, and bring me proof, I’ll let you out of your lease without penalty. Until then, you’re welcome to cast your own wards if you really want to have a chat with Fenrir Greyback. For my part, however, I love my grandchildren, so my wards are coming down, full stop. Find something to like about it.”
He strode out of the room without pausing long enough for anyone to argue further.
“Can you believe this?” Eeylops asked, scooting over to Potage and Malkin’s table.
“And with hardly any notice, too,” Potage agreed. “At least it’s summer, so we won’t have to deal with the vampires right away. But what are we going to do in winter, when the sun sets before closing time?”
“Maybe it won’t be so bad,” Malkin said. “Count Tepes is one of my best customers.”
Potage rolled her eyes. “You’re so naïve.”
“How am I naïve?”
“You didn’t even realize Count Tepes was a vampire until you’d been in his lair three times!”
“Carfax is not a ‘lair’; it’s a very nice estate. And honestly, his daughters will be thrilled that they can come into my shop and browse instead of having me bring samples to them.”
“Tabitha, dear, those three aren’t his daughters,” Madam Potage said.
“Then his nieces. Whatever,” Malkin said. Potage rolled her eyes and shook her head.
“The vampires will be a problem come winter,” Eeylops said, “but right now I’m more worried about the bloody werewolves.”
“Ugh, tell me about it,” Pottage said. “I’ll have to go in early tomorrow and cast Thief’s Curses on everything.”
“You had to do that anyway because of Fletcher, didn’t you?” Malkin asked.
“Now I have to do it all at once. Werewolves are the worst thieves.”
“One of those bloody mutts nicked my wallet last year on my way to the store,” Eeylops agreed.
“Isn’t there a type of wooden threshold that werewolves can’t cross?”
“Honestly, just because there’s a few bad apples doesn’t mean every werewolf is going to rob your shops blind,” Malkin said. “They’re just people with an illness.”
“An illness that warps their minds,” Potage said. “I’m not one of those people who say that werewolf bites only happen if someone deserves it, but the simple fact is that lycanthropy turns a human into a Dark Creature, body, mind, and soul. It may not be their fault they change, but it warps them.”
“Ash wood,” Eeylops said, pointing. “It’s ash wood thresholds werewolves can’t cross. I’m going to catch Fawley and ask if I can change that out. Even if I have to do it at my own expense, it’s better than nothing.”
Potage watched him go, then blurted out, “Rye flour. A line of rye flour is supposed to do the same, and Fawley can’t do a thing about that.”
“That’s a good way to get rats and roaches,” Malkin warned.
“Still better than werewolves,” Potage said, standing. “I’m going to go let Mr. Eeylops know, too.”
Malkin shook her head as she finished her scone. Surely it wasn’t that big of a deal.
Was it?
The question needled at her as she waited in line for the Floo and went home. Did lycanthropy really warp werewolves into thieving Dark Creatures? No, they are not big Nifflers, she thought. But obviously it did change them somehow. How much? She studied werewolves in school, but only for a week, and the details were lost among all her other lessons.
Her schoolbooks were long gone, but she had some of Gilderoy Lockhart’s books. She searched her shelves until she found Wanderings With Werewolves, but when she looked through it, she found maddeningly little actually about werewolves. Just a chapter about Lockhart’s defeat of the Wagga Wagga Werewolf, and then chapter after chapter about his encounters with other Dark Creatures in Australia. Where else could she look? Her son had left his textbooks when he moved out. She found them stashed on the higher shelves and took down Essential Defense Against the Dark Arts, Volume 3: Dark Creatures.
This had an entire chapter on werewolves. She took it to her armchair and skimmed over it. She found a description of the wolf form and how to tell it from a real wolf. Oh, she remembered her best friend leaning over in class and whispering, “Here’s a hint: it’s in Great Britain. We haven’t had real wolves since the 17th century.” Her son’s book had a photograph of a human-form werewolf shifting into their half-wolf form. Hers had only had a woodcut drawing, and she remembered the boys in her year having a sneaky war where they would steal each other’s textbooks and draw a penis on it. Her teacher nearly had an apoplexy when he found out. He pounded into them that a drawing or a painting or a photograph could not adequately portray how absolutely terrifying the half-wolf form was in person, and if they ever saw it, they would be filled with a desperate desire to either run or hide. She had to take his word for it; she’d never seen one.
The next pages had tons of detail on the physical changes: not just the full moon transformation, but also how children with lycanthropy could develop unusual hair shading, wolf-like eyes in their human forms, and even fangs. Even adults might develop longer ring fingers, and men might grow hair on their palms. A brief paragraph discussed medical transfigurations that could lessen or prevent those symptoms. But the book had nothing about psychological changes, kleptomania, or anything like that. Out of curiosity, she turned to the chapter on vampires. Here, the book did talk about how the change from human to vampire caused someone to view healthy humans as a separate species, a prey species that could be consumed without guilt.
Just what I thought. Werewolves aren’t giant Nifflers, Malkin thought, closing the book and returning it to the shelf.
She’d nearly forgotten about it the next morning until she walked down Diagon and saw Madam Potage pouring a line of rye flour in front of her door. Malkin continued on to her own shop. She had to study the door for several seconds to see what was different before finally noting a 2-inch by 3-inch rectangle where the paint was brighter, not faded by the sun like the rest. That must have been where the ward’s sign was. She unlocked the door and went inside; nothing felt different.
The first thing she did for the day was change the display in the storefront window to a set of summer robes she wanted to clear out before September. I hope the Hogwarts letters come out soon. Nothing worse than when they give less than a week’s notice and everyone comes in for school robes at once. She made signs for her summer sale and hung them. Should I cast some Thief’s Curses? They were such a bother, though. Thief’s Curses meant she had to write out proper receipts for every little thing. Sometimes she preferred to play it by ear, maybe give a discount or a free item to a customer who had been a delight. Honestly, stuffing an entire robe into one’s pocket might be possible for some wizards, but it was hardly subtle. She just wasn’t that worried about it. What about the smaller accessories, belts and such? She sighed. Maybe she should, but it seemed like so much trouble for so little benefit. Why don’t I just see how things play out? Most of this stock will be clearanced at the end of the month anyway, and if there’s any trouble, I can cast it on the next shipment when it comes in.
The day was perfectly ordinary. A little light on customers, but that had been true since the start of the war. The only difference the following day was that when Madam Malkin walked down Diagon, Madam Potage was sweeping the rye flour out of her doorway, looking as pale as a mooncalf.
“Did that attract vermin like I warned you?” Malkin asked.
“You could say that,” Potage said, her voice quavering. “It’s safer without it than with it.”
And so the week went. A few days later, Madam Malkin looked up from tidying a stack of folded robes as the bell attached to her door rang. Her first impression of the young lady that entered was that Madam Primpernelle owed her a refund for those badly dyed highlights in her hair. Her second was must usually be a Twilfitt and Tatting customer. The woman’s dark robe was a little faded, and the seams didn’t follow her body the way they should have. Twilfitt does try to cut corners on the dye, and Madam Tatting always puts the bust point too low, she thought as the young woman looked around the shop’s brightly colored robes like she was trying to see them all at once.
“Good morning, dear,” Madam Malkin said, putting the last robe onto the stack. “Lovely weather we’re having, isn’t it? Do you see something you like?”
“Yes, I really like the green robe in the window,” she said, pointing towards it. She looked into Malkin’s eyes for only a second before looking away again.
Ah, poor dear must be shy. “That is a wonderful collection, isn’t it?” Malkin took out her wand and levitated the mannequin in apple-green out of the window, then took the robe off it and held it up to the woman’s shoulders. The fit is pretty close; no need to shrink or enlarge it. “Oh, that brings out your eyes beautifully.”
“How much would it cost me?”
Malkin found the tag hanging off the sleeve. “It says 2 Galleons and 7 Sickles, but I see I forgot to mark these off for the summer sale. That’s 10% off, so it’ll be 2 Galleons, 2 Sickles, and… Oh, you know, I hate bothering with Knuts. Let’s just call it two and two, shall we?”
“Really? Oh, I’d really like to buy that, ma’am.”
“Certainly. This is going to suit you nicely. This one is meant to be worn next to the skin, so why don’t you go back to the changing rooms and put it on, and I’ll mark up the alterations,” Madam Malkin said, pointing.
The young woman blinked a few times. “Alterations?”
“Of course, dear. It’s complementary with every purchase. We want our customers looking their best.”
“Oh, thank you!” she said, taking the robe.
“My pleasure. Just go over to where Emma is helping that gentleman when you’re changed.” Emma glanced up as the young woman walked past, and her eyes widened; she doubled her speed pinning the hem on the man’s robe.
Malkin pulled out another robe in the same summer line, this one watermelon red with glittering ladybugs outlined across it. Why do they name so many colors after fruit? Watermelon red, apple green, tangerine orange? she wondered as she dressed the mannequin. This robe was a size larger, so as Emma followed the man she’d been helping to the cash register, Malkin started to pin it in the back so the display would hang nicely. She was halfway through when the young woman stepped out of the changing room.
“Oh, don’t you look lovely in that?” Malkin said. She said it to every customer who looked the least bit pleased, but the color really did suit the woman, and she was young enough to pull off the glittering design of dragonflies sprinkled across the fabric.
“Um, Ma’am,” Emma started as Malkin went to the young lady. “Um…”
“Why don’t you finish updating that display while I take care of this young lady?” Malkin said as the man Emma’d been helping left. Emma eagerly agreed and went to the front, and Malkin helped the customer onto a footstool. She had the woman raise and lower her arms, then twist and bend at the waist to see how the robe hung and moved. Once satisfied on how best to fit it, Malkin told her to stand up naturally and look forward, and pinned the seams in to follow her curves more closely. A few times, she had to remind the customer not to look down as she worked, but that was true with most customers.
After a few minutes, she stepped back to look over her pinning. “Before I mark the hem, are those the shoes you plan to wear with this?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I hadn’t thought about it,” the young woman said, looking down at her sensible ankle boots.
“That’s all right. Tell you what. I think these hang better with a bit of extra weight at the hem anyway, so I’ll leave a wider hem allowance. If you decide you want to wear it with heels instead, bring it back along with the shoes and I’ll let it down for you. No charge; it won’t take me but five minutes.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Malkin knelt by the footstool and pinned up the hem to the correct length, then stood back to take one last look. “There, I think that’ll do it.” She directed the young lady to change back into her usual clothes, then rang her out at the register and gave her a receipt and a claim ticket to pick up the finished robe.
“You can see we’re not busy, so we’ll get on that for you right away. If you’ve got any more shopping to do, it should be done by the time you are.”
“Thank you so much, ma’am,” the young lady said as she opened the door to leave.
“My pleasure, dear. We’ll have that ready for you within the hour.”
Emma watched her leave from behind a clothes rack in the corner, then rushed over as Malkin put her fists behind her back and pushed against her spine while stretching backwards. “Oh Merlin, are you all right?”
“Just stiff,” Malkin assured her. “I’m not as young as I used to be.”
“No, I mean…” She lowered her voice. “That was a werewolf!”
“A werewolf?” Madam Malkin was about to tell her not to be silly, but paused and instead asked, “What makes you say that?”
Emma’s shoulders slumped in exasperation. “Didn’t you notice her hair?”
Her hair? The highlights… Those weren’t highlights. What had her son’s book said? ‘Pelt-like shading in their human-form hair.’ And her eyes. The apple-green robe brought them out so nicely because their green color had such a strong yellow undertone. She’d thought of them as hazel, but no, they were too yellow to be hazel.
“Oh, and she’ll be coming back, too,” Emma said, wringing her hands and bouncing on the balls of her feet as she looked towards the door. “What are you going to do?”
Madam Malkin considered for a moment, then gathered up the pinned robe. “Well, I’m going to sew this up myself,” she said as she took it to the sewing machine. “This is probably the first properly fitting robe she’s ever been able to buy, and I want it to be perfect for her.”