filling the weekend (open)

Even the goblin worker was astonished when vault six-hundred-and-three swung open, omitting a garish glare of galleons stacked neatly against the walls. The holder of the key, Cyril Rosenfeld, was such an improbable possessor of fortune that the clever goblin narrowed his eyes; gazing sceptically as the man in fraying robes gathered up a small sum into a cloth bag and wandered back over to the cart. Cyril caught the goblin's eye with a queer grin that showed too much tooth. Barely convinced, the cart began to move again to the main building; where he was dropped off without a single note of recognition and forced to scramble along the row of desks.

With the bulging bag clutched uncomfortably to his chest, Cyril made his way out of the bank and turned a sharp right towards Knockturn Alley.

In a previous life, he would have never associated with such a place. Since the demise of You-Know-Who, the streets seemed grubbier than ever: housing creepy peddlers and soot-faced street beggars with missing teeth. There was a sense of malnourishment about the people who lurked in the darkened alley: as though they were merely living off rats, or the life force of unicorn blood, or were already dead but hadn't passed to the Other Side. Cyril seemed a little disturbed at the looks he was getting, but he narrowed his eyes in would-be determination; to a small alcove at the far rear of the alley.

A man was sat there. Most of his face was obscured by a sort of turban; but he had also wound it around his mouth and neck. One of his eyes, made of glass, did not move. The other one looked straight at Cyril as he approached, gingerly.

"Er... I- I need some more of that fertiliser. Do you... do you have any?"

The man did not respond, he merely stretched out his arm; presenting an up-turned palm of a single, extremely long finger nail. Hesitating, Cyril finally acknowledged what he was after and plopped the bag of gold onto the palm. After the transaction was complete, Cyril made his way back down the cobblestone paving; a levitating trunk cased in filth trailing along behind him.

As much as he felt threatened by the inhabitants of Knockturn Alley, Cyril decided at the last second to enter the pub on the corner. This place would put the Hog's Head to shame: at least that place had colour - this place was what one could only describe as dank. The beams running across the ceiling looked as though they were willing to gave way at any second and there was this greasy, tacky feeling at the bottom of his feet; as though he was stepping on floorboards that hadn't been mopped for centuries.

Making a point to avoid eye contact, Cyril approached the serving area and waved his wand; setting the trunk down from its levitation. There was a reverberating clunk as he did so.

"Wottle it be?" Grunted the bar man, and Cyril pretended to be adjusting his glasses.

"A goblin stout, please," He breathed, hurriedly, and was surprised when the man did not respond. He appeared to be struck by something - or someone - entering the pub. Lapping his rough tongue about his lips and not taking his eyes off the newcomer, he replied, rather gruffly:

"Doughn sell tha' 'ere."

"Well - er - how about... Firewhiskey, then? He asked, timidly.

"Ighn," The bar man acknowledged, although Cyril could hardly understand his thick accent. Cyril was thinking more of what was behind him, anyway. This newcomer: why was the man staring at them so much?