"Evening," the man said.
The word followed them inside as the bell chimed overhead, light and careful. The shop felt warmer than the street but no more inviting, its shelves lined with coats and travelwear arranged in neat rows. Everything looked ordinary enough to be ignored, which Wayne suspected was the point.
"Evenin' brings beginnin's, th're," the shopkeeper continued cheerfully while he swept the floor. "Beginnin's bring buyers, or browsers who ain't yet brave enough to choose."
Wayne's wife glanced at him, pressing her lips together before quietly laughing. Wayne allowed himself a faint smirk.
The sign above the counter read Merlin's Hands.
"A name like that," she said lightly, "either promises miracles or excuses mistakes."
"A name's a rhyme with time," the man replied quickly. "Spend enough of either and you'll believe in both."
Wayne stepped forward. "We need clothing," he said calmly. "Something suitable."
"Suit's a word that walks in pairs," the shopkeeper said. "One for lookin', one for wearin'. Which you need depends on who's watchin'."
She leaned closer to Wayne and murmured, amused, "He talks like he's charging by syllable."
The man's head tilted slightly.
Wayne felt it then, subtle but clear, a pressure in the air that had nothing to do with sound or space. The shopkeeper's left eye flickered, barely visible, followed by a faint mechanical hum that vanished just as quickly.
The broom slipped from the man's hand.
He froze.
For a brief moment, the man looked painfully ordinary, stripped of rhythm and charm, just a wizard-born who had never learned to cast. A Squib, Wayne realised, one of those born close enough to magic to feel its pull, but forever barred from shaping it. Such people learned other ways to survive.
The rhythm left his voice when he spoke again. "You should not be standin' here," he said flatly.
Wayne did not react.
"You are wrong," the man continued, gaze unfocused, as if listening inward. "Magic like yours does not walk quietly."
The pressure thickened, then cut off abruptly, like a thought interrupted.
The shopkeeper blinked hard, staggered half a step, and rubbed his temple. "Well now," he said with a forced chuckle, his rhythm returning unevenly, "that's a headache I didn't order, th're."
He glanced around, confused. "Did I drop somethin'?"
"You were sweeping," Wayne said evenly.
"That explains it," the man replied with relief. "Dust does that. Gets ideas."
Wayne's wife watched closely. "Do you usually have conversations with the furniture," she asked dryly.
"Only the honest pieces," the shopkeeper said.
The purchase went smoothly. Wayne selected quietly and paid without hesitation. When the total was spoken aloud, the man paused, eyes widening just a fraction before he composed himself again.
"Well," he said slowly, "that pushes you past the fold, th're."
"The fold," Wayne echoed.
"The place where cloth stops pretendin'," the man replied. "Back stock. Proper stock. Shop's second set of hands."
He hesitated, then leaned closer, lowering his voice. "Step with me a moment. Front room listens too much."
Wayne glanced at his wife.
She nodded once. "If you vanish," she said calmly, "don't make it dramatic."
The shopkeeper opened a narrow door behind the counter and ushered Wayne through. As the door closed, the man's expression shifted again, not fearful, but resigned, like someone who had once agreed to rules he no longer remembered agreeing to.
What happened beyond was silent.
No raised voices, no sudden sounds, no sign of time passing properly. The shop continued its quiet existence, coats unmoving, air undisturbed, as though the room itself had agreed to keep a secret older than the building.
Then the door opened.
Wayne stepped out first, his posture unchanged, expression unreadable. The shopkeeper followed a moment later, pale and unsettled, one hand briefly pressed to his temple as if grounding himself.
"Well now," the man said, forcing a smile that arrived late, his rhythm struggling to return. "That's… that's what happens when memory walks faster than sense, th're."
He blinked, looking around the shop in confusion. "Did we… did we finish talkin'?"
"You invited me to see the back," Wayne replied calmly.
"Did I," the man said, startled. He laughed awkwardly. "Must've. Shop does that sometimes."
{Author's Note:
The scene in the back room of Merlin's Hands is written deliberately to feel incomplete. The confusion, the lapse in memory, and the shift in behaviour are not errors or dropped threads, but intentional foreshadowing. What truly occurred there, why it happened, and who is capable of causing it will be revealed gradually in later chapters, when the narrative reaches the appropriate perspective and authority to explain it.
This story follows a long-form structure, where certain events are meant to be felt before they are understood. Please be patient with these gaps, as they are part of the design rather than omissions.
This chapter will be updated and followed up as soon as the next chapter is released, where the consequences of this moment begin to surface.
}
Wayne's wife rose from her chair, eyes sharp. "You look like you lost an argument with yourself," she observed.
"Happens when the walls listen," the man replied automatically, then frowned. "Do they?"
Wayne returned to the counter. "You mentioned stock not visible from the door," he said.
The shopkeeper brightened with visible relief. "Ahh, yes. VIP fold," he said quickly. "Costs coin. Costs consequence. One hundred fifty galleons opens eyes that prefer stayin' shut."
Wayne produced a cheque, Gringotts seal crisp at the bottom, and slid it across the counter.
The shopkeeper took it automatically.
His eyes moved over the amount first.
Then the name.
He went very still.
"…Spencer," he whispered, the rhythm gone entirely.
The faint hum beneath his left eye returned, sharper this time, followed by a long, measured breath.
"Well," he said carefully, straightening, composure settling like armour. "Seems Merlin's Hands has found itself a very serious customer."
He slid a small metal badge across the counter. Its surface bore subtle runes that caught the light only when viewed from the corner of the eye.
"VIP," he added. "Keep it close. Doors remember faces better than names."
Wayne accepted it without comment.
Behind the shopkeeper's calm smile, the eye recorded the anomaly fully this time.
And did not forget.