"Are you quite satisfied, Madam?" Frick asked, his hands rubbing together in a frantic, oily motion as he leaned toward Madam Caroline. "If the selection doesn't please you, I can exchange them for free until you find the one that speaks to your soul."
"Is that so?" Madam Caroline's voice carried a hint of polite confusion. "But these skeletal hounds... don't they belong to this young gentleman?"
She gestured toward Maurise, who was standing awkwardly to the side.
"Ah, well, technically no longer!" Frick puffed out his chest, seizing the opportunity. "My dear Madam, I spent a great deal of effort convincing my young friend here to stock his hounds in my humble establishment. It was all for you, really. In fact, I'll go a step further. Please, take a second hound as a gift from me, free of charge!"
"Oh, my," Madam Caroline gasped, covering her toothless jaw with a gloved hand. "I am truly moved, Mr. Frick."
She paused, then added with a graceful tilt of her skull, "But I'm afraid I cannot accept such a gift."
Frick's face fell for a fraction of a second before he plastered on an even more desperate, toothy grin. "Madam, please! You're treating me like a stranger! I understand your reservations, but don't look at it as a burden. It's a token of my esteem. What is the harm in a small gift between friends?"
Madam Caroline's reply was short and final. "Thank you, but truly, it isn't necessary."
Maurise watched the exchange from the sidelines, finally looking away and muttering a single word under his breath. "Bravo."
So, this was a "simp" in the wild. He had read about the species in books, but seeing one in the flesh, well, in Frick's case, greasy skin, was a different experience entirely. What made it truly surreal was that the object of his affection was a literal pile of enchanted bones.
The Wizarding World was officially too strange for him.
Once Madam Caroline had departed with her new pet, Frick stood by the door with a look of melancholy longing.
"Mr. Frick," Maurise said, breaking the silence. "Are you actually trying to court Madam Caroline?"
"Court her?" Frick sighed deeply, his eyes misty. "She is the pinnacle of elegance, Maurise. Did you see how she declined? So dignified, so worried about the slightest hint of scandal. I still remember the first time we met..."
Maurise felt a twitch in his eye. "Stop right there, Frick. I have no interest in your origin story."
Naturally, Frick ignored him and began anyway. "It was a night without a sun. The rain lashed against the windows, the thunder roared like a Hungarian Horntail..."
Maurise didn't wait for the climax. He swept the pile of Gold Galleons off the counter, shoved them into his rucksack, and bolted for the door. Some stories were better left untold.
Regarding the profits, Frick had surprisingly refused a cut. He only took thirty Galleons to cover the cost of the raw skeletons, noting that since Maurise had done the "sales pitch," the rest was his.
Maurise spent the remainder of the evening darting through Diagon Alley. He hit every apothecary he could find, his rucksack growing heavier by the hour. By the time he returned to the Leaky Cauldron, the sun had long set, and his gold had been transformed into a hoard of powdered root of asphodel, valerian roots, and Sopophorous beans.
He had spent nearly two hundred Galleons in a single trip.
Magical chemistry was an expensive hobby. A single skeletal hound sale wouldn't keep him afloat for long, especially since he wasn't just interested in the basics. He had his eye on high-end concoctions. In the world of brewing, basic ingredients were pricey, but the advanced materials were extortionate.
"I need a bigger revenue stream," Maurise muttered, rubbing his temples as he looked at his dwindling coin purse.
The following morning, Maurise dropped by Frick's shop and received a bit of encouraging news. One of Frick's regular customers had placed a pre-order for a skeletal hound.
"He's a man of... unique tastes," Frick said, buffing a human skull with a rag. "He said he wants to see if the bones make for a good soup base."
Maurise stared at him. "Is the man mental?"
Frick shrugged. "Most likely. But don't you dare say that to his face when he comes to collect."
Maurise kept quiet. In his opinion, Frick was already the president of the "Mental Club," so his judgment was questionable at best. Still, he wasn't worried about the hound. He had already tested them. Boiling water wouldn't do much more than give the dog a nice, warm bath.
As the morning passed, the two sat amidst the dust and bones, discussing the inner workings of Knockturn Alley. Frick's description matched what Maurise had suspected. The place was a chaotic melting pot. There were "honest" merchants like Frick and then there were the vultures who lived to swindle anyone with a pulse.
According to Frick, only half the shops were even remotely reliable. The rest were avoided by locals and tourists alike.
Furthermore, the Alley had its own "Management." This was a small, loosely organized syndicate of Dark Wizards who maintained a shaky semblance of order. They had rules, sure, but the rules were flexible depending on how much gold you funneled into their pockets.
"Doesn't the Ministry do anything?" Maurise asked.
Frick let out a sharp, mocking laugh. "The Ministry? They stick their noses in when they have to, but they can't scrub this place clean. The 'Managers' here have delicate relationships with certain Ministry officials. Some business is better done in the shadows, and there's always someone high up who needs a shadow."
Maurise nodded. It made sense. Every society had a basement, and Knockturn Alley was the cellar of the Wizarding World.
"Who are these Managers, exactly?" Maurise pressed.
Frick set the skull down, his lip curling in a sneer. "Ruffians, mostly. Dark wizards, ex-convicts, a few high-profile fugitives who haven't been caught yet. They rule through fear and the occasional bribe, collecting 'protection fees' and settling disputes, provided the price is right."
"You sound like you've had enough of them," Maurise noted.
"I have," Frick grumbled. "They've taken more than a few Galleons out of my till over the years."
His expression suddenly turned grave. "Listen to me, Black. Don't go thinking about getting involved with that lot. It's a high-mortality profession. Every few months, a 'Manager' ends up face down in the gutter, and a new one takes his place."
Maurise laughed. "What do you take me for? I'm an eleven-year-old boy. I just want to sell my crafts in peace."
"I hope so," Frick said, though he looked skeptical. He still remembered how Maurise had handled those three thugs, Klenke and his cronies. An ordinary eleven-year-old would have been shaking in his boots, not methodically dismantling grown men.
The bell above the door chimed with a sharp ring.
A figure shrouded in a heavy black cloak stood in the doorway, their face hidden in shadow. Maurise reacted instantly, his hand moving to his face as he conjured his white bone mask to hide his features.
Frick stood up and stretched, his salesman persona clicking back into place.
"Customer's here. Time to work."