Wayne did not move toward the counter immediately.
Instead, he walked the length of the shop at an unhurried pace, hands clasped loosely behind his back, eyes moving over shelves that now revealed more than they had before. The VIP fold remained subtle, present only in the way certain items seemed to invite attention without demanding it. He paused where the light fell differently, where fabric carried a weight beyond texture, where objects had a purpose rather than just being decoration.
Memory guided his choices on function more than taste.
He reached into his coat and produced a small notebook, worn from travel but otherwise unremarkable, and a pen that looked far more expensive than the paper deserved. He leaned briefly against a pillar and began to write.
The handwriting was poor.
Letters leaned inconsistently, spacing collapsed in places, and several words were scratched out and rewritten, the result of someone far more accustomed to keyboards than parchment. He paused often, rereading his own writing with faint irritation, then continued.
When he finished, the list was short.
Books. Ingredients. Tools. One final item set apart from the rest.
Wayne folded the page once and approached the counter.
"I have made a list," he said calmly, sliding it across.
The shopkeeper picked it up, squinted, then squinted harder.
"…Right," he said slowly. "I think."
Wayne watched him without comment.
The man turned the parchment slightly, angling it toward the light. "Your letters," he added, not unkindly, "they argue with one another."
"I type normally," Wayne defended simply.
"That explains it," the shopkeeper said, nodding. "All right. This can be done."
He set the list down carefully and moved to the shelves behind the counter. Wayne remained where he was, waiting, posture relaxed, eyes following the motion as the shopkeeper reached toward the displays.
Seconds passed.
Then a minute.
Wayne shifted his weight slightly. "How long will it take to gather them," he asked evenly.
The shopkeeper stopped and turned. "Gather," he repeated.
"Yes," Wayne said. "I thought—"
"Oh," the man said quickly, shaking his head. "No. No, no. These aren't taken off shelves like coats."
Wayne frowned faintly.
"What you see here is confirmation," the shopkeeper continued. "The actual stock is stored elsewhere. Delivery only. Private channels. Free of charge."
Wayne absorbed this. "So, when would it be delivered?"
"Two to three business days," the man replied. "Priority basis. They'll arrive after you do."
Wayne considered it, then nodded once. "Very well."
The shopkeeper visibly relaxed.
Wayne produced a neat stack of sealed envelopes with his private seal and placed them beside the list. "These accompany the deliveries. One per recipient. The bill, I will pay it later, after the delivery, no problem, right ?"
The shopkeeper nodded in assertion, not daring to even ask for a deposit, and glanced at the names, then looked back up. "You know them."
"I do not," Wayne replied. "Except Professor McGonagall. Briefly," he shook his head while talking.
"That makes the gesture clear," the shopkeeper said.
The transaction concluded quietly. No flourish, no commentary. When it was done, the room felt settled, as though something had reached its proper place.
Wayne turned to leave, then paused.
"One thing," he said.
"Yes," the shopkeeper replied.
"You have handled this professionally," Wayne said. "I realise I never asked your name."
The man blinked, then smiled, smaller than before, more human. "Tom," he said. "Just Tom Just."
Wayne nodded. "Thank you, Tom," he said while taking note of the name he will take while meeting Dumbeldore.
"You're welcome," Tom replied, meaning it.
As Wayne stepped toward the door with his wife, whose name is still not taken, Tom watched him go, the list still resting on the counter, the ink disturbing to look at. He had served powerful customers before, men who wanted attention, deference, or fear.
This one just wanted closure.
Tom folded the list carefully and placed it somewhere safe; maybe it might come in handy later.
Outside, the bell chimed once more, and Merlin's Hands returned to its quiet patience, already preparing parcels meant for Hogwarts, turning the sign from Open to Closed.
A hectic day indeed.