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Knockturn Alley was busier than Richie expected. Witches and wizards moved along the crooked street, but every single one of them turned the same cold, suspicious glare toward the massive gamekeeper and the small boy at his side.
The stares lasted only a second. The moment they landed on Hagrid, they slid away like water off oilskin.
"Hmph," Hagrid grunted, then dropped his voice. "Grab my coat tail, Richie."
Richie did as he was told.
They started forward. Richie's earlier guess had been dead-on—this really was the wizarding black market.
Most shops kept their display windows covered with heavy black cloth so you couldn't see what they sold. You had to guess from the tiny signs hanging above the doors.
Augustus Poison Emporium—pretty self-explanatory.
Summers Curios—probably dealt in shady magical artifacts with questionable ownership.
The Mourning House—looked like the place you went to sell off a dead wizard's belongings.
A few shops had no words at all, just strange symbols. Richie couldn't even guess what they traded.
But the real business happened in the alleys and corners. Every few steps you'd spot two figures huddled in the shadows. They'd go dead quiet the second anyone walked past, then pick up their whispered deal again once the coast was clear.
Hagrid clearly knew his way around. He led Richie down a narrow side passage and stopped in front of a blank stretch of black stone wall with no sign whatsoever.
"Stick close, Richie."
Hagrid glanced left and right, then pulled a fat green caterpillar from his coat pocket. He crushed it between his fingers and smeared the guts across the wall.
A ripple of magic spread outward. The stone shimmered and changed right in front of them.
Hagrid stepped straight into it and vanished.
Richie didn't hesitate. He'd done the same thing at Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. He walked forward.
---
When he opened his eyes again, he was inside a shop.
The place was bigger than it looked from outside—mostly because it was packed floor-to-ceiling with junk. Curled tentacles floated in murky jars. Bundles of dried claws tied with rope. Rows of faded glass bottles holding something dark red that had settled at the bottom. The air smelled of moldy wood, old blood, and something sickly-sweet and rotting. Richie's nose twitched. He sneezed twice.
Hagrid's heavy boots creaked across the rotting wooden floorboards.
"This is Kern's Grocery," Hagrid said, waving a hand around. "Pretty much anything you can think of—and a whole lot you can't—they've probably got it."
Richie hurried to keep up.
They reached the counter.
"Big fella," a sharp voice called out. "Try not to break my floorboards unless you're planning to pay with one of your organs."
Heavy footsteps thumped down a staircase behind the counter.
A figure appeared.
Gray-green skin. Bulging, lamp-like eyes. Pointed ears. Short stature.
A goblin.
The goblin noticed Richie staring and shot him a dirty look.
"Kern, I'm here to buy," Hagrid said, rapping his knuckles on the counter.
"Of course you are," the goblin sneered. "Unless you're here to sell organs?"
The goblin—Kern—didn't even try to hide the greedy glint in his eyes as he sized up Hagrid's massive frame. Hagrid acted like he hadn't heard it before.
"You got any dragon feed?"
"Dragon?" Kern narrowed his already-bulging eyes. "What kind?"
"Different breeds have different tastes, you know. Hungarian Horntails want live salamander hearts. Swedish Short-Snouts need powdered bone acid. Ukrainian Ironbellies—"
"Got anything a Norwegian Ridgeback would eat?" Hagrid scratched his beard.
"Norwegian Ridgeback?" Kern's face lit up. "Of course!"
He snapped his fingers. A tall glass jar appeared on the counter—easily half Richie's height. Inside floated thick, fleshy squid tentacles.
"Norwegian Ridgebacks may be fire-breathers, but they've still got that saltwater in their blood," Kern explained, wiping dust off the jar with a rag. "Seafood is their favorite. These are fresh tentacles from Norway's Silent Lake."
He tapped the glass with one bony finger, looking deadly serious.
"Feed a Ridgeback chicken blood and it'll eat, then forget you. Feed it these?" Kern gave a slow, knowing smile. "It'll circle you like a loyal dog, waiting for the next meal. Tastes like home."
"Blimey, that's perfect!" Hagrid beamed.
"How much?"
"Not much. Sixty Galleons per tentacle."
Hagrid's face froze. "Sixty what?"
"Per tentacle," Kern corrected. "These come from the Silent Lake—home to more dangerous magical beasts than you can count and more dead wizards than you want to know. Getting these wasn't cheap. Sixty is already a friend-of-the-shop discount."
Hagrid stared at the jar, clearly torn.
Richie stayed quiet. Lending Hagrid money wasn't an option—he barely had two Sickles to his name. Besides, offering cash in front of a goblin who'd just talked about harvesting organs felt like a fast way to get robbed.
Hagrid finally sighed. "Too rich for my blood. Got anything cheaper?"
Kern rolled his eyes. "Waste of my time."
Another snap of his fingers. The big jar vanished. Three small cloth bags took its place.
"Freeze-dried Norwegian glacier krill," Kern said. "Still from Norway. Mix it with regular feed. Adds flavor."