Bad Education

Chapter 2

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but I simply cannot offer you any more than market value for used infertility amulets."

"The fact that they're used means they work!"

The shop was unusually busy, and Tom had been left to man the counter after Borgin had conveniently disappeared.

The absolute worst part of the job was having to deal with customers. They were dim, impatient swindlers who were consistently certain that whatever they were offering for sale or trade was of top quality, while also insisting that every purchase they wanted to make was ridiculously overpriced.

"Three Sickles is the best I can do, ma'am," he muttered to the short, elderly woman on the other side of the counter. She looked at him as if he were a misbehaving child that had just told a lie.

"Nonsense. I'll go to Shyverwretch's!" she threatened. "They're offering a full Galleon each!"

Shyverwretch's didn't even sell Dark objects. They sold poisons.

He pushed the disgusting amulets back across the counter, thinking that if it hadn't been his last day, and he'd had to come back to this hellish job in the morning, he might have killed her then and there. "By all means, then. Go to Shyverwretch's," he said.

The woman blinked stupidly. "Well- I mean- quite inconvenient..."

He shrugged.

"Unbelievable. What a bloody- fine. I'll take the Sickles."

"Very well, ma'am."

There were five more people in line and Tom wished them all gruesome deaths.

When Borgin finally appeared, he did not look at all like he was of any mindset to help. "Sir," Tom called, "I have something I need to discuss with you."

"Eh? Sorry, Tom. Bit busy at the moment."

He shuffled into the back room for a minute, shuffled out, then headed back up the stairs to his flat, completely unfazed by the chaos on the shop floor.

"Busy being useless," Tom muttered under his breath, turning back to the next customer.

"I need eighteen Peruvian shrunken heads," said a young, dark-haired woman in an American accent. "Crushed, if you have them. Though I'll take powdered as well."

There was no legitimate use for shrunken heads at all, let alone "crushed" shrunken heads.

"Sorry, we only have three. And they're from the Caucasus Region."

She sounded impatient. "Fine, I'll take all three."

He retrieved the heads from the floor and began to wrap her purchase while she watched him, tapping her foot.

"Good lord," she said after a minute, "could you go any slower?"

"I could..." he muttered.

But she didn't hear him. "You would think the world's greatest former colonial power would have at least reasonable access to global foodstuffs, considering how many countries they've ransacked."

"Foodstuffs?"

She yanked the package out of his hands, slammed her money on the counter, and hurried out of the shop. "I hate Europe," she declared on her way out.

He watched her go, wondering what on earth powdered shrunken head could possibly be used for.

"I need a book on necromancy," said the next customer. "But I don't want to reanimate whole bodies. Just... parts. So, if there's a book on that..."