AT FLOURISH AND BLOTTS
It felt as though he were being sucked down a giant drain. He
seemed to be spinning very fast — the roaring in his ears was deaf-
ening — he tried to keep his eyes open but the whirl of green
flames made him feel sick — something hard knocked his elbow
and he tucked it in tightly, still spinning and spinning — now it
felt as though cold hands were slapping his face — squinting
through his glasses he saw a blurred stream of fireplaces and
snatched glimpses of the rooms beyond — his bacon sandwiches
were churning inside him — he closed his eyes again wishing it
would stop, and then —
He fell, face forward, onto cold stone and felt the bridge of his
glasses snap.
Dizzy and bruised, covered in soot, he got gingerly to his feet,
holding his broken glasses up to his eyes. He was quite alone, but
where he was, he had no idea. All he could tell was that he was
standing in the stone fireplace of what looked like a large, dimly lit
wizard’s shop — but nothing in here was ever likely to be on a
Hogwarts school list.
A glass case nearby held a withered hand on a cushion, a blood-
stained pack of cards, and a staring glass eye. Evil-looking masks
stared down from the walls, an assortment of human bones lay
upon the counter, and rusty, spiked instruments hung from the
ceiling. Even worse, the dark, narrow street Harry could see
through the dusty shop window was definitely not Diagon Alley.
The sooner he got out of here, the better. Nose still stinging
where it had hit the hearth, Harry made his way swiftly and silently
toward the door, but before he’d got halfway toward it, two people
appeared on the other side of the glass — and one of them was the
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