AT FLOURISH AND BLOTTS
Draco turned away and saw the cabinet right in front of him. He
walked forward — he stretched out his hand for the handle —
“Done,” said Mr. Malfoy at the counter. “Come, Draco —”
Harry wiped his forehead on his sleeve as Draco turned away.
“Good day to you, Mr. Borgin. I’ll expect you at the manor to-
morrow to pick up the goods.”
The moment the door had closed, Mr. Borgin dropped his oily
manner.
“Good day yourself, Mister Malfoy, and if the stories are true,
you haven’t sold me half of what’s hidden in your manor. . . .”
Muttering darkly, Mr. Borgin disappeared into a back room.
Harry waited for a minute in case he came back, then, quietly as he
could, slipped out of the cabinet, past the glass cases, and out of the
shop door.
Clutching his broken glasses to his face, Harry stared around.
He had emerged into a dingy alleyway that seemed to be made up
entirely of shops devoted to the Dark Arts. The one he’d just left,
Borgin and Burkes, looked like the largest, but opposite was a nasty
window display of shrunken heads and, two doors down, a large
cage was alive with gigantic black spiders. Two shabby-looking wiz-
ards were watching him from the shadow of a doorway, muttering
to each other. Feeling jumpy, Harry set off, trying to hold his
glasses on straight and hoping against hope he’d be able to find a
way out of here.
An old wooden street sign hanging over a shop selling poiso-
nous candles told him he was in Knockturn Alley. This didn’t
help, as Harry had never heard of such a place. He supposed he
hadn’t spoken clearly enough through his mouthful of ashes
53