Diagon Alley’s Blacksmith

"Where was I again?" Professor Ballester's slow voice cut through the tension left hanging in the air.

Still mentally stuck on the Sacred Twenty-Eight, it takes me a second to flip back to my question, 'wait, how can I learn Legilimency and Occlumency if I can't use magic outside of school?'

A look that just screams, 'oh, yeah' spreads across his face only to fade as a soft smile replaces it. Slipping off the couch and onto the floor, Professor Ballester lays his briefcase down. Slipping a gold key out of his pocket, I shift around to get a look at a little hole near the handle. Sliding in with a click, the air tingles with the sound of magic as the case begins to enlarge. Rather than stretching, it's as though more leather slides out to allow for its growing size.

The air around the briefcase, now at the size of a suitcase, quiets down as Professor Ballester clicks open its golden latches. As if the case was a trap door, the case spreads open to reveal a ladder descending downward.

Jerking his head in a 'follow me' motion, he descends into the leather case. My eyes bulge with wonder as I push Mana into them; glowing red with intrigue.

"Catlyn!" Father yells as I examine the case, breaking my focus. "You coming?"

Nodding, I let the Mana leave my eyes and follow them into the case. Soft light wafts through a single window, filling the small office. Warped bookshelves line the walls, filled with magic-related books, muggle books, little trinkets and mementos, and a Psychology Ph.D. Even with my vampiric eyes, the complicated font only allows me to make out Oxford University and Rodrigo Ballester. A muted yellow, shag carpet, rug centers the room. atop the rug sits a muted couch and messy desk. Descending, the familiar Mana of Hogwarts hugs the air. A tinge of cold slips past my socks as they touch the grey stone floor.

"Due to the small budget the counseling department has, and the fact that I'm the only counselor, the school doesn't have an office for me. Instead, I got this magically expanding briefcase to act as one," Dr. Ballester explains, voice going flat at the mention of his office. At his explanation, I realise there isn't any other entrance.

'Wait, this is an expanded space? With the Mana in the air I could have sworn we just took a connected space to Hogwarts,' I question, lighting a spark in Dr. Ballester's eyes.

"Yes, this is indeed an expanded space. Because this my office, it is considered Hogwarts grounds."

"So the Trace won't be triggered here?" Father asks, browsing the books.

"Exactly! Now, Young Ollivander," he pauses as he rounds his desk, "would you like to begin?"

**Genine Diggory**

My black ankle boots splash through the puddles on the ground as I pass by Ollivanders; a closed sign hanging over the door. Pockets jingle as the clacking of Goblins peaks out of Gringotts as I pass by it. Although the day is young and the weather not especially great, the streets sit unusually quiet. The air sits with gloom as the people passing through, for what little there is, walk a little quicker than normal.

"Defensive charms half off! Premium, goblin crafted, defensive charms!" A peddler yells in the distance. Weaving through the curving streets of Diagon Alley, Carkitt Market's shining lights peak out into Diagon Alley.

For London's hub of magic, Diagon Alley is the most confusing place I have ever been. Having my ear turned to the arcade, I stop a few stores before its entrance. The tucked-away wooden shop feels to be barely standing. All of the paint that once coated its walls has been chipped away at this point, leaving grey rickety wood to hold up the dusty building.

Newer wood covers its windows as a sign reading, "Bowman E. Wright Blacksmith" juts out. Looking to the door, a sign painted, "go away!" is barely visible behind Amos.

"Come on Bowman! We just need to talk!" Amos yells, pounding on the door.

"You think I don't know who's investigating the killer going after my kind? I'm not stupid enough to get involved!" A crackly voice flies out from behind the door.

"Amos!" I yell as he raises his fist to pound more, stopping him as he looks over to me.

His eyes pained at the situation as he clomps down to me, "hey!"

"What's going on? I thought we were going to interview him together?"

"That was the plan. I was waiting here for you when he saw me, slammed the door, and completely locked up! I've told him we're here to talk to him but he won't cooperate," Amos exhales, seemingly used to dealing with him.

"Can I try?" I suggest, knowing how likely it is that Bowman made the sword and how hard it would be to find another expert in Goblin Forging Magic.

Amos shrugs, "sure. I'll contact the Goblin Liaison Office to make sure there's no rumbling about bringing him in."

Damp wind whisps through the street, coat fluttering, as I look up at the building. Steps creak as I approach the door. "Mr. Wright?"

Multiple clicks of deadbolts and padlocks unlock as the door creaks open. A cam lock prevents the door from opening completely. A Half-goblin's pointy nose sticks through the door as he eyes me suspiciously, "a great deal of dark magic is placed upon you."

Not knowing how to respond, I ignore his comment, "my partner and I are investigating the serial killings of Half-breeds. We have an item related to said investigation and would like to request your assistance."

"And now you can write in your report how you pretended to care," Wright scoffs, closing his door again.

Desperate, I shove my foot into the gap, preventing it from closing, "I know how it feels to be ostracised. I'm not pretending."