Lowe meets Imrie by Diagon Alley's entrance, her mother trailing behind her. It's emptier than usual. With everyone away at the Quidditch World Cup, there's enough room for Imrie and Lowe to walk side by side without being jostled by passerby elbows and cloaks. Lowe believes that alone is enough to justify staying home rather than attending the Cup.

Cedric had offered to bring the both of them with his family, but Imrie knew his mother would have a slew of questions that would only irritate him to answer, so it was easier to say he wasn't going at all, and Lowe's mother abhors large crowds, even if she's not the one actually in them. Besides, she would never let Lowe's father attend, and it felt like a cruel tease to go when he couldn't. So, Imrie and Lowe had made a weekend for themselves, galavanting around Imrie's muggle town until they decided to take advantage of the decreased traffic and push their yearly shopping trip up.

The tradition had started because neither Imrie nor his mother knew where to begin with Diagon Alley. Even with the list of school supplies Hogwarts sent every year, the monstrous array of shops and inventories was too daunting for two muggles (culturally, at least, in Imrie's case) to tackle alone. He and his mother suffered through it first year and never again after befriending Lola.

Even after four (going on five) years of shopping together, Imrie suspects that Lola's mother isn't entirely comfortable around him. Then again, Greta Labeski struggles to be comfortable around anyone, including her own family. As she trails behind him and Lola in Amanuensis Quills, Imrie struggles to deduce whether it's his presence or Lola's that encourages her distance—it may be a combination of both.

Very few of Imrie's friends' parents truly approved of their child's relationship with him. He tries not to feel victimized by that. Objectively, Imrie understands that something is unsettling about his father being an unnamed, unknown Russian wizard who managed to drive a meek muggle like Liliya Kovac to England. (The bravest thing she has ever done was run away from him.) It still stings a little. Imrie's not a victim, though, and he never has been.

"We should stop by Bats! Bats! Bats! after this," Lola states. She says it with enough casualness that her mother looks up in alarm.

"Since when have you needed bats for school?"

"I don't need to buy one, I just want to see if they got any new ones. I like naming them."

Greta can only tsk, looking at her daughter with a look that suggests she is (once again) wondering how she got stuck with such an unusual child. "If we have time," she says.

Lola shoots Imrie a victorious glance (just as pointed as her mother's gaze), signifying she's sure she's already won. "Guess we'll just have to be quick in the Apothecary, then."

"I'd like to drop my cauldron off at the workshop, too, if that's alright."

"Of course," Lowe assures, eyebrows furrowing. "What's wrong with it?"

Imrie shrugs, eyes darting away from Lola's sharp eyes. "Just cracking with wear, I imagine." The truth was that Draco Malfoy had sent Imrie's cauldron tumbling down a moving staircase, into the unforgiving cobblestone of the Hogwarts halls. The fall left a gaping chip in the lip of the metal and a crater in the side—far from sufficient for someone as meticulous as Imrie. Still, he can't help but be grateful that Draco was merciful enough to wait until the last day of classes. Imrie shudders at the thought of attending Potions without the class' primary vessel.

"Alright, we can drop it off once we're done and stop by Bats since it's next door."

Greta raises one pristinely arched eyebrow. "I thought Bats was only if we finished our shopping?"

But Lowe was already weaving her arm through Imrie's, dragging him through and under a family Weasley-esque in size as the pair ducks toward the register.

You'd think Lowe would have learned how to make a quill last after sixteen years of living—and almost as many spent writing—but she blew through them quicker than she named bats. Imrie is sure she hasn't used a quill that was actually her own since the third week of classes, having leeched off of Cedric, Eugenie, and Rosemary (when she was feeling generous). Imrie suspects Lowe's poor track record is caused by the iron grip she takes on every quill she holds. Watching Lola write is like watching a blacksmith weld into steel.

Even the three ink pots and five packs of quills Lola cradles in her arms are unlikely to last more than a month. Imrie's not sure why she bothers purchasing new supplies at this point. Their friends—Cedric in particular—had subconsciously added items to their own lists to account for Lola's habits.

Regardless, she dumps her haul onto the counter unceremoniously and smiles at Archie behind the counter like he's an old friend. He probably is, at this point.

"How's it going, Arch?"

"Fine, Lowe. And yourself?"

Imrie likes the way Archie talks. Lola mentioned once that he grew up in Scotland before attending schools in Egypt and France, and his accent proves it. Each word glimmers from behind his crooked teeth like a facet on a mirrorball, stringing into sentences that reflect every corner of the world he's visited. When he says Imrie's name, the "ih" sounds more like an "ee" and the "r" gets briefly lodged in the back of his throat. Like so:

"And how are you, Eemrie?"

"Good, thanks, Archie."

"No quills for you today?" Archie almost sounds disappointed enough to persuade Imrie to grab one of the overpriced, over-fluffed quills the shop displays next to the register. Traveling had done that for Archie—teach him how to sell things in every language. Except maybe the language of poor Russian boys.

"No, sorry."

"Well, next time," Archie promises, fixing Imrie a look as he places Lola's quills and ink in a velvet bag. "I'm sure this one will be dragging you back here over break."

Lola grins, taking pride in her notoriety even if it only exists within the little feathery kingdom of Archie Amanuensis. "I'm turning over a new leaf, Arch! This supply'll last me the whole year! Promise."

"I hope not," Archie calls, his voice and head following Lola and Imrie as they turn toward the door. "We'll go out of business if that's the case."

"Not true! Imrie will make up for what I don't buy, remember?"

They all laugh—even Greta manages a huff that borders between annoyed and amused—because Imrie is just that infamously frugal. He only buys the bare necessities, and even then he shifts in front of the shop display for minutes as he tries to justify his purchase. Lola's cackles cut through the jingling of the bell as she pushes the door open with her elbow.

Once they're back on the street, Imrie notices how much more crowded the Alley has grown since they entered Amanuensis'. Groups flock toward the corners and shop doors where paper boys are stationed, yelling headlines that get lost in the widespread chatter.

"—Quidditch World Cup!—Dark Mark!"

Lowe and Imrie's eyebrows furrow simultaneously, heads swiveling to face each other, then Greta. "What's he on about?" Lowe asks, taking a step closer to the nearest paper boy. Greta follows closely.

"I haven't got a clue," she murmurs.

"Greta!" A shrill voice cuts through the crowd, much like the fiery hair it belongs to. Molly Weasley's eyes are locked onto Lowe's mother as she approaches the trio until they nervously dart between Lowe and Imrie. Actually, it's a bit more nuanced than that. Molly manages a nervous but maternal smile when she sees Lowe which quickly slips upon glancing at Imrie. More about his father, he supposes.

"Oh, it's good you have the children with you. Mine are all with Arthur at the Cup, and it's put me in quite a tizzy with what's being said."

Everyone knows that calming Molly Weasley's nerves is a never-ending battle, but Greta places a comforting hand on the woman's shoulder anyway. It's the most warmth Imrie has ever seen from her. He suspects Lola agrees as her eyes zero in on her mother's palm. "Now, now, Molly. It's alright. I'm sorry about the children and Arthur. What exactly is being said?"

"You haven't heard?" Molly gulps.

Imrie, Lowe, and her mother all shake their heads, although only one of them manages to veil their frustration because obviously not! (Hint: the Labeski women have never been good at hiding their feelings.)

"The Dark Mark was summoned at the Quidditch World Cup last night. After the match. Everyone's saying it's the work of You Know Who, of course."

Greta paled slightly, her fingers digging into Molly's arm almost imperceptibly. That was more like the touch Lowe was familiar with. She and Imrie exchange nervous looks, and Lowe's fingers tighten around the strap of her bag in a fashion similar to her mother's.

"Well, that's ridiculous," Greta scoffs. "He can't be back."

"Then his followers," Molly argues, head lurching forward like she might be sick. "Either way, something is happening. Something must be for such a thing to occur."

"No," Greta nods, straightening her cloak. "You're right, of course. Let's just hope it was only some foolish children. You know how they can get with pranks." Because, really, if anyone could understand how out of hand a teenager's imagination could be, it was the mother of Fred and George.

"I hope so," Molly swallows. "The Ministry is already investigating. Arthur told me. Nothing concrete they can share, yet." She paused. Then: "But I do doubt that it was a prank."

There's a finality in her tone that tempts Lowe to believe it's just Molly's stubbornness speaking, but somehow she knows it's not. After all, her husband works for the Ministry. That's as close to a legitimate source as Lowe will get for not.

"Well," Molly pivots. Her lips strain up into a smile that's almost eerie given the previous conversation. "I best be off. Arthur should be home soon, and I've got dinner to make."

"Yes, us, too," Greta agrees, hand already beckoning Lowe to join her. "See you soon, Molly. I do hope everything's alright for your boys and Ginny."

Molly can only toss a tense smile over her shoulder, feet already shuffling toward the Alley's exit. Greta watches her go, eyebrows knit together more so than usual. When Molly is far out of sight, Greta steps in the same direction she left. "Come along, children."

Lowe follows her mother, and Imrie follows Lola.