WE ARE NO STRANGERS TO ZONKO
A @jilymicro-oops written for the @jilymicrofics April 2025 prompt list. Prompts: 1–30. Words: 2144.
I had forgotten about this; it was meant to be for April Fool's Day, but alas. This micro-oops is dedicated to @nena-96 because if she were a holiday, it would be April Fools.
The faded sign of the Hog’s Head Inn groaned, swinging roughly on rusted hinges. Ice latticed the windows, catching the pale midday light and setting the disturbed orange flicker of the sooty candles permeating the filthy panes askitter. Bright snow lay thick over the whole village, with paths cut for access to shops, but here, away from the high street, it was stamped down to a trail of dark sludge. The door to the tavern was heavy, taking two of the boys to ram it with their shoulders before it unstuck from its hold.
They fell inside, a dozen sets of eyes meeting theirs. All were silent. Watching. Waiting.
“Padfoot, I don’t like this, man,” murmured the thinnest boy in the ear of the prettiest. “Let’s just go back.”
“It’s too late for that,” replied the bespectacled boy in the pretty one’s stead. He’d spotted their man—a tramp sitting alone at a round table. He nudged the pretty one, Padfoot, whose long hair swung as he followed the subsequent nod.
“Right,” Padfoot whispered. “Moony, Prongs, you go get drinks. Wormtail and I will butter him up.” Then the boy stepped forward and with a winning smile said: “As you were, gents.”
A croak of laughter from the day drinkers. Dull chatter resumed.
Off Padfoot sauntered with Wormtail in tow, while thin and bespectacled, Moony and Prongs, picked their way to the bar through the straw-strewn floor, steering clear of a hag in the corner.
“Four Butterbeers and—” glancing eye contact “—glass’a whisky,” Moony asked of the barkeeper.
The burly old wizard looked each up and down. “How old are yeh?” he grunted, never ceasing his polishing of a snifter growing greasier with every pass of the grey rag.
Moony swallowed, juvenile Adam’s Apple bobbing. “Seventeen.”
“Oh yeah? What year were yeh born?”
“Nineteen fifty-seven. In July.”
The barkeeper’s eyes rolled beneath his thick brows. Prongs, sensing failure, dug out his coin pouch and set it on the bar, which was an inch thick with filth. Eight Sickles he pulled out for the cost of the Butterbeers, followed by a Galleon. Fat, gold and glistening. “For the whisky. Campbell’s Finest.” A casual shrug. “If you have it.”
The barkeeper scoffed. He set down the snifter and sighed. Then, he walked off, pushing through a small door, which thudded resolutely shut behind him. The boys glanced at one another. Was that it? End of? No. He soon reappeared, huffing and puffing as he hauled a filthy crate of clinking bottles from his storeroom. He set it on the bar with a heavy clank and pulled out four bottles of room-temperature dust-covered Butterbeer. He took the Galleon, pushing the Sickles back at the bespectacled dark-haired boy, then uncorked an unlabelled bottle of dark amber liquid and half filled the grease-streaked snifter. He eyed them crossly as they nodded their thanks, took the drinks and change, and picked their way to the far corner of the tavern where sat their two friends and a stranger.
The stranger—a lean man in thick robes with hollow cheeks and thin hair—sniffed the whisky he was handed then downed it in one, letting out a sharp “Ahhh” as it went down.
“Very nice,” he said, in a smooth sing-song accent. “I’m not being funny, that is a tidy drop.” He set down the glass with a heavy whack, sending the lone tallow candle flickering. “So.” He sucked his teeth. “Why is it that a bunch of Hogwarts kids want to meet with little old me?”
“Who said we’re from Hogwarts?” Padfoot countered.
The man, who was known loosely in particular circles as Owain Ifans, leant back in his chair and crossed his arms. He sucked his teeth again.
“Okay. Maybe we are. What we want is to purchase some…” The pretty boy looked over his shoulder, checking for eavesdroppers, then lowered his voice. The other boys tensed. “Equipment.”
“What sort of equipment?”
“No. Not you.” He pointed to Wormtail, who shrank under the man’s gaze. “You. Let’s hear what the little man has to say.”
Wormtail swallowed, looking to his more confident friends in a panic. “M-me?”
“Well, we——” He dissolved then into a coughing fit.
From his left, Prongs popped the cork from one of the potentially expired bottles of Butterbeer that had sat hitherto untouched and passed it to the choking boy.
“Thanks, James,” he wheezed, “I-I mean Prongs.” He took a long horrified drink, cheeks burning bright red as he gulped down the sweet foamy liquid.
Moony’s face was buried in his hands, Padfoot had set his mouth in an emotionless line, and James was intently uncorking the other three bottles and passing them around.
Owain sighed heavily when the flushing boy had finally recovered. “Alright, here’s what I reckon. I reckon you lot heard about what I sell and thought you’d have yourselves a bit of fun, eh? Bit of bang-bang? Cause a stir at school?” He motioned to the barkeeper for another drink. “Haven’t you ever heard of Zonko’s? Shop down the road? Tell you what, let’s this time forget it. I’m going to enjoy another tidy whisky, you lot are going to toddle off and get yourselves some crackers, and——”
“Look.” To the shock of his three compatriots, it was Wormtail who interrupted the peddler. The barely pubescent boy had gathered up all of his bravery, confidence, strength, set on redeeming himself or dying trying. He leant forwards, pressed his elbows into the table and steepled his fingers, leaving Owain to close his half-gaping mouth in his own time. “We are no strangers to Zonko. We’ve bought his whole range ten times over and, honestly, we want better. We’re looking for something big, and we hear you’re the man to talk to. We’ve heard, in fact, that we won’t get better from any other. The best in the biz. So will you help us? Or should we take our business elsewhere?”
Owain squinted at the blond, sizing him up, having obviously misjudged him the first time. Then he smirked. “Alright, no need to get chopsy.”
He pulled out a sheet of folded parchment and tapped it with his wand, muttering, “Heb ei fai.”
As he unfolded the sheet and set it on the table, they watched words slowly form upon the once-blank surface. The boys grinned at one another then leant in to watch closer.
“A list of my merchandises. I’ve got Chinese Flaming Mountain Powder, Hoods of Hypnosis, Beltaine Spitzers, you name it. But I have to warn you.” He pulled the parchment back a fraction, covering the list with long splayed knobble-knuckled fingers. “These aren’t your average Nose-Biting Teacups.”
The boys nodded eagerly, and he released the enigmatic parchment to their greedy clutches. The barkeeper trudged over, casting a single beady eye on the parchment as he refilled the snifter.
“Leave the bottle, would you? Downright thirsty, I am. There’s lovely.”
The burly wizard did so with a grunt. Meanwhile, the boys read aloud in reverent whispers:
“Loki’s Looping Laces, three Knuts a pair,” read Wormtail.
“Pocket Archipelagos, two tins for ten Sickles,” read Moony.
“Igor’s Inviolable Ice Imps, one Galleon a dozen,” read James.
“Kelper’s Ultimate Destruction Extra-Extra-Extra Large Supernova,” read Padfoot. “Why’s that one crossed out?”
“Can’t get the things into the UK anymore.” Owain shook his head. “Bloody shame.”
“But Agni’s Tongues are a cracking alternative. Seven heads on it for maximum effect. More bang for your buck, as you Sais like to say.” He laughed liltingly.
The boys put their heads together. The Djinn in a Bottle they thought best left alone, but Pernicious Pucks and Loki’s Lace Loopers were all too thrilling to the young troublemakers. Finally, when all were in accordance, they passed the parchment back to its owner, who tapped it again with his wand and said this time: “Heb ei eni.” The ink quickly faded, returning the page to its initial blank state.
They watched with starry eyes as the Welshman folded the parchment and tucked it into the inner folds of his robes.
Padfoot grasped his Butterbeer by the neck, held it aloft, and repeated—reverently—the secret phrase he’d been sent by carrier pigeon that bleary morning: “Never a better day was there to pick daffodils.”
Owain Ifans smirked as the boys too raised their half-empty bottles. He picked up his whisky, sang, “Iechyd da!” and sank the full glass in one. “Ahhhhh. Very tidy indeed.”
“Hey, out of curiosity, what’d you use for that?” Sirius asked as Owain corked the bottle with a squeak.
The pretty boy nodded towards the pocket in which Owain had stored the parchment. “Your catalogue. Dissappearing ink?”
Owain grinned. “Not likely, boyo.” Then he clapped his hands and rose from his chair, setting two Galleons on the table and slipping the bottle into the opposite side of his robes. “Right, lads. We’ve business to attend to.” And he strolled out the door.
The thin boy twisted in his chair. “Listen, I just wanna tell you how I’m feeling,” he whispered as they re-wrapped their scarves and re-gloved their hands. “I still think this is a bad idea. We can’t trust him. And the barman was pretty eyesy with the list. What if he dobbs on us? It’s not too late to leave.”
“He’s given us an out, let’s take it.”
“Don’t be daft, Remus,” Padfoot whispered back as they too rose from the table, their bottles unfinished, and hurried out the door, glad to be leaving the stale inn behind. “He’s testing us. If we don’t show up now, he’ll find us and, I don’t know, kill us. Maybe if Peter hadn’t spewed out James’s name——”
James smacked the pretty boy on the head. “Shut up, Sirius. It won’t help.”
Sirius grumbled but did indeed shut up.
They huddled together to protect from the cold and trudged after the lone set of footprints in the thick pale snow.
The footprints led around to the back of the building. There he stood, fairly tall if not for his hunched nature, wrapped up in cloaks with three hoods drawn low. The red glow of a thin hand-rolled cigarette cast short shadows across his gaunt face. When they reached him, he smiled, snuffing out the butt against the wall and flicking it to the snow. With all the fanfare of a circus ringmaster, he pulled open his cloak to reveal the holy grail of the pubescent practical prankster.
Psychedelic pouches, bandied boxes, unending tubes in the most violent colours, all pinned to the lining. It was all there. Dancing Deluges, Arrows of Apollo, Lickable Love-A-Lot Concentrate, a Soul-Sucking Toilet Seat. Even the infamous Antarctic Almonds—One Bite for the World’s Most Agonising Brain Freeze!
“Tell me now, how far are you lads planning on taking this?”
The boys looked at each other and grinned.
“Full commitment’s what I’m thinking of,” said Peter. “And I think you’ll find my friends agree.”
“Very well then.” And then, to the sound of angels singing above, he pulled back a second cloak. Within was enough to make the heads of four teenagers spin. Here was the Big Stuff, the Bad Stuff, the Flammable Things. Everything they had ever dared to dream of. And more. Snapping-Turtle Rockets, Noxious Nizzle-Bangers, Chinese Dragon Crackers…
They didn’t have enough hands. No matter. Owain, as it turned out, came prepared. He had—likely stolen—bags from Honeydukes and Zonkos, each modified with the best display of undetectable extension charmwork any of the boys had ever seen. One had to wonder how such a nifty wizard ended up dealing through the black market.
“Happy Days, Happy Days,” Owain clucked as he unloaded the goods into the unassuming bags.
It saw their money pouches skint and their chests fit to burst with glee.
“Alright boyos, you know rules and so do I,” said Owain as he pocketed a now heavy sack of coins. “No telling, no blabbing, no snitching, no prattling, no teachers, no mummies, no daddies, no dropping of products and most especially no smoking near your stash. Otherwise, there will be consequences. Got it…? Tidy. Tara then.”
Remus glanced at the cigarette butt which had melted a small divot in the dirty snow. He said nothing.
Owain Ifans trudged down the lane, turning on his heel as he reached a wood-heap and vanishing with a soft pop.
The boys grinned at one another. Sirius let out a holler. Weighed down by bags, they spun about, hurrying past the grimy inn and its swinging sign, past houses and shops, until they were in the High Street, swinging their bags like any other happy shopper, blending in brilliantly with all the other students enjoying the first Hogsmeade trip of the year.
Boy-oh-boy, did Hogwarts have a big storm coming.
