#tn05

The telltale jingle of the door may as well have been warning bells if the distinct mood of danger that swept into the store ahead of them was any indication. Blaise had been tugging at the hem of his shrunken sweater since they’d arrived at the Leaky Cauldron, the waft of dryer sheets and ocean breeze still settled around them, and the argument that had persisted down the cobblestones of Diagon and into the narrow, ramshackle alley, all the way to the doors of Mulpepper’s showed no sign of receding, just yet.

“How many—” his lips pressed shut in a firm line, eyes narrowing as his shoulders pulled back and with great dignity he continued, pointedly, “That’s just ridiculous. I’d know if an Avery was my father — my taste in shoes would be way tackier.”