“You’ve returned, small girl,” a wheezing voice says, thin as parchment. Pansy smiles to hear it, turning to look old Aloysius in the eyes. He looks as dour as ever, the Borgin & Burke’s attendant, his back ramrod straight and expression almost sour.
“Always a pleasure, Aloysius,” she says, her gloved fingers stroking ornamental candles (poisonous, likely). The door opens with a heavy creak, and with it brings a familiar face. Pansy crooks her head slightly, facing the newcomer with a smirk.











