Stag Night

Stag Night

~ V ~

Seven Shoe Alley

Aloysius McPhee’s London on Ten Sickles A Day (1975 Edition) had this to say about Seven Shoe Alley:

For the broad-minded and adventurous traveller, no visit to London would be complete without a trip to Seven Shoe Alley, often compared to Amsterdam’s Nachtwerkstraat. A multitude of entertainment establishments, varying in seediness, can be found off the central plaza, which is dominated by a spectacular fountain that gushes dazzling cascades of multi-coloured water day and night. Both tourists and locals can be found strolling in London’s famous Red Light District. Public venues feature live acts; private clubs cater to a variety of specialized tastes. Be prepared to spend more than a few Galleons, if you wish to sample the sex trade for which this locale is famous. Although businesses operate under license from the Ministry of Magic, crime is not unknown here and the newcomer should beware.

Sirius Black had something else to say, though. He stood with his hands on his hips and surveyed the chaotic whirl of colors and sounds as proudly as if he’d just conjured the entire scene solely for the entertainment of his friends.

“Bloody incredible, isn’t it?”

None of the other three answered, struck dumb as they struggled with the sensory traffic jam brought on by bright lights, pulsing colors, babbling conversations, warring musical styles, odors that by turns tickled and repulsed. What did it all mean? Over-stimulated brains hadn’t gotten around to tackling that question yet.

The four of them, dressed in tatty Muggle clothing that didn’t stand out so much here as it might have any other place in wizarding London, were standing on the edge of the large plaza that was the center stage, the parade ground, the living, breathing, squirming billboard for Seven Shoe Alley. In the late spring evening the open-air heart of the district buzzed with people; they lingered near the noisy fountain, or strolled the margins, or clustered around the windows of the garishly decorated buildings encircling the plaza like a cheap garter; they sported everything from wizard’s robes to next-to-nothing; they talked and laughed and carried on in half a dozen languages.

First to catch any newcomer’s eye was the fountain. No timid tourist, no matter how briefly he’d stuck his nose into Seven Shoe Alley, could fail to notice that single, enormous jet, a pulsating mushroom of neon-bright colors, each more violent than the last, that shot up fifty feet and then fell noisily into a large, shallow pool, where a thick layer of foam struggled against gravity and against the bounds of decency as dense masses of bubbles rose up from the surface and congealed into foamy shapes, entwined forms writhing in rainbow colors, though it was difficult to tell what acts they might have been performing through the shifting spray and ever-changing light.

And the enchanted water was merely the teaser, the tip of the iceberg, the frosting on a very messy cake.

“This is the place for us, lads,” Sirius crowed, as he bounced up and down on the balls of his feet. “That pub was getting to me, making me sleepy. Ha! Ruddy amazing sight, this is. I would’ve thought of this sooner, except we didn’t have near enough cash, but with this key of Peter’s--” He took out the key, with its curling gold tendrils and hidden tigers, and tossed it up in the air, catching it as he went on, “There’s a bunch of shops over there that sell clothes and things--fun things, some of them. And the clubs…”

Across the plaza colorful signs perched over most every doorway, vibrant writhing letters that taunted passersby; the sign at the High Flying Broomstick, for example, shifted from “Live Acts” to a wriggling purple preview of just what the words meant. Sirius couldn’t help but grin.

Sleep, who needs sleep?

His eye roamed the entire scene, the brightly lit plaza as well as the dark corners where, more often than not, couples lingered in the alleys, or the stairways, or the alcoves. Over there a man stroked the neck of a shadowy companion, then pinned her--him? Maybe it didn’t matter--against a wall as the hand vanished, no doubt into territory that Sirius knew well, so well that he felt the rough fabric of his own jeans rub against him the way the whores would, if you paid them enough.

Sirius tucked the key away and jammed his hands into his pockets. He glanced expectantly at his friends, but he got no immediate response. He nudged Remus with his shoulder, after concluding that James and Peter weren’t likely to say anything coherent any time soon.

“What do you think? We could have a bit of fun here, eh?”

Remus looked away from his friend, not toward the hypnotic lights or the creatures on parade, but toward the shadowed hollows formed from the cracks between the buildings or the spaces under wooden stairs clinging to their walls or the darkened doorsteps that were big enough to hold a somewhat private meeting.

He saw a couple doing a rough dance in the shadow of a dustbin, movements spastic, hurried, violent. How can anyone call that pleasure? He heard someone crying, a thin voice that worked its way to him through all the water splashing and music blaring and the incessant babble. He patiently tracked down the sound and watched a frail slip of a girl sobbing as a man and a woman haggled. How Old? Fourteen? Sixteen? She was too thin, and the light too dim to tell for sure. Money changed hands and the girl vanished. He smelled sweat and piss and too much perfume meant to distract the nose, the scent-equivalent of a neon sign broadcasting the name of a club while drawing the eyes away from peeling paint and broken windows.

“Better than Soho, what?” Sirius exclaimed, and gave him a rougher shove.

Remus remained silent, although he knew that this would result in further assaults from a Sirius who wasn’t in the mood to take silence for an answer. He compared what lay before him to the Muggle streets he’d walked down, not in Soho, but dockside in Glasgow and London where he’d sit for hours in poky little cafes--grimy fish and chip shops or pungent curry houses--often as the dockworkers came off shift and the whores drifted alongside them like smoke from an unseen, smoldering fire.

He couldn’t say why exactly he’d hang around the docks when he should have been looking for a job, maybe the thrill of going somewhere, even if it was only on a ship stacked with enormous metal boxes set into the hold by a crane, bigger than any dragon he’d ever heard of, and bound for God-knows-where. Once he’d considered trying to get a job on one of those ships--after all, he was stronger than any two Muggles his size--and then he’d sail off toward the infinite horizon where sky never quite met sea. But, the voyages of those slow freighters were lengthy. He’d have to spend weeks on board, long weeks as the moon waxed and waned.

Stupid, stupid idea. And he was an idiot for dreaming such absurd dreams.

So instead of voyaging, he’d sit and watch the stevedores and the whores and all the mysterious metal contraptions that only Sirius would know and love. It was drab and gray down on the docks, not like Seven Shoe Alley, yet he saw the same pinched expressions on the faces when no one was supposed to be looking, the same secret panic hovering over women as they passed by with desperate eyes and red, laughing lips, and the same greedy mouths of the men who wanted to feast on the whores that hawked themselves like so many orders of fish and chips wrapped in greasy newspaper. Pass the vinegar, mate.

“You’ve outdone yourself this time, Padfoot,” Remus said as he turned to face Sirius. “Now let’s get on with it and find this place.”

“Ruddy Mr. Cool, you are,” Sirius grumbled. “Well, you just wait--“

“And I suppose you’ve been here before?” James asked, getting his wits about him as he sensed a dogfight in the near future.

“Had a few drinks, poked about in the shops, er, you know how that goes.” Sirius shrugged with exaggerated casualness, and then nudged James with his elbow. “Fancy a bit of shopping? I know a few places where you could get some things that Lily might--“

James coughed rather deliberately and Sirius stopped. It had been touch and go to get James this far and he realized that he’d better not bollix it up now by saying something stupid. If things worked out tonight, they wouldn’t have to content themselves with staring into shop windows. He smiled until his bruised cheek hurt and said, “Where’s this bloody club, Peter?”

But, Peter had nothing at all to say on the subject. He clutched James’s arm the way that a child clings to his mother on the first visit to Honeydukes Sweet Shop. His mouth hung slack, eyes glazed over and reflecting the pulsating light without any sign of life. Inside his head, though, shiny things and scraps of bright colors were doing a manic can-can right on top of his cerebellum. Outside, light bounced off mirrors behind the milling crowd, making sight treacherous and unreliable. His other senses weren’t all that useful, either. He never did well in crowded places… maybe that explained what happened last Hallowe’en. It wasn’t his fault, not really.

“Three, I said, three pints!” Peter shouted at the overworked bartender. He glanced nervously at the other patrons crowded near the bar, feeling too conspicuous. The pub was more crowded than usual, though, and shouting seemed the only way to make himself heard. Harley Baddock, looking harried and unhappy, was busy pouring drinks for other wizards and witches and he didn’t appear to hear Peter.

The bartender’s face looked as grim as one of the carved pumpkins that floated above the bar. Peter didn’t care for the Hallowe’en decorations at the Golden Apple. The flickering candles inside the dozens of floating jack o’lanterns were menacing eyes that followed his every movement. The pub was so different from the Great Hall at Hogwarts, claustrophobic and sinister where the Hallowe’en Feasts at school had been almost cheerful, at least in hindsight.

Peter felt anything but cheerful as he waited impatiently among the clamoring throng at the bar. Why had he stopped by for a drink when he’d promised to be at James’s party by now? But Harley had been talking for weeks about the Hallowe’en decorations at the Golden Apple and how Peter must see them. Well, here he was, and none too pleased.

“Oy, Pettigrew! What’ll it be?” Harley’s voice boomed through the thinning crowd.

“Three pints,” Peter said as made his way to the bar like a shipwrecked sailor trying to reach a bit of flotsam, “and I’m in a bit of a hurry, so if you could...”

Harley smirked at him and made a big production of slowly pouring out each pint. “Got a date?” he said as he pushed three full glasses toward Peter.

“And I suppose you do?” said Peter shortly. He’d heard too much about Harley’s Muggle girlfriend over the past month. The bartender had adopted him as a sympathetic confidant and Peter had been too timid to tell him to stop.

“Yup,” Harley said smugly. “Peter, this girl is hot, hot, hot, know what I mean? Why, she--“

Peter made a grab for the three pints sitting on the bar and said irritably, “Look, I don’t sodding care about your Mug--”

“All right, Pettigrew,” Harley said loudly with nervous sideways glances up and down the bar. “Get on with you, then. I don’t have all night, y’know.”

Peter struggled to pick up all three pints and managed to slop a fair amount of beer down the sides in the process. His fingers stretched just enough to keep from dropping the glasses. He was so intent on maintaining his grip as he turned away from the bar that he didn’t see the witch barreling toward him until it was too late. He bumped into her, lost his tenuous grip, and the glasses went flying. One shattered and the other two bounced the floor, soaking Peter’s shoes and the hem of his robes.

“For heaven’s sake. Look what you’ve done!” said the witch angrily, glaring down at Peter with her hands on her hips. Her robes were adorned with twinkling stars and tiny comets that zoomed across a midnight-blue background. Now they were also sodden and covered with the foam from three pints of pumpkin lager, making it seem as if the starry heavens had just given a large and nasty belch.

“Er, sorry, sorry,” Peter chanted as he fumbled for his wand and then stuttered his way through a spell to clean her robes as best he could.

“Merlin save us,” Harley Baddock exclaimed as he came around the bar brandishing a broom and dustpan. “You’re a bleeding menace, you are.” He magicked the glasses into the dustpan and said to Peter, “Go on back to your table. I’ll bring you your sodding beers.”

“I wonder that they even serve such…people,” said the witch angrily, staring at Peter as if he were mentally incompetent.

“It’s charity, like,” Harley said, whisking the puddle of beer away into nothingness with his wand. The witch gave a sour look in reply and turned away pointedly.

Peter, his face burning, turned tail and scurried off toward the table where he’d been sitting with Jack Travers and Robbie Nott. Stopping by the pub had been a stupid idea. James and the others would never treat him this way. Sure, they’d tease him, but never in such a humiliating way, never in public. Seeing James earlier that afternoon had reminded him of how much he missed his school friends.

Fishbone, Mullions, and Pettigrew, earlier that day

He had been looking for a deed down in the law firm’s basement where the records for the last four hundred years were kept. They had to depend on the ghosts for anything older, owing to the great fire of 1545.

“Peter!” a muffled voice leaked through the tall shelves crammed with books and magical lockboxes that claustrophobically packed the basement. Peter cringed upon hearing his name. It was horrid enough that Mr. Bartelby and the other clerks in D&B treated him like a house-elf without other people ordering him around too.

“Peter? Where the hell--“

Further inquiry was cut off by a loud crash, followed by the sound of boxes tumbling to the ground. Peter, who now recognized the voice, hurried through the maze of bookshelves, clutching the deed book he’d been searching. As he rounded the corner and came in sight of the accident, he heard a mixture of curses and sneezes, accompanied by ghostly laughter. Peter grimaced and wondered why his great-grandfather’s ghost always turned up at the worst possible moment.

On the floor, a hazy figure struggled under a pile of magical lockboxes that had tumbled off a nearby shelf, which was still rocking ominously. The dust cloud raised by the crash made the torches on the wall flicker and hiss.

“James!” Peter cried. His friend was almost unrecognizable, black hair turned a mottled gray color and glasses covered in dust.

“It bit me!” James said as he got to his feet. “Just reached out and--“

“Moreton,” cackled Pontius Pettigrew, a nattily dressed ghost with thick mutton-chop sideburns and a bushy mustache. “It will not do--no, not at all--to walk too close to the Moreton box. Clerks have lost fingers. Pure carelessness,” said the ghost, gliding over to James while wagging a translucent finger. “See that it does not happen again!”

“Er, right,” James said as he took off his glasses and blew on them, dislodging a cloud of dust. “Thank you…sir.”

“Hmph,” sniffed the ghost with a dubious shake of its head. It glided away, muttering, “Such careless clerks these days. This does not bode well for this future of this firm. No, indeed…”

“Who or what was that?” James said as he tried to brush the dust off his robes. He quickly gave up, though, as this brought on a large fit of sneezing.

“Great-grandfather,” said Peter tersely. The ghost had a nasty habit of eavesdropping on conversations so he didn’t want to say what he really thought. Instead he took out his wand, pointed it at James, and muttered, “Exos Lavanum.”

The cleaning spell removed the dust from James’s robes, leaving him blinking owlishly from behind his black horn-rimmed spectacles

“Thanks, Peter. I probably look a fright,” James said as he ruffled his hair, which was even more untidy than usual, in an attempt to dislodge the dust. “Can I give you a hand with this mess?”

Peter nodded sheepishly and they both fell to working at organizing the pile of lockboxes, watching carefully for the biting ones, and putting them back on the shelves.

James sneezed violently again, and then said, “Work been going well?”

“It’s a job, y’know,” Peter mumbled as he concentrated on levitating a particularly heavy box to the top shelf, grateful for an excuse not to elaborate.

“They working you hard, then?” James said, handing him another dusty magical lockbox. “We haven’t seen you in ages.”

Peter gripped the box tightly and pretended to decipher the label, reminded suddenly that “we” meant James and Lily, where once it had meant the four of them. James refused to see the folly--no, the danger--of marrying a Mudblood. And Peter was expected to be happy for him.

But how could he?

Peter could think of half a dozen girls, all purebloods, who would have jumped at the chance to go out with James Potter when he was at school. Instead, he’d become infatuated with Lily Evans in their seventh year. That was a bit of a scandal, the Head Boy and the Head Girl dating. And Evans had been the first Mudblood in years to be chosen as Head Girl, which was gossip-worthy all by itself.

“Dumbledore’s been asking about you,” James said quietly, breaking the silence between them.

“Me?” squeaked Peter and dropped the box he’d been holding.

“He’s a bit worried about… all of us. And we miss you, too. Sirius was just saying that--“

“He misses having a punching bag. I can believe that,” Peter said, as he bent down to retrieve the box from the floor.

“Come on, Peter, you know what I mean,” James said lightly.

Peter looked away hastily from his friend and hunted for the box’s proper spot on the shelf. When he turned around, wiping dusty hands on his robes, James was staring at him curiously.

“We all have to stick together, especially now,” he said carefully and handed Peter another of the magical strongboxes. “Dumbledore’s stopping by tonight. He rarely leaves Hogwarts these days--he’s got enough on his mind as it is--but he wants to talk to a few of us about…” James paused and fiddled with the frame of his glasses. “That is, you’d best come along and hear for yourself.”

“Tonight?”

“Hallowe’en, you know,” chuckled James kindly. “I thought I’d come round and remind you in person since you ignored my owl.”

“Remind me of--oh, yes, I remember now. I--sorry,” Peter said, suddenly very interested in finding the right spot on the shelf for the box he’d been given. “It has been rather busy round here.”

“Too busy for old friends?” said James and put a hand gently on Peter’s shoulder. “We do miss you, Peter, and times being what they are...”

Peter turned to face James and was rewarded by the familiar, open face of his friend, a friend who had been willing over the years to include him on numerous adventures, who had rescued him more than once, who had defended him from attacks by snarky Slytherins and much more.

“Of course,” said Peter with a tentative smile, “I wouldn’t miss it.”

“Eight o’clock at my place, then,” James said, his face breaking into a wide grin. “Stop by earlier, if you like. Lots of the old crowd will be there.”

“Sure,” Peter said slowly, aware that he’d been standing with his mouth open for too long. “I have a few things to, er, attend to first, but I’ll be there.”

“Great,” said James with a grin. “I’ll let you get back to work.”

Peter watched his friend’s back recede along the torchlit path leading to the stairs and then went back to work, whistling off-key and feeling strangely buoyant.

His good mood hadn’t lasted all that long. By the time evening came around, he was back in the haze of uncertainty that seemed to haunt him these days.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“You’re cracked! The Wasps deserved it,” Jack Travers was saying loudly as Peter approached the table, with no drinks to show for his trip to the bar. Jack drummed his fingers on the table and looked irritated behind his ever-present smile, but not at Peter.

Peter hesitated for a moment before taking his seat, unnoticed by Robbie Nott or by Jack, who had that deadly serious look on his face reserved for defending his Quidditch team, the Montrose Magpies. Peter slipped into a chair and hoped that neither of them would ask about his soggy robes, which clung to his calves and ankles like a pair of clammy hands.

“Didja see all that blagging? How could you miss it? Not that the referee saw it!” Robby Nott was practically screaming, his round, freckled face redder than usual, spit gathering at the corners of his mouth. “Angus McArdle must be a hundred and ten and if he’s a day, and blind as a bat. He’s not fit to ref!”

Peter looked away, hoping that this argument wouldn’t come to curses, as so many others had. Jack was only slightly more rabid about his Quidditch team than he was about pure-blooded wizards and Peter had been his second more than once for an impromptu wizard’s duel outside the pub after some clueless soul maligned the Magpies.

“You can’t blame it on the referee, Nott,” Jack replied coolly, staring at Robbie and rapping his knuckles on the table in an ominous tattoo. “The Magpies are a better team and you know it.”

Peter glanced down at his watch and grimaced, noting the time. Jack and Robbie had been arguing Quidditch for half an hour already and showed no signs of stopping. Peter had figured that if he went to the bar and got drinks, he could make a quick exit without getting too much grief. He looked up, craning his neck to see if he could spot Harley at the bar or anywhere else in the room. The bartender was mad at him, that was plain, and was taking his time about bringing the drinks, if he was going to bring them at all. The pub was full, over-full maybe, with knots of witches and wizards clutching glasses or tankards, chattering madly while overhead the carved pumpkins floated in the smoky air, adding another layer to the Hallowe’en revels.

“Hey, isn’t that Ludo Bagman?” Peter said suddenly, pointing toward the pub’s front door.

Robbie stopped arguing, much to Peter’s relief, and half-rose out of his seat to peer at the crowd forming around a fair-haired man in the familiar yellow and black-striped robes of the Wimbourne Wasps. Without another word, he got to his feet and headed for the door.

“Where’re you going, you big coward?” Jack chuckled at Robbie’s departing back. He noticed Peter and said, “Look who’s back. Hey, I thought we sent you off to get--“

“Shouldn’t send a boy to do a man’s job,” Harley interrupted gruffly. He appeared suddenly and set down three pints of foamy, orange beer on the table between Peter and Jack, saying with a smirk, “Notice how I didn’t spill a drop.”

Jack looked perplexed while Peter’s face grew red with embarrassment. Harley gloated and was about to say something else, no doubt another put-down of Peter who’d finally had enough.

“Don’t you have better things to do,” he taunted with uncharacteristic bravado, “like getting ready for that big date?”

Harley shot him a murderous glance, muttered something under his breath and retreated quickly to the bar.

“What’s gotten into him?” Jack said. “I thought you were friends. Usually he wants to talk your ear off.”

“There was a little accident that…” Peter felt himself reddening further and said quickly, “He’s just mad ‘cause he’s got a ‘hot’ date after work and doesn’t want to go to any extra trouble to help…er, do his job properly.”

Jack laughed and took a sip of beer, his eyes on the crowd at the door where witches were screaming for autographs and throwing themselves at Ludo Bagman.

“Though why he wastes his time with a Mug--“ muttered Peter, checking his watch and wondering how he soon he could leave. He stopped, realizing he’d said too much, and became very interested in one of the unclaimed pints.

“A what?” Jack turned toward him with raised eyebrows. “Are you serious? No, I can’t believe it. That great git has a taste for Muggles?”

“Yes, well, that’s what he says anyway,” Peter spluttered, choking on the beer that he’d been attempting to gulp down. He set the glass on the table and pushed it away from him. “Of course, you can never tell with him. He’s so full of it.” He glanced at his watch again. “Look, I’ve got to run. Sorry I can’t stay, but there’s another party that I--“

“Rushes off to meet a Muggle tart after work, does he? Christ, I’d like to see that,” mused Jack, ignoring what Peter was saying. “It’s just too funny.”

“Yeah, isn’t it? G’night, then,” said Peter absently as he stood up, eyes already fixed on the door.

“Leaving so soon? You’re going to miss all the fun, Peter.”

“Wake up, Wormtail.” Sirius leaned over, reached around James, and gave Peter a sharp poke in the ribs. “We’re on a mission here and you’re supposed to be Leader.”

“Mission?” Peter bit his tongue in a moment of confused panic. The pain cleared his head. He forced more calmness into his voice than he actually felt and chuckled weakly, “Oh, the club.”

“Oh, the club,” parroted Sirius. “Care to enlighten us as to where it’s hiding?”

“I’m not actually certain that I--you see, Paul didn’t give me directions or anything. I just thought it would be obvious and, y’know, easy to find.”

Peter was saved from another assault Sirius Black-style by the approach of a hazy cloud of red lights, which had been hovering near the fountain, and now headed in their direction accompanied by high-pitched buzzing. The quartet found themselves swathed in a blur of scarlet fairy wings. Wisps of white paper fluttered in the air as the creatures let loose what they’d been carrying in their tiny hands.

“Your outstanding qualities will win you many new friends,” James read on the piece of paper he’d snatched from the air. The letters were cheaply printed in uneven scarlet ink. He turned the paper over and saw in larger, bold letters “Ye Olde Sex Shoppe ~ Visit us first! You’ll be glad you did.”

Remus growled suggestively, an I’ll-eat-you-if-you dare sort of growl, which provoked angry humming from a half-dozen fairies, but they left him alone. Peter jumped as a one of the creatures tugged at his hair and artfully deposited a slip of paper on his nose. He snatched at it while shooing away the annoying fairy.

“Magic Hour Polyjuice Parlour ~ Don’t Dream It. Be It.” He sounded out each word like a five year-old reading Dr. Seuss, and then looked up in confusion. “Huh? I don’t get it. Why would anyone want to--”

“If you have to ask, Peter, old sod…” Sirius laughed as he snatched the paper away. “Here, now, what’s yours say? Let’s hope it’s got directions. Hmmm. ‘To bear with fools in kindliness brings good fortune.’ Bleeding inscrutable, that is, and not much help,” he snorted and let it fall.

James watched the white paper, buffeted by the gale of light blowing in from the plaza, change color ten or twenty times as it fluttered down and finally nestled amongst filthy, cracked cobblestones. The mishmash of colors coming from too many directions at once threw confusing shadows on those strolling by or lounging in doorways. Were they really dressed in such fantastic costumes or were those wild colors merely a product of the non-stop light show at Seven Shoe Alley?

And, people weren’t the only creatures on parade. An Afghan hound with long silky hair that shifted hue by the second seemed very interested in Sirius until its owner, a lanky blonde woman wearing little more than a fur jacket and knee-length leather boots, yanked the dog away with a haughty tug of the leash. The roar of a lion echoed suddenly from the depths of some club, followed by loud, raucous laughter. No one on the street paid any attention, although Peter shook at James’s side and then gingerly stepped behind him.

“Hey, toots,” warbled a pair of women as they sidled up to Sirius. They had deep smoky voices that wrapped around the listener’s gonads and squeezed-and none too gently, either.

“Lend us your boyfriend for a bit, love?” crooned one of the pair, a tall, broad-shouldered brunette wearing the briefest of leather miniskirts and amply filling out an overstretched tube top. She waved a three-inch long purple fingernail at Sirius, but her eyes traveled suggestively in Remus’s direction.

James looked perplexed, while Remus folded his arms and eyed the two women suspiciously, his lips curved in what was either a grimace or a secret smile.

“Hey, some other time.” Sirius shook his head, thus missing the opportunity for a snappy comeback. Even he wasn’t prepared for this frontal assault.

“Ooooh. What’d I say? Can’t I always pick ‘em?” purred the second, a blonde who had masses of seemingly artificial curls spilling over her back and shoulders and who was squeezed into a sleeveless hot pink dress about that size of a dinner napkin. “Be a nice boy and share, then. Teach you both a few new tricks, love.”

“Sorry, got somewhere to be,” replied Sirius stiffly, his arms folded in an unconscious imitation of Remus. The women giggled.

“Like hell you do, mate,” retorted the brunette in a different and decidedly masculine tone. Both women (if that term was accurate) turned away and tottered off on tiny spike heels whilst wagging their hips provocatively.

Remus, who had been trying to keep from laughing throughout most of this encounter, could hold it in no longer and began to snigger quietly, which only increased Sirius’s apparent discomfort.

“Was that what I thought it was?” asked James in a bewildered tone.

Sirius glowered at Remus, but recovered enough of his composure to reply, “Things are not always what they seem, eh? Never know who--or what--you’ll meet here.”

James nodded his head, then had the bizarre and painful sensation of getting his neck stuck in mid-nod. He twisted his shoulders trying to make the muscles work again and felt the pain lance down his back.

Despite the disturbingly odd sensation of being propositioned by drag queens and the rather warm-in-the-loins thrill at the prospect of visiting this Tigerseye club, he had misgivings. Of course, blokes in his situation were supposed to go out on the town for a--and this made his spasmed shoulders tighten even more--stag night. What would Lily say if she found out, though? Could he look her in the eye at the wedding tomorrow if he--if he… he couldn’t even bring himself to think about what came after the “if”.

“Sirius, you don’t think we’ll meet someone we--especially someone who’ll be at the….” James stumbled over the words in a rather un-Jameslike fashion.

“They can bloody well find their own spot of fun,” Sirius snorted.

“Ah, you boys looking to have some fun?”

James started as a short, swarthy wizard clad in voluminous, mustard-yellow robes filled the spot where Peter had stood moments before.

“Got some lovely tommies ‘ere, mind. Girls what work on their backs. Know what I mean?” the newcomer grinned evilly. His sallow skin and pointy ears suggested he had more than a little goblin blood.

Sirius regarded him with mild interest, which the stranger took as an invitation to continue.

“Can set you up with some toms, I can, but you blokes ought to get yourselves fixed up first so’s you can have some real fun,” said the little man, his thick accent made even more garbled as he poked a long, crooked nose inside his cloak. After a few satisfied grunts, he drew back his arm with a flourish, giving them a view of an assortment of rubber, leather and metal objects that were difficult to recognize, perhaps because of the uncertain light.

“What’s he saying?” James whispered to Sirius. “Is he speaking English?”

“Piss off,” was Sirius’s brusque reply to the peddler.

“Don’t be so hasty, lad.” He grinned and narrowed his dark, beady eyes as if to size them up anew. With a nod to himself, the little wizard caused the huge collection of accessories to vanish and drew forth a long narrow velvet bag from another dark recess of his cloak.

“You might be wanting one or two of these,” he said in a lower, more cautious tone. “Wands,” he whispered as he glanced to either side, making sure that no one was observing them, and drew the bag open just enough to let them see the contents.

“What do you take us for?” said James incredulously, “Here now, we’re looking for a club called Tigerseye. I presume you know where it is.”

“Course I know where it is,” he cackled in response. The bag (and whatever it contained) vanished and he pulled his cloak shut, while continuing to chortle. “No secret --just a ways down the alley to the other side of the Lion’s Den--only they won’t waste time with the likes of you. Turn you right out on your arses, they will.”

James, who had finally gained an ear for the peddler’s peculiar speech, glanced quickly at his two friends. “Look here--“ he began, only to be cut off by Sirius.

“Oy. Shove off. We know where we’re going and we don’t need any of your rubbish.”

“A bleedin’ miracle, that’s what you need,” muttered the little wizard as he gave them a disgusted look and stomped away, dingy yellow cloak flapping in his wake.

“And I suppose you know where we’re going?” James addressed Sirius crossly.

“I do now,” he said cheerfully, and then looked past James to the empty spot where the peddler had been. “Except that we’re missing Peter. Did you see him, Remus?”

“Not my turn to watch him,” Remus answered as he scanned the nearby clumps of people. “Peter’s just too easily distracted for this bloody place.”

“Great. Just great,” grumbled James. “Now we’ve lost him again. Honestly, Sirius, we ought to give up on this whole--“

“Afraid of a little sport, Prongs?” goaded Sirius.

“What?” An exasperated James raised his voice half an octave. “I am not…”

Remus concluded that he ought to go and find Peter. James and Sirius could bicker for hours without actually accomplishing anything, and this seemed like one of those times. With some reluctance, he headed for the crowded heart of the plaza, taking slow measured steps as he peered into the shadowy places on the fringe. It would be just like Peter to be drawn into a dark alley by some over-friendly tart. He needed a bit of looking after normally, but in Seven Shoe Alley, Wormtail needed a full-time nanny (just as Padfoot needed a leash). Where could Peter be?

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~