He passes through the depths of Diagon Alley, boot heels clicking on the cold stone of Knockturn. The alley seems to have grown even more dour in the months since Voldemort’s reign began, and he keeps his eyes cast downward. Moaning issues from a newly established brothel—Wand in Hand its name, and he doesn’t think he could roll his eyes any harder—though he can’t tell if they sounds are satisfied or sorrowful. A cursory glance at the dilapidated building reminds him of the state of the world—Luna Lovegood’s prone form is still the running flyer on the storefront, advertising a night with LooneyLove, the girl’s ill begotten stage name.