A sudden downpour was sweeping through London.
Countless strands of rain, whipped by the sea wind, lashed hard against the Leaky Cauldron's slightly warped wooden door.
Diagon Alley had lost its usual bustle.
Days of news about Azkaban standing empty had left the cobblestone street frighteningly quiet.
Only two or three wizards hurried past, their cloaks wrapped tightly around them.
Was this really Diagon Alley during the summer holidays?
Douglas walked through the rain.
He carried no umbrella and used no spells.
Polyjuice Potion and Transfiguration Spells were utterly useless against Gringotts' Thief's Downfall.
This time, he had chosen one of the oldest and most effective methods.
A Muggle disguise technique.
His cheekbones had been built up high with a Muggle product.
His eye sockets were sunken, and his jawline had the gauntness found only in inbred pure-blood families.
A thick layer of waterproof foundation covered his original skin tone.
His eyes, hidden behind nonprescription Muggle lenses, were a dull gray-green.
Even his height had been forced up by two inches with lifts inside his shoes.
The entire process was purely physical, without a trace of magic.
He was now merely an obscure distant relative of the Lestrange family who had been missing for five years.
Remus Terry.
He pushed open Gringotts' towering bronze doors, and the chill of the marble hall hit him head-on.
With the situation so unsettled, wizards withdrawing money had formed long queues.
The air was filled with a buzz of anxious, uneasy whispers.
Douglas ignored the disorderly crowds and headed straight for the farthest corner.
There stood a private counter in the dimmest spot.
A goblin teller raised his long, narrow, wary eyes from a thick ledger.
"Sir. If you're looking to withdraw two hundred Galleons to buy a Flying Broomstick, please join the queue