Diagon Alley, mid-morning rush. The rebranded "Snape & Riddle's Nose & Tonic Emporium" (formerly Borgin and Burkes) was doing brisk business—mostly because Ivan had plastered the windows with posters of Voldemort's old "rainbow nose" phase captioned "Before" and a shiny new prosthetic labeled "After (Only 998 Galleons!)".
Voldemort stood behind the counter in a cheap black cloak, his current fake nose—a slightly crooked, flesh-colored model with two dramatic nostril flares—glued firmly in place with industrial-strength potion residue.
"Step right up!" he hissed, trying to sound menacing but coming off like a used-car salesman with a sinus infection. "Tired of flat-face jokes? Buy my 'Eternal Nose Restoration Kit'! One drop and you'll have a beak that would make a hawk jealous! No more 'Hey Tom, smell this' pranks!"
A skeptical witch leaned in. "Does it really work?"
"Of course it works!" Voldemort puffed out his chest. "Watch the demonstration!"
He uncorked a bottle of Snape's "Nose Growth Serum" (actually just relabeled hair tonic with extra glitter), dabbed it on the fake nose, and struck a dramatic pose.
For three glorious seconds, nothing happened.
Then the nose twitched.
It twitched again.
Suddenly, the prosthetic detached with a wet splat, flopped onto the counter like a confused slug, and started wriggling toward the door.
"Come back here, you coward!" Voldemort lunged, but the nose was faster—sliding across the floor like it had places to be.
The entire shop watched in stunned silence as the nose reached the threshold, paused, and seemed to look back at Voldemort.
Then, in a tiny, squeaky voice that somehow carried through the whole alley (courtesy of Ivan's hidden amplification charm), it declared:
"Even I can't stand this guy anymore! I'm out!"
The nose made a break for freedom, leaving a faint trail of glue and dignity behind it.
Voldemort stood frozen, green face exposed, two pathetic nostrils flaring in betrayal.
Dead silence.
Then the alley erupted in laughter.
From the back room, Ivan poked his head out, holding a fresh batch of "Voldemort Nose Strips (Guaranteed Not to Run Away... Probably)."
"Told you, Tom," he called cheerfully. "Even your nose knows when to leave you. That's why we priced the backup models at 50% off."
Snape emerged from the stockroom, polishing a bottle of hair tonic with a deadpan expression.
"Potter," he said, not looking up, "add 'Nose Abandonment Insurance' to the product line. Ten Galleons extra. And Riddle—next time, try not to make your own face file for emancipation."
Voldemort sank to his knees, staring at the empty spot where his nose used to be.
"...I hate Mondays."