Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, and even though that makes me sad, I shall grin and bear it.
A/N: I'll probably continue this, but I don't feel as much obligation, so the updating will be relatively erratic. Even compared to the updating of The Gift of Gramarie.
About the Gift of Gramarie, I may just post a short chapter soon, rather than waiting a while for a longer one. I'm sorry! Sniff.
The little bronze coin is plain. The goblins, who mint the money, don't believe in engraving designs in beautiful, perfectly good metal; so both sides of the round piece are blank. Now, it sits in a stack with dozens of its fellows in vault 607, that bare room of the Weasley family. It waits for someone to come, come and take it.
It lies at the bottom of the stack, so it is a great while before the knuts above it are worn away enough so that it is finally taken by a round woman with flaming red hair.
"Not enough galleons," she whispers to herself. Her hands scoop up five knuts above it. "Not enough, sickles. Not enough knuts, for Merlin's sake! How in the world will I manage, with Harry, Ron, and Hermione not even having jobs? And dropping out of Hogwarts? Look for Horcruxes—pah!—oh well, I suppose it's needed…"
There—her fingers brush it, and she picks it up.
"Now we're done," she says and casts an amused glance backwards, where a goblin waits for her on the cart impatiently. "Thank goodness. That goblin's looking very annoyed."
She walks back to the cart and climbs in. The goblin barely waits until she is inside before launching the rickety wooden contraption away, up and out. The woman finally steps out and looks around cautiously. Death Eaters are around, after all.
"Mum?" a new voice speaks to the woman. It is a man, scarred grotesquely, with red hair and a fang earring. "You came to Gringotts? It's not safe."
"Don't scold me about unsafe, Bill Weasley," the woman scolds in turn. She glares at her son. "You're off here every day, and working with curses too!"
"No I'm not," the man—Bill—says. His scarred face is grim as he surveys the pristine white marble walls of the bank. "I'm in Security now."
"You got promoted?"
"No, nor demoted, Mum. They're putting every single skilled human on Security they can find. Don't want Death Eaters getting to their precious gold, eh?"
"Oh, of course," Mrs. Weasley says, frowning. "So that's why your hand is always on 'Mortal Peril'!"
"Wha—?" Bill asks. Light dawns over his face. "Ooooh, the clock. Still carrying it around?" His voice gains a slightly mocking edge.
"Don't joke about that, William!" Mrs. Weasley says sharply. "If Fleur had a clock like ours, she'd be doing the very same thing! I just want to know how my babies are doing…whether they're—you know—"
"I do know, Mum," Bill says gently. "Fleur would be. Without the clock, she has to give me the full examination to see if I'm injured." He blushes slightly.
"All right, dear," Mrs. Weasley says. "Let's—stop talking about the—the war. It's quite an unpleasant subject."
"Possibly," Bill muses. "But it's important, Mum. The dementors are about to totally go over to You-Kno—V-Voldemort, I mean—instead of just floating around. The Ministry's trying to decide which is worse: having dementors out of Azkaban for a while, or over on Voldemort's side."
"Bill, I hear enough of this from your father. When is your break, so we can have a bit of lunch?"
"It can be now. I just need to get someone to take over for me."
"Thanks, dear. I don't see you enough, I've always said. Same with everyone but Ginny. Thank goodness—"
Bill interrupts his mother's rants by walking over to a co-worker.
"Hey, Will," he greets.
"Oy, Scarface," Will replies.
"Can you get someone to take over for me for a half-hour, say? My mother's come and wants me to have a bit of lunch."
"Yeah, sure. See you, Scar."
"See you, Will." Bill walks back over to Mrs. Weasley. "Okay, Mum. I've got a half-hour."
"Only a half-hour?" Mrs. Weasley asks, then sighs. "Oh, well. That means that we have to go to Florean's, or something. It's guarded, right?"
"Yes, ever since Florean went missing. So, let's head on out."
Bill takes his mother's arm and pulls his wand slightly. As soon as he steps outside Gringotts, his stance shifts into a wary and defensive one. Mrs. Weasley merely pulls her wand.
The streets are nearly empty, the few people left walking quickly, wands drawn, and clumped tightly together in family groups. It's fast walking to the ice-cream parlor. Florean's has nearly all the security measures known to man; but it's worth it to see citizens actually feeling safer. Safe enough to laugh, for instance.
"Sorry, ma'am. No wands allowed inside," the security guard says, and takes Mrs. Weasley's wand when she offers it. Bill immediately holds out his wand for the guard to take, and they walk in.
"How can I help you?" a waitress asks right when they sit down. She has a Self-Inking Quill and a Parchment Pad for taking orders. Her wand is gone as well.
"I'll have some Grindylow Fries," Bill says. "A small, please."
"Very good, sir," the waitress answers, and turns to Mrs. Weasley. "And you, ma'am?"
"Er…I'll have what Bill is having…" Mrs. Weasley requests. Bill shoots her a reassuring smile.
"Great," the waitress, a blonde ditzy type, enthuses. "I'll be right back with your food."
She keeps her bubbly promise: she is right back. Two steaming hot packages sit complacently on the tray and when she gives them to Mrs. Weasley and Bill, she burns her fingers and hops back to the kitchen with her hand stuffed in her mouth.
"Nearly all the public places are taking away wands," Bill says. "It's not that smart of an idea, since in the event of an attack, Merlin forbid, all wands will be needed."
"But…don't they have a system for giving back wands?" Mrs. Weasley asks. She rips open the packet of Grindylow Fries and takes out a crunchy green thing. "What exactly is this?"
"Fried grindylow fingers, of course," Bill says. He is munching happily on his own. "They're a French food. Fleur introduced me to them." He looks at her slyly. "Try it. You'll like it."
"Oh, not that," Mrs. Weasley groans, but pops a fry into her mouth. "It's good," she eventually has to admit.
"I told you so," Bill says. "And, about the system for giving wands back, there is a spell they use, to give them back to everyone at once. They're trying to improve it so it won't be as easily disrupted."
"Good," Mrs. Weasley says.
"Yeah. And the guy who keeps the wands is always hidden. So Death Eaters can't just walk up to him and snap everybody's wands."
"That's good."
"Very. How much time do we have left, Mum?"
"Um…" Mrs. Weasley glances at her wrist. "It's time to be heading back."
"Okay." Bill stands and stretches a little. "Can you pay? I'll get you back when we get to Gringotts, but I don't have any money on me right now."
"All right," Mrs. Weasley says, and pulls out her money bag. "How much is it?"
Bill reads off the—well, bill. "Two sickles and three knuts."
Mrs. Weasley silently counts off the money. The knut also goes into the pile, to sit again with its fellows until someone picks it up. Mrs. Weasley and Bill exit Florean Forstescue's, leaving the knut.
After possibly a minute, the blonde waitress walks over and sees the money.
"Oh, how nice," she gripes, and picks up the knut. "One knut, as a tip. I really appreciate it. From a really ugly guy too. Oh well, take what I can get, I suppose." And she tucks the knut into the pocket of her little dress, while the money for the food goes into her apron.
She walks into the kitchen and hails a house-elf. "Oy! Nob!"
"Yes?" the house-elf asks. He is a free house-elf, as many are these days—due to masters being imprisoned and house-elves repossessed by the Ministry of Magic to be freed. On the special requests of Harry Potter, of course.
"There's another order—four orders of Vanilla Dream in medium cups."
"Yes, Nob will have order in very short while," Nob says, and poofs out.
"House-elves," the blonde waitress sighs quietly. "At least I get off soon." While Nob gets the order, she ducks out into the back alley for a quick Mini Magic Cigar, which she pulls a pack of out of her pocket.
"Miss!" Nob calls her. "The order is ready!"
Sighing, the waitress replaces the pack in her pocket, and shakes her apron, to get the damn smell off; the manager doesn't approve of the Mini Magic Cigar smell in his shop.
The pocket is too loose, and the knut flies out. The waitress never notices as it clanks down.
It rests there, alone, for a while, until the sky turns red. When it does, a house-elf—not Nob—comes out and pokes around the alley.
"Miss waitress is not being careful," it grumbles, picking up the knut. "Leaving her moneys all over. Well, sirs," it says, addressing the knut. "You's going out front, for a poor beggar who needses you. Maybe they won't just use you for potions."
The house-elf is true to its word. The knut is brought out front, where the little brown thing searches up and down the street for an appropriate candidate.
One is found in front of Gringer's Store for Everything a Young Wizard Would Ever Want; a blind—or at least appearing to be blind—old man shaking a cup in front of him.
Concluding that if he was out in this danger he must surely be desperate, the house-elf tips the knut from its hand into the beggar's cup, and then races back to Florean Fortescue's.
Once the old blind man hears the house-elf leave, he snatches the knut from his cup.
"Heh, yes, here you are," the old man chuckles. "Only a knut? Well, that'll buy a pretty pint of candy, yes, yes…come with old Leo here…we love candy, don't we, coin?" He heaves himself up, and begins walking rather unsteadily along the wall toward Knockturn Alley.
"Sir," an anxious young man calls from where he is closing his shop, "you should be getting along—it's getting to be night, sir, and you don't want to be caught in it…"
"I'm fine, fine!" Leo yells back. His voice cracks a little, but is surprisingly loud. Turning from the window, he scuttles into Knockturn Alley and into the first shop on the right.
"What're ya here fer?" a heavyset, piggish man grunts. He is making his counter more dirty than it already is by wiping it down—with impressive concentration—with an extremely grimy rag. "This ain't Diagon, ya know, so if yer lookin' fer a kruppy, we ain't—oh, hey, Leo, mate. Here fer summore candy?"
"Aye," Leo whispers. He glances nervously around. "I'm getting bad again, I need a pint. Come on, mate, gives it to us…"
"Money, Leo," the man reminds him sternly.
"Oh, right—right, here's a knut I got, Alysius—" Leo hands over the knut, and Alysius snatches it, locking it up tight in the counter.
"Accio," Alysius mutters, giving his short wand a short wave, and a pint-sized glass bottle of a bright pink potion floats serenely toward him. "Hold out yer hand, mate." Leo extends both hands in front of him, cupping the air. Alysius uncorks the bottle and pours it all out in one quick movement.
Before it hits Leo's skin, the potion solidifies into small, oval capsules. Immediately, Leo pops one in his mouth. A dreamy look crosses his face, and he tumbles out—not before storing the rest in his pocket.
"Filthy dreamer." Alysius snorts in disgust. "Too much candy…but hell, if I get money…"
An hour or so later, a glance out the store window betrays falling nighttime, and Alysius triggers the locking charms and wards that are set on his shop for closing time.
He waits until the final click and ding sound before he opens up the till, sifting through the coins. Most are knuts, some sickles, and there is a prize—a big galleon.
The galleon he scoops up, muttering "the Dark Lord'll surely want this'un"; the sickles he deposits in his beltpouch; the knuts he leaves. Well, except for five or so, that he places in his beltpouch as well, before tugging the drawstring closed. He opens the back door and steps through it, cat-quiet.
Down the street he sneaks, attempting to reach the hole in the anti-Apparition wards of which he knows, but does not make it that far. Two men, barely escaping boyhood, slouch out of the shadows to confront him.
It is quick. Soon Alysius lies Stunned, bruised, and moneypouch-less in a tiny alley. The knut is, of course, taken in the pouch, but when the coins are separated to stop needless noise, the knut falls to the ground, into a gutter full of running water from the last rain. Splash.
A/N(#2!): Here, I'll let the fanfiction talk for a sec. hands the microphone over
Fanfiction: If you enjoyed me, please tell me so! If you hated me, tell me why! Review! gives mic back
Thank you, fanfiction. I'd tell you to review, but that would be redundant. Good luck in your future ventures. (Grin!)