A/N Thanks to everyone who gave me some feedback. It all helps me motivate myself to keep writing :-) Opinions on if this chapter is waaay too cliche are very welcome. Also, let me know if you spot any mistakes.

Enjoy.

Chapter Four:

In the end they bought the Three Broomsticks. Harry didn't think even fighting Voldemort, at any point over those seven gruelling years, had ever felt as risky as playing fast and lose with all ones worldly goods did. If he had failed then he wouldn't have had long to think about, he'd have been dead. It transpired that Rosmerta, whom Harry was shocked to hear really did still live at her mothers, had quite a bit of money saved up. It was not, she said, enough to cover the cost of the pub yet. Harry had pointed out that he had very limited funds, not even enough to cover one regular shipment of Ogden's Firewhiskey. Further, he argued, Rosmerta had barely known him more than a month — what was she thinking wanting to go into business with him? Besides, what on earth did Harry, a mere twenty-one years old, know about running a business?

Rosmerta assured him that being a barmaid for nearly a decade had taught her that she was an excellent judge of character. Harry, she said, was trustworthy despite his "slightly cagey nature" and she thought he'd make a good business partner; Harry had learnt quickly when he'd arrived at the Three Broomsticks, she suspected he probably had some "alright ideas", besides which he could cook better than she could, was a more threatening bouncer and he appealed to witches.

His "colleague", decided Harry, was trying to flatter him into agreeing.

He had said he'd think about it.

In the privacy of the attic, the roof slopping steeply over his small bed, Harry dwelt on the problem. In Harry's time Rosmerta had owned the Three Broomsticks, if she hadn't done so on her own someone else — not Harry — must have backed her. Maybe she bought it at a later date when she'd saved enough money, either from of Mr Leith or some future owner. Perhaps someone else, working in Harry's place, had invested with her. Either way it was Harry she had turned to now. This, it seemed, was the first significant thing Harry might do that would alter the future. Even if it was a very small alteration.

Since discovering the wizarding world and its wonders and pitfalls at age eleven Harry had never had to worry about money. There had been piles of it just sitting in his Gringotts vault buried under London left to him by his parents for almost anything he could want. Then, when he'd won the Triwizard Tournament, he'd just handed the large sum of 1000 galleons over to the Weasley Twins. It had felt like blood money to Harry but, boy, had the twins made good use of it. These days he thought he had slightly more appreciation for how much that money had meant to them. Money mattered. It helped with peace of mind and quality of life. And time.

The twins gratitude had prompted them to make sure he owned shares in Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. Throughout his campaign against Voldemort and his Auror training further dividends had been placed his Gringotts vault. Now, no longer housed cosily at Hogwarts, at the Burrow, or in the rent-free Grimmauld Place with house-elves or Mrs Weasley to sort things out, and with no idea of how long he'd be here or how much money he might need Harry knew he could really do with a good source of income. The kind of income that might, eventually, free up some of his hours so he could spend more time on more important things; like time travel, re-horcrux hunting and counteracting Voldemort's oncoming pureblood rhetoric. The kind of income that Weasley's Wizard Wheezes had provided.

Harry knew that, currently, this would be best achieved by buying the Three Broomsticks with Rosmerta and then, possibly, giving it more appeal than he'd ever known it to have. Maybe they could sort out some music? Or organise a quiz night, or something? The problem was how. How could he help Rosmerta buy it? He has very little money of his own. Galloloans were not the answer; even Harry knew they were notorious for their high interest rates. That left him with his knowledge from the future, and quite frankly the only thing he could think of in that regard was to kill the basilisk and sell its parts for money. He was positive basilisk-bits would be worth quite a bit. He was pretty sure the skin was resistant to most magic, not unlike dragon hide. The venom was probably the most precious, but he kind of needed that.

Besides, he didn't think the sudden inundation of parts of a basilisk in varying shops in Knockturn Alley would go unnoticed. Questions might be asked. Certainly, in the future, the Aurors in the Black Market Division would have made enquiries and possibly called in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Best not.

It wasn't like he could get into the school yet anyway.

This left Harry with his limited knowledge of the past. Or present, depending on ones point of view. Hermione would fair much better in this role, he thought. She knew the whys and wherefore of just about everything. He supposed that Hermione, discovering she was a witch, had felt the pressure to play catch-up on culture. This was something he had always disapproved of in himself. Hermione had read as much as she could about the wizarding world. Harry, whose role at the Dursley's had been to "do what you're told to do, boy", hadn't even thought to buy a few extra books on his first trip to Diagon Alley. Hermione had rushed to Flourish and Blotts and purchased "background reading". Harry, with all his piles of inherited galleons, had got the books on the list just like he'd been told too.

But then, on the other had, Harry was just more of a doer. That was his lot in life. To do. By that logic, his current quandary merely required him to 'do'.

So he did.

Harry, feeling slightly more nervous than perhaps a Gryffindor should, paid a trip to Greywacke's Wizarding Wagers. It was a small shop front located up a very narrow stairwell that sat on the border of Diagon and Knockturn Alleys. One lone candle lit the stairs and as he climbed them Harry's boots left scuff marks in the dirt that covered them. The new master of cleaning charms within him cringed. A rickety door, located directly at the top of the stairs, opened into a dingy sort of room. Two windows looking onto Knockturn Alley let in two beams of light, the light furthest from the door fell upon a heavy wooden counter at which sat two very short individuals. In front, apparently awaiting the attention of the two at the table, stood four or so wizards from varying walks of life. One held a cane in one hand and an old-fashioned muggle top-hat in the other. Another, stood leaning indolently against the wall tapping his toe impatiently. Harry joined them and looked around.

The two men at the counter were perched on high low-backed stools and looked to be at least a little bit goblin; they had very long fingers and the white hair of goblins. In front of them large leather bound books lay open into which they were steadily inking figures with quills that looked ungainly in proportion with their height. Within a few moments the one nearest the wall and called, "Next!"

The wizard who had been leaning against the wall rushed forward, "I'd like to place ten galleons on the Magpies to win tomorrows match by 200 points."

"Name?" Asked the teller.

A few more men, and one old witch who carried her cat entered the premises while Harry waited. After about ten minutes it was his turn.

He approached and cleared his throat. "Hello. Um… I'd like to place 75 galleons, 14 sickles and 328 knuts on the Pride of Portree to win their next match."

"Portree?" The teller confirmed.

"Yes."

"The odds are against 19/1…"

With some deliberation Harry emptied out his money pouch onto the table. "All of it, please. On the Prides."

Someone behind him gave a low whistle, another wizard commented. "You must be barking, mate. With McCormack? It'll only end badly. She was absolutely rubbish in school. We didn't win a match."

Harry returned back to the Three Broomsticks without a knut to his name and waited.

The Prides played the Appleby Arrows that Saturday afternoon out at Exmoor and Harry attempted to listen to the match on the wireless while manning the bar. For most of the game the Arrows had been a little ahead and there had been quite a few fouls called — one of the Arrows had a tendency for blatching. Harry had begun to panic while he was pouring a couple of under-wand-age witches who had come in with a toy broomstick their butterbeer. Rosmerta was gamely trying to stop one of the two from flitting about at knee level on the stick and tripping the more elderly patrons.

The wireless blared away, "… Jones has seen the snitch! He's streaked ahead. Those new Cleansweeps really do hold there own! I don't think McKinnon has even noticed… No, wait! McKinnon has realised, she won't make it though!…. Ouch. That was a bludger, folks. Very cannily aimed by Hamilton. That's knocked Jones off path. McKinnon's closing in now! Merlin's Beard! I think the bludger must've damaged Jones' broom. That doesn't look right to me…. He's back on course. Where's the sn…? Oh! They're neck on neck now! I think it might go to Jones if only he can…. It's McKinnon. McKinnon's got the snitch! It looks like the Pride of Portree won't be knocked out after all!"

Harry found he had broken a sweat. He had begun to think that somehow his very presence, low key though it was, might somehow alter the outcome of the match. He could've served a player one too many drinks the night before for all he knew, or given them food poisoning, or tripped them over accidentally in Diagon Alley causing an injury.

He informed Rosmerta that he thought he'd have a few galleons together in a few weeks. And after the success of his first win felt a little more confident about continuing.

Keeping seventy-five galleons back from his winnings, trips to Greywacke's became a weekly occurrence for Harry. The Prides made there way, as he had remembered, all the way through to the final match for the League Cup. Harry placed his accumulating winnings on a win. However, after the Prides surprise turn around the odds were significantly more in their favour than when Harry had placed his first bet. He tried to remember the exact score. He couldn't. He was however fairly confident that they had won by a margin of over 100 points and that McKinnon caught the snitch in under three hours.

When the game aired on the wireless that day the Three Broomsticks was packed. The crowd was raucous, between people ordering their drinks and yelling their input at the responseless wireless Harry could hardly hear.

Bilius Weasley was there deploring the referee as if he could see the game himself, "That was CLEARLY haversacking…Blagging! Blagging, I say!"

All in all, Harry barely managed to keep track of the score until a tense silence fell over the room just he was pouring Mr Diggle his fourth honeyed mead.

"McKinnon has caught the snitch folks. We didn't see it. But they've got a replay on the screen. It flew by and she just sort of…reached out and grabbed it." Said one commentator his voice disbelieving

"WHAT?!" Yelled Bilius.

The commentator's colleague, a witch, gave a bit of a mystified laugh, "I think that's the most uneventful end I've ever seen to the League Cup."

"Well, the Prides have been surprising us in the second half of this season, it seems they were determined to surprise to the last…Ah, is that? It is…. The referee has confirmed the score now, folks. The Pride of Portree win with 330 points within 2 hours and 36 minutes. Puddlemere United have scored 220 points today. I really thought Puddlemere might have had it in the bag, didn't you Matilda?"

A grin split across Harry's face. He felt memory hadn't failed him. Thank god for eleven year old Ronald Weasley's obsession with quidditch! And that Hermione wasn't here to have disapproved.

"Support the Prides, do you?" Asked Diggle, patiently awaiting his beverage.

Impossibly, Harry's grin grew even bigger. "I do, Mr Diggle!"

"Ah, well," He picked up his newly filled tankard. "Puddlemere will get it next year. Bit of a fluke for the Prides. Someone's gotta root for the underdogs though!"

Rosmerta, herself serving a Mr Horatius Neilsen — a man understood to have had an encounter with merpeople abroad leaving him wearing an eyepatch, looked over at Harry.

"I didn't know you support the Prides."

Harry's grin stayed firmly fixed to his face. "There's lots you don't know about me." He was too chuffed with his success to be 'slightly cagey'.

Rosmerta laughed. "You're right. I don't. But quidditch allegiances are something people can never seem to stop themselves talking about."

"Ah." Said Harry, "Well, I'm a recent convert."

Her eyes narrowed.

"What?" Asked Harry.

"We are still buying this place, aren't we?"

"Tomorrow, if you'd like."

Rosmerta grabbed him by his collar pulled him forward and kiss him firmly on his mouth. Mr Neilsen's eyes bugged.

Naturally, life presented Harry with a new dilemma. Greywacke's told Harry they would move the money to his Gringotts account, the sum was too large to hand over to him from their storefront. This was problematic. He was a little afraid Gringotts would have sneaky way of knowing just exactly who he was, or more likely who Harry was not. Unable, however, to talk Greywacke's into relinquishing the money to him then and there he headed to Gringotts to set up a vault. The initial request had been relatively straight forward, and Harry had to admit it was a relief to actually be able to set foot in the place without being met with a frigid silence. The Goblins, while pleased their financial institution was no longer feeling the ill effects of Lord Voldemort's War, had not been able to quite forgive Harry, Ron and Hermione for their successful burglary.

He had been lead to a side room with a small table surrounded by a few low wooden chairs. A goblin named Barlop, who was particularly tall for his species, had been introduced to him. Barlop produced a very large pile of forms and stacked them on the table between them, perched himself on a goblin-sized seat and peered at Harry.

"Name?"

Here was Harry's first problem. No one, at any point, had asked him for his surname. Mr Leith paid in cash for 'tax reasons, laddie', Greywacke's hadn't required one and certainly wouldn't care if he provided a false one — they just need a vault number now, and Rosmerta had never asked. Rosmerta, he realised never asked questions, she just sort of absorbed information by keeping the conversation going. Was that the mark of a good gossiper?

"Harry."

Barlop's quill scratched away. "Your full name?"

Obviously. However, Harry couldn't continue to be a Potter, could he? There were other Potters alive — his dad, his grandparents and there was probably an old great-great-aunt still clinging to life somewhere. People seemed to live forever in the wizarding world. The Potters had their own vaults. They probably knew who else was a Potter as well, if they were anything like the Blacks (even without the pureblood mania) it'd be written down somewhere. He didn't want to randomly appear as some Potter-fraud or suspected illegitimate child of an old pureblood family; that would cause trouble. He needed a new surname. In hindsight he supposed he should have put more thought into the name he was burdening himself with. He'd had a decent amount of time during which he should have thought about it, after all. He could've come up with something cool, something that left a specific impression on people. Fictional characters always had short sharp names — Clark Kent, for example. The founders of Hogwarts had alliterative names — he could've been Harald Hardrada like the old muggle king. Harry, however, was not an author or an aptly named historical figure and simply, uncreatively, dropped Potter.

So out of his mouth came, "James. My name is Harry James." As soon as it was out he realised his own genius. Harry James would not be a lie if ever he was placed under veritiserum. He mentally patted himself on his back.

"No middle name?" Harry shook his head and Barlop wrote this down nodding a bit. Maybe he approved of Harry's short name. Goblins didn't seem to have surnames either.

"Identification?"

"Er… I don't have any."

"No apparition license?" Not in this decade.

"No. I'm sorry."

Barlop seemed to bare a few of his teeth — in disapproval over Harry's perceived inability to apparate, perhaps. Harry wasn't certain.

"Are you intending to remove funds from another vault into your new vault yourself?"

"Oh. No. I am expecting a payment though."

"Very well. Your wand may serve as identification for the future. May I see it?"

Harry placed it on the table. Goblins, banned from the use of wands, tended not to touch the things. Barlop made same notes that seemed a lot longer than the length and material of Harry's wand and that seemed to be that regarding identification to Harry's relief. He'd been worried there would be something creepy to do with blood or that he wouldn't be allowed a vault at all.

"Mr James, what level would you like your vault to be on?"

"Um… is there a particular change in cost?"

"There is monthly fee on every vault. It increased by a galleon for each level. The lower your level is underground the more security the cart will pass through."

No wizard knew that better than Harry. Well, he didn't need a dragon to guard his vault.

"I suppose level six or so will do. Something mid-level." He paused. "Barlop, is there anything you can do so that someone can't beat me in a duel, take my wand, steal my vault key, impersonate me with polyjuice potion and break into my vault?"

The goblin's already very thin lips almost disappeared as he pursed them. He clicked his tongue. "Gringott's Bank takes good care of its treasure, Mr James, but we do not use blood magicks! Any extra security you feel you may need is entirely your own problem and must be contained within the interior of your vault."

Oops. Harry tried to assume as amiable an expression as possible. "Sorry I wasn't asking for anything like that… I just meant… Well, never mind."

Barlop stared at him for a moment, then passed Harry the quill. "I need your signature here, here and here." He pointed with a grizzled finger to three separate forms.

Harry did so, the ink staining his fingers.

"Follow me, Mr James."

For all of about one minute Harry thought he'd screwed up and that no vault would be forthcoming. However, Barlop led him towards the bank's nausea inducing carts and ordered Harry to step into one. After two hectic rides Harry left with the key to vault 687 — a vault apparently not currently in use by any Potter, or anyone else. Sometimes Harry James believed in fate. As he left, he cast a look over his shoulder into the undragon-damaged hall of Gringotts. Now, that part, he thought, was nice. The goblins were good at imposing architecture. Barlop, he noted, was conversing with the head teller.

Greywacke's moved the money to Harry the next day. Rosmerta worked quickly, appearing to know exactly what needed to be done to purchase the inn. She spoke with Mr Leith and then produced more forms than even Gringotts had for Harry to sign. He made sure to read them. Apparently they were creating a company — 'The Hogsmeade Dehydration and Rehydration Company'.

"Seriously?" Harry said upon reading this. "That's poor marketing."

"It's not like anyone is actually going to see that, love. This inn has always been the Three Broomsticks. Do you have a better idea?"

"Um... Vane and James, Inc.?"

"James? That's your surname? I thought it was going to be something embarrassing — like Longbottom. I've always felt sorry for them. Or that you had a relative who was recently sent to Azkaban."

Maybe Harry could arrange for her to marry a Longbottom this time round. Hadn't Neville had an uncle of some sort?

She continued, "Vane and James sounds trite. We're not tailors."

So The Hogsmeade Dehydration and Rehydration Company was born. Sirius probably would have been proud.

Then there was a whole lot of forms to do with shares, directorship, money, an agreement of sale, and insurance applications. The Three Broomsticks changed hands within the week and Harry, once again, had very little in the way of liquid assets.

"Right!" Said Rosmerta as they stood around in the middle of the main floor of the pub well after midnight. She looked around. "What are we going to do to the place?"

Harry grinned, "I have some ideas."

Despite having participated in rebuilding Hogwarts after the war most the work on the castle had been done by teams of Ministry officials, people's grandfather's elderly friends "who knew a thing or know about this sort of thing" and the house-elves so Harry had a very limited knowledge of the magic used in buildings. There had been a lot of standing around and gesticulating involved. He still didn't understand how the Burrow was kept standing. Rosmerta knew nothing at all on the subject but she swore she could handle a bit of minor transfiguration and a few charms for redecorating. So Harry headed to Tomes and Scrolls, Hogsmeade's local bookshop, and nosed around for anything that might help them rejig the attic at the very least. There were plenty of books on gardening, degnoming had a whole book just to itself, a book on potions for the household, books for the aspiring clock maker, a book on the usefulness of hippogriff feathers for dusting, specific books on how to charm and transfigure your new-borns bassinet, a book on brewing (Harry picked this one up) and even five ways to control your nose hair.

Unable to find a single text that compiled useful spells for interior renovations into one volume he acquired the attention of the shop attendant who, looking at him through a pair of pince-nez, informed him, "Unfortunately I don't think anyone has written such a book."

Harry had purchased the book on brewing and been about to leave when she had stopped him and said, "If you're looking for help with something you might enquire at Honeydukes. Mr Flume did some work for Olman's Antiques on their shelving which turned out quite nicely."

Mr Flume it turned out was not Mr Ambrosius Flume, the owner and crafter of Honeydukes' Sweetshop, but Mr Ammon Flume his very old grandfather. He looked much older than Albus Dumbledore ever had and was, without doubt, what Ron would have called "a properly grumpy old git".

Harry had visited Honeydukes to ask for him, explaining their need for help with renovations. The younger Flume had directed Harry out the back of the shop saying, "He's usually in his workroom at this time of day."

The 'workroom' was a narrow space lined by two wooden counters and full of clutter. There were strange tools that looked nothing like Uncle Vernon had ever owned hanging from every inch of the wall. Pieces of wood of varying shapes and sizes were scattered along the counters and, seated on a tall stool and stooped over what looked like some form of carved box poking at it with a wand, sat an old man in plain brown robes with deep folds in his skin and a pipe lolling out of the side of his mouth.

Harry cleared his throat and spoke a little loudlier than he might usually. "Excuse me, sir?"

Mr Flume looked up unalarmed, "No need to shout, boy. Who are you?"

"Harry James, sir. I own the Three Broomsticks."

A snort. "You don't look old enough to apparate."

Harry scratched the back of his neck. "Look, I was wondering if you were interested in some work."

"What's this look like to you?" Mr Flume have the box on the counter a jab with his wand. A spark admitted from it's tip.

"More work then."

"Don't need more work."

Harry sighed. "My business partner and I, we want to make some renovations."

"To the old inn?"

"Yes."

A gleam appeared in watery blue eyes. "Bought if from Leith have you?"

"That's right. We were wondering if you might be interested in helping us out? At least give us a quote."

Mr Flume appeared to consider the matter. "I'll come round tomorrow morning. Just to look mind you. Ain't decided if I'm interested yet." He drew on his pipe and looked backed down at the box.

Harry didn't bother saying bye.

The following morning Mr Flume turned up when it was barely light. Harry, who was preparing the kitchen for the morning, barely heard him come in and was surprised to find him loping into the kitchen wand in hand.

Obviously not one to bother with niceties he opened with, "Been poking around outside. You got an extra level hidden in here somewhere?"

Harry blinked. "No… I think it's just this floor, the rooms upstairs, the attic and the cellar."

Flume shook his head. "That's not right." He wander down the length of the kitchen, an L shaped room, and looked around the corner.

"Cellar come in up here?"

"No, in the supply room, off the bar. It's through that wall though, I think."

"Huh."

Mr Flume then wandered out of the kitchen, Harry prudently followed him, and went behind the bar into the supply room.

"Huh." He said again, one hand scratched his jaw pensively. "What are you wanting done then?"

Harry frowned, confused. "Um.. We were thinking we need to put more rooms in the attic, another bedroom, a living space, bathroom — that sort of thing. It's all just one big space up there at the moment. A few more windows too. Also, we'd like to move the bar to the far wall. A couple of the private rooms need to be have their walls knocked through to expand the space a little bit. And, maybe a new staircase and balustrades for the upper floor."

"Easy enough bit of wand work, all that. Not certain bout the attic though."

"I'll take you up."

Mr Flume meandered behind him, stopping now and then to peer or prod at a piece of woodwork, or to hit a section of the wall. At one point he, strangely, seemed to bounce on the spot on the stairs leading from the upstairs hall to the attic.

The attic itself he deemed "workable" and after jiggling the small window that opened out onto Hogsmeade from the roof near Harry's bed. He turned and said, "Think I can do it all for you."

"Great!" said Harry, "How much will it cost?"

Pulling his pipe from his pocket and placing it, unlit, between his lips Mr Flume appeared to give this thought. "Not much use for gold. Give me a couple of cases of Blishen's finest and we'll call it even."

Blishen's was quite expensive nevertheless Harry agreed. "Done. Will it take long?"

"Eh… A day or two. Might need to get some new woods. I'll have to measure up." Pulling a measuring tape, not unlike Mr Ollivander's, from his pocket Flume set about letting the tape measure the room and scratched down some numbers on what looked like a bit of blackboard. Harry left him to it.

It eventuated that Mr Flume spent monday and tuesday of the following week performing their renovations. The whole process was a lot faster than any muggle construction and definitely involved a lot less banging. However, every now and then the entire building would seem to give a bit of a heave, creak loudly and shudder. On the occasion he was doing the downstairs staircase and moving the bar – which looked to Harry like apparating a jigsaw piece by piece he insisted on turning on the wireless quite loudly.

Mr Flume apparently was an avid fan of duelling however what they heard on the radio held far greater importance for Harry than it did for Mr Flume. It was more important to him than hearing the Prides had won the League Cup.

"Yes, Derek, and we all know the increase in popularity duelling has seen since Albus Dumbledore's defeat of the Dark Wizard Grindelwald. Sponsors are lining up to have their name attached to one or other of the competitions. These competitions have become very tough experiences. The calibre of some of the witches and wizards! Why, the final of last year's All-England Wizarding Duelling Championship went on for over two hours. The physical and mental fatigue some of these competitors go through is staggering."

"That's definitely true. It's not uncommon to hear of a witch fainting after a long duel. Now, there's a rumour Filius Flitwick, the part-goblin, may be entering the Dunstable Duelling Championship. It's been a few years since we've seen him take to the piste but I know I would pay good money to see him fight."

"And you may well have too. The tickets are very nearly sold out. Of course, plenty of competitors enter the Dunstable Championship from outside Britain bringing with them their own supporters. The Russian Alexander Vagin won last year and he's been taking titles in championships throughout Europe for the past decade. He's known for his quick, decisive fights and heavy use of fire. If Flitwick has stayed fit and his charmwork is en forme after his time off the circuit it would be quite something to see him and Vagin in the final."

"Indeed. Now, what do you think the outcome of this morning's final of British Isles Witches Duelling Championship might mean for those placing their bets for Dunstable ahead of time? Are any of the ladies in with a chance?"

"Ah. Well, that competition was a very interesting assembly of some prominent witches. The three time world champion Madame Novak was there spectating, and the Minister for Magic of Sweden, Ingrid Gunvaldsson, put in an appearance at the final. Madame Armstrong of Stornaway, a retired Auror and last years runner up, drew ahead with a very fast piece of transfiguration on Miss Black's hand. It drove Miss Black to switch wand arms, and fighting with your off-arm slows you down of course, not to mention the wand might not like it. Inevitably, the fight went to Armstrong who finished with a very flamboyant expalliarmus. It's expected that both ladies will be seen on the pistes at Dunstable. Madame Armstrong is, no doubt, in with a very good chance and I don't think anyone should be ruling Miss Black out just yet. She won all her previous fights at the B.I.W quite soundly and has particularly good offensive sequences. I believe she's only nineteen, so if she's not a threat this year she will be in the future. After all, she's probably has a good eighty years of competitive duelling ahead of her if she's so inclined."

"Doesn't sound like she's quite up to beating any wizards yet! Now of course, the Durmstrang Institute will be holding its annual student championship in a few months. Do you think we'll be seeing any up and coming wizarding talent there?"

Harry felt ill. Were they talking about Bellatrix Lestrange? Sirius' cousin and murderer? Andromeda, Teddy's grandmother, he knew must still be in school. It must be Bellatrix. She'd been a duellist? He supposed it only made sense, even after years in Azkaban and totally deranged she'd been the last death eater standing, killed only because Molly Weasley had the lethal adrenaline rush of an avenging mother. Dumbledore probably would've said she'd been killed by Love. Hermione, Ginny and Luna had all fought her simultaneously, she'd deflected Dumbledore's attacks in the Department of Mysteries, she'd killed the talented Tonks and injured Kingsley. Had people been afraid of her from her name alone before she tortured the Longbottoms? Was she already mad then? Was she mad now?

"Huh." Mr. Flume Harry's thoughts, "Sounds like a plain ferbrachious transfiguration. No way a Black doesn't know what an oncoming ferbrachious looks like. Though she is mighty young."

Harry focussed his attention on Mr Flume, "Ferbrachious?"

"Yea. Turns the hand and forearm into iron. Impedes wandwork. Don't you pay any attention to duelling, boy?"

"Er… I'm more of a quidditch fan, I guess."

"Pft. Bunch of namby-pambys flitting about on brooms like they're Merlin's own. All they do is muck about until some other ponce eventually spots a sparkly bit of jewellery in the air. No skill in that."

Harry, trained Auror, defeater of the Dark Lord Voldemort, and former seeker thought he was entitled to feel more than a little miffed at this observation.

He changed the subject. "Mr Flume? How much does a ticket for the Dunstable Championship cost?"

Rosmerta was present when Mr Flume reveal his Great Discovery. All his prodding, kicking and stomping at random had had purpose. There were rooms, he declared, behind the supply room.

Rosmerta and Harry dutifully followed his imperative wave of his pipe. "Been shut up for years!"

In the supply room they were confronted with a blank wall. Mr Flume drew his wand and a tingle began at the back of Harry's neck. He just knew what was about to happen.

It was not unlike accessing Diagon Alley from the Leaky Cauldron. With four very firm taps of his wand in what looked like the shape of a cross, kind of like that sign Harry knew Catholics make, a piece of the wall seemed to slide sideways revealing a low and very short opening. Mr Flume went through and Harry eagerly ducked through. Rosmerta, after a hesitant paused, followed at the back.

There were solid stone steps that lead them down a short way into a darkened area. Harry drew his wand and with a quick 'lumos' they could see the length of a darkened corridor, its ceiling not very far about Harry's head.

"Where does it go?" Rosmerta asked, her tone reverently hushed.

"If we knew we wouldn't be down here in the dark with out wands lit, would we?" Said Mr Flume.

Rosmerta rolled her eyes. Harry took a step forward a long the corridor. There appeared to be elaborately wrought fittings every couple of feet into which lit torches could be placed. He continued along. There were a few doors of very heavy oak and with similarly wrought handles. Heaving open the nearest he peered inside, thrusting his wand through the door. Behind it was a long empty windowless room. Rooms of similar sizes were behind all the other doors. Some had some tables in, others looked like that had what might have once been bunk beds within.

"Where, exactly, is all this?" He asked Mr Flume.

"On top of your cellar."

"On top?!" Rosmerta quizzed.

"Yup." And that, apparently, was all the explanation they were getting.

Behind the next door Harry found a rack with a lone rusting sword barely hanging from it. "You know what. I think this was goblin's."

"Goblins?!"

Mr Flume nodded. "Boy's right."

"They say this inn was their headquarters for some rebellion or other. In 1612." Said Harry, knowledgeably. Hermione would be so proud right now. He held up the sword, "And this looks like Goblin work."

"Merlin's beard." Rosmerta looked around. "Do you think they'd mind if we used the space?"

Harry wondered this too. Tricky creatures Goblins.

"Don't see why." Observed Mr Flume, "Looks like the cleared out long ago."

"We should see if we can clean in up. We could probably use it." Harry grinned at this. Rosmerta, so practical. And he had an idea or two himself.

At the end of the corridor there as a pair of taller doors and, Harry and Mr Flume grabbing one each and pulling, they opened onto a very large room with a high vaulted ceiling unlike the rest of the rooms. If it had a dias and an enchanted sky it might've looked like the Great Hall at Hogwarts. It was as empty as the others.

"We can definitely use this space," Harry agreed. He definitely had an idea.

Mr Flume scratched his jaw as he did whenever he was thinking about something. "Shouldn't wonder if there's not another way out of here. Like my grandson's cellar. Makes no sense to have only one way in or out."

Harry's wand light flickered. Honeydukes knew about the passageway? "What?" He asked.

"Has a little path underground. Went along it once. Dead end."

"Really? Can you show it to me?" Harry asked eagerly. This, he thought, might be his way in.

Mr Flume looked at him speculatively. "Might do."