Chapter 10: "Unexpected Help"
(Chapter co-authored by theelderwand, who filled in a LOT of holes. He also provided beta-ing services. Thanks bro!)
"It is one of the most beautiful compensations of life that no person can sincerely try to help another without helping themselves."
- Ralph Waldo Emerson
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Moving slowly, Arthur Weasley made his way through the twists and turns of Diagon Alley, his heart heavy but resolved. The wizarding street had not come through the Second War unscathed; shops had been damaged or destroyed and familiar faces were missing, but everywhere signs of rebuilding and a determination to push forward with life were strong. That stubborn British will that hadn't admitted defeat through centuries of trials wasn't about to surrender now. The wizarding community would rebuild – again – like a phoenix from the ashes and life would go on.
He paused for a moment in front of the darkened, damaged front of one shop, remnants of an ad for "U-No-Poo" still clinging to the broken window and allowed a small smile to lift his lips. It would take time, but light and life and laughter would fill that store again, he was certain of it.
After a moment, he moved on, his steps a little lighter and his spirit resolved to see this through.
Gringotts was humming with activity, Goblins scurrying here and there and patrons queuing up to the counters. One whole corner was still roped off, piles of rubble surrounding a rather glaring hole in the marble floor. Arthur found himself trying not to smile as he remembered Bill's story.
"Harry Potter two, Goblins zero," he muttered under his breath, shaking his head.
"Arthur!" a voice called, and he turned to see a man weaving his way through the crowd toward him.
"Arthur," he said again when he reached him, shaking his hand warmly. "It's good to see you again. It's been too long."
"Amos," Arthur replied, returning the handshake. "It has been. But I hardly expected you to be neighborly when we were all in hiding," he added with a laugh. "Thank you for your help on this matter. It's a comfort to be going through someone I trust, although I never quite figured you for getting into real estate."
Amos sobered slightly and a pained look crossed his face. "I couldn't stay at the Ministry. Not after they refused to acknowledge my Cedric's death, tried to brush it off as an accident so Fudge could pretend You-Know-Who wasn't back." He shook his head, the pain now mixing with disgust in his features.
Arthur nodded knowingly. He knew how hard it had been, staying at the Ministry and playing along with the tripe that Voldemort's lap dogs had been spewing. He'd been able to do much good for Harry and the Order by enduring it, but if it had been his son's murder that was covered up so the government could continue happily with its head in the sand, he wouldn't have been able to stay either.
"That was wrong," he said simply, sadly. "I wish I could have stopped that."
"Well, there was much wrong done in the name of good," answered Amos. As he spoke, he steered them away from the rubble and the bustling of the main bank corridor to a small desk tucked into a corner. "Which, sadly, brings us to the real topic of this visit, doesn't it? Are you sure you want to go through with this business transaction, Arthur? You know magical property changing hands is no small thing."
Arthur sighed as he took the seat Amos offered him, feelings and emotions rising up inside that made controlling his next words difficult.
"Yes, Amos. Molly and I have discussed it, and there really is no other choice. Our family and Fred's needs have to come first."
"Of course," said Amos with a sympathetic nod. He reached into his robes and withdrew a roll of parchment, which he spread onto the desk. "I've the Purchase Agreement here, then. The buyer wishes to remain anonymous, but he or she does have some pretty specific terms and conditions for this sale. I suggest you take a moment to read through them."
Arthur pushed his sliding glasses up on his nose and leaned over the parchment, reading carefully. A confused frown began to wrinkle his forehead as his eyes skimmed the list.
The seller shall insure that all magical characteristics of the above mentioned parcel of land shall remain intact at the time of the sale and shall take no action to strip or remove them prior to the transfer of titles…
The seller shall not interfere with any action or actions the buyer may take in reference to the property above once the Purchase Agreement has been signed and processed…
The seller shall insure that the Ancestral Name associated with the property is not stricken or removed during the process of completing the sale, but shall remain despite the transfer of titles. Buyer's subsequent use(s), transfer(s) and/or bequest(s) regarding the disposition of this property, as more fully described in Addendum A., to be presented to seller following the instant transfer, shall be binding in all respects on the parties to this agreement…
By the time he was finished reading all the fine print, Arthur was more than a little apprehensive and worried. These were very unusual and specific demands, even for a sale of magical land such as the Weasley paddock. He couldn't help but wonder what the buyer had in mind for his land, but he'd begun to fear the worst. After all, whoever bought the paddock would be their neighbors, for good or ill. And ill looked to be what was coming. The last bit of writing about "subsequent uses and transfers" greatly worried him. And what could be in Addendum A? Whatever the buyer was up to, Arthur's hands were tied as securely as if he'd been hit with an Incarcerous jinx.
Arthur hated this. He felt like such a traitor to his father and his heritage, selling off what had been passed down for generations, but what else could he do?
"Do you have the quill?" he asked softly, wanting to get this over with before he changed his mind.
Amos nodded, gesturing for a goblin to approach. The creature stepped up to the desk, producing the official Binding Quill from thin air and then standing close to serve as the witness.
His heart breaking, Arthur took the quill and signed the parchment, trembling at the slight tingle of magic that swept through him as he finished scribbling the date. The parchment immediately rolled shut with a snap. It was done. The goblin took the parchment and slipped it into his coat. He then produced a bag of Galleons which he handed to Arthur with an official parchment slip indicating the total amount. To Arthur, the little bag felt like it weighed a ton as he slipped it into his pocket. He nodded at the goblin, then turned to his old friend.
"Thank you, Amos," he said, rising to his feet and extending his hand, now wanting nothing more than to return home. Somehow, he and Molly would have to break the news to their children tonight. "I really do appreciate your help with this."
"Wait a moment, Arthur," Amos answered, rising as well but ignoring the offered hand. "There's still the matter of Addendum A."
Arthur shuddered at the implications. He'd forgotten this wasn't over yet.
"Please, come with me, Mr. Weasley," the goblin said, gesturing to a door at the far side. "This sale is not quite complete."
Arthur followed the goblin into a room full of small, golden boxes set into the wall. The goblin pressed his fingers to one of them and it opened with a click, revealing another piece of rolled up parchment.
"Addendum A," the goblin droned in a bored voice.
Arthur reached out and took the parchment, barely controlling the slight shake that ran through his outstretched hand. He pulled it open and read it quickly.
Upon completion of the Purchase Agreement, this document, heretofore referred to as "Addendum A," shall serve as a Quit Claim Deed, vesting all right and title to the aforementioned property in Arthur Weasley, in fee simple absolute, for valuable consideration already received by the buyer.
In stunned silence, Arthur re-read the parchment three more times but it still said the same thing.
"What is this, some kind of joke?" he demanded of the goblin. "The buyer is backing out?"
"The buyer is doing exactly what the parchment says," the goblin answered, apparently tired of dealing with stupid humans. "The money is yours and title in the land has now vested in you again, per the buyer's wishes." The goblin raised his arm toward the door. "This transaction is completed. Good day."
Arthur was at a loss. "Wait! Who's the buyer? And what is this about 'consideration already received?'"
With a huff, the goblin continued, as if he were explaining to a child. "The buyer wishes to remain anonymous. As for the 'consideration' mentioned, the buyer is acknowledging that you have already compensated him or her in exchange for the return of the property."
"How? I haven't…"
"Good day," the goblin said more forcefully, clearly indicating that it actually wasn't, as he walked through the door, leaving a very befuddled Arthur standing there in the chamber with the deed in his hand.
The answer to his questions suddenly hit him like a bolt of lightning.
"Harry James Potter, you sneaky little bugger," he muttered, shaking his head.
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Harry stepped out of the loo at the Ministry right into a flash of light going off in his eyes.
"What the –?" he cried, throwing his arms up as he backed into the wall, momentarily blinded.
"Harry, dear, it's so wonderful to be meeting with you again!" a very recognizable voice purred from beside his left ear.
"Rita Skeeter," he mumbled, closing his eyes in longsuffering annoyance as more flashes continued to assault him.
"I must say it has been too long since our last chat," the blonde continued in an overly chipper voice. "I was simply thrilled to get this assignment! Get a few shots from the side, Wesley, darling, where you can see those adorable dimples," she added to the photographer that was snapping photos of Harry like there was no tomorrow.
"What? No, don't get any shots from the side, Wesley!" Harry snapped, pushing the man and his camera out of his face. "Rita, what the heck are you doing?"
"But Harry, it's all for the calendar of course!" she said, ignoring Harry's protest and motioning for the man to continue.
"Calendar? What calendar?"
"Why the Daily Prophet's Twelve Months of Harry Potter Calendar! It was all spelled out very clearly in the memo. Now, what would you like your quote for January to be? How about something from that amazing piece I wrote on you for the Triwizard Tournament? Some of my best work…positively heartrending."
"I'm not doing a bloody calendar!" Harry roared, anger rushing through him even as a fiery blush crept up his cheeks and Wesley the "darling" photographer continued to snap pictures of him from all angles. He tried to push past the woman and her sidekick to escape, but he'd forgotten how good she was at cornering people.
"Now, I'm thinking for July or August we must do at least one beach scene. Don't worry, it will all be perfectly tasteful, unless, of course, you wanted to indulge your fans a little," she added with a wink.
"Argh!" he ground out, temper and patience finally breaking. As Wesley leaned in to get a close-up, he snatched the camera right out of the man's hands and chucked it in a nearby water fountain, reveling in the rather large splash.
He turned to Rita Skeeter, who was gaping at him just a little bit like a fish while the photographer raced to try and save his precious camera. "Yes, I have a quote for you," he said in faked politeness. "Shove off."
And then, with as much dignity as his flaming red cheeks would allow, he walked quickly away.
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The moment Ron walked into the ice cream shop at the close of the day he could sense something was off – wrong. He had the head of his costume tucked under one arm, ready to slip into the men's room and change, but he stopped, looking around. His intuition, the product of a year on the run and eighteen years as the butt of Fred and George's pranks, told him all was not right with the scene before him.
The owner's teenage son was behind the counter, wiping up the sticky residue of a day's worth of ice cream before closing the till, and in the corner to the right sat the last costumer. Ron narrowed his eyes at the man, realizing where his unease came from. He was probably only a few years older than Ron, but he screamed out of place as he sat there licking a double berry ice cream cone, his eyes shifting nervously around, as if waiting for something.
Ron stuck his hand into the pocket of the purple cow suit, fingering his wand.
Suddenly, the door behind him burst open and another young man came in. In his hand was a Muggle gun.
"All right, no one move!" he shouted as the first guy ditched his ice cream on the table and also pulled a gun, pointing it at the boy behind the counter who was frozen in fright.
"All we want is the money," the new guy said. "So, just hand it over and no one has to get hurt."
Looking back later, Ron wasn't entirely sure why he did what he did next. Maybe it was just that after fighting a war against ultimate evil and helping his best friend save the world from a sadistic, immortal dark wizard two Muggle thugs with guns didn't really count for much. Or maybe he just really wanted to get out of his purple cow suit. Either way, he acted without a lot of conscious thought. As if it were a Quaffle he was pitching back into a Quidditch game, he chucked the head of his costume at the man who had been sitting at the table. It hit him square in the back and sent him sprawling. On the way down his head collided with the counter; he was out cold before he hit the floor, gun skittering uselessly away. Then Ron launched himself at the thug closest to him, smashing his fist into guy's face.
It was all over in seconds. He didn't even use his wand. Gits were more inept than Snatchers, Ron thought to himself.
Which was why Ron really couldn't understand how come everyone else insisted on making such a big deal about it.
The shop's owner came. He pumped Ron's hand up and down for at least ten minutes, going on and on about how he'd saved his son's life and giving him a raise on the spot.
Then the Muggle pleasemen showed up and made him retell every tiny detail while they made studious notes in little books.
And finally, the Muggle reporters arrived and he had to rehash the whole thing yet again, this time while photographers insisted on snapping his picture in that stupid purple cow suit, head held grumpily under his arm "for authenticity's sake."
All this fuss for having good aim and a Muggle brawl? Ron couldn't help but shake his head.
He would never understand Muggles.
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"Well, Frederick, this is a fine kettle of fish you've landed yourself in."
Fred groaned at the voice coming from the doorway of his hospital room and let his head thump back against the wall behind his bed.
"Good morning, Auntie Muriel," he said sarcastically. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"Apparently all this mess has done nothing to improve your attitude," she groused. Fred heard the thumping of her cane as she moved into the room and helped herself to a chair. "I'm to mind you today, boy. Your mother Flooed in a panic, always overly emotional that Molly, and so being a decent, charitable women, here I am."
Fred closed his useless eyes and shook his head. Ever since the attack more than a week ago, his family refused to leave him alone for even a minute. Apparently, they were running out of people who were available for the job, however, and today his mum was scraping the very bottom of the pot if she was pressing Auntie Muriel into service.
"And I'm returning this bloody cat," Auntie Muriel continued, either missing his pained expression or choosing to ignore it. He felt something heavy and alive suddenly be dumped into his lap, startling Gus who was sleeping curled up by his legs. "It's been at my place long enough and I have no intention of letting it hang around one day longer."
With tentative fingers, Fred reached out with his good hand and felt thick, slightly matted fur, whiskers, and a squashed face. Crookshanks. He'd almost forgotten they'd taken Hermione's humungous cat with them when they fled to Auntie Muriel's in the dead of night. So much had happened since then.
The large cat sniffed experimentally at Gus for a moment, but then seemed to lose interest, settling down on Fred's lap and turning its head away from Auntie Muriel as though it was every bit as glad for the parting as she was.
Fred could hardly blame the beast.
"I'm terribly sorry that my almost dying is such an inconvenience to you, Auntie Muriel," he muttered, unable to keep the words from slipping out.
"Of course you're not. You and that blasted twin of yours have been inconveniencing me your whole lives and you've never been sorry for one single thing."
She had a point.
"Ah hah! You know it's true! I see it on your face," she said triumphantly.
Fred's face split into a grin. He couldn't help it. Muriel just brought out the…diabolical side of him.
"Stop grinning. This is a hospital! People are dying and having their limbs chopped off and such! It's no place for smiling," she scolded, slapping the back of his good hand and causing him to jump. "A hundred and eight years old and I get dragged out to babysit. No one has any respect anymore, I tell you. No respect…" she muttered. Fred heard her rummaging around in the giant handbag she always carried.
"Well, today for once in your life, you get to listen to me." He heard her finally pull something from the bag and settle it in her lap, and then his ears picked up the sound of pages turning.
"The Morally Magical Life," Auntie Muriel read out loud pointedly. "By Modest Merriweather. Chapter one…"
Fred closed his eyes again. Maybe a hero's death at the Battle of Hogwarts wouldn't have been that bad after all. This was going to be a very, very long day.