Chapter Two: arrangements
25 July, 1991
Today, I found out how my parents died. Or pieced it together, at least.
When I was one year old, an evil wizard calling himself Voldemort (an alias, I assume) showed up at my parents' house, looking to do them in. My guess, they'd gotten the better of him too often, and he was looking to settle the score.
He must have made quick work of them, but he didn't want to leave any loose ends (or a vengeful orphan to catch him with his pants down later on), so he decided to go for an easy third kill. After all, how hard was it to use the Killing Curse on an infant, moral quandaries aside?
Evidently, it was pretty difficult.
The curse he cast rebounded somehow, for reasons magical theory simply cannot explain. And Voldemort was killed, leaving me to drool with only a scar in the shape of a lightning bolt on my forehead and a pair of dead parents for my troubles.
Someone had to have kept this from me. My parents, my inheritance. Someone definitely could have told me and chose not to. It certainly wasn't the Dursleys; sure, they had to know I was magic, but if they knew I was attached to that kind of money they would have been clamoring after every penny they could have gotten of it and I would have likely been treated a lot more nicely once they found out I was their gateway to it.
That leaves my own personal Greek tragedy. I saved this world from a tyrannical despot and was punished for my efforts, placed in a personal hell to suffer for the next ten years. The difference here is that I'm no hero of Greek lore, and this mystery person isn't Zeus or Athena, able to pop back to Olympus and hide.
I will find out who it was. And I will make them suffer, just as I have.
-H
…
In the center of London, down a quiet side street, there sat a pub known as The Leaky Cauldron. Hermione had had to point it out to Mum and Dad three times before they'd noticed it, and Dad had quietly wondered if it had even been open.
"Looks like it's not seen business in a decade, at least."
Thankfully, the pamphlet had told her to expect this. The Leaky Cauldron hid the entrance to the hub of all things magic in England, known as Diagon Alley, and as such the entrance was guarded with the most stringent Muggle-Repellent Charms. While Hermione was immune to such measures due to her innate magic, she would have to nudge Mum and Dad in the right direction.
Literally, at times, as she bodily led the pair to the door.
Inside, the Leaky Cauldron was…well, Hermione's first impression was "shabby", but it was more "lived-in" than anything. The place was kept scrupulously clean, made apparent by the broom and dustpan autonomously sweeping along the floor as Hermione walked past. Rather, it was just…old, ancient in fact. Hermione had seen plenty of historic buildings before; her grandfather lived in a thatched-roof farmhouse that dated back over three centuries. The Leaky Cauldron was very obviously even older. The interior was dimly-lit, though sunlight streamed through the windows and cast insubstantial light over the dining room. Looming through the semidarkness, Hermione could make out several strange figures, denizens of this exciting new world. A couple of old women were consulting a newspaper called the Daily Prophet—which featured moving pictures and spinning headlines that danced along the page—while a nearby tea set freshened their cuppas all on its own. Nearby, a trio of dwarves looked to still be riding a raucous bender from the previous night, judging from the empty tankards littering their table and the fact that one of their number had slumped over the table in a doze.
The Leaky Cauldron served those from all walks of life, it seemed.
It also served what Dad called a "damn decent plate of bangers and mash", which he dug into with gusto while the trio had a quick bite before going shopping. Mum had chosen a cottage pie that was apparently the best she'd ever had, and Hermione was picking slowly at a salmon sandwich. It was delicious, but she could scarcely enjoy it with her mind swimming with thoughts of magic, of her apparent destiny to be a "witch" of sorts.
"You alright, love?" Mum asked from next to her, and Hermione looked up to see a hand coming in to brush a lock of hair from her face. Mum had no idea where Hermione's out-of-control mane had come from; though she greatly resembled Hermione, her hair was a darker brown color that was nearly black and perfectly able to be combed and styled how she pleased.
That was often something of a sore point for Hermione.
"Lost in thought, per usual," Dad chuckled as he took a bite. His brown locks at least explained Hermione's hair color, though his hair was also easily-tamed, the showoff.
"I'm just thinking about…you two," Hermione admitted, and Mum fixed her with a curious look.
"Us?" she asked. "Whatever about?"
"It's just…I'm part of all this, I'm…magic and all that," Hermione said. "What does that mean for you? You couldn't see the pamphlet, you couldn't see this place until I showed it to you. I'm…afraid I'm going somewhere you can't follow."
"Oh, my darling," Mum said with a warm smile, now running her fingers through Hermione's bushy curls. "No matter what happens, no matter where you go, you just remember that you'll always have your mum and dad to come back to. We may not be able to follow, love, but we'll be right where you left us, understand?"
Hermione was desperately trying not to choke up in this dingy old pub, but it was hard with Mum acting so sweetly, with Dad watching wearing a warm smile of his own.
Truly, she had the best parents.
Behind the pub was a small closed-off alley, a dingy, drafty thing with only a few rusty bins and ancient wooden crates that looked like they hadn't been moved in a century. Here, in this unassuming (and filthy!) brick and concrete square, the landlord of the Leaky Cauldron—a positively ancient man named Tom—showed Hermione the entrance to Diagon Alley, accessible by tapping a particular brick in the wall.
"Three up from this bin 'ere," Tom said, raising his arm higher than Hermione though his hunch should have allowed, "and two across. Give it a tap with your wand once you get one. And you ask me, that oughta be your first stop. Ollivander's is right down the main drag, and he's been in the business long as I can remember. If it ain't from Ollivander's, it ain't more than a stick."
With such a sterling endorsement, it seemed only right to follow his advice.
"Thank you for your help," Mum said, and Tom gave her a beaming smile that showed all four of his teeth before he reached out and tapped the brick he'd indicated. Hermione watched in wonder as the wall itself began to shift and fold away from that point, bricks sliding and reshaping into an archway large enough for an elephant to walk through.
On the other side was Diagon Alley.
Hermione hadn't anticipated how massive the place would be. She'd been expecting a cozy block of shops populated with a bunch of old bearded men in funny robes, maybe a handsome elven archer or a rugged human ranger…
Well, there was certainly a smattering of bearded old men, albeit among a massive throng of people. Hermione was reminded of a crowded shopping center; the alley (though it was as wide as a small road) was positively packed with all manner of visitor. Men, women, family groups, all chattering in a din of mingling conversations. Hermione noticed that the favored fashions among the older crowd tended toward Minerva McGonagall's choice of vintage clothing, though the men seemed to prefer their jackets cut nearly floor length not unlike a robe. Some of the eldest among the milling masses were simply dressed in flowing robes, fitting Hermione's imaginings of Gandalf and Merlin out for a Sunday shopping trip.
Witches and wizards under forty, however, were equally split between the classic look of their parents and a more modern muggle dress sense. Jeans and t-shirts and casual skirts cropped up nearly as often as a three-piece suit or lace-trimmed dress.
"Reckon this is where we get your wand?"
Dad's voice snapped Hermione out of her observations, and she looked to see him pointing up at the sign belonging to an old brick-and-stone shop set into a long row of similar storefronts. In old blocky lettering that was peeling with age, the sign read 'Ollivander's' in a massive, easily-readable size. That was the place that Tom had mentioned.
"Do you think they're quite dangerous, dear?" Mum asked as Hermione led the way into the store.
"Long as she doesn't turn the car into some sort of rhino or set the second floor on fire, I'm sound," Dad said.
"But the first floor is fair game," Mum said in amused tones.
"We've been looking to redo the dining room anyway," Dad pointed out.
As they spoke, Hermione pressed into the wand shop, which was narrow, with the dusty, quiet, and old feel of a library and instantly put Hermione at ease as such. Behind the counter, an old man with white hair that was clearly trying to escape his scalp and silvery eyes stuck perpetually wide open stood hunched over the wooden surface, staring unblinkingly down at a bundle of stringy…stuff.
"Um…pardon me?" Hermione asked.
"Dragon heartstring…"
He muttered so quietly that Hermione wasn't even sure if he'd spoken at first. This declaration hung in the air for long enough that Dad coughed awkwardly from near the door, prompting the strange man to slowly look up with a breezy smile.
"Good day, good day," he said. "My apologies, I've just procured quite a fine specimen of dragon heartstring. Seven units, which means a possible seven future wands. I'm only waiting for them to seek out the wood they would inhabit."
"Dragon…heartstring?" Hermione asked, and the man who had to be Ollivander nodded.
"One of three cores that I use in my wands," he said. "Dragon heartstring, unicorn tail hair, and phoenix feather. Three extraordinarily powerful creatures, magic made nature. Other cores can be used, but their success rate is…spotty at best."
Those four sentences alone had Hermione wanting to pelt the man with about a million questions, but she refrained out of a simple desire to get a wand.
Okay, she couldn't resist one.
"What other cores do they use?" she asked, staring up at the wandmaker, who look pleasantly surprised at her interest.
"Well, various magical creatures are of course often chosen," he said. "Thestral hair is one of the more potent choices, though the grim nature of the creature means wands made from its tail hairs are often believed to be cursed. Griffin feathers are quite popular, as well as their tail hairs, except they've been classified as an endangered species in recent years."
"And that means you can't use them for wand cores?" Hermione asked.
"As I said, results are spotty at best," Ollivander said. "To craft even one viable wand, several failures are often necessary. In the case of griffins, many failures. With them endangered as they are, the Ministry of Magic would not take kindly to me leaving a bald griffin hobbling around their sanctuaries for the sake of only two or three wands."
Hermione amused herself with the mental image of a plucked griffin, though she was disheartened to hear they were endangered. Still, the mere fact that they were real was exhilarating, and she vowed to at least see one someday.
"But," Ollivander said, clapping a pair of dry, calloused hands together, "let us talk of your wand. It's here, isn't it? Somewhere in my stores, it waits for you. Let us find it together, shall we?"
Ollivander started by measuring Hermione absolutely everywhere. Taking out a long tape measure, he began with the expected approach, measuring Hermione's "wand arm" (which she assumed meant her dominant one) first from shoulder to fingertips, then from elbow to wrist. Then he measured her from toe to head, followed by head to toe (the numbers were somehow different), then toe to toe. By the time he was measuring the exact space between her right eye and her right index finger, Hermione realized that he was no longer even holding the thing, which was now determining the length of her shadow cast by the single beam of light through the open window.
Hermione assumed this was all pertinent somehow.
"And I think we've enough to work with," Ollivander said, immediately before the tape measure crumpled to the ground, forgotten. Hermione looked up to see him approaching with a stack of boxes, and for a moment, she was reminded of her last shoe-shopping trip with Mum and Dad. Well, trying out a wand should be immensely quicker, right? All she had to do was give it a wave.
"Alright, why don't we start you off with eight and three-quarter inches, willow, unicorn hair?" Ollivander said, extricating the wand in question from a box that Hermione noticed had no label. Had he simply memorized them? Perhaps he had some innate magic sense that simply made him able to identify a wand at a mere touch? He held the wand out, and Hermione took it, though she'd scarcely raised it above her head when Ollivander snatched it right back. "No, no, not at all. Something…steadier, I think."
He sifted through the stack of boxes, humming thoughtfully as he withdrew another wand.
"Here we are," he said. "Rosewood, dragon heartstring, ten and five-eighths inches. Give it a whirl."
Hermione plucked this one up, waiting to see if Ollivander would snatch it back, though he only gave her an encouraging gesture. Raising the wand, she brought it down in a flourishing gesture that felt just a little silly. When nothing of note happened, Ollivander took the wand back, looking almost pleased at how finicky a customer Hermione was shaping up to be.
"That one was…better," he said. "Perhaps vine wood, dragon heartstring, ten and three-quarters inches. Give it a go."
He passed another wand to Hermione, who gasped as she felt a buzz of energy, like the wand itself was humming in her hand. This surely had to be the right one. She waved it, and a shower of blue sparks surged forth, causing spots to dance in front of her eyes as she turned to see Mum and Dad giving her a little round of applause.
"Did you see that!?" she whooped.
"I do believe that's the one," Dad said.
"Indeed, you won't get better results than that," Ollivander agreed, looking pleased as punch himself. "Still got it."
In short order, the wand was paid for, though Ollivander cautioned them that while he was happy to accept muggle money and take it to the bank to exchange at the end of his business day, many of the shops in Diagon Alley only accepted the magical world's currency. Hermione thought the concept of a separate currency was needlessly complicated, when the magical world existed concurrently to the muggle world and overlapped quite a bit. When over half of your population lived on the muggle side of things, why not shift to their unit of money?
It just seemed counterintuitive to her.
Tucking her wand into a bag, Hermione and her parents bade farewell to Ollivander, heading straight for Gringott's Bank. The massive white marble building cut an impressive profile in the middle of the alley, reminding Hermione of the jutting skyscrapers in Times Square in New York City. Rather than massive advertisements, though, the building sported a beautifully-carved snow-white façade. Inside, an actual goblin accepted nearly two hundred pounds from Dad and passed back a pile of actual gold coins, along with a few silver and copper ones.
"Now mind you don't go trying to sell those in any of your muggle stores," the goblin cautioned him in a reedy voice. "Doing so is a violation of the statute of secrecy, and all three of you will have your memories of any and all magic wiped clean."
"…Well…I'll see to it I hang onto these, then," Dad said with a nod, packing the coins into Mum's purse and ushering them out of the bank. "Scary bloke, isn't he?"
"Probably has to be, if he's in charge of all this wizard money," Mum agreed.
From the bank, they went on to the Apothecary to purchase everything Hermione would need to properly brew a potion (including a solid pewter cauldron to brew it in), and Hermione was thankful that wizard shopping bags seemed quite a bit more spacious on the inside than they appeared. The next stop was the bookshop Flourish and Blott's, which Hermione could have spent a whole week in and not seen enough of. She bought every book on her school reading list and at least a dozen more; the sheer scope of this world was mind-boggling, and the rich history and lore was utterly fascinating!
They visited what felt like every shop in Diagon Alley that day, though Hermione knew it was only a fraction of what there was to see. How did they hide all of this right in the center of London!? Quill shops, broom emporiums (it seemed broomsticks were something akin to motorcycles among wizards), magical menageries selling owls and cats and belching toads. There was simply too much to see. It was like the time her parents had taken her to the Disney Resort in France and she simply hadn't had enough hours to see it all.
The final stop of the day was Madame Malkin's, where Hermione would be fitted for her school uniform. Despite all of the magic and wonder of the day, Hermione was looking forward to this almost as much as purchasing a wand or spellbooks. The primary school she'd gone to had touted itself as "progressive" and didn't have uniforms, much to Hermione's chagrin. She loved the idea of going to class smartly-dressed in a skirt and tie with a blazer (or in the case of Hogwarts, a formal robe). And maybe some knee socks.
It wouldn't hurt to add a cute touch, after all.
Madame Malkin herself was a kindly, plump woman who immediately assessed Hermione as a new Hogwarts student and had her hop onto a stool.
"Muggle-born, eh?" she asked, examining the tags on Hermione's clothes as she started taking all the necessary measurements. Like Ollivander, her tape measure seemed able to work on its own with minimal help from her, though it showed much less fervor in doing its job. "Paper tags on clothes, what next? Hm…I quite like this blouse, though. Where did you get it?"
"Oh, um…" Hermione trailed off as she toyed with the hem of her periwinkle blouse. She was rather fond of it, in fact. "Mum, wasn't it the Primark on Oxford Street?"
"Yes, on sale, no less," Mum said from nearby, where she was studying a mannequin while it pulled various poses to show off the outfit it wore.
"My niece would look lovely in that," the tailor said with an appreciative nod while she draped a robe over Hermione's shoulders and began hemming the bottom. "The old pureblood families are happy to walk around in their robes and their frocks, but you ask me, the muggles have the right of it. Clean lines and cuffs, slim-fitting jackets, a good vest and tie. It almost makes me want to hop off to America and start a clothing line."
"Are they more open to muggle fashion in America?" Hermione asked, holding her arms out while Madame Malkin worked at her sleeves.
"Oh, they're nearly indistinguishable," Madame Malkin said. "There are a couple of muggle clothing designers who don't even know that their client base is mostly witches and wizards. The wizarding boutiques buy the stuff in bulk, enchant it up with the usual Dirt-Repellant Charms, Sweat-Be-Gone Soak, and it goes right on the rack."
"Excuse me," Mum chimed in. "Dirt-Repellant Charms? Is that something Hermione can learn?"
"Oh, I should expect so," Madame Malkin said, fussing briefly with Hermione's collar. "Any witch or wizard worth their salt knows your basic laundering spells by third year."
"Hermione – "
"I'll look into them, Mum," Hermione said with a wry smile, and Mum silently cheered before the mannequin in front of her went for a high-five, which she gleefully returned.
…
The first indication that Harry Potter was to be more trouble than Albus could have ever anticipated came in the morning post, the very next day after the Hogwarts letters had been sent out. Amidst stacks of fan letters, correspondence from old students whose lives he had had a particular impact on, and yet another letter about his vehicle's extended warranty (he hadn't owned car since the 1950s), one letter sat brightly gleaming in the morning sun. Red lettering glinted from the envelope, and the gold wax seal holding it shut was emblazoned with an ornate letter 'T'.
Curious, Albus opened it, unfolding a rather official-looking document and growing more concerned with every line he read.
Dear Mr. Dumbledore,
Please be advised that you are currently in possession of an item or items that are the legal property of my client, Hardwin James Charlus Potter II:
One (1) Invisibility Cloak
Please see that you return these immediately, or I, on behalf of my client, will be forced to pursue legal action in order to obtain it.
Hoping this letter finds you in good health,
Tuglotar, legal executor of Hardwin James Charlus Potter II
Underneath was a pair of official stamps, notarizing the letter and recognizing it as an official and legal correspondence in the eyes of both the Ministry of Magic and Gringotts bank.
Well.
This was most unexpected.
Making his way to his desk, Albus sat and placed the letter before him, studying it in utter puzzlement. Harry Potter had apparently been able to read his first Hogwarts letter (defying all of Albus's predictions for how things would unfold), and he had gone on to somehow reach Diagon Alley on his own, learned of his given name (next to no one knew that "Harry James Potter" was a legal alias given by his mother to spare him the indignity of being referred to as "Hardwin" at the Sorting Ceremony), and even managed to learn of his father's old Invisibility Cloak, which he had loaned to Albus and tragically never been able to get back. Albus had planned to gift the cloak to Harry for Christmas, as he would most certainly need it to play his role in the grander plot. Giving it to him this much sooner would be quite the wrench, but Albus's hands were rather tied in this situation. The Ministry and Gringotts were both aware of the letter and its request, and the last thing Albus wanted was to draw undue attention from either entity.
No matter. He would capitulate, though this left many questions for the headmaster.
Chief among them, what was a ten-year-old boy doing hiring a goblin solicitor in the first place?
This was precisely why he'd wanted Hagrid to be the one to introduce Harry to the magical world, to steer him along and ensure that he didn't complicate his experience with needless minutiae like finance and holdings. What concern were those to a boy that had grown up with so little? He was already broadening his worldview enough. It was one of the reasons Albus had seen fit to deposit Harry with the Dursleys; any life with them would have made even the worst day in the magical world seem a relief.
Well, it was, as always, too late for hindsight. Albus would send the cloak along (perhaps with a polite apology for failing to do so sooner), and the whole business would be put behind them. Harry would begin Hogwarts in September, and Albus's plan would continue on schedule.
In fact, it would probably behoove him to visit Hagrid in the near future. With Harry's introduction to the magical world already taken care of, the transfer of the Philosopher's Stone to Hogwarts would merit a trip all its own and could thus be seen to immediately.
That was a silver lining in its own right, he supposed.
With a sigh, Albus stood. He couldn't fool himself, much as he'd like to; this was an unforeseen circumstance.
And more than anything, Albus did not abide unforeseen circumstances.
…
Turkish was hungry.
He hated being hungry, and he especially hated being hungry while he was trying to go about his work. Ledgers and finance reports, net profit and expenditures, this was the sort of thing a man hired an accountant for. Only they couldn't afford an accountant, which was why Turkish was nose-deep in numbers in the first place. If you wanted to afford something, you did one of two things: you cut costs, or you pursued additional avenues of revenue. Given that his current entrepreneurial endeavors included shady muggle slot machines and an unlicensed underground dueling ring, adding to the list of illegal activities that would land him in the Pilliwickle Detention Center seemed a bit stupid.
Sat at a folding card table in front of a caravan that was parked behind the aforementioned shady casino, Turkish couldn't help the thought that he had probably made his share of stupid decisions to land him where he was at the moment. He leaned back and stared upward, finding only the grimy concrete underside of an overpass to gaze into.
"How's it coming with those sausages, Charlie?"
"Two minutes, Turkish," the thickly accented voice of Charlie spoke, nearly drowned out by the hot sizzle of a grill that seemed to be in the process of burning six sausages. Turkish looked over to see the portly form of Charlie, who cleaned the casino on Sundays and enjoyed getting the grill out to blacken his lunch when the weather permitted. He had a smudged apron pulled across his janitor's uniform and was currently using a massive pair of tongs to poke at the alleged meal.
"Well, hurry it up," Turkish prodded. "I'm starvin' 'ere."
"Turkish," the voice of Tommy spoke from the doorway of the caravan. "Is it nearly noon?"
"You'd know if you stopped buying watches off street salesmen," Turkish shot, checking his own watch. "Ten 'til. Expecting company?"
"Expecting a client," Tommy said, making his way over to take a seat across from Turkish.
Small and pale, Tommy had a round face that always seemed in need of a shave. His dark brown hair was short and hopeless, sticking up at the odd angle like he'd just rolled out of bed. Currently, he was wearing a smarmy smile, the kind he wore when he thought he'd just come up with the most brilliant plan to make the next quick buck. Usually that smile meant trouble for Turkish, and more often than not, he wanted to punch it right off Tommy's face. Still, Tommy was his business partner, and more importantly, he was Turkish's best friend since childhood. Not the sort of person you went around punching.
You thought about it, sure, but a lifelong friendship merited a bit more decorum between two people.
"What sort of business d'you think we're running here?" Turkish asked. "We don't see 'clients'."
"We do now," Tommy said. "I reckon we've gotten good enough at cleaning up all sorts of grisly scenes after our fights, y'think? Well, we take those skills, and we put 'em to work. House-cleaning."
"…You're an idiot," Turkish told him.
"Oi, no, I'm a genius," Tommy said. "I'm not talking like a day service or something. I was over at Borgin and Burkes pawning that necklace, and this kid walks in, says he's just shopping around."
"What kinda kid just – "
"Harry freaking Potter, that's who."
"Harry Potter?" Turkish asked. "The actual Harry Potter? 'I killed You-Know-Who as an infant' Harry Potter?"
"The one and only," Tommy said, looking pleased at his reaction. "He asks if there's anyone Borgin knows can clean up a couple of his properties that've been sitting for a while. Only house elf he has is 'round the twist, apparently, and one of the places is packed full of dark artifacts, he says."
"And I bet Borgin lit up at that," Turkish guessed.
"Like a pikey crime scene," Tommy said. "Starts going on about how he can give the kid a fair deal on anything he brings in, lays on the oil nice and thick."
"What'd the kid do?" Turkish asked.
"He played it real cool, told him he'd remember the offer," Tommy said. "Then he bought something called a Hand of Glory and left. But I caught him outside, told him me and my partner'd be willing to see to sorting out his home and getting him a fair price on whatever he wants to sell. In exchange for a finder's fee."
"Since when are we a home improvement team?" Turkish asked. "I don't know anything about restoring decrepit properties."
"Half of it's just getting into contact with the right people," Tommy said. "And this poor kid was in over his head, I had to step in and help him out."
"Well, aren't you the humanitarian?" Turkish asked him. "So he's coming by for a proper business meeting? To our shabby caravan under the overpass, behind a casino? The most famous ten-year-old in our world?"
"Well, it looks a bit dodgy…"
"It looks proper dodgy, Tommy," Turkish said. "He's gonna show up and think we're fixing to kidnap him."
"Can't take me anywhere worse than where I've been," a boy's voice spoke, and Turkish whipped his gaze up to see a kid standing there who definitely hadn't been moments ago. At first glance, he gave the impression of a university professor who'd chugged a little too much Age Reduction Potion. His black hair was neatly combed and parted on the left, and he wore an honest-to-God three-piece suit, a blue pinstriped number complete with a pocket square and a smart-looking blue tie. The look was completed by a pair of round National Health frames bearing lenses that slightly magnified a pair of green eyes.
"I'm a bit overdressed," Harry Potter admitted.
"That'd be because my partner here likely gave you the impression of a fancy office, not a dodgy camper," Turkish said with a look at Tommy, who at least had the decency to look chastened.
"I couldn't help but overhear your conversation," Harry went on, glancing around the back alley and fixing his gaze on Charlie for a long moment. Turkish wondered what he was thinking, but the kid's expression gave nothing away; his eyes were like a doll's, flat and lifeless. "You're not the home restoration experts your associate pitched you as?"
"Unfortunately not," Turkish said. "We could probably get the job done, but – "
"I'd still like to hire you," Harry said, looking from Charlie to fix a cold gaze onto Turkish. Was he really just a kid? He had the bearing of a shrewd businessman, the sort of calculating types Turkish reluctantly had to bump elbows with once in a while. "You seem honest but not afraid to get your hands dirty for the guy paying the bills."
Well, that was a spot-on assessment.
"Even if all you do is get in touch with the people necessary to do the work, they're more likely to take you seriously and get things done properly," he went on. "You'll be my duly-appointed representatives, consult with me over the big expenditures, and be compensated fairly for your work."
"You sure you want us?" Turkish asked. "Only we're not exactly qualified to be legal representatives, least of all to someone of your…public stature."
"That's what makes you perfect," Harry said. "You're low-profile, and you probably know people that will keep a low profile and not blab that they're doing work on Harry Potter's private dwellings."
"And how much will you be compensating us for our work?" Tommy asked, prompting Turkish to smack him on the shoulder. "Oi, it's a fair question!"
"For the pair of you, I'd say three hundred galleons a week sounds fair, hm?"
Three hundred galleons a week, to be a couple of glorified errand boys for Harry Potter himself?
"We could certainly upgrade our caravan for that," Turkish said.
"Do we have an arrangement?" Harry asked, holding out a hand. Turkish got to his feet and gave it a firm shake, pleased to note that for all his seeming maturity, Harry Potter still gave a child's handshake.
"Alright, Mr. Potter," he said. "We're in business."
"Brilliant," Harry told him. "I think this will be a very fruitful partnership."