Disclaimer – I should have said this before but these are not my characters or world, etc etc, no money being made, etc, etc, please don't sue.
0o0o0o0
Harry had been allowing his beard to grow in since the Battle of Hogwarts. After six months he had a close-cropped dark beard, and he'd had to buy new glasses months back, after sneezing while using the bandsaw. With his knitted cap on, scarf and lined denim jacket he looked nothing like the Boy Who Lived who had sometimes unwillingly graced the pages of the Daily Prophet. He'd caught the last train to London the night before and spent the night in an economy hotel. The plan was to see to his banking and complete several other errands today, then travel back tomorrow.
Ben Pond had told him one night over a pint that the first thing to draw someone's eye is a person who is trying to hide in a crowd. The constable had said that people who walk upright and move without hurry or additional pace were harder to pick out of a crowd than someone who was walking too fast, with their shoulders hunched and head down, or someone who made abrupt movements and changed direction constantly. Harry put this to the test, bundling his hands into his pockets and matching the strolling pace of the Tuesday morning shoppers who were moving through the alley. No one shouted or pointed, which Harry counted as a success as he walked up the steps of the bank and joined the small crowd of people walking through the just opening doors.
The interior of the bank hadn't changed – even though Harry had ridden a dragon through it. He tagged onto the end of a line, grateful for the waspish witch berating someone who had arrived after her but was in front of the line, drawing everyone's attention. He waited patiently while the sneering Goblins at their high desks dealt with the people in front of him, aware that more people had joined the lines as time went on. He didn't recognise the Goblin behind his chosen desk and handed his vault key over when the lightly bearded being barked 'next' in a sharply grumpy tone.
"I would like to close my vault," Harry said quietly, "And transfer the balance, minus suitable taxation and fees, to my Muggle account."
This got the Goblin's attention. There was no chance that the banker hadn't recognised the vault key, and therefore knew exactly who Harry was. He squinted at Harry for a long moment, then made as if to hand the key back.
"Impossible," the Goblin scoffed. Harry raised his eyebrows and made no move to retrieve the offered key.
"There is no reason for you to refuse my decision," he continued in the same quiet voice, "You cannot hold onto it. If you wish to avoid a run on the bank, you will do as I ask. Otherwise I will start shouting that you will not give me my money. You know what Wizards are like – if they think that there is a problem, they will quickly over react."
This was a strategy lifted straight from Mary Poppins, which Mr Baker had surprisingly watched at Christmas. Harry hadn't been too sure about the singing and dancing, but he'd enjoyed the twisty mind of the main character. He kept her firmly in mind as the Goblin glared at him.
"Very well," the Goblin grated, "However, you will only get the contents of this vault. You are not yet of age to access the main Family vault, and will not be until you reach 25 years of age."
"Of course," Harry replied as if he knew all about the family vault, "If you recall, it was only the vault connected to that key that I requested. Here are the details of the account the funds should be transferred to."
This got him an unpleasant look at crooked teeth as the Goblin grimaced in what Harry chose to label a smile and the Goblin stepped down from the desk, disappearing into the back rooms of the bank with the slip of paper Harry had handed over. He stuck his hands back in his pockets to avoid fidgeting nervously and counted breaths to ensure he remained calm looking. The people behind him fidgeted and complained to friends as they waited, but so were all the other customers, who evidently felt that only opening three tellers at the start of the day was insufficient service. He's heard the same in Muggle banks, an amusing notion that allowed him to while the time away patiently until the scowling Goblin returned, hauled himself back up to his desk and snatched up a quill, copying information into the ledger in front of him.
Eventually the Goblin filled a banking slip on Muggle paper, which made an odd kind of sense. You couldn't take a quill scribed strip of parchment to the Muggle world and expect a bank to accept it. The writing on the paper the Goblin shoved at him was mechanically precise, a contrast to the business card that accompanied it.
"Your slip. The funds are already in your account," the Goblin growled, "Next!"
Harry pocketed both slip and card and then stepped out of the way, nodding to the witch waiting impatiently behind him. He walked back through the Alley, pacing his fellow pedestrians carefully and keeping his movements slow and unhurried as he walked through the Leaky Cauldron and back into Muggle London. The Tube was nearby and Harry caught that, sitting next to the door and pulling the slip and the card out of his pocket. No longer surrounded by magic, he felt as if he could breathe again – even in the stuffy air of the Underground.
The card was a business card, for a law firm called Blaketon and Associates. There was an address and an appointment filled out for the January after his 25th birthday. Harry frowned over it for a moment, then put the card into his wallet, intending to burn it once he got home. The deposit slip had his name and account details on it, correctly he noted with relief, and the amount transferred from his account, showing taxation and fees on the slip. This, he very nearly dropped in shock.
The amount on the slip was well over nine hundred thousand pounds. More than enough to buy the property Mr Baker had suggested outright and pay for the materials he'd need to convert the barn, as well as pay for the trades that would do the work he couldn't. Harry stared at the slip for so long he missed his stop and had to get off and cross the platforms to get back to where he was supposed to be next, namely the architect that Mr Baker had insisted go over their rough drawn plans and convert them into an acceptable format for the council to approve once the sale had gone through.
The architect's office was part of a converted row of Georgian houses, now functioning as space for veterinarians, lawyers and other professional types. The receptionist evidently didn't think much of Harry in his casual clothes and the sour faced junior partner who came to get him appeared to share her opinion at first.
Then Harry realised the guy was annoyed he'd been assigned to a barn conversion. Apparently, country rustic was not 'his thing', and the job 'wouldn't generate the billing hours' he wanted. Harry didn't bother to reply, getting out of the uncomfortable designer chair he'd been pointed to and putting his outer jacket back on without a word. The firm had been Mr Bakers' suggestion, but Harry had spent enough of his short life feeling like he was a burden to others and wasn't going to put up with that nonsense now. Especially not as a paying customer.
The junior partner trailed him down the hallway, whining at him as he went, drawing the attention of a senior partner who popped out of his office, an aghast look on his face.
"Harry, isn't it?" he deftly got in the way, and Harry stopped in place, the only option that didn't involve knocking someone into a wall, "I'm Arnold Dale, senior here. Mr Baker is a friend Mr Heron's."
Mr Heron was the person who'd started the practice. He'd also broken a leg skiing in Italy before Christmas, which was probably why Harry had been shunted to his sour faced junior. Harry shook the hand that was being held out to him, because he didn't want to shame his mentor.
"Pleased to meet you Arnold. I'm afraid I am well past the point in my life where I stand around and let people complain that my presence is preventing someone else from doing whatever it is they want to do, so if you'll excuse me…"
The look directed over Harry's shoulder was positively poisonous. A nervous sounding gulp indicated that it had hit the mark.
"I've had a sudden cancellation," Arnold said smoothly, "So why don't you come in, I'll get Janice to bring you a cup of tea while I get the file, and I'll be with you shortly."
Harry had to admire the tact, and as he really didn't want to try and find another architect at late notice that would have Mr Baker's approval, he nodded and went into the indicated office, choosing to go stand in front of the window and watch the street. This gave the polite fiction that he was not paying attention to the stream of hissed conversation behind him, and the snapped instructions to Janice to reorganise a meeting and wipe the scowl off her face before she went in there, for heaven's sake. Harry grinned briefly and removed his jacket, dropping it across the armchair near the window. By the time Janice, her expression now professionally polite, came in with the tea the ruckus in the main office had died down. Arnold entered with a file tucked under his arm, gave her a very Significant Look and waved Harry into the chair his jacket was resting on, taking the one beside it and pouring tea into a cup on the tray. Harry accepted it, and Arnold cleared the tray to the floor before spreading the contents of the file on the low table. It contained the pictures they'd taken on Mr Bakers' old camera and the floorplan that Harry had drawn up with the measurements on it.
"Now, I've not had a chance to really look into this, so if I ask questions that seem a bit daft I hope you'll bear with me," Arnold slurped his own tea, shuffling the pictures with one hand, "Hmmm, so you want to convert it to a single dwelling? Is it listed?"
"No," Harry said, "The original owner took the roof off the Victorian barn that was there, then raised the wall heights. There isn't a lot of original timber, and what there is will need to be reworked in some areas and outright replaced in others. To be honest, I don't want it to look like a barn when we're done. I mean the outside will still be clad in wood, I was thinking larch so it would silver into the forest behind it, but beyond that, it needs to be a house."
"Hmm, that makes sense," Arnold nodded, "And we're not looking for exposed beams?"
"No thanks," Harry laughed, "But I do want to re-lay the original floor if at all possible – here," he fished out the right photo of the buckled brick floor, "It would be a pity to rip them out and throw them away."
"Rather," Arnold agreed, "I see you've done a potential floorplan, that will help. Is this height measurement accurate?"
"Yeah," Harry nodded, "Good enough for three floors I thought – I was planning on dormers in the attic – and we'd still have a decent height on the ceilings."
"Right then, let's get to it," Arnold got up, nearly tripped on the tea set which was rapidly shoved under the table and went to the tall desk against the wall. He switched on the screen, typed for a minute, then picked up something that looked like a pencil and started drawing on a thick pane of glass. Intrigued, Harry got up to look. The pane of glass was a computer screen, reacting to the touch of leadless pencil.
"Are you a gadget man, Harry?" Arnold asked and Harry grinned sheepishly, shrugging and sticking his hands in his jean pockets.
"I would be if I had the budget. This is your design tool?"
"Straightens my crooked lines and lets me get the proportions right," Arnold agreed, "It's not just an architects tool – people are drawing pictures on them, graphic design consultants do their sign writing and business card layouts, you could even use it for your carpentry really."
Harry watched avidly as the barn took shape. For the rest of the appointment he spent nearly as much attention on the tools used as the final design, and when he walked out of the office with the plans nearly finalised, he also had a list of the technology used to draw them.
0o0o0o0
A brief lunch at a café near the Tube station and Harry headed for his next appointment of the day, which was the specialty tool shop that Mr Baker had requested he go to collect some tools his mentor had ordered.
Because the Tube doesn't take you to the door of every location you want to go to (despite Transport for London doing their level best to make it so), Harry had a bit of a walk to Mr Bakers' preferred speciality store, taking him through a more industrial section of the city. There were mechanics and various trade shops around, including a car lot, where a glint of dark blue caught Harry's eye. It was a Land Rover, with the traditional white roof and boxy shape. While he had passed his driver's test three weeks ago, driving the van everywhere, even for groceries, was a little daunting. The smaller, more car shaped option that he was looking at now would be a good run around vehicle and the space in the back could be used for delivering smaller commissions.
From the sidewalk it looked ok, but Harry had once been treated to having Uncle Vernon read a letter from Aunt Marge aloud at breakfast, detailing the woes of Colonel Bradley who had bought a second hand car and not done well. Aunt Petunia had tutted disapprovingly the whole time, leaving Harry with the impression that second hand cars were slightly evil. Mr Weasley's Ford Anglia had certainly proved that there was more to them than meets the eye.
This one, however, looked solid from where he was standing. Which didn't mean a lot really, because he knew things that looked good weren't necessarily so. Harry was still observant of his surroundings, and he'd noticed a bunch of mechanics around the corner that he had passed on his way here, so Harry back tracked, stuck his head around the door of a shop that seemed to have the appropriate mixture of tidiness and dirt and asked if he could pay the going rate for an hour to have someone come with him to look at a car.
The manager himself agreed to go, intrigued by the offer. He made the salesperson who popped up when they walked over to the car very unhappy by immediately crawling under it and wriggling around underneath, tugging on various things. Harry listened patiently to the sales patter, climbing into the driver's seat obediently and allowing the salesperson to point out all the features. It wasn't the most modern of vehicles, given its age, and Harry popped the hood for the mechanic when directed, hopping out and going to look at the engine himself.
"It's not the original engine, not even reconditioned," the mechanic muttered, "But that may be better if you're not buying it as a collectable."
"No," Harry agreed, "I need it to be a working car, hauling heavy objects sometimes."
"It will do that," the mechanic agreed, "There is a tow bar fitted, and it's a proper job too, and this engine will pull well. I'd recommend taking it to your local and getting it over the pits, but the underneath is solid and the engine looks ok at first glance. If you test drive it, I'll come along – the noise will tell us a lot."
"I'll get one organised," Harry agreed, relieved it seemed ok so far.
"And tell him its worth at least five thousand pounds less – they're charging original prices for non-original parts."
Harry organised the test drive, with the salesperson hopping up in the back unhappily, sitting on the originally fitted bench seats which didn't have seatbelts. It was a diesel engine, and rumbled to life obediently. The mechanic grunted in approval and Harry moved the car off the lot carefully, speeding up once they were in traffic. The gears weren't too stiff, which was good as he was still a little hesitant over changes, being used to the vans tighter box. The mechanic made some friendly suggestions and after five minutes Harry was comfortably driving along.
Negotiating the price down was easier with the mechanic glaring over his shoulder and Harry authorised the funds transfer with a sense of a job well done. The mechanic arranged to be there when he picked the car up the next day, to ensure there was no swapping of tires or any other hijinks and Harry went on to his afternoon errand with a sense of accomplishment.
0o0oo0
He rumbled quietly into Mr Baker's yard the next afternoon with a sense of triumph. The long drive from London had let him really get used to the car, and the delay in picking it up had let him work on finding the required insurance. He'd also had time to make an appointment at the bank tomorrow to sort out what he was going to do with such a large sum. He'd take the car to be looked over by the village mechanic as well – she was sure to spot any potential problems.
"What's all this then?" Mr Baker came out of the workshop and squinted suspiciously at Harry, "I'm sure I didn't order a car."
Harry grinned and waved his mentor into the driver's seat.
"The inheritance was a fair bit more than I expected, sir," he said while Mr Baker did the grown up equivalent of vroom-vroom that everyone did when they got into a new car, "And it has a tow bar, so if we wanted to get a trailer, like you mentioned the other day, well now we can. We can use it for smaller deliveries too."
"You don't have to justify yourself to me lad," Mr Baker smiled kindly, "I was stirring you, is all. You got it all sorted out then?"
"Mostly," Harry nodded, "But for now I've done what was needed. Thing is, I'll be able to afford the property myself. You won't need to put anything in at all, except of course, your expertise. That I'll need lots of."
"Are you sure lad? You should put something by, in case of emergencies," Mr Baker frowned, and Harry pulled out the ATM balance he'd got at his last rest stop, handing it over for inspection. Even with his little spree in London, the balance was still over the nine hundred thousand mark.
"I've got an appointment at the bank tomorrow to talk about putting away half," he informed the gobsmacked man, "But I think I want to put the rest into the house. It's a good investment, and one day I might need a big home."
"It is a good investment," Mr Baker agreed, getting out of the car, "Well, I won't talk you out of it. A man should set up his life when he can. Did you at least remember to pick up my order?"
"Yes sir," Harry pulled the keys from the ignition and walked to the back, opening the door there. He cringed a little at the dire look Mr Baker gave him, then shrugged. Arnold's list had been very helpful when it came to purchasing the computer gear and digital camera in the back, and there was an extra set of planes, power tools and drill bits in the back, along with the chisels that had been ordered.
"Well I can't complain you're not committed to the craft," Mr Baker laughed and they started unloading the car together.
Over the next few weeks Harry set up his funds with a view to cautious and long term investment, had the car worked over by the local mechanic Suzy Peters (who would have lectured him severely about buying second hand without her approval had he not hired a 'foreign mechanic' to at least look at the superficial things), and put an offer in on the barns which was accepted.
With his newly purchased computer gear (mainly a very powerful laptop to run the graphics surface) Harry spent long evenings converting several of the designs he'd learned to hand draw into digital images, supplanted with finished product images from the digital camera. Using search engines and references from the local library he reworked Mr Bakers' website, and they saw an almost instant increase in traffic and queries for work to be done.
Arnold Dale sent through his designs, both electronically and on paper. One of the paper sets went to the council with planning permission forms, that both Harry and Mr Baker had slaved over meticulously, the other was stored carefully away. Mr Baker had contacted the Tradesman Guild regarding the conversion and had got several masters in their fields to agree to have their apprentices work on Harry's house as part of their assessment pieces. Harry was happy with this, as the work would be doubly inspected, once by the teacher and once by the building inspector who had to certify the house was up to scratch.
Once the property was purchased, Harry started making frames for windows and exterior doors, including the giant double height space that would replace the existing doors. He also spent his off hours not working with Mr Baker, carefully prising up the brick floor in the barn, wanting to preserve as many as possible for reuse. Arnold Dale had talked Harry into under floor heating, something that was big in Europe and mostly untried in Britain, which meant the bricks couldn't be reused inside. Harry had elected for polished concrete on the ground floor instead, since they would have to redo the foundations anyway, and the concrete could be laid thinly enough to get the maximum benefit. He'd also talked Harry into triple glazing and super insulating the barn, explaining that a poorly insulated area would require a pile of money to heat and cool. When Harry wasn't online maintaining the website, he was searching for contractors that had the products he needed for the still to be approved house.
He still squeezed in Sunday's at the pub though, knowing he needed a break from all things responsible now and then. Ben, it turned out, was captain of the local cricket team, and he talked Harry into joining the side as a fielder. With winter receding they were starting their practice sessions again. Harry was as good a catch as ever, and turned out to be pretty deadly with a bat as well. The sessions always ended with a pint at the pub, where Harry discovered that cider was an acceptable alcoholic substitute for beer, though he still drank less than the others.
It was busy and tiring and exhilarating all at once. He had been fortunate to befriend Mr Baker, and Ben Pond (while not Ron or Hermione by any means) was a decent bloke to knock about with. While the house was sure to be an enormous project he looked forward to the skills and techniques he was going to be learning. It might not be a life with Magic in it, but it was certainly not a substitute or second best. As choices went, walking in this direction from Hogwarts had been a good one.
0o0o0o0
"Alright there Harry?" Ben Pond shoved Harry along the bench companionably and settled down with his pint and a packet of pork scratching's that he split open and left between them. This was their habit now, and even Joe had stopped making his crack about police brutality.
"Alright Ben," Harry rescued his cider from in front of the copper, "How's the revision going?"
Ben was studying for his Sargent's exam and hating every minute of it. There was a reason, he declared loudly and at frequent intervals, he hadn't gone to Uni. The grimace he pulled in response to Harry's kindly question was one for the books, that's for sure. It was a pity Phil wasn't here, he'd started rating them on a scale, and this one was a beauty.
"How's the build?" Ben asked without elaborating further, "Didn't you have final inspection today?"
Harry beamed.
"We passed," he said quietly, "It's officially liveable."
"Congratulations," Ben crowed, "The last twelve months were worth it then."
"Yeah, now it's just building furniture, getting those refurbished couches back from the upholsterers and buying pots and pans and things," Harry shuddered. He was acquisitive when it came to gadgets, as attested by the new mobile in his pocket, however the idea of buying sheets and cushions left him cold. He'd avoided the need for curtains by building custom wooden shutters on every window, but there was only so much carpentry could do. He didn't fancy carving out knives and forks, nor did he want to sleep between two sheets of plywood as Simon had suggested once.
"Are you still planning to take boarders?" Ben asked and Harry shrugged.
"In a couple of months, maybe," he sighed, "Once I've had a chance to get things set up properly and move in myself. The garden will need a tonne of work, and Mr Baker wants to start on the small barn so we have a larger workshop. Probably best to leave it for a while, so I can get organised."
Also, he wanted to buy some books. He'd decided to split the space on the ground floor with book cases and at the moment they were quite empty. He was toying with an online spending spree once he'd bought the things he couldn't make himself. He was tired of borrowing the same books from the library to re-read (he had favourites) and he wanted to expand his history texts as well, particularly the architecture side of it.
"Only my lease ends soon," Ben continued in a deliberately casual voice and Harry realised his friend was fishing for a room to let.
"Well I dunno," he sipped his cider, "I mean, I hang out with a copper, and he has these standards…"
"Prat," Ben informed him.
"When does the lease end?" Harry asked, thinking about the bedroom furniture he needed to make for himself. The rooms were to be let unfurnished, but he needed to make his own. The master bedroom even had a private bathroom so he didn't have to share, which would be a first in his life.
"Two months' time," Ben replied, "I'd pay the going rate, of course."
"I haven't even worked out what that is, Ben," Harry laughed, "Two months it is. You can have pick of the rooms. Not the masters, though."
"Ta mate," Ben toasted him and they both looked up as the door opened and Phil and Simon came in, spotted them and headed for the bar, waving vaguely as they did. Harry looked at his friend and they chugged the dregs of their drinks in anticipation of the new rounds headed their way.
In two months, Harry had made the required furniture, purchased the required essentials by way of linen, towels and kitchen accoutrement and had even bought an enormous Union flag pillow that had pride of place in the sitting area of the barns main floor. Groceries had been got in and Mr Baker had formally kicked him out of the stone cottage. Harry had loaded his car to the roof and driven to his new home.
Mr Baker was coming for Sunday lunch, prior to the Sunday pub visit, and would be over in the morning to continue with the workshop conversion in the back barn. The extra space was coming in handy already as they'd lucked into a consignment of wood that needed storage in a dry place, the rafters of the small barn providing the perfect location. They'd also found some of the original timbers of the big barn stored there, and these were being put into storage for later use as well. Harry had had the small barns roof replaced with tile shingles when the big barn got its fancy dormered copper roof; which he was pleased to see was already developing a nice patina. The horizontally placed larch was also beginning to weather.
Putting all of his things away in his own self-made furniture, and making his own bed made the house he'd built a bit realer to Harry. He'd been moving things in, in bits and pieces, as the house was finished. The kitchen was stocked with everything he'd ever need for both cooking and consumption, and he'd got groceries in a couple of days ago. Ben was due tomorrow morning with his own furniture and things, which left Harry to make beans on toast for his first meal in his own home before retiring with a cup of tea to the area designated the television area. The refurbished-by-his-fellow-apprentices chesterfield couches had been moved in weeks ago and left to sit in place – Harry would move them around once he was sure where he wanted them. The leather club chairs he'd bought from a local estate sale were among the mix of things to align and arrange too, adding to his list. He'd built bookshelves that acted as dividers in the ground floor, and the section that was at the 'front' was split into three areas – TV, sitting (in front of the staircase) and his study. Harry had left his 'gadgets' with Mr Baker until he was in the house full time, but the TV and media players he'd delivered and left to set up tonight, as well as finally arranging his books.
Harry may well have been one of the few people to read the appliance instructions cover to cover prior to installation, but these documents were almost unintelligible. In the end he tossed them aside and experimented swapping cables around until everything was in the right hole and there was a picture with sound on the screen. Mr Baker had bought him a copy of Mary Poppins as a joke and Harry tested the connection between the media player and the TV as well, ending up watching the whole thing while he drank his cold tea. After that there were books to arrange and furniture to shift.
Boxes dragged out to the garbage, washing up done, and entertainment centre set up to his satisfaction, Harry switched off the lights downstairs and headed up the curved staircase Mr Baker had insisted he learn to make to the first floor, guided by the light from the double height glass that replaced the ridiculous barn doors. There were French doors in the centre at ground floor level, currently letting out onto a small brick patio and the quagmire that was the front garden after Harry had it dug up to lay the piping for his geothermal under floor heating. He was thinking about garden beds as he stepped into the hallway, the wooden floors that he'd laid also warmed by the underfloor heating.
The quiet of the house pressed on him for a moment, but Harry put that aside. There were people moving in over the next few weeks and this would be the only night he had the place to himself. He resolved to enjoy it while he could.
0o0o0o0
Two months later the house was practically full. In addition to Ben, there was an engaged couple who had rented two of the dormered attic spaces and the bathroom between them as they saved for their wedding and a house deposit. There were two women in the other two attic dormer rooms, sharing the other bathroom, one a vet nurse, the other a teller at the bank. The new junior vicar had moved in as well, a nice bloke called David who didn't seem to mind that the house was a shared space. They had Friday night Sport (whatever was on the telly) which became something of a tradition that involved copious snacks, friends coming over and cramming onto couches and the floor and a lot of noise. Mr Baker attended, and had his own reservation on the comfiest armchair.
Sunday was baked dinner day, since the first had been so successful. The double kitchen islands earned their keep as Harry prepped a meal for anything from eight to fifteen every Sunday. He'd installed a very large gas stove, not wanting anything that looked like Aunt Petunia's kitchen, and wrapped both the islands with planed down planking from the barns' exterior. The cabinets were made of the same material, as was the top of the dining table that everyone sat at and the tops of the benches everyone sat on. He had fitted a custom wooden door over the fridge to disguise it and over the dishwasher that he really enjoyed using, making the cabinetry seamless. The kitchen and dining area were pushed closer together as Harry had a laundry and pantry behind the kitchen back wall and a bathroom and foyer behind the dining room. The exterior wall was a series of triple glazed doors that Harry had built the frames for, and allowed a view of the back garden and forest behind it. In winter, that meant a snow-covered vista, a pleasant backdrop to their meal. In summer, it meant that side of the house would be completely open to the garden and the large bricked area outside the doors (made from more of his recycled bricks from the original barn floor).
So far, Harry had learnt to roast chickens, letting the dripping fall down onto the root vegetables below (thanks to Simon's grandmother), the traditional honey glazed ham and leg of lamb (not on the same day) and the Vicar had introduced him to the art of steaming the vegetables that weren't being roasted. Junior Vicar, as he was affectionately known, had taught Harry a couple of gravy recipes that he hadn't known and that would have had Aunt Petunia green with envy. The housemates were responsible for pudding, which was usually something from the frozen section of the local Morrison's, but as long as he didn't have to make it Harry didn't care.
Today there were only ten people, the seven housemates, Mr Baker of course, the local vet and the Vicar. Harry wiped his built-by-fellow-apprentices concrete counters down as the vegetables and meat roasted and listened to the many conversations going on around the house. This was the benefit of having such a large space, he mused.
"What say you, young Harry?" the Vicar called from where he was sitting at the dining table, a crossword being shared between him and Mr Baker who had pride of place in the chair Harry had built specially for him to sit at its head.
"Sorry, Vicar, I wasn't paying attention. What say I to what?" Harry asked, pulling out the veg that was to be steamed and starting on his prep work there.
"That front garden of yours," the Vicar gestured to the quagmire that Harry had finally managed to level out with rakes and shovels. It was a mud patch, but it was at least a tidy one, "Prime spot for some vegetables."
"Not in the front garden!" the vet called from the sitting area that looked over Harry's mud, "You want wildflowers and a meadow there."
"Actually, I am thinking of building raised beds and gravelling in between them. I probably need to install some irrigation too," Harry replied, "The back garden is a better spot for leisure and flowers and things, and for the beehives I want to get in eventually. But the front is perfect for vegetables, and I'd really like to be able to cook my own produce."
"Bees?" David asked, coming in from the TV room and accepting the knife and pile of veg to prep with good grace. That was the rule, if Harry was cooking you stayed out of the kitchen or you helped.
"Yeah," Harry grinned, "I like the idea of harvesting my own honey. And they're good for the gardens."
"Well if you do get some hives in, my parents have always had bees. I'd be happy to help teach you how to keep them. My parents might even be able to give you some lessons."
"I'll get back to you," Harry grinned, filling pots to start the water boiling and pulling out the bamboo steamers that were a house warming gift from the Vicar. He pulled out silverware and plates, stacking them on the other island, as well as glasses. He'd gotten some serving platters in the local charity shop that were unfashionable now, old and heavy but not broken, with crackling in the glaze; the meal would go on them, but the rest of the housemates would come and set the table and sort out drinks and things when the timer went off on the roast. They would put whatever frozen pies or pastries into the oven to heat while the meal was eaten, and serve up once dinner was cleared. The routine was well established.
"Well if it's advice you want, lad, you can't do better than that young Zoe Oakden at the Green Man. It's not just the local nursery – she's working with the National Trust on British biodiversity and conservation efforts. She wouldn't steer you wrong about the set up," the Vicar said and Harry smiled.
"Thanks. I'll look into it," he agreed, and bent his attention to the horseradish sauce he was making to go with the roast beef that was for dinner.
0o0o0o0
