Acknowledgment: None of this is mine—it all belongs to JKR. Proceed accordingly.
AN: Thanks to everyone who has taken the time to read the opening chapters, with special thanks to those leaving a note.
Merit and Inheritance
Chapter Five
Magical Business
Pansy left for home soon after Romilda departed Fortescue's. She'd intended to finish her strolling through Diagon Alley but decided instead to pass by a greengrocer's she liked and pick up some more salad components. She opened the door to her flat and put her purchases in the sink. The greens went into a bowl of water to soak, and Pansy decided to give herself the same.
Lying back in the tub was supposed to let her relax and get rid of the tension from her day of running around and strange revelations. Instead, she found that the only thing she could think about was Romilda's tale of marriage and widowhood. Then there were those curious questions about whether Pansy's line of work was helping people disappear, and if an owl could find her.
Pansy formed competing theories before she finished her soak. Romilda might not be in immediate danger but there was a possibility someone from her late husband's family would blame her for his death and seek retribution. She'd also mentioned her 'late step-son,' whatever that meant. The other possibility was that Romilda was a very young widow, who seemed to have come away from her short marriage with a little bit of capital. Perhaps she was anticipating the word would get out and she'd become a target for magical gigolos and fortune hunters.
Pansy stood up and pulled the stopper from the drain. Turning, she studied herself in the full-length mirror that hung on the back of the bathroom door. She had a tendency to put on a little more roundness at her waist than she liked. She didn't look out of proportion today. Pansy did a lot of sit-ups and leg lifts. She wasn't trying to overdo the definition, she just wanted a flat belly.
She turned left, then right. She thought she looked a little saggy in back. That would not do. Pansy resolved to find more steps to climb, or perhaps a hill she could run up and down. She checked up top. Perfect, as always. She knew before she looked.
Almost dry by the time she'd finished her self-evaluation, Pansy took her bathrobe from the row of pegs next to the door and left for the kitchen.
Cutting up vegetables for her salad was an exercise in concentration. Pansy knew if she started rerunning her conversation with Romilda Vane she'd undoubtedly slice open a thumb, which wasn't a huge problem for a witch with a wand and a repertoire of healing charms. It slowed things down, though, and it hurt.
Salad built, anointed with oil, vinegar, black pepper and lemon juice, Pansy sat down in her little combination living and dining room and began to eat. She remembered her salad from lunch and how good the bread had tasted. She had a half baguette left in the breadbox that rested on the kitchen counter. She broke a generous chunk from the baguette and put it on a small plate next to her salad bowl, reminding herself to go easy as she already had to increase her sit-ups and find that hill to run up.
Next morning, Pansy allowed herself one boiled egg and a single, half-slice of toast, dry. Her calendar said she had the afternoon free. She'd been needing to make the trip to the Parkinson Estate to check on her mother. Essentially a widow, although Lord Parkinson was alive, if incarceration in Azkaban qualifies, Mrs. Parkinson gardened, with the help of some elves, and played cards with a small group of witches around her age.
The Parkinsons also had a hill, not too steep, that Pansy thought might be just the thing to restore perkiness to her tailward aspect. She had been late in getting a backside worthy of comment, so she was especially appreciative of hers, when it was looking its best. She resolved to spare no effort in putting things right back there.
"Morning, Harry," Pansy called when she entered the office.
Harry Potter lowered the Daily Prophet as he swung his feet down from his desk. His chair gave an extended squeak as he straightened up and swiveled to face Pansy.
"Good morning, Pansy," Harry said. "Do anything interesting after work?"
"As a matter of fact," Pansy said, "No."
"Pity," said Harry. "Me neither."
"As luck would have it, though, something interesting did happen to me, without me doing anything," Pansy said.
"Be careful," Harry said as his danger detectors began to spin. "Those can open up into real situations before you know what is happening. Then you've got your hands full."
"Oddly enough," Pansy began as she sat down.
Pansy told Harry about her stop for ice cream at Fortescue's, Romilda Vane's appearance, and her tale of marriage and widowhood.
"Just a bit strange she thinks she has to go to ground in Muggle London, though, isn't it?" Harry asked.
"I thought so," said Pansy. "If she's trying to disappear, why come right back home, especially if she has a little money to spend? Why not Montreal? Sydney?"
Harry watched Pansy's face. It appeared she liked the idea of a Montreal or a Sydney.
"Ever been to either?" Harry asked.
"No, I read about them in travel magazines," said Pansy.
"Okay, so we have a check mark on the list, next to Romilda's name, we know she's in Britain and she's safe, as of yesterday. Location undetermined, other than a muggle hotel somewhere near Oxford High Street," Harry said. "Have you done any more thinking about Morag?"
"Yes, I have," said Pansy. "Harry, I think we should leave her alone. Maintain contact but hands-off. I thought it over and she feels she has a duty. Madam MacDougal's time is short and Morag wants to make her feel safe and as happy as she can for whatever's left to her."
"We agree, then," said Harry. "Can you check on her every couple of weeks? And, if her mother goes, offer our help. Afterwards, too. She'll need a job, I expect, unless there is a lot more to that little farm than what we saw yesterday."
"Of course, Harry," said Pansy.
Harry wasn't saying anything. He just sat there, apparently fascinated by the corner where the ceiling met the wall behind her.
"Romilda?"
"Yes. No. I don't know," said Harry. "Related to Romilda, I guess. Feel like going over to the ministry and looking through the marriage registry? I wonder if Romilda got married here, or at her husband's? There might be some interesting reading in the archives."
"Of course, Harry," said Pansy. "Anything after that?"
"Doubt it, unless something new comes in," Harry said. "You've made notes? Or you can, by the time we're done this afternoon?"
"I've made notes," said Pansy, "First draft. I can get you a clean copy, with edits, by the end of the day."
"Why don't you write everything up? Tomorrow's fine," said Harry. "There's something I've been wanting to get done, so I'll be out this afternoon. Might not come back at all. If not, I'll see you in the morning."
Harry made sure Pansy was gone, then he let himself out and locked up. He didn't know if he'd be back in the event Pansy returned to the office, but she had access, with her wand, to everything except a small personal safe that sat behind Harry's desk.
Harry's office was in a modest building located on a little magical mews convenient to Diagon Alley. Harry found the building right after the end of the fighting. He'd walked past and saw a sign on the door saying it was for sale. The whole building looked vacant. The location indicated it was used to magical occupants, and, by extension, accustomed to lots of spells, wards, hexes, jinxes and maintenance charms. He contacted the agent and was quoted a very favorable price. Harry decided to take a chance on Magical Britain's recovery, met with a mortgage officer at Gringotts' and bought his first piece of real estate. He'd had to put up #12 Grimmauld Place as collateral. He didn't think he was really putting his inheritance from Sirius at risk because he believed in the magical economy's ability to bounce back, stronger than ever, following the removal of Voldemort.
Roughly seven years on, events proved Harry right. He'd kept the ground floor for the offices of Harry Potter and Associates. There were two more floors above the office. They'd been used mostly for storage. When he'd acquired the building, the top floor had lost most of its windows and sported layers of bat and pigeon droppings. Harry brought Kreacher from #12 Grimmauld Place and showed him the mess.
"Can you do this? Without straining your magic, of course?" he asked.
"If Kreacher could suggest, Master, there are elves who specialize in these, ahh, unusually difficult situations?"
"Of course," Harry said. "Do you know any who do good work? Will you get in contact and get me a price?"
Kreacher took Harry literally, of course, disapparating from the top floor space and returning shortly with an elvish couple, Mort and Daisy. Mort wore what appeared to have once been the kind of shorts with large patch pockets worn by suburban householders for Saturday yard maintenance. Mort's feet were bare and his outfit was completed with a child's souvenir shirt from a popular muggle theme park. Daisy was in an elf-sized gingham housedress, topped off by a carefully ironed white apron.
"Very pleased to make your acquaintance," Harry said. Kreacher's introduction had been one way, simply presenting Mort and Daisy to 'Master.'
"I'm Harry Potter, and I've just bought this building," Harry continued. There followed at least a full minute of 'Ooooh' and 'Ahhh' at the elves' good fortune in getting to meet the great wizard and defender of elves, Harry Potter. Eventually, Harry was able to continue.
"As you can see, we won't be able to use this floor until there has been a thorough cleanup. I can't even begin to think about repairs with things in this condition. I'd like…"
That was as far as he got.
Mort and Daisy turned and walked away from Harry and Kreacher, inventorying the rooms, noting tasks to be done and dividing up the labor. In a few minutes they were back.
"Can we begin?" Daisy asked.
"Can you do it?" Harry asked. He looked at Kreacher. That was what he wanted to know, originally, that and the cost.
"Absolutely, sir," said Mort. "Just give us the word."
"And the cost?" Harry asked.
Mort and Daisy looked at each other, then both turned toward Kreacher.
"Master, Mort and Daisy will appreciate the opportunity," Kreacher said. He looked at the elf couple and said something Harry didn't understand, at the same time he nudged Harry toward the hallway.
Mort and Daisy split up and went to work. Snapping fingers cleaned glass, brought animal droppings together in piles and swept gobs of cobwebs from corners.
"What?" Harry asked when he and Kreacher were alone.
"Master, the elves will be hurt if Master offers them money," Kreacher began. "Mort and Daisy are grateful for the work. If they don't exercise their magic they become ill. Master will have them fit by evening if he keeps them busy."
Harry thought over what Kreacher told him.
"In that case," he said. "Perhaps we'll continue on to the second floor when this one is clean."
Cleaning the second floor led to a discussion about repairs needed on two and three, some additional lighting, replacing the plumbing throughout the building. Mort had the new fixtures connected with the new supply and drain lines by the end of the day.
"Mort, have you done window replacement?" asked Harry.
"Yes, Master Harry," said the elf. It was obvious Mort struggled to contain his excitement. "Your building would be quite handsome if it had some new windows."
"Great," Harry said. "That is our first priority for tomorrow then—new windows throughout. Double pane? That would help keep the noise down, I think."
Mort rubbed his hands and grinned. The window job sounded like an excellent challenge.
"Our interiors need some attention," Harry said. "Daisy, what would you think you'd do if we started on a complete makeover inside these two? Patching all the plaster, stripping the wood trim, new paint? Probably one coat of a white primer on the walls, then two coats of the finish? White ceilings, I think. Colors, for the walls. We'd want to stick strictly to magical colors."
Harry's guess was correct. Daisy loved interiors, colors and magic. She wanted to get started. Harry had to remind everyone they had another day ahead, and besides, he'd called a halt to the day's work.
Harry had dinner at #12 Grimmauld Place that evening. The food was exceptional, even by Kreacher's standards. Harry watched Kreacher coming and going. All of the old lethargic air was gone. Kreacher was quick and efficient. Harry was presented with a substantial bowl of profiterole for dessert, even though he seldom requested dessert, and Kreacher generally did not plan the menu to include it.
"Something you wanted to discuss, Kreacher?" Harry asked.
Kreacher's pointed nose nearly touched the floor, his answering bow was so low.
"Since Master has asked, so kindly, Kreacher did want to inquire if Master had given any thought to the dungeon below #12 Grimmauld Place? Master might find many uses for his dungeon, were it available."
Harry kept his spoon in front of his mouth, failing to keep the grin from showing but having no other item behind which he could hide.
"The only time I looked, Kreacher," Harry said, "The dungeon was so full of…of…I don't know how to describe what's down there. It doesn't rise to the level of junk, I don't believe."
"Master is already thinking Kreacher's thoughts, so wise, so thoughtful," said the elf. "If the time comes when Master is finished working with his new building, Mort and Daisy will be seeking employment and it occurred to Kreacher that Master might wish to reclaim his dungeon, and restore it to usefulness?"
Harry thought about the uses he might have for his dungeon. If it was expandable, an indoor quidditch pitch might be one possibility. It also occurred to him that Kreacher might have fond memories of the dungeon, under the Blacks, that Harry would rather not know about.
The work on Harry's new building was done quickly and efficiently. The top two floors became apartments, for which Harry found magical renters almost immediately. The rent was sufficient to cover the monthly payment on the mortgage so Harry got his office for free.
Harry didn't know what he'd be doing in his office, although he had a feeling he was going to need an office, and that he would be wanting it in a location that got him away from his house most days. At the same time, even if he didn't want his working office at home, that didn't mean the working office couldn't have all the conveniences. Harry drew on the elves' collective expertise, cut about a third of the most extravagant options from the list, and treated himself to an office suitable for the chief executive of his organization. The elves did such a good job, and he had so much fun working with them on the project, he went right on and fixed up another office in similar style, for when he had a COO or General Manager or something of the sort.
Most of Harry's business consisted of attending to his minimal personal maintenance and monitoring his interests at Gringotts' Bank. He'd turned his real estate investment around so quickly he decided to meet with his mortgage officer and discuss refinancing. He had income from the property sufficient to service the mortgage. The apartments were snapped up as soon as he put them on the market, a strong indicator of the marketability, and therefore profitability of the building.
Harry sat across the desk and made his case. He didn't expect the goblin to be an easy sell. He was a goblin, and he loaned money. Difficult combination.
"And, of course, you or one of your colleagues is welcome to make a personal visit and look around, at any time," Harry concluded.
The mortgage officer studied the pages Harry brought showing the purchase price, the income from the two apartments, and the property description.
"You did this in less than three months, Mr. Potter," declared the goblin.
"Um, I suppose so," Harry said, trying to remember the timeline for his purchase.
"From derelict building to profitable investment, so quickly," said the goblin. "Remarkable, for a wizard…"
Harry looked up. He knew about goblin prejudices, of course, every wizard did. He must have let his guard down and shown displeasure.
"I mean no offense, of course, Mr. Potter," the goblin said, "Merely an observation. Well, I think Gringotts can accommodate you. You wish to refinance, paying off the old mortgage, redeeming the lien on #12 Grimmauld Place, and pledging the property itself as collateral for the loan. Have I stated everything correctly?"
"Yes, exactly," Harry said.
The goblin looked at a ledger, drawing a fingernail down a column of figures.
"Right," he said when he turned back toward Harry. "In essence, Gringotts initiates a new loan, for which the same fees that applied when you borrowed the original amount will be charged. There are fixed costs involved in loan origination that the bank must recover even if the original loan is only a few months old. You will need to apply for the loan as you did before. I'll have the parchment ready for signature tomorrow afternoon. The bank will get an independent appraisal so that an accurate figure appears in the mortgage documentation. I don't doubt you've added considerable value to the property just by occupying it and cleaning it up. Its condition before, well, that's the reason for the very favorable price you paid, isn't it?"
"It needed some work, certainly," Harry allowed.
"Yes, excellent observation," said the mortgage officer, peering at Harry from across his desk. "I can almost see a little goblin around the eyes. Are you sure you are all wizard, not, perhaps, a distant relation?"
That got to Harry, who laughed out loud, stood, and extended his hand across the desk.
"Pleasure doing business," Harry said.
"The pleasure is ours, Mr. Potter, make no mistake," said his interlocutor. "I look forward to many years of partnership."
Harry had a little income from earnings on investments, primarily shares in the profits of two potions that were perennial best-sellers with no effective competition in the market. Harry's building marked his first foray into making something of himself. He could have lived frugally on the bit of income he'd inherited. He knew people who did. He'd taken away a lesson from his tumultuous early life, though. One never knew what tomorrow would bring. What if tomorrow brought disaster? Then one might be glad to have a bit put aside.