Merit and Inheritance
Chapter Six
Tragedy, Comedy, Mystery
After Harry sent Pansy to do some reading-in at the Ministry Records Office he stood outside his office door and considered his options for going home. It was a nice day, so he decided to walk. He lingered in the entryway and cast a little occlusion charm. He didn't feel like stopping for conversation, either in Diagon Alley or walking through Muggle London.
While he walked, he thought. He considered Morag's situation from this perspective and that. He concluded Pansy had settled on the right approach and put Morag out of his mind.
Harry wondered if Pansy was aware Romilda'd had a serious schoolgirl crush on him? He certainly hadn't forgotten. It had nearly cost Ron Weasley his life, although the end of that chain of events wasn't entirely Romilda's fault. It would be interesting to see what Pansy turned up in the archives, if anything. Pansy showed real concern when she was recounting her conversation with Romilda. If she was lucky, Romilda's story sounded worse than it was.
Harry's route took him past a magical news agent and coffee bar that was one of the reasons he'd chosen to live in London. The periodicals on sale were predominantly magical with a few popular muggle imprints of the lotto, football results and big color photo variety. Harry seldom picked up a paper or magazine, of any sort. He'd tried reading, after the Battle of Hogwarts, as a diversion and part of his therapy. He couldn't maintain his focus, which obviated the purpose of the exercise. Harry did often go around with a paperback volume of one of Shakespeare's plays, which he could read, as long as he was alone and could read all the parts aloud. He had no idea why that worked, just that it did.
The coffee bar served an excellent espresso. Harry ordered a double, and a glass of ice water, which he took to a round, stand-up table near the front window, sipping while he studied the street. Harry had to reverse his occlusion when he entered, otherwise he would not have been able to order his espresso. He hoped his location in the room would be sufficient for him to escape notice. The pedestrians he watched were writing novels, if one suspended judgment and left them alone. Novels to become lost in. Harry considering the muggle pedestrians very gracious to act out their novels for a damaged wizard who couldn't read a novel for pleasure.
"Hello, Harry," said a voice at Harry's elbow. Harry knew who it was without turning, because it was such a beautiful voice, one he often heard in his dreams. The owner was about the same height as Harry, with a headful of wavy hair that sat at the intersection of honey and lightly browned toast. He was smiling before he twisted around to say hello to the voice's owner.
"Daphne," he said. "You're…here."
"I am," she said.
"Can you stay for a coffee? Tea? Butterbeer?" Harry asked.
"I didn't know they served butterbeer here," said Daphne.
"I just took a guess," Harry said. "I don't know, either, whether, I mean."
Daphne gave him a skeptical look.
"So, Harry, what is going on with you?" Daphne asked. She had a way of cutting through unnecessary impedimenta to get to the information she really wanted.
"Business," said Harry. "I own a building, or two, and there is another one available. I think I'm going to make an offer."
"And your do-gooding?"
"Oh, I try," said Harry. "First, do no harm. It applies to do-gooding just like it does in healing."
Daphne looked like she wanted to compliment Harry for the wisdom he was showing. Instead she simply nodded.
Harry waited for Daphne to say something, anything, just to keep the conversation going, but it didn't seem like she was interested enough. She was still standing there, looking at him, though. Could it hurt to try a little harder? Oh, why not?
"Can I get you something? Or we could go somewhere, maybe have something to eat? It's early, I know…"
Daphne stared into Harry's eyes, not reacting at all. A smile did break through, finally.
"I do happen to be free," Daphne said.
"Not expected home? Sorry, that's prying, isn't it?" said Harry.
"No, and yes," Daphne advised, "Prying isn't a capital crime, last time I looked."
"Thank Merlin," Harry said. "So, espresso here, or do I drink up and we depart?"
"It's early, for dinner," said Daphne.
"We could pass by the house," Harry suggested. "You haven't seen it since it's been cleaned up. You won't be in mortal danger, I promise."
Daphne showed Harry her Sphinx face again.
"Fine," she said, her decision carrying the weight of an official pronouncement. "I suppose you're walking?"
She knew he was odd that way, for a wizard.
"I was," Harry said. "We don't have to."
"Oh, I don't want to miss the observations of this and that along the way," said Daphne.
Harry took his last sip of espresso. Stepping out onto the old-fashioned cast iron steps, he held the door open for Daphne as she followed him out and down onto the sidewalk.
"Hold still," he said, casting his occlusionary charm on the two of them.
The distance from the espresso bar to #12 Grimmauld Place wasn't long, not quite two miles. Harry tried not to overdo the observation of the street scene. He hadn't decided just how to take Daphne's comment on his customary tour-guidance. Maybe he was too wordy or came off sounding judgmental. That might be a subject for some future meditation.
They approached #12 from the far side of the park. Harry always liked coming up on the house from that direction. The row of townhouses was pleasing to look at, a handsome London block with an ageless quality. He calculated the timing of his charm so the steps appeared for them just when they were needed.
"Please," Harry said, motioning Daphne to go ahead.
"Kreacher," said Daphne.
"Miss Daphne," Kreacher replied as he bowed in greeting. "Welcome back to #12 Grimmauld Place."
"Perhaps a pot of tea, Kreacher?" Harry said. "Miss Daphne may wish to freshen up, then, if it pleases her, I suggest the garden."
Harry looked over at Daphne, awaiting an answer to the implied question, but Daphne didn't feel like giving anything away. She handed Kreacher her cloak, something diaphanous, probably acromantula silk, then stood still while she looked over the foyer, floor to ceiling.
"Wherever you want to entertain a guest, Harry," Daphne said. "I will take a moment, thank-you. I can see from here the powder room has had a makeover."
Harry left her to it and went on to the garden at the rear of the building. He was still pondering the pros and cons of his prospective real estate deal when Harry heard the latch to the patio door.
"I took the liberty," Daphne said as she stepped out of the house, into the townhouse garden, carrying a tray with a teapot, two cups and two saucers.
Harry wondered how she had managed to get Kreacher to agree to that. Perhaps his elf had a secret soft spot.
"Oh, thank-you," Harry said as he stood. He'd never get to the bottom of it, so he'd be as gracious as possible and move on.
"The kitchen is spectacular, Harry," Daphne said. "You could open a restaurant with that kitchen."
"Most of it was here, if you can believe it," Harry said. "Kreacher really turned it on. The key was getting everything out. There was a place for nearly all of it, but over the years the disorganization won out. Kreacher put it all somewhere, then came the cleaning, the trash-hauling, and the painting, then he brought everything back in and polished it before putting it away. That's what you see now."
Harry thought perhaps he was going on too long and decided to shut up. He picked up his teacup and put it to his lips, to make sure he wouldn't talk for a bit.
"The garden looks nice," Daphne said.
Harry didn't want to talk about the garden. He wanted to know what Daphne Greengrass was doing, showing up at one of his magical London hangouts. Daphne was a magical society healer. A pureblood witch herself, her typical patient was from old money and lots of it. She wouldn't have set foot in his magical newsstand/coffee bar on any imaginable errand save looking for Harry Potter. Harry wondered if he was conversationally capable of teasing out Daphne's motivation. Did he have the necessary skill?
"Thank-you," said Harry. "That's Kreacher and two gardening elves he knows from somewhere. Their magic is something to see. They can't get rid of the stalks and dead leaves, for some reason. I supply a good-sized bag and they stuff it full and take it with them when they go. I've no idea what they do with it all."
Something about Harry's mystery, or the elves, or all of it put together struck Daphne as very funny. She let out what was certainly a suppressed chuckle which got Harry laughing along. With the ice broken, Harry and Daphne traded queries and answers concerning what each had been doing since they last saw one another. Harry topped up the tea cups regularly, going through his best perfect host motions, hoping he was getting them right. Eventually the pot of tea was dry and all the tea was in their cups, being sipped. When they were done, they looked across the table.
"Did you want to get something to eat?" Harry asked.
"This has gone so well, Harry," said Daphne. "Can we save that? For the next time?"
Harry must have shot her a questioning look.
"Yes, I will agree to a next time," Daphne added, in explanation.
Harry nodded, and stood. He held out his hand.
"I've learned never to question your judgment," he said.
Harry kept Daphne's hand in his, not really gripping it, as they walked back through the main hall of #12 Grimmauld Place. Kreacher waited at the front door, ready to hand Daphne her beautiful cloak.
"Well, then," Harry said. "Until."
"Yes, Harry," said Daphne. She added a beautiful smile, as a full stop, perhaps. Then she stepped onto the top step of #12 Grimmauld Place and disapparated.
"More tea, Master Harry?" asked Kreacher.
"Excellent suggestion, Kreacher," said Harry. "I'll be in the garden."
Harry sat at the steel patio table, thinking about magical London real estate. He found it fascinating, the way some people dress for the weather and go out birding, first thing in the morning, every day. It was one of the subjects that could give his mind a place to rest, to get away from the puzzles he couldn't solve. Open-ended questions, like, what in Hades did Daphne Greengrass have on her mind?
Harry put that aside, knowing it would be there, waiting, whenever he let his idle mind find its own subject matter. In the meantime, he'd think about making a couple of galleons.
Magical real estate was a rarefied commodity. There was only so much of it. A wizard could buy a few acres out of town someplace. If it didn't have the local muggle swimming hole on it, the land could accept enchantments for a wide variety of purposes. The wizard could take it all the way to occlusion, if he wanted to. Again, the presumption being the local muggle community wouldn't miss some well-established feature.
Urban blocks, on the other hand, seldom featured in mundane-to-magical conversions. When both economies were growing, the demand for business fronts and housing ensured an offer would be forthcoming for almost any vacancy. A wizard could buy a non-magical building, it went without saying. However, he'd have a difficult time occluding an established landmark, were that a necessary part of his site plan.
That was the genesis of Harry's accumulation of magical real estate. Even if he didn't have an immediate purpose when he bought it, Harry discovered those had a way of emerging, once he had acquired the asset. His formula was the same as when he had bought and improved his very modest, first building near Diagon Alley. Given a solid structure, Harry, Kreacher, Mort and Daisy could handle any amount of trash and detritus. Mort loved working on plumbing, repairing laid-up brick and stone, replacing doors and windows. Daisy was the same with paint, plaster molding and wooden trim. Flats were usually rented before the renovations were complete.
Harry sat in the garden until nearly full dark. He wasn't hungry enough for dinner, making do with a sandwich, an elaborate invention of Kreacher's, starting with a long roll, toasted, shredded mild cheddar, mixed greens, tomatoes and minced onion. At some point, about halfway through the sandwich, Harry made his decision to buy the building. He wasn't even concerned about the asking price, although that was a little high, by ten or fifteen percent. Harry decided if he paid a little premium the renovations should make the building rentable at such a favorable rate he still ought to show a profit as soon as he found renters.
Harry started thinking about the rest of his evening. He had treated an old friend to tea and conversation, eaten a substantial sandwich that took away his appetite for dinner and come to a decision about a business matter. Other than making an appointment with a loan officer at Gringotts Bank and submitting a formal offer on the building he'd decided to buy, Harry could not come up with any useful ideas for the rest of the evening. It was much too early to go upstairs to bed. Harry looked at his watch.
"Oh, good," he thought.
It was fifteen minutes before curtain, plenty of time for a wizard to get to the theater. Harry liked a small theater that employed a lot of young, talented actors. It wasn't crowded for most performances, the exception being two or three times a year when one of the respected critics raved about a production. About half of the plays were by Shakespeare, the other half new work or something from the canon. Harry was pleasantly surprised to learn he'd be seeing Measure for Measure.
"Wow," Harry thought when he exited nearly three hours later. The actors had thrown themselves into their roles. Measure for Measure was counted among the comedies, Harry knew. He pondered Isabel's fate, and that of the other female characters. What happened to them wasn't the stuff of comedy. He considered some witches of his acquaintance and decided magical Britain hadn't progressed very far in its treatment of witches. Harry thought of Romilda Vane, whose own father had, according to the report from Pansy, sold her like a commodity to an ancient European wizard, who Mr. Vane then let carry his own daughter off to some gloomy castle.
Harry considered stopping for a nightcap at the Leaky Cauldron, decided against it and went on home by apparition. His last thoughts before drifting off to sleep were of Daphne Greengrass, who had once given him the deepest, most debilitating crush he'd ever experienced. It was too bad he had not sorted his emotional and behavioral issues before he was smitten. Break up in haste, repent at leisure was genuine, practical wisdom. They'd seen just enough of each other to plant a seed, which had begun to germinate. There had been the beginnings of love, and it was still there. That was his last conscious thought, and the cause of the smile he wore as he went to sleep.