Chapter Fourteen: A Page-Break

We had barbecued chicken for dinner that night, incidentally. Charlie has a recipe that's very good –it involves soaking the chicken in a sort of marinade for half a day first and then cooking it very slowly. It's also important to turn it over quite a lot, and if you put a metal kebab stick through each piece, it cooks faster.

I really don't know why I put that bit in just now. It was remarkably tasty, though (The chicken, not the paragraph.) Well, it does make sense to mention what we ate. After all, Granddad and Uncle Gard did stay and eat with us, as did Mrs. Weasley and Tonks and Bill. Apparently one or another of the elder Weasley boys has completely unrealistic expectations when it comes to ordering and preparing dinner –he had enough food ready for twelve of us, let alone the five I think he originally expected. Even more luckily, I bake brownies in week's-worth batches, so there were lots of them. It was great to have so many people there, and everyone got along so well, I kinda wished we had dinner-parties more often.

Of course, I'd prefer it if I could throw a dinner party without two black eyes and a sore collarbone, or Death Eaters getting at my shop. But that goes without saying.

I'm not sure when I finally went to bed, but by then I was tired enough that I wound up sleeping in my shirt and trousers. Actually, I do that on a fairly regular basis. What was odd, I thought, was hanging my vest on the bedpost. How I got it there, of all places…

Anyway.

I knew that with the kerfuffle of the preceding day, there would be a nice fuss made over the shop, so I wore my red shirt and some new corduroy trousers, and a burgundy suede vest instead of a brown or black one. I really wonder why more people don't wear suede vests outside the trades –they're quite lovely, and they don't wear out quite so quickly as cloth ones do. Of course, leather lasts the longest; though I've been told denim is-

Oh, honestly! If I could keep myself on the topic for longer than three sentences, this thing wouldn't take so danged long to write.

Oh, and to get it out of the way, it wasn't my idea to write this thing. It all happened long enough ago to not be very relevant, though I suppose bits of what happened are kind of funny. It'd just be easier if I didn't try to turn it into a cookbook or fashion magazine every thirty seconds.

Oh, well.

The business was, indeed, remarkably good that day, though most of the people who came in had originally just come in to check on me and get some details on What Had Happened. But then, of course, some of them noticed clocks or watches they liked, and then they bought them. I did a number of layaways for people who didn't have the cash on them (or at all, since I take Gringotts checques,) and I also got quite a few walk-in repair jobs. It's funny that way, people come in for gossip and then 'while I'm here, this watchband has thrown a pin,' or some such little thing. What's even funnier –some people have gotten attached to their watches and like to observe the repairing personally. I've never minded that, in fact, I can see the point of it myself. I hate to let my personal timepieces out of my sight, too, and the process is usually fascinating, especially when it's gears or a really tiny pin.

That, and they sometimes have the added pleasure of watching me work with my special specs on –I look quite like an insect once I finish and look at them, or so I'm told. It's common for me to look up and get laughed at, which I think is hilarious, and then the customer and I have a fine lark while I get the great insect-y glasses off. They're very nice, those specs…sort of fit over my regular ones, with different lenses that I can flip down and up, and a few swivel ones. The oculist who makes my regular glasses did them as well, and luckily my regular ones look rather more normal.

Darn. Where was I?

Oh, yes. After I closed the shop, it occurred to me to go visit the Redferns and see what Uncle Gard was on about. I had guessed from his eyebrow-raising and Knowing Looks that the triplets had been getting some stuff they shouldn't, likely watches, and I had noticed Dung Fletcher dropping by their back entrance more frequently. I've bought from the fellow, but sometimes I don't trust his light-fingered attitude. Sam, Ken and Mel are trustworthy, of course, but you try identifying stolen property when you have an inventory of completely random and mainly secondhand items. I wouldn't ask them to keep checks on that sort of thing; it'd be almost impossible.

And it wasn't as if they didn't have a reputable appraiser pricing their new acquisitions once a month or so. I'd just go a day or three early.

I know it must seem a bit odd that a Tickes would associate with a Knockturn pawnshop. Certainly, there were those who'd have thrown perfect fits, had they known. A lot of old Diagon Alley shops (and even more new ones,) have a real snob problem with Knockturn. Some of the worst pureblood-bigots, the ones who want a genealogy before they hire a stock boy; they'd rather shine Hermione Granger's boots than work with a Knockturner. It doesn't stop there, either. There's a games shop that looks down its' nose at Weasley's because they're a new business, but they get all grovelly when I come in, because I'm a Tickes. Then there's Florean Fortescue, who could care less about blood or how old your shop is, but he gets very nervous when a Knockturn shopkeeper drops in. He's not sharp with them, or anxious they'll steal (how can they?) but that Alley simply sets him a bit on edge.

Of course, Quality Quidditch doesn't give a flying wombat in hell, but that's partly because the only place that'll let them hold Fantasy League nights anymore is in Knockturn. I enjoy a good match, yes, and I support my brother all the way, but those fantasy-Quidditch nuts are just a bit –well, nuts. One fellow came into the shop once, offering me eight Galleons for Ian's exact shoe and glove sizes. I hesitated for a second, because I don't often think of what bloody shoe size Ian wears, and the nutter upped the offer to ten. Apparently it was very important. I told him, gave the money to England National's charity fund, and had a grand lark telling the twins about the whole thing.

You know, just to prevent that happening again, Ian wears twelve and a half shoes, eight even gloves, a medium jersey, medium-long robes, and thirty-eight-inch inseam pants. Oh, and a six and a quarter inch watchband.

I know this because I did most of the laundry at our house growing up. Also, Ian had a very unfortunate tendency to leave change in the pockets of said thirty-eight-inch inseam pants for years. I do hope he's learned not to do that since, as not everybody returns pocket change they find. I do, because it might have a hex on it and I don't like granola.

Do not ask. We were somewhat odd as children.

At any rate, I work with the Redferns because I like them. They're friendly, they're always willing to help their neighbors, they're remarkably good at Gobstones and never in my life have I seen them treating somebody else like rubbish –except certain people who I suspect are rubbish. Like Becky Feathersham. Sam Redfern does an impression of her that makes people wet themselves. Of course, she'd not do it to Becky's face. Becky might be a horrid little sheep of a person, but that's no reason to be a git to her.

And then there's Marietta Edgecombe -rotten little wench with horrible skin and a disgusting simpery attitude. She was a fifth-year when Umbridge took over school, we were sevenths. Something the little snip did, got a great awful jinx-rash all across her head. I couldn't stand the bint –she made a horrible fuss over her family's connections and let fly these little jabs at anyone younger or poorer than she was, like 'I hope your father's bookstore doesn't close, with all the trouble in Knockturn Alley and all,' to little Mary Nooke. Now, yes, Nooke's might sell some works of questionable morality, but that's no call to riff on a kid for their folks' business. I despised that little twerp…but Sam and Mel Redfern arranged to get her some Muggle skin products for the rash, and didn't even mark up the prices. They're a lot nicer than I am, in many ways, and a lot nicer than a lot of the people who treat them like dirt. Becky Feathersham spread a horrid rumor about Sam in our fifth year, but none of the trips so much as mentioned it. Sam just refined and improved her Feathersham act, entertaining the whole dorm whenever the hosebeast was out. I made Becky's watch ten minutes slow while she slept, for a lateness detention with Snape.

It's strange how awful women can be to each other without ever letting on. Men at least are horrid to one another right up front, and then they fight, and then it's done and everyone has a butterbeer. Unless it's a feud, but those kinds of men usually wouldn't like butterbeer.

It was just such a man that I found in my friends' shop when I got there.

"I don't care what the sign says! This watch stopped working and I want a refund!"

"Sir, we can't do that. All of our products are sold 'as is.' If you like, I could issue a receipt for store credit, but we do not offer refunds under any circumstances."

"That's ridiculous! I want to speak to the owner!"

Sam's patience was thinning. I had shared a dormitory with her long enough to know. If it hadn't been so shatteringly funny, I might have intervened by, say, sneezing or dropping my toolbag. But it was funny, so I stayed back and enjoyed it a little more.

"Sir, I am one of the owners." That took the little man aback, especially as Sam's eyebrows were going a full shade darker. She's got to learn to watch that. "Now, printed here on the sales receipt you yourself signed, you will notice once again the terms of service. There are no refunds. I suggest you either exchange the watch for another, or have it fixed at a credible establishment. Tickes and Sons is just around the corner."

"It costs money if you didn't buy it there," the man grumbled. Sam made a 'this is my problem?' gesture and her eyes actually changed colors. He saw this and jumped slightly. "What the deuce?"

It was at that moment that I recognized him, bowler hat and all. I suspect posterity might pardon the events that ensued. After all, to discover that not only was Cornelius Fudge a galloping tightwad, but that my watch-stopping charm had worked, leaving him in full grovel before a set of half-blood Knockturn triplets…well…

I lost control, and fairly spectacularly, too. In fact, if you visit the Redferns' place today, I bet there are still some echoes of riotous laughter caught in the eaves somewhere. Fudge jumped about a foot, but then, who wouldn't be startled to see a twenty-year-old girl in tradesman's attire and a greatcoat positively cracking up by the door of your local pawnbroker's? Of course, if it had been nice laughter, like the way I'd laugh at a good joke, it would be one thing. Needless to say, this was not nice laughter. 'Mocking cackle' sounds about right for the noise I made. One might forgive that; one might not, depending on point of view.

What I said to him next, I'll confess, was even less pardonable.

"Great Merlin's ghost, Minister! Forget to wind your watch?" I'm still a little shocked at how I felt just then. "Too busy with a Bulgarian minister what can't speak his own language?"

"Jessie?" Sam looked fairly surprised as well. Her eyebrows were auburn.

"Miss Tickes?"

"You remember my name, Fudge-it?" I can't explain why I said all this, but I'm putting it down anyway. "Funny, you couldn't recall my mother's. Why me? Aren't I a mick Mudblood too?"

And then…I suppose I sort of stepped forward, and the next thing I knew, Fudge had gotten out of the shop. It's sort of hazy, but I remember breathing very hard, and Sam coming up beside me, trying to pat my arm. I yanked away from her, and then there was some yelling, and some crying, and then me sitting by their wood stove, a cup of Mel's tea in my shaking hands.

Now, years later, I realize that I did lose control. Fudge had just been replaced by Scrimgeour and wasn't really a threat to anyone, but I was still angry –no, furious with him. Maybe it was stress, with the shop being attacked and my winding up at St. Mungo's the night before, buying the shop at last and Charlie meeting my family…maybe it was just me getting Ticked off…or maybe…that bastard didn't even know her name!

Manuscript breaks off.