Chapter 211. The Power of Money
Harry stopped dead in front of the window of Quality Quidditch Supplies and pressed his face to the glass.
Adrian Wesson saw the way Harry's eyes were shining and followed his line of sight.
When he saw what was in the display, he froze for a moment.
No wonder Harry had been drawn in at once.
Sitting in the window was a beautiful broom—the Firebolt.
For a Quidditch enthusiast, the Firebolt's appeal was beyond question.
Harry was no exception.
"Do you like it?" Wesson asked.
Only then did Harry turn his head.
He rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed. "...N-no... All right, yes. This broom must be incredibly fast."
"Let's go in and have a look."
With that, Wesson opened the shop door and went in first.
The moment Harry stepped inside, he found the place packed; most of the crowd was gathered around the case displaying the Firebolt.
In the blink of an eye, Wesson had vanished into the throng.
It didn't dampen Harry's excitement in the least; all he wanted now was to study up close the broom he'd only had in his dreams.
He squeezed into the crowd, his heart thumping.
Under the display lights, the Firebolt gleamed with a captivating lustre; every detail on the broom's sleek handle was impossibly perfect.
Harry didn't know how long he'd been staring when he felt someone tap his shoulder.
He turned and found Wesson looking at him with a half-smile.
"I think you've seen enough. Time to go."
"Oh—okay."
Wesson led a reluctant Harry away.
Back on the street, Harry suddenly felt a weight drop into his arms.
He blinked and realised that, somehow, a long, rectangular box had appeared there.
"Th-this is—" His tongue tied itself in knots; his green eyes went perfectly round.
Hands in his robe pockets, Wesson leaned in to murmur in his ear, "A tip: best not to open it here."
Harry stood rooted to the spot, at a total loss.
Seeing this, Wesson winked at him. "All right, I've other errands. You can head back to the Leaky Cauldron first. See you in a bit."
Clutching the mysterious box tight, Harry felt as though his heart might leap out of his chest.
As soon as Wesson left, he broke into a run, his steps quickening and quickening.
He nearly ploughed into a clerk carrying books as he shot past Flourish and Blotts.
"Watch it, kid!" the clerk shouted, annoyed.
"Sorry!"
Harry didn't even look back; he just kept running.
He had barely burst through the door with the heavy box in his arms when a familiar voice cried, "Harry! Over here!"
He looked up; Ron was sitting at a round table in the corner, his red hair impossible to miss.
Ron waved so excitedly he nearly knocked over his Butterbeer.
Hermione sat beside him with a book so thick it was almost alarming; when she saw Harry, her face lit with a brilliant smile.
"What are you doing here so early?" Harry panted as he hurried over, still wearing a look of pure excitement.
"Mum said we should get Ginny's things first," Ron said.
As he spoke, his eyes were already on the long box in Harry's arms.
"What's that?" he asked, puzzled.
Harry couldn't keep the grin off his face.
"Come on."
He beckoned them and dashed upstairs.
Ron and Hermione exchanged a baffled look, then hurried after him.
Once they were in Harry's little room, he carefully set the box on the bed.
"Stop keeping us in suspense," Hermione said, eyeing the box in confusion. "What is it?"
At that moment, something seemed to occur to Ron.
"Merlin's beard!" he yelped. "That wouldn't be—"
Harry nodded, took a deep breath, and slowly lifted the lid.
Even in the dim room, the Firebolt shone with dazzling brilliance.
Ron let out a strangled gasp; Hermione just looked lost.
"Er… a broom?" Hermione tilted her head at Harry's ecstatic face. "You bought a new broom? What about your Nimbus Two Thousand?"
"Oh—Hermione, forget the Nimbus Two Thousand!" Ron's face went an odd shade of red as he stammered at her in disbelief. "It's a Firebolt! A Firebolt! Compared to this, a Nimbus Two Thousand's as slow as a Flobberworm crawling along the ground."
"Oh. All right." Hermione nodded.
She'd never heard of the Firebolt, but she did know what a Flobberworm was. And from Ron's shock, the broom in front of them was clearly something formidable.
Harry gingerly lifted the broom from the box and examined it closely.
On the tail, he spotted a "7" mark—each Firebolt bore a unique number.
This must have been the seventh Firebolt ever made.
Harry felt heat rush through him—he could hardly wait to fly it!
"How much did you pay?" Ron asked, his voice a little shaky.
Harry shook his head. "I don't know. Professor Wesson gave it to me."
Ron lost his composure at that.
"Hang on!" He stared. "Why would Professor Wesson give you something this valuable?"
Harry shrugged and didn't answer.
Then enlightenment dawned on Ron.
"Ah, I get it."
"You're not Professor Wesson's love child, are y—"
"Ow! Hermione, what did you hit me for?"
Wesson had never been stingy about giving the best to people close to him.
Including a Firebolt.
Although the shopkeeper at Quality Quidditch Supplies had said Firebolts had to be pre-ordered, that wasn't really a problem under the blessing of money.
Even if the broom was expensive, it was no burden for Wesson.
To be honest, he wanted to try the legendary Firebolt himself.
So he bought one for himself and one for Harry. After finishing his purchases, Wesson continued south along Diagon Alley until he reached the door of the Magical Menagerie.
He was here to call on Roskin; come to think of it, they hadn't been in touch this summer.
"Welcome."
Wesson pushed open the door and walked up to the counter. A shop girl came over at once.
When she saw him, she hesitated slightly, then wore a look of sudden understanding. "Ah, it's you, Mr Wesson."
Wesson nodded; he recognised her as well—the same employee who had waited on him the first time he'd come.
"Is Ms Roskin in?" he asked.
At this, the shop girl's eyes turned a touch resentful.
"The boss has gone travelling to Beauxbatons in France," she sighed, muttering under her breath, "and at the busiest time of year, too…"
Wesson arched an eyebrow and drummed his fingertips lightly on the counter. "When will she be back?"
This time the shop girl didn't answer, but the resentment on her face deepened.
Seeing that, Wesson asked no more.
Some things didn't need saying.
What an irresponsible boss.
Unlike him—
All right, he was about the same: always out and about, hardly minding his shop.
The difference was, his shop had almost no customers.
A rather sad state of affairs.
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