Chapter 65 – Of Pounds, Galleons, Tax and Law
The Burrow hummed with the low crackle of the radio, its dials flickering between Muggle stations as Arthur adjusted the volume with careful precision. The news had been relentless since the Muggle premiere: "Hogwarts Legends: Chapter 1 – Of Valor and Magic smashes records, ten-year-old director astounds the nation." Over and over, the same phrases repeated, a mixture of admiration and bafflement. Across Britain, theatres had reported a cumulative opening gross of £218 million within the first three weeks, a staggering sum that dwarfed the earnings of even the most heavily marketed Muggle fantasy blockbusters. Radio commentators speculated about the efficiency of Bishop Studios, the inexplicable genius of the young filmmaker, and the potential for a new wave of British cinema — all without a hint of magical comprehension, unaware that the film had been orchestrated by spells and enchantments beyond their ken.
Ron sat cross-legged on the floor, Mr. Stark perched quietly on his shoulder, golden eyes reflecting the glow of the fireplace. He had listened with quiet fascination as Arthur described the numbers, converting Muggle pounds into tentative galleons for his own understanding. "Roughly… forty-three million Galleons?" Arthur guessed, scribbling the calculation onto a scrap of parchment. Ron frowned thoughtfully. "But Dad… the thing is, in the Muggle world, gold and silver fluctuate every now and then. If we fix the exchange at one Galleon equals five pounds, someone is always going to be at a disadvantage. That's… a huge flaw." Arthur paused, astonished at the clarity in his son's words. Even in the glow of pride, he felt the weight of the boy's reasoning. "I suppose… you're right. Magic or no magic, economics is economics." Molly, hovering nearby with Ginny in her arms, fretted quietly, her eyes darting between the siblings. "All this money, Arthur… it's far too much attention for one boy to handle." Arthur merely smiled. "It's not just attention, Molly. It's recognition of brilliance — of initiative. And Ron, well… he's always been extraordinary."
Far away, in the stately offices of Gringotts Bank, the goblin treasurer Garruk Ironhide paced in measured steps, his hands folded behind him. Scrolls, ledgers, and enchanted quills littered the polished obsidian floor, each recording the rapid influx of pounds from Muggle sources. "Paper," he muttered, voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling, "and they call this wealth. Easily forged, easily charmed, easily… undone." Around him, a council of senior goblins nodded gravely, each considering the implications of a world in which Muggle faith in paper could challenge the permanence of goblin-forged coin. "We have Galleons," Garruk continued, his tone dripping with contemptuous authority, "each stamped, each sealed with a signature no wizard can imitate. Sickles, Knuts — all elemental, all durable. Yet these humans," he spat, "they trade in illusions." His superior, Griphook, inclined his head, eyes gleaming. "And yet," he murmured, "those illusions flow into our ledgers now. They must be accounted for — if only to preserve the integrity of our own economy."
Meanwhile, in the Ministry of Magic, Amelia Bones convened an emergency session in her office, summoning Dumbledore and Arthur to discuss the implications of the unprecedented earnings. The room smelled faintly of parchment, ink, and polished wood. "We are faced with a legal and fiscal anomaly," Amelia began, voice precise and calm. "The revenue from Hogwarts Legends — routed through Bishop Studios — represents a substantial influx of Muggle pounds. It must be classified, assessed, and, where appropriate, taxed. Yet we cannot risk exposure of the magical origin of the funds." Dumbledore, seated with Fawkes cooing softly beside him, nodded thoughtfully. "It is a delicate balance," he said, fingers steepled. "The boy has created a bridge, but bridges are perilous if crossed without care. The funds must be monitored, yet the world must remain unaware of the deeper truth." Arthur, shifting uneasily in his seat, added, "Muggles are… precise about money, Amelia. They'll notice discrepancies if we're not careful." Amelia inclined her head. "Exactly. Hence the need for a dual approach: secrecy and legal compliance." The meeting concluded with the establishment of a provisional framework for what Amelia termed "cross-realm fiscal monitoring," a discreet procedure to channel the Muggle revenue into the wizarding economy without triggering suspicion.
At Bishop's estate, the eponymous patron oversaw the practicalities of the arrangement. The stately London townhouse hummed with discreet activity as magical and Muggle ledgers sat side by side on polished oak desks. Bishop spoke earnestly to Dumbledore and Amelia, outlining the flow of funds and the structural details of his company. "The Muggle earnings are already documented," he said, his voice firm but measured. "Our goal is to ensure that these pounds are converted appropriately, without breaking the Statute of Secrecy. I propose an educational allocation — routed through Gringotts — that preserves legality and avoids undue risk." Dumbledore's eyes twinkled with a mixture of amusement and approval. "A prudent proposal. Education must remain the priority, and yet your prudence ensures our safety." Amelia nodded. "We will draft the necessary guidelines. A combined magical–goblin oversight committee will manage conversions, taxation, and reporting, ensuring compliance with wizarding law." Bishop's expression softened, a subtle smile crossing his face. "Then the door is open, but only to those who walk through responsibly."
Back at the Burrow, Ron and Ginny sat by the wide kitchen window, watching the late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the garden. The fire flickered gently, and Mr. Stark preened, talons tucked neatly beneath iridescent feathers. Arthur hovered near the fireplace, excitedly recounting the Muggle box-office numbers, translating pounds into galleons and highlighting the sheer magnitude of the sums. "Imagine it, Ron — £218 million in three weeks," he said, voice trembling with disbelief. Ron ran a hand through his hair, thinking not of the glory, but of the systemic implications. "Dad, you see… that's over forty-three million Galleons if we use your five-pound conversion, but gold and silver fluctuate all the time in the Muggle markets. That rate isn't permanent — it's arbitrary." Arthur paused, considering. "I see. So, the system needs… flexibility." Ron nodded, eyes narrowing with calculation. "Yes. Otherwise, one side always ends up cheated. The Galleons are stable because of the goblins, but pounds… pounds aren't." Ginny leaned against him, a soft smile on her face. "You always think about these things, don't you?" Ron shrugged. "Someone has to."
In the vaulted halls of Gringotts, the goblin council had begun their calculations in earnest. Scrolls floated above desks, quills moving with precision as magical signatures verified authenticity of coin after coin. Garruk Ironhide's voice rang across the room. "We will accept the Muggle pounds, but only provisionally, and only after rigorous verification. Any flaw, any falsification, and they are worthless. We deal in permanence." Griphook interjected with a shrewd grin. "Yet even these paper illusions contain truth — numbers that must be recorded. Their reality exists only in consequence. It is curious… and dangerous." Debate raged over conversion, taxation, and the establishment of what they referred to privately as a "Wizarding Exchange Authority," intended to stabilize paper currency interactions with the goblin-backed metallic standard. Even as they plotted, a subtle admiration lingered — the boy's creation had forced them to confront an entirely new dimension of commerce, one that might alter wizarding finance for decades.
As evening deepened, Ron and Ginny prepared for their journey back to Bishop's estate to resume their Muggle studies, escorted discreetly by the Ministry to avoid any exposure. The Burrow's cozy warmth receded as they activated the portkey, the familiar tug of space folding around them enveloping both children. Mr. Stark clung tightly to Ron's shoulder, feathers ruffling with anticipation. Within moments, they were safely at Bishop's London estate, the city lights reflecting in the polished windows. Inside, documents detailing box-office totals, revenue streams, and provisional exchange tables awaited them, alongside careful notes on secrecy protocols, taxation, and legal compliance.
Dumbledore, appearing briefly through a discreet communication mirror, regarded the meticulous planning with satisfaction. "You see, my boy, even imagination has its economy. Every choice carries consequence." Bishop nodded, tracing his fingers across the ledgers. "And every pound must be respected as if it were a Galleon — for we are now custodians of two worlds." Amelia Bones, standing with her hands folded, added, "Responsibility is not diminished by youth, Mr. Weasley, nor is consequence avoided. Your guidance — and your caution — will shape the outcome." Ron glanced down at the open notebook before him, sketches of Hogwarts, careful notes on conversion rates, and half-finished storyboards for Part Two sprawled across the page. "I understand," he said quietly, more to himself than anyone else. "It's… not just a story anymore. It's… history retold. And we have to be careful."
At Hogwarts, professors prepared for the new academic year with a mixture of excitement and trepidation. McGonagall and Flitwick discussed potential influence on the students, particularly first-years, while Sprout reviewed herbology schedules and Snape prepared potion labs. The castle hummed with activity; the corridors, empty of students, were alive with anticipation. Somewhere in the office of Dumbledore, he observed the proceedings with calm foresight, Fawkes preening nearby, as ledgers from Gringotts and Bishop Studios rested on his desk. "The boy is shaping more than just stories," he murmured softly. "He is weaving the economic and moral fabric of our world — and that of the Muggles."
Back at Bishop's estate, Ron and Ginny sat side by side at a polished oak desk, papers, quills, and sketches spread around them. The Muggle pounds, the goblin-led conversion tables, and the new secrecy protocols all loomed in the background as tangible proof of consequence. Ron's pen moved steadily across the page, ideas for Part Two interweaving with notes on exchange rates, taxation, and fiscal responsibility. Ginny, observing him quietly, whispered, "You really think about everything, don't you?" Ron glanced at her, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "If I don't, who will?" Mr. Stark cooed softly, talons brushing the parchment, a golden eye watching the calculations with silent approval. Outside, London settled into the quiet hum of night, unaware of the complex weave of magic, economics, and law quietly shaping the world from within the walls of a single stately home.
In the final hours before sleep, Ron's thoughts returned to the lesson learned earlier that day. Galleons were stable, silver and bronze too, forged with permanence, but Muggle pounds were a moving target. The fixed conversion was provisional, necessary only to manage immediate legal and economic obligations, but no system could remain fair unless it accounted for fluctuation. His eyes closed briefly, the weight of responsibility settling across his shoulders, yet beneath it lay a thrill of creation — the knowledge that his imagination, his stories, and his efforts had already shaped reality in ways beyond the reach of most wizards.
And so, with quills resting, coins clinking in distant vaults, and two children preparing for study across worlds, the day ended. The Joint Magical–Muggle Fiscal Commission, the Goblin oversight, and Bishop's careful mediation had set the first precedent of cross-realm economic management. Hogwarts prepared to open, the Muggle world celebrated a cinematic phenomenon, and one boy at a desk in London quietly sketched the future — a future where imagination, gold, and paper all danced together in a delicate, careful, and unprecedented balance.