"How much?" Cassandra asked, steady but clearly bracing herself.
Tom shrugged lightly. "You decide. I trust you. Whatever you think it's worth, that's what you pay."
Pride was a curious thing.
For the arrogant, it was both armor and weakness. They could not bring themselves to bargain shamelessly. The more Tom insisted he trusted her judgment, the less she could tolerate underpaying him.
If this had been Severus Snape, he would have tossed down a single Knut and declared it generous.
Cassandra lifted her chin slightly.
"Then give me some time. I'll raise the funds."
"No problem. I'm only in North America until the end of the month. Try not to keep me waiting."
...
They stopped by Gringotts first.
Under the pained gaze of goblins who visibly resented parting with gold, Cassandra withdrew the entirety of her personal vault and handed it to Tom.
Without lingering, she stepped into the Floo Network within the bank and vanished back to Massachusetts.
Tom, meanwhile, headed upstairs.
It was the seventh day.
Time to meet Famur again.
...
Famur had prepared carefully.
Tom was escorted into a conference room where several additional goblins soon entered.
Famur introduced them one by one.
Gringotts' power structure was peculiar.
At the lowest level, hierarchy blurred. The goblin who opened doors stood equal in status to the one guarding vault keys.
Above them were a handful of national managers.
Above that sat regional directors like Famur, who oversaw entire continental divisions.
At the apex stood the Gringotts Board.
Seven goblins.
Equal voting power.
Major decisions settled by majority.
Today, three board members were present, along with two additional regional directors. Clearly, they represented Famur's faction.
Tom had secretly hoped they might underestimate him due to his age and attempt something foolish. If they had attacked, he would have defended himself and conveniently collected several hundred thousand galleons in "compensation."
Unfortunately, they were behaving like respectable businessmen.
So he had to behave like one as well.
...
Negotiations stretched from noon until nightfall.
Tom demonstrated the card system personally. Nearly fifty consecutive transactions. Flawless.
The goblins were convinced of its stability.
On the matter of promotion, both sides agreed that a one percent merchant fee would not be a fatal obstacle.
Currency exchange alone was enough to give shopkeepers headaches.
The wizarding system used prime number conversions between Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts. Calculating change could become a nightmare.
Tom still remembered his first Hogwarts train ride. Daphne had spent five minutes choosing sweets. The vendor had needed fifteen minutes to calculate change.
No wonder, in the Muggle world, the British government once spent fourteen million pounds standardizing multiplication tables and made them compulsory for primary school graduation.
Multiplication tables.
Passing exams.
Primary school graduation.
A combination nearly incomprehensible to many Eastern cultures.
Yet that was reality.
Mastering the nine by nine grid could make you a mathematical prodigy in certain Muggle classrooms.
"Fifty percent!" Famur snapped, nose quivering with frustration. "We can go no higher. But we will sign a twenty year contract. Mister Riddle, do not push your luck!"
"Forgive me," Tom replied coolly. "I am absolutely pushing my luck."
He leaned back, eyes sharp.
"You attempted to crack the system, didn't you? No need to deny it. Goblin reputation speaks for itself. If you are still sitting here negotiating, it means you failed."
Silence.
"Five years or twenty makes no difference to me. You will always require my cards."
The goblins' expressions darkened.
His bluntness stung.
But they could not refute it.
Gringotts had summoned elite curse breakers and veteran alchemists. They had examined a single card for days without breaching even its outermost protections.
One master admitted that, even with unlimited samples, it would take years to replicate the technology, at enormous cost.
The negotiation had never been equal.
The goblins did not know how urgently Tom needed to earn money.
But Tom knew exactly how badly they wanted to retain total control of circulating gold.
He held the monopoly.
"Sixty percent," croaked the eldest board member at last. "This is our final line. Refuse, and we will pretend this invention never existed."
Tom considered.
Then nodded.
"Fine. The cards and terminals will be sold at cost. You purchase them outright."
"What is the cost?"
"Five Sickles per card. Ten Galleons per terminal. The central processing array will be customized for Gringotts. No additional charge."
The goblins huddled in heated whispers.
Eventually, they agreed.
...
Meanwhile, Cassandra returned home.
Her father was absent.
She found her mother, Eloise, seated in the garden with a magazine.
"Mother," Cassandra began, slipping into a softer tone, clinging lightly to her arm. "May I borrow some money?"
"How much?" Eloise asked casually, assuming it was trivial spending.
"Fifty thousand."
The magazine dropped.
"Darling," Eloise said slowly, "did you just say fifty thousand Galleons?"
"Yes."
Eloise stared. "What on earth do you need that for?"
Cassandra hesitated for half a second.
Then Tom's infuriatingly handsome face flashed through her mind.
The words escaped before she could stop them.
"To support a man."
Silence fell, heavy and absolute.