I found myself in the back of the Leaky Cauldron. Even with my eyes closed, I would have known exactly where I was. The familiar, comforting scent of beef stew hung in the air, and from the front of the inn came the muffled whisper of people lingering over a late lunch. The sound of a wizarding radio was audible, punctuated by the occasional clinking of glasses.
I was certain that Tom was busy pouring some wizarding brew for the regulars again. To be honest, I was quite curious about how such beer tasted, although... a Muggle Czech or German one would have hit the spot much better right now. A pity about this cursed age of mine.
I was in quite a hurry, so I quickly brushed the soot off myself and walked straight into the courtyard that led to Diagon Alley. Fortunately, it wasn't raining today and I was making good time; the alley was half-empty. People moved leisurely between the shops, while I headed directly for the white marble building with its wide staircase that towered over the others—Gringotts Bank.
I didn't have to wait even a minute at the first counter. A goblin curtly informed me that Ranrok, the vault manager for the Rosier family, was already expecting me, and led me immediately to his private office. He didn't even pause at the door—he opened it without knocking and motioned for me to enter.
As soon as I stepped inside, the door clicked shut behind me and absolute silence fell. I couldn't even hear the footsteps of the departing goblin, so the room was clearly perfectly soundproofed. Ranrok stared at me with a sharp, predatory smile. He pointed to a chair by the desk and asked directly, "How can I help you, young heir?"
"I have a few hypothetical questions, Ranrok. Perhaps... not entirely legal ones."
The manager's mouth stretched into an even wider grin, until I could count perhaps every single one of those sharp teeth. He watched me for a moment, but after a split second, he made his decision. He unclasped his long, claw-like fingers and reached under the desk with his right hand. Out of nowhere, I felt a surge of raw magic, and in a second, his office lit up with a blue glow. It wasn't a lamp; it was the carved runes along the walls that had suddenly activated.
"You may speak, Mr. Rosier. Your hypothetical questions will not be heard by anyone outside this room," he beckoned. His dark eyes glinted with undisguised amusement.
His toothy grin gave me goosebumps—not out of fear, but because it felt downright epic. I probably wouldn't get used to that sight even if we met ten times over.
"I'm interested in knowing, if I were to come across millions of pounds, how I could convert them into Galleons and gold," I said bluntly. "In short: legalizing illegal money."
"The long answer, or the short and to the point?"
"Short and to the point, Ranrok," I replied, adding immediately, "Hypothetically, I would bring a few bags full of pounds. No questions asked, just a pile of money I need clean in my account."
A spark flared in Ranrok's eyes. He nodded and slowly rubbed his chin, considering. After a while, he spoke: "It depends on the exact amount, but we can take care of it. You bring the pounds, we 'sift' them through our system. We pay the mandatory taxes to the Ministry, and clean gold will be added to your account. No worries—the funds will be credited as a private contract between Gringotts, my clan, and yourself."
"And the fee?"
I was willing to go as high as fifty percent, though a higher share for myself would, of course, please me. I knew I couldn't avoid taxes... those are eternal, but I can acquire illegal money quickly.
"Twenty-five to thirty percent of the total sum, depending on the volume," he replied matter-of-factly, but immediately added a warning: "However, the pounds must be genuine, Mr. Rosier. It would be very... unpleasant if we were to receive only worthless slips of paper."
"And if the vast majority were genuine? With illegal money, it's hard to vouch for every single banknote."
He nodded without hesitation. "In that case, it is fine... we understand the circumstances. However, the percentages will increase proportionally to the number of counterfeits."
I nodded. "That's perfectly fair, Ranrok. I believe that in a year, we could close our first profitable deal."
There was a brief silence. Ranrok drummed his claws rhythmically against the massive desk while I curiously observed the pulsing runes. After a moment, he broke the silence again. "Time is money, Mr. Rosier. Is there any other hypothetical question that interests you?"
I was also interested in investments, especially regarding the Muggle world. The IT sector was due for a brutal boom in the coming years, and I would soon have enough capital.
"If I had Galleons and wanted to invest them back into the Muggle world, specifically into certain companies, is that possible? To buy shares through you?"
He laughed huskily. It was an unusual, sharp sound. Soon, however, he calmed down and nodded. "It is possible, of course. We offer favorable percentages, again depending on the volume. But we can discuss that once you have real funds to invest," he paused for a second and added amusedly, "I never thought I would see a pure-blood wizard so eager to sink money into Muggle firms."
I shrugged and replied drily, "Money is power. I don't care where it flows from."
Silence reigned again for a moment. Actually, I had nothing left to ask, except about those runes on the walls. Since time really is money, I decided to move on to their magic. "What about those runes on the walls? Did a wizard create them for you?"
His smile froze for a moment. Then he began to smile again, but this time it was quite forced. I felt a sudden flicker of suppressed anger from him. He merely shook his head curtly. "No. We, the goblins, master runic magic without problem on our own. We do not need your help for that."
I certainly didn't want to spoil my relationship with the manager of our family vault, who seemed like an extremely valuable contact, so I chose a more conciliatory tone. "My apologies if I offended you. I am merely genuinely interested in how specifically you work with magic and whether a wand would even help you with anything."
Ranrok's eyes narrowed into two black slits. He measured me for a moment, as if weighing whether I was worth the explanation. Finally, he sighed deeply.
"Very well. I owe your family much, so I can provide you with some common information. We do not have a magical core like you wizards. Our magic flows through us passively. It enhances us biologically—we are stronger, faster, and more resilient, but we cannot cast with gestures and a wand as you do. Runes, however, are a different category. We use them ambiently, and I would modestly add that our masters are far better at them than yours."
"Why then do you so fiercely want wands, if they wouldn't actually help you?"
He laughed gutturally, almost bloodily, a spray of saliva flying from his mouth. "Between us... do not repeat this anywhere outside, or you would very quickly become an enemy of the nation. It is our private joke. Every wizard pales with horror imagining us with a wand... but for us, it is essentially just a piece of wood. We have already acquired several in various rebellions long ago, but nothing revolutionary happened."
"And this information regarding passive magic?"
He shook his head in amusement. "That has been known for a long time. One only needs to read books properly..." He paused for a moment, but then added with a dangerous glint in his eyes: "If you didn't have your magical titans, goblins would have ruled here long ago."
Thank God that didn't happen. There would be severed hands and other limbs in the streets regularly, I thought, but aloud I only asked: "Why titans specifically?"
He puffed himself up like a peacock, thrust out his chest and began: "Every goblin warrior is better than an ordinary wizard. We are born warriors!" He proudly struck his chest with a closed fist. "Our armor and weapons deflect and absorb your curses. An average wizard usually died against us... But the titans? What can an armored army do against a tornado, or when the earth itself swallows you? What can we do against flames that burn us to ash, lightning that fries a soldier in armor, or water that drowns an entire army?"
He paused mournfully for a moment, then continued: "We were always winning the war at the beginning, until some powerful titan appeared and turned the whole tide... And besides, you were more mobile. This is the basic knowledge that might help you with the history of wars under that ghost of yours at Hogwarts," Ranrok concluded bitterly.
It made sense. However, I was interested in how things stood now—in this day and age. "And now? Are you interested in another war?"
"Yes and no, Mr. Rosier." He saw my questioning look and explained: "We are warriors and we enjoy battle. War is quite good for business if it's a conflict outside this country... But now? In this year? On a larger scale, it wouldn't make sense for us, though hotheads can be found everywhere. The biggest warmongering fanatics died along with my grandfather... And their descendants don't really want war anymore. They prefer the comfort of gold."
"Hm, that's sensible. Gold is better than death," I nodded in agreement and stood up. "Thank you for your advice and information, Ranrok."
"You are welcome, Mr. Rosier. May your gold flow and your enemies bleed."
I couldn't think of anything better than a dry: "And may your vaults never know a bottom, Ranrok."
With a final nod, I stepped out of the bank. I would need high-quality dragon-hide gloves so I could properly examine the things in the Room of Requirement. I finally had to get on with it and stop procrastinating—even if I was technically procrastinating by training.
As soon as I entered the shop, a bell rang. I found myself in a pleasantly lit but empty space. A faint lemon scent hung in the air, and apart from a young woman behind the counter, there was no one. Not even old Madam Malkin herself.
"Good day, how can I help you?" she called out to me while I was only halfway there.
"I need high-quality dragon-hide gloves," I replied, walking toward her. I wasn't wrong; she had the gloves right at hand. Before I even reached her, she laid out three different pairs on the counter.
"These are three Galleons, ideal for Herbology at Hogwarts. Half-dragon hide." When I shook my head in disagreement, she moved to the next one: "Eight Galleons, pure dragon hide. Specifically, these are from a Welsh Green."
There was one more pair left, matte black. "And the others? The black ones? What is the price and what is the difference?"
"These are from a Hebridean Black," she paused, as if that name should tell me everything. At my questioning look, she continued: "The Welsh Green has softer, more flexible skin, great for precise work with herbs. The Hebridean has tough and extremely durable hide—it provides much greater protection. Curse-breakers or Aurors often take these. The price is fifteen Galleons."
I didn't need to tinker with herbs; I needed gloves that would ensure I didn't lose a hand while handling dangerous artifacts. Fifteen Galleons was essentially nothing to me.
"The Hebridean ones, please." In a second, I laid the coins on the table and headed out with the new gloves in my pocket.
On the way, I wondered if I should stop by Borgin's. Maybe he could know something about the attack on my aunt... but after a while, I dismissed it. Everyone will be wary now. Aurors will surely be hanging around there, and apart from Legilimency, I didn't master any clever spells like Imperius or Confundus. I had neither the space nor the darkness for a proper interrogation. Unless Borgin knew something on his own... but I had no plan to be indebted to him, and at the moment, I had absolutely nothing to trade. Gregor was dead and my aunt knew of no one else who would want to hurt her.
I decided to treat myself. Through the Leaky Cauldron, I stepped out again into the noisy Muggle street, where I could smell petrol and the dirty London air. Did the wizarding world have some kind of filtration? It was an incredibly noticeable difference. I headed for a bookstore a short distance from the inn.
I went straight to the fantasy literature. I felt like something relaxing, so I picked out a few Narnia books. It didn't end there, though—a cookbook for "healthy fast food" also caught my eye. I took it as a gift for Duddy. If he doesn't have a heart attack from happiness, at least I'll have a proper meal for once.
I was already on my way out when I noticed the blue cover of a Record with a newborn baby swimming in water. I immediately went over to it. The album Nevermind by Nirvana. With a heavy heart, I realized how much I missed the dopamine hit from music. There was no YouTube, Spotify, or Netflix here, so I snatched that Record without even checking the price.
The whole purchase cost only a few pounds. I quickly stuffed everything into my magical pouch and hurried back to Diagon Alley. Now I only needed that cursed magical gramophone. Honestly, I had only ever seen it in pictures; in my time it wasn't used anymore, and it was going to be quite fun just to get it working.
I doubted they would have it in the bookstore. Vane didn't have it either. But there was a shop I hadn't been to yet—Wiseacre's Wizarding Supplies. I stepped inside and, without wasting time looking around, blurted out the question to the shopkeeper: "Do you have a magical gramophone?"
He measured me drily, then reached under the counter and pulled out a small, five-centimeter box. He placed it on the counter, tapped it with his wand with a quiet Finite, and suddenly a massive, wrapped gramophone stood there.
"Eighteen Galleons. Permanent Sonorus charm, zero vibrations, lifetime warranty—except for mechanical damage, of course."
I pulled out the money and contentedly tucked it into my pouch. I couldn't wait to play Smells Like Teen Spirit at full volume during training. With a feeling of a job well done, I set off on the journey back to Hogwarts. Today, I really made myself happy.
Now, all that lay ahead of me was a tedious interrogation by the others. They were undoubtedly dying to know what Snape had wanted and where exactly I had vanished to.
***
Author's Note:
Even though our MC is craving a cold beer, he's staying sober for now. It's not that he couldn't get his hands on a bottle if he wanted to... but realistically, alcohol isn't exactly the best choice for a 12-year-old's development, so he's holding back. (Just putting that out there before anyone starts nitpicking! :D)
Regarding the wand situation: realistically, it wouldn't be an issue for goblins to jump a wizard in an alley, steal a wand, and eventually reverse-engineer their own. The truth is, they just don't need them.
This was a bit of a "breather" chapter. Honestly, as I was falling asleep, I started wondering what I would miss most in the wizarding world, and the answer was definitely having music to listen to while training.
***
Step into the Restricted Section
The shadows are shifting, and the story goes much deeper... If you can't wait for the next update, Advanced Chapters are already waiting for you.
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Upcoming Chapters – Already Written(12):
50. Ancient Crimes and Modern Recipes
51. The Smell of Teen Spirit and Dark Arts
52. More Than Just a Name
53. The Rat's Final Kiss
54. Deus Vult
55. The Underworld Gambit
56. The Boy Who Sponsored
57. The End of the Year
58. VR: The Warrior of Durmstrang
59. The Mind of a Rosier
60. The Lioness and the Black Blood
61. A Rosier, Not a Goyle
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