Richie and his friend walked past the post office, passed Zonko's, and then went their separate ways: Hermione headed for the bookshop, while Richard crossed to the other side of the street and entered the cosy pub on the ground floor of a tiny inn.
The pub was crowded, noisy and smoky. A group of merry older students had gathered at the bar, laughing and talking loudly, while a plump, pretty woman could barely keep up with filling their glasses. Presumably, this was Madam Rosmerta, the proprietress of the establishment.
To his surprise, Grosvenor spotted Millicent Bagnold sitting at one of the tables in an elegant light-green dress with a plunging neckline. She beckoned invitingly to Richard.
Upon reaching the Minister's table, Grosvenor gave her a courteous bow.
"Millicent, you look magnificent, as always!"
"Richard, there you go with your compliments again," Madam Minister said, giving him a playful look. "Please, sit down. Otherwise people might get all sorts of ideas."
Richard settled into the seat opposite Bagnold and was about to make some inconsequential small talk, but the experienced politician saw through the boy in an instant.
"Really, Richard, let's dispense with the talk about the weather."
"Millicent, for the sake of your charms, I'm prepared to make far greater sacrifices than that," Richard replied, putting on his best Lockhart smile. "But since you yourself have decided to get down to business... I refuse to believe that the Minister has nothing better to do than visit a pub, especially on the very day Hogsmeade is overrun with Hogwarts students."
"You'd be wrong," the Minister replied with mild irony. "They serve the best mead in Britain here. Unfortunately, given your age, I can't offer you that particular ambrosia, but I have prepared some butterbeer for you instead. It's both delicious and wholesome."
As far as Richard was concerned, Bagnold had practically admitted outright that she had indeed been waiting for him.
"Any drink served by your hand would taste like nectar."
A mug of butterbeer stood on the table. It was hot and steaming. Richard took a sip; the wonderful drink warmed his entire body right down to his fingertips.
"Interesting," he said, unable to find a better word for the extravaganza of flavours. "How are things at the Ministry?"
"Busy as a bee," Bagnold sighed with exaggerated sorrow. "Next summer, our country has the honour of hosting the international Quidditch championship. As though that weren't enough of a headache, Dumbledore managed, back when Fudge was still Minister, to push through the revival of the Triwizard Tournament, which is to be held between the European schools of magic in three stages over the course of the next school year. And every one of these events requires money to organise."
Richard realised that she was going to ask him for money. He was prepared for that. Wealthy people were well acquainted with such approaches from politicians. The situation seemed perfectly ordinary and entirely transparent, which allowed young Grosvenor to relax. He had originally been bracing himself for something worse, like the escape from Azkaban the previous year.
"I take it the tournament is a sporting competition as well?"
"Richard, you are as perceptive as ever," Madam Minister said with an inviting smile. "Unfortunately, inflation has left the Ministry's coffers bare. We have no money to build stadiums or organise the events. So it was decided that we should attract investors."
Richard made no attempt to hide his smirk.
"Investors..." he repeated ironically. "My dear Millicent, you might as well say it plainly. One investor will be quite enough for you. But you do understand that investments are expected to yield a return..."
Bagnold added a note of reproach to her voice.
"Richard, I might point out that you are the reason for the Galleon's inflation! If it weren't for your workshop..."
"If it weren't for my workshop, ten per cent of Britain's wizarding population would be unemployed."
"Undoubtedly, your workshop has its benefits as well," the Minister continued evasively.
"Millicent, you still haven't told me the most important things. Firstly, how much? Secondly, what do I get out of it?"
Bagnold put her magnificent cleavage on full display and proceeded to bombard the boy with meaningful looks. If a woman's eyes could be compared to weapons, the Minister's beautiful ones would have been an artillery battery.
"Richard, we require a mere trifle from you—only some seven million Galleons."
The Minister fell silent expectantly. She even held her breath. But one of her eyes twitched when Richard merely shrugged and replied calmly:
"That's reasonable. I thought you were going to ask for some astronomical sum. How many people are expected? What sort of profits are we looking at?"
"Richard, these are world-class events," the Minister continued slowly. "According to preliminary estimates, no fewer than a hundred thousand wizards will attend the Quidditch World Cup. We expect it to bring in at least twenty million Galleons. Since the Ministry of Magic will also be contributing funds and resources, I propose that we split the profits equally."
"Fifty-fifty?" Grosvenor asked in surprise. "Just like that? What about the bargaining?"
"Richard, I dare hope I'm a good judge of character," Bagnold said, visibly pleased. "I knew you wouldn't agree to anything less. Why waste our precious time on pointless haggling?"
"In principle, I'm willing to invest," Grosvenor said with an affirmative nod. "But so far you've only told me about revenue. What about profit?"
Bagnold drummed a simple rhythm on the tabletop with her manicured fingers.
"Net profit will be thirty per cent lower than the revenue," she admitted. "But after the World Cup, we'll have the Triwizard Tournament. It will attract roughly a third as many witches and wizards, but on three separate occasions. We expect that to bring in another nine million."
(End of Chapter)
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