Clara had arrived at the Three Broomsticks before dawn, a battered trunk floating behind her and a determined set to her jaw that Rowan was beginning to recognise as her default expression. She'd resigned from Slug & Jiggers by owl the previous night. Whether they'd accepted the resignation or simply hadn't bothered to reply, she didn't say, and Rowan didn't ask.
Diagon Alley at opening hour had a different quality than the bustling street Rowan had walked with Weasley the day before. The shopkeepers were still raising their awnings and unlocking their doors. A wizard swept the cobblestones outside Flourish and Blotts with a charm that sent the dust spiralling into neat piles. From this angle, with the crowds not yet filling the thoroughfare, Rowan could see the architecture clearly. Side passages ran behind the main shopfronts, some well-maintained, others looking like they hadn't seen fresh paint since the Statute of Secrecy.
"Where do we start?" Clara asked. She had a notebook out, a practical reflex that Rowan appreciated.
"Not the main stretch. Anything with frontage on the primary Alley will cost a thousand Galleons or more. We need the secondary streets, close enough to the foot traffic that customers can find us."
"I know a few of the side lanes from my time at Slug & Jiggers. Passages most customers never see."
"Lead the way."
They spent the morning walking. Clara led him through a passage behind Gambol and Japes that opened onto a small square he hadn't known existed, past a row of workshops where broom-makers and cauldron-smiths worked, and down a lane called Serpentine Close that curved away from the main street before rejoining it near Gringotts.
Most of the properties they passed were occupied. The few that stood empty were either derelict or carried asking prices that made Rowan's coin pouch feel very light.
By midday, they'd seen seven properties. Three too expensive. Two too far from foot traffic. One promising until Clara noticed the ceiling beams were riddled with Bundimun, the greenish fungus having eaten through the structural supports to the point where a strong Levitation Charm might bring the whole thing down.
The seventh was on Carkitt Market.
A small square sat just off the main Alley, connected by a short passage that funnelled pedestrian traffic past a handful of shops. Close enough to the primary street that passing witches and wizards could see the square from the main thoroughfare, far enough removed that the price wouldn't bankrupt him.
The building itself was a narrow cottage. Two storeys of aging stone and timber with a slate roof that sagged visibly in the middle. The windows were dirty, the paint was peeling, and a hand-lettered sign in the ground-floor window read FOR SALE in faded ink. Nobody had lived in it for months. Possibly years.
"That one," Rowan said.
Clara studied it with the eye of someone who'd spent years maintaining a home on limited funds. "The roof needs work. The stonework on the left wall is crumbling. And I'd wager the plumbing hasn't been touched since the last century." She glanced at him. "If the price is right, it could work."
They pushed through the front door, which opened with a reluctant creak onto a dim, dusty ground floor. The space was larger than it looked from outside, maybe twenty feet deep and fifteen wide, with a low ceiling supported by heavy oak beams that at least appeared sound. A staircase in the back corner led to the upper floor. The walls were bare plaster, stained with damp in places, and the floor was uneven flagstone.
A door at the back of the room opened, and an elderly couple emerged. The man was tall and stooped, with thin white hair and robes that had once been expensive. The woman was shorter, round-faced, with a pinched expression that suggested permanent disapproval. They looked like people who had once been comfortable and were now watching that comfort slip away, which probably explained why they were selling.
"Good morning," Rowan said. "We noticed your sign. We're interested in the property."
The man's gaze moved from Rowan to Clara and back. His wife's eyes narrowed, taking in everything that wasn't there. No family crest on their robes, no signet rings, no house colours. In the wizarding world, the absence of those markers said as much as their presence.
"And you are?" the man asked.
"Rowan Ashcroft. This is Mrs. Clara Goode, my storefront manager. I'm looking to purchase commercial property for a new business."
"Ashcroft." The wife repeated the name as though tasting something unpleasant. "I don't know the name. What family are you from?"
"I'm Muggleborn."
The temperature in the room dropped. The wife's expression closed like a door slamming shut, and the husband's careful neutrality curdled into something colder.ni
"We're not interested," the wife said. "The property isn't for sale to your sort."
"The sign in the window says otherwise."
"The sign is for respectable buyers. Magical families who understand the value of what they're purchasing and the history of the neighbourhood." She drew herself up. "This cottage has been in Carkitt Market for two hundred years. My husband's family has owned it for three generations. We won't see it handed over to someone with no roots in our world."
Clara's hand tightened around her notebook, but she said nothing. Her face was still, controlled, the expression of a woman who had heard variations of this speech many times before.
Rowan let the silence hold. Then he looked past the wife to the husband, who hadn't spoken since the initial exchange.
"Mr...?"
"Griggs," the man said. "Edgar Griggs."
"Mr. Griggs, I understand your wife's feelings on the matter. But how long has this property been on the market?"
Griggs glanced at his wife, who gave a sharp shake of her head. He looked back at Rowan. The sign had been in the window for a long time, and whatever other buyers had come through that door, none of them had made an offer. Rowan could read the arithmetic of it on his face.
"Fourteen months," Griggs said quietly.
"Edgar." His wife's voice could have cut glass.
"Fourteen months, Mabel, and nobody's come." He turned back to Rowan. "What are you offering?"
"That depends on your asking price."
Griggs hesitated. His wife had gone rigid beside him. He knew that whatever number he gave, she would consider it a betrayal. But fourteen months without a buyer had a weight of its own.
"Nine hundred Galleons," he said.
Clara made a small sound in her throat that she quickly suppressed. Nine hundred Galleons for a cottage with a sagging roof, crumbling stonework, and damp in the walls. Easily double what the property was worth. The inflated price was Griggs's compromise with his wife's prejudice, a number high enough to feel like punishment for the crime of being Muggleborn.
"I'll give you five hundred."
"Absolutely not." Mrs. Griggs stepped forward. "Edgar, we are not—"
"Five hundred is what this property is worth in its current condition," Rowan said, addressing Griggs and not his wife. "The roof alone will cost me fifty Galleons in materials. The west wall needs structural repair. The interior hasn't been maintained in years."
"The location alone is worth more than—"
"The location is why I'm here at all. If this cottage were on a back lane, I wouldn't offer three hundred. Carkitt Market has foot traffic from the main Alley, and that's worth a premium. I've already accounted for it."
Griggs was watching him with an expression that had shifted from reluctance to grudging interest. Whatever he'd expected from a Muggleborn boy, being haggled by someone who understood property valuation wasn't it.
"Six hundred and fifty," Griggs said.
"Five hundred and fifty."
"Six hundred. That's my final word."
Six hundred Galleons. More than the property was worth, even accounting for the location. But Carkitt Market would put them within sight of the main Alley. Customers who wandered in wouldn't need directions.
"Six hundred," Rowan said. "Paid in full, with a magically binding bill of sale. But I'll need a few hours to arrange the funds and secure my guardian's co-signature. She's at Hogwarts."
Griggs frowned. "You can't pay today?"
"I can pay today. The articles of incorporation for my business require my magical guardian's co-signature on any contract exceeding fifty Galleons. It's a standard safeguard. I'll send an owl within the hour."
Mrs. Griggs made a dismissive noise. "He can't even buy it without permission from his nursemaid."
"My guardian reviewed and approved the business registration with the Ministry yesterday, Mrs. Griggs. This is a formality."
Griggs considered this. "I'll hold the property until four o'clock. If you haven't returned with the gold and the signature by then, the deal is off."
"Fair enough. Thank you, Mr. Griggs."
Mrs. Griggs swept out of the room. Her husband watched her go, then turned back with an expression that mixed weariness with something almost like relief.
"Four o'clock," he repeated. "Don't be late."
Outside in Carkitt Market, Clara let out a long breath. "That woman would have let the cottage rot before selling it to us."
"Her husband couldn't afford to agree with her."
"You handled it well. I would have lost my temper somewhere around 'your sort.'"
"I've had practice with people who think my blood status is their business." Rowan was already walking. "I need to get back to Hogsmeade. Weasley's co-signature won't send itself."
They crossed back into the main Alley. Rowan's personal funds sat at five hundred and sixty-three Galleons, six Sickles, and nine Knuts. The shop cost six hundred.
"I'll Floo to the Three Broomsticks, send the letter, and come straight back. I also need to exchange some gold at Gringotts when I return."
Clara didn't ask where the gold had come from. She'd signed a contract with a thirteen-year-old who had mentors wealthy enough to fund a startup and the poise to bribe Ministry clerks. She was learning to accept things without requiring a full explanation.
"I need to pick up supplies anyway," she said. "Cleaning materials, household basics, food for the next few days. I saw a provisions shop on Serpentine Close this morning. I'll meet you back at the Leaky Cauldron at half one."
The Floo trip to Hogsmeade took seconds. Rowan stepped out of the Three Broomsticks' fireplace, borrowed a fast owl from Sirona, and wrote his note to Weasley.
Professor,
I've found a suitable property on Carkitt Market, just off Diagon Alley. Good location, sound structure, needs renovation. The seller has agreed to six hundred Galleons. I need your co-signature on the bill of sale per our articles of incorporation. He's holding the property until four o'clock today.
- Ashcroft
He sent the owl and wrote a second letter, this one to Lawrence.
Lawrence,
We're buying a shop on Carkitt Market today. Two storeys, needs work, but the location is right. I need you here as soon as your mother sends word that it's settled. Pack your tools and Floo to the Leaky Cauldron. There's a great deal of plaster to repair and your Reparo is better than mine.
R.
A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
He Flooed back to the Leaky Cauldron and stepped into Diagon Alley.
The lunch crowd had thickened the street considerably. Rowan let himself drift with it, studying the flow of foot traffic. Every commercial district had a pulse if you knew how to read it. The busiest stretch ran from Gringotts to just past Flourish and Blotts, thinning as the Alley curved toward the quieter shops at the far end. The side streets drew steadier traffic, repeat customers who knew what they wanted.
He made his way to Gringotts. The queue was short. Rowan approached a teller and placed a small ingot from the Flamels' pouch on the counter.
"I'd like to exchange this for Galleons, please."
The goblin picked it up. His fingers slowed. He turned the ingot over with a care that hadn't been present a moment earlier, then produced a small glass instrument from a drawer and examined the surface through it.
"Where did you acquire this?" the goblin asked. His voice was neutral, but his eyes had sharpened.
"It was a gift."
"From whom?"
"That's my business."
The goblin looked at him for a long moment. Alchemical gold carried none of the trace impurities found in mined gold, no flecks of silver or copper, no crystalline irregularities. A goblin who worked with precious metals daily would recognise the difference immediately.
"This ingot converts to thirty-one Galleons at standard rates. However, given the exceptional purity, Gringotts would be prepared to offer a ten per cent premium. Thirty-four Galleons." He paused. "We would also be interested in acquiring additional quantities, should they become available."
"Thirty-four at the standard rate is fine. And I'd like to exchange three more ingots at the same terms."
The goblin's eyes widened fractionally before the professional mask reasserted itself. He weighed each ingot with deliberate care. Four ingots, a hundred and thirty-six Galleons total. Enough to cover the gap in the shop purchase and leave working capital for materials, wages, and the initial supply run.
The goblin counted out the Galleons in neat stacks. "Should you wish to conduct further exchanges, ask for me by name. Nargok."
"I'll keep that in mind."
The Flamels' warning echoed as he left. Do not flood the market. Do not convert large sums at once. Four ingots in a single visit was already more than he'd have liked, but the purchase demanded it. He would space future exchanges carefully.
He had an hour before meeting Clara. Rather than walk back to Carkitt Market, he turned toward Flourish and Blotts.
The shop was cool and quiet in the midday lull. Rowan found an assistant, a young witch with ink-stained fingers who looked like she'd been sorting stock all morning.
"I'm looking for books on protective enchantments. Wards, specifically. Anything on how to construct and maintain them."
She led him to a section labelled HOUSEHOLD CHARMS AND DOMESTIC MAGIC, which occupied half a shelf between GARDEN ENCHANTMENTS and PEST REMOVAL. Four books. Two were introductory guides to locking charms and burglar alarms, the kind of thing you'd buy after your first break-in. A third covered anti-Muggle repelling wards in such basic terms that Rowan already knew everything in the first chapter. The fourth was a treatise on Ministry-grade protective enchantments, priced at fifteen Galleons, and based on the chapter headings it assumed access to trained Aurors and months of preparation time.
Rowan opened the Ministry treatise to the index and scanned for anything on principles of ward construction. The closest entry was a chapter on "Established Ward Systems of Magical Britain," which turned out to be a historical survey rather than a practical guide. It mentioned Hogwarts in passing without describing anything useful, glossed over family estate protections as "proprietary knowledge beyond the scope of this text," and devoted a brief section to the goblin-made wards around Gringotts, noting only that the goblins' approach differed fundamentally from wizard magic and that the techniques remained exclusively in goblin hands.
Rowan filed it away and put the book back on the shelf.
"Is there anything else? Anything more practical?"
The assistant shook her head. "Ward magic isn't really a publishing category, I'm afraid. Most families who use serious protections learn it at home. It's passed down privately. We get asked now and again, but there's just not much in print."
Closely held knowledge. The kind that pure-blood families kept within their walls precisely because it was valuable and precisely because sharing it would reduce their advantage over people like Rowan.
He thanked her, bought nothing from that section, and found himself drifting toward the back of the shop with nothing better to do until half one.
Fiction.
The section was small, tucked between Divination and Muggle Studies as though the shop were slightly embarrassed by it. Two shelves of novels, a rack of serialised story pamphlets, and a rotating display of what appeared to be the wizarding world's bestsellers.
Rowan picked up the nearest novel. The Warlock's Heart by Gertrude Grimmshaw. The cover showed a muscular wizard clutching a fainting witch against a backdrop of exploding cauldrons.
"Drusilla," Vargus whispered, his wand trembling with the force of his passion. "I have fought Dark wizards, slain basilisks, and dueled the Minister himself. But nothing has prepared me for the devastating spell of your beauty."
He closed it and picked up another. Twelve Enchanted Evenings. A collection of short stories.
The moonlight caught Celestina's tears as they fell upon the enchanted rose, each drop turning to silver as it struck the petals. "He will never know," she murmured to the empty garden. "He will never know the depths of my magical heart."
He put it down. The third book, Night of the Living Inferi by Dorian Dashwood, at least had a promising title.
The Inferi lunged. Stubbleworth raised his wand and shouted the incantation his grandmother had taught him as a boy, back when the world was simpler and dark magic was just something other people worried about. The spell struck the creature in the chest and it exploded in a shower of sparks and bone fragments. "That's for Uncle Barnaby," he said grimly, already turning toward the next one.
Rowan replaced it on the shelf and stood there for a moment.
The writing was terrible. All of it. Melodramatic prose, flat characters, plots that relied on coincidence and spectacle rather than logic. The adventure stories were worse. Cardboard heroes defeating cardboard villains with spells the authors had clearly invented on the spot.
And people bought them. The bestseller display had price tags, and the numbers suggested healthy sales. The reading public was hungry for stories and had almost nothing worth reading to choose from.
Rowan had two lifetimes of literary knowledge in his head. He'd read Tolkien, Le Guin, Pratchett, Austen, Dostoevsky, and hundreds of others whose craft made anything on this shelf look like a student's first essay. More than that, he'd been a working writer. The Times had published his political commentary for years without knowing that their anonymous contributor was a child. He understood structure, voice, and the discipline of making words do actual work on a page.
The gap between what he could produce and what this market was offering was enormous.
He could write something better. He was certain of it. A published book would generate attention, build the kind of recognition that translated into customers walking through his shop door. His name on a cover would reach people who'd never heard of the duelling tournament or the Prophet profile.
But he filed it away. One venture at a time. The shop came first.
He bought a wizard detective novel that someone had enchanted with moving illustrations, three Sickles, and left.
He found Clara outside the Leaky Cauldron at half one. She'd been thorough. Cleaning supplies, basic kitchen stores, candles, bedding, and a heavy iron kettle that she carried with conviction.
"Weasley's approved the purchase," Rowan said, holding up the authorization that had arrived via Hogwarts owl twenty minutes earlier. Weasley's signature, her Hogwarts seal, and a line of enchanted text that would bind itself to the bill of sale upon contact.
"Then let's not keep Mr. Griggs waiting."
They returned to Carkitt Market well before four o'clock. Edgar Griggs had the paperwork ready, a bill of sale on heavy parchment with spaces for both signatures and a binding charm embedded in the ink. His wife was nowhere in sight.
Rowan counted out six hundred Galleons on the writing desk in the back room. Five hundred and sixty-three from his personal vault, the remaining thirty-seven from the converted alchemical gold. The rest of the Flamels' money he kept separate, earmarked for materials, wages, and the dozen other expenses that would come before the first luminaire sold.
Griggs counted the coins twice, signed the bill of sale, and Rowan signed beneath him. Weasley's enchanted authorization flowed across the parchment of its own accord, her signature appearing beside Rowan's in neat copperplate. The binding charm sealed the document with a flash of gold light.
Griggs handed Rowan a heavy iron key.
"The cottage is yours." His expression was complicated, relief tangled up with something that might have been shame. "For what it's worth, you negotiated well. Better than most adults I've dealt with."
"Thank you, Mr. Griggs."
Griggs left within the quarter hour, pausing at the door just long enough to look around the ground floor one last time. The door closed behind him and the building was quiet.
Rowan stood in the middle of the empty ground floor with the key in his hand.
His shop. His building. Six hundred Galleons poorer and the owner of a property that needed more work than most people would consider worthwhile.
Clara was already examining the walls, tapping the plaster with her wand and listening to the sound it made. "The damp is superficial on the east wall. Deeper on the west, where the stonework is crumbling. I can handle the interior cleaning if you tackle the structural charms."
"My Reparo's never been tested on masonry."
"There's a first time for everything." She rolled up her sleeves. "Let's see what we've got upstairs."
The upper floor was in better condition than the ground level. Two rooms, a narrow corridor, and a lavatory with plumbing that groaned when Clara tested the taps. The larger room had a window overlooking Carkitt Market, and despite the grime on the glass, the view confirmed what Rowan had hoped. You could see the entrance to the main Alley from here.
"Larger room for you and Lawrence," Rowan said. "I'll take the smaller one."
Clara nodded and was already casting a Scouring Charm on the nearest wall before he'd finished the sentence.
They worked through the rest of the afternoon. Rowan cast Reparo on the crumbling west wall, feeding magic into the stonework until the mortar reformed and the cracks sealed shut. The effort was enormous, far more draining than repairing a broken teacup or a window frame. Structural repair required sustained concentration and a feel for the material that he hadn't developed yet, and twice the charm failed partway through and he had to start again. By the time the wall was sound, his magical reserves were noticeably depleted.
Clara attacked the interior with a ferocity that suggested years of frustration being channelled into productive work. Scouring Charms stripped the grime from the floors and walls. She banished the accumulated dust with a sweep of her wand and then went after the windows with a Muggle rag and a bucket of water, because, as she put it, "charms clean the surface but elbow grease gets into the grain."
Lawrence arrived at half five.
He stepped out of the Leaky Cauldron's fireplace with his trunk, crossed through Diagon Alley at what Clara later described as "very nearly a run," and appeared in the doorway of the cottage flushed and slightly out of breath.
"You bought it?" He looked around the ground floor, taking in the stripped walls, the wet flagstones, Clara on her knees scrubbing the staircase. "You actually bought it."
"This morning. The key's in my pocket and the seller is probably having a row with his wife about it as we speak."
"It's brilliant." Lawrence turned a full circle, seeing what Rowan saw. Not the damp or the bare plaster or the sagging roof, but the bones of a workshop, a shop floor, a place where things could be made and sold. "Where's the production space going?"
"The back room. I'm expanding it with an Expansion Charm once the Flamels send instructions."
"And the shop floor?"
"The display cases along the front where the light hits. There’s a counter near the back. We need shelving, which means we need wood, which means we need money, which means we need to stop talking and start working."
Lawrence dropped his trunk in the corner, pulled out his wand, and joined Clara on the staircase without being asked. Within ten minutes he'd repaired three of the balusters and was arguing with Clara about the most efficient order to clean the upper floor.
"Ceilings first," Lawrence said. "The dust falls down. If you clean the floors first, you just have to do them again."
"I've been cleaning houses since before you were born."
"And I've been told I'm wrong about the order of operations since before I could hold a wand. Doesn't mean I am wrong."
"You're wrong," Clara said, and continued scrubbing the floor.
Lawrence looked at Rowan, who shook his head slightly. Don't.
"Ceilings next time," Lawrence muttered, and went to work on the window frames.
By evening, the ground floor was unrecognisable. The flagstone floor gleamed. The walls were bare but clean. The ceiling beams, stripped of cobwebs, turned out to be solid English oak in excellent condition. The front window, cleared of its grime, let the last of the daylight flood the room with warm golden light.
The upper floor was habitable, if spare. Clara had cleaned both rooms, aired the mattresses she'd found in a cupboard, and laid out the fresh bedding she'd purchased. The plumbing, after aggressive charm work and a great deal of swearing under Clara's breath, produced hot water that only occasionally ran brown.
They ate a simple dinner from Clara's provisions, sitting on conjured chairs in the ground floor. The empty room echoed around them.
"It needs shelving," Clara said, surveying the space. "Display cases along the front wall. A counter near the back for transactions. Storage behind that. And the production space has to be completely separated from the shop floor. Customers wandering into a working alchemical laboratory is a liability I don't want to think about."
"Agreed. The back room gets the Expansion Charm and a locked door."
Lawrence was studying the ceiling beams. "The oak is good enough to hang display fixtures from. If we run a rail along the main beam, we could suspend luminaires at different heights. Show people what the light looks like in actual use rather than just sitting on a shelf."
"That's good," Rowan said. "Do that."
"I'll need brackets. And wire. And something to hang them from that doesn't look terrible."
"Make a list. We'll source it tomorrow."
Clara collected the plates and carried them to the back room, which was serving as a makeshift kitchen until the Expansion Charm gave them a proper workspace. Lawrence went upstairs to unpack. Rowan sat by the front window, looking out at Carkitt Market in the evening light.
The other shops in the square were closing for the day. A stationery shop. A secondhand robe shop. A tea room with lace curtains that appeared to be closed permanently. A narrow storefront advertising bespoke wand holsters and leather goods. The foot traffic had thinned to a few stragglers cutting through on their way home.
Rowan wrote two letters by the light of a conjured flame.
The first was to Nicholas and Perenelle.
Dear Nicholas and Perenelle,
I've secured a property. Number four, Carkitt Market, just off the main stretch of Diagon Alley. The location is strong and the building is sound, if rough. Clara, Lawrence, and I have spent the day cleaning and repairing it. I expect we'll have the ground floor ready for shelving and equipment within the week.
The alchemical equipment can be delivered to the shop directly. I may also need your guidance on an Expansion Charm for the production room. I've never attempted one on a space larger than a cupboard.
Thank you again for the loan. I've used a portion of it for the property purchase. I intend to repay every Knut.
R.
The second was to Weasley.
Professor,
The purchase is complete. Clara, Lawrence, and I are settled in the shop on Carkitt Market. Thank you for the co-signature. I'll try not to make you regret it.
R. Ashcroft
He tied the letters to one of the pub owls Clara had brought along and watched it disappear over the rooftops.
Below him, the shop floor was dark and empty, waiting to be filled. Tomorrow he would begin building shelves. The day after, the Flamels' equipment would arrive, if the owls were fast enough. Within the week, they'd begin production.
Rowan closed the window, lay down on a mattress that smelled of cleaning charms and old cotton, and slept better than he had in weeks.