Weasley arrived at half past eight.

  She stepped through the front door of the Three Broomsticks wearing formal robes, dark green with silver clasps, the kind of thing one wore to the Ministry when one intended to be taken seriously. Sirona poured her tea without being asked, which Weasley accepted with a nod.

  "I'd like to stop at Gringotts on the way," Rowan said. "I'll need funds for the registration fee and summer expenses."

  "The registration is two Galleons."

  "I'd rather carry more than I need."

  Weasley studied him over her teacup, then set it down. "We'll Floo to the Leaky Cauldron."

  The journey was brief and unpleasant. Green flames swallowed the Three Broomsticks' hearth and spat Rowan out into the dim, low-ceilinged interior of the Leaky Cauldron. The pub smelled of pipe smoke, old wood, and something frying in the kitchen. A few early patrons occupied the booths, nursing drinks that might have been breakfast or might have been last night's final round.

  Weasley emerged behind him, brushing soot from her robes with practised efficiency. She led him through the back courtyard without pausing, tapped the correct sequence on the brick wall, and Diagon Alley opened before them.

  Rowan had seen it once before, but the scale of it still registered. The street stretched ahead in a long, crooked line of shopfronts and hanging signs, the morning sun catching the gilt lettering on Flourish and Blotts and the polished brass of the Slug & Jiggers storefront. Witches and wizards moved between the shops in the easy rhythm of people conducting ordinary business.

  Somewhere on this street, or one adjacent to it, Rowan would have a shop of his own. The thought sat in his chest like a coal. Warm, urgent, and liable to burn if he held it too long.

  Gringotts rose at the far end of the Alley, white marble gleaming against the morning sky. But the entrance was different from what Rowan remembered. Where two goblin guards had flanked the bronze doors on his first visit, four now stood in full armour, their pikes held at angles that said ceremony but their eyes saying something closer to challenge. The Prophet article about Gringotts dismissing its wizard staff had been months ago. The consequences, apparently, were still settling.

  Inside, the changes were subtler but unmistakable. The long hall of polished stone and brass fixtures looked the same, goblins still perched at high desks scratching figures into ledgers. But the wizard security staff who had once manned the inner doors were gone, replaced by goblin sentries. The atmosphere had always been cool. Now it carried an edge.

  Rowan approached the nearest available teller. The goblin behind the desk was not Brakthir, the teller who had processed his account two years ago with brisk professionalism and something approaching fairness. This one was older, sharp-featured, with eyes that tracked Rowan's approach the way a bird of prey tracks movement on the ground.

  "I'd like to make a withdrawal, please. Vault four-two-seven, under Ashcroft."

  The goblin peered down at him. "Key."

  Rowan produced his golden vault key from his pocket. The goblin examined it longer than seemed necessary, turning it over twice, holding it to the light, before handing it back.

  "How much?"

  "One hundred and fifty Galleons."

  The goblin made no reaction at all. He scratched something in his ledger and gestured toward the vault carts without another word. The courtesy, such as it was, felt thinner than what Brakthir had offered.

  The cart ride down was no less unpleasant for being familiar. Vault four-two-seven sat deep beneath London, its reinforced door carved with the same intricate rune-work he remembered from his first visit. The cart goblin pressed Rowan's key to the lock and the vault recognised his magical signature, the door swinging open onto iron shelving and neat stacks of gold. His tournament winnings made up the bulk of it. The sight of his entire fortune, visible and finite, sharpened the morning's stakes.

  He counted out a hundred and fifty Galleons, loaded them into his coin pouch, and stepped back. The door swung shut.

  "Thank you," he said.

  The goblin was already turning the cart around.

  They emerged from the bank into sunshine. Weasley checked her watch and led them back to the Leaky Cauldron.

  "The Ministry Atrium," she told Rowan, taking a pinch of Floo powder from the pot on the mantle. "Speak clearly."

  She went first. Rowan followed, the green flames swallowing the pub and depositing him onto polished marble.

  The Atrium opened around him.

  The ceiling vanished into shadow above enormous wrought-iron chandeliers that cast pools of amber light across dark marble floors. The walls were panelled in oak, hung with portraits of former Ministers for Magic who watched the passing traffic with expressions ranging from benign interest to open contempt. Fireplaces lined the far wall, green flames flaring every few seconds as Ministry employees arrived for the morning shift, brushing ash from their robes as they joined the current of foot traffic.

  At the centre of the hall stood a monument in dark granite. A wizard, twice life-size, stood with wand raised and robes billowing, one foot planted on a plinth carved with the words Magicae Supremitas — Nostrum Ius, Nostrum Onus. At the base, carved in relief, smaller figures knelt or bowed: goblins with hammers lowered, a centaur with head bent, a house-elf prostrate, and a Muggle on his knees with eyes cast down and hands empty.

  The monument's brass plaque read: Erected 1693, in Celebration of the International Statute of Secrecy and the Rightful Separation of Wizardkind from the Lesser Races. The granite gleamed as though someone polished it daily. Someone probably did.

  The atmosphere was heavy, dark, and certain of itself. Everything from the carved stone pillars to the brass letterboxes outside each department conveyed the same message: this institution had existed for nearly two centuries and intended to exist for two hundred more.

  Weasley navigated the building with ease. They descended two levels via a clanking lift operated by a young wizard who called out floor numbers in a monotone, passed through a corridor lined with frosted glass doors, and arrived at a small office at the end of a hall that smelled of parchment and sealing wax.

  The sign on the door read: REGISTRY OF MAGICAL ENTERPRISE AND COMMERCE. Below it, in smaller letters: Filing Hours: 9 a.m. to 4 p.m., Monday through Friday. Appointments Preferred.

  The office was cramped. Three desks occupied a space meant for two, each buried under towering stacks of parchment. Filing cabinets lined every wall, their drawers labelled in script so small Rowan had to squint. Enchanted quills scratched away on two of the desks, recording something from dictation, though no one appeared to be speaking.

  A single clerk manned the front desk. He was middle-aged, thin-faced, with the expression of someone who had processed ten thousand identical forms and expected to process ten thousand more before he retired. His robes were Ministry grey, his collar starched, and his quill was the expensive self-inking kind that suggested he'd been here long enough to requisition the good supplies.

  "Morning," he said without looking up. "Name and purpose."

  "Professor Matilda Weasley, Hogwarts School. I'm here as magical guardian for Mr. Rowan Ashcroft, who wishes to register a business."

  The clerk looked up. His gaze found Weasley first, then tracked downward to Rowan. The calculation was brief: a boy, young, perhaps thirteen, filing for business registration with a school professor as guardian.

  "Right." He pulled a form from a drawer, the parchment already headed with the Ministry seal. "Standard incorporation. Name of the enterprise?"

  "The Crucible."

  The clerk's quill scratched it down without comment. Weasley glanced at Rowan but said nothing.

  "Nature of business?"

  "Design, manufacture, and sale of magical devices and implements."

  "Registered address?"

  "To be determined. I'm in the process of securing premises in Diagon Alley."

  The clerk made a note. "File an amendment when you've a fixed address. Owner's full name?"

  "Rowan Ashcroft."

  "Date of birth?"

  Rowan gave it. The clerk wrote it down, then turned the form over. The back side was dense with smaller fields. "Blood status?"

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  The question was asked with the same flat disinterest as everything else. A bureaucratic checkbox. The clerk's quill was already poised over the line.

  "Muggleborn."

  The quill stopped. The clerk looked up, and something shifted behind his professional blankness. The recognition of a complication.

  "Muggleborn," he repeated.

  The clerk set down his quill. He glanced at Weasley, then back at Rowan, then at the form. "I can't process this registration."

  "On what grounds, exactly?" Weasley's voice was sharp.

  "Ministry regulation. Paragraph twelve of the Magical Commerce Statutes. Business registration requires the applicant to demonstrate established standing within the magical community." He recited it from memory, the words smooth from repetition. "Established standing is defined, in practice, as verifiable magical lineage or the endorsement of a registered magical household."

  "I'm his magical guardian. I'm endorsing the application."

  "You're his school guardian, Professor. That covers educational and medical matters. Commercial endorsement requires a family member or head of household within the magical community." The clerk's tone was patient and immovable. "I don't make the rules."

  "You enforce them selectively." Weasley's jaw was tight. "I've sat in this office with half-blood students who were never asked about their lineage."

  "Half-bloods have a magical parent on record. The regulation is satisfied automatically." He spread his hands. "I understand this is frustrating. If Mr. Ashcroft were to secure the endorsement of a registered magical household, a sponsor, I could process the form. Otherwise, my hands are tied."

  Rowan watched the exchange with his Occlumency engaged, reading the clerk as he would a duelling opponent. He was a functionary who'd been given rules that happened to exclude people like Rowan, and he enforced them because deviating was more trouble than it was worth.

  Which meant the question was what it would cost to bend them.

  "What's your name?" Rowan asked.

  "Humphrey Dalton."

  "Mr. Dalton, I appreciate your position. You've explained the regulation clearly and I understand the constraints you're operating under." Rowan kept his voice even, respectful, and entirely adult. "I'd like to explore whether there's a discretionary provision that might apply in unusual circumstances. My understanding is that certain registrations can be processed under a clerk's personal authority when the standard criteria present administrative difficulties."

  Dalton stared at him. The language was civil service code, the kind of phrasing that meant I know how this works and I'm giving you a way to say yes.

  "There are discretionary provisions," Dalton said carefully. "They're rarely invoked."

  "I imagine they carry an associated administrative fee."

  "They do."

  "How much?"

  Dalton glanced at the door. It was closed. He looked at Weasley, who was watching Rowan with an expression that sat somewhere between admiration and dismay.

  "Fifty Galleons," Dalton said quietly. "Gold on the desk. Nothing on paper."

  "Rowan." Weasley's voice was low. "You don't have to do this. There are other ways. I can petition the Headmistress, or—"

  "Petitions take months. I have a summer." Rowan was already reaching for his coin pouch. He counted out fifty Galleons on the desk, the gold coins clicking against the wood with a finality that made the room feel smaller.

  Dalton swept the coins into a desk drawer in one smooth motion, the movement practised and invisible. He pulled the registration form back, picked up his quill, and wrote something in the blood status field that Rowan couldn't read from his angle. Then he tapped the form with his wand, and the Ministry seal at the top flared gold.

  "The name of the enterprise is The Crucible. Sole proprietor is Rowan Ashcroft. Registration number four-seven-two-nine, effective immediately." He produced a second document from a different drawer, heavier parchment, the kind that hummed faintly with enchantment. "Your certificate of incorporation. It's magically binding."

  Rowan took the certificate. The parchment was warm to the touch, the binding enchantments woven through it making the document legally unassailable. Whatever Dalton had written in the blood status field, the Ministry's own magic had accepted it. The registration was real.

  "Thank you, Mr. Dalton."

  "Don't thank me." Dalton was already reaching for the next form in his stack. "And don't come back."

  They were silent in the lift. Silent through the Atrium. Silent until they emerged from the fireplace at the Leaky Cauldron, where the noise of the pub swallowed the tension that had been building since the clerk's drawer closed on fifty Galleons of tournament winnings.

  Weasley waited until they were outside in the courtyard before she turned on him. "You realise what you just did in there."

  "I registered a business."

  "You bribed a government official, Rowan. You looked a Ministry clerk in the eye, read the situation like it was a negotiation you'd done a dozen times before, and handed over fifty Galleons without blinking." She held up a hand before he could respond. "I'm not questioning why you did it. I watched the same conversation you did. That regulation exists for one reason and we both know what it is. But what you did was illegal, and the fact that the law you broke is less unjust than the law that provoked you doesn't change that."

  "I know." Rowan met her gaze steadily. "And I'd do it again. I wasn't going to walk out of that office without the registration, Professor. There was no version of today where that happened."

  Weasley exhaled through her nose, the sound of someone who wanted to argue but couldn't find the angle. "You had fifty Galleons set aside for this. Don't tell me you hadn't considered the possibility."

  "I'd considered it. I was hoping I wouldn't need to."

  "Fifty Galleons you can't afford to lose. On top of everything else you're trying to do this summer."

  "I know what it cost. I've already recalculated the budget."

  She studied him for a long moment. "And you still think you can make this work? Purchase a shop, hire someone to run it, stock it, and open for business before September?"

  "I think I have to try. If I wait for the system to be fair, I'll be waiting the rest of my life."

  Weasley was quiet. The courtyard was empty, the brick wall sealed behind them. She looked tired in a way that had nothing to do with the morning's travel.

  "I should have anticipated that regulation," she said. "I'm so accustomed to Hogwarts, where every student is treated equally regardless of blood status, that I forget how different things are beyond the gates. That's a failure on my part, and I'm sorry for it."

  "It's not your fault, Professor."

  "It's my responsibility, all the same." She straightened her robes and seemed to gather herself. "Sirona has agreed to keep an eye on you until you've found a responsible adult to accompany you to Diagon Alley. You are not to leave Hogsmeade without proper supervision. That is my condition, and it is not negotiable."

  "I'll stay in Hogsmeade until I have proper supervision. You have my word."

  "Good." She turned back toward the pub. "I'll write again to my former students about the shop position. Don't hold your breath, they were all quite firm, but I'll try."

  "Thank you, Professor."

  She gave him one last look, the kind that held too many things to unpack, and left.

  Rowan climbed the stairs to his room, sat on the bed, and opened his ledger.

  The numbers had shifted. Fifty Galleons for the bribe. Two for the registration fee. He updated the figures with careful precision, watching the charmed columns recalculate.

  Five hundred and seventy-five Galleons, six Sickles, nine Knuts.

  The cheapest shop worth having on Diagon Alley would cost six hundred. He was twenty-five Galleons short of even opening the door, before materials, wages, or any of the other expenses that made the second column so merciless. And if he wanted something in a decent location, something that would survive, he needed seven hundred or more.

  He stared at the revised figure for a long time, then closed the ledger and set it aside. The Flamels' letter was somewhere over France. Until it arrived, the numbers were what they were.

  Outside, the afternoon sun moved across the rooftops of Hogsmeade. The village was quiet. Summer quiet, the kind that settled in when the students were gone and the shopkeepers had nothing to do but wait for autumn.

  A tap at the window.

  Athena. She looked exhausted. France and back in under a day was asking a great deal, even of her. Her feathers were dishevelled and she was favouring her left wing, but she carried a parcel far too large for her to have managed alone. A second owl, enormous and tawny, hovered behind her with the bulk of the weight strung between them.

  Rowan opened the window and took the parcel. It was a leather pouch, about the size of his fist, with a letter tied to its drawstring. The second owl departed immediately, but Athena hopped onto her perch, drank deeply from her water dish, and fixed Rowan with a look that said quite clearly: don't ask me to do that again for at least a week.

  "Noted," he said, and set out extra owl treats before turning to the letter.

  The handwriting was Perenelle's. Elegant, unhurried, the script of someone who'd been writing for five centuries and had long since stopped being in a rush.

  Dear Rowan,

  We were glad to receive your letter, and gladder still that you sent it. Recognising when you need help is harder than most spells you'll ever cast, and asking for it is harder still. You should be proud that you did.

  We've discussed your proposal carefully. We must decline your offer of a share in the business. It would not sit right with us to take ownership of something you are building with your own hands and mind. This is your venture. It should remain yours.

  What we can offer is a loan. The enclosed pouch contains alchemical gold sufficient for your immediate needs. Starting capital, to be repaid when your business is established and profitable. There is no interest and no fixed timeline. We trust you to honour the debt when you are able.

  A few important points regarding the gold itself.

  First, prick your finger and touch a drop of blood to the drawstring. This will key the pouch to you alone. Anyone else who opens it will find it empty.

  Second, the gold inside is genuine alchemical product, real, pure, and legally indistinguishable from mined gold. However, the quantity is carefully measured. Use it for your business. Do not flood the market, do not convert large sums at once, and do not under any circumstances allow the gold to circulate in a way that could destabilise prices. The wizarding economy is smaller and more fragile than most people realise. A sudden influx of gold could cause damage that would take decades to repair.

  Third, and most importantly: this gold is for emergencies and operating expenses. It is not a substitute for earning your own way. We know you understand this, but we are old enough to say it plainly regardless.

  Build something worthy, Rowan. We have every confidence that you will.

  With affection,

  Nicholas and Perenelle

  P.S. Nicholas insists I mention that he wanted to invest. I overruled him. He is sulking about it in his laboratory as I write this. — P.

  Rowan read the letter twice. Then he pricked his finger with a quill nib, touched the blood to the drawstring, and opened the pouch.

  The inside was far larger than the outside. An Undetectable Extension Charm, and a masterful one. Gold glinted in the depths. Raw alchemical ingots, neatly arranged in rows. He didn't count them. The Flamels had said sufficient, and when the Flamels said sufficient, they meant it.

  He sat on the bed with the pouch in his lap and Perenelle's letter in his hand and allowed himself, for exactly thirty seconds, to feel the relief.

  Then he folded the letter, tucked it into his journal, stored the pouch in the hidden compartment of his trunk, and turned his attention to the evening ahead.

  Clara Goode was due at seven.