The Leaky Cauldron was dark and shabby, smelling of stale beer and pipe smoke. A few witches and wizards sat hunched over drinks, barely glancing up as Professor Weasley led Rowan through to a walled courtyard at the back.
"Now watch carefully," she said.
She tapped the wall with her wand. Three up, two across. The bricks began to shift. They rearranged themselves into an archway, revealing a cobbled street beyond that definitely hadn't been there a moment ago.
"Welcome to Diagon Alley."
Rowan stepped through and stopped.
He'd carried faded images of this place for eleven years, fragments from a life that felt more like a dream with each passing month. None of it had prepared him for the reality. The colours were brighter than memory, the noise louder, the sheer density of magic pressing against his skin like a change in air pressure. He let the wonder show on his face, which required less acting than he'd expected.
The street was crowded with witches and wizards, all in robes of varying colors and styles. Shops lined both sides. Flourish and Blotts, Twilfitt and Tatting's, Slug & Jiggers Apothecary. Children darted between adults, pointing excitedly at shop windows displaying everything from cauldrons to broomsticks to what appeared to be a cage full of purple toads.
And above it all, soaring between the buildings, owls and other birds delivered post in a constant stream of wings and hooting.
"Overwhelming, isn't it?" Professor Weasley observed. "You'll get used to it. First stop: Gringotts. We need to convert your funds and collect your stipend."
She led him through the crowds toward an enormous white building that towered over the other shops. As they approached, Rowan studied the creatures standing guard at the bronze doors with the careful curiosity Weasley would expect from a Muggleborn seeing goblins for the first time. Small, perhaps three feet tall, with dark intelligent eyes and long fingers. He'd known what they looked like before today, but the memories had been flat and colourless. In person, they radiated a watchful, coiled authority that no memory could have conveyed.
"Goblins," Professor Weasley said quietly. "They run Gringotts. Be polite, be respectful, and never try to cheat them. Goblins have long memories and creative approaches to revenge."
Inside, the vast marble hall was filled with activity. Goblins sat on high stools behind a long counter, weighing coins, examining precious stones, making careful notations in enormous ledgers. Professor Weasley approached one who looked particularly stern. Older than the others, with more silver in his dark hair.
"Professor Weasley," the goblin said without preamble, his voice gravelly and precise. There was a slight edge to his tone, a professional courtesy that seemed to require effort. "Here for a student's stipend, I presume?"
"Indeed, Brakthir. This is Rowan Ashcroft, a Muggleborn student beginning his first year. He'll need access to his Hogwarts-allocated funds, and he also wishes to convert Muggle currency."
Brakthir's golden eyes fixed on Rowan with unsettling intensity. His gaze lingered a beat longer than professional courtesy required, as though reassessing an assumption. Then the neutral mask returned.
"Papers?"
Professor Weasley produced a rolled parchment from within her robes. Brakthir unrolled it, scanned the contents with remarkable speed, then nodded.
"Everything appears to be in order. The stipend of twelve Galleons has been deposited in vault seven-nine-four-three-one. As for the Muggle currency..." He turned those penetrating eyes on Rowan. "How much are you converting?"
"Ninety-three pounds," Rowan said, pleased that his voice didn't waver.
Brakthir's eyebrows rose fractionally. "That's quite a sum for an orphan child. How did you acquire it?"
"I worked in a cotton mill and wrote articles for the Times. I saved everything I could."
Something flickered in Brakthir's expression. Not quite approval, but perhaps a measure of respect. Goblins appreciated those who earned their wealth through skill and effort rather than inheritance.
"The exchange rate is currently one Galleon to twelve shillings," Brakthir said, pulling out an abacus and moving the beads with practiced efficiency. "Your ninety-three pounds equals approximately one hundred and fifty-five Galleons and six Sickles. With our conversion fee of two percent, you'll receive one hundred and fifty-one Galleons, fifteen Sickles, and nine Knuts. Is this acceptable?"
One hundred and fifty-one Galleons. A fortune by any measure he knew.
"Yes. That's acceptable."
"Then we shall proceed. The Muggle currency?"
Rowan reached into his jacket and withdrew the carefully wrapped bundle of pound notes. He'd kept them hidden in a false bottom beneath his trunk for years, adding to the stack whenever he received payment from the Times. Now he handed them over, watching his entire life savings disappear into those long, clever fingers.
Brakthir counted the notes with mechanical precision, each movement economical and exact. When he finished, he looked up with an expression that might have been curiosity.
"You will need a proper vault for such a sum. The student vault is not suitable for long-term storage of significant assets. I recommend opening a personal account. The fee is five Galleons annually, but it includes enhanced security wards and access to our investment services."
"Investment services?" Rowan asked, his interest piqued.
"Gringotts offers various investment opportunities within the wizarding economy. We can place your gold in secure ventures that generate modest returns. Typically three to five percent annually, depending on market conditions."
Three to five percent was conservative, but probably reasonable. Still, he had to ask.
"What about investments in the Muggle world?"
Brakthir's expression soured immediately, his lips pulling back to reveal sharp teeth. "Gringotts does not provide such services. Goblin gold does not belong in Muggle enterprises. We deal exclusively in wizarding commerce. Potions supplies, magical creature breeding operations, enchanted item manufacturing, and similar ventures that respect the natural order."
The disdain in his voice was palpable. Rowan filed the information away. He would have to find other ways to leverage his knowledge of the coming industrial changes.
"I understand. Then yes, I'd like to open a personal vault with investment services."
"Excellent." Brakthir produced a thick piece of parchment covered in dense script. "This is the account agreement. Read it thoroughly before signing. Gringotts does not permit ignorance as an excuse for breach of contract."
Rowan took the parchment and began reading. The language was archaic and formal, but the terms were clear enough. Five Galleons per year for vault access and security, with optional investment services that would take a fifteen percent commission on any gains. The vault could only be accessed by the account holder or someone with explicit written authorization. Attempting to breach the vault would trigger deadly curses and immediate goblin retaliation.
"This clause here," Rowan pointed to a section near the bottom. "It says Gringotts claims no responsibility for losses due to market fluctuations or business failures. What oversight do I have on where my gold is invested?"
Brakthir's eyes gleamed with sharp satisfaction. "You actually read the contract. Most wizards your age wouldn't bother." He tapped the parchment with one long finger. "You may specify general investment categories. Conservative, moderate, or aggressive. Conservative focuses on established businesses with steady returns. Moderate includes some newer ventures. Aggressive pursues high-risk, high-reward opportunities. You may also blacklist specific industries if you have objections."
"Conservative to start," Rowan decided. "I'm too young to gamble with everything I have."
"Wise." Brakthir made a notation on a separate piece of parchment. "How much do you wish to keep liquid for immediate expenses?"
Rowan did the mathematics quickly. School supplies would cost perhaps twenty to thirty Galleons. He should keep some emergency funds and money for the school year itself.
"I'll keep fifty Galleons liquid. The rest can be invested."
"Very well. Sign here, here, and here." Brakthir indicated three spaces on the parchment.
Rowan signed with the quill Brakthir provided, watching as the ink shimmered gold for a moment before settling into black. The parchment rolled itself up and vanished with a soft pop.
"Your vault number is four-two-seven," Brakthir said, producing a golden key from thin air and sliding it across the desk. "This is blood-keyed to you specifically. Do not lose it. Replacement requires a full audit and costs fifty Galleons. The five-Galleon account fee will be deducted automatically each year on the anniversary of opening."
"Thank you," Rowan said, pocketing both keys carefully.
"One more thing." Brakthir's tone was neutral but his eyes sharp. "You are aware that you are entitled to claim any family vault that may exist? Some Muggleborn children discover they have distant magical ancestry."
Rowan blinked. He hadn't considered that possibility. "I... no, I wasn't aware. But I'm an orphan. I have no family records."
"Gringotts has records going back millennia. If you wish, I can conduct a search. The fee is one Galleon."
Professor Weasley touched Rowan's shoulder lightly. "It's your choice, Mr. Ashcroft. Most Muggleborns find nothing, but occasionally there are surprises."
A Galleon was nothing compared to his current wealth, and if there was even a chance of learning about his origins...
"Please conduct the search."
Brakthir's smile was all teeth. "Excellent. It will take approximately one hour. You may return after you've completed your other purchases." He withdrew a small crystal orb from his desk and pressed it to his forehead, closing his eyes in concentration.
Professor Weasley guided Rowan away from the desk. "We'll visit the vault first to collect your stipend and have your personal funds deposited, then begin shopping."
They were met at the far end of the hall by another goblin. This one younger, introducing himself as Grondak. He led them through a door and into a narrow stone passageway that sloped sharply downward.
They climbed into a rickety cart that looked like it should fall apart at any moment. Then Grondak pulled a lever, and suddenly they were plummeting into the depths, racing through tunnels, around corners, over what felt like cliffs though Rowan couldn't see the bottom. The air grew colder as they descended, and Rowan caught glimpses of vast caverns through gaps in the tunnel walls, some filled with treasure, others guarded by things he couldn't quite identify in the flickering torchlight.
Professor Weasley looked faintly green. Rowan gripped the sides of the cart and tried not to think about what would happen if they derailed.
The cart screeched to a halt before a small iron door marked 79431. Grondak pressed a key to the lock, and the door swung open to reveal a modest chamber containing a single pile of gold coins.
"Twelve Galleons," Grondak said, sweeping them into a small bag. "Your Hogwarts stipend for the year."
The cart plunged deeper still, the temperature dropping further with each level. Finally, they arrived at vault 427, significantly larger than the student vault and reinforced with intricate rune-work that glowed faintly in the darkness.
Grondak pressed Rowan's new key to the lock, and Rowan felt a tingle as the vault recognized his magical signature. The door swung open to reveal an empty chamber with iron shelving along the walls and a central counting table.
"Your converted funds," Grondak said, directing a stream of Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts from a leather pouch into the vault. The coins arranged themselves in neat stacks automatically. "One hundred and sixty-three Galleons, eight Sickles, seven Knuts, minus the five Galleon account fee. Total: one hundred and fifty-eight Galleons, eight Sickles, seven Knuts."
Rowan stared at the small fortune, feeling the weight of possibility. This was real. He had resources now.
"Take what you need for today's purchases," Professor Weasley advised.
Rowan counted out thirty Galleons and added them to the bag with his stipend, bringing his total to forty-two Galleons for shopping.
The return journey was just as hair-raising. When they finally emerged back into the marble hall, Rowan's legs were shaking.
Brakthir was waiting for them, the crystal orb now dark on his desk.
"The search is complete," he said without preamble. "I regret to inform you that no magical family vaults are associated with the name Ashcroft, nor with any variant spellings. However..." He paused, his expression unreadable. "There is a notation in our records. An infant matching your description and approximate age was left at the Foundling Hospital in 1875. No name was provided, but a sum of twenty Galleons was deposited with the child. Payment to ensure proper care."
Rowan's heart skipped. "Where is that money now?"
"The Hospital claimed it, as is standard practice. The identity of the person who made the deposit is protected by Gringotts confidentiality agreements. I can tell you only that the gold was clan-forged, suggesting it came from an established wizarding family." Brakthir's eyes glittered. "You were not abandoned casually, Mr. Ashcroft. Someone wanted to ensure your survival."
The information was frustratingly incomplete, but it was more than Rowan had known before. He had come from a wizarding family, or at least someone in the magical world had cared enough to try to protect him.
"Thank you for the information," he said carefully.
"One Galleon has been deducted from your vault," Brakthir replied, equally formal. "May your gold multiply and your enemies fall before you, Mr. Ashcroft."
Professor Weasley guided him toward the exit. "Come along. We have shopping to do, and I'd like to finish before the afternoon crowds arrive."