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?"
"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 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."