They Flooed to the Leaky Cauldron at seven the next morning.
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.
"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.
He Flooed back to the Leaky Cauldron and stepped into Diagon Alley.