24: Negotiations

[3rd Pov]

While the Hogwarts professors departed from the school to relish a brief vacation before gearing up for the upcoming term, there remained a sole figure within the castle.

Albus Dumbledore harbored numerous regrets. Walking past the numerous portraits, he pondered over the fact that he had once supported the same beliefs as his closest companion, Gellert Grindelwald, and lamented his delayed intervention when it was already too late.

He thought that, perhaps, his good friend would open his eyes and see how foolhardy it would be to persist with his plan. Or that maybe, his beloved sister might inspire a positive transformation in Gellert. Harming or capturing someone dear to him was the last thing he desired, but alas, it unfolded as the inevitable outcome.

The headmaster walked up the grand staircase, a certain floor in his mind. There were a hundred and forty-two staircases at Hogwarts: wide, sweeping ones; narrow, rickety ones; some that led somewhere different on a Friday. Yet, none of that mattered, for Dumbledore knew them better than anyone.

As Dumbledore reached the third floor, he strode past the chamber that had once housed Fluffy. He continued his journey through each subsequent chamber, finding them all vacant, until he finally arrived at his intended destination.

Each professor had been assigned the responsibility of tidying their own trial chamber, leaving the now decaying troll corpse untouched after Quirrell's demise. Snape happened to mention it in passing, as his chamber lay just beyond the lifeless creature, but the headmaster assured him that he would personally attend to its disposal.

Approaching the lifeless body of the troll, Dumbledore ran his hand along the scorched mark that marred its chest. The tingling sensation emanating from the magical wound evoked a sigh from Dumbledore, a mixture of contemplation and resignation.

A wizard of his caliber could easily discern the magic used by the residuals caused by a spell.

'The killing curse,' Dumbledore thought. As he pondered why the former professor would eliminate something that could potentially buy him some valuable time, a fleeting thought brushed across the headmaster's mind.

'No... even if he uses the dark arts to this degree, Alaric's not powerful enough,'

Dumbledore found himself unable to resist drawing parallels between his nephew and Tom Riddle. Both were remarkably gifted Slytherin wizards, possessing an exceptional aptitude for the Dark Arts. Charismatic and composed, they exuded a certain coldness. However, when provoked, their anger and animosity could easily overshadow their sound judgment.

But to the headmaster's relief, Alaric's goal was far different than Voldemort's. The Dark Lord was a raging psychopath, devoid of the normal human responses to other people's suffering and whose only ambition in life is to become all-powerful and immortal.

In contrast, Alaric aspired to demonstrate to the world that he was more than merely his name or the descendant of a Dark Lord. His ambition was to redeem his family's reputation and engrave it in the annals of history, not as a dark lineage, but as a name deserving respect.

Upon hearing directly from the boy's own lips about what he had witnessed in the Mirror of Erised, Dumbledore experienced a profound sense of relief, as if a burdensome boulder had been lifted from his shoulders. Although he may not be able to prevent his nephew from delving into the Dark Arts, he was determined to ensure that Alaric would not deviate from his true path.

__________

In the heart of London's Westminster district, the air is filled with the mingling scents of street food stalls, wafting aromas of freshly brewed coffee, and the occasional hint of a hot summer afternoon.

Within this distinguished district, one finds Whitehall—a street that assumes the role of a corridor, synonymous with power and prestige in the Muggle world. Serving as the ground for numerous Muggle government bureaus and ministries, Whitehall's significance transcends the surface level, concealing an even more momentous site deep beneath its cobblestone surface.

With two known entrances, apart from portkeys, and floo powder, the British Ministry of Magic is located underneath the Muggle's district.

The Ministry portkey service primarily caters to foreign wizards arriving from distant lands, spanning across different continents. Due to the prohibition of apparition on Ministry grounds, those lacking access to a Floo Fireplace connected to the Ministry are left with only two means of entry.

The first entrance, commonly utilized by employees, is an inconspicuous underground public bathroom. When a magical being activates the flush mechanism, they are whisked away, and magically transported to the halls of the Ministry.

The second entrance, predominantly frequented by visitors, is a weathered, dilapidated red telephone box nestled within a dimly lit street. This peculiar landmark finds itself amidst shabby offices, a humble pub, and a graffiti-adorned wall, serving as an unassuming gateway into the Ministry's realm.

"State your business," spoke a soft, almost robotic, witch's voice.

"I wish to acquire a lease on a Ministry-owned property in Diagon Alley," responded a man, inside the red telephone box.

The middle-aged man exuded an air of sophistication, his black hair slicked back, revealing a touch of white at the temples.

He donned a stylish, charcoal-colored long coat over a perfectly tailored suit of the same shade. Underneath, a pristine white dress shirt peeked out, impeccably pressed.

His black tie harmonized flawlessly with his meticulously polished shoes, both exhibiting an elegant jet-black hue reminiscent of a mirror's reflection.

Receiving a pin with his exact purpose carved out, the interior of the telephone box started to descend, aquin to an elevator.

As the elevator stopped, the man came to face with a nearly empty visitor's hall. His shoes clicked against the highly polished, dark wood floor, as he walked in the direction of the security checkpoint.

"Good afternoon," he politely addressed the young woman in the booth. The youthful witch possessed a delicate, heart-shaped face adorned with medium-sized bubblegum-pink hair.

Startled by the unexpected greeting, the woman, who had been in a deep slumber, swiftly opened her eyes and hastily composed herself, mustering a forced but welcoming smile.

"Welcome," she declared. "May I see your wand?"

Observing her outstretched hand, the man retrieved a wand of a dark hue, resembling a withered tree branch.

"Here you go, Ms. Tonks," he replied, his gaze fixed on her.

Nymphadora Tonks, her name tag visibly displayed, shrugged, assuming it was merely a polite gesture from the man. She examined the wand, nodded approvingly, and returned it.

"All in order. Your name, please?" she inquired once more.

"Percival Graves."

"Hmmm... American?"

"Yes."

Nymphadora stamped Percival's profile, which promptly transformed into a paper airplane and magically flew out of her booth.

"Everything appears to be in order," the young witch assured. "Welcome to the Ministry of Magic, Mr. Graves."

Percival paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts before posing a question. "If you don't mind my asking, why is a junior Auror assigned to a security check?"

Tonks let out a weary sigh. A keen observer would notice that she was donning the standard uniform worn by Auror trainees, and even her name tag displayed the additional label of 'Auror in Training' beneath her name.

Tonks paused briefly, reflecting on her mentor's advice. "Well... as my mentor usually says, 'You must grasp the inner workings of the ministry to detect any anomalies. Constant vigilance!'"

Percival's laughter filled the air for a moment, but then his countenance returned to its usual stoicism.

"He sounds like quite the character. I'll let you get back to your duties, Ms. Tonks. Best of luck with your endeavors," he remarked before turning to leave.

"Uh... thanks?" Tonks replied, slightly perplexed, as he walked away.

As the man, now known as Percival Graves, walked through the ministry halls, every few seconds a witch or wizard would emerge from one of the left-hand fireplaces with a soft whoosh. On the right-hand side, short queues of wizards were forming before each fireplace, waiting to depart.

Percival's stride came to a halt in front of a door adorned in a deep shade of blue. Above it, a golden plate caught his attention, bearing carved black letters that read, 'Department of Land Management.'

With a firm push, he swung open the doors and navigated through a series of adjacent rooms, predominantly occupied by offices, until he reached the unmistakable presence of the department's secretary.

A woman wearing a pair of spectacles and clad in a dark-red witch's robe sat hunched over a piece of parchment, scribbling away. She glanced up at the newcomer, her gaze soon shifting to the freshly arrived profile in her possession.

"Fortunate timing," she exclaimed, foregoing pleasantries. "Mr. Nikolai is presently available. His office is the first door on the right."

Percival nodded, not bothered by the lack of respect shown by the woman. He approached the door, before knocking thrice.

"Come in," sound a voice behind it.

As the door swung open, the "American" wizard found himself face to face with a stout, middle-aged man of diminutive stature. With each step, the man's belly jiggled merrily, lending a jovial air to his approach. Extending his hand, he greeted Percival with a vigorous handshake.

"A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Graves. I am Nikolai Ironwood, the head of the Land Management Department," he declared, his enthusiasm palpable. "I must confess when I saw the portfolio you submitted a few days ago, I was thoroughly impressed. The Ministry would be delighted to engage in business with you... for the appropriate price, naturally."

Taking their seats across from one another, a polished oak desk shining brightly between them, the conversation commenced.

"Please, enlighten me, Mr. Graves. What is it that you seek to buy?" Nikolai inquired, carefully studying the man seated before him.

Percival remained with a blank expression, looking at Nikolai.

"I wish to lease a plot in Diagon Alley. I intend to open a shop and use the profit to eventually buy the building," he said.

Nikolai reclined in his seat, his jovial expression fading into a thinking one.

"The Ministry has, at the moment, very few properties in Diagon Alley that can be sold or leased. So I'm afraid the price would be higher than normal," Nikolai said, bringing some documents out of his desk.

"How much higher are we talking?" asked Percival, still with an unreadable look.

"Normally, it would be 200 galleons a month," The stout man said. "But with the current scarcity of plots, I'm afraid it would go up to... 700 a month,"

This time, Percival broke his stoic facade with a loud chuckle. "Surely, you're joking, Mr. Nikolai,"

"I'm afraid I'm not, Mr. Graves. There's the international fee, due to your home country. There's also the first business fee and the shop fee. We also can't forget about-"

"Imperio,"

As Percival unleashed his spell upon Nikolai, the middle-aged man's eyes glazed over, a vacant expression replacing his previous vitality.

Those observant enough would notice that the wand he wielded now differed from the one he had shown Nymphadora earlier. This new wand possessed a mesmerizing spiral pattern, black in color, and had a green jewel on its handle.

"Trying to pull a fast one on me. Fucking ministry workers," Percival grumbled, frustration evident in his voice. He aimed his wand once more at Nikolai, compelling the man to obediently begin writing.

"Write that I bought the plot. And take the money needed from your account,"

A few minutes went by, before Percival emerged from the department, clutching a document of ownership securely in his expanded pocket. Proceeding to a nearby fireplace, he retrieved a handful of floo powder and muttered, "Leaky Cauldron."

In a burst of vibrant green flames, he vanished from the Ministry, leaving no trace behind.

__________

For a famous place, the Leaky Cauldron was very dark and shabby. A few old women were sitting in a corner, drinking tiny glasses of sherry. One of them was smoking a long pipe. A little man in a top hat was talking to the old barman, who was quite bald and looked like a gummy walnut.

On a table in a far corner, hidden from prying eyes, a young girl, wearing black robes, was sitting, enjoying some carrot juice.

Percival, having emerged from the fireplace, approached her, before placing the document in front of her.

"Is it done?" asked Lysandra, watching as the middle-aged man in front of her slowly transformed back into her brother.

"Of course, dear sister," Alaric said, grinning, sitting in front of her. "I'm now a proud owner of a building in Diagon Alley!"

**********

A/N: I know the hidden identity troupe is overused, but you can't expect a 12-year-old kid to open his own shop, in Diagon Alley of all places.

Don't forget to point out any grammatical mistakes you see!

Hope you enjoyed the chapter!