//------------------------------// // 8. Unnatural Commerce // Story: Sweetie Belle - Hogwarts Exchange Student // by Georg //------------------------------// Sweetie Belle - Hogwarts Exchange Student Unnatural Commerce Of course, before Sweetie and her new friends could go shopping, they needed money. That meant a stop by the bank to get the kind of money the wizards used, something which Wycliffe Nott was willing to explain to both girls while the adults chattered among themselves. The relative worth of Galleons, Knuts, Sickles, Dragots, Sprinks, Bezants, Yonks, and Thuds⁽*⁾ seemed terribly complicated when Sweetie Belle had not even quite figured out just how to value Equestrian gemstones. Thankfully, only Galleons and Sickles really counted for buying things, and Knuts could be treated as an annoyance that tended to build up in the bottom of coin purses and be saved in piles of tins around the house. (*) A Giant currency which never caught on, due to the immense size of boulders and the relative lack of smaller denominations. Trying to make sense of the wizarding money was far easier than understanding the contents of the alleyway. Up and down the street were all kinds of small shops and carts selling everything Sweetie Belle could imagine and more. Books and bats and broomsticks, candy and cakes and cauldrons, with traveling merchants selling watches and bracelets and rings. But under the cheerful calls and the bright paint there were scattered storefronts with dark shadows and empty windows, most likely a remnant of Voldemort’s legacy being slowly covered up like a tree used sap to heal its wounds. Even the bank at the end of the street bore silent witness to the devastation with scaffolding over several of the windows and tarps thrown across the roof, which bore distinct clawprints on the roof’s edge like an immense dragon had used it as a launching spot. Wycliffe noticed the way Sweetie was staring at the building’s damage and answered the unspoken question she was trying to form. “No, the bank was not attacked. Some thieves broke into a vault, freed one of the security dragons, and used it to escape. It was in the Daily Prophet for weeks. That’s a newspaper,” he added in an overly polite tone. “Cor and blimey.” Sparrow bounced on the toes of her trainers. “I’ll bet that was one—” “Are you trying to use any kind of an English accent?” asked Wycliffe with one eyebrow raised just a fraction as he looked up at the taller girl. “Because if you are, you’re doing it wrong, and if you’re not, you’re doing it wrong too.” “Oh.” Sparrow stopped bouncing and looked a little like a puppy who had just been swatted across the nose by a rolled-up newspaper. “Sorry. It’s just that everywhere I go, people expect me to sound like some pixie. You know, with the hair and the freckles.” She ran a hand across her face and wrinkled her nose up. “Coo, ain’t you a cute little fairy! Where’s your pot of gold, little lady?” “Fairies have dragonfly wings, and leprechauns have pots of gold,” said Wycliffe, obviously not amused. “Not real gold, of course. You mu— I mean muggleborn are so ignorant of wizarding ways.” “That’s why we’re going to school,” countered Sparrow, obviously undeterred. “If we knew everything already, we could just spend a year riding railroads all around Europe and making fun of the native customs.” “Obviously, you’re an American,” said Wycliffe. “Why are you not attending the school in the colonies?” “Because my mum’s assigned to Lakenheath. She’s a pilot! Only she can’t fly now since she’s preggers. M’dad says witches get brooms and can fly whenever they want, only they gotta stay out of sight of other Muggles or they get in trouble, a lot like Mom can get in trouble if she flies somewhere she’s not supposed to. I used to bug her about flying over the apartment when I was little since I love to see jets fly but she showed me once just how busy the air was with all the commercial airplanes and the military landing and taking off and Dad said that’s a good reason why all the witches have to keep their brooms close to the ground so they don’t get sucked up into a jet or something. Do witches really get sucked into jet engines?” “What’s a jet engine?” asked Sweetie and Wycliffe at exactly the same time, and in harmony. - - Ω - - Asking Sparrow about flying was a lot like asking Twilight Sparkle about magical theory. It seemed as if she could talk for hours about it and you’d be just as lost at the end as you were at the first word. It was too hard to pay attention to Sparrow’s chatter while walking up the steps to Gringotts’ bank front door when there were so many other things to watch, like all of the goblins at the doors and through the building, or the stream of other witches and wizards going in and out of the bank, and the way a massive metal cover slid down across the doorway behind her when Sweetie followed Wycliffe through it. The thud of the steel plate coming down was overwhelmed by what must have been dozens of different-sized bells ringing while goblins scurried around. Goblins dressed in formal clothes dove behind the counters and goblins dressed in armor and all kinds of weapons came running out, one of whom was carrying a sandwich instead of his sword. The noise from the bells and clattering armor made conversation impossible, even with her hands over her ears like most of the rest of the bank customers were doing. Finally, a much larger goblin came out from behind the counter, likewise holding his long-fingered hands over his hairy ears and shouting something that was lost in the din until the bells cut off abruptly. “—and find somebody to shut off… Finally!” The goblin came striding over to Sweetie and Wycliffe, arranging himself in front of the boy as if he had already determined the reason for the noisy disturbance. The big goblin looked a little like somebody had built a roughly spherical cloth shell with arms and legs, and glued a fat-cheeked face on top. His face seemed set in a permanent scowl while he looked Wycliffe up and down, the corners of his mouth turned down to nearly touch his chubby neck and his eyes narrowed into near slits. “A mere boy,” he scoffed in a voice so low he could have been mistaken for a rather large bullfrog. “A customer,” countered the boy without changing his serious expression one bit. “I take it the bank is experimenting with a new security measure after your last theft?” The goblin winced like he had been pricked by a very sharp sewing needle. “The security of the Gringotts vaults is legendary,” he croaked. “One incident does not—” “Two,” said Wycliffe. “My father kept the The Daily Prophet clippings from eight years ago. Still, there is no safer place for House Nott to keep our money.” “Indeed.” Dismissing the short boy for the moment, the squat goblin turned to look at Sweetie Belle with dark suspicious eyes. “The two of you children are to remain here. The enchantments we purchased for the portal are supposed to detect the Imperius curse, Polyjuice potion, or any other sort of disguise charm, but they’ve been unreliable and set off by just about anything. Weasley, get out here!” “Percival is here?” asked Sweetie, perking up and looking around the lobby. “Lord, I hope not.” A much taller human with shoulder length reddish hair came sweeping around the end of the counter and strode over to Sweetie Belle. He had a longer black overcoat than most of the wizards, with a great abundance of threadbare and patched pockets. The dark outfit still did not manage to keep all of the contents concealed, because all kinds of interesting twisted silvery wires and glittering crystal widgets peeked out from the buldges and bumps. The man’s face was much like his clothes, because it was covered with a mismatched set of ugly scars from one ear all the way down to his chin, which made his smile a little lopsided, but still warm and friendly. “Well, hello young lady. My name is William. Are you here to withdraw some money for your first year at Hogwarts?” “Yes, sir.” Sweetie smiled and tried to figure out if humans shook hands when they were holding onto wands like Mr. Weasley was doing. It turned out not to matter when he shifted his wand into his left hand and shook anyway. His hands were soft and warm, but with a powerful strength behind them, much like the rest of his presence. “I’m Sweetie Belle,” she managed to say after a few shakes. “And this is my friend, Wycliffe Nott.” Wycliffe made no move to shake hands, and the tall man did not either. The boy did give a short nod and spoke in a quieter voice, with much less of a commanding tone than when he had been speaking to the fat goblin. “Good morning, Mister Weasley. My brother told me about your family. I’m sorry to hear about your loss.” William’s grip on Sweetie’s hand firmed suddenly to a crushing level, although it slacked nearly immediately afterward. “We all lost family at Hogwarts,” he said while the white lines of scars on his face thinned. “We’re not paying you to chat, Weasley,” snapped the chubby goblin banker, whose voice thankfully broke the tense mood before it could grow any further. “Fix the detection enchantments before we lose any customers. And find out why these two set it off.” “Yes, Mister Caputo.” William produced his wand again and waved it over Sweetie and Wycliffe several times, each time giving him a more disappointed frown. “I’m not picking anything up that could have set off the alarms, and yet the alarms triggered,” he added, waving his wand over the stone arch. “Do the two of you have any Dark artifacts in your pockets, or hidden wands?” “Not yet,” said Wycliffe. “Miss Selkirk will be taking the three of us over to Ollivanders next.” There was a quiet thumping on the outside of the metal partition that had slid down over the bank doors, and Wycliffe rolled his eyes. “The chatty one is still out there.” “She’s just going to have to stay out there until I can figure this out,” said William, who was giving the smooth stone surface of the arch his full attention with several thoughtful ‘Hmmms’ and the occasional wave of his wand. “It’s still acting like it detected significant transformation magic.” “Oh!” Sweetie dug into her borrowed purse and produced the sole piece of paper it held. “I’m an amana… Animia… One of these. Do you think that’s the reason the machine made all the noises?” “Animagus,” said William as he read the Ministry certificate she had passed over. “And no. You’re not an animagus, since you obviously are too young, and even if you were, an animagus transformation can only be detected by the spells while the wizard is in their animal form, because it detects active transformation magic. You’ll learn all about it in your Third Year classes. This form is a very convincing prank, though. Did my… Did George put you up to this? He’s been asking some strange questions about transformation magic as of late.” “No, the nice ladies from Miss Selkirk’s boarding house helped me fill out my application and pay for it. Just a minute and I can show you. Professor McGonagall said it was—” Sweetie paused to take a breath while wriggling out of her shoes and dumping her knapsack on the granite floor “—techncially innate transformational magic that she did not really understand fully, so it didn’t really classify as an anima… animagus, but that was as close as the forms could get.” “McGonagall, huh?” William had a way of pursing his lips up that looked almost exactly the same as when Rarity did not believe one of Sweetie Belle’s excuses. “Now I know you’re pulling my leg. Old McGonagall not understanding something in Transformations? Next thing, you’ll claim—” It had taken more effort for Sweetie to change with all of the goblins and customers giving her sideways glances, but that was nothing compared to the abject amazement they all exhibited when she managed to shift into her natural form. Even William dropped his wand when he jumped back, and she heard one of the goblins give out a heartfelt ‘Dawww’ in the back of the bank before rapidly silencing himself. “Merlin’s beard!” William scooped his wand back up while maintaining his wide-eyed staring at Sweetie’s horn, then the rest of her body, winding up looking at her cutie mark and adding, “Ginny would flip if she saw you. She’s been on this unicorn thing over the last year, and she wants a tattoo of one.” “An animagus,” said the fat goblin with growing interest, along with a growing sharp-toothed smile. “I’ve never heard of a wizard or witch with such a colorful unicorn form.” “I hadn’t either,” explained Sweetie, which made the rest of the humans and goblins in the bank startle again, with one goblin dropping an entire tray of golden coins. “You can talk?” asked William, who was making another gesture with his wand. “Unicorns cannot talk,” stated Wycliffe, although his voice sped up as he added, “That is our unicorns cannot talk. You said you were an exchange student from a place called Equestria—” A series of reactions crossed across the boy’s placid face, from shock to amazement to humor, ending in a very inexperienced snort and the hint of a rare smile, which looked good on him. “Equestria, where my brother has gone. I hope somebody took a picture when he found out.” “Well, that’s all well and good,” said William, who had finished waving his wand. “Now, Miss Belle, if I could have you stand here under the arch. And… That’s good. Now if you could change back into—” Of course the bells went off in a cacophony of chimes the moment Sweetie could feel her sock-clad toes on the cold stone floor of the bank. The hammering noise only lasted a moment, cut off by another swish of William’s wand and his cheerful voice. “There we go, Mister Caputo. I told you the detection spells would work as promised. Now, you two take care of your banking and I’ll reset the sliding portal.” “It was very nice to meet you, Mister Weasley,” said Sweetie, who practiced her hand-shaking again. “Nice to meet you too, young lady. Err… Or mare?” “My sister says a lady is a state of mind,” said Sweetie in her most authoritative voice. “And that I should be as much a lady as I can while being a student here.” “At Hogwarts?” When Sweetie Belle nodded, William made some sort of gesture that involved rubbing his eyes with his fingers and taking a very deep breath. “I am so glad none of my brothers are still there,” he murmured. “Anyway, say hello to my sister Ginny, and try to keep out of trouble.” “Thank you, William!” Sweetie Belle gave the nice man a brief hug and ran off after Wycliffe, then doubled back to give the sizable goblin a hug too, because he was probably feeling left out. “Thank you too, Mister Caputo. I didn’t mean to make a fuss.” “Think nothing of it.” The goblin smiled in a way that gave Sweetie a small chill up her back. “In fact, if you return here after you’ve gotten your wand, I think we can give such a polite young unicorn a sweet. Won’t that be nice?” “Yes, sir.” Sweetie gave the large goblin a bob of her head because she still was not comfortable enough on two legs to curtsey. That thankfully reminded her to slip back into her shoes and pick up her knapsack before she darted off to Wycliffe, who was watching the whole thing next to a teller window at the other end of the room. “A unicorn. A real unicorn,” mused Wycliffe. “Miss Galloway said I shouldn’t show it off.” Sweetie Belle dropped her knapsack again and began rearranging her pinching clothing, which the transformation had not put back just exactly where they belonged. “Besides, it’s difficult to keep my clothes on during it. And this thing—” she got both hands under her shirt to twist at the tangled bra straps “—wants to tie itself into knots. Can you help me with it?” There was a short pause, then Wycliffe reached under the teller window and pulled out a short stool, which he climbed up so he could see over the ledge to where the goblin banker was staring wide-eyed at the two of them. “Mister Trapspring, I need to make a withdrawal from the House Nott account for my schooling at Hogwarts,” he said while keeping his back firmly pointed in Sweetie’s direction. “Eighty-five galleons, six sickles and five knuts.” “Of course,” said the goblin, who seemed to have his attention split between his customer and where Sweetie was rearranging her straps. “Does Master Nott have his key?” The boy produced a small metal key and continued in the same authoritative tone of voice, “And be quick about it.” “Very well, sir,” said Trapspring with a peculiar little half-bow that nodded his head without moving his eyes. “Will your young miss be needing funds from your account also?” “Oh, no,” said Sweetie. She picked up her knapsack and moved up next to Wycliffe on the little stepstool so she could heave the heavy bag over the iron fence that separated them from the teller. “I need to turn some of my gems into wizard money and probably store the rest in Celestia’s account. My sister sent too many of them, I think. The key should be in the bag.” The goblin staggered, since he had managed to catch the knapsack before it hit the counter, and opened up the flap with his long fingers. He spent at least a full minute looking into the bag before turning it over and watching the cascade of colorful gemstones cover his side of the teller desk. Wycliffe made a small, squeaking noise, and his eyes got very large. “Ah, there is the key,” said the goblin with a little more poking in the bottom of the bag, and after extracting Sweetie’s diary. “Vault… Eight.” For some reason, the sounds of the bank suddenly grew quiet, but when Sweetie looked around, all of the goblins had dutifully returned to whatever bank-related task they were about before. Trapspring was likewise examining the small brass key with unusual intensity, eventually putting it down on the surface of his desk and getting out a magnifying glass for closer inspection. “Hey, Ponygirl!” Sparrow Lilley bounced across the bank’s lobby and threw an arm around Wycliffe’s shoulders. “What gives with the door? One minute I’m following you along, and the next this hidden panel comes shooting down like something out of a movie. Did you try to rob the place or something?” There was another momentary shortness of sound which did not seem to bother Sparrow in the slightest. She leaned up against the metal bars of the teller’s cage and gave a low whistle at the pile of gems spilling out of Sweetie’s knapsack there. “Wow, that’s a lot of gems. How much of that will you need to turn into wizard money for school?” “Eighty-five galleons, six sickles and five knuts,” whispered Wycliffe, “for a First Year, provided you do not purchase a pet and restrict your sweets intake to once per month or on special occasions.” “But I like sweets,” protested Sweetie. “And does that include clothes?” Wycliffe gave one nervous glance at Sweetie’s wrinkled and lumpy blouse where she had given up on getting her bra straps correctly lined up. Whatever had caused his momentary distraction had begun to fade away, and he was getting closer to the usual dry, solemn wit that Sweetie Belle was starting to appreciate. “It includes both sets of your everyday wear school robes and a set of formal wear, provided there have been no major price changes in the last few years.” “I think I’m going to need money for more clothes.” Sweetie gave one last attempt at getting her elastic torture device to flatten out on her chest. “I mean I have to pay Miss Selkirk back for shopping at the Muggle stores too. That’s Muggle money, which is that heavy paper that isn’t heavy, right?” “Pounds,” said Wycliffe, who had turned to examine a rather plain section of wall while Sweetie was fighting with her bra. “What do you mean, everyday wear?” asked Sparrow. “I mean we don’t wear the same clothes every day, right? Miss Selkirk had us buy all kinds of things.” “You wear those under the robes,” said Wycliffe, still looking intently at the wall. “Boys wear sensible slacks and shirts with sweaters, rotated daily so they do not wear excessively. And a tie, which will change to match whatever House you are sorted into. Girls wear… considerably more complicated outfits.” “Wait a minute.” Sweetie gave up trying to get her bra straight and let Sparrow adjust it with several quick motions of her long, agile fingers. “You mean we wear clothes, under the clothes, we wear under the clothes? Are there clothes that go on top of the robes too?” “Merely a pointed hat,” clarified Wycliffe, who seemed to take some comfort in their conversation. “Worn at meals and official gatherings. They’re quite out of style, but I suspect students will be wearing them for another century or two.” “Wow.” Sweetie considered the revelation and the resulting consequences. “Maybe my sister would like it here after all. Anyway, do you think… a few hundred galleons would cover my expenses, Wy?” “Wycliffe,” he corrected. “And four hundred should take you through any reasonable expenses until Winter’s Break, when you will most probably pass through London again and can indulge your feminine traits for acquisition.” “Four hundred galleons, Mister Trapspring, sir,” chirped Sweetie at the goblin teller. “No, better make it five hundred.” “And three hundred and twenty seven pounds for Miss Selkirk,” added Sparrow. “I kept track of it when we were shopping.” Sweetie perked up and looked through the bars at the goblin, who was still spinning the small metal key in his long fingers. “Oh, and I better get five hundred pounds too so I can visit the bookstore I saw. That should do it. Do I have enough gems to convert into that much money, sir?” Her eyes flickered over to a few teller’s cages away where Sparrow’s father was bent over a cheque book with a quill, trying his best to write neatly. “If I don’t, Princess Celestia said I could take some money out of her vault, as long as it isn’t too much. I don’t want to be a bother.” “I believe you have sufficient funds,” said the goblin. He brushed five of the larger gems into his tray, paused a moment, then returned one of them to the pile before refilling the knapsack. “The only question I have is if you have identification to prove you may access this vault.” He tapped the key against his table with small clicks. “You see, the account has been inactive for quite some time.” Sweetie nodded. “A thousand years. Princess Celestia told me so. I really don’t know what kind of identification I could possibly… Oh, wait. Give me my book.” The goblin passed the magical diary back under the metal bars and watched as Sweetie wrote a note to her friends. Trapspring was obviously conflicted from the way he kept frowning and trying to peek at what she was writing, but she understood what kind of responsibility it was to manage other ponies’ money. Silver Certificate, the banker in Ponyville, had once shut down the entire bank when the ledgers were off by a tenth-bit, and did not open it up for a whole day until the money was found, which was only kinda-sorta the Cutie Mark Crusaders' fault. Besides, the crack in the floor looked thin enough that the coin should not have fallen through it anyway. In any event, Sweetie was not really prepared for when Philomena appeared in a burst of phoenixfire above her head. Neither was the banker goblin, but he did agree that the letter she carried, written in golden letters of fire and embossed with a glowing sun symbol, was proof enough that Sweetie Belle could access the Equestrian vault to store her remaining gemstones. And he did not even blame her for the way all of the people in the bank overreacted to Philomena’s appearance and nearly trampled each other running out the front door. “I don’t know why we have to actually go to the vault to watch them put the gems in it,” grumbled Sweetie Belle, although not with much enthusiasm. She had wanted to go running back out into Diagon Alley and explore all of the fascinating shops, but Wycliffe had insisted, and the tunnels under Gringotts’ bank were just about as interesting, in a wet and drippy fashion. And to make it worse, Philomena had taken one look at the tunnel and vanished in a flash of her fire, presumably returning to Equestria for a more comfortable warm climate. “You cannot trust goblins,” said Wycliffe regardless of the goblin teller walking within arm’s reach as he led them through the dark corridor while apparently ignoring their conversation. “Within the limits of their agreement with wizarding kind, they will act as required, but one step beyond and you risk anything you entrust to their care.” “Hogwarts - A History said that goblins had a strong code of honor,” countered Sweetie. “Stronger than humans at times. They never go back on their word, they never break a contract—” “With goblins,” said Wycliffe. “With wizards, they must be always watched.” “How about with humans, Mister Trapspring?” asked Sparrow, who had been watching the goblin intently. The goblin teller nodded reluctantly. “We do not normally deal with humans due to the laws which were forced upon us by the wizards. But when we do, we strictly abide by the covenant. Promises must always be kept, and our word is inviolate.” “So if you promised to give my father a good price on those gems and store the rest,” started Sparrow, “you would define the word ‘good’ as what is good for you, and ‘store’ as… something else.” The goblin merely smiled, displaying a mouthful of sharp teeth. “But,” added Sparrow, “if you promised on your word to give Sweetie what she would consider a good price…” The smile vanished. “There is no need to bring a matter of honor into a simple business deal. We would be foolish to cheat a new customer from your lands,” he said with a sharp snap to his words. Sweetie Belle was not really listening, because their progress through the corridor had opened up into a huge cavern of some sort, with curls and twists of brass rails heading in all directions. As far as she could see up or down and all around, there were doors in the walls, both large vaults that appeared to be made of gleaming steel and tiny little doors no larger than birdhouses, scattered in what seemed to be a random array across the vast space. What really riveted her attention was the carriage at the end of their walk, a strange thing that looked to be all wheels and chairs created by an insane pipefitter. Scootaloo would have loved it. Apple Bloom would have run away screaming. Sweetie… tried her best to examine it closely, because both of her pony friends would have no end of questions when she returned to Equestria. “Wow,” gasped Sparrow, who had been following them without any real enthusiasm until this point. “Wizard banks have roller-coasters to get to your bank vault! This is the coolest thing ever!” She almost trampled Trapspring in her dash forward, leaping into the front seat and calling out, “Shotgun!” “Depositors in the back, please.” Trapspring waited impatiently while the three of them rearranged their seating, then settled down in the small goblin-sized chair by the controls. “Stay inside the vehicle, please.” “This is going to be so great!” gushed Sparrow. “Where are the seat belts?” “What are seat belts?” asked Sweetie Belle. “I don’t know why you’re so excited,” said Wycliffe. “My father took me here every year to get money out of his vault for Theodore.” The odd vehicle glided forward on the parallel rails like a ship skimming along a perfectly placid pond, swooping up and diving down at a sedate pace. In about a minute or two of such graceful motions, including one spiral section where the body of the vehicle stayed perfectly stable while the wheels rotated around above them, it glided to a stop next to a rocky ledge in the underground maze. There was a moderately sized iron door a short distance away, which Wycliffe moved next to and tapped his foot while waiting for the other three of them. “Come on, come on,” he muttered. “We’re behind schedule as is, and we still need to get the unicorn’s money.” “Well, aren’t we the little sprinter,” grumbled Sparrow, whose glum disposition had returned over the course of their sedate trip along the goblin rails. “I’m not that enthused about your roller-coasters here either.” “I thought it was really nifty,” said Sweetie, who wobbled a little getting out of the cart and might have tripped if the goblin had not given her a helping hand. “Thank you, Mister Trapspring. I’ll bet since so many of the wizards and witches here are old, they don’t like to be tossed around in loops and spins like a real roller-coaster, right?” “That is correct, young lady.” The goblin walked up to the vault door and held his hand out. “Key, please.” Wycliffe reluctantly produced his vault key, and took it back from the goblin just as soon as the door was unlocked. “I’ll need a full accounting when my father passes away,” he added as the door creaked open. “With my brother in another land, I will be the ranking member of House Nott.” “Yes, sir.” The goblin remained outside the door while Wycliffe went inside, which let Sweetie move a little closer. She wanted to see what was inside, but the door swung nearly closed while she approached. “Is Wycliffe’s father sick, Mister Trapspring?” asked Sweetie. The goblin took a quick look at Sparrow, who was still poking around the cart and apparently looking for a higher gear for the return trip. “It’s not my place to say,” he eventually admitted. “Does it have anything to do with Mister Voldermort?” she asked. “Because there were two men in the Leaky Cauldron who attacked Wycliffe, and he said something about his father was on his deathbed. Was he attacked too?” Despite his perpetually stoic expression, the goblin appeared torn. He looked at the nearly closed door to the vault, then to where Sparrow was peering under the cart’s controls, before lowering his voice even further. “The elder Nott was a Death Eater, a close follower of You-Know-Who. He was mortally wounded in the attack on the Hogwarts school, nearly killed by a reflected spell.” “It was his own doing,” came Wycliffe’s quiet voice from inside the vault. “All of the wizarding world knows, but I suppose Equestria does not get the Daily Prophet.” The door opened just a little more, and the small boy peered out at Sweetie. “My father did vile things in his life, terrible things. He was also my father, the man who showed me where the dewdrop fairies raised their young, how to properly conceal a bowtruckle nest from poachers, and how to free a divergaunt from stranglethorn. Yes, he was a Death Eater before I was born, and returned to Lord Voldemort’s service at the end, but I never saw that aspect of his life, and others never saw what I did.” The small boy, looking even smaller now, stepped out from the vault, closed the door, and handed his key to the goblin. That was as far as he got before Sweetie Belle wrapped him up in a cautious hug. “I’m sorry,” was all that she could say at the moment, and even that seemed to perplex the smaller human. His hug in return was awkward, short, and ended in nearly a shove to get him free of the unwelcome embrace. “That’s… fine,” managed Wycliffe. “I have to be strong. When my father inevitably passes away, and the doctors say that could happen anytime up to a year from now, the world will see the death of a monster. I will not.” “Is he in the hospital?” asked Sweetie in as quiet a voice as she could manage, as not to disturb Sparrow’s attempt to disassemble the goblin cart. “Should we go visit him?” “My uncle and I saw him earlier today,” said Wycliffe. “It was disturbing. You should not…” He swallowed hard and put one hand on Sweetie’s shoulder. “Thank you for your concern.” “Your father was my first customer,” said Trapspring, seeming to be just as intensely embarrassed about the admission as Wycliffe. “I got lost on the way to his vault and we wandered around the rails for nearly an hour before I found it. He was furious, but did not say a word, because your mother was in the cart with him, and she treated the endless wandering as a romantic trip. She was quite compassionate and beautiful, for a human, and he would do anything for her. When he dies, I will not see a monster.” “Then you are a fool.” Wycliffe passed the bag of coins he was carrying to the goblin. “Here. The light inside the vault was insufficient for me to count out my withdrawal.” The two of them stood while the goblin counted coins into the boy’s trembling hands. Once the sum of eighty-five galleons and change were reached, there were still coins left for the goblin to hold while Wycliffe put away his withdrawal. “Keep them,” he said once the last coin had vanished into a small belt pouch that seemed far too small to hold all the gold. “In memory of my father.” “Thank you, sir.” The bag vanished so quickly that Sweetie suspected some magic was involved. “I’ll make sure the accounting for your vault is done right,” added Trapspring. “The way your father would want it done. Shall we be off to the young lady’s vault now?” “Actually…” Sweetie Belle took the diary out of her knapsack. “If it’s not too much trouble, could we go back to the lobby now? I can get my money for shopping today, and Mister Trapspring can put my gems into the vault while we’re getting our wands, then I can pick up Princess Celestia’s key on the way back. It’s a plan!” Wycliffe opened his mouth as if to object, took a quick glance at where Sparrow was messing around with the goblin cart mechanism, and seemed to make an evaluation about the possibility of getting stuck on a broken cart a few miles into whatever ancient cavern the next vault was located. “Yes,” he admitted reluctantly. “To Ollivanders next.” - - Ω - - The argument began as soon as they had stepped outside of Gringotts’ bank and continued all the way up the street while they dodged around other shoppers and carts. Sweetie Belle stayed mostly out of it because she was too busy looking around at the fascinating wizarding things for sale and wondering if just perhaps she should go back to the bank and get out another handful of Galleons, just to be safe. Maybe two. Or three. “You’re being completely… female,” said Wycliffe Nott in a tone of voice that was probably supposed to sound more adult and authoritative, but wound up just taking his pleasant soprano into a forced tenor register and made Sweetie wonder what he would sound like while singing. “That’s because I am female,” countered Sparrow Lilley without breaking stride. “And I’m right. Everybody with red hair we’ve met so far — my family excluded — is a Weasley. I’ll prove it, once we find somebody else with red hair.” Contrary to Sweetie's expectations, the small tea shop at the end of the street did not seem to have any red haired people seated at the tables scattered in front of it. The location seemed to be a comfortable place for older people to wait by the way the Lilley family and Miss Selkirk made themselves comfortable, and Ruadh gave a broad-handed gesture across the street. “Aye, you go do that, lassie,” he rumbled while passing a menu to Miss Selkirk and Sparrow’s father. “G’won over to Ollivanders and get your wands while I treat my idiot brother and this beautiful lady for a cup of tea. Now, now,” he added in a mild chastisement ahead of Miss Selkirk’s objection, “you know Mister Ollivander is very particular about having anybody but the student around when he’s having them pick out a wand.” “But…” Miss Selkirk pointed at the front of the store across from them, which was festooned with a freshly painted sign that read ‘Ollivanders - Makers of fine wands since 382 B.C.’ “Now, go on,” chided Nel Lilley. He gave his daughter a gentle push as he held the other hand across Miss Selkirk’s wrist to keep her from sprinting after them as she seemed to want. “We’ll be right here if you need us.” As the three of them trudged across the cobblestoned street, Sweetie Belle could not help but lean down a little to whisper to Wycliffe, “Are you sure this Mister Olive-hander can find me a wand that works?” Wycliffe nodded. “Father said Mister Ollivander could make a wand for a left-handed bowtruckle. He made regular visits to our lands, before I was born, that is, gathering wand materials and— Hey, what’s your friend doing?” Sparrow had skipped along ahead of them in the direction of two young humans standing in the shade of a nearby building. They must have been very good friends because their arms were wrapped around each other and they were kissing fairly intently, so their new visitor went unnoticed until she spoke. Loudly. “Excuse me, but is your name Weasley?” asked Sparrow with enough volume to be heard quite a ways down the alley. “Whay?” The young red-headed human seemed set back, and looked back and forth around the alley several times before answering, “Yes, I’m Ron Weasley. So, you’ve heard of me?” “No, it’s just that we’ve bumped into a number of people with red hair today, and they’ve all been Weasleys,” explained Sparrow. “Except me. Are you a Weasley too?” she asked the frizzy-haired young witch who was still wiping her lips with the back of her wrist and trying to arrange her rumpled clothing. “Not yet, no,” she said. “I’m Hermione Granger. You’ve heard of me, right?” “No,” said Sparrow. “My name is Sparrow Lilley, and you probably haven’t heard of me either. But you will.” She then turned and skipped back to where Sweetie and Wycliffe were just opening the door to the wand shop, stuck out her tongue at them, and pranced inside. Wycliffe insisted on holding the door open for Sweetie, which she thought was very nice of him, and followed her into the shop, allowing the closing door to cut off one last alarmed-sounding question from the Weasley boy outside. “What do you mean, not yet?” The wand shop reminded Sweetie of a library due to the rolling ladder that allowed the owner to retrieve boxes from the top shelves. It was a curious mixture of old and new, stacked nearly to the ceiling with pasteboard boxes most likely containing wands. Or at least if this world did not have the strange pairing of products that Ponyville seemed to have on every street corner. Some of the boxes were dusty and faded nearly enough to be from when Celestia was a foal, while a nearby table behind the counter was covered with fresh wands, still looking damp. The counter was a massive, blocky thing, covered in small tracks and scratches, with dark blotches of char marks and deep scorches much like Sweetie Belle’s kitchen table back home. Two of the fresh wands were sitting in the middle of the counter on a velvet pillow, which looked just as battered as the wooden countertop beneath it. “There’s nobody here?” Sparrow bounded across the floor of the wand shop and leapt partway over the counter to look behind it. “Helloo!!” “We’ll be right there!” sounded a voice from the back of the shop, combined with some smashing, a little bashing, and one loud crash. “Just a cluster of Whomping Willow twigs that got loose. Nothing serious.” “It would appear they have set wands out for us to try already,” said Wycliffe. He stood on his toes and picked up one wand from the countertop, giving it a tentative wave. “Not this one. Or this one either,” he added with a brief wave of the second. Sweetie picked up the first wand that Wycliffe had placed down on the counter and gave it a wave just like he did, with the same lack of results. “I guess this isn’t mine either,” she said with a frown. “It feels… weird, for some reason.” “Let me try!” Sparrow bounced down to the floor and scooped the wand out of Wycliffe’s grasp, turning it in her long thin fingers with a grin. “Hey, it’s all springy, like Zoro. Ha!” she declared, taking up a fencing stance and waving it like a sword. “En gard! Souffle! French toast!” “Don’t point it at us. It might go off,” said Wycliffe with a frown as he took the wand away from her and passed over the wand Sweetie was playing with. “Point this one over there and try it. Although it’s not really that dangerous, since we’re just students, and the worst we could probably do is sparks or—” Sparrow took the wand while the smaller boy was talking and arranged her grip. Pointing it into the shop, she shouted, “Abracadabra!” at the top of her lungs… And the wand exploded. Sweetie Belle, due to her experience with the Cutie Mark Crusaders, managed to spot the upcoming blast just in time to tackle Wycliffe to the ground before the detonation that sent splinters of wood ricocheting around the inside of the shop and splattered little bits of sap against her back. Sparrow was not quite that lucky, and emerged from the resulting cloud of smoke coughing and hacking, with bits of wand wood sap-stuck to her face and t-shirt. What was worse, the explosion had not been limited to the defective (in Sweetie’s opinion) wand, but at least a dozen boxes in the shop had likewise exploded into ragged stubs just like the one Sparrow was still holding in her soot-stained left hand. Shattered boxes and their contents went everywhere in the store, and a haze of shredded pasteboard began floating to the ground like a strong snowfall. Through the sound of falling boxes, Sparrow said a particular word that Rarity had told Sweetie Belle never to use except when poked with a pin. Then the slender girl looked at the shattered stub of a wand and waved it several times to put out the flame that was still burning on it. “Oops. They’re not supposed to do that, are they?”