Chapter 17 — Threads and Ventures in Diagon Alley
The morning sun glinted off cobblestones as Ron, Molly, and Ginny emerged onto Diagon Alley. The bustling street was alive with magic in motion. Wizards hurried past with parcels, cauldrons clinking, robes swishing, and a street magician conjured butterflies that dissolved into sparks, earning applause from wide-eyed children. The smell of roasted chestnuts mixed with parchment and potion fumes, a concoction uniquely Diagon Alley.
Molly tucked a list into her apron pocket and crouched down to Ginny's level. "Come along, Ginny. We'll get the household supplies, and maybe, if you're well-behaved, a small treat at Florean Fortescue's."
Ginny's eyes brightened at the mention of ice cream, though she only nodded with quiet eagerness. At eight, she had learned that bouncing about only earned her mother's scolding.
Ron adjusted the strap of his satchel. "I'll meet you both at the Leaky Cauldron in three hours," he said. Molly gave him a sharp look—half worry, half trust—but finally nodded.
"Three hours, Ronald. Don't be late," she said firmly.
Ron grinned. "I won't. Promise."
The gleaming white marble of Gringotts Wizarding Bank rose above the crowd, its goblin guards at the bronze doors scanning each visitor with hawk-like eyes. Inside, the vaulted ceiling glowed faintly with runic light. Rows of goblins worked at high desks, their long fingers scribbling on endless parchment rolls.
Ron approached the counter. A goblin with a thin face and sharp spectacles looked up, quill poised.
"Name?"
"Ronald Bilius Weasley," Ron replied, standing a little straighter.
The goblin rifled through a set of ledgers before snapping his fingers. Another goblin scuttled off and returned with a brass-plated folder. "Your account is managed by Gornuk," the goblin said curtly, pointing to a side desk.
Ron walked over, feeling a touch nervous. Gornuk was older, with iron-grey hair at his temples and a quill that moved as though it might stab parchment at any moment. His golden eyes appraised Ron coolly.
"Ah. Young Mr. Weasley," Gornuk rasped, folding his long fingers together. "New account holder. Unusual for one your age. And you wish to make a withdrawal?"
"Yes, sir," Ron said quickly. "Thirty galleons, please."
Gornuk tilted his head, studying Ron. "You are aware that with every withdrawal, records are noted against your account. The bank does not approve of careless spending."
"I'm not being careless," Ron replied, a spark of determination in his voice. "It's for business. Registrations, investments… things that will earn more later."
For a moment, silence. Then Gornuk's lips curled—whether in amusement or skepticism, Ron couldn't tell. "Very well. Ambition is no sin. Thirty galleons, authorized."
The clink of gold was sharp as the pouch was passed over. Ron tucked it carefully away. "Thank you," he said.
"Spend wisely, young Weasley," Gornuk said, quill scratching across parchment. "Gringotts remembers."
Leaving Gringotts, Ron wove back into the street, heading for the Ministry of Magic branch office in Diagon Alley. It was smaller than the grand building in London, but still polished with wards shimmering faintly across its stonework. Inside, a witch at the registration desk greeted him briskly.
"Design registrations?" she asked.
"Yes. Clothing designs," Ron replied, producing his parchment sketches.
She scanned them with a charmed magnifier, then tapped her quill. "You already have an existing file—Mr. Lovegood initiated it. That simplifies matters. Two galleons for the registration fee."
Ron placed the coins on the desk. The witch stamped his parchment with a glowing seal that shimmered briefly before fading. "There. Officially recorded. Best of luck, Mr. Weasley."
"Thank you," Ron said, trying not to sound too pleased at how smooth the process had gone.
From there, Ron strode to Madame Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. The little bell above the door chimed as he entered. Bolts of fabric floated to and fro, arranging themselves for cutting. Madame Malkin herself swept forward, robes of violet trailing behind her.
"Ah, young Mr. Weasley!" she exclaimed. "And what brings you here?"
Ron laid his rolled designs on the counter. "New ideas. Magical versions of Muggle clothes—suits, T-shirts with moving pictures, trousers that are both practical and stylish. Things Hogwarts students and even everyday wizards might want."
Her eyes flicked over the parchment, brows arching higher with each page. "Moving picture T-shirts, enchanted fabric blends… Ronald, these are extraordinary. Bold, but practical. I daresay you've inherited more than freckles from your family."
Ron flushed at the compliment but stood his ground. "It's not just about fashion. It's about giving wizards options, comfort, and… well, a little modern touch."
Madame Malkin tapped her chin, already envisioning possibilities. "We shall discuss prototypes. But I like it very much, dear boy."
The scent of parchment and ink led Ron next to Flourish and Blotts. Inside, towering shelves leaned under the weight of magical tomes. A wizard in green robes argued at the counter about a delayed shipment of spellbooks, while a small boy tugged at his mother's sleeve, begging for a book of Quidditch statistics.
Ron made his way to the Potions section. The shopkeeper, an elderly wizard with spectacles perched low on his nose, approached. "Looking for textbooks, lad?"
"Yes, please. These, in particular." Ron listed the titles, and the man disappeared among the shelves, returning with a neat stack.
At the counter, Ron counted out his coins. "Thirty-one and a half sickles," the shopkeeper said, voice warm but businesslike.
Ron handed over the coins, tucking the books carefully into his satchel. "Thank you, sir."
"Study well," the man said kindly. "Books are the best companions you'll ever have."
Ron smiled faintly. "I intend to."
Back on the bustling street, Ron passed Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour, where a young witch was giggling as her sundae tried to float away. Across the way, a wizard argued with his self-tying shoelaces. Ron breathed it all in—the hum of life, the swirl of magic—and felt a quiet pride. He wasn't just a boy wandering Diagon Alley anymore. He had purpose.
At last, he stopped before the carved wooden sign of Eeylops Owl Emporium. The painted owls above the door seemed almost alive, their golden eyes gleaming. From within, faint hoots drifted into the street.
Ron adjusted the satchel on his shoulder, heart quickening. His next step awaited beyond this door. For now, he lingered, taking in the sights and sounds of Diagon Alley, feeling the weight of ambition press forward.