Debts and Doubts

Ron entered the small shop on the outskirts of Ottery-Saint Catchpole. It was the kind of place he'd usually rather not be caught dead in, full of feminine frou-frou, but with a few men's furnishings: ties and chains and the like. But he'd do anything for his sweetie...even if it meant assuming the role of a weary last-minute shopper and haggling with a snooty salesgirl. And the words GRAND OPENING SALE in the window didn't hurt any.

He had done Cleaning and Pressing Charms on an outfit he'd borrowed from his dad in his attempts to look like the wizard-about-town, knowledgeable of Muggle dress habits. He pulled at the jacket, which was still a trifle small in the arms even though he'd done an Enlarging Charm on it.

He couldn't believe that he hadn't been able to hock his dad's watch at any of the pawnshops in the Alley. It was almost as if there was some kind of plot against him. He'd been tempted to write Harry to loan him the money, but he couldn't...he just couldn't. Now he had a plan...a rather desperate one...but if it worked...

He hadn't even decided on the hair ornaments...until today. All the comb sets in Diagon Alley were just too flash and gaudy...though cheap enough. One even had a row of blinking rhinestones proclaiming the wearer to be "too sexy for my robes". Not Hermione at all, no matter how tempting the price.

So he was going back to that new branch of Gladrags Wizards Wear in Ottery-Saint Catchpole where he'd seen the first set he liked, even though the price was way out of line. He did it after a chance reference his mother had made. Apparently, she had met the owner and liked her very much. Hermione had even bought her wedding robes at the Hogsmeade shop. So maybe, just maybe, with his mother's connection and the fact that Hermione had finished paying for the robes, he might get the proprietor to make a little deal.

An elaborately coiffed woman strode to meet him with a may-I-help-you look on her face. She was dressed in a sky-blue suit he thought his mother would look good in if she ever had the money for it, and had surprisingly warm, beautiful eyes to match.

He cut to the chase. No sense giving her a chance to flutter her eyelashes and try to talk him into an even more expensive purchase. "Miss, I'm interested in that set of combs you have in your front window."

She deferred to his excellent taste. "Mmm, yes, the tortoiseshell. Very chic. A holiday gift for the witch in your life?"

"My wife... um... but how did you know..."

"That you're a wizard? I have sixth sense for these things...and only a non-Muggle would wear a Nehru jacket, seersucker clamdiggers, and sandals in this weather."

"Oh."

She waltzed on by him and went to the window, bringing back the boxed set. The combs looked almost ethereally delicate, resting in their bed of cotton wool. Hermione would love them.

"Would you like to pay cash? Or do you have an account with us?"

"Um...can I open an account...right now?"

"Our policy is to ask for cash for the first purchases, then, once you've spent a certain amount, you become a Privileged Customer, and you can open an account on future purchases."

"Um...how much do you have to spend to become...erm--privileged?"

"Five hundred Galleons."

Ron gulped and tried another tack. "Well, it's possible my wife has an account already...at your Hogsmeade store. I mean, she bought her wedding robes there..."

The witch turned on her heel and walked behind a counter. She put the combs down and opened a small file box that was sitting there. "What's the name?"

"Weasley."

She thumbed through some squares of parchment. "Nothing here."

Ron frowned. "Hmm...I have a slight problem then. I don't have the money to pay for the combs right now. You see, I went on a bit of a spree today--you know--shopping for friends and family. It seems I didn't take quite enough Galleons out of my account at Gringotts, but they're closed now. With it being Christmas Eve and all...I wonder if I could make a trade?"

A slight frown sullied her smooth, made-up forehead as she surveyed his empty hands. He realized he should have brought along a few parcels to back up his story, but it was too late to retreat now.

He plunged on. "I have this watch, see? It's solid platinum...and has all kinds of great spells on it..." He handed it to her.

She ran her well-manicured hands over its lustrous surface. She was obviously impressed, murmuring, "Oh, lovely, and retro is in right now. But this inscription...'To Ron', and so forth... that would have to be magically removed...to be saleable, of course."

Ron gulped but nodded, and he felt a tear forming in his eye, thinking of the loving sentiment his father had had engraved on the bezel.

"My dear boy..." she began, but then she became all business, "...but...I'm afraid we don't carry timepieces of any kind."

He had a wild thought that he might just snatch the combs off the counter top and run out the door with them. As if she read his thoughts, she casually gathered up the box and clasped it to her chest.

"Look, miss," he continued. "I'm Ron Weasley. I live...well, lived...just over the hill...at The Burrow, you know. Big house, garage, gardens, trees, a pond, lots of land." She looked blank. His attempt to describe the rundown family manse as an estate of considerable value was not going over well at all.

He tried the small-talk approach. "Oh, I reckon you're not from around here. Believe me, I was that surprised to find a branch of Gladrags here in a Muggle village." He found his voice was cracking. His brother Bill was so much better at this.

Her own voice was pleasant, even musical. "It's something new we're trying, an expansion into underserved areas. My husband's helping me finance it. We've had a sort of windfall, as you might say. But your name...Ron...is that short for Ronald? And Weasley...I know that name quite well..."

Ron saw a glimmer of hope. "Well, as I say, the Weasleys are known all over the area." He tried folding his arms and leaning a hip against the counter the way his brother Bill would do when chatting up a girl. He couldn't quite manage the arched eyebrow, but he smiled in what he hoped was a winsome way. "My father's with the Ministry...pretty high up. Muggle...er...relations, you know--"

"Yes, but that's not where I know the name Ronald Weasley from..."

Now Ron had a feeling of panic. Had there been an announcement in the Prophet about his detective agency going under? If she knew he was without funds, he'd never clinch this deal. "Look, if you've read anything...I mean...it's not as bad as it looks..."

A look came over her face as of a light dawning. Her great eyes glowed. "That's it. I read it somewhere... ohhh... you write, don't you?"

"Huh? Uh, well, yes, a little. How did you know?"

"I'm not psychic, if that's what you're thinking." She held up a hand to stifle his reply. "Bear with me, will you?" She paused a moment, thinking, remembering perhaps. Then she smiled. "Do you like comic books, Mr. Weasley?"

"Well...yes."

"And are you by any chance partial to the Mad Muggle series?"

"You mean, do I like it? Well, sure. Doesn't everybody?"

"And is it possible that you're the Ronald Weasley who's been writing to my husband all these years?"

"Your husband?"

"Robert Raglan."

"You mean..." Ron felt a bit faint at hearing his idol's name.

"My name is Gladys...Gladys Raglan. I own Gladrags." Her voice turned soft. "Yes, you're the right age and everything. You're the one. A real fan, aren't you?"

"Uh...yes, ma'am. And I did sent him some stories in his style...kind of...and using his characters." He wasn't sure at first if it was a good idea admitting this. He watched as Madam Raglan's eyes misted over, as if she remembered his stories. Perhaps his hard work was finally paying off, if only in a minuscule way. Perhaps she would take the watch in trade for a 'real fan' of her husband's work. Ron had a dim sense of an irony in this, but he had no time to work it out, as the shop bell tinkled behind him.

"Oh, Miss Granger, very good," called Gladys Raglan past him. "The delivery broom was here just an hour ago. I have your gift ready...special order." She crossed the room to another counter and pulled a small paper-wrapped package out from behind it.

Ron turned and gulped. "Hermione, what are you doing here?" She looked different today. She was wearing that bulky old mac she'd picked up at a rummage sale. There were dark smudges under her eyes, and she had her hair tucked away under a black woollen cap. Her forehead shone whitely in the glare of the shop lights.

"You two know each other?" asked Madam Raglan.

"We're married," put in Hermione, but she did not answer Ron's question. He thought she looked worried or embarrassed about something. She crossed to the proprietor and fumbled with her purse. He heard the clink of coins...lots of coins.

Madam Raglan, apparently satisfied with the transaction, gave her the package. "I don't think we have your address for our Owling List." She brandished a quill and parchment. Hermione scribbled the requested information. Ron strained to catch a glimpse of stray hair curling out from under her cap. He could see none. What was it Dennis had said last night about new hairstyles? She wouldn't... She couldn't...

He watched as she slipped the package into her pocket. "What's that, Hon?"

She gave him a tight little smile. "Oh, just a last-minute gift. You know how these things are."

Ron goggled at her reply. They couldn't afford gifts, especially not careless ones of the 'last-minute' variety. She was staring at his chest now, at his carefully pressed jacket, his well-knotted, if ill-chosen, tie, as if she could not bring herself to look him in the eye. Why was she being so secretive?

Hermione cut into his thought with a tremulous "See you at The Burrow," and was gone before he could get another word out.

"Now, Master Weasley, we have to talk," said Madam Raglan.

But Ron was staring at the door in agony. He had more than half a mind to go after his wife...his darling, heretofore perfectly honest wife...who seemed to be very upset about something.