The Settlement
11th June 2012
The Potter family is never rich in ready money, but in properties, businesses and investments. The accumulated money is usually recycled for research, more businesses, more properties or more investments. And considering the eclectic talents and hobbies of the not-so-small clan, the global magical community is almost saturated with Potter interests. Add the “moulding” magical knack of the line, and the family’s place is comfily settled for centuries, world-wide.
It’s like that in olden times, at least, as I understand it through reading the journals of past Potters all these lonely years.
Dad poured so much money into the Order of the Phoenix, the ready one and even some liquidated investments, perhaps in the hope of finishing the war before I was born or at least before I was a grown-up. I suspect that I’ve still got some money left only because Mum threatened him with castration or something.
And then they’re gone, and I, the sole heir of the name and fortunes, became the Dursleys’ personal house-elf for sixteen years.
The remaining investments weren’t much to speak of, by the time the House figuratively fell onto the unsuspecting head of child-me. The businesses had atrophied, too, from the double blow of the two wars and the inattention of their successive owners. But the properties remained, and they’re still there even now, uncared for or otherwise.
The goblins tried to seize everything that my ancestors stored in Gringotts, to repay the break-in that Hermione, Ron and I committed at the end of the second war against Voldemort. And they succeeded for the most part, with subtle help from the British Ministry of Magic after I quitted the Auror Corps. They got the ready money, at least. But they got nothing else, since everything pertaining to the homes and passions of the Potters – documents, manuscripts, objects, portkeys, and many more – has never been stored nor recorded at Gringotts. Plus, the homes are all unplottable and encased in a strong, durable bubble of moulded wefts of wards, tied directly to the Potters by blood, so nobody else can even step foot on a Potter property without prior permission.
Well, all the homes except for the cottage that my poor, nonsensical, overconfident parents bought – and died in – as the war heated up, that is.
But I needn’t worry much about the outside world, in any case, at least presently, as my charges and I are ensconced in one of Great-Uncle Fleamont’s homes. His most favoured and most private home, in fact: a stone-and-wood-and-thatch cabin somewhere in a high, secluded mountainous region in Indonesia, surrounded by sprawling grounds filled with flora and fauna for potion ingredients, with potions being my great-uncle’s passion and occupation.
No, I needn’t worry about the outside, but the inside.
“Tony – no – that’s poisonous!”
An Achio gets one brat out of the way. But, hearing my not-so-manly yell and intrigued by it, three more brats converge on the patch of magical nightshade that the first has found.
No more outdoor romping, then. And I must brat-proof the cabin, too, physically and magically.
I never knew that raising children would be this hard….
12th June 2012
“Tony… what did you do with that gramophone?”
“Clint, how did you get to the rafters? There’s nothing to stand or jump on to get there!”
“Natka – no – that’s an inhalable potion!”
“Bruce… you needn’t cook, you know. In fact, I prefer that you play with the others. Your body isn’t equipped for cooking, and I am the cook here.”
“Thor, others haven’t eaten, you know. You can have some more only when others have had their shares, too. – No, Steve, you need to eat, yourself.”
“My, you are a feisty one, aren’t you? Now hold still if you want me to change your nappy, Loki. Kick me one more time and I’ll have you trussed up like a pig for grilling.”
“Buddy, don’t just stand there. Help me – no, Thor, that Rubic’s cube is for solving, not for throwing, let alone to the others. Find another toy if you don’t like it, or let me help you solve it. Whoa – Natka – where are you going? No, come back, Missy. It’s nearly bedtime already.”
My. I’m utterly knackered. And to think that it’s only the second day of me gaining all these brats and one more-robotic-than-a-robot assistant.
Fortunately… or unfortunately… the de-aging and adoption of the brats are permanent, and I can’t return my assistant to where I found him.
All right… once more into the breach, tomorrow.
13th June 2012
Trying to be the adult has met with failure, so now I’m trying to be chummy-chummy with the brats.
It helps that, when not being bratty, they are… cute.
It also helps that, with some minor weather manipulation, I’ve managed to coax rain to fall torrentially on my property, minus the wind and the thunder.
We’re all held in, and I’ve sealed off most parts of the house, and we’re stocked up on many games and toys here in the bedroom. All according to plan. Nice.
Now, “Well, kiddies, who’s up for a game?”
Damn. I never thought that being stared at incredulously by children could be so unnerving. And all eyes are indeed on me, including those belonging to my unspeaking, robotic assistant, who is standing by the door instead of seated on the massive bed like me and the brats.
Well, the robotic assistant is still being a robotic robot and thus stares blankly at me. But still!
I sigh, and huff, and sigh again.
And then, because the brats have rejected my kind offer, and they’re my new family anyway, and I do need something to entertain them with, I decide to do something mad, something I’ve never done before.
“Let me tell you a story, then. – Once, a baby boy was born to a young, happy couple. But the baby boy was born in wartime, and his parents were involved in one of the fighting sides. A prophecy was made about a child born at the end of the seventh month, then. It’s said he was going to defeat the villain who started the war, and the villain heard it from a spy who accidentally heard it, and the villain didn’t like it….”