The Pizzeria 7/10 (R/D, PG-13)
Title: The Pizzeria (a Sordid Tale of Destiny, Evil, and Garlic) 7/10
Author: mad_maudlin
Length: 36,584
Pairing: Ron/Draco (more preslash than slash)
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Ron bites off more than he can chew when he agrees to help Draco Malfoy and Blaise Zabini open an Italian restaurant. Can anything make it worth the headaches?
7.
Harry and Ginny spent much of the afternoon sitting at a corner table and giving Ron grave looks whenever he emerged from the kitchen. He therefore tried not to emerge too often, and spent the rest of the afternoon feverishly cooking (and sympathizing with Blaise). He also kept Malfoy in the full-body bind, propped up in a corner with a towel over his face so Ron didn't have to watch him glare. It made the kitchen run far, far smoother, especially once Tiffer overcame his guilt (Ron was going to stick with him until proven otherwise) and pitched in, instead of loitering at Malfoy's feet and whimpering slightly.
Around half past two, as Ron transferred calzones to a display tray, someone coughed lightly from behind him. He started, but found only Harry standing in the corridor, looking around with a befuddled expression. "Oh, hey," Ron said. "Er. I'll be just a minute."
"Take your time," Harry said. "Ginny had to go."
"Oh. Right." Ron levitated the last of the hot calzones to the tray, and banished the baking sheet to the sink, where Tiffer was overseeing the washing-up. "What about you?"
"I've still got some time," Harry said. "Need a hand with something?"
Ron didn't, but he let Harry carry one of the trays (pepperoni and fennel) while he took the other (olive, pepper and anchovy). "Tiffer, make sure to get the pizzas out in five minutes," he called over his shoulder. Dennis was doing his best to keep the money sorted in the plastic buckets under the counter, and the register was twitching restlessly inside the flour sack in the corner, and in general things were humming along about as flawlessly as they could reasonably expect. Ron slid the two trays of calzones into the display case, then stripped off his apron and grabbed a table. "Okay, Harry. This is a really long story."
"I kind of expected that," he said. "It'd be a bit disappointing to find you working in Draco Malfoy's pizzeria and the whole thing just turned out to be a comical misunderstanding."
"Don't I wish," Ron muttered. He summoned a pair of butterbeers from behind the counter. "Here, on the house. You're going to want that."
Ron explained, in brief, how Malfoy and Zabini had approached him, how they'd begged for his help over and over, how badly they'd needed the help, and how Zabini had gone mad the night before. He particularly emphasized their complete ineptitude with basic household charms, and the bit about Blaise being drunk on the floor. "And I couldn't just leave them to it," he concluded. "Because I bet you that inside a week, they'd have killed themselves, killed each other, or killed a customer. Still might, in fact."
Harry shook his head. "I'm still trying to wrap my head around Malfoy running a pizzeria."
"It's part of his grand revenge plan," Ron said. "Or so he says. Personally, I think he's just doing Blaise a favor and doesn't want to admit it."
"What about you?" Harry asked.
Ron peeked over his shoulder to check that the display case was still full, the kitchen was smoke-free and Dennis hadn't been eaten by the register yet. "What about me?"
"Why are you doing Zabini and Malfoy a favor?" Harry asked.
"I just told you" Ron said.
"No, you didn't," Harry said. "You said they were hopeless and they needed you and they asked you, but you didn't explain why you actually did it."
"Because they were hopeless and they needed me and they asked?" Ron said.
"Since when do you do anything Malfoy asked?"
Harry sat back and folded his arms like he'd scored a point; Ron grimaced, and picked at a small stain on the tablecloth while he thought. "He did save my life, Harry."
"He tripped you while he was running away."
"I know," Ron said, "but still. It wasn't like I was doing anything anyway."
Harry looked uncomfortable, and tugged at the red trim on his robes, the uniform of a trainee Auror. "You know you can reapply, right? I mean, you didn't even have to quit the first time"
"I know," Ron said. He wasn't eager to have yet another conversation about his arse injury in this place, particularly around customers. "I'm just saying, it was no skin off my nose to give Malfoy a hand, okay?"
"And that's why you did it?"
"Well, of course it sounds stupid like that," Ron said. "I thought...look, I reckon I also felt sorry for him. A little. Because of the hopelessness and the asking and stuff, which I just told you."
Harry looked around the restaurant. "So you're working for him out of pity?"
"I'm not working for him," Ron said. "I'm helping. It's entirely different."
"You mean he's not even paying you for this?" Harry asked incredulously.
"He doesn't need to," Ron said. He wondered why the idea made him so irritated. "I'm just doing him a favor, okay? And when everything's in order, I'll walk away."
"Define 'in order,'" Harry said.
Ron looked at the stain again. "You know...orderly. No more mad chefs or possessed cash registers, that sort of thing. When they don't need me."
Harry was looking at him like he was mad, or possible just stupid, which Ron didn't exactly appreciate. "And when's that going to be, if you're running the whole bloody place days at a time?"
"Fine," Ron said. "Let's go unbind Malfoy and let him have at it. Maybe he can try strangling you."
"That's not what I meant," Harry said. "Just... did you know Fred and George have been trying to reach you for days? You're never home and you're not answering their letters. You're not answering my letters, either."
"I know, I know," Ron sighed. "And I'm supposed to fix the henhouse before Mum and Dad get back from Ibiza. But what am I supposed to do? Leave them hanging?"
"It wouldn't be a bad idea," Harry said. "It's not like we owe them anything, really."
"Which would be why you got them the pardons," Ron said.
"We don't owe them anything now," Harry said. "You don't owe them anything."
"And I can quit any time," Ron insisted. "This is just for laughs."
"Yeah, 'cause you're laughing so hard."
Ron emptied his butterbeer and took Harry's empty bottle right out of his hands. "Look, mate, what's with the interrogation? What's your problem with me working here?"
"Malfoy," Harry said flatly. "I don't like him."
"Congratulations, the feeling's mutual."
"I'm serious," Harry said urgently. "Just because he helped us doesn't mean I trust him. Look at how he acted today!"
"I don't mean to defend him, Harry," Ron said, "but you did sort of cut his face in half that one time."
"That was years ago," Harry said. "And it doesn't explain why he tried to jump on you."
"Harry, what kind of wicked plot is Malfoy going to work out of a pizzeria?" Ron asked. "Death by olives? Evil cheese? Garlic toast of wickedness?"
"You said something about revenge," Harry insisted.
"I also boiled his list in the marinara sauce, so I don't think we're in danger."
Harry sighed, and they stared at one another for a moment. "You know your family's not going to like it," he said. "Ginny still blames Malfoy for Bill's face."
"Okay, first, if they can forgive Percy, anything's possible," Ron said.
Harry pointed out, "Percy's dead."
"But we did forgive him, didn't we?" Ron said. "Secondly, for my family to be angry, someone would have to tell them, and you're not going to tell them, are you?"
Harry looked baffled. "Okay, Ron, my first point: Ginny already knows, so what the hell do you want me to do, Obliviate her?"
"You do that and I'll break your arm," Ron said. "Just ask her not to say anything. You can do that, can't you? She'll listen."
"No, she won't," Harry said. "And that's my second point, which isif there's nothing wrong with you working here, or whatever the hell it is you're doing, why do you want to keep it a secret?"
"There isn't anything wrong with it," Ron said, "butwellit's not any of your business if I want to keep a secret."
Harry's face went cold and hard, and he stood up, letting his chair scrape loudly on the floor. "Fine," he said. "If that's how you want to play it."
Ron flinched. "Harry, I didn't mean it like that."
"Then how did you mean it?"
Ron opened his mouth and found he had nothing to say.
Harry nodded slowly, then pushed the chair in more carefully. "I'll see you around, mate," he said, still pretty brisk. "At least now I know where to find you."
As Harry walked out the door, Ron let his forehead fall onto the table. Brilliant work, Weasley, he thought to himself. Piss off your best mate and freak out your entire family in one blow. Ginny would have Fred and George on her side by suppertime, Bill would hear by the next dayif he hadn't already had it from Fleur, and was just giving Ron the silent treatment. And within twenty-four hours there would be owls on their way to Romania and Ibiza, carrying the news of Ron's...whatever.
Except he wasn't doing anything wrong! That was the thinghe was selling pizza. He was making and selling pizza, and okay, he was doing it with Malfoynot for Malfoy, though, that was an important distinction. He was just helping, not a mate, not even a colleague, not even a non-violent co-worker anymore...but he was just helping, and when he wasn't needed anymore, he'd be gone. It didn't matter why he was helping. It shouldn't matter. He was going to help and he was going to leave, and then...then...
"Mr. Weasley?"
"What?" he snapped, looking up.
Tiffer recoiled a step but recovered slightly. "Is can be pizza time now? Tiffer has made the dough, but you is needing to help topping."
Ron sighed. "Of course, of course, I'm coming." The glass display case was half-empty all of a sudden, and Dennis was trying to explain something to Archie and serve a customer at the same time. Pizza was beginning to feel like a very harsh mistress.
They made it through the dinner rush, with Archie only dozing off at the counter once. The register eventually stopped dinging at them randomly, and Ron decided to delegate all the dough-making to Tiffer, who managed to be faster than him even if he stopped trying to measure ingredients. He devoted himself to toppings, fillings, sauces and desserts, which may have incorporated slightly more liqueur than was entirely necessary, or even called for in the recipe. (It had worked for Blaise, hadn't it?)
Towards the end of the day, the full-body bind on Malfoy began to wear off; he twitched the towel off his head, flexed his fingers slightly, and began making squeaky grunts in Ron's general direction. "Oh ah," he said several times through rigid lips.
"What was that, Malfoy?" Ron asked, scrubbing a baking sheet.
"Ohhh ahhh."
"Sorry?"
"Ohh aww!"
Ron paused. "Did you say oil can?"
"UCK OOO!" he enunciated.
"Oh," Ron said. He saw Malfoy's fingers flex distinctly, for emphasis. "Merlin, Malfoy, you can't even be civil when you're paralyzed."
"Oo araride ee!"
"You were trying to choke me. No sympathy here."
"Icked aan," Malfoy growled, and jerked his head spasmodically to the side.
The doorbell rang for the first time in a while, and Ron quickly wiped his hands and headed to the counter. He'd sent Archie home over an hour ago, but he didn't remember if he'd turned over the sign to CLOSED on the door. It certainly wouldn't hurt to serve one more customer, thoughwell, not in a business sense. In a literal sense, the hex mark on his arse was starting to ache faintly, because he'd been standing for hours and hours and of course the day had to somehow get worse.
So he limped a bit as he approached the counter, calling out a "Be right with you!" Coming out of the corridor, though, all he could see over the counter's edge were several bobbing fedoras in different colors. Several powerful suspicions overtook him: that the shop was a victim of a bizarre curse; that Fred and George were exacting a preemptive and hat-related vengeance on him for not revealing his ties to the pizzeria; that Tiffer was going to be taken away by an army of liberated house elves in fancy hats. It was very late in the evening, and anything seemed possible.
The voice that called over the edge of the counter wasn't an elf's voice, though. It was a rasping croak, soon followed by a goblin's long, warty nose. "No need to put yourself out," the goblin said, apparently standing on tip-toe. "We just wanted to have a look around."
"Er...all right." Ron stood where the register had once been, and counted six young goblins in the front of the restaurant. Goblins in fedoras and pinstriped robes, no less. The shortest one, who had spoken, jerked one long finger over his shoulder, and the others fanned out around the room, climbing on the tables, examining the portrait of Blaise's mum, even sniffing the tablecloths. "Is there anything I can get you at all?" Ron asked suspiciously.
Instead of answering, the goblin asked, "Is Malfoy in?" and started stroking the glass display case. There wasn't much in it but a few cold calzones and a single slice of pizza with octopus and smoked mozzarella, which had been surprisingly popular.
"Mr. Malfoy's indisposed right now," Ron said (Hermione had taught him that word, though she normally used it as code for "on the rag;" on reflection, that made it oddly appropriate for Malfoy as well). "I can help you with anything you need, though."
"Can you now," the goblin said, and stroked his little beard (which was rather thinner and fuzzier than Ron was used to seeing on goblins). "Well, that's very interesting, innit?"
"Is there something in particular you want?" Ron asked.
The lead goblin snapped his clawed fingers. "Blackpick, show him the hammer." A chubby goblin whose hat didn't match his suit lumbered forward and produced from somewhere in his jacket a large, heavy mallet: its handle was wrapped in scuffed leather, and the head had been inlaid with something shiny which was partly worn off. "Misterwhat's your name, sir?"
"Ron Weasley," Ron said, hoping sort of idly to strike fear into their hearts. None of them reacted with any sign of recognition, though.
"Mr. Weezy," the goblin said, "is this not a lovely hammer?"
Ron pretended to examine it at length. "I dunno," he said. "Looks a bit dated to me. And I've seen bigger."
Blackpick the goblin swelled with indignation, almost reaching the level of Ron's belt, but the leader waved the words off. "You're very brave, Mr. Weezy, I like that."
"I'm so gratified," Ron said.
The lead goblin took the hammer from Blackpick and turned it over in his hands a few times, so that the inlay caught the light. "This is the hammer Thunderstrike that was forged in the very fires of Mount Vesuvius," he said. "It was wielded in war by Redhook, Silverflail, Greatfoot the Lesser, Quickfist the Unwashed and Og Gutgarters, who died at the battle of Newcastle." He eyed Ron meaningfully. "A hammer like this could make a big mess in a little shop like yours."
Ron stared for a moment, then folded his arms across his chest. "Okay, here's a tip," he said. "If you're going to threaten people, you should really skip the history lesson. I always hated that class."
The goblins looked dismayed, and Blackpick made two heavy, clawed fists. The Head Goblin just gave Thunderstrike the Hammer a few experimental swings. "We're not threatening you, Mr. Weezy," he said. We're just pointing out some important facts. Thunderstrike was made for breaking things, that's a very important fact. One Mr. Malfoy ought to be remembering."
Ron pulled his wand out of his apron pocket. "How about I just tie up the lot of you right now and let the Ministry sort it out in the morning?"
The leader goblin just smiled, a visual Ron could've done very well without. "Or how about you deliver a little message to Mr. Malfoy for us?" And before Ron could react, he swung Thunderstrike the hammer in a tremendous arc and brought it down on the display case. Glass and calzones flew everywhere, and Ron dove for the floor into order to avoid the shrapnel. By the time he got to his feet again, the goblins were bursting through the door into the street beyond and vanishing through the mouth of the cul-de-sac. "Hey!" Ron shouted impotently, limping out the door. "Hey! Get back here, you dirty little bastards!"
The night air was cool for August, and it was so late that even Diagon Alley was quiet and still. Someone's cat yowled at him, and far away he fancied he heard a bit of thunder. That was all.
Ron stormed back into the pizzeria and tried to repair the display case. The hammer must've been magical, though, because none of the charms he tried made the broken glass more than twitch. Furiously, he charmed a broom and dustpan to clean up the debris, then marched back into the kitchen. Tiffer was emerging from his nest, yawning, and Malfoy was still propped where Ron'd left him, once again as still as a bloody statue.
"Finite incantatum," Ron said severely, and Malfoy wobbled as his muscles unlocked. "What the bloody hell was that about?"
"I thought it was rather obvious myself," Malfoy said, patting himself down. "I was even spared the visuals and I got the gist of it."
"What are a pack of goblins doing looking for you?" Ron demanded. "Goblins in hats, no less!"
"They were wearing hats, were they? Wish I'd seen it." Malfoy lifted a pan from the sink and checked his reflection in it.
"They also smashed the hell out of the display case."
"Really? Damn, I'll have to" Malfoy looked up at Ron for the first time and froze, going suddenly pale. "Weasley, youare you"
"What? Am I what?" Ron asked. Malfoy gestured weakly to the area of his neck, and Ron touched his own gingerly. His fingers came away red, wet, and luckily, tasting of oregano. "Oh. 'S just sauce, from the case. The one that exploded when they hit it with their mate, the great big hammer."
"Thank Merlin," Malfoy sighed. "I mean, it's good thatthat is, you're notnever mind. What were you saying?"
Ron was actually kind of curious as to what Malfoy was saying, but he wasn't going to be driven off the topic. "A load of goblins looking for you broke the front counter," he said. "You wanna explain that one?"
"There is no explanation," Malfoy said promptly.
"There's not?"
"No."
"Well that's good to know."
"I mean," he continued, "I've been on time with all my payments so far, and I didn't even borrow that much to begin with."
That stopped Ron short. "Wait, what? You have a loan?"
"I wouldn't call it a loan, exactly," Malfoy said with a sigh. "That would imply that it was completely legal and official."
"Oh, Merlin's big hairy balls." Ron leaned against a counter, taking the weight off his bad side. "You're telling me you borrowed money from goblins, but not through the bank?"
"The bank doesn't want anything more to do with me than the Ministry," Malfoy said. "And yes, I may have borrowed some of our initial capital investment."
"How much is some?" Ron asked.
Malfoy mumbled.
"Didn't quite catch that."
"...most of it?"
Ron wasn't sure he'd caught that, either, but Malfoy's expressionface angled down, jaw thrust out slightly, lips tightconvinced him. "I thought you were rolling in gold," he said.
"You'd be surprised how little remains after court costs and Ministry raids," he said sharply.
"So why'd you agree to partner Blaise, if you couldn't afford it?" Ron asked.
"Because it takes gold to breed gold, you numbskull," Malfoy snapped. "And I didn't thinkI'd budgeted for the rent, but not the cost of making the place livable, and the import taxes were higher than I anticipated, and then we had to hire helpbut I'm making the payments, and on time, so I don't know what Stonefoot and his lackeys thought they were going to accomplish by threatening me."
"I dunno," Ron said, "anything they want? Because seriously, without the guarantees of the bank"
"I realize that I made a mistake, Weasley," Malfoy growled, and he still wasn't looking up, and he still wasn't looking at Ron. "I realize that the situation may in fact have deteriorated. But that's none of your concern, so if you'll kindly clean up the mess and then close for the night, I'll take care of it." And he pushed harshly past Ron, paused to look at the ruin of the display case, and then disappeared into the Floo.
Chapter One
Chapter Six
Chapter Eight
Author: mad_maudlin
Length: 36,584
Pairing: Ron/Draco (more preslash than slash)
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Ron bites off more than he can chew when he agrees to help Draco Malfoy and Blaise Zabini open an Italian restaurant. Can anything make it worth the headaches?
7.
Harry and Ginny spent much of the afternoon sitting at a corner table and giving Ron grave looks whenever he emerged from the kitchen. He therefore tried not to emerge too often, and spent the rest of the afternoon feverishly cooking (and sympathizing with Blaise). He also kept Malfoy in the full-body bind, propped up in a corner with a towel over his face so Ron didn't have to watch him glare. It made the kitchen run far, far smoother, especially once Tiffer overcame his guilt (Ron was going to stick with him until proven otherwise) and pitched in, instead of loitering at Malfoy's feet and whimpering slightly.
Around half past two, as Ron transferred calzones to a display tray, someone coughed lightly from behind him. He started, but found only Harry standing in the corridor, looking around with a befuddled expression. "Oh, hey," Ron said. "Er. I'll be just a minute."
"Take your time," Harry said. "Ginny had to go."
"Oh. Right." Ron levitated the last of the hot calzones to the tray, and banished the baking sheet to the sink, where Tiffer was overseeing the washing-up. "What about you?"
"I've still got some time," Harry said. "Need a hand with something?"
Ron didn't, but he let Harry carry one of the trays (pepperoni and fennel) while he took the other (olive, pepper and anchovy). "Tiffer, make sure to get the pizzas out in five minutes," he called over his shoulder. Dennis was doing his best to keep the money sorted in the plastic buckets under the counter, and the register was twitching restlessly inside the flour sack in the corner, and in general things were humming along about as flawlessly as they could reasonably expect. Ron slid the two trays of calzones into the display case, then stripped off his apron and grabbed a table. "Okay, Harry. This is a really long story."
"I kind of expected that," he said. "It'd be a bit disappointing to find you working in Draco Malfoy's pizzeria and the whole thing just turned out to be a comical misunderstanding."
"Don't I wish," Ron muttered. He summoned a pair of butterbeers from behind the counter. "Here, on the house. You're going to want that."
Ron explained, in brief, how Malfoy and Zabini had approached him, how they'd begged for his help over and over, how badly they'd needed the help, and how Zabini had gone mad the night before. He particularly emphasized their complete ineptitude with basic household charms, and the bit about Blaise being drunk on the floor. "And I couldn't just leave them to it," he concluded. "Because I bet you that inside a week, they'd have killed themselves, killed each other, or killed a customer. Still might, in fact."
Harry shook his head. "I'm still trying to wrap my head around Malfoy running a pizzeria."
"It's part of his grand revenge plan," Ron said. "Or so he says. Personally, I think he's just doing Blaise a favor and doesn't want to admit it."
"What about you?" Harry asked.
Ron peeked over his shoulder to check that the display case was still full, the kitchen was smoke-free and Dennis hadn't been eaten by the register yet. "What about me?"
"Why are you doing Zabini and Malfoy a favor?" Harry asked.
"I just told you" Ron said.
"No, you didn't," Harry said. "You said they were hopeless and they needed you and they asked you, but you didn't explain why you actually did it."
"Because they were hopeless and they needed me and they asked?" Ron said.
"Since when do you do anything Malfoy asked?"
Harry sat back and folded his arms like he'd scored a point; Ron grimaced, and picked at a small stain on the tablecloth while he thought. "He did save my life, Harry."
"He tripped you while he was running away."
"I know," Ron said, "but still. It wasn't like I was doing anything anyway."
Harry looked uncomfortable, and tugged at the red trim on his robes, the uniform of a trainee Auror. "You know you can reapply, right? I mean, you didn't even have to quit the first time"
"I know," Ron said. He wasn't eager to have yet another conversation about his arse injury in this place, particularly around customers. "I'm just saying, it was no skin off my nose to give Malfoy a hand, okay?"
"And that's why you did it?"
"Well, of course it sounds stupid like that," Ron said. "I thought...look, I reckon I also felt sorry for him. A little. Because of the hopelessness and the asking and stuff, which I just told you."
Harry looked around the restaurant. "So you're working for him out of pity?"
"I'm not working for him," Ron said. "I'm helping. It's entirely different."
"You mean he's not even paying you for this?" Harry asked incredulously.
"He doesn't need to," Ron said. He wondered why the idea made him so irritated. "I'm just doing him a favor, okay? And when everything's in order, I'll walk away."
"Define 'in order,'" Harry said.
Ron looked at the stain again. "You know...orderly. No more mad chefs or possessed cash registers, that sort of thing. When they don't need me."
Harry was looking at him like he was mad, or possible just stupid, which Ron didn't exactly appreciate. "And when's that going to be, if you're running the whole bloody place days at a time?"
"Fine," Ron said. "Let's go unbind Malfoy and let him have at it. Maybe he can try strangling you."
"That's not what I meant," Harry said. "Just... did you know Fred and George have been trying to reach you for days? You're never home and you're not answering their letters. You're not answering my letters, either."
"I know, I know," Ron sighed. "And I'm supposed to fix the henhouse before Mum and Dad get back from Ibiza. But what am I supposed to do? Leave them hanging?"
"It wouldn't be a bad idea," Harry said. "It's not like we owe them anything, really."
"Which would be why you got them the pardons," Ron said.
"We don't owe them anything now," Harry said. "You don't owe them anything."
"And I can quit any time," Ron insisted. "This is just for laughs."
"Yeah, 'cause you're laughing so hard."
Ron emptied his butterbeer and took Harry's empty bottle right out of his hands. "Look, mate, what's with the interrogation? What's your problem with me working here?"
"Malfoy," Harry said flatly. "I don't like him."
"Congratulations, the feeling's mutual."
"I'm serious," Harry said urgently. "Just because he helped us doesn't mean I trust him. Look at how he acted today!"
"I don't mean to defend him, Harry," Ron said, "but you did sort of cut his face in half that one time."
"That was years ago," Harry said. "And it doesn't explain why he tried to jump on you."
"Harry, what kind of wicked plot is Malfoy going to work out of a pizzeria?" Ron asked. "Death by olives? Evil cheese? Garlic toast of wickedness?"
"You said something about revenge," Harry insisted.
"I also boiled his list in the marinara sauce, so I don't think we're in danger."
Harry sighed, and they stared at one another for a moment. "You know your family's not going to like it," he said. "Ginny still blames Malfoy for Bill's face."
"Okay, first, if they can forgive Percy, anything's possible," Ron said.
Harry pointed out, "Percy's dead."
"But we did forgive him, didn't we?" Ron said. "Secondly, for my family to be angry, someone would have to tell them, and you're not going to tell them, are you?"
Harry looked baffled. "Okay, Ron, my first point: Ginny already knows, so what the hell do you want me to do, Obliviate her?"
"You do that and I'll break your arm," Ron said. "Just ask her not to say anything. You can do that, can't you? She'll listen."
"No, she won't," Harry said. "And that's my second point, which isif there's nothing wrong with you working here, or whatever the hell it is you're doing, why do you want to keep it a secret?"
"There isn't anything wrong with it," Ron said, "butwellit's not any of your business if I want to keep a secret."
Harry's face went cold and hard, and he stood up, letting his chair scrape loudly on the floor. "Fine," he said. "If that's how you want to play it."
Ron flinched. "Harry, I didn't mean it like that."
"Then how did you mean it?"
Ron opened his mouth and found he had nothing to say.
Harry nodded slowly, then pushed the chair in more carefully. "I'll see you around, mate," he said, still pretty brisk. "At least now I know where to find you."
As Harry walked out the door, Ron let his forehead fall onto the table. Brilliant work, Weasley, he thought to himself. Piss off your best mate and freak out your entire family in one blow. Ginny would have Fred and George on her side by suppertime, Bill would hear by the next dayif he hadn't already had it from Fleur, and was just giving Ron the silent treatment. And within twenty-four hours there would be owls on their way to Romania and Ibiza, carrying the news of Ron's...whatever.
Except he wasn't doing anything wrong! That was the thinghe was selling pizza. He was making and selling pizza, and okay, he was doing it with Malfoynot for Malfoy, though, that was an important distinction. He was just helping, not a mate, not even a colleague, not even a non-violent co-worker anymore...but he was just helping, and when he wasn't needed anymore, he'd be gone. It didn't matter why he was helping. It shouldn't matter. He was going to help and he was going to leave, and then...then...
"Mr. Weasley?"
"What?" he snapped, looking up.
Tiffer recoiled a step but recovered slightly. "Is can be pizza time now? Tiffer has made the dough, but you is needing to help topping."
Ron sighed. "Of course, of course, I'm coming." The glass display case was half-empty all of a sudden, and Dennis was trying to explain something to Archie and serve a customer at the same time. Pizza was beginning to feel like a very harsh mistress.
They made it through the dinner rush, with Archie only dozing off at the counter once. The register eventually stopped dinging at them randomly, and Ron decided to delegate all the dough-making to Tiffer, who managed to be faster than him even if he stopped trying to measure ingredients. He devoted himself to toppings, fillings, sauces and desserts, which may have incorporated slightly more liqueur than was entirely necessary, or even called for in the recipe. (It had worked for Blaise, hadn't it?)
Towards the end of the day, the full-body bind on Malfoy began to wear off; he twitched the towel off his head, flexed his fingers slightly, and began making squeaky grunts in Ron's general direction. "Oh ah," he said several times through rigid lips.
"What was that, Malfoy?" Ron asked, scrubbing a baking sheet.
"Ohhh ahhh."
"Sorry?"
"Ohh aww!"
Ron paused. "Did you say oil can?"
"UCK OOO!" he enunciated.
"Oh," Ron said. He saw Malfoy's fingers flex distinctly, for emphasis. "Merlin, Malfoy, you can't even be civil when you're paralyzed."
"Oo araride ee!"
"You were trying to choke me. No sympathy here."
"Icked aan," Malfoy growled, and jerked his head spasmodically to the side.
The doorbell rang for the first time in a while, and Ron quickly wiped his hands and headed to the counter. He'd sent Archie home over an hour ago, but he didn't remember if he'd turned over the sign to CLOSED on the door. It certainly wouldn't hurt to serve one more customer, thoughwell, not in a business sense. In a literal sense, the hex mark on his arse was starting to ache faintly, because he'd been standing for hours and hours and of course the day had to somehow get worse.
So he limped a bit as he approached the counter, calling out a "Be right with you!" Coming out of the corridor, though, all he could see over the counter's edge were several bobbing fedoras in different colors. Several powerful suspicions overtook him: that the shop was a victim of a bizarre curse; that Fred and George were exacting a preemptive and hat-related vengeance on him for not revealing his ties to the pizzeria; that Tiffer was going to be taken away by an army of liberated house elves in fancy hats. It was very late in the evening, and anything seemed possible.
The voice that called over the edge of the counter wasn't an elf's voice, though. It was a rasping croak, soon followed by a goblin's long, warty nose. "No need to put yourself out," the goblin said, apparently standing on tip-toe. "We just wanted to have a look around."
"Er...all right." Ron stood where the register had once been, and counted six young goblins in the front of the restaurant. Goblins in fedoras and pinstriped robes, no less. The shortest one, who had spoken, jerked one long finger over his shoulder, and the others fanned out around the room, climbing on the tables, examining the portrait of Blaise's mum, even sniffing the tablecloths. "Is there anything I can get you at all?" Ron asked suspiciously.
Instead of answering, the goblin asked, "Is Malfoy in?" and started stroking the glass display case. There wasn't much in it but a few cold calzones and a single slice of pizza with octopus and smoked mozzarella, which had been surprisingly popular.
"Mr. Malfoy's indisposed right now," Ron said (Hermione had taught him that word, though she normally used it as code for "on the rag;" on reflection, that made it oddly appropriate for Malfoy as well). "I can help you with anything you need, though."
"Can you now," the goblin said, and stroked his little beard (which was rather thinner and fuzzier than Ron was used to seeing on goblins). "Well, that's very interesting, innit?"
"Is there something in particular you want?" Ron asked.
The lead goblin snapped his clawed fingers. "Blackpick, show him the hammer." A chubby goblin whose hat didn't match his suit lumbered forward and produced from somewhere in his jacket a large, heavy mallet: its handle was wrapped in scuffed leather, and the head had been inlaid with something shiny which was partly worn off. "Misterwhat's your name, sir?"
"Ron Weasley," Ron said, hoping sort of idly to strike fear into their hearts. None of them reacted with any sign of recognition, though.
"Mr. Weezy," the goblin said, "is this not a lovely hammer?"
Ron pretended to examine it at length. "I dunno," he said. "Looks a bit dated to me. And I've seen bigger."
Blackpick the goblin swelled with indignation, almost reaching the level of Ron's belt, but the leader waved the words off. "You're very brave, Mr. Weezy, I like that."
"I'm so gratified," Ron said.
The lead goblin took the hammer from Blackpick and turned it over in his hands a few times, so that the inlay caught the light. "This is the hammer Thunderstrike that was forged in the very fires of Mount Vesuvius," he said. "It was wielded in war by Redhook, Silverflail, Greatfoot the Lesser, Quickfist the Unwashed and Og Gutgarters, who died at the battle of Newcastle." He eyed Ron meaningfully. "A hammer like this could make a big mess in a little shop like yours."
Ron stared for a moment, then folded his arms across his chest. "Okay, here's a tip," he said. "If you're going to threaten people, you should really skip the history lesson. I always hated that class."
The goblins looked dismayed, and Blackpick made two heavy, clawed fists. The Head Goblin just gave Thunderstrike the Hammer a few experimental swings. "We're not threatening you, Mr. Weezy," he said. We're just pointing out some important facts. Thunderstrike was made for breaking things, that's a very important fact. One Mr. Malfoy ought to be remembering."
Ron pulled his wand out of his apron pocket. "How about I just tie up the lot of you right now and let the Ministry sort it out in the morning?"
The leader goblin just smiled, a visual Ron could've done very well without. "Or how about you deliver a little message to Mr. Malfoy for us?" And before Ron could react, he swung Thunderstrike the hammer in a tremendous arc and brought it down on the display case. Glass and calzones flew everywhere, and Ron dove for the floor into order to avoid the shrapnel. By the time he got to his feet again, the goblins were bursting through the door into the street beyond and vanishing through the mouth of the cul-de-sac. "Hey!" Ron shouted impotently, limping out the door. "Hey! Get back here, you dirty little bastards!"
The night air was cool for August, and it was so late that even Diagon Alley was quiet and still. Someone's cat yowled at him, and far away he fancied he heard a bit of thunder. That was all.
Ron stormed back into the pizzeria and tried to repair the display case. The hammer must've been magical, though, because none of the charms he tried made the broken glass more than twitch. Furiously, he charmed a broom and dustpan to clean up the debris, then marched back into the kitchen. Tiffer was emerging from his nest, yawning, and Malfoy was still propped where Ron'd left him, once again as still as a bloody statue.
"Finite incantatum," Ron said severely, and Malfoy wobbled as his muscles unlocked. "What the bloody hell was that about?"
"I thought it was rather obvious myself," Malfoy said, patting himself down. "I was even spared the visuals and I got the gist of it."
"What are a pack of goblins doing looking for you?" Ron demanded. "Goblins in hats, no less!"
"They were wearing hats, were they? Wish I'd seen it." Malfoy lifted a pan from the sink and checked his reflection in it.
"They also smashed the hell out of the display case."
"Really? Damn, I'll have to" Malfoy looked up at Ron for the first time and froze, going suddenly pale. "Weasley, youare you"
"What? Am I what?" Ron asked. Malfoy gestured weakly to the area of his neck, and Ron touched his own gingerly. His fingers came away red, wet, and luckily, tasting of oregano. "Oh. 'S just sauce, from the case. The one that exploded when they hit it with their mate, the great big hammer."
"Thank Merlin," Malfoy sighed. "I mean, it's good thatthat is, you're notnever mind. What were you saying?"
Ron was actually kind of curious as to what Malfoy was saying, but he wasn't going to be driven off the topic. "A load of goblins looking for you broke the front counter," he said. "You wanna explain that one?"
"There is no explanation," Malfoy said promptly.
"There's not?"
"No."
"Well that's good to know."
"I mean," he continued, "I've been on time with all my payments so far, and I didn't even borrow that much to begin with."
That stopped Ron short. "Wait, what? You have a loan?"
"I wouldn't call it a loan, exactly," Malfoy said with a sigh. "That would imply that it was completely legal and official."
"Oh, Merlin's big hairy balls." Ron leaned against a counter, taking the weight off his bad side. "You're telling me you borrowed money from goblins, but not through the bank?"
"The bank doesn't want anything more to do with me than the Ministry," Malfoy said. "And yes, I may have borrowed some of our initial capital investment."
"How much is some?" Ron asked.
Malfoy mumbled.
"Didn't quite catch that."
"...most of it?"
Ron wasn't sure he'd caught that, either, but Malfoy's expressionface angled down, jaw thrust out slightly, lips tightconvinced him. "I thought you were rolling in gold," he said.
"You'd be surprised how little remains after court costs and Ministry raids," he said sharply.
"So why'd you agree to partner Blaise, if you couldn't afford it?" Ron asked.
"Because it takes gold to breed gold, you numbskull," Malfoy snapped. "And I didn't thinkI'd budgeted for the rent, but not the cost of making the place livable, and the import taxes were higher than I anticipated, and then we had to hire helpbut I'm making the payments, and on time, so I don't know what Stonefoot and his lackeys thought they were going to accomplish by threatening me."
"I dunno," Ron said, "anything they want? Because seriously, without the guarantees of the bank"
"I realize that I made a mistake, Weasley," Malfoy growled, and he still wasn't looking up, and he still wasn't looking at Ron. "I realize that the situation may in fact have deteriorated. But that's none of your concern, so if you'll kindly clean up the mess and then close for the night, I'll take care of it." And he pushed harshly past Ron, paused to look at the ruin of the display case, and then disappeared into the Floo.
Chapter One
Chapter Six
Chapter Eight