By late autumn of 1990, the mist clinging to the Highlands felt heavier, as if the atmosphere itself was thickening in anticipation of the decade to come. At Raven's Cottage, the transition was marked by the steady drip of rain against the leaded glass windows and the rhythmic scratching of my father's quill.
Adrian Carter was a man of ancient lineages and dusty scrolls, but he possessed a rare trait among the Pure-blood and half-blood circles: a genuine, if slightly baffled, curiosity about the "non-magical" world. It was this crack in the door of his perception that I intended to nudge open.
The air in Father's study was a heady mix of pipe tobacco, old vellum, and the faint, ozone-like scent of a cooling "Orb of Far-Sight" on his desk. I entered with a tray of Mipsy's lavender tea—a peace offering for the conversation ahead.
"Father," I began, setting the tray down near a stack of tax documents for the Carter estate. "I've finished those ledgers you gave me. The ones regarding the Gringotts interest rates for the trust vaults."
Adrian looked up, his spectacles slipping down his nose. "And? I assume they are as they have been for three centuries, Ash? A steady two percent, measured in weight and purity."
"Precisely the problem," I said, sitting in the velvet armchair opposite him. I had spent weeks preparing my "presentation," making sure I didn't sound like a seer or a time-traveler, but rather a precocious ten-year-old with a knack for patterns. "In the Muggle world, there is something called an 'Information Revolution' happening. It's quiet, and most wizards think it's just toys, but it's going to change how the world moves. And where the world moves, the gold follows."
I pulled out a small, muggle-made notebook I'd purchased in London. "We have three thousand Galleons sitting in my trust, and five thousand in Alex's. Plus the family's 'Rainy Day' reserve. It's all in one place—under a bank run by Goblins in a single street in London."
Father frowned slightly. "Gringotts is the safest place in our world, Ashlyn."
"In our world," I countered gently. "But what if our world becomes... complicated? If something happens—a war, a ministry collapse, or even just a goblin strike—all our eggs are in one very deep, very singular basket."
I laid out the plan I had distilled into three "conservative" steps:
1. The London "Anchor"
"I want us to take ten percent of the family reserve and convert it to British Pounds. There is a small, unremarkable terrace house for sale in Crawley—near the Muggle entrance to the Ministry. It's not a manor. It doesn't have a name. To a wizard, it's a hovel. But to us, it's a 'Blind Spot.' If we ever need to disappear from the magical grid, a Muggle-owned property with no magical signature is better than any Cloaking Charm."
Adrian leaned back, intrigued. "A hidey-hole in plain sight. Practical, if a bit grim."
2. The "Future" Stocks
I pointed to a list of names that meant nothing to him: Microsoft, Intel, and a young company called Cisco. "These people are building the 'floo network' of the Muggle world, but with wires and light. I've asked the Gringotts exchange goblins—they think I'm eccentric, but they'll do the trade for a fee. We buy these 'stocks' and we forget about them for ten years. If the wizarding economy fails, we'll have a fortune in the Muggle world to fall back on."
3. The Apothecary Hedge
"And for the magical side," I continued, "we should stop selling the surplus of Mother's Dittany and Mandrake root this year. Instead, we should preserve them in stasis jars. The prices are at a ten-year low. If history repeats itself and shadows return to the Ministry, the demand for healing potions will skyrocket. We aren't being war-profiteers, Father. We're being the people who have the medicine when no one else does."
Adrian was silent for a long time. He looked at the rain-streaked window, then at the small, Muggle notebook in my hands. I held my breath. I wasn't trying to build an empire; I was trying to build a fortress of normalcy. I knew that in seven years, Gringotts would fall under the control of Death Eaters. I knew that "Blood Status" would determine who could access their gold.
"You speak as though you're preparing for a siege, Ashlyn," he said, his voice soft.
"I'm preparing for a 'just in case,'" I lied, though my heart felt heavy. "The books say that magic follows cycles. We've had a decade of peace. It's only logical to prepare for the dip."
Adrian sighed, a smile finally tugging at his lips. "It's a very Ravenclaw approach. Pragmatic, slightly cold, but undeniably logical. Very well. We shall go to London tomorrow. We'll speak to the Goblins about the 'Muggle Diversion' and we'll look at that little house in Crawley. If nothing else, it will be a place to stay when we go to the theater."
The next day, we didn't wear our robes. We dressed in thick wool coats and Muggle trousers, blending into the grey bustle of London.
As we walked through the Muggle side of the city, Father looked around with new eyes. He saw the "Muggle-tech" I had pointed out—the early cellular phones that looked like bricks, the computers in the shop windows. He began to see the "web" I was describing.
We visited a Muggle solicitor—a man who looked very bored and very professional—and signed the papers for a small, two-bedroom flat. No magic was used. No wands were drawn. To the British government, Adrian Carter was simply a gentleman with a penchant for cash investments.
"There," Adrian said as we stepped back onto the rainy street, tucking the Muggle deed into his pocket. "The Carters now officially exist in two worlds. Does that settle your mind, my little financier?"
"It's a start," I said, feeling a genuine weight lift from my chest.
As we headed back toward the Leaky Cauldron, I saw a young boy with messy black hair and round glasses walking with a very large, disgruntled-looking woman and a whale of a boy. It was just a glimpse—a flash of green eyes through the crowd.
Harry Potter. He was living in a cupboard, and I was buying real estate and stocks. The contrast was a sharp reminder of why I was doing this.
He was the Chosen One, destined for the center of the storm. I was just Ashlyn, the girl who remembered. And while he would save the world, I would make sure my family had a dry, warm place to stand while he did it.
That evening, back at Raven's Cottage, the fire felt different. It felt earned.
Addam was away at Hogwarts, likely studying in the library. Alex was upstairs, probably dreaming of Quidditch. Mother was in the kitchen, humming as she bottled the last of the season's Dittany, following the "New Policy" of storage.
I sat in my nook, looking out at the dark loch. I had three hundred pounds—my own "private" savings—tucked into a Muggle savings account under my name. It wasn't much, but in 1990, it was a seed.
I wasn't a hero. I wasn't a villain. I was just a sister who knew how the story ended and was determined to write a better middle for the people I loved.