Chapter 68: Meeting Hestia Jones

Hestia Jones's voice broke the quiet as she called out, "Miss Jones?" Harry Potter leaned his head out the window of the limousine. "I'm Harry Potter. Nice to meet you."

He extended his hand, grasping hers firmly. There was a unique power in stating his own name, knowing it carried weight in the wizarding world. Hestia's face lit up, her excitement doubling as she shook his hand with enthusiasm.

"It's my pleasure," she replied, her eyes sparkling. She tilted her head forward slightly. "Hestia Jones. Tonks told me all about you."

"I hope not everything's bad," Harry said with a grin.

Hestia laughed, her voice bright. "Oh, there were plenty." She paused, then gestured toward the steering wheel, a hint of eagerness in her expression. "I know it's a bit forward of me, but could I…?"

Harry chuckled and slid into the passenger seat. "Sure thing."

Hestia Jones was exactly as Tonks had described—vibrant and spirited. The moment Harry offered her the driver's seat, she hopped in with enthusiasm. With a flourish of her wand, she transfigured her attire into a classic chauffeur's outfit: a sharp black suit, crisp white shirt, black tie, and a peaked cap, the kind often seen among limousine drivers.

"You look right at home," Harry remarked.

Hestia giggled, adjusting her hat. "Where would you like me to take you?"

"Anywhere we can sit and discuss, Miss Jones. Then there are quite a few places I plan to visit today."

"On it," she said, and the car roared to life. "And anyone who lets me drive their limo gets to call me Hestia."

Harry grinned, settling back in his seat.

"This is fantastic!" Hestia exclaimed, her hands steady on the wheel as she took to driving like a duck to water. The limousine surged forward, picking up speed, yet Hestia remained perfectly at ease. "A magically enchanted limo? This is bloody glorious!"

Harry smirked. The goblins had outdone themselves with this vehicle. The engine, fuel tank, and tires were inscribed with intricate arrays that enhanced their performance to extraordinary levels without relying on elemental spells. The enchantments ensured exceptional mileage, flawless traction even on ice, reinforced frames, and a Muggle-Repelling Charm that activated on command, among other features. Combined with subtly modified engines, fuel pump systems, suspensions, and an altered outer frame, the car surpassed anything Muggle technology could achieve for at least a decade.

Despite their mastery of enchanting, the goblins knew little about motor mechanics. The success of this prototype had them thrilled about a potential partnership to establish a magi-tech firm, one that would enchant Muggle inventions for wizarding use, pending approval from Arthur Weasley's office. Harry's designs and ideas, paired with the goblins' skill and labor, promised innovation. However, working with goblins meant accepting a 35-65 split—35% for Harry, 65% for them.

As the initial adrenaline faded, Hestia guided the limousine into the parking lot of an upscale eatery, the kind of place a Rolls-Royce owner might frequent. She parked smoothly and returned after placing their order.

"You seem to know a lot about limos," Harry began, leaning forward.

Hestia laughed, her eyes crinkling. "Yes. My dad was a limo driver, and I occasionally covered his shifts during the summers. You see some sights, believe me."

"Like what?" Harry asked, intrigued.

She snorted, leaning back in her seat. "The last time I was driving in his place, I had these three Scottish businessmen in the backseat. I picked them up from a restaurant, and they were completely blitzed."

Harry tilted his head, listening.

"Then one of them tells me to get them some hookers," Hestia continued, her tone laced with amusement.

Harry coughed, caught off guard. "Just… like that?"

She giggled, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Yeah. Just like that. So, I've got three options, right? One, I ditch them, get no tip, and probably hear an earful from Dad. Two, I try bewitching them to forget it and risk a letter from the Ministry's Underage Magic Office. Or three, I go find some skanks who are probably riddled with Merlin-knows-what diseases."

Harry chuckled. "And you chose?"

"Option four," Hestia said with a mischievous grin. "I called a friend from school and told her to round up some friends."

Harry blinked. "Your friend from school… is a hooker?"

Hestia's lips twitched, a smile threatening to break through. "Funny." She leaned forward, her tone shifting to a more serious note. "Jokes aside, Tonks gave me a rough idea about your situation. Lord Potter, Lord Black, Boy-Who-Lived, and Wizarding Britain's most eligible bachelor—you, sir, are a brimming cauldron."

"Five points to Ravenclaw," Harry quipped.

Hestia laughed, her voice warm. "Frankly, Harry, I'm more comfortable working with men than women. Besides, you seem to have experience in business and investing. How you managed that while still in your first year is a mystery, but it's not my concern. It's clear you've got things well in hand. Plus, I've found it's easier to build good working relationships with men."

Hestia smiled, her expression open. "So, let's get on with it. Discuss the pay and perks. Then you can tell me how you'd like to have me."

Harry froze, caught off guard. "I'm… sorry?"

"Don't be," Hestia said, her tone playful. "We're young, Harry. You can admit it. You feel a longing. I see it in your eyes. A deep, carnal hunger."

Harry's heart skipped a beat, his mind racing. Her words emboldened him slightly, though he knew the risks of misinterpreting her meaning. Harry Potter or not, a public slap was still a possibility.

She smiled, unfazed. "I feel it too. And that craving is about to be satisfied."

"It is?" Harry asked, his voice cautious.

"Completely," Hestia declared, holding up the menu with a flourish. "I ordered everything they've got!"

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Three hours later, Harry Potter was back in the limousine, with Hestia Jones speeding down the highway, her hands confident on the wheel.

"Tell me something, Boss," Hestia chirped, her voice light and playful. "Tonks claims you've got a deluxe magical hotel for a home. Is it true?"

Harry opened his mouth to reply. "Yes, Hestia, but I was going to ask —"

"Give you a blowjob while driving?" she interrupted, her tone teasing. "Kinky, but the road's pretty ugly. Might end up biting you off."

Harry rolled his eyes, a faint smirk tugging at his lips despite her cheekiness. "No, I was going to ask you to teach me how to Apparate and create a Portkey."

Hestia frowned, her brow furrowing slightly. "Fat lot of good it'd do you. You can't get an Apparition license until you've passed your OWLs, and private Portkey creation is illegal. You try creating one, the Ministry's gonna be all over your arse before you can say 'bugger!'"

"The Trace?" Harry asked, leaning forward in his seat, his curiosity piqued.

"What else?" Hestia laughed, her voice ringing with amusement. "The Ministry loves the Trace. They've got Mafalda Hopkirk sitting and watching it like a hawk all day. That girl gets paid twice as much as the bloody Minister."

Hestia's lips twisted into a sly smirk. "But I think I know a guy who knows a guy. Want to learn how to Apparate or make a Portkey?"

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Parking the car outside the Leaky Cauldron, Hestia gave Harry a private detour of Knockturn Alley.

She had already transfigured one cushion into black wizard robes and a pointy hat for Harry and cast a glamour charm on his face, altering his features just enough to prevent people from recognizing him as Harry Potter.

However, she warned him that it wasn't appearance but behavior that distinguished Knockturn Alley shoppers from the straight-laced visitors of Diagon Alley.

Sidestepping from the main street, they made their way into Knockturn Alley, taking long, confident strides and avoiding eye contact with the other denizens of the street, focused on their destination. It would not do to appear lost or vulnerable, after all.

Near the end, Hestia paused at a door marked 13B, adorned with an elaborate carving of a woman seducing a horde of demons at her feet while holding an amphora. Knocking thrice on the amphora caused the woman's eyes to move and look at them.

It was unnerving.

Her eyes flashed once before the door opened. They walked into a dimly lit room with an enormous stone fireplace in one corner.

The entire place was filled with glass boxes of all sizes, hanging on the walls, lined along tables, and even tucked away in the shadowy floor corners. Each contained something—a bloodstained pack of cards, a staring glass eye, or a single bony human thumb.

On the counter sat a half-bald man with sharp features.

"Borgin, Dah-ling!" Hestia cooed. "How are you on this fine day?"

"Hestia," the man said in an oily voice, his sharp eyes scrutinizing Harry's face. "You brought a customer."

"As always, Borgin," she replied in a sickly sweet tone. "He needs some help. The kind you can provide."

"Depends. How much is he willing to pay for it?"

Hestia gave Harry a meaningful glance—his cue to take charge.

"I'm looking for an artefact," Harry said. "A rather particular kind that can help me evade the Ministry's eye, should I, say, use magic or apparate around."

"I see," Borgin said in a clipped tone. "You're underage."

"And carrying a bag full of galleons."

The man's jaw tightened further. "I do not sell my stuff to underage customers."

"No," Harry countered, "you don't sell it to people who cannot afford to buy it. I can."

Harry gave Hestia his best peeved look. "I don't have time for this drama. Let's try elsewhere."

"Perhaps, dear sir," Borgin quickly capitulated, his voice dropping to its previous level of oiliness. "If you could tell me, how much would you be willing to pay for such an artefact? Presuming it exists?"

"Whatever is reasonable."

"Ah! I have something you'll find interesting."

"And how much will it cost me?"

"It cost me a pretty fortune to gain this, but I'd be willing to part with it for, say… three thousand galleons."

Harry snorted. "Overpriced."

"I wasn't born yesterday, Borgin," Harry said. "I know some clients you serve. Three thousand galleons is a steep sum for a student, but to your clients, it's worth little."

The smile vanished from Borgin's face.

"Now tell me and make it worth my money, or I walk out."

The man's jaw tightened again, and he dropped his facade of oiliness. "Fine!" He gave a cursory glance at the wand hilt. "It is a copy of the original. It will mask your magic from the Ministry sensors, allowing you to cast magic without triggering the Trace as long as you're holding it."

"And how much do I have to pay for it?"

"Twenty-five hundred."

Harry snorted. "Try again."

Borgin snatched the hilt from Harry's fingers. "The price does not change."

Harry weighed his options. "Too bad. But let's see what else you've got." He inspected the room and noticed a pair of shackles, perhaps one of the few items not placed within glass boxes. "What are those?"

"Ah!" Borgin exclaimed. "The Shackles of Malchance." He gingerly held them up. "These are cursed manacles. Shackle a witch or wizard with those, and they keep them bereft of their magic. The Wizengamot loves using them to restrain dangerous prisoners during trials."

"Interesting," Harry said. His mind was already racing with potential uses for such an item. "Well, I need this one."

Harry didn't need to turn around to know that Hestia was watching him like a hawk. No doubt she'd ask him about it later. Or, if she was smart enough, she'd try the plausible deniability route and wash her hands of the matter.

"Say, how do five hundred galleons sound for the lot?"

"I told you," said Borgin, "the price does not change."

Harry smiled.

Around ten minutes later, Harry stood inside the shop, six hundred and fifty galleons lighter but incredibly satisfied with his purchases. Borgin had even thrown in a couple of mokeskin pouches with undetectable extension charms to store the purchases inside them.

Technically, just the hilt would have been good enough. The others were simply a convenient distraction, painting him as an insurgent.

Harry pulled out his wand and inserted it into the hilt. Additionally, he had acquired an extensible pouch. Keeping his inner giddiness to himself, Harry pointed the wand at Borgin.

"I hope this hilt bloody works, or you're not going to like it."

Borgin gave him a toothy smile. "I'm a dealer of dark artefacts, sir. Reputation's all I've got."

Harry gave him his most wizardly glower, but it did nothing to wipe the sly smile from the man's face. Knowing him, he had made an absolute killing.

But given what this hilt would get Harry, that six hundred and fifty galleons was going to look like pocket change.