Chapter 12: Currency and Chaos

January 1993 wrapped Evan Grayson's cottage near Ottery St Catchpole in a heavy snow, the brook outside frozen solid as he stoked the kitchen hearth, flames licking the logs with a steady crackle against the biting morning chill. Frost traced jagged patterns on the windows, and he stood by the sink, brewing coffee in a dented pot, the rich aroma curling through the room as steam fogged the glass. The world beyond his walls churned with chaos, and the Daily Prophet stacked beside his chair told a worsening tale with each passing day. Magical animal attacks surged across Britain, a glittering stag in Devon goring a farmer with antlers that sparked like live wires, a pack of fire-spitting rats torching a warehouse in Leeds with squeaks echoing heat, and a whale off Cornwall sinking yet another fishing boat, its mournful song crackling with raw power. Muggle schools in Sussex taught Lumos now, kids giggling as faint lights sparked from their fingertips in cramped classrooms, while Hogwarts swelled with new students, its old Muggle subjects like history or arithmetic axed by the Queen's decree to forge a pure magical core. Evan poured coffee into a chipped mug, steam rising, and felt his charmed Galleon pulse in his pocket, sales from his spells still ticking over from the Wizards' Towers. Yet unease gnawed at him, a quiet itch that the chaos was tilting into something sharper, something he couldn't shrug off.

Theo Apparated into the kitchen that afternoon, a sharp crack splitting the stillness as he stumbled through the doorway, his Magical Enforcement badge pinned crooked on a coat crusted with snow and soot from Bristol's grimy streets. "Bloody mess out there," he muttered, slumping into a chair by the table, mud streaking the floor from his boots as he tugged off a scarf stiff with frost. Evan slid a mug of coffee across to him, black and steaming, and leaned against the counter, asking, "Glasgow again?" Theo gulped the brew, steam fogging his glasses—he'd had his wand since their first Diagon Alley trip at eleven, a sturdy oak piece that had seen them through Hogwarts—and shook his head, "Worse now, London, Cardiff, every Muggle hole. You're the first I'm telling, mate, Enforcement's keeping it under wraps 'til the government moves." Evan frowned, cradling his mug, and pressed, "Moves on what?" Theo's eyes flicked to the window where snow piled thick against the glass, and he lowered his voice, "Money's gone to rot. Muggles cloning it with spells, Geminio mostly, duplicating pounds, dollars, whatever they can grab. Streets are drowning in fake notes, shops are shutting, prices are a joke."

Evan's stomach tightened, the Galleon in his pocket a steady weight against Theo's words. Galleons couldn't be cloned, their goblin-forged enchantments too tight for spells like Geminio to crack, a fact cemented back at Hogwarts when a Slytherin tried it in fifth year and ended up with a puddle of molten metal instead of riches. His fortune, built on selling spells to the Towers, sat safe in Gringotts' vaults, untouchable by such tricks. "Galleons are sound," he said, setting his mug on the counter with a soft clink, "always have been." Theo nodded, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and added, "Aye, and that's the rub. Governments hate it, can't control 'em, not with goblins running the show. Queen's pushing a new coin, Aether, wants Gringotts sidelined, all wizard cash under her grip. Enforcement's got whispers, it's coming by spring." Evan's brow furrowed, "Sidelined? Goblins won't take that lying down." Theo smirked, "They won't fight, mate, too many wizards now, we'd crush 'em. Goblins love winning more than gold, reckon they'll turn to law over time, outsmart us in courts instead of caves."

The kitchen settled into a quiet hum, the fire popping in the hearth as Evan paced the worn wooden planks, Theo's words sinking deep. Galleons held firm, a currency wizards had trusted for centuries, enchanted against forgery and tied to Gringotts' iron grip, but governments craved control, not tradition. The Aether loomed as a new charmed metal coin, unclonable like Galleons but theirs to rule, with sub-currencies to match. Evan pieced it from Theo's scraps: 1 Aether as the main unit, 10 Argentum Aether—silver coins—equaling 1 Aether, and 10 Cuprum Aether—copper coins—making 1 Argentum Aether, a clean ten-to-one ladder free of goblin hands. His fortune, vast in Galleons, felt exposed, not to cloning but to the shift—if Gringotts lost its perch, uncertainty could shake even the wizarding coin. "I'm pulling out," he said, stopping by the hearth, the fire's warmth seeping into his legs, "ninety percent of my Galleons, converting to gold, raw bars, holds steady no matter who's king." Theo raised an eyebrow, "Gold? Where you stashing that?" Evan grinned, "Gringotts still trades it, goblins don't care who's boss, just metal. Galleons'll hold 'til Aether lands, but I want bedrock."

Theo stayed through the afternoon, swapping tales over a lunch Evan threw together—bread from the hamlet bakery, cheese sharp enough to bite, and apples crisp from a neighbor's tree. "Caught a Muggle in Cardiff," Theo said, slicing an apple with a pocketknife, "cloning pounds in a basement, had stacks taller than me. Enforcement's raiding nonstop, but it's like chasing smoke." Evan chewed, bread crumbling in his fingers, and asked, "Wands in it?" Theo nodded, "Some, but they're tight. Ollivander's locked down, governments and rich ex-Muggles snagging 'em. Power's in the wand, mate, and they're hoarding. Towers sell the theory, wandmaking's out there, but crafting's years off for most." Evan glanced at his own wand on the counter, ash and unicorn hair from his Hogwarts days, and said, "Figures. Magic's wild, wands tame it, 'til some git cracks the craft." Theo smirked, "Aye, then we're all in it."

They lingered 'til dusk, snow falling thicker outside, Theo's boots leaving a muddy trail as he Apparated back to Bristol with a promise to owl soon. Evan sat by the fire, coffee cold in his mug, and mulled it over. Galleons were safe from spells, but the government's push for Aether—a coin they could mint, track, control—meant Gringotts' days as the wizarding bank might wane. Goblins wouldn't vanish, though; their love of victory outshone their gold-lust, and he pictured them over years, not months, trading vaults for lawbooks, arguing cases in wizard courts where wands couldn't win. His fortune, vast in Galleons, needed a shield from that shift, a bedrock beyond coin.

Next morning, he Apparated to Diagon Alley, snow crunching under his boots as the street sprawled quiet, shops half-shuttered amid Muggle money panic. Gringotts loomed, its marble facade stark against the gray sky, and he strode in, vault key dangling from his fingers, facing a goblin with gold teeth glinting behind the counter. "Ninety percent of my holdings," he said, voice steady, "melt it down, trade for gold ingots, raw bars, whatever lasts." The goblin squinted, claws tapping a ledger, and rasped, "Clever today, wizard? Galleons hold, but the Crown's sniffing, Aether's their play. Bars it is, three tons worth, vault's yours." Evan signed the parchment, ink drying fast under the goblin's glare, and watched carts rumble off, his fortune shifting from coins to metal, a weight he could trust as governments flexed. The Galleon in his pocket glowed steady, sales still ticking from his spells, but gold shone surer, a bulwark against the coming storm.

Back at the cottage, Evan stoked the fire, snow tapping the windows as evening fell, and turned his mind to the barn. Scutum Latens hummed in his magic, a passive shield buying him time, but travel loomed—worldwide Towers, chaos to face—and he needed more. Five pillars shaped his craft: attack, defense, movement, healing, perception. Defense stood with his shield, but the rest lagged beyond Hogwarts basics like Apparition or Stupefy. He grabbed a quill and parchment by the hearth, listing them in the firelight, each a gap to fill. Movement craved an upgrade, attack demanded a fresh sting, healing needed a Tower spell to tweak, perception begged for sight to patch blind spots. These would take time, months per spell, but Scutum Latens' buffer would give him the breath to wield them, a traveler's arsenal forged in chalk and will.