He collected the winnings on the twentieth of August.
Gringotts received him with the particular respect of an institution that had processed the results of eighteen group stage matches, two semi-finals, and a final on his behalf, all settling as predicted, and had drawn its own conclusions from this. The desk manager himself — not the older Goblin from the first meeting, but a figure one level above him, with the flat authority of someone who had decided this merited his direct attention — handled the final settlement.
The total figure, across all five accounts, was five million, three hundred and twelve thousand, four hundred and seventeen Galleons.
He had the individual statements prepared for each account holder. He reviewed the totals in his head, matching each to the name.
His mother and father: seventeen thousand, five hundred Galleons. His father had counted it from the kitchen tin with the care of someone for whom the amount was meaningful. He thought about that as the statement was sealed.
He sent the invitations the same afternoon — a note to everyone who had placed a bet, brief and without ceremony. 'Saturday evening. Dinner at the Burrow. Come at six.'
He cooked on Saturday.
His mother offered twice and he declined twice, which she accepted with the grace of someone who had learned which offers were gestures and which were genuine. She stayed in the kitchen for the morning, watching the mise en place with the focused interest she brought to things that were being done properly in her domain. Biscuit worked beside him at the lower counter, prepping vegetables with a speed and precision that Ron noted and appreciated without commenting on; Pip kept the kitchen organised around them, which was its own form of help.
He had been thinking about the feast since before the Cup. The Ugandan food had been for the family — an introduction, a welcome back. This was different. This was a celebration with people who had trusted him with money and received something neither of them had quite let themselves believe was real, and the feast needed to be a different kind of statement.
Ugandan, because it was the only choice that made sense. He had cooked the family their first introduction in July. This was different — a celebration for people who had trusted him, and the food needed to carry the full weight of the place it came from. He had the ingredients he'd sourced in Kampala and kept carefully since coming home. He had Nalukwago's teaching in his hands.
He made the groundnut stew again, but differently — more slowly than in July, the way Nalukwago had shown him when he'd been watching carefully enough to see the patience in it. He made the matoke in banana leaves, the steam building inside them with the clean smell of plantain and heat. He made rolex — the chapati rolled around eggs and vegetables, which Fred had eaten three of in July and had been making pointed enquiries about since. He made matooke with smoked fish from the pantry, the combination Nalukwago had used for the evening Kato had come to dinner at the inn. For dessert he made mandazi, the sweet fried dough, dusted with cardamom, still warm when he brought them out.
He set the tables in the garden — two long ones, borrowed from inside, arranged end to end — and let his mother organize the plates and his father organize the chairs, which was the correct distribution of responsibilities.