12th October 1991
The bell above the heavy oak door chimed with a delicate, silver ring as Abigail shoved her way into the boutique first, nearly knocking over a polished brass display stand in her haste.
"If they don't have the boots with the silver buckles, I'm going to set something on fire," Abigail announced to the empty showroom, her hands already flying through a rack of heavy wool coats with all the gentleness of a kneazle digging through a rubbish bin.
"Abigail, behave yourself for five seconds or I am letting Sirius pick out your winter wardrobe," Petunia said smoothly, stepping through the doorway with her gloves in hand and a long velvet scarf draped over her arm. "And stop yanking the hangers. You'll snap the wood."
"Sirius would buy me a leather jacket with spikes," Abigail fired back, spinning around with a manic grin. "Which, by the way, I would rock."
Ginny walked in right behind them, rolling her eyes as she tossed her hair over her shoulder. "You'd look like an overgrown toad in a leather jacket, Abby."
"I'd look like a terrifying outlaw," Abigail corrected, marching straight up to a terrified-looking French clerk who was slowly backing away toward the register. "Excuse me. Where are the dark green cloaks? The ones with the massive pockets so I can hide snacks?"
Petunia ignored her daughter's antics with the practiced ease of a mother who dealt with this daily, turning her attention to a set of tailored wool traveling dresses displayed on mannequin forms near the window. She reached out, feeling the heavy weave of the fabric between her fingers before looking back over her shoulder at Ginny.
"Ginny, come here," Petunia called out. "Look at this deep burgundy."
Ginny didn't answer right away. She was too busy lifting her camera towards Petunia.
"Hold that exact pose, Mrs. Dursley," Ginny murmered, framing Petunia against the towering glass window of the boutique.
"Ginny, darling, at least let me fix my collar," Petunia sighed, though a fond smile cracked through her poised composure.
Click.
The shutter snapped with a crisp, satisfying sound. Ginny wound the film manually, the mechanical click blending into the quiet ambient jazz playing from hidden speakers in the boutique's high ceilings.
"Got it," Ginny said, letting the camera drop back onto her chest. "That was three rolls of photos in France. Mum is going to go blind looking through all these developed photos when we get back to the Burrow."
"Nonsense. Your mother will be thrilled to see how well France suited you," Petunia said softly. She reached out and smoothed down the lapel of Ginny's fitted cream cardigan, adjusting the matching pleated skirt underneath it.
Over the past two weeks, Petunia had ensured Ginny's wardrobe was kept identical in quantity and quality to Abigail's. Every time a new box of tailored robes or high-end Muggle wear was wrapped up for her own daughter, an exact parallel was packaged for Ginny. It wasn't done out of charity or performance; to Petunia, any child staying under their roof was simply family, and family was presented impeccably.
Meanwhile, Abigail was currently cornering a young shop assistant near a velvet display of leather boots. The clerk, dressed in a sharp black blazer, looked like she was evaluating whether to call security or offer a tray of sparkling water.
"Silver buckles. High knees. Thick leather," Abigail said, holding up two fingers near her chin to demonstrate the desired height. "Boots."
The assistant blinked, adjusting her silk scarf. "Ah... pardon? You are looking for... des bottes?"
Petunia glided over, her heels clicking softly against the polished marble floor. The aura of quiet, unbothered wealth surrounded her effortlessness. Her posture, the tailored cut of her trench coat, and the solid gold band on her left wrist made it instantly clear to the staff that they were dealing with someone who could buy the entire stockroom without checking a balance.
"Boots," Petunia repeated, stepping in front of Abigail. She pointed down at Abigail's feet and then gestured toward a glass cabinet displaying hand-stitched leather footwear. "For her."
"Ah, oui!" The assistant's posture straightened immediately, a warm, professional smile replacing her initial panic. "Of course, madame. I apologize for the confusion. We have the new autumn collection just brought in from the workshop yesterday. Please, follow me."
Petunia paused, her expression shifting to one of mild surprise. "Oh. You speak English. I am so sorry, I shouldn't have assumed you didn't."
"It is no problem at all, madame," the clerk replied in fluent, beautifully accented English, bowing her head slightly. "We welcome many international guests in Rue Saint-Honoré. My name is Geneviève. How may I assist you and the young ladies today?"
"We are heading back home at the end of the week, so this is our final stop," Petunia explained, gesturing gracefully toward the two girls. "I need two complete travel outfits for each of them. Heavy wool coats, fitted riding boots, and whatever scarves match the cut. Dark greens for this one," she added, lightly tapping Abigail's shoulder, "and deep burgundies or warm terracottas for Ginny."
Ginny perked up at that, her eyes darting toward a row of deep crimson velvet cloaks hanging near the back of the shop. "The ones with the silver embroidery, Mrs. Dursley?"
"If they have them in your size, absolutely," Petunia replied smoothly, pulling a small, sleek leather wallet from her handbag. She checked the interior slot where her Muggle credit card sat securely alongside her Gringotts vault token. Over the course of their fortnight in France, she had fully mastered the rhythm of Muggle commerce, taking a quiet pride in swapping between wizarding coin and high-street card transactions without breaking a sweat.
"Ginny, come look at this," Abigail whispered conspiratorially, pulling a dark purple scarf off the rack. "If I tie this around my head, I look like a rogue pirate commander."
"You look like you're wrapped in a tea towel," Ginny retorted, aiming her camera at Abigail's theatrical pose.
"Take the photo! Fast! Before Mum turns around and tells me purple isn't in my color palette!"
Click.
The shutter flashed, capturing Abigail in full, unhinged motion as she attempted to drape three different scarves around her neck simultaneously.
Geneviève returned carrying several large, ribbon-tied boxes, accompanied by a junior assistant carrying armfuls of tailored garments. For the next hour, the boutique turned into a private runway. Abigail was fitted into a set of structured emerald boots with polished silver buckles, though she spent half the fitting testing how quietly she could sneak up on the fitting room mirrors. Ginny was dressed in a soft, tailored wool travel dress paired with a deep burgundy coat that brought out the fire in her red hair.
"Stand still for just a second, Ginny," Petunia said, stepping forward to adjust the velvet buttons on the collar. She adjusted the fabric with practiced precision, stepping back to admire the result. "Perfect. Absolutely gorgeous."
Ginny looked at herself in the full-length mirror. She didn't look like the youngest of seven who usually inherited oversized knit sweaters. She looked sharp, comfortable, and remarkably put-together.
"I think I look like an actual adult," Ginny said, smoothing down the front of the burgundy coat. She turned to the side, admiring the sharp silhouette in the golden frame of the mirror. "Or at least someone who shouldn't be handed a broom and told to sweep the kitchen."
Petunia laughed softly, a warm, genuine sound as she patted Ginny's shoulder. "You look like a young lady who knows her worth, darling. And don't you ever let anyone convince you otherwise."
She turned back toward the main counter, where Geneviève stood waiting with a polite, expectant smile. The junior assistant was carefully wrapping the selected coats, dresses, and boots into sleek, ribbon-tied boxes, placing them neatly inside high-end paper shopping bags stamped with the boutique's gold crest.
"We will take everything," Petunia said smoothly. She reached into her handbag and pulled out a heavy, matte-black metal card bordered in pale bronze. It bore no names, no numbers, and no magnetic strip. Only the detailed, engraved profile of a goblin above a subtle, shimmering Roman numeral III.
Geneviève blinked, accepting the weight of the card with visible confusion. She turned it over in her hands, looking for a signature strip or an embossed bank logo. "Ah... pardon, madame, is this a charge card? I am not sure our card machine will-"
"Just slide it through the groove, dear," Petunia instructed softly, her voice carrying the absolute confidence of someone who had never seen a transaction fail in her life.
Geneviève hesitated, then pulled the featureless metal slab through the side slot of the terminal.
The machine didn't pause to dial out over the phone line. The instant the metal cleared the reader, the terminal emitted a sharp double-beep and printed an approved receipt slip without a single second of delay.
Geneviève stared at the paper in disbelief before looking up at Petunia with newfound reverence. "Mon dieu... approved immediately."
"Of course it is," Petunia replied with a graceful, unbothered smile, taking the card back and slipping it into her wallet. "Do pack the boots carefully, won't you?"
"Carry these carefully, Abigail," She instructed, handing two smaller handles over to her daughter. "And do not use the sharp corners of the boxes to poke anyone on the street."
"No promises," Abigail hummed, though she took the bags willingly, testing their weight with a mischievous glint in her eyes.
Ginny looped her camera back around her chest, grabbed her own crisp shopping bag containing her new travel dress, and followed Petunia and Abigail out into the autumn air. The brass bell chimed behind them as they stepped onto the cobblestone boulevard of Rue Saint-Honoré.
It didn't take them long to spot Vernon and Sirius. The two men were sitting at an outdoor bistro table just down the block, framed by a striped awning and a pair of potted laurel trees. Sirius was leaning back in his chair, ankles crossed, swirling an espresso with a look of supreme self-satisfaction. Vernon sat opposite him, impeccably tailored as always in a charcoal three-piece suit, dabbing his mustache with a linen napkin while looking like a man who had just conquered a small country.
As Petunia, Ginny, and Abigail approached the table, both men looked up, practically glowing with pride.
Petunia stopped dead in her tracks, narrowing her eyes as she took in the sight of them. Her motherly instincts immediately went on high alert.
"Why do the two of you look like cats that not only caught the canary, but bought the entire bird cage?" Petunia asked, setting her shopping bags down on an empty chair.
Vernon puffed out his chest, adjusting the silver cufflinks at his wrists. "Because, my love, while you ladies were busy with hemlines and boots, Sirius and I engaged in what I can only describe as the single greatest shopping triumph of the entire trip."
"An absolute power move to finish up our vacation," Sirius added smoothly, flashing a brilliant, dazzling grin. He tapped his fingers against a small, innocent-looking velvet pouch resting beside his coffee cup. "The local vendors didn't know what hit them."
Petunia folded her arms across her chest, her suspicion deepening by the second. "Okay, spill it. What on earth did you two buy?"
Petunia adjusted the cuffs of her jacket as she reached the table, her eyes narrowing in sharp, practiced scrutiny. "All right. What did you two do?"
Vernon smoothed his mustache, resting his hands over his stomach with the tranquil satisfaction of a man who had completed a grand campaign. "We simply made use of our afternoon, my love. Rue Saint-Honoré has some exceptional hidden cellars if you know where to knock."
Sirius leaned back, balancing his espresso cup casually. "A quick sweep, really. We picked up a heavy stock of proper Muggle wines and rare spirits, some top-tier Muggle perfume alongside a few bottles of that imported Veela-infused elixir from the apothecary, and, naturally, a massive collection of both Muggle and magical cheeses."
"The Muggle vintages and cheeses are being shipped straight to the Manor through a private freight courier," Vernon added seamlessly. "We couldn't exactly start shoving dozens of wooden crates into a subspace pouch in the middle of a Muggle alley without someone calling the authorities."
Petunia glanced at the innocuous, velvet-bound pouch resting beside Sirius's saucer, her suspicion melting into dry, amused acceptance. "And what did this little stroll through the cellars set us back?"
"Around sixty-five thousand Galleons, give or take the shipping fees," Sirius replied, taking a slow sip of his espresso as if he had just announced the price of a daily newspaper.
Petunia didn't blink. She merely reached down, picked up the velvet pouch, and unlaced the drawstring to inspect the labels inside. "As long as you remembered the rose-gold flacons from the apothecary, I don't care how many cheese wheels are currently sitting on a cargo ship."
"Of course we did, darling," Vernon said softly, patting her hand. "We aren't savages."
Beside them, Ginny held her camera at her waist, staring at the adults in quiet disbelief. Over the past weeks, she had grown used to the Dursleys' effortless wealth, she had her own wardrobe of custom-tailored clothes to prove it. But hearing Sirius and Vernon casually discuss spending a king's ransom on barrels of liquor and literal mounds of cheese without batting an eye was a level of casual absurdity she was still processing.
She blinked, shaking her head to clear the sudden mental image of sixty-five thousand Galleons worth of cheese floating across the English Channel. She unclipped the strap from around her neck and held the sleek, chrome body of the camera out toward Sirius.
"Here, Sirius," Ginny said, holding it by the leather strap. "I exhausted the film on that last shot inside the shop. You can take it back now."
Sirius didn't even reach for it. Instead, he reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out four brand-new, foil-wrapped rolls of film, and tossed them casually into Ginny's lap.
"Put those in your bag so you don't lose them," Sirius said, taking another sip of his espresso.
Ginny caught the rolls, staring at them in confusion before looking back at him. "Why are you giving me more film? Aren't we heading back home today?"
"What do you mean, kid? The camera's yours," Sirius replied smoothly, as if he had just told her the sky was blue.
Ginny nearly choked on her own breath. She had overheard Vernon and Sirius talking near the apothecary during their first week in Cannes, one of these special edition wizarding cameras cost somewhere between four hundred to six hundred Galleons. It wasn't just a camera; it was a handcrafted piece of high-end enchanted equipment.
"Sirius, I can't take this," Ginny said quickly, her cheeks flushing as she tried to push the camera back into his hands. "You said it was for taking photos on the vacation!"
"Yeah. You took photos. On the vacation," Sirius reasoned slowly, leaning his elbows on the table and looking at her like she was speaking Gobbledegook.
"Right! But I thought you were just lending it to me!" Ginny argued, holding the camera up between them like a shield. "I thought you'd take it back when we were done!"
Sirius deadpanned, staring at her with genuine, utter bewilderment. "Why on earth would I do that? I have my own camera. Vernon and Petunia have theirs." He gestured toward the Dursleys. "I bought you one so you could make your own memories on the trip. What am I going to do with two cameras, Ginny? Hold one to each eye?"
Abigail chimed in from behind her mother's chair, where she was currently inspecting a silver pastry fork like it was a concealed weapon. She looked at Ginny with profound, pitying confusion. "Yeah, Ginny, why are you trying to give it back? Do you just hate having cool things?"
"I don't hate having cool things!" Ginny snapped defensively, looking round the table. "It's just... Sirius, it costs hundreds of Galleons! Plus, Mrs. Dursley already bought me all these dresses and coats..."
"Oh, keep it, dear," Petunia interrupted softly, waving a gloved hand dismissively as she adjusted her silk scarf. "It's a wonderful little camera, and you'll certainly need it again the next time we all go on holiday. Besides, crimson suits you far better than it suits Sirius, and the camera body matches your new coat."
"It really does," Vernon agreed, nodding in satisfaction as he scanned the morning paper. "Very sharp. Now, more importantly, our portkey back to the estate is scheduled for eleven sharp, which leaves us just enough time for a proper final meal in Paris before we head back to England."
The entire table seamlessly moved on from the topic of the four-hundred-Galleon camera as if Ginny had merely accepted a spare peppermint.
Vernon folded his newspaper, looking across the table at the youngest member of the group. "So, Ginny, what are you in the mood for? A final French dinner, or shall we find a bistro that serves something heartier?"
Ginny looked from Sirius, who was lazily tossing another roll of film in the air, to Petunia, who was carefully stacking her shopping bags, to Abigail, who was currently attempting to balance a sugar cube on her nose. She clutched the chrome camera tightly against her chest, accepted her fate with a quiet sigh, and sat back in her chair.
As the waitstaff glided away to fetch the wine and mineral water, Abigail leaned forward, her silver cutlery already arranged in immaculate, descending order from the outer rim toward her plate.
"I appreciate the formal layout," Abigail said, casually testing the balance of a salad fork between two fingers before laying it down at a precise ninety-degree angle. "Though setting out six distinct courses of silver for a fourteen-course tasting menu feels extraordinarily optimistic. Unless the staff intends to jog between the kitchen and our alcove with fresh cutlery every twelve minutes, they are going to run out of polished silver by course eight."
"They switch the settings mid-service, Abigail," Petunia said smoothly, adjusting her napkin over her lap without looking up. "A three-star establishment does not expect its guests to retain a seafood fork for a game course. Do refrain from inspecting the hallmark on the handles, darling. It makes you look like a tax assessor."
"I am merely evaluating the estate's investment," Abigail replied smoothly, giving her mother a pristine, angelic smile. "Though if course seven involves escargot, I reserve the right to request a second snail tongs. Sirius always steals mine."
"Allegations and slander," Sirius murmured, winking at Ginny across the table as two sommelier assistants arrived to pour the Margaux.
The service unfolded like a masterclass in French gastronomy. The kitchen began with tiny, delicate amuse-bouches: crisp tartlets filled with whipped goat cheese and heirloom herbs, followed by a chilled consommé of roasted forest mushrooms, and seared scallops resting in a velvety saffron reduction. Course after course arrived under heavy polished cloches, cleared away by a silent procession of staff before the next dish took its place.
By the ninth course, a rich, melt-in-your-mouth rack of milk-fed lamb served with a dark jus, Ginny was pacing herself with genuine discipline.
"I didn't even know there were fourteen distinct types of food," Ginny admitted quietly, cutting a small piece of lamb with careful precision. "At home, Mum just makes a massive pot of stew and tells us to keep eating until the bowl is empty."
"A respectable strategy," Vernon agreed pleasantly, setting down his knife. "Though there is a certain charm to having a meal paced like a theatrical performance. Sirius, the '82 vintage was an inspired choice."
"Only the best for our final night in the republic," Sirius said, swirling the deep red liquid in his glass.
When the fourteenth course finally arrived, it was preceded by a small silver tray bearing an assortment of dark, hand-wrapped chocolates. A waiter bowed low, presenting a signature creation from the chef: a sleek, glossy dark chocolate torte infused with candied Valencian orange peel and a delicate reduction of spiced cocoa.
Abigail took one small, deliberate bite of the dark truffle accompanying her plate, her posture straightening instantly.
"Mum," Abigail said, her eyes shifting to Petunia with sudden, sharp intensity. "We are buying three boxes of these from the front boutique before we leave."
Petunia dabbed her lips gracefully with her linen napkin. "Abigail, we are taking an international portkey in less than two hours. We are not hauling loose confectionery across the Channel."
"Not loose! Sealed tins!" Abigail urged, gesturing with her dessert spoon. "Dark chocolate with candied orange. You know as well as I do that Harry lives on dark cocoa when he's reading through the night. If we don't bring him a box, he's going to find out we ate fourteen courses in Paris without him and hex my broom."
Ginny set her fork down with a sudden, sharp clink, snapping her fingers as her eyes widened. "Oh! I doubt that! Ron sent a letter home during our first week, right before we flew out to Paris. I completely forgot to mention it."
"What did young Ronald have to say?" Vernon asked, leaning back into his chair with a contented breath. "Is he adjusting to Gryffindor life?"
"He's loving it," Ginny said, leaning her elbows on the white tablecloth before catching Petunia's eye and quickly correcting her posture. "Sorry. But Ron wrote this massive paragraph about the train ride on the Hogwarts Express. He said Harry did something completely mental."
Petunia paused, her wine glass halting an inch from her lips. "Mental? What did he do? Did he get into a duel in the corridors?"
"No," Ginny giggled, shaking her head. "He bought 20% of the trolley lady's yearly stash. Ron said Harry handed her a Gringotts slip and dropped almost four hundred Galleons on the spot. He bought literally packs of cauldron cake, pumpkin pasty, sugar quill, and many more of what she had on her cart."
Vernon blinked, a slow, deep rumble of laughter rising from his chest. "Four hundred Galleons? On train sweets?"
"Four hundred!" Petunia echoed, her refined composure slipping for a fraction of a second as her eyebrows shot up. She set her glass down with a clear, sharp ring against the tablecloth. "Four hundred Galleons on pure sugar? I specifically packed his trunk with three wooden crates of dried figs, organic apple crisps, roasted almonds, and so many other dried fruits! I made sure he had enough proper nutrition to last him until Christmas!"
Sirius barked out a laugh so loud it drew a polite, amused glance from the waiter near the door. "Petunia, the boy is eleven years old, sitting on an absolute mountain of gold, and left unsupervised for the first time in his life! You honestly expected him to sit in a carriage chewing on dried figs while the trolley cart rolled past?"
"He has no sense of moderation when he's distracted," Petunia muttered, pressing two gloved fingers to her temple, though a small, fond smile betrayed her exasperation. "Four hundred Galleons... he probably bought enough sugar to rot the teeth out of every child in Gryffindor tower."
"Ron says he shares it with anyone he finds himself with," Ginny added, grinning warmly. "He shares it with Ron, the twins, Percy, Hermione and pretty much all the first years. Specially when he is reading, anyone can get a snack with him."
"That sounds entirely like Harry," Sirius said, shaking his head with affectionate amusement. "Generous to a fault, utterly indifferent to the cost, and entirely focused on an advanced textbook while everyone around him gorged themselves into a food coma."
"Be that as it may," Petunia sighed, signaling gracefully for the headwaiter to bring the final bill, "I am writing him a very firm letter tomorrow morning regarding balanced dietary choices. Though... Abigail is not entirely wrong. We shall pick up a few tins of those dark chocolate truffles at the front desk. High-grade dark cocoa has antioxidant properties, at the very least."
Vernon chuckled hearty, reaching across to pat his wife's hand. "Of course, my dear. Dried fruit and high-end Parisian dark chocolate. A perfectly balanced regimen for our boy."
Hundreds of miles to the north, across the stormy grey waters of the English Channel and high within the windswept Scottish Highlands, a sudden draft rattled the stained-glass windows of Hogwarts Castle.
Inside the sprawling, fire-lit expanse of the Gryffindor Common Room, a sharp, loud sneeze broke the quiet atmosphere.
"Bless you," Hermione Granger said automatically, not taking her eyes off her densely annotated parchment containing everything Harry taught them last week.
Harry Potter rubbed his nose with the back of his hand, adjusting his silver-rimmed glasses as he looked down at the parchment spread across the low oak table before him.
"Merlin's beard," Harry muttered, pulling the collar of his dark green wool jumper a bit tighter against his neck. "Am I actually coming down with something before winter even sets in?"
"Or someone's talking about you," Ron offered lazily from a plush armchair near the hearth, where he was methodically chewing his way through a licorice wand. "Probably Malfoy complaining to his cronies about how you completely ignored his speech in the entrance hall yesterday."
"Yeah well, he only scowls and talks about how his father is going to hear about it," Hermione noted dryly, her quill scratching steadily against her paper.
"And with that you can pretty much guess how his upbringing was done," Harry said softly, leaning back against the sofa cushions. "I'm pretty sure that his father is to blame for his behaviour.'
"Harry," Neville asked quietly, holding up a draft covered in neat, cautious handwriting. "For Professor Sprout's essay... should we detail the precise soil acidity for Dittany and Moly, or just list their primary herbal uses?"
"Do both" Harry replied instantly, "Professor Sprout values you actually giving time to learn both the soil profile and also the uses. It shows that you are trying to learn. She might just give you extra marks for that."
Neville beamed, scribbling down the note. "Thanks, Harry. That would be brilliant."
"He's like an entire library," Seamus whispered to Dean, shaking his head in mild disbelief as he struggled with his Charms diagram.
Lavender raised her hand slightly from her spot on the floor cushion. "Harry? What about Flitwick's question on the theoretical limits of levitation? Is it weight-based or volume-based?"
Before Harry could elaborate, another violent sneeze racked his frame. He winced, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand as his eyes watered slightly.
"Woah..." Harry muttered, shaking his head as he reached into his pocket for a handkerchief. "All right, I definitely need to take care of this before I actually come down with a cold. The last thing I need is my mother finding out I let myself get sick."
He stood up from the plush sofa and started walking towards the entrance. "You guys carry on with what you are doing. I'll be back soon."
The heavy oak portrait door of Gryffindor Tower swung shut behind Harry, cutting off the warm chatter and rustling parchment of the common room. The dimly lit corridor outside was quiet, cold, and swept by a draft that made the candles in the wall sconces flicker against the bare stone walls. Harry pulled his green wool jumper higher around his neck, letting out a soft sigh as he stepped past a series of sleeping portraits. He had originally intended to head down toward the hospital wing to snag a quick vial of Pepperup Potion, but he figured it was worth checking if the twins had managed to finalize their custom batch of Pepper Pops first.
He didn't have to wander far.
Coming down the gallery toward the Fat Lady's frame were two tall, red-headed figures. Fred and George were walking at a sluggish, unnaturally measured pace, their feet dragging against the flagstones. Their robes hung loose over their shoulders, their hair was rumpled as if they had spent the entire evening pulling at it, and their eyes were fixed on the floor in a blank, glassy stare. They looked less like triumphant entrepreneurs and more like two boys who had just barely survived a encounter with a Dementor.
Harry stopped in his tracks, leaning against a stone pillar as they approached. "All right there, lads?" he asked, waving a hand in front of George's face. "You two look like you've been run over by a herd of Erumpents."
The twins blinked in unison, their eyes slowly focusing on Harry as if pulling themselves out of a deep trance.
"Harry," Fred breathed, his voice barely a rasp.
Before Harry could ask another question, George grabbed him by the elbow, while Fred seized his shoulder. Together, they steered him into a recessed window alcove behind a heavy velvet tapestry, out of sight of any wandering prefects.
"We need to talk to you," George whispered, looking around suspiciously as if the stonework itself had ears. "We've been running the numbers all afternoon in an empty classroom on the third floor."
"Right," Harry said slowly, adjusting his glasses. "And judging by your faces, I'm guessing either the roof fell in or someone stole the ledger?"
"No," Fred said, his voice cracking slightly. "It's worse. Harry... over the past seven days, since the launch at dinner, we've taken in roughly two thousand nine hundred Galleons."
Harry raised a brow, entirely unbothered. "Two thousand nine hundred? That's exceptional. So why are you walking around like zombies?"
"Because it's terrifying!" George hissed, throwing his hands up in the air before quickly dropping them back to his sides. "Two thousand nine hundred Galleons, Harry! We're fifteen! We have more gold than our entire family sees in half a year! People are pre-ordering bulk boxes for their housemates. Slytherins are buying them through third-party fifth-years! Ravenclaws are trying to reverse-engineer the charm and failing, so they're just buying more to study them! Hufflepuff are just loving it."
"It's a runaway train," Fred added, leaning his head back against the cold stone with a dull thud. "We can barely keep up with the brewing. We had to spend three hours last night just enchanting the foil wrappers so the color doesn't bleed into the sugar base before opening. It's scary, mate. Truly scary."
Harry let out a dry chuckle, crossing his arms over his chest. "You two are probably the only wizards in Great Britain who would get depressed over making a fortune. Never mind the existential panic for a second. Tell me about the numbers. What's the profit margin on that figure?"
George pulled a small, ink-stained parchment from his pocket, squinting at it. "After accounting for the sugar bulk orders, the imported flavor oils, the packaging, and the silver-leaf foil... our profit margin is sitting at roughly sixty percent."
Harry did the mental arithmetic instantly. "So you cleared seventeen hundred and forty Galleons in pure profit?" He let out an appreciative nod. "Good job. That means you two managed to cross a thousand Galleons in pure net profit in less than a week. I have to say, I'm genuinely impressed."
Before either of them could reply, another sharp, violent sneeze racked Harry's frame. He winced, drawing his handkerchief quickly to wipe his nose.
"Bloody hell," Harry muttered, shaking his head. "Which reminds me... have you two finished testing the Pepper Pops yet? Or am I going to have to make a trip down to Madam Pomfrey after all?"
The sheer absurdity of the situation seemed to break the twins out of their shock. George let out a hoarse snort, and Fred burst into a quiet, breathless laugh, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Of all the people in this castle to catch a draft," Fred chuckled, shaking his head. "The master strategist himself. Yeah, we finished them. Wrapped the final batch an hour ago."
"Worked like a charm," George said, pulling a polished, rectangular tin from the inner pocket of his robes. It was stamped with a sleek, minimalist flame emblem on the lid. "We removed the steam effect so you don't look like a kettle boiling over, but the medicinal core is rock solid. Clears the sinuses in three seconds flat."
"Perfect," Harry said, reaching out. "How much are you selling them for?"
Fred straightened up, falling smoothly back into his salesman persona. "Four Sickles for a single lozenge. Ten Sickles for a three-unit travel pack. And for a family tin containing fifteen lozenges, three Galleons."
Harry reached into his pocket, pulled out three gleaming gold coins, and dropped them directly into George's open palm. "I'll take a tin of the Mint ones."
George stared down at the three gold Galleons in his hand, then looked up at Harry in complete disbelief. "Harry, what are you doing? We have a deal. You funded the business. You don't pay for our stuff."
"Yup," Fred agreed, trying to press the gold back into Harry's hand. "According to our contract, you've got unlimited access to the inventory."
Harry flatly refused to take the coins back, folding his arms tightly. "My deal covers the pranks, the tricks, and the joke products. I get free samples of the Chromatic Chews because they're a novelty item. I do pay on medicinal products. I never said a single word about getting free medicine in our arrangement."
"Nope," George said firmly, trying to slide the coins into Harry's jumper pocket. "A product is a product. You're our primary investor. You don't buy your own stock."
"Yup," Harry replied calmly, dodging George's hand and snagging the tin of Mint Pepper Pops right out of Fred's fingers. "Medicine is a completely separate industry category. If I take your medical stock for free, it throws off your inventory accounting for functional healthcare goods. Plus, you two worked hard on the brewing. Three Galleons."
"You are infuriatingly stubborn," Fred groaned, though a faint grin cracked through his exhaustion.
"I am a responsible business partner," Harry corrected smoothly.
He flipped open the lid of the metal tin. Inside lay fifteen neatly arrayed lozenges, wrapped in gleaming silver-and-green foil. Harry peeled one open, tossed the small, dark-green lozenge into his mouth, and closed the tin with a crisp metallic snap.
The reaction was instantaneous. A powerful, intense wave of cool mint and warming magical heat bloomed across the back of his throat. Harry took a deep, clear breath through his nose, feeling the lingering fog in his head evaporate entirely.
"Brilliant," Harry said, his voice entirely clear. He slid the tin securely into his cloak pocket. "Who knew I'd end up being the very first customer for your medicinal line in the entire castle?"
Fred and George exchanged a look, the lingering dread from their massive financial success finally melting away into genuine pride.
"Works well, doesn't it?" George asked, puffing his chest out slightly.
"It works exceptionally well," Harry said, gesturing back toward the corridor leading to the portrait hole. "Now, if you two are done standing in dark hallways questioning your own success, let's get back inside. Hermione is currently drafting an essay on levitation theory that might actually blow up the common room if someone doesn't check her references."
"Lead the way, boss," Fred sighed, cracking his knuckles as they stepped out from behind the tapestry. "Though if we make another thousand Galleons by Friday, I'm hiding the gold under your bed instead of mine."
Harry stopped dead in his tracks. He spun around slowly, his eyes wide behind his glasses, looking at the twins with a mix of genuine horror and sheer disbelief.
"Don't tell me," Harry said, his voice dropping to an urgent whisper as he stared at them, "that you've actually been keeping nearly three thousand Galleons of raw gold tucked under a mattress in a dormitory shared with three other teenage boys... even after I gave you your own subspace pouch?"
Fred and George exchanged a quick glance, then looked back at Harry, whose hand was hovering near his cloak pocket as if he was ready to march straight up to the boys' dorms right this second to inspect the premises.
"It's just a figure of speech, little brother," George chuckled, holding his hands up in a placating gesture.
Harry blinked, his posture relaxing just a fraction, though his brow remained thoroughly furrowed. "Oh..." He let out a breath, then narrowed his eyes again, scanning both of their faces. "...But you aren't actually doing it, right?"
The twins burst into quiet, breathless laughter, shaking their heads in unison at Harry's intense paranoia.
"Course we aren't, Harry," Fred said softly, tapping the inner lining of his robes where a faint, magical aura hummed against the fabric. "We're not completely mad. The gold is safely tucked away inside the subspace bag, and expanding nicely."
"We just like the old-fashioned phrasing," George added with a grin. "Sounds more proper for a couple of rogue businessmen."
Harry let out a long, relieved sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Right. Good. Because if I found out I rushed so much that morning only for you to stash a fortune under a bed sheet, I would have hexed you both into next life."
"Fair enough," Fred snorted.
Only then did Harry turn back around, pulling his wool jumper straight, and gestured toward the portrait hole. "Right then. Onward."