The soft ticking of the antique clock on the far wall filled the silence like a slow heartbeat. Evening light spilled through the tall windows, illuminating the rich mahogany of the sitting room and catching faint motes of dust in lazy spirals.
Ron sat still in one of the deep chairs, elbows on knees, his wand spinning slowly between his fingers—not for practice, not for focus—just movement. The wand shimmered faintly under the warm light, tiny glimmers like trapped stars flaring and fading across the black surface.
The untouched tea sat on the side table, steam long since faded to a thin skin of coolness. Next to it, a slice of almond cake rested on its porcelain plate, pristine, forgotten.
Across from him, Sirius lounged with practiced ease, boots crossed at the ankle, nursing a glass of something amber and expensive. His grey eyes flicked now and then toward Ron, sharp with curiosity but tempered with patience. This wasn't the wild Sirius of reputation—this was the one who knew when to wait.
Petunia sat at the far end of the couch, one leg elegantly crossed over the other, running a thumb along the edge of a parchment list in her lap. Planning, calculating. Always efficient.
They had returned barely ten minutes ago, smelling faintly of parchment, polished wood, and the lingering scent of Diagon Alley's crowded streets.
Neither Sirius nor Petunia had missed the way Ron was holding that wand—not gripping, not wielding, just… holding. Like someone clutching a secret that was a little too large to fit behind his ribs.
"Sure you won't have something, dear?" Petunia had asked again earlier, the warmth of old maternal instinct fighting with the cool precision of a woman used to solving problems with order and lists.
Ron's answer had been the same each time: "When Harry gets here."
And so they had left him to his waiting.
Now, Sirius leaned forward slightly, breaking the hum of the clock with the slow swirl of his glass. "Elyssium's ready, mostly. Day after tomorrow's the soft opening. Harry's idea of 'soft' involves fireworks, apparently."
Petunia snorted delicately. "Of course it does."
"Could do with fireworks around here," Sirius added, glancing at Ron's knuckles whitening slightly around the wand's handle. "Anything to break this bloody tension."
Ron didn't respond. His eyes were fixed on the wand again, brows drawn together like someone staring at a puzzle only half-understood—and not liking the implications of the half he did get.
Then—
A shift in the air. Subtle. Not wind. Not movement. Just a correction—the room aligning itself to an unseen force.
Soundless apparition.
Harry appeared, standing with the casual grace of someone who didn't need to make entrances anymore.
Abigail was draped across his back, piggyback-style, her arms wrapped loosely around his shoulders, clearly asleep or close to it. On his left, Daphne Greengrass held his hand lightly, poised, steady. Ginny on his right, freckled fingers threaded through his in a way that wasn't quite romantic—but wasn't innocent, either.
They looked like an odd tableau—an exhausted leader returning with his generals from some far-off war, dragging fatigue and unfinished plans in their wake.
Harry's emerald gaze scanned the room and landed instantly on Ron.
"Alright," Harry said quietly, voice steady, sharp, cutting through the hum of the old clock. "What happened?"
Ron stood, the wand glimmering in his fingers like starlight trapped in black water.
"I need to talk to you," he said simply. "It's about this."
And for the first time that evening, he finally looked afraid.
Ron was still staring at the wand, thumb absently running over its smooth black surface, like he could wear it down to wood grain if he tried hard enough.
"I think…" he started, jaw tight, "I think staying around you has made me… wrong."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Define wrong."
Ron's grip tightened. "Like you. An anomaly."
That got a faint twitch from Harry's lips, something between a smirk and disbelief. "Right. And that's supposed to be a bad thing?"
Ron opened his mouth, closed it, tried again. "I don't know! Maybe. Feels like it should be."
Harry just stared at him for a second. Long. Flat. Judging.
Then, in the most unimpressed voice Ron had ever heard, he said, "If you've gone full corpse-coloured because a wand picked you—I'm sending you to St. Mungo's for a brain scan. Honestly."
Ron scowled. "It's not just a wand."
Harry's face twisted. Confusion. Amusement. Mild offence. "It is just a wand. Bit of wood. Core stuffed inside. Allows you to do magic. End of story."
"That thing gave me visions, Harry!"
"So? Magic does that sometimes. Next time it tries, I'll be there to slap you back into your senses."
Ron gaped at him. "You'll—what—slap me?"
Harry gave him a steady, deadpan nod. "Yes. Forcefully. And I'll make sure it's public, so everyone knows not to get dramatic over sentient sticks."
Ginny snorted from the chair, folding her arms smugly. Daphne watched the exchange like she'd accidentally tuned into the world's strangest family drama.
But Ron wasn't letting this go. "I stood on a battlefield, mate. Alone. I felt it. The ground shaking. The cold. And I wanted to fight. I wanted to fight all of them. By myself."
Harry just tilted his head, eyes sharp now, calculating. "Did you feel fear?"
"No."
"Did you hesitate?"
"…No."
Harry took a step closer, gaze like flint striking flint. "Good. Then stop acting like this is a tragedy."
Ron blinked. "You don't think that's—weird?"
"We live in a world where we wave around a small stick do magic..." Harry muttered dry as dust. "How is this weird?"
Ron breathed out slowly. The weight he'd been dragging behind his ribs all day felt lighter, like someone had finally untied the rope around his chest.
"I thought I was supposed to be normal," he muttered, almost to himself.
Harry sat down on the couch pulling a slice of cake towards him, "I don't see you sprouting another head from your neck... So you are pretty normal."
Silence hung for a beat.
Then Ron gave a breathless laugh. "You're a menace."
"Yeah, I am," Harry replied, "Now drink the bloody tea before I make Ginny shove it down your throat."
With exaggerated effort, Ron picked up the cup and took a sip. "I hate you."
"Good. That means you're healing."
Ginny leaned toward Daphne, voice low but clearly amused. "It's like watching stray Kneazles argue in an alley."
Daphne smiled faintly. "Yeah, but one of them's armed with a star-wand, and the other is Harry freaking Potter."
Harry stood suddenly, brushing his palms on his trousers. "Right—I need to pop over to Hermione's. Forgot the sodas."
Daphne rose immediately. "I'm coming."
Harry gave her a sideways glance. "Curious?"
She lifted her chin. "Never been to her place."
Fair enough. He looked at Ron and Ginny. "You two?"
Ginny shook her head, stretching lazily. "Nah. I want to check the shop out before dinner."
Ron shrugged. "I'll go with her. Someone's got to keep her from setting fire to the inventory."
"Please. As if I'd leave evidence," Ginny muttered, smirking.
Harry rolled his eyes and reached for Daphne's hand—
Without a sound, Hermione landed in the middle of the room, hair slightly windswept, wearing the biggest grin Harry had ever seen on her face. She looked like someone who'd just won an award for Best Academic Paper and Best Practical Joke simultaneously.
"Oi," Harry said, one brow raised. "I was just about to go get those."
Hermione caught his look and tossed a small leather pouch underhand toward him.
"Already done," she said cheerfully. "One hundred and forty crates. All in there."
Harry caught it effortlessly, feeling the pleasant weight of impossible logistics in the palm of his hand. His grin stretched slow, sharp, dangerous. "Good number. Very good number."
Daphne, halfway through adjusting her sleeve, just sighed and let her head fall neatly into her free hand. "Merlin's ankles…"
Petunia, catching the number mid-sip of her tea, lowered her cup with the slow grace of someone preparing for battle. "Harry James Potter!!"
Harry blinked innocently. "Yes, Mum?"
Her eyes narrowed. "What did you get this time?"
"Nothing," Harry replied smoothly. "Just a few cans of soda, Mum."
"A few?" Petunia's voice sharpened, elegant disbelief curling around each word. "A few? Hermione just said there are one hundred and forty crates of soda in that pouch!"
Harry looked at the pouch in his hand as if he'd never seen it before. "Oh. Did I say cans? I meant crates."
Ron coughed, poorly disguising a laugh. Ginny didn't even bother—she let out a soft snrk into her sleeve.
Petunia closed her eyes. "Harry. Why."
Harry's grin was both shameless and precise. "Hydration. Vital for morale."
"Hydration does not come in 140 crates of artificial flavors," Petunia hissed, pinching the bridge of her nose.
"Numbers keeps the troops sharp," Harry offered helpfully. "Nobody fights well on just pumpkin juice alone."
Daphne groaned softly beside him. "Why am I here."
Ginny chimed in, "Moral support!"
"Moral torture, more like," Daphne muttered.
Sirius finally barked a laugh, lifting his glass toward Harry in salute. "At least the boy thinks big."
"I don't want big, I want normal," Petunia snapped. "Why can't we ever be normal?"
Harry tilted his head. "I'm here."
Petunia gave him a flat stare that could have frozen lakes. "That was rhetorical."
"Right."
Ron bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing outright. Hermione was already smirking like someone watching their favorite soap opera unfold in real-time.
Petunia sighed. "Just—just don't open that pouch here."
"Of course not," Harry said quickly. "What do you take me for? Irresponsible?"
Petunia opened her mouth. Closed it. Thought better of it. Sipped her tea.
Sirius grinned wide. "You're definitely my godson."
"Unfortunately," Petunia muttered.
"Oi," Harry said mildly, "you love me."
Her only response was an exhausted glare over the rim of her teacup, but a small smile crept up her face.
Hermione's amused smirk faltered for a second. A thought flickered behind her eyes, sharp and sudden. "Wait a minute…"
Ron's head tilted at the exact same time, eyes narrowing. "Oi—that's right."
Both of them slowly turned toward Harry, who was now happily fishing a crate of Coke out of the pouch, his expression one of pure, childish satisfaction. With a casual snap of his fingers, a faint frost shimmered over the cans—perfectly chilled.
He looked positively delighted. Like a dragon finding a mountain of gold and realizing no one was around to steal it.
"Look at that," Harry muttered happily to himself, pulling one can free, the satisfying crack-hiss of the opening echoing through the room. "Beautiful."
He barely had the can to his lips when Hermione's voice cut through the air, sharp as a scalpel. "Harry James Potter."
Ron's voice followed half a second later, pure accusation. "You utter hypocrite."
Harry froze mid-sip, eyes sliding sideways toward them like a guilty Kneazle caught pawing through the biscuit tin. "What?"
Hermione stood straighter, crossing her arms with military precision. "You dragged us out of Hogwarts, threatened to shut down our research because we were overworking."
Ron jabbed a finger at him. "And now you're standing here—what? Planning soda-drought of Hogwarts?"
Harry blinked, looking down at his Coke. "I mean. It's Coke."
"That's not a defense!" Hermione snapped.
Ron leaned forward. "You said we needed rest."
"You do need rest!" Harry shot back, finally turning to face them, defensive now. "Look at you! You've both been running on fumes. When's the last time you even slept properly?"
Hermione opened her mouth to respond.
Stopped.
Ron faltered too.
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Exactly. Meanwhile, I am perfectly fine—"
Sirius barked out loud at that, "Of course you are... hahaha.."
Harry turned back to his godfather with a murderous glare.
Ginny, entirely enjoying the spectacle, popped a chocolate from the tea tray into her mouth with exaggerated innocence. "This is better than the Wizarding Wireless."
Daphne nodded as she took a slice of cake. "This is what the greatest magical anomaly of our age does with his time," she murmured as she took a bite, "Soda logistics."
"I don't see you resting," Hermione pressed, stubbornness in her voice now.
Harry raised the Coke in salute. "This is me resting."
Sirius finally lost it, laughter roaring out of him as he thumped the arm of his chair. "Oh, Merlin, he's actually serious."
Harry's grin turned wicked. "No, you're Sirius."
"GET OUT," Sirius laughed harder.
Petunia pressed her fingers to her temples like she could physically massage the nonsense of her son out of thin air. "I'm surrounded by children."
Ginny commented with a grin, "That's actually true. I'm 11, Abigail is 10, these guys are 12 and 13."
Everyone eventually found themselves slouched in chairs or perched on the arms of couches, each with a can of chilled Coke in hand.
Petunia, after struggling for a full minute with the tab, was finally rescued by Harry, who popped it open with an expert flick and a grin that said Muggle experience: 10/10. She accepted it like a queen being taught how to use chopsticks by a commoner—dignified, slightly offended, but secretly grateful.
Hermione showed Daphne how it worked, and Daphne muttered, "Ridiculous contraption," but followed the instructions anyway.
Ron was already halfway through his second, lounging like a satisfied Kneazle. Ginny had popped hers with one hand like a Quidditch player snapping a Snitch free.
Sirius? Sirius didn't even look at his can. He just opened it with one finger, one-handed, not breaking eye contact with anyone like a duelist who brought a butter knife to wand practice on purpose.
Normalcy was beginning to creep back, wrapping around them like the warmth of the fireplace.
Harry stirred the logs with a casual flick of his fingers, the embers shifting, flames dancing to his silent command. Daphne's gaze was fixed on him—not dreamy, not lovesick—just fascinated. Watching someone paint reality with fingertips tends to do that.
Hermione sat nearby, eyes closed, deep in thought, the kind of thinking that could summon world peace or doom, depending on how annoyed she was when interrupted.
It was then Harry frowned slightly and looked at Petunia. "Where's Dad?"
Petunia took a sip, delicately as possible. "Business trip. Left this morning after you lot left for Hogwarts. He'll be back in about a week."
Harry nodded, but there was something sharper behind his eyes. He knew the truth. His business trip. Harry's request.
Silence settled, broken only by the occasional clunk of wood as Harry dropped one piece to work with another.
Then suddenly Ron reappeared. "Forgot something," he blurted, catching his balance.
Everyone stared.
Ron started, "I went to The Munchies, this morning. You know, to restock on our snacks."
"Snacks," Petunia repeated, voice flat, exhausted already.
"Yeah, that reminds me. Harry we have to come and get it tomorrow. Since there wasn't enough stock today." He replied. "But that's not what I wanted to say..."
Ron then proceeded to explain his idea. Harry listened, definitely intrigued by it. His expression sharpened—thoughtful, calculating. He could use her baking talent for The Elysium. And more over even the Hogsmeade restaurant could use her snacks.
Then Harry looked over at Sirius, "Sirius, we are going to Diagon Alley."
Sirius smirked, raising his brow. "Why?"
Harry smiled—slow, dangerous, delighted. "We've got a shop to buy."
About half an hour later, the sharp drizzle had dulled to a lazy mist, curling around the cobblestones of Diagon Alley like smoke too tired to rise. It was the kind of weather that made secrets easier to keep.
Inside The Munchies, the mood was calmer, the earlier rush reduced to a handful of late shoppers and quiet regulars nursing warm pastries and tea.
Harry sat at a corner booth with Sirius across from him. The warmth from the plate curled upward in delicate, sweet spirals. Harry was halfway through his second spiced bun already, eyes half-lidded with contentment, chewing like a Kneazle in a sunbeam.
Sirius, of course, looked like someone who could negotiate international treaties with one hand while buttering a scone with the other—lazy posture, sharp eyes, impeccable boots.
Finally, Charlene emerged from behind the counter, wiping her hands on her apron, curls pulled back messily, cheeks flushed from hours of baking. She carried a tray, placing it neatly between them. For a second, she hovered—half baker, half businesswoman—not sure which mattered more right now.
And for a second—just a second—she froze.
"Merlin's belt," she breathed. "You're Harry Potter."
Harry swallowed his mouthful of custard bun. "Third time here, Charlene."
She blinked. "Third—?"
"Came twice before. Sat right over there." He pointed vaguely toward the far window. "You were busy."
Charlene flushed. "I'm—I didn't—right. Sorry. I've been a bit… distracted."
"Running a shop'll do that," Sirius murmured, offering his hand across the table. "Sirius Black."
Her hand met his like someone suddenly realizing they'd just been introduced to a hurricane wearing cufflinks. "Mr. Black. Pleasure. What's this about?"
Harry leaned back, starting on the plate of custard buns, pretending not to be here for business. He flicked a crumb off his sleeve, like brushing away inconvenience itself.
Sirius took over, voice dropping into something smoother, professional. "We'll start simple. Business good?"
Charlene straightened, shoulders rolling back. "Steady. We've been profitable the last five months, but the loan's still hanging. Took it to buy the building outright instead of renting. Thought I could clear it by now but—" She gestured vaguely at the room. "Life."
Sirius nodded, thoughtful. "How much left on the loan?"
"Thirty thousand galleons," she said honestly. "Low-interest contract, thankfully. Took it from Gringotts through one of their startup assistance programs. But—"
"Don't worry, it happens to the best of us." Sirius smiled lightly.
She nodded, slower now. "Wanted to enroll next year, part-time at least. Magical Culinary School in Cardiff. My brother—he's…" She hesitated. "He's talented. Brilliant, really. But I can't afford tuition for both of us. So I stayed. He stayed."
Harry, chewing methodically on his fourth bun now, tilted his head slightly—not at Charlene—but toward the kitchen door. His magic—spread thin like smoke in the rafters—brushed lightly against the boy as he worked behind the counter.
Wild magic. Bright. Untamed. Potential.
Untouched.
Charlene was still talking, voice steady, brave, determined despite the weight behind her words. "So yeah—I'm handling it. Slowly. But we get by."
Sirius nodded approvingly. "Good. Not asking for charity. That's something I respect."
Charlene gave a small, proud smile. "Didn't plan to."
Finally, Harry spoke, licking custard from his thumb. "Let me ask you outright Charlene. Will you sell the place and work for me?"
It wasn't every day that a twelve-year-old, elbow-deep in custard, offered to buy your entire livelihood like he was discussing the weather.
Her gaze flicked to Sirius, expecting—hoping—for some kind of joke, maybe a wink, maybe even a "he's just playing, don't mind him". But Sirius only bit into a custard bun with the leisurely confidence of a man watching a chess match he'd already won ten moves ago.
Harry sat there, relaxed, dangerous. The contrast was unsettling.
"This… shop?" Charlene finally managed. "You want to buy it?"
Harry nodded, expression unreadable now. "Day after tomorrow, we're opening a dessert café. The Elysium. Right here in Diagon Alley. Big one. Loud. And when that happens…" He tilted his head, eyes sharp. "You're going to lose foot traffic. Maybe not right away, but slowly. And eventually—"
Her mouth felt dry.
"—you'll close," Harry finished softly, like someone announcing the weather again. Just facts. No malice. Just inevitability.
Charlene swallowed hard, eyes darting between the two of them. "Why—why are you telling me this?"
"Because I don't want you to lose everything you built," Harry said simply. "Not when you could sell it now and work for me instead."
Silence. Only the faint clatter of cutlery from another table.
Sirius raised his eyebrows slightly, clearly enjoying his pastry more than was polite.
Finally, Charlene found her voice. "Work… how?"
Harry leaned forward, elbows on the table, his casual posture belying the sharp focus behind his green eyes. "Exactly what you're doing now. Bake. Sell. Except not here. You bake for us. You deliver your quota. I don't care if you want to come into the shop or work from your kitchen. I'm flexible. But I will say, you will want to work at The Elysium."
Charlene stared. "And the shop?"
Harry gave a faint smile. "I'll take it off your hands. Clear your loan. Enough left over for you to breathe a bit. I'm not greedy."
Sirius finally spoke, voice smooth, reassuring. "Think of it, your pay would be a lot more than what you get right now. Considering that there won't be any loan, you will be able to pay for education. Both yours and your brothers."
Charlene's lips parted, then closed again. The hope she'd been trying to ignore surged, loud, terrifying.
"But why?" she asked again, softer this time.
Harry tilted his head, thumb brushing crumbs off his plate. "Because you're talented with baking. And I like the best on my team."
"And if I say no?"
Harry smiled faintly. "Then I'll be back next week for more custard buns. We'll be competitors. No hard feelings."
Sirius chuckled darkly. "Though I'd advise against competing with this guy. He is capable of things."
Charlene couldn't help it—she laughed, half from nerves, half from absurdity. "You're… absolutely mad."
Harry grinned, boyish and sharp all at once. "That's how I win."
Charlene blew out a shaky breath, mind spinning, but instincts kicking in. "Alright… how much are we talking?"
Harry didn't hesitate. "Ten thousand."
She blinked. "Galleons?"
"Mm."
Her heart lifted, only to settle back down. It was good. Not life-changing, but—respectable. Steady.
"…Per year?" she asked cautiously.
Harry's smile stretched—wolfish, sharp, unforgivably amused.
"Per week."
Charlene choked on air. "Per week?!"
Sirius just leaned back, arms crossed, watching her reaction like someone attending theatre.
Charlene's mind struggled to math. This wasn't just life-changing money. This was rewriting-the-family-history money. That was Gringotts-vault, rich pureblood family money. That was—new cauldrons, new books, new robes with embroidery money.
"Alright," she finally said, voice wary, suspicious now. "What's the catch?"
Harry leaned forward slightly, eyes glinting. "The catch is—I'm going to work you to the bones."
Charlene swallowed. "Go on."
"You won't just be baking for Elyssium. That's just the showroom. The real work is for another place. Hogsmeade. Opens next week. Big place. Luxury dining."
He let that sit for a moment.
"That's where I'll need you. Regular quotas. Large batches. No cutting corners. You'll have help of course, but you'll lead."
Charlene stared. The number still hung in her head like fireworks she couldn't stop watching.
"And Elysium?"
"Occasional. Specialty items. Showcase stuff. You know—the pretty ones that look good in magazines. But Hogsmeade? Production. Real food. Real business."
Charlene sat back, staring at nothing, wheels turning like mad. "That's… that's a lot."
"Ten thousand a week's a lot too," Harry shot back dryly. "I'm not paying you to take tea breaks and watch the rain."
"I don't even like tea breaks," she muttered automatically, still doing math in her head.
Harry grinned. "Perfect."
"But... my brother—"
"Ten thousand a week..." Harry smirked, "That's forty thousand a month. You can cover both your and your brother's education. Even a lavish lifestyle."
Charlene sat back, thinking fast. Her heart felt like a hummingbird in her chest. But behind the panic—there was possibility. Real possibility.
"I want it in writing," she said finally, voice low but steady.
"Of course," Harry said at once. "Proper contract. Gringotts notarized. But you won't be making the deal with me. You'll be making this deal with Sirius."
Charlene huffed a breath, a disbelieving smile curling on her lips. "Merlin's ankles…"
"Deal?" Sirius asked, hand extended across the table.
Charlene looked at it like someone about to shake hands with fate itself.
Then she grinned, wide, reckless, alive.
"Deal."
They shook.
As soon as their hands parted, Harry—already halfway through demolishing the last custard bun—swallowed and looked up. "Right. Another serving."
Charlene blinked, still reeling from the numbers, from the handshake, from the sheer absurdity of the entire situation. "Another—?"
"Yeah," Harry nodded firmly. "Same thing. Custard buns. But lemon this time. Sharp. Tangy. Makes you feel alive."
Charlene stared at him. Just moments ago, this boy had been talking about Gringotts contracts, salary negotiations, restaurant expansions—and now he was practically bouncing in his chair over pastry fillings.
As she went to the kitchen, still shaking her head in disbelief, Sirius leaned back, giving Harry a sideways glance.
"You know," Sirius drawled, "you're frighteningly good at this."
Harry took another bite, already calculating the next move. "You will faint the day you come to know it all, dear Godfather."