The sky above Hogwarts was a sheet of bruised velvet, stars smudged behind the faintest suggestion of dawn. The castle was sleeping. The ghosts were sleeping. Even the portraits, for once, were quiet.
Except Harry.
He crossed the grounds with the steady, unhurried stride of someone who belonged everywhere and nowhere all at once. His clothes smelled faintly of damp stone and old dust, a remnant of where he'd been.
The Chamber of Secrets.
It had taken him an hour. Removing grime off ancient tiles, vanishing the thick layers of filth that time and rot had left behind. The scattered bones—animal and otherwise—were gone now, transfigured and returned to the earth in quiet respect. The basilisk's lair no longer felt like a tomb.
Salashra had watched it all with ancient, slit-pupiled eyes, conversing with him the entire time.
She was safe down there. Still undiscovered. Still waiting.
After delivering lots of food and drinks to her, he apparated back to Gryffindor common room.
The Gryffindor common room was empty, as expected, with only the fire burning slowly lighting up the room.
Harry didn't go upstairs.
Instead, he walked to the hearth and stood there for a moment, staring into the flickering orange glow. With a flick of his fingers, the flames deepened into a slow, pulsing red—like the steady beat of some living heart beneath ancient stone.
It suited his mood better.
Sitting back down on the armchair in front of the fire, he reached into the subspace pouch and drew out the bottle of Glenlivet 21 Archive, he had gotten this and many more bottles via Victor.
He poured a generous amount into a glass and then tucked the bottle back with the same absent grace.
Harry picked up the glass instantly chilling it's content. Savoring the flavour, he sighed out loud.
Second year.
It wasn't supposed to feel this long already. Barely October and it felt like half a life had already passed.
He took another sip. Smooth. Sharp. Clean.
With a thought, the common room muffled itself—wandless, casual. Just in case some early riser stumbled down the stairs. Just in case someone thought to be curious tonight.
Harry Potter liked his silences sharp-edged and private.
"Twinkle!!"
Twinkle apparated into the room with a muted pop, the house-elf appearing like a summoned thought, posture perfect, ears high, bowing slightly.
"Master Harry called?"
"What was for dinner back home?" Harry asked, low, conversational.
Twinkle smiled wide. "Mistress made roast lamb with honeyed carrots and soft rolls. Master Sirius had bought a lovely Game pie, when he came for dinner with Madam Amelia." The elf continued. "Dessert was peach cobbler with ice cream, Master."
"Did Mum cook extra?"
"She always does, Master Harry."
Harry nodded, eyes on the slow pulse of the red flames. "Good. Bring me what's left and add anything else that's edible. I'm famished."
Twinkle bowed. "Right away, Master."
"Oh, that reminds me. Is Dad back yet?"
Twinkle nodded, "Yes Master Vernon was back from his business trip last week."
Harry huffed a quiet laugh through his nose. "As it should be."
With another soft pop, Twinkle vanished.
Alone again, Harry let his head drop back against the high chair, letting the firelight stripe his features with crimson and shadow. His free hand drifted lazily through the air, idle sparks of magic curling from his fingertips like smoke from a slow-burning fuse.
Everything was moving. And for once, moving well.
Elysium was a storm in the making. Fully booked for the next two months. Turned out, inviting the Montrose Magpies for the launch had been a masterstroke. Wizards and witches adored celebrity proximity, even more so when the desserts were worth gossiping over.
Even Hearth & Hollow in Hogsmeade had exceeded his expectations. Petunia's letters painted the picture clearly—crowds curling around the street, bookings lined for weeks, repeat customers. The lingering anxiety about profitability had been crushed by the end of the first week.
It felt good.
He took another long sip.
Harry had not personally been over at either location to check things out, but he trusted his mother and godfather.
Another flick of his hand—pure habit, really—and the embers twisted lazily, now green at the edges. Like Slytherin fire. Salazar would've appreciated the aesthetic.
A soft pop brought Twinkle back, her arms full—plates of fragrant lamb, soft bread, a tall chilled glass of elderflower cordial, and a half of that Game pie.
She placed them with quiet ceremony on the low table beside him.
"Perfect," Harry murmured. "Thank you."
Twinkle beamed. "Anything else for Master?"
Harry nodded. "Yes. Bring me some peach cobbler if there's any left. And that Gillywater Glacier ice cream."
With another quiet pop, she was gone.
The common room belonged to him again—the soft crackle of enchanted flames and the slow, patient ticking of old castle silence.
He cut into the lamb, savoring the tender bite, glass of whiskey balanced easily in his other hand. A small, sharp smile curled at the corner of his mouth.
Everything was aligning. Precisely as planned.
Victor had finally taken the month-long paid vacation Harry had all but ordered on him—earned after handling logistics like a war general.
Charlene Delacroix was fitting into Hearth & Hollow seamlessly, her work ethic sharper than the cutlery in the kitchen. For now, she was staying at Sirius's townhouse—a temporary arrangement until Harry could arrange something better.
Her brother, Callum Delacroix, was now safely sorted into Ravenclaw. First of October. Harry had 'pulled strings' for that—though really, it was less pulling and more issuing quiet commands instead.
Harry took another bite of the Game pie, the flavours bursting in his mouth seemed to pair well with the whiskey.
As he ate, another thought rose to the surface—Lilith Lyralei.
Another late admission. Second year. Gryffindor.
On paper, it should've been nothing—quirks in admissions happened. But this one…
Something felt wrong.
Lilith had an unsettling beauty—porcelain-pale skin with a faint, unnatural glow under torchlight. Her silvery-white hair fell straight to her waist, too perfect to be accidental. But it was her eyes that drew the most attention—one a piercing, icy blue; the other a soft, stormy gray.
But that wasn't the thing that threw him off. It was her intention.
She was trying too hard to get close to him. Sitting near him in the common room, asking pointed questions acting like she belonged in his orbit. It wasn't natural. It wasn't earned.
And when Harry, got tired of her advnaces, brushed a tendril of Legilimency against her thoughts—
A wall. Thick. Dense. Constructed.
Not the muddled shields of someone with natural Occlumency talent. No raw wildness like Luna's mind, or accidental shields like Hermione sometimes produced under stress.
This was trained. Taught. Perfect layers of mirrored thought and careful blank spaces.
And no second-year Hogwarts student should've had shields like that.
His magic didn't like her. And that was enough.
Finishing the last bite of the food, Harry set the plates aside and calling for Twinkle again.
"Clear them, Twinkle," he said, soft but firm. "Thank you for the food."
Twinkle bowed deeply, beaming. "Always happy to serve, Master."
She vanished with a pop.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Evening brought with it the weight of exhaustion like a cloak Harry couldn't quite shrug off.
The corridors of Hogwarts glimmered faintly with torchlight as he made his way back to Gryffindor Tower, boots quiet against ancient stone. His shoulders ached—from the sheer mental drain of teaching.
Originally, it was just Mondays. One day a week teaching magical theory, fundamentals, and control to auror trainees at the Institute.
But of course, success attracts notice.
Now it was Mondays and Wednesdays. Full days. Long sessions. Two classes per day. Fundamentals in the morning, practicals in the afternoon. And results had been phenomenal. Trainees were improving at alarming rates. Magical efficiency. Spell fidelity. Precision.
But the cost was him.
What none of his friends knew—what no one knew—was that Harry hadn't really slept for a week. Not even a nap. How in the world he was surviving without sleep, he had no idea.
So when he saw his group waiting at the bottom of the stairs to the common room—Ginny, Abigail, Daphne, and the twins—it took effort not to sigh outright.
"Harry!" Ginny called first, breaking into a grin as she spotted him.
He slowed, one hand drifting to adjust his cuff. "Evening. Been waiting?"
They nodded as a group, Abigail already stepping forward. "We've been waiting ages. Where've you been?"
"Busy Abby!" Harry answered, ruffling her hair softly.
Fred or George (he wasn't sure which—he didn't care which) gave a low whistle. "How are you always busy?"
"Just hell lot of things to do," Harry replied, rolling his neck with a faint pop.
"You look like death," Daphne noted, stepping closer with a raised eyebrow. "Have you slept at all this week?"
"Define sleep," Harry muttered dryly, wiping a hand over his face. "Anyway. Why were you waiting for me?"
They were all talking at once now. He caught fragments:
"—we were thinking—"
"—no idea, if you—"
"—no, listen, we thought—"
"Harry!"
A new voice, sharper, cut through the jumble.
Tonks.
She came around the corner, half-jogging, her usually messy pink hair slightly straighter today. She stopped by the group, hands on her hips.
"Glad I caught you. I wanted to ask..."
Then she noticed everyone standing there looking at her. "Did I interrupt something?"
The group turned as one toward Tonks.
Fred—or George—grinned. "Excellent. You're coming too."
Tonks blinked. "Coming… where?"
"The more the merrier," George added with a wink.
Tonks opened her mouth, clearly halfway to protesting on instinct, then seemed to reconsider. Her eyes flicked to Harry, caught sight of the dark circles under his eyes, and she smirked. "Looks like someone needs supervision anyway."
"I'm not babysitting him," Fred announced cheerfully.
"I will," Abigail shot back grabbing hold of Harry's arm.
Daphne raised a single finger like she was marking attendance. "Also, I'll be bringing Pansy along."
That got looks. Especially from the Weasleys.
"Pansy Parkinson?" Ginny's voice cracking faintly.
Daphne arched an eyebrow. "She's tolerable. Mostly. Besides, she's the only Slytherin friend I have who can be trusted not to hex someone mid-party."
"Yet," Harry muttered under his breath.
Fred elbowed George. "Eight of us now."
"Solid number," George agreed.
Harry didn't care. Honestly, it could've been twenty-eight. His brain was struggling to parse any of this. He didn't have the capacity to argue.
"Fine," he said flatly, rubbing his temples. "Bring whoever you want. Just… don't expect intelligent conversation from me."
The problem was—sleep wasn't even on the horizon anymore. He could feel the exhaustion, but it sat behind glass. Detached. Separate. Like a body with no 'off' switch. It was starting to feel suspiciously like insomnia, not just fatigue.
They were already halfway toward the tower before Harry realized he was moving.
Tonks fell in step beside him. "You alright?"
"Define alright," Harry muttered dryly.
Ahead of them, Fred and George were starting in on Ron and Hermione, who had just appeared from the other end of the hall, looking like slightly more functional zombies.
"Oi, look at this!" Fred called, elbowing George. "Found two more corpses."
Hermione shot them a glare, brushing dust off her sleeves. "We've been... never mind."
"Yeah," Ron added hoarsely. "You lot look like you've been planning crime."
Ginny only grinned. "Party. Hogsmeade. Tonight."
Ron's eye narrowed. "Now?"
"Now," the twins chorused.
Harry wasn't listening anymore. He was tired of being tired.
With a sharp, internal focus, he gathered magic in his chest. Subtle. Dense. Focused entirely inward—not expelling, but pulling. A concentrated invigoro charm laced with ten times the force needed.
Stupid. Dangerous. Perfect.
The magic sank deep. And then hit like a lightning bolt snapping through his veins.
Harry staggered, coughed hard, shoulders shaking once before steadying again.
"Bloody hell—" Abigail moved like she was going to help, but he waved her off.
"Fine," Harry rasped, standing straighter. His vision cleared. The world snapped into sharp, ruthless focus. It was like someone had poured a gallon of cold water over his brain.
No more fog. No more drag. Everything sharp edges and caffeine clarity.
Tonks stared at him. "You did something."
Harry just grinned, sharp and sleepless. "Now I'm awake."
Fred blinked. "Remind me not to offer you coffee. You might explode."
Harry huffed out a breath. "I need to change first. Meet at the usual classroom in thirty. Tonks—come on, you're coming with us."
That seemed to settle it.
The group split at the next junction—Daphne peeling off toward the dungeons to grab Pansy, the rest falling into step behind Harry toward Gryffindor Tower.
It was quieter now, the castle holding its breath in that peculiar way only Hogwarts could when something improper was brewing.
Abigail was the first to break the silence. "Alright—what did you do back there?"
Harry didn't answer at first. They climbed a stair. Turned a corner.
"Custom energizing charm," he muttered eventually. "Heavily overcharged."
The reactions were immediate.
Abigail pinched his upper arm viciously. "Are you mad?"
"Probably," Harry deadpanned.
"Harry—" Hermione's voice rose with that familiar 'prefect-without-a-badge' authority. "That's dangerous. That could mess with your heart—your magic."
Ginny crossed her arms. "Honestly, Harry, even I wouldn't do that, and you know how I feel about shortcuts."
Ron just sounded disappointed. "Mate… at least tell someone next time. We could've helped."
Fred and George exchanged a glance. "You didn't tell us—"
"—you did that—"
"—without sharing?"
"Betrayal," Fred concluded.
"Utter betrayal," George echoed.
Harry ignored all of them, lazily pushing open the portrait entrance when they reached it.
Tonks hadn't said a word.
Not once.
She just kept glancing sideways at him, sharp-eyed, quiet, calculating. It wasn't a judging silence—but it wasn't approval either. More like… assessment.
Fine. He could live with that.
He changed quickly—dark, sharp lines, sleeves rolled once, boots polished. Nothing fancy. Then again all his clothes were fancy to begin with.
Half an hour later, they regrouped in the usual classroom. Everyone now dressed quite fashionably. Tonks seemed to have transfigured her outfit into a dress and now was rocking long curly black hair.
Five minutes later, the door cracked open and Daphne stepped through first, composed as ever.
Pansy Parkinson followed, loose hair around her shoulders, posture sharp and cutting, like she was waiting for someone to start a fight so she could enjoy the spectacle.
Her eyes flicked around the room—Ginny, Hermione, Ron, Tonks, the twins, Abigail—and then landed on Harry.
Harry stared back, deadpan, daring her to start something.
Pansy tilted her head slightly, lips curling. "Not quite the group I was hoping to be seen with, but I suppose I can make an exception. For today."
Harry's smirk was slow, dangerous. "Don't worry, Draco's little girlfriend. I'm sure he won't dump you just because you were seen with me once."
Pansy's reaction was immediate—shoulders snapping straight, eyes narrowing. "I am not Draco's girlfriend."
Harry didn't move, didn't blink, didn't lose that damned smirk. But in his head? Wasn't she supposed to be with Draco in the books? Or maybe that was just another shift in this universe. Whatever. Not his problem.
"Relax," he drawled lazily. "Don't care either way."
Without waiting, he clapped his hands once. Sharp. "Right. Circle up. Link hands. We're not walking."
They obeyed, albeit with varying expressions of curiosity, suspicion, or—on the twins' part—glee.
He glanced at Tonks and Pansy. "Apparition. Hogwarts to Hogsmeade. You tell anyone, Parkinson, and I will make your life annoying."
Pansy rolled her eyes, folding her arms with deliberate insolence. "Please. Did you really think I didn't already know you could do that?"
Harry didn't respond. He didn't need to. His hand closed around Abigail's on one side, Pansy's on the other.
And then—just like that the group disappeared from the classroom without a single sound.
They landed in Hogsmeade like a whisper—not even a shift in the wind to announce their arrival.
Harry flicked his fingers subtly as soon as their feet touched cobblestone. A quiet ripple spread outward, unseen, unfelt. Glamour charm. Modified. Crafted.
It worked perfectly. To the outside world, they were just a vague cluster of older students. To each other—they looked exactly the same. Normal. Familiar. Untouched.
Insurance. Just in case a professor fancied a drink tonight.
Tonks staggered slightly, blinking rapidly. Pansy, to her credit, didn't flinch, but the tension in her jaw gave her away.
"What the hell was that?" Tonks finally asked, looking around like reality had betrayed her. "I've Apparated before, yeah—but that… that wasn't Apparition. That was cheating."
Harry smirked faintly, adjusting his sleeves. "Not cheating. Just better."
Tonks narrowed her eyes. "How better?"
Harry shrugged lightly, starting to walk forward. "Same theory. Different execution. Instead of just letting my energy burst out, I control it into a smooth flow."
"That's not fair," Tonks muttered, half outraged, half impressed, jogging slightly to keep up.
Pansy said nothing. She just kept her eyes fixed on Harry's back, calculating, like a Slytherin trying to decide if the dragon in front of her was asleep or just pretending.
Fred and George took the lead, naturally, weaving through the streets with the ease of experienced mischief-makers. "You know what this calls for?" Fred (or George) grinned.
"A grand bloody feast," George (or Fred) supplied. "New place opened recently. Heard good things."
They turned sharply down the main street, weaving between groups of students and shoppers until Hearth & Hollow came into view.
Harry slowed, blinking once. The place was packed. Abigail's grip on his hand slightly increased as she watched the sign.
Witches and wizards clustered around the front like bees to a hive. Laughter spilled out from the doors, warm light flickering across polished wood and brass fixtures. The windows glowed softly, framing smiling faces and busy staff weaving between tables.
He felt something close to pride curl warm in his chest.
It was working.
Fred elbowed him lightly. "Perfect, yeah? Best occasion, Daphne's birthday, big crowd, great vibe…"
Harry nodded, hiding the faint curl of satisfaction on his lips. "Yeah. Looks good."
As long as Petunia wasn't here, this night could pass like any other. Quiet. Unnoticed. Just another Hogwarts outing.
Please don't be here, Mum…
As soon as they stepped through the doors of Hearth & Hollow, the warmth of polished wood, soft candlelight, and murmured conversation wrapped around them like a well-tailored cloak.
A sharply dressed receptionist at the front podium glanced up immediately, smiling with practiced grace. "Good evening. Welcome to Hearth & Hollow. Do you have a reservation?"
Fred and George exchanged confused glances.
"Reservation?" Fred asked, as though the very concept was foreign.
"No one told us we needed to plan things," George added dryly. "That sounds suspiciously like responsibility."
The receptionist smiled politely, tapping through the reservation ledger. "No worries, let me check availability—"
Her finger traced down the parchment quickly. "Looks like we've got availability on the second floor. Excellent view."
Fred grinned. "Second floor it is, then."
A waiter appeared almost instantly—immaculate black vest, pressed shirt, polite smile—and gestured for them to follow.
As the group moved forward, Harry deliberately let himself lag behind by a pace, casually flicking his fingers near his collar.
His glamour peeled away for half a breath.
Just enough for the receptionist to recognize him.
Her eyes flickered wide for only a second before she gave the faintest, professional nod. Message received.
Harry lifted two fingers subtly—cover the bill.
The receptionist's smile didn't falter, didn't twitch. Smooth. Efficient. Professional.
Satisfied, Harry reapplied the glamour and followed the others up the stairs.
What he didn't notice—what his tired mind overlooked—was the way Pansy's sharp, perceptive gaze cut sideways, catching the whole silent exchange. Her eyes narrowed faintly, calculating. Filed away for later.
Upstairs, the second floor was quieter but no less beautiful—glass partitions reflecting warm light, intricate runic patterns etched faintly into the trim. Their table sat near a window, round, with plush seating in emerald and charcoal, crystal-clear water glasses already arranged with military precision.
"Alright," George breathed, flopping into a chair. "Now this is a birthday dinner."
Daphne, however, was already sitting up straight, frowning faintly. "This looks… expensive."
Fred waved a dismissive hand. "Nope. Irrelevant. Invalid worry."
George nodded sagely. "You don't pay on your birthday. That's the law."
"But—"
"Nope," Ginny cut in firmly. "Shut it. This is your night."
Abigail knew that they wouldn't have to pay the bill anyways since this was her brother's restaurant. But she didn't say anything.
The waiter returned with a polished ease, menus balanced neatly in his arms. But as soon as Fred, ever the loudmouth, mentioned they were celebrating a birthday, everything shifted.
The waiter's practiced smile widened just slightly. "Ah. A celebration."
Without another word, he tucked the menus neatly under his arm. "No menus tonight. You'll be having our signature fourteen-course experience. First dish will be out shortly."
"And for drinks?" he added smoothly. "Would you care for butterbeer to start?"
There were nods all around, murmurs of agreement, even Hermione giving in for once.
The waiter dipped his head, excused himself, and swept away like clockwork.
"Blimey," Ron whispered, leaning forward. "Did he say fourteen courses?"
"Sure sounded like it," Fred muttered, sounding equal parts impressed and alarmed.
George nodded solemnly. "That's nearly fifteen if you count the butterbeer."
"I'm starting to see why this place needs reservations," Ginny added.
Pansy's brow furrowed faintly. "Alright, but how in Merlin's name didn't we hear the other table right next to us? There's a whole party going on over there—laughing, clinking glasses—and not a sound."
Before Harry could respond, Ron—of all people—tilted his head. "Localized silencing wards. Gotta be. Makes sense for a place like this."
Harry was impressed. Damn this guy is getting good.
The table fell into chatting again until Harry frowned. Gifts.
Everyone was already digging through pockets, bags, or summoning small, wrapped packages.
Even Tonks produced a small, messily wrapped parcel with a sheepish grin. "Always carry something in case. Auror habit."
Harry sat there, empty-handed.
For a man who usually planned eight moves ahead, that stung. Badly.
"Well," Harry said, standing abruptly, "I'm going to go get your gift, then."
Daphne immediately tried to wave him down. "Harry—you really don't have to—"
"Not how I work," Harry cut in, sharp but not unkind. "Back in a bit."
He turned—and stopped when another figure rose beside him.
Pansy.
"I'll come," she said smoothly, adjusting her sleeves. "You look like someone who needs help picking out birthday presents."
Harry stared at her. Of everyone, she was the last one he expected to volunteer.
"Right," he muttered. "Fine. Let's go."
Without another word, the two of them slipped from the room and descended the staircase, the muted hum of the restaurant behind them, the noise dying entirely as they stepped into the cool, crisp Hogsmeade evening.
As they walked in silence, Pansy finally spoke, voice casual, like they were discussing the weather. "If you want something good, go for perfume. Daphne's mad for them. Watches too—more than a bit obsessed, really."
Harry glanced at her. "Perfume and watches?"
"She's picky about scents. Wears one every day, changes them depending on mood." Pansy flicked her hair behind her shoulder, almost rolling her eyes. "Also, watches. She loves watches."
Harry actually paused mid-step. She was right. Daphne did smell nice always. Moreover she was always wearing a watch. Even in that beach in Romania.
"Good call," he muttered. "Thanks."
Pansy just shrugged. "I'm helpful. Sometimes."
Harry thought for a moment, eyes narrowing. Perfumes and watches… He wasn't buying wizarding stuff for this. Magical perfumes smelled like cheap soap half the time, and wizard watches looked like something someone's great-grandfather left in a drawer.
No. For perfumes and watches, there was only one solution.
The Muggle world.
He held out his hand without preamble. "We're leaving the village."
Pansy quirked an eyebrow but, to her credit, didn't argue. She simply placed her pale hand in his.
With a faint snap of displaced air, they vanished.
They reappeared in the shadow of a quiet alleyway just off New Bond Street, London, cloaked by night, the hum of the city like a living, distant heartbeat around them.
Pansy's eyes flickered. She took in the street, the distant high-end storefronts, and the unmistakable rich hush of the area. Her expression was carefully blank, but Harry noticed her posture tense slightly.
"Where—?"
"Patek," Harry said simply, stepping into the low light, already adjusting his glamour with a flick of his fingers—restoring his true appearance, subtly altering Pansy's features to make her unrecognizable to anyone mundane or magical. Not that anyone here should know who she was, but privacy was privacy.
"Just follow my lead," he added, low but firm. "Don't make this difficult."
Pansy lifted one delicate eyebrow but said nothing. Instead, she simply tucked her arms behind her back and followed him across the street like she belonged here. Like she always belonged everywhere she wasn't supposed to be.
Typical.
Harry pushed open the glass door of the Patek Phillipe salon, taking in the familiar scene. Warm lighting, velvet displays, and polished counters greeted them like a silent bow of wealth.
The same saleswoman stepped forward, her polished heels silent on the deep carpet. "Welcome back, Master Potter," Leanne greeted with a practiced, elegant smile. "Here for another?"
Harry gave a respectful nod. "Good evening, Leanne. Yes, I'm here for another."
His fingers brushed lightly over the smooth cuff of his coat. "One of my friends—her birthday's today. I'm ashamed to admit the date completely slipped my mind. I need something elegant. And I want precision."
"Of course," she said smoothly. "This way, please."
Leanne led them to the private lounge—warm, quiet, draped in understated wealth. Crystal decanters, fine china set for tea, polished trays of delicate sweets.
Pansy's eyes flicked around, a faint glimmer of surprise crossing her features before she smoothed it out again. "You come here often?"
Harry sat down, crossing one leg over the other. "Been here once before."
She didn't press. Instead, she reached over delicately, plucking a sugared chocolate from the tray, examining it like she wasn't sure whether to eat it or hex it.
Leanne returned after a few minutes, velvet box in hand. "May I present—3796D in white gold. Manual wound, timeless, elegant."
The watch was immaculate—white gold casing, silvery dial, sleek leather strap. Expensive, discreet, beautiful. Harry liked it immediately.
He didn't waste time. "I'll take it."
But before Leanne could close the box, Pansy leaned forward slightly. "Wait. Could I… see that one?" She gestured to the far display, at a smaller, thinner model with a unique guilloché dial—3919G.
There was something about the way she looked at that watch. Almost like a child pressing their nose to a sweets shop window. That soft kind of wanting people don't say out loud.
Leanne nodded and went to retrieve it.
Harry leaned closer, voice pitched low. "That's a muggle luxury watch," he murmured. "Doesn't take galleons. And that one? You're looking at fifteen hundred to two thousand galleons, easy. You don't have that on you, Parkinson."
Pansy blinked, and for a second, the Slytherin mask cracked. Just for a second. The faintest look of genuine disappointment flickered through her cool composure before she straightened again, spine sharp.
As Leanne returned with the 3919G, presenting it like a crown jewel, Harry glanced at the longing still hidden in Pansy's eyes.
Something in him twisted.
Mentally cursing himself for being too soft lately, he leaned back with an easy smile. "I'll take both."
Pansy's head whipped toward him, startled. "You—what?"
Harry didn't even glance at her. "Both," he repeated to Leanne, smooth, effortless. "Wrap them separately, please."
Leanne nodded, professional and efficient, moving to prepare the packages.
Pansy was still staring at him, sharp confusion cutting through her usual poised detachment. "Why—?"
Harry finally turned his head slightly. "Oh this is not a gift... you better pay me back. Consider it payment for helping with the gift suggestion."
"But—"
"Shut it."
Pansy closed her mouth but not before shooting him a look that was half glare, half something unreadable.
Harry just leaned back against the plush leather, letting the silence sit comfortably between them, broken only by the soft movements of Leanne at work.
Buying things was easy.
Explaining them? Pointless.