The golden light of morning spilled through the tall arched windows of Harry's bedroom, casting quiet shadows across the expansive room. The silence was heavy, but not burdensome—more like a warm blanket wrapping around the ancient stones of the Potter ancestral home.
Harry slowly stirred beneath the crisp linen sheets, eyes blinking open to the dim filtered light. The silence of the castle struck him first—no chatter, no laughter, non distant echoes of people speaking. Just the soft rustle of the breeze outside and the birds chirping.
He was alone.
Saturday had been... chaotic.
Even though he loved it and he was the main culprit behind the chaos, he wanted to spend today away from everyone else. Lunch by the pool, Fred and George trying to dunk every living soul, and him casually binding them to their chairs so he could finish cooking in peace. Daphne had laughed more in one afternoon than he remembered her ever doing the entire first year.
Dinner had been quieter, more elegant. The long mahogany table bathed in candlelight. Everyone enjoying the food—free of worries.
Harry tried to behave chaotic in front of others so that they don't see this calculative side of him. And acting chaotic was tiring... too tiring. He couldn't not do it, since he didn't want anyone even remotely getting the idea of his plans and acting chaotic and spontaneous made them think he did everything on a whim.
But here, in the Moonstone Dunvegan he could finally be free in a way. He could think without anyone interrupting him. He could plan and most importantly, he could enjoy the peace and quiet.
He stretched slowly and sat up, running a hand through his hair. Swinging his legs over the side, he called out loud. "Loppy!"
Pop!
The ever-dutiful house-elf appeared instantly at the foot of his bed, bowing so low his long ears brushed the stone floor.
"Master Harry is awake! Would Master like his breakfast—"
"Just coffee, Loppy. Strong. Very strong," Harry said with a yawn.
Loppy nodded enthusiastically and vanished with another pop.
Harry got up from his bed and walked to the window looking outside into the estate. Opening the window he let the chill of the highland morning seep into his skin.
He had things to do—meet Victor, get updates on the Ellerby and Spudmore deal. If they had successfully acquired the smaller failing broomstick firms and begun the merger, then Harry's foothold in the broom market would begin solidifying. Influence without fighting Nimbus directly—subtle but effective.
He also had ideas—new ventures, expansions, decisions to make. On top of it, his own research into magic. Everything was due.
Harry sighed. Everyday was both boring and pressuring at the same time.
Harry leaned against the window frame, sipping the coffee that Loppy had brought moments ago. The bitter, steaming brew kicked through the fog in his head, but his thoughts remained scattered—half tethered to the chaos of yesterday, half slipping into the weight of everything waiting for him. Research, expansion plans, magical experimentation... it all loomed, like a mountain only he could see clearly.
His gaze lingered on the woods near the back of the estate. That's where Lumos's mate and foal were. He had given Loppy exclusive orders to take care of them, but he himself wasn't ready to face them yet. No... not just yet. He will face them the day, he had a clue on resurrection magic and that day won't be too far in the future. He already had a lead, and now just needed to get to the destination.
He watched a bird take flight over the forest edge, and his thoughts drifted once more to business world. He hoped that the Ellerby and Spudmore deal went through. He had not heard from Victor since that last time he visited Gringotts.
And then... the idea struck.
Over the years in his business career he learnt one thing. When everything is muddled in your mind, it's best to just take some time off and spoil yourself. Indulge in your hobbies. And his hobby just happened to be something quite interesting.
He stared at his reflection in the tall windowpane, a slow grin tugging at his lips. "Why not now?"
He needed to spoil himself. A personal win.
He bolted from the window. The coffee left half-drunk on the table.
Twenty minutes later, Harry stepped out of the bathroom, towel slung over his shoulders, hair still damp and rebelliously wild. He strolled into his walk-in closet—lined with finely tailored robes, jackets, and enchanted shoes that adjusted to the weather—and pulled on a sleek forest-green jacket over a crisp black shirt and fitted slacks. The outfit hugged his frame just right, sharp and stylish without being loud.
As a final touch, he fastened the red-gold cufflinks Petunia had gifted him last year—elegant, understated, and surprisingly sentimental. He knew that knowing Petunia, she probably had them custom made or something.
He paused in front of the full-length mirror.
His reflection was startling.
If someone told him this was a professional photo from Wizarding Fashion Weekly, he'd believe it. The tall, broad-shouldered boy staring back at him didn't look twelve. He looked older—refined. Confident. Eyes like green fire and presence like thunder wrapped in silk.
The most jarring part, however, was his height.
He stood at nearly 5'7"—far taller than he had been last year and leagues beyond what he should be for his age. In his past life, he remembered clearly—Harry Potter was barely brushing 5'4" in second year. This? This was abnormal.
"Magic must be doing something," he muttered, narrowing his eyes.
But he couldn't pin it down. No spell he had cast. No potion. No ritual. It was as if something—or someone—had triggered a quiet transformation.
The thought drifted away like mist. There were bigger things to do today. With a half-smile tugging at his lips, he turned and walked out of his closet closing the door behind.
Taking a step towards the door, Harry Apparated straight to Diagon Alley without a sound. Appearing in Diagon Alley he made his way through the street towards the large white building.
The hallway to the private vault chambers was empty at this hour—Harry preferred it that way. The goblins, used to him by now, simply nodded and gestured toward his usual room. Chamber Eight was quiet, richly decorated in dark leather, gold filigree, and muted tapestries that absorbed sound.
Harry sat down on the couch, waiting for Victor. His mind was half on the Ellerby-Spudmore acquisition and half on real agenda today.
After about twenty minutes, Victor entered, polished as always. Midnight-blue robes, slicked-back brown hair, and the cool, calculating look of a man who had just signed several people's careers into dust.
"You're quite early, Mr. Potter," Victor said, sounding surprised. "I was going to write to you today. I have good news."
Harry smiled, "I hope this is about what I'm thinking Victor."
Victor dropped a thick, sealed folder onto the obsidian table. "Ellerby and Spudmore is ours. Signed, bound, sealed. Final purchase: 300 million Galleons. No leaks. No resistance. Your silent ownership remains intact."
Harry smiled, "That's excellent news Victor! Although it's quite a high price for a company with the valuation of around 40 million, but we will get our return next year."
Victor nodded, "I wanted to talk to you about integration and our next steps."
Harry's grin turned mischievous. "Oh, we'll handle all that. But that's not why I'm here."
Victor, leaned back, suspicious. "Alright. Hit me."
"We're going shopping, Victor. Muggle shopping."
Victor blinked. "Muggle shopping? For what exactly?"
Harry stretched slightly, "Some personal shopping. It's been a while since I splurged on myself. And now—" he gestured casually to the thick folder on the table, "—it's also a celebration. We just bought a legendary broom making company. That deserves at least one extravagance, don't you think?"
Victor gave a dry chuckle. "You're twelve."
"Twelve but still the second richest in entirety of Britain, aren't I?" Harry replied breezily. "Come on. First stop—luxury watches. And you're my older brother for the day."
Victor sighed, already regretting everything, but stood up anyway. "Where exactly are we going? I doubt you'll find anything worth your time in the mainline boutiques."
Harry's grin turned sharp. "We're not going to mainline boutiques."
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Victor adjusted his collar as they stepped out into the crisp London air. "So where exactly are we going now?"
Harry's lips curled into a grin. "New Bond Street. There's a Patek Philippe boutique."
Victor frowned. "Never heard of it."
"That's because its a muggle brand. But its a damn good one. You'll see."
The store was nothing flashy from the outside—polished wood, brass trim, and a single glass display. Inside, it was hushed like a cathedral. Warm lighting, velvet floors, and attendants that looked more like museum curators than salesmen.
Victor muttered, "You sure about this?"
Harry gave him a sidelong look. "I've never been more certain."
A woman with neatly pinned blonde hair approached them, her expression professional but curious.
"Good morning, gentlemen. How may I help you?"
Victor stepped forward, hands tucked neatly into his coat pockets. "We're looking for something refined. A celebration gift."
"For yourself?" the lady asked, gaze flicking between the older boy and the younger one beside him. She paused a fraction too long on Harry, uncertain who was in charge here.
Victor didn't blink. "It's actually for our father—and our elder brother."
The woman smiled politely, though a note of surprise passed through her eyes. Harry remained silent, letting Victor take the lead. His own focus had already moved elsewhere. His gaze swept past the initial displays—obvious bait for the nouveau riche—and drifted toward a lower shelf, where the lighting was less deliberate, the placement less boastful.
Behind glass, nestled almost like a secret, lay a yellow gold minute repeater. Harry stepped closer, leaned down slightly.
"That one," he said, voice soft.
The lady followed his line of sight, and her expression shifted—tone tightening with respect. "The 3974. A minute repeater with a perpetual calendar. Automatic movement. Yellow gold. Very few of those ever leave private collections. You have a remarkable eye."
Victor smiled faintly. "He tends to."
She led them to a private sitting area—dark wood, plush chairs, soundless carpet. A velvet tray was brought in, and on it, the 3974 gleamed like it knew its own worth.
Harry picked it up delicately, not like a child holding treasure, but like a man weighing value. His fingers ghosted across the moonphase window, the raised numerals, the smooth case. No wasted movement. Only quiet judgment.
He set it down with a nod. "I'd like to see more. Similar level."
The lady inclined her head and left, and the moment she did, Harry turned slightly toward Victor, speaking low and fast.
"Get the 3940 in white gold too. Don't make it sound forced—just ask to see it when she comes back."
Victor didn't answer with words, just the smallest twitch of a smirk.
When the lady returned, bearing two more trays, Victor gave her a pleasant nod. "Also, I was wondering—do you have the 3940 in stock? White gold variant."
She blinked, caught off guard again. "Yes… yes, we do. I'll have it brought out."
Soon, three legends sat before them: the 3974 in rose gold, the 3940 restrained and immaculate in white gold, and the distinct, sporty elegance of the steel Nautilus 3800/1.
They took their time. Victor played the part well, discussing "family tastes," asking the right questions. Harry rarely spoke, but his fingers lingered on the 3974 and the 3940 just a second longer than the Nautilus—an unspoken cue. Victor picked up on it.
When the lady finally asked, "Would you like more time to decide?" Victor leaned back, rested his arms, and smiled.
"We'll take all three."
The silence stretched.
"All… three?" she asked, trying to hide her surprise behind practiced calm. "Gentlemen, that would be quite a substantial sum…"
Victor didn't even glance at the watches again. "We're sure."
The lady recovered quickly, but a flush of excitement still touched her tone. "Very well. I'll begin the process—"
"Before that," Victor interrupted smoothly, "do you take custom requests?"
"We do," she said cautiously, "though only for certain customers."
Victor gave a cool smile. "I think we qualify now, don't you?"
That made her chuckle. "Indeed. What would you like done?"
That made her chuckle. "Indeed. What would you like done?"
Victor kept his expression pleasant but firm. "Three things, primarily. First—engraving. Something elaborate. Not just initials. Crests, scripts, maybe even an emblem if possible. And preferably done in-house or by someone the maison trusts."
The woman's smile didn't falter, but she sat straighter now. This wasn't a casual buyer.
"That can be arranged. We usually use our Geneva atelier for high-detail engravings. For family emblems or crests, we would need precise references."
Victor nodded. "We'll bring those tomorrow."
She gestured lightly. "Continue."
"Second," Victor said, tapping the edge of the tray gently, "we want bespoke straps—not leather. Precious metal bracelets. White gold, rose gold, matching the casing of each piece. Set with fitted jewels—tasteful, nothing vulgar."
The woman blinked slowly, absorbing the request. "That is… quite bespoke, gentlemen."
She sat forward slightly, her tone still composed. "We don't typically offer precious metal bracelets on these models. Especially not ones set with jewels."
"There are engineering challenges?" Victor asked, though his voice made it clear he already understood the answer.
She nodded. "Several. Tailoring solid metal bracelets to specific references requires full collaboration with both our design and technical departments."
A pause.
"Adding gemstones introduces further layers. The size and cut of each stone must be perfect. The setting must be secure. And the bracelet still needs to be flexible, wearable, structurally sound."
Her eyes flicked between them. "You understand the level of customization this entails?"
Victor inclined his head. "We do. And we'll provide design outlines for the jeweling, stone placements, even clasp mechanism if needed."
"That will be essential," she said. "We'd also need to ensure the bracelets match the aesthetic and proportions of the case. No element should overpower another. Harmony is critical."
"These aren't fashion pieces," Victor said. "We want refinement. The watches must remain true to their character."
He inclined his head. "We'll provide comprehensive design outlines, ensuring a balanced and elegant integration. These are not fashion pieces; the integrity of the timepieces is our priority."
"And the stones?" she asked carefully.
"Sapphires and emeralds. Possibly a few black diamonds. All matched per watch. Subtle, not loud. We trust in Patek Philippe's expertise to execute this with the utmost refinement."
The woman nodded slowly. "Understood. I will need to schedule a detailed consultation with our specialists to discuss the feasibility, design parameters, and the significant cost and timeline associated with such a bespoke project. This would be a departure from our standard customization options, but for clients of your… significance, we are willing to explore the possibilities with the appropriate due diligence."
"And lastly," Victor said, tone even, "presentation boxes. Personalized. Lined in real velvet—crimson or navy. Carved wood, lacquered finish. No standard packaging."
This earned a small lift of her brow. "We do offer bespoke box commissions. But that may delay delivery by a few weeks. Especially if you want engraving and custom lining."
Victor glanced briefly at Harry, who hadn't moved since they sat down.
"We're not in a hurry," he said simply.
"Understood, gentlemen," the lady said, her tone now carrying a weight of serious consideration. "Based on the initial scope of your requests for engravings, bespoke precious metal bracelets with jewel settings and personalized presentation boxes, the entire process for all three timepieces could realistically come to £2 million, considering the level of detail and craftsmanship involved."
She paused, meeting Victor's gaze directly. "Given the highly customized nature of this undertaking, which deviates significantly from our standard offerings, and the substantial investment of our artisans' time and precious materials required, we would require a non-refundable advance payment of at least 50% of the estimated total cost before commencing any design work or procurement of materials. This would amount to £1 million."
Victor nodded slowly. "Thank you. If you'll excuse me for a moment," he said, turning slightly to Harry. "Perhaps my brother and I could have a quick word before we proceed?"
The lady smiled politely. "Of course. Take your time." She stepped back discreetly, allowing them a moment of privacy in the plush sitting area.
Victor lowered his voice, concern etched on his face. "Harry, are you sure about this? Two million pounds... that's an incredible amount, even for all three watches and the customizations."
Harry met his gaze, a confident glint in his eyes. "Victor, these aren't just timepieces. They're Patek Philippe. They hold their value, often appreciate. Think of it as an investment, a legacy. Besides," he added with a small, almost imperceptible smile, "some treasures are worth any price."
Victor still looked slightly hesitant, running a hand through his hair. "I... I hope you know what you're doing." He sighed softly and then reached into his coat, pulling out a checkbook.
Harry took the checkbook and quickly began to write. Victor watched him, a mixture of apprehension and resignation on his face. Once Harry was done, he handed the check to Victor.
The lady returned, her expression expectant. Victor offered her the check. "We've discussed it," he said, his voice now more resolute. "We'll pay the full amount now."
The lady's eyes widened slightly as she took the check and glanced at the sum. A professional smile quickly returned, tinged with undisguised awe. "Very well, gentlemen. I will process this immediately. I assure you, our master craftsmen will create pieces worthy of your investment."
The woman accepted the check with a gracious nod, then excused herself quietly. "I'll take this to our accounts office. Please allow me a moment." She disappeared through a discreet door near the far end of the salon.
Left alone again, Victor let out a slow breath and sank briefly into the silence, his fingers brushing the edge of the tray. Harry remained still, gazing at the timepieces one last time.
After several minutes, the soft click of heels on polished wood signaled her return. She carried nothing now—her hands clasped, expression composed.
Victor and Harry both rose instinctively.
But before they could thank her and take their leave, she spoke. "Messieurs—Monsieur Lucien Thalster, head of our bespoke division, would like to greet you personally. If you have a moment?"
Victor raised an eyebrow. "Of course."
Moments later, a tall, distinguished man entered the room. Silver at his temples, measured stride, and a presence that quietly commanded respect.
"Gentlemen," he greeted with a refined Swiss accent. "Lucien Thalberg. It is not often we receive requests of such complexity—or discretion."
He offered a light but firm handshake.
"I look forward to tomorrow's discussion. Know that your visit has not gone unnoticed. From this point on, you will be considered among our maison's valued patrons. Within the limits of what is technically and ethically possible… we will endeavour to meet your expectations."
Victor inclined his head. "That's all we ask."
Lucien gave a faint smile—subtle, but sincere. "Until tomorrow, then."
Once outside, the late afternoon sun had mellowed. Victor's black Jaguar waited by the curb, cool and silent. Neither said much as they slipped into the car.
The moment the door shut, Harry exhaled hard and burst out laughing—loud, unrestrained, almost manic.
Victor blinked. "What just happened?"
Harry leaned back in the leather seat, still catching his breath. "Mate… I can't believe that just happened."
Victor glanced at him, amused. "What part exactly? The million-pound cheque? The meeting with Lucien? Or the custom sapphire bracelets?"
"No, no," Harry waved a hand. "The fact that we walked into Patek Philippe—no appointment, no years-long waitlist, no relationship manager—and we're walking out with three watches. Three, Victor."
He shook his head in disbelief. "Do you know how insane that is? People wait years just to be offered a single piece. And most never even get one."
Victor's brow lifted. "So… it wasn't the price that shocked you?"
"Oh, please," Harry snorted. "The price was expected. But this?" He gestured back at the salon. "This is unheard of. Either we're gods… or madmen."
Victor chuckled. "Bit of both, I suspect."
Harry grinned. "And now that we've bought the smartest investment we ever could—appreciating assets, generational pieces—it's time we do something really dumb."
Victor narrowed his eyes. "How dumb?"
Harry looked at him, eyes twinkling. "The next thing we're buying? It's a depreciating asset."
Victor groaned. "Let me guess…"
"Cars, my friend," Harry said, flashing a grin. "Cars."
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Sunday night draped Hogwarts in velvet silence, stars scattered like dust across the sky. Atop the highest tower, Harry lay sprawled on the slanted roof, arms behind his head, using magic to glue himself to the roof so that he doesn't slip and fall. He was still in the same outfit he'd worn during the day—a day that could only be describer as unhinged.
Looking back, maybe he'd gone a bit overboard.
Okay... a lot.
But what else could he say? He didn't usually spend on himself, but just for today, he wanted to spoil himself. Why bother having so much money if you don't spoil yourself now and then?
In his past life, he'd curated a jaw-dropping collection of cars: over sixty cars, ranging from sleek hypercars to raw JDM legends. Not to mention his other collections—watches, cufflinks, books, paintings... A lot.
And today had felt like he slipped into that old skin again.
He chuckled, the sound lost to the wind.
Three Pateks, one Audemars Piguet and five cars.
A Bugatti EB110 in classic Blu Bugatti, Lamborghini Diablo, Porsche 911 Cabriolet, Ferrari 512 TR and the crown jewel, which cost him the most McLaren F1. He had paid almost double price for things to be a bit expedited.
After cars, he had gone and gotten himself a Audemars Piguet—cause why not? In a single day he blew almost 10 million pounds. The entire stressful situation he found himself in, with his head muddled, got cured. Now his mind was able to think of his steps forward
After that shopping spree, Harry had given Victor explicit orders to acquire two commercial buildings. One in Diagon Alley and the other in Hogsmeade.
The former would become something Hogwarts—and the wizarding world—had never seen before: a dessert bar. But not just any. An exclusive experience. Limited seats. One-time-only menus. Artistic plating. Magic-enhanced flavors. Something that would create buzz, demand… and cult-like devotion.
Hogsmeade would be different. Not for the elites.
A luxury restaurant, yes—but accessible. Warm lighting, comfort food with flair, service that made everyone feel important, whether they walked in wearing dragonhide or secondhand robes. It would be the first of its kind—a place where quality didn't mean exclusion.
And for hiring people, Harry told Victor to give priority to werewolves. Since their condition had been improved drastically, they will need to make a living. And frankly the wizarding world only had so many jobs.
And then there was the broom industry. Harry had instructed Victor to scout out broom companies that were not doing well at all and were on the verge of closing down. He told him to acquire them, quietly.
Harry had bigger plans for the broom industry, which in the long run would allow him to completely take over the broom market. If all his plans take place and he can acquire those other companies before his third year, then by the end of his third year, his fortune would have almost doubled.
Pulling out a chocolate cauldron from his pouch, Harry let his magic hum faintly beneath his skin. A gentle pulse of energy rippled outward—silent, harmless, but enough to stretch across the castle like an unseen web.
Most of Hogwarts had settled. The air inside was quiet now, thick with the soft rhythm of parchment being turned and quills scratching over homework.
His senses brushed over the Gryffindor common room.
Almost empty.
Ron and Hermione sat near the window, faces angled toward one another in what was clearly a heated debate. Harry didn't need to hear them to know they were deep in their research—likely on magical core classifications, the same project they'd been grinding away at since the end of summer.
And then, off near the kitchens, a different energy entirely. Mischief, curiosity, and the sweet scent of chocolate. Ginny. Abigail. Luna. Trying to break into the kitchen again. Of course.
Definitely Abigail's idea, Harry thought fondly as he bit into the cauldron. A rush of caramel filled his mouth.
But his thoughts remained with Ron and Hermione's research.
Up until now, he hadn't interfered. Hadn't guided. Hadn't offered insight. He knew they wanted to prove it themselves. And they were close.
Measuring magical energy was already ambitious. But trying to pair that measurement with the quality of control? That bordered on revolutionary. It was no longer just theory—it had the potential to become a true diagnostic framework for evaluating magical talent. Training. Even safety.
And they were doing it with next to no support.
A spark lit behind Harry's eyes.
They need funding. Recognition. Infrastructure.
The answer was clear.
He would speak to Dumbledore. Make it official. Not just a side project, but a funded research program under the Hogwarts banner.
Of course, the old man would need to take it to the Board of Governors.
But that wouldn't be a problem.
Not when he controlled more than half of them.
Harry popped the rest of the cauldron into his mouth and grinned faintly to himself.
Now he had a lot of things to do.