The streets of Diagon Alley were lively, the usual hum of conversation mixing with the occasional pop of apparition. It was just past 9:30 a.m., and the day had subtle signs of an impending rain.
Ron Weasley, hands in his pockets, strode purposefully out of Flourish and Blotts, making his way toward The Munchies. His mind was on custard bread—the soft, creamy kind he and Harry had absolutely demolished the last time they'd come here.
Thirty or forty should do… right? he mused. Yeah. That should last us a few days. Especially considering Harry could eat like a starving Hippogriff nowadays. A small voice in his mind reminded him that neither Hermione nor him were any better when they were focused on their research.
The bell above the door jingled softly as he entered the modest little shop. Warmth and the rich smell of butter, custard, and baked delights filled the air. Shelves lined with neatly stacked loaves, boxes of spiced buns, and trays of cookies gave the place an almost homey charm.
The shop was lively as ever, the hum of chatter filled the space as Ron stepped aside to let a pair of old witches pass. The Munchies had exploded in popularity over the last year.
Charlene, the owner, moved behind the counter with practiced ease, deft hands tying back her loose, dark curls as she took an order, gave change, and went back to get things—all in one smooth motion. Early twenties, grey eyed, quick with a smile.
Ron shuffled forward as the queue inched along, glancing around. Cozy booths hugged the walls, and despite the limited space, the place felt big, alive with magic.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted him—a young boy, maybe nine or ten, skinny but wiry, balancing a tray of steaming mugs with both hands. His ashy white hair was messy, his sleevers rolled up, face lightly flushed with effort. He weaved through the tables like a professional, deftly dodging straw elbows and swinging bags.
So that's the brother… Ron noted. He looked far too young to be working a shop this busy, yet he moved with a quiet confidence that reminded Ron, oddly, of Harry.
Finally, Ron reached the front of the line.
Charlene turned to him, wiping her hands on her apron, giving him a quick once-over before smiling faintly. "What'll it be?"
Ron grinned. "Yeah—I'll take, uh—sixty custard breads, seventy spiced buns, fifty of those treacle-filled things, a crate of butterhorns, and about 30 raisin tarts for good measure."
Silence. The entire nearby queue glanced at him like he'd grown a second head.
Charlene blinked once, processing the number. "...How many people you feeding, mate? An entire building?"
Ron snorted. "Something like that."
When it came to him, Hermione and Harry, nowadays it was almost like feeding an entire building.
Charlene did a quick calculation while using her wand to take account of the stock. After a few seconds she said, "The total comes to 213 galleons and ten sickles."
As the queue shifted behind him, Ron snapped his fingers. "Wait—forgot a few."
Charlene gave him an amused look. "Few?"
"Seventy caramel twists. Sixty chocolate puff rolls. Two crates of ginger snaps. And—oh—twenty raspberry meltaways."
A soft chuckle rippled from someone in the line behind him.
Charlene blinked, then grabbed a quill, scribbling rapidly on the parchment tally next to the till. "You feeding the entire Auror department or starting a bakery war I don't know about?"
Ron grinned. "Neither. Just... snacks for the group."
With deft, practiced ease, Charlene recalculated the total. "That brings you to… five hundred thirty galleons, four sickles."
"But first let me check the inventory," She said as she turned and went to the back.
Ron's gaze followed the boy weaving through the tables, his grip steady, but there was something else beneath the surface—power. Not wild, exactly, but unfocused. Like a wandless Lumos sparking under the skin.
"Strong," Ron muttered under his breath. The boy was stronger than most, in terms of raw power.
Charlene who had accounted for the inventory and was back at the counter, raised an eyebrow. "What's that?"
Ron tilted his head slightly toward the boy. "Your brother. Why isn't he at Hogwarts?"
Her expression faltered for the briefest moment before she composed herself. "Was going to send him," she admitted quietly, smoothing her apron. "But… we opened this shop. Took out a loan. Couldn't hire anyone else. It's just the two of us. If he went off to school, I'd be underwater."
Ron nodded slowly, lips pressing into a thin line. It made sense. Charlene wasn't older by much—early twenties at most—but she carried herself like someone who'd been made to grow up too soon. There was a certain weight behind her eyes, the kind you didn't get from homework or heartbreaks, but from carrying too much responsibility on too few shoulders.
"I see…" Ron finally murmured. "What about the inventory? Can you fill the order now?"
Charlene gave him an apologetic smile, tucking a loose curl of hair behind her ear. "Not the full order. I've got maybe a quarter of it ready. You'll have to come back tomorrow for the rest—I don't keep Auror-army-level stock just lying around."
Ron chuckled. "Fair. I'll take whatever you've got for now."
As she rang up the partial order, Ron reached into his pocket and retrieved his subspace pouch. Harry had insisted all their group members get one. Without hesitation he counted out two hundred seventy, placing them neatly on the counter. "Half now, half tomorrow when I pick up the rest."
Charlene's eyes widened slightly at the trust. "You're… alright. I'll have it ready."
After taking a few of whatever Charlene could get him, Ron turned towards the door, the heavy jingle of the shop bell followed him into the street. A slight drizzle had broken in.
Harry'll want to know about this, Ron thought. There was potential here—real potential. Charlene could churn out enough treats to put Honeydukes on notice if given the right setup, and that boy… That raw magic radiating off him wasn't normal. Harry will feel it too. And if not Harry, Fred and George will bite on this faster than a Niffler on galleons.
Ron put the snacks into his subspace pouch as he started walking toward Magic Pavilion when—
Maybe I should visit Ollivanders.
The thought drifted into his head like a whisper, light, inconsequential… but oddly persistent. He frowned. Why? He didn't need a wand. He already had one. And yet—
His feet were already turning in that direction.
Alright then. Quick visit. No harm.
The bell over the shop door chimed softly as he stepped into the dim interior. Dust motes floated in the light slicing through the high windows, shelves lined with narrow boxes running deep into the back like a forest of forgotten magic.
"Ah." A quiet voice greeted him. "Mr. Weasley."
Ollivander emerged from behind a stack of clutter, pale eyes sharp behind his wild mess of hair. His expression carried polite confusion, like someone finding a garden gnome in their pantry.
"Shouldn't you be at Hogwarts?"
"Yes, I should be sir. But I popped over through the Floo at the Magic Pavilion to grab some potion ingredients for a potion project." Ron replied with a smile. Staying with Harry he was getting better at lying with a straight face and subtle manipulations.
It wasn't entirely a lie. He could always grab something before going back.
Ollivander studied him like a chess master eyeing an opponent's unexpected move. "Is that so?"
Ron nodded awkwardly. "Yeah. Thing is… I don't even know why I came in here. Just… had this feeling, like I ought to."
That did it.
The old wandmaker's face shifted almost imperceptibly. A muscle jumped along his jaw.
"I see. If you don't mind, please wait a few minutes."
Without another word, he turned and vanished behind a curtain near the back.
Ron rocked on his heels, eyeing the mismatched stacks of boxes. Weird day, this.
When Ollivander returned, he carried a polished wooden box, about the size of a jewelry case. The moment it touched the counter, something in the air changed—subtle, but real. Like static before a lightning strike.
"I've been making… experimental pieces," Ollivander murmured, voice hushed now. "Rare materials. Odd pairings. Dangerous combinations."
He undid the clasp and slowly lifted the lid.
Inside, resting like a relic from another age, was a wand unlike any Ron had ever seen.
Jet black, its surface smooth yet speckled faintly with shimmering flecks—like stars scattered across a midnight sky. Not like polished wood, but more like some ancient cosmic artifact, a sliver of the heavens itself.
"It's beautiful," Ron murmured before he could stop himself.
"Blackthorn and yew," Ollivander supplied, voice reverent. "Infused with powdered moonstone to give it that starlit sheen. But it's the cores that make it unique."
Ron glanced at him.
"A Thunderbird feather," Ollivander whispered. "And a dragon heartstring."
Ron blinked. "That's… not exactly safe, is it?"
Ollivander's smile was tight, "No, it's a wand." The old wandmaker looked almost frail in that moment, standing over the box like a priest at an altar.
"Two of my experimental pieces have already found their owners," Ollivander murmured, almost to himself. His pale eyes flickered with something between reverence and dread. "If you don't mind… I'd like your help in testing this one."
Ron stared at it, uneasy but fascinated. There was something about the way the shimmer moved—not like light playing on polished wood, but like distant galaxies shifting with purpose.
"It's beautiful," Ron admitted softly. "But I've already got a wand, Mr. Ollivander."
The old wandmaker gave a thin, almost knowing smile. "It's not that important, Mr. Weasley. Think of it as just a simple request of an old man."
Ron hesitated. It's just a test, he told himself. Nothing binding, nothing permanent. Just hold it, give it a flick, then hand it back.
His hand moved before he'd fully decided. His fingers closed around the cool, smooth handle.
The air hummed.
A gray aura spiraled outward from his grip, swirling like smoke caught in slow motion, curling around his wrist, his forearm. The temperature dropped. Ron's breath clouded faintly in the air.
And then—everything else disappeared.
A ridge. A broken battlefield. The sky torn between worlds.
And them—the army, vast beyond reason, converging like a tidal wave of shadows and steel.
His heart hammered, but not in fear. It was exhilaration, pure and crystalline. His fingers flexed around the wand like it was an extension of his own bones. The whispers of old magic stirred in his ears, urging, beckoning.
He should run.
But he wouldn't.
Instead—he smiled.
His lips moved, breath forming the beginning of a spell, a curse—
"Deat—"
It was gone.
The ridge. The army. The power.
Ron staggered back into himself, gasping, hand still wrapped tight around the wand, knuckles white. His pulse thundered in his ears.
"Wh—what was that?"
Across from him, Ollivander looked stricken. The careful grace Ron always associated with the man—gone. In its place was something raw, something close to horror.
"That's…" The old wandmaker's voice faltered, barely more than a breath. "Impossible."
Ron's grip tightened on the wand. "What is?"
Ollivander stared at him, as if seeing not just Ron—but something beyond him. "Three experimental wands. Three chosen. And all of them…" His voice lowered. "Tied to him."
Ron's heart thudded. "Who?"
Ollivander's pale, ancient eyes met his, unblinking.
"Harry Potter."
A silence fell between them, thick and sharp like the edge of a blade.
Ron blinked, his mind reeling, the echo of that battlefield thrill still humming deep in his bones. Why? Why did everything somehow come back to Harry?
Almost as if reading his thoughts, Ollivander spoke again, quieter this time. "I began crafting these… experiments because of him. Because of Harry Potter."
Ron frowned. "Why?"
"Because I could not give him his wand."
The words were simple. But the weight behind them settled heavy in Ron's chest.
Ollivander continued, voice distant now, like recalling a shameful memory. "When Harry first came to me, I was prepared, ready to provide any wand necessary… yet I couldn't because no wand felt worthy of him. Elythral. A wand not made by me, not by human hands. A wand born from the very fabric of the anomaly that is Harry Potter."
He shook his head faintly. "It broke everything I knew of wandlore. And I… I couldn't leave it at that. I needed to understand. I needed to try."
Ron swallowed thickly. "So you made these?"
"I did. Three." Ollivander gestured shakily to the midnight wand still humming softly in Ron's hand. "Wands designed to break every rule of wandmakers. Each unique in their own sense. And now—"
"Three chosen," Ron finished for him, his voice hoarse.
"Yes. First Abigail Dursley. Then… Ginny Weasley."
Ron's stomach twisted. Ginny… He remembered now—the story she'd told him, about how no wand had worked for her at first. About how Harry had taken her to Ollivander's himself, how she'd finally found one that answered to her. Experimental. Different. And there was that odd thing she'd said—the way no one else could use her wand properly.
And now… this one. For him.
All of them tied, once again, to Harry.
The pieces felt like they were locking into place, some larger picture just out of focus, waiting.
Ron didn't know what he'd just touched.
His throat felt dry. "Is this… is this some kind of curse?" he asked, his voice quieter than he expected. "Why does everything keep coming back to Harry?"
Ollivander shook his head, slow, deliberate. "Not a curse… an inevitability."
"That's not exactly comforting."
The wandmaker gave a thin, humorless smile. "Comfort was never a guarantee when dealing with the unknown."
Ron's mind was spinning. Abigail. Ginny. Now him. All of them pulled into some swirling, invisible gravity centered around Harry bloody Potter. He almost wanted to laugh.
But something else was pushing through that swirl of confusion—an edge of something sharp. Not jealousy. Not really. But the dawning realization that he wasn't normal anymore either. And that terrified him more than anything. Living together with the anomaly, he himself was turning into one.
"You said three," Ron said suddenly, his voice firmer now. "Three experimental wands. That's all of them, yeah?"
Ollivander nodded once. "I have been preparing to attempt others, but so far... Let's just say that I don't have the slightest clue yet."
Ron exhaled slowly. He glanced down at the wand—sleek, cold black, with specks of moonlight scattered along its surface like tiny stars. It felt right. Like something lost finally returned.
He didn't want this. He hadn't asked for it. But somehow, deep down, a part of him—the part that had felt alive in that vision—was glad it had chosen him.
"You're going to tell Mr. Potter, aren't you?" Ollivander's voice was quieter now, almost reverent. As if he already knew the answer but hoped, irrationally, for a different one.
Ron swallowed, his throat dry. "I don't know yet."
For once, that was the truth. His mind was a whirlwind, possibilities colliding, none of them making sense.
"For now…" He looked down at the wand again, the black shaft shimmering faintly, as if stars were trapped beneath its surface. "I'll just take it."
Ollivander hesitated, clearly torn, then finally nodded. "It's twenty-five galleons… but if you feel burdened, you don't have to—"
Ron was already reaching for his pouch. "No. I'm paying."
He counted the coins out carefully, deliberately. Twenty-five gleaming galleons on the old wood counter. Final. No refunds. No turning back.
Ollivander didn't move to touch them.
distant war drum echoing in the bones of the world.
Without another word, he turned and walked to the door.
"Mr. Weasley," Ollivander called softly just before he stepped outside.
Ron paused, not looking back.
"Whether you tell Mr. Potter or not… just remember—no wand chooses by accident."
Ron nodded once, then stepped into the gray drizzle of Diagon Alley, the chill air biting against his skin. His fingers tightened unconsciously around the wand.
The door closed with a soft click.
Ollivander's lips parted, breath shaky, as a quiet sigh escaped him. His gaze drifted toward the counter, to the empty spot where the wand's box had sat.
"Three chosen," he murmured, voice hollow with awe and dread. "Three, all circling him. Harry Potter at the center, surrounded by friends destined for power."
He rubbed a trembling hand across his chin. "Perhaps I should make more. The boy always walks with others. Three more… to complete the shape of fate."
But as the thought took root, a colder truth slithered through his mind.
For once in his long, storied life, Garrick Ollivander had no idea how.
And that frightened him more than all the dark wizards he'd ever known.
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Hermione picked up a can of cola, inspecting the ingredients like a potion label, when her father held up another brand.
"This one too?" Mr. Granger asked, turning the can sideways to squint at the label. "Ginger fizz or something."
Hermione nodded absently, already scanning the other shelves. "Yeah, better get it. He likes variety. And… if we don't—and he comes down here on his own—he'll probably buy the entire shop instead. And that's usually bad for people's health. At least the owner's."
Her mother huffed a quiet laugh at that. "Better a shopping trip than an ICU."
They kept piling cans into the trolley. Cola, ginger fizz, orange pop, lemon tonic, vanilla cream, and even that suspicious purple one no sane person bought on purpose.
It wasn't the act of buying drinks that made this ridiculous—it was the scale. Hermione's trolley was already groaning under the weight, and this was just for the samples.
Mr. Granger was already muttering under his breath about needing a flatbed trolley next time. Mrs. Granger didn't even comment anymore; she was folding the shopping list like a resignation letter.
By the time they reached the front of the store, the cashier—a teenage boy with a bored expression—barely glanced up from his magazine until he saw the three trolleys packed with assorted soda cans rumbling toward him like an invading army.
Hermione gave him an apologetic smile. "This is just to check flavors. We'll be placing an actual order in a moment."
"An… actual… order?" the cashier echoed, confused.
"Yes. Seven crates of each flavor, please. Delivered, if possible."
Silence.
The poor boy processed that like someone trying to remember if breathing was optional.
Then he fainted.
Just straight over. Limp. Gone.
Mrs. Granger gasped. "Oh—oh, the poor dear!"
Mr. Granger knelt immediately to check his pulse, sighing as he realized the lad had simply passed out from shock. "Honestly, Hermione, you shouldn't drop that kind of news on teenagers. They don't handle logistics very well."
Hermione, to her credit, tried to look concerned. She really did. But the snort slipped out anyway, and then she was laughing silently, biting her lower lip to stop herself from doubling over.
"I don't.." she managed between suppressed giggles, "think he fainted due to logistics, Dad."
A manager emerged from the back, alerted by the sudden lack of checkout noises. One glance at the scene—the collapsed cashier, the mountain of soft drinks, Mr. Granger checking vitals like it was a Sunday hobby—and he looked like he might faint too.
The manager—a wiry man in his forties with thinning hair and the haunted look of someone who once dreamed of peace—stopped dead.
Mrs. Granger stepped in smoothly, ever the professional. "Don't worry about him. My husband's a dentist, and our daughter's… well…" she trailed off delicately, as if unsure whether to say wizard or disaster. "We'll pay for damages."
Mr. Granger replied after checking for head injury. "No damages yet, dear."
"Give it a minute," Mrs. Granger muttered.
The manager, a middle-aged man with thinning hair and the unmistakable air of someone severely underpaid for situations like this, hurried over, crouching beside the fallen cashier.
"George? George, can you hear me?"
The boy gave a weak groan, eyes fluttering open like someone emerging from a bad dream involving spreadsheets.
"Bloody hell," he muttered. "I dreamed I was working at a soda factory…"
The manager gave a relieved huff. "You're at Till Three, George. Not quite a factory yet." He glanced up at the Grangers with a practiced smile stretched thin over confusion. "Apologies. Bit of a… shock to the system. We're short-staffed today."
Mr. Granger, still kneeling by George, patting his shoulder. "Good lad. Just breathe. Happens to the best of us."
Hermione carefully stepped back and sent a small invisible healing charm towards the boy with a flick of her finger.
"We can move to another till if that's easier," Mrs. Granger offered kindly. "We're not in a rush."
The manager stood, dusting his hands on his trousers. "No, no, it's fine. I'll take care of you myself."
With a flick of a practiced hand, he logged into the register, nudging George gently toward a nearby chair. The teenager staggered upright with dignity only teenagers could pretend to have after fainting.
As crate after crate of cans rolled forward, beep by beep, the manager finally gave them a sidelong look. curiosity beating down his customer service instincts.
"Big gathering, is it?" he asked lightly, scanning yet another suspicious purple soda.
Mrs. Granger smiled brightly, the kind of smile that could sell modest houses to ambitious couples. "School event. Party. Lots of students. An entire week. Big appetite for sugary nonsense these days."
"Ah, that makes sense." The manager relaxed immediately. "Reunion or something?"
"Exactly. A reunion but also an annual event kind of thing. It's quite bit late this time considering it usually happens in February." she replied smoothly.
"Must be quite the bash."
"You have no idea," Mr. Granger muttered under his breath, catching Hermione's eye. She bit back another laugh.
By the time the total came up, it was a number that would've made lesser wallets cry. Mr. Granger handed over the payment card.
"Delivery okay?" the manager asked, taking the details.
"Perfect," Mrs. Granger said, folding the receipt neatly into her handbag like she was putting away confidential state documents.
George gave them a small thumbs-up from his chair. Hermione returned it with a grin.
Mr. Granger took back the payment card with a quiet, pained sigh as the receipt printed endlessly like some kind of punishment scroll. Hundred and forty crates of soda. Hundred and forty. He did a rough calculation in his head and gave a soft, miserable grunt.
"Nearly fifteen hundred pounds," he muttered, sliding the card back into his wallet like someone sealing a wound. "For fizzy drinks."
Mrs. Granger patted his arm with practiced sympathy. "It's for a good cause."
"It's for cavities," he replied flatly.
They walked toward the exit, Hermione pushing the empty trolley, the weight of curious stares trailing after them like confetti after a parade.
By the time they reached the parking lot, Mr. Granger practically collapsed into the driver's seat, gripping the wheel like it might suddenly demand more money.
Hermione slid into the back, still smiling faintly.
"Relax, Dad. Harry'll pay you back."
"That's not necessary—"
"It is," Hermione cut in firmly. "Not because you can't afford it, but because if you don't let him pay you back, he's going to do something worse."
"Worse?" her mother asked, eyebrow raised as she buckled in.
Hermione gave a helpless laugh. "He's the kind of person who might… I don't know… Like he might just buy you a car. Just to make sure we didn't feel awkward about the drinks."
Silence filled the car.
"Don't be ridiculous," Mr. Granger finally said, although he didn't sound entirely convinced. "That's absurd."
Hermione leaned forward, resting her elbows on the seat. "Is it, though? You do realize Harry's—well—rich. How else do you think he developed his "few" notion."
Her parents glanced at each other, confusion flickering between them.
"I don't mean pocket money rich," Hermione continued, folding her arms. "The Potters… they're the second richest magical family in Britain. And not to mention that he has his father and his godfather behind him."
"How rich are we talking?" Mrs. Granger asked cautiously.
Hermione shrugged. "Multiple billions, if you convert it to pounds."
More silence. This one heavier, like a collective lung failure.
"I mean, you wouldn't know it. He doesn't act it. Hates spending on himself, actually. But—" she tapped the back of her father's seat lightly, "—if you don't let him pay you back, he's going to overcompensate, and believe me when I say. That guy loves spending."
Mr. Granger let out a long, slow breath. "Billions."
"Tens of billions," Hermione confirmed, deadpan.
Mrs. Granger blinked at the dashboard. "Is that before or after taxes?"
Hermione lost it. She laughed so hard she nearly doubled over between the seats. "Mum—there are no taxes on vaults. That's not how wizarding money works."
"Well," Mr. Granger grunted, pulling out of the parking lot, "there should be."
"Tell that to the goblins."
He stared straight ahead. "I might."
Mrs. Granger just shook her head, amused despite herself. "Well, I hope he enjoys his soda."
Hermione leaned back, grinning. "Oh don't worry, this will probably last about a month. You see he didn't just order for himself, he ordered for seven of us. Well, eight if you count Luna."
The Grangers drove on, faintly traumatized, mildly amused—and entirely unprepared for just how absurd life was going to get.