The small work lab in the Room of Requirement was buzzing with clinking and thuds. At one table, Ron was bent over the disassembled shell of a silver ring. There was a small holographic projection from it, and his wand was hovering just above the runes. "Fred and George really had no idea what they made here?" he murmured, the faintest note of awe in his voice. "This thing shouldn't even exist—it stores a spell and casts it instantly at a single tap. That's... shouldn't even be possible."
He was still unable to wrap his mind around the fact that his brother's created this as a mistake.
Hermione, hunched over a book of runes on the floor with her chin propped on her palm, poked a small gear-like charm on the floor. "Yeah, but it's brilliant. If it can store magic spells, maybe we can work out how it measures the magic going in. That's basically step one of our ranking idea, isn't it?"
Ron glanced up from the ring, brows furrowed. "Yeah, exactly. If we can figure out how it gauges the strength of the spell before storing it, we could tweak that to read raw magical energy instead of just... well, parroting it back."
Hermione closed the book and shifted closer, eyes flicking to the faint, shifting runes around the ring's inner band. "It's not just storing the spell, though. Look—these secondary runes here, they're... adjusting. Like it's recalibrating based on the caster's power. That's not standard rune behaviour at all."
Ron chuckled, "Well it's been Harry'd. The twins told us didn't they, that they had created the shell and the basic thing, but Harry had refined it in like 5 minutes or so."
Hermione sighed slightly at that. "Right... I suppose that explains the complication of this entire magic system. Harry tends to... bend rules that are supposed to be unbendable."
Ron smirked, still peering into the delicate etching. "Yeah, and somehow doesn't blow up the castle while doing it." He tapped one of the runes gently with his wand tip, watching it ripple faintly like ink in water. "If this part is reading the strength of the magic before storing it, that's basically the bit we need for our scale."
Hermione leaned in, eyes narrowing in thought. "Ron... remember the time Harry told us about the pizza?"
Ron blinked, lowering his wand. "Yeah… that was mental. He basically booby-trapped breakfast."
Hermione's eyes gleamed. "Not booby-trapped—automated. Think about it: those spells weren't just firing randomly. Each one was triggered by a set of conditions—movement, time, even oven temperature. The magic didn't just act, it reacted."
Ron tilted his head, starting to follow. "Yes, now that you mention it, he didn't create a single large spell that would make the pizza once Mr. or Mrs. Dursley came downstairs..."
Hermione completed his sentence, "He had set up a series of spell that made the impossible possible. From listening on for movement on the stairs to sending the pizza to the oven to taking it out."
Ron's brow furrowed in thought. "You know, maybe we are going it in the wrong way. We are trying to create a single system that would measure someone's magical energy, check it against the levels and display it..."
Hermione smiled faintly, "Yeah... what if we do what he did and break the process into bits that fit together into a system?"
Ron's eyes lit up with the same kind of dawning excitement that usually came just before one of Fred and George's worst (or best) ideas. "Right—like, one bit to sense the magic, one bit to interpret it, and another to display it. Doesn't even have to be in the same object at first."
Hermione nodded quickly, already flipping to a blank page in her notes. "Exactly. That way, if one part fails, we can adjust it without rebuilding the whole thing. It's modular—like the pizza system."
Ron grinned. "Merlin's beard, I never thought I'd say this, but we might end up measuring magical power because Harry wanted warm pizza without getting caught."
Hermione's quill scratched furiously. "More like he wanted to make pizza for his parents right when they came down... And if his ring's runes are already handling the sensing bit, maybe we can tweak it to our need..."
Ron's face brightened at once. "That means the only part we need to focus on is how to sense the magical energy inside someone's magical core. Rest of the stuff we can build easily."
Hermione nodded, tapping the side of the ring thoughtfully. "Yes… but that's the most delicate part. A magical core isn't something you can just poke at without consequences. If we push too hard, we could destabilise the person's magic—or worse, drain it."
Ron winced. "Yeah, I'm not exactly keen on exploding anyone's insides. But… maybe we don't have to touch the core directly. Maybe we can measure the resonance it gives off when a witch or wizard channels magic. Kind of like—"
"—reading the heat off a fire without sticking your hand in," Hermione finished, eyes lighting up. "Yes, that could work."
"Think we should ask Harry for help?", Ron quipped.
Hermione shook her head, "Knowing him, he can and will create the entire thing in a day and also let us have all the credit. But—"
"—that won't be our work." Ron continued.
Hermione sat back, tapping her quill against her notes. "You know… maybe we park the core-reading bit for now."
Ron blinked. "But that's the hardest part—"
"Exactly," she cut in. "We've been stuck on it for months. If we get the rest of the system built first—interpretation, output, calibration—we'll have something tangible. Something we can slot the reader into later. Progress, Ron. We need to actually see progress."
Ron considered, then gave a slow grin. "Alright. We build the frame first… then figure out how to power it."
"Exactly," Hermione said, already sketching the rough architecture.
Ron leaned back, eyeing the half-dismantled ring. "Merlin's beard… we might actually do this."
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The corner of the Gryffindor common room had been claimed as theirs—an island of cushions, butterbeer bottles, and half-eaten treacle tarts. The fire crackled softly, but the mood was far from warm.
"They're all doing something," Ginny said, twirling the neck of her bottle between her palms. "Fred and George have their shop booming. Ron and Hermione are building some magic-ranking system that could change the entire world. And Harry…" she trailed off, grimacing. "Well, he's just being Harry."
"Changing things piece by piece until there's nothing left to change," Daphne muttered, crossing her legs neatly. "Moonsbane Elixir. Curing eyesight. All before he's even of age."
Abigail stared into the fire, her jaw tight. "I'm proud of him. I am. But—" she hesitated, the words heavy, "—I can feel him getting further ahead. If I wanted, I could ask for credit for something he's done, and he'd give it to me without blinking. But that wouldn't be mine."
Luna, sitting cross-legged on the floor, tilted her head dreamily. "Then you shouldn't take it. It would taste wrong."
"Exactly." Abigail sighed. "I don't want to be the sister who rides on her brother's coattails."
Pansy set down her butterbeer with a soft clink. "So, what do we actually have? Daphne's good at finance. I'm good with charms. Luna…"
"Being Luna," Luna said cheerfully.
"…Yes. Ginny's got potions. I've got business sense," Abigail added, "and enough magic to hold my own."
Their discussion continued for a while about needing to do something, trying to brainstorm ideas.
The portrait hole swung open. Harry stepped through, his robes faintly dusted with potion residue.
His gaze swept the room until it landed on them. Without hesitation, he crossed the floor and dropped into the empty space between Ginny and Abigail.
"You lot still moping about being left behind?" he asked casually, like he was just sitting with them the entire time.
Nobody answered.
Harry leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Good. Because I've got something for you. And before you say anything — no, this isn't charity. This is business."
That got their attention.
"I've just finished perfecting the eyesight potion," he continued. "The real one. Works permanently. Can't store it for long — you have to brew and deliver it on demand." He looked at Ginny. "I want you to take the recipe. Patent it. Under the name Phoenix Covenant."
Pansy blinked. "What's that?"
"A group," Harry said. "I'll fill in later. But this isn't under my name, not under Potter, or Dursley, or any of your names. The Covenant will be its own entity—one we are board members of. That means that if something ever goes sideways with my plans and they decide to drag me into court, this money is untouchable. It's not mine. It's not yours. It's the Covenant's."
Abigail frowned. "Why?"
"Asset diversification Abby," Harry said simply, "I don't like having all my assets in one basket. Diversification. And I'd rather that backup nest egg be untouchable."
Daphne sat forward, her eyes sharpening. "So what's the plan?"
Harry unrolled a folded sheet of parchment, covered in tidy columns and arrows.
"Step one," he said, tapping the top. "Sell the potion. Keep quality perfect, charge a premium. Step two: use the profits to buy muggle real estate. Apartments, shops, whatever gives steady rental income. Step three: invest part of the profits into magical and muggle stocks — I've got a starter list. Step four: once we own ten properties outright, we start expanding into more potions. I've got more recipes for when you're ready."
Ginny's mouth curved into a grin despite herself. "And the vault?"
"Separate vault at Gringotts under the Covenant's name," Harry confirmed. "All of you are beneficiaries. Money flows through there, not my accounts. The Covenant will also own a shell company in another country, which will own another company somewhere else. No Ministry paper-pusher will be able to trace it cleanly."
For a moment, no one spoke. The fire crackled softly in the grate, painting shadows across their faces.
"This is… ambitious," Daphne finally said, running her gaze over the parchment like it was a treasure map. "And you've already got the numbers worked out."
Harry smirked. "That's the easy part. The hard part is keeping it running without me holding your hand. This is your show. I'll give you the start—the recipe, the structure, and a few connections—but the day-to-day? That's all you."
Pansy tilted her head. "And if we mess it up?"
"Try your best not to," Harry replied. "Knowing you lot, you'll figure it out fast enough. You've got brains, resources, and the entire pureblood networking. Use it."
Ginny gave a sharp nod. "We'll make it work."
Abigail still hadn't looked away from the parchment. "You're giving us… everything we asked for without us even asking."
Harry's expression hardened. "Yes, I am Abby. And before you say it's charity. It's not. I can give you thousands of business ideas, but executing an idea is completely different than having one."
Luna, still braiding the yarn, murmured, "It'll grow into something bigger than you expect."
Harry glanced at her, something unreadable passing through his eyes. "That's the point."
He rolled the parchment and handed it to Abigail. "Also rope Victor in. He should be back from his vacation by now. He will get the setup ready. Ginny, start thinking about a brewing setup that can almost automate most of the stuff and can handle on-demand orders without bottlenecks."
Turning to Daphne, "You start scouting out the properties, use someone you trust since, you cannot do it yourself—muggle side first."
Looking at Pansy, "Use the pureblood connections discreetly, to start the rumor that an eye-sight correcting potion is about to appear in the market."
"Abby handle the logistics, have Victor help you. Luna..."
"I'll make sure it doesn't grow the wrong way," she said, tucking her braid over her shoulder.
Harry gave a half-smile. "Good."
"I want the entire structure to be up by the time we head for the vacation. That gives you roughly two weeks. This is where the race starts guys!"
Without another word, he headed towards the portrait again, leaving the girls in a stunned but electric silence.
Ginny exhaled slowly. "Two weeks."
Daphne's gaze was still on the parchment in Abigail's hands. "No… that was just the timeline for us. He's been working this out for months."
Pansy gave a short, almost nervous laugh. "Merlin. He's playing three games at once, and we're just now being handed one of the boards."
Abigail traced the neat, interlocking arrows on the parchment, her throat tight. This wasn't charity. This was strategy.
Luna finally broke the silence, her voice calm but oddly sharp. "He plants seeds so far ahead, you forget they're his until the forest starts growing."
Nobody answered. But the same thought flickered in all of their minds, cold and undeniable—
If this was just a side project, what else had he already set in motion?
Harry didn't bother glancing at the startled faces around him. His mind was elsewhere, running numbers and possibilities.
He had no idea who was backing Lilith—government, rogue faction, or someone else—but he wasn't about to take chances.
He needed redundancies. Gold in Gringotts was safe, but only until it wasn't. Properties were something that wouldn't be affected since he wouldn't own any of them. It would be of the company whose board member he was and that company was under another company in different country. In this way he was keeping a safe route for himself if anything went south and he was somehow unable to kill Lilith.
It wasn't paranoia—it was survival.
Sometimes things never went the way you wanted. The key was seeing the knife before it slid between your ribs.
His steps carried him down Hogwarts' long, echoing corridor, but he wasn't really there. The candlelight blurred into soft gold streaks, the hum of students chatter fading into nothing. The next thing he knew, he'd made a decision.
He was going to get Hagrid's name cleared by tomorrow morning.
His mind started churning as he made his way towards the Room of Requirements. What would he need to do to make sure that this goes through smoothly?
Lucius, you will convene a board meeting right now. He pictured the man's sneer, but then again—he was changed now. Make them sign a petition for reopening Hagrid's case. The rest of you will agree, stating that new evidence has surfaced proving Hagrid never opened the Chamber of Secrets.
No debate, no delays. The Governors' signatures would be on that parchment within the hour.
Once it's signed, Lucius, you will Floo directly to Dumbledore and hand-deliver it. Tell him the Board unanimously demands a retrial of the case.
Another thread pulled. A second copy goes to Amelia Bones. That one will be taken by one of the other governors — someone less politically radioactive than you.
His stride didn't falter as the Room opened for him and his mind slid to the next piece.
Umbridge, he ordered, a governor will be arriving shortly to see Amelia Bones. You will see to it they bypass all Ministry bureaucracy. No names in any ledger, no whispers to the press. This meeting never happened.
He added one more thought on top, tightening the net: Suggest to Amelia that the matter should be resolved quietly, without public announcement. The Ministry hated messy headlines — the moment she saw this as a PR problem, she'd be hesitant about going through.
He started ruffling through the desk to find the things he needed while adding another line for Umbridge: For confirmation, send someone to interview Moaning Myrtle. She'll say it herself—it wasn't the Acromantula, and it wasn't Hagrid.
When he found the things he needed, he put them into his pouch and turned back to make his way to the kitchen. His mind quickly thought of a backup and he issued another order to Umbridge.
The next corridor stretched before him, footsteps silent. A diversion took shape in his head. Amelia should hold a press conference tomorrow about the Weasley twins' magic ring deal. Give the Prophet something shiny to chase.
By the time he reached the far stairs, every player in the chain had their role carved into their thoughts, ready to act without knowing why.
If all went to plan, by tomorrow evening Hagrid would walk free. Expulsion revoked.
And no one—not Dumbledore, not the Ministry, not even Hagrid himself—would know whose hand had moved the board.
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Saturday, 12th December 1992
Darkness stretched endlessly, threaded with faint motes of silver light. The air was still—too still—until it shivered. Harry turned, and there he was again.
His eyes opened to gold.
The world around him swayed with wheat higher than his shoulders, every stalk crowned with a shimmer of sunlight that didn't hurt to look at. A soft breeze carried the scent of rain and wildflowers, bending the sea of grain into waves. Above, the sky was too perfect, every cloud a painter's deliberate brushstroke.
And standing a few paces ahead, framed by the horizon, was her.
Rea.
No—he blinked hard—the face was the same, the tilt of the smile almost identical, but the weight behind the gaze was different. Older. Wilder. Timeless. Praesidius.
Harry's gut twisted with that old ache, but he forced it down. "Why am I here?"
Praesidius tilted her head, amused. "That is what I would ask you. I didn't call you here."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Then I just… showed up?"
"It appears so."
Harry huffed, looking around at the dreamlike perfection. "Figures. My dreams are bizarre anyway. I tend to end up in places I shouldn't."
That drew a small smile from her. "Walk with me."
They moved side by side through the whispering fields, the grain parting without touch. Harry's boots made no sound against the earth, and the sky above them deepened to a richer blue with every step.
"The little… performance you gave in Dumbledore's office," Praesidius said suddenly, tone light but edged with curiosity, "when you pretended I had taken hold of you. That was… interesting."
Harry's mouth quirked into a sheepish grin. "Thought it was the best way to get him moving. He's too good at keeping things to himself. I figured if 'you' told him to start sharing information, he'd listen."
"I don't mind," she said, voice warm with laughter. "It was quite fun to watch. I enjoyed it a great deal."
Harry's grin froze. Watch?
He glanced at her sidelong. "Wait—you said watch. You mean you can… see everything?"
"Yes," she replied simply, as if discussing the weather.
Harry let that sit for a beat, then decided against prying into all the embarrassing moments that might entail. "Right… well… anyway."
His mind jumped tracks. "Voldemort's horcruxes—"
"I cannot tell you," she interrupted gently. "The pact forbids us from guiding mortals directly."
Harry frowned, but she went on. "But I will say this—Dumbledore is on the right path. Two have already been destroyed. Basilisk venom."
That earned a blink from Harry. "Two already? Well… that's impressive."
He let the topic drop—sort of. "Alright, then. What about Lilith and the people backing her?"
Praesidius's lips curved into an almost-mirthful smile, her eyes glinting with something Harry couldn't quite name. "By the end of your second year, you will know all about them… and more besides."
A faint shiver slid down his spine, though the golden wheat whispered on as if nothing had passed between them.
They walked on in easy silence, the wheat giving way to low green grass and bursts of wildflowers. The air here felt different—thicker, warmer, carrying the scent of honey and pine.
Ahead, nestled between two great willow trees, sat a cottage. Its walls were pale stone, veined with ivy, and the roof was a living quilt of moss and blooming herbs. Smoke curled lazily from a crooked chimney, drifting up into a sky that had softened to a painter's twilight.
Praesidius reached the door first. She didn't knock. With a faint smile, she pulled it open and stepped aside. "Go on."
Harry hesitated, then stepped inside.
It was… breathtaking. The space glowed with a golden light that didn't seem to come from any single source. Shelves laden with books, jars of pressed flowers, and crystal vials lined the walls. A rug the color of autumn leaves lay before a crackling hearth, and the air hummed with the faint, comforting sound of bees outside.
But none of that held his attention.
At the center of the room, seated at a small round table, was a woman sipping tea.
Harry stopped breathing.
She was… he didn't even have the words. No artist could have painted her, no poet captured her. Her hair shifted in hue like a field in changing light—gold, copper, ash, and something entirely other. Her eyes were deep ocean blue, catching the light in a way that reminded him of sunlight dancing across gentle waves.
And then she smiled.
It was the kind of smile that undid you. It was a warm embrace from a mother he could remember, a reassurance that every storm had passed, that everything—absolutely everything—was right in the world.
Harry's legs felt locked in place. His mouth opened, but nothing came out.
Behind him, Praesidius chuckled, the sound edged with fond amusement. "You're staring, Harry."
He blinked, realizing he probably was. His cheeks warmed, but he still couldn't look away.
Praesidius moved to the table with the ease of someone entirely at home here. "Harry," she said, her voice carrying that faintly amused lilt again, "this is my friend." She didn't give a title, didn't speak a name—just my friend—as though that alone should be enough.
Harry didn't answer. He couldn't. His eyes refused to leave the woman before him.
The lady's smile deepened, and with an unhurried grace, she extended a hand toward him. Before Harry could move, Elythral appeared there as though summoned from his very soul. The wand's silver-veined wood glimmered in the golden light, pulsing like a heartbeat—fast, insistent, almost… joyful.
Her fingers curled around it with the tenderness of one greeting an old friend. "And how has my creation served you?" she asked, her voice like rain on leaves, soft but carrying.
Harry opened his mouth. Something came out, but it wasn't… words. Not real ones, anyway. The syllables tumbled uselessly, a half-formed thought that never quite reached sense.
Nature chuckled softly, returning Elythral to him. "I'm glad it's been faithful."
He took it automatically, his gaze never leaving her face. One word slipped past his lips, unbidden. "Beautiful…"
Her expression softened, and for an instant it felt like the world itself leaned closer. "Thank you," she said simply, and the warmth in her tone made the compliment feel like it had been returned to him, multiplied.
Harry just nodded dumbly, still rooted to the spot, still unable to stop staring.
Behind him, Praesidius burst into laughter. "Oh, not again," she said, shaking her head. "You've gone and done it, haven't you? Another mortal, hopelessly ensnared. Can't think straight, can't speak straight—just standing there like he's been hexed."
Nature's smile turned just the tiniest bit sly. "Perhaps he simply appreciates what is before him."
"Oh, I've seen that look before," Praesidius teased. "You've captivated him completely. Poor thing doesn't stand a chance."
Praesidius was still smirking when Harry did something that stopped both women cold. He slapped himself.
A sharp, clean smack echoed in the cozy air of the cottage.
Harry blinked, rubbing his cheek. He wasn't even sure why he'd done it—only that some stubborn part of him had screamed wake up and he'd listened. He shook his head once, twice, forcing the warm haze from his mind.
When he lifted his gaze to Nature again, it was different. The impossible beauty was still there—more than there—but now it was like looking at sunlight from behind a pane of glass. He could see it, appreciate it… but it no longer ruled him.
For a moment, surprise flickered across her features. Then, slowly, her lips curved into a knowing smile. "It was to be expected," she said softly, "from his reincarnation."
Praesidius gave a single, almost solemn nod. "That does explain it."
Harry's brow furrowed. "His? Who—?"
Before he could finish, Nature raised one elegant hand and made the smallest gesture.
The cottage, the table, the scent of tea—all of it vanished in a blink.