Harry stirred awake in his bed at the Dursley Mansion. The morning light filtered through the tall windows, painting faint golden stripes across the carpet. Silence blanketed the house—a silence and peace that accompanied the start of every vacation. No rush of students, no Gryffindor common room chatter, only the stillness of home.
But his mind wasn't calm.
Yesterday's memory pressed in before he'd even fully sat up: the common room dim with firelight, Lilith in that armchair, her voice smooth and mocking, and his own words—sharp as a blade.
"I wouldn't change a single expression if you were to die in front of me."
The line echoed with brutal clarity. He rubbed his temple, frowning. Why had he said it like that? Her smirk had faltered, just for a moment, and beneath it he'd caught something raw—loneliness, pain. And yet, instead of easing off, he'd doubled down.
Harry exhaled sharply and swung his legs out of bed. Dwelling on her wasn't worth it. She wanted to get under his skin, and clearly, she had. Best to move past it.
He padded across the marble floor into the en suite bathroom. Steam soon fogged the mirror as hot water cascaded down his back. Still, even under the hiss of the shower, the words replayed.
"I wouldn't change a single expression if you were to die in front of me."
It struck harsher in memory than when it had left his mouth. For a moment, guilt threatened to creep in—but he shrugged it off. He could apologise when he meets her again. Although he doubted he would be able to since she was rather irritating and knew exactly how to get under his skin.
By the time he stepped out, toweling his hair, the mansion was stirring faintly—Abigail's distant laughter floated up from the lower floors. Harry ignored the lingering ache in his chest and walked into his spacious walk-in closet.
The scent of cedar greeted him as he scanned the neatly arranged rows of clothes and shelves. His eyes landed on the slim case etched with the phoenix crest: Aether. Inside, the rose-gold Patek 3974 gleamed, its morganites catching the morning light.
Harry smiled. It was the first time he had the time to wear this after taking the delivery. He had the other two on the shelves as well, but today was 3974's day. He decided to go all black today and quickly put on a black t-shirt, coupled with black jeans and sneakers.
After dressing up, he slid the watch onto his wrist and with a snap of his fingers, he cast a protective charm, ensuring the watch would remain unblemished and would remain protected from anything and everything.
For a moment, he just looked at it. This wasn't a gift pushed into his hands. This was his—his choice, his emblem. The first timepiece of this life he could truly claim. He had also had many watches in his previous life, but never had indulged in getting them himself. They were all gifted to him and although he had loved them all, there was a special charm about something that you buy yourself.
The mansion hummed gently with life below, Christmas at home stretching out ahead of him. Harry adjusted the cuff of his sleeve over the watch and let a faint smile tug at his lips, and made his way downstairs, disapparating mid-step and appearing right outside the dinning hall.
He pushed the doors open.
Conversation halted instantly.
Every eye turned to him.
Harry stepped inside, clad in a perfectly tailored black ensemble—sharp, minimal, commanding. The rose-gold Patek on his wrist caught the light, throwing a glint that seemed almost deliberate.
At Hogwarts, he'd always been carefully cloaking himself with glamour to tone things down, ever since his last birthday. Without it, his presence would have been a distraction, a weapon even. Lilith was already one such person, he didn't need to be the other. But here, at home, he hadn't bothered. And the effect was... devastating.
The room froze.
Daphne's lips parted, words caught in her throat. Pansy went scarlet, fingers clutching her fork too tightly. Luna tilted her head dreamily, as though she were seeing a constellation instead of a boy. Tonks choked on her pumpkin juice, eyes wide. Ginny's freckled cheeks blazed crimson, and Hermione, usually so composed, blinked rapidly, flustered. Even Ron, the twins, and Percy—every Weasley brother present—sat gaping, struck dumb.
Victor, freshly back from vacation, simply stared. For a man used to handling Harry, he looked utterly blindsided.
And then there were the adults.
Petunia chuckled, shaking her head, pride glittering in her eyes. Vernon smirked knowingly, puffing out his chest as if Harry's aura reflected on him, too. Sirius leaned back with a wolfish grin and shot him a thumbs-up. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley exchanged a stunned glance, clearly not expecting James Potter's son—or Lily's, for that matter—to outshine every memory they had of either parent.
The silence stretched until Harry broke it with the same calm composure he wore like armor.
"Good morning," he said simply, his voice low, even.
The girls only blushed harder. The boys shifted awkwardly, some trying and failing to mimic composure. The adults managed weak smiles, but most of the table just… nodded, unable to muster words.
Harry raised a brow, faint amusement flickering across his face at the effect he apparently had. He walked casually to his seat, and turning to see everyone.
He blinked once. Twice. Then his brow furrowed.
Hold on. Since when was she—
A faint crease formed between his brows. He searched his memory, replaying the last few weeks in rapid flashes. She had been there—during late-night discussions, at meals, even tagging along when they walked around the castle. Somehow, she blended seamlessly into the edges of his circle, her sharp tongue curiously dulled, her presence never abrasive enough to draw attention.
Pansy Parkinson was a member of their group?
Yet now, seeing her settled in like one of his own, the realization hit him squarely.
How long have you been here?
His mind whispered the words, though his lips never moved. Stranger still was the lack of resistance in him. No irritation. No sense of wrongness. If anything, it felt... natural. As if his group had always had this configuration.
That unsettled him more than her presence.
Why don't I find this abnormal? Why don't I feel the need to question it?
Weird. Still he kept his expression carefully schooled, offering no hint of oddness. With a slight shake of his head, Harry pulled a few breakfast burritos onto his plate and returned to his food, though his thoughts lingered on the Slytherin girl who somehow became a part of his group without him ever noticing the moment it happened.
For now he decided to let go—not that him not letting go would do any good by looking at the interaction she was having with Hermione of all people.
As he was halfway through his third breakfast burrito, the twins got up in unison.
"Okay guys, we both are off to Gringotts. We have a vacation to set up after all."
Percy cleared his throat as the twins straightened. "I'll come along. Best someone keeps you two from trying to turn a Gringotts clerk into your next test subject."
The twins exchanged a glance, grinned, and shrugged in perfect unison.
"Fair enough."
And just like that, the three of them were gone. The twins vanished soundlessly, but Percy's Apparition carried the faint crack of inexperience. Harry's lips twitched. Still not quite there, Percy.
The silence that followed was broken by Hermione, who leaned toward him. "Harry, do you have any plans for the day?"
He swallowed a bite of his burrito before replying evenly, "Not really."
Hermione brightened. "Perfect. I was thinking of taking the girls to my house—Daphne and Pansy wanted to see it."
Harry paused mid-chew, brow faintly furrowing. Haven't they been there already? The thought drifted lazily through his mind, but he didn't voice it. If Hermione said they hadn't, then fine. He was more interested in the keys sitting in his bedroom back at Moonstone Dunvegan—the cars in the garage were calling.
"Take Ron with you as well," Harry said instead, setting down his fork. "I'll meet you there later."
Hermione nodded, already slipping into planning mode.
Harry turned his gaze to Sirius. "You?"
Sirius stretched his arms with a smirk. "Needed at the Elysium today. Business never sleeps."
Harry inclined his head, then shifted to Vernon, who gave him a pointed look over his teacup.
"I've got a matter at the research facility," Vernon said smoothly.
Harry caught the unspoken message behind the words—Magitech. He nodded once, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in understanding.
Petunia smiled faintly when his eyes found hers. "I'm headed for Hogsmeade as well, dear."
Harry exhaled softly, leaning back in his chair. Everyone scattering in their own directions.
Arthur and Molly rose next, Molly tugging gently on her husband's sleeve. "We should get back to the Pavilion. The shop won't run itself."
Arthur chuckled, giving Harry an encouraging nod as the two of them excused themselves.
Then suddenly, Harry remembered Tonks. He turned toward her, and she met his gaze with a small smile.
"Got anything planned today?" he asked.
Tonks shook her head, pink hair bouncing slightly. "Nope. Day off from Auror training too."
Harry's lips curved into a rare smirk. "Finally. You're coming with me, then."
Her brows lifted. "Where are we going?"
"The Muggle world," Harry said smoothly, finishing the last of his burrito. "Your Auror experience might come in handy."
Tonks tilted her head, curiosity sparking in her eyes. "When are we leaving?"
Harry pushed back his chair and stood, wiping his hands. "Now."
The abruptness left her momentarily stunned, but she quickly recovered. "Alright then."
Harry crossed the table with unhurried confidence, took her hand, and glanced at the others. "I'll see you at Hermione's place in a few hours."
They all nodded, though several pairs of eyes lingered on him longer than necessary. Without another word, Harry Disapparated with Tonks—his departure utterly silent.
They reappeared a heartbeat later outside a grand stone manor, its spires and chimneys rising against the morning sky. Moonstone Dunvegan's porte-cochère, the front doors loomed ahead, dark wood gleaming faintly in the morning light.
Tonks looked around, brow furrowing. "This doesn't exactly look like the Muggle world."
Harry's smirk deepened. "It's not." He gestured casually to the sweeping estate around them. "It's my estate. The Potters'."
Tonks turned to him with a mix of awe and confusion. "Then why are we here? I thought we were going to Muggle London."
"Oh, we are," Harry smirked, striding toward the left path that curved away from Moonstone Dunvegan's grand front doors. "We're just going in style."
Tonks followed, boots crunching on the stone, and when the wall of glass came into view she stopped dead in her tracks.
It wasn't a showroom. Not exactly. It was a garage, if the word even applied to something like this. Behind floor-to-ceiling panes of enchanted glass gleamed machines unlike anything she'd seen outside a Muggle magazine. Each car sat on its own circular pedestal, slowly revolving, the bodywork bathed in soft lights that highlighted every perfect curve, every gleam of metal and glass. The whole place thrummed with quiet power, like an exhibition frozen mid-motion.
Tonks' jaw went slack. "Merlin's—"
Harry raised his hand casually. From somewhere high up in Moonstone Dunvegan, a faint shimmer shot through the air—something small and metallic whistling toward him. A second later, keys smacked neatly into his palm. He smirked, and at his approach, the glass doors sighed open, welcoming him like a king to his vault.
A soft blip echoed through the air as Harry pressed the key fob. One of the cars stirred awake, its black body glinting under the lights—the McLaren F1. The headlights flared for a heartbeat, then dimmed and went back in, like a predator stretching before the hunt.
Tonks tore her eyes away from the beast and gawked at the entire collection. "What in Merlin's name is all this? And why… why is it here?"
Harry glanced over his shoulder, utterly calm. "Because I bought them."
He led her deeper into the garage, pausing before each masterpiece as though giving her a private tour.
"This," he gestured toward a sleek black figure with pearl-white interiors that gleamed like bone, "is the Lamborghini Diablo."
He moved on, his voice smooth, almost lazy. "The Ferrari 512 TR. Nero—black, of course."
Tonks swallowed hard, her Auror training not preparing her for this.
Harry's fingers brushed against a machine painted a sharp, unmissable blue. "Bugatti EB110. Bugatti Blue."
Next came a low, elegant silhouette, black from tip to tail. "Porsche 911 Carrera 2 Cabriolet."
And then he stopped, resting his palm lightly on the roof of the car that had already come alive for him. His smirk returned, sharp and deliberate.
"And this," he said softly, "is the cream of the crop. The McLaren F1. Black, like it should be."
"At the starting I choose different colors, but then I did a double take and chose the best ones." Harry smirked at her.
Tonks could only stare, utterly dumbfounded. She knew what cars were. She knew Muggles drove them. But this… this was obsession, power, extravagance—all wrapped in steel and speed.
Tonks finally found her voice, though it came out a little strangled. "How much did you pay for this thing?"
Harry's smirk deepened, the kind of smile that carried secrets and sins in equal measure. "All of them—and the watches I picked up that day—came to about two million galleons. Roughly." He tilted his head slightly, as if it were pocket change. "Only because I had to pay double for the McLaren F1. But then again…" His fingers trailed lightly over the car's sleek roof. "…I couldn't resist it."
Tonks swayed where she stood, knees threatening mutiny. Two million galleons? Her mind scrambled for purchase. She almost fainted right there on the polished floor.
"All I can ask is… why?" she managed, her voice somewhere between a whisper and a squeak.
Harry shrugged with the effortless nonchalance of someone far older. "Just spoiling myself a little."
He clicked the handle, and the McLaren's butterfly door swung open with a quiet, reverent hiss. Harry stepped aside, gesturing toward the seat. "After you."
Tonks hesitated, eyes darting between him and the impossibly luxurious machine. "I—Harry, I don't think—"
Before she could finish, Harry simply picked her up—easy, as if she weighed nothing—and set her down on the passenger seat.
"You don't understand," he said quietly, his smirk tempered with a shadow of something else, something deeper. "I've been waiting for this. Looking forward to driving this car more than you can imagine."
Tonks blinked, heart racing as the door sealed her in. Her brain refused to cooperate—Harry Potter, twelve years old, just casually admitted to dropping two million galleons. He was about to drive, like some Muggle playboy. And she… she was strapped into a car that probably cost more than her entire family combined.
Her head thudded lightly back against the seat, and she groaned. "This is insane..."
Harry only smirked as he slid into the driver's seat. "Buckle up sweetheart, you haven't felt the insanity yet. Wait till we hit the roads."
It was only when Tonks' cheeks flushed that he realized what he'd said—but Harry was far too excited to notice, his eyes gleaming as he wrapped his hands around the wheel.
"Harry," she said carefully, fastening her seatbelt like her life depended on it, "do you even know how to drive this thing?"
Harry's smirk didn't falter. "Just sit back and enjoy the ride I'm about to give you."
Tonks gave a strangled laugh, half nerves, half disbelief. "Fine. But… how much petrol is this thing going to guzzle just to get us to Hermione's?"
Harry glanced at her, eyes dancing with mischief, and winked. "None."
She blinked. "None?"
"Modified them myself. They run on magical energy as well as petrol. For now…" He tapped the console, and the car purred to life like a dragon stretching its wings. "…we won't need any petrol. But the downside is that only I can do that."
Tonks' brain stalled again. She opened her mouth to protest, but before she could form words, Harry pressed the accelerator.
The McLaren shot forward, silent at first, then roaring as they blasted out of the estate. The massive iron gates of Moonstone Dunvegan swung wide at their approach, enchanted to recognize their master, and in the next heartbeat, they were on open road.
Wind slammed against the car as the countryside blurred past in streaks of green and gray. Harry's expression was pure, unfiltered exhilaration—controlled, yes, but glowing with a boyish thrill that nothing else ever gave him.
Tonks, meanwhile, had both hands braced against the seat, knuckles white. "Merlin's beard—Harry, this speed is illegal!"
Harry only chuckled low, shifting gears with effortless precision as the car weaved through invisible curves with razor-sharp accuracy. The McLaren hugged the road like it was alive, every motion seamless, every turn flawless.
To Tonks, it felt like they were seconds away from death at every bend. To Harry, it was freedom.
Winds shrieked to a halt as the McLaren glided into The Velvet Bean's parking lot. A polished glass-and-marble cafe tucked into a busy corner of Kensington. Its exterior shimmered with understated luxury—black awnings, brass-trimmed windows, and a discreet sign that whispered money without screaming it.
Harry swung the car into a reserved-looking slot as if it belonged to him, engine purring into silence. He stepped out smoothly, his black overalls cutting a sharp figure against the sleek vehicle. With the same ease, he strolled around and opened Tonks's door.
She blinked in confusion as he extended a hand. Her eyes dropped—then widened. She wasn't in her earlier outfit anymore. Instead, a white jacket hugged her shoulders over a fitted tee, dark denim framed her legs, and polished ankle boots completed the look. Clean, modern, effortlessly chic.
Her jaw worked soundlessly as she stepped out. "Harry… what the hell did you—?!"
"Subtle touch," Harry replied simply, locking the car with a click. The McLaren gave a soft mechanical growl in response. "Couldn't have you walking into Kensington looking like you wrestled a Kneazle."
Tonks sputtered, glancing down at herself, then at the heads turning their way. Every second passerby seemed to gawk—at the car, at them, at Harry striding in like he owned the street. She hurried after him, cheeks heating.
Inside, The Velvet Bean oozed calm elegance. Dark wood floors, pale stone walls, golden pendant lights dangling like drops of honey. The low hum of conversation mixed with the hiss of an espresso machine. Every table had neatly pressed linens and a single white rose in a slender vase.
Harry slid into a corner booth with the composure of a man twice1or, thrice—his age. Tonks dropped opposite, still processing.
When the server arrived with their menu, Harry took it and read carefully. "We'll start with two Eggs Royale, and then we will move on from that."
"Also two glasses of your 1986 Château Margaux," he added, glancing at Tonks, "and a measure of Dalmore 25 on the rocks."
The server's pen danced quickly across the notepad before he inclined his head with professional grace. "Excellent choice, sir. I'll be back shortly." With that, he whisked away, leaving behind only the faint scent of roasted coffee beans.
The moment he was out of earshot, Tonks leaned forward across the table, eyes wide and voice a harsh whisper. "Harry James Potter, are you out of your bloody mind? You're twelve! You can't just order wine—let alone whiskey."
Harry only tilted the menu closed, folding his hands atop it with calm precision. His emerald eyes gleamed in amusement, lips quirking at her panic. "Correction: I can order it. I just did."
"That's not the point!" Tonks hissed, running a hand through her now-straightened hair as if trying to anchor herself. "You're underage. You're supposed to be drinking pumpkin juice, not—" she waved toward the bar, "—Dalmore twenty-bloody-five!"
Harry leaned in slightly, voice smooth and maddeningly composed. "Tonks, relax. Do you think the staff here care how old I look? To them, I'm just another rich heir spending far too much on breakfast. That's all."
Tonks gaped. "That's insane logic! What if someone asks questions? What if they—"
"They won't." He cut her off effortlessly, confidence rolling off him in waves. "Places like this don't question clientele. Money talks louder than birthdays."
She sat back, arms crossing, still glowering at him though her voice dropped to a begrudging mutter. "You're impossible. And how the bloody hell are you still hungry after 3 burritos?"
Harry smirked, "I'm always hungry Nym. And it's more of a scouting rather than eating."
Tonks muttered something about bottomless pits in human form but the words trailed off when the server returned, tray balanced perfectly.
Two plates were set down, each crowned with glossy poached eggs perched atop golden muffins, salmon folded beneath like silk ribbons, all gleaming under a delicate drizzle of hollandaise. The scent was buttery, faintly citrus, with just enough richness to make the air decadent.
The Château Margaux came next—deep garnet liquid poured into crystal glasses, catching the soft golden lights overhead. Finally, the Dalmore 25 arrived in a cut-glass tumbler, its amber body throwing sparks as it hit the rocks.
Harry didn't so much as flinch, taking it all in with calm appraisal. He slid one glass of wine toward Tonks and, without hesitation, claimed the whiskey for himself.
Tonks stared at him like he'd sprouted antlers. "You cannot be serious."
Harry swirled the whiskey lightly, studying the way the liquid clung to the glass.
Harry swirled the whiskey lightly, studying the way the liquid clung to the glass. "Dalmore 25—finished in American white oak and Tawny Port pipes. Complex, balanced, almost arrogant in its presentation." He sipped, letting it sit on his tongue before swallowing. His smirk deepened. "Worth every galleon."
Tonks's jaw went slack. He sounded like a bloody sommelier.
Her fork hovered over the eggs, forgotten. "Harry, how do you even know this stuff?"
"I learn what's useful," he replied simply, breaking into the muffin with precise, almost mechanical grace. "People pay obscene amounts for food like this. I'm curious what they're actually getting for it. Consider this research."
"Research?" she repeated flatly.
Harry cut a bite of egg and salmon, letting the yolk spill like molten gold across the plate. He chewed, thoughtful, then dabbed the corner of his mouth with the napkin. "Mmm. Perfect texture, balanced salt from the salmon, hollandaise could use just a touch more lemon. Good, but not unforgettable." He looked up at her, unruffled. "I want to know what makes a place thrive, what makes people come back. Atmosphere, branding, food, service. Everything."
Tonks just blinked at him, half tempted to laugh, half tempted to throttle him. "You're talking like you're opening one of these yourself."
Harry only smiled faintly, eyes glinting with that unfathomable ambition of his. "Exactly where we are here, Nym."
Tonks froze with her fork halfway to her mouth, brow furrowing. "Wait—what? You're twelve and you're already thinking of running some posh Muggle café chain?"
Harry didn't even flinch. He leaned back against the booth, rolling the whiskey glass between his fingers, the amber catching the light like fire trapped in crystal. "Why not? Wizards don't own this space. They don't even think about it. But imagine if they did. Imagine a brand so polished, so irresistible, that even Muggles line up for hours just to get inside."
Tonks snorted, but there wasn't much humor in it—more disbelief. "You make it sound like world domination through eggs and coffee."
Harry's smirk curved sharper. "Through presentation and perception. Food is just the medium." He gestured faintly around them—the gleaming floors, the curated music, the quiet chatter of well-dressed patrons. "This isn't breakfast. It's theatre. And everyone here paid to be part of the performance."
Tonks set her fork down slowly, staring at him across the table. For a moment, she forgot the food, the wine, even where they were. There was just Harry—the boy who looked too calm, too old, too calculating for his age.
"You scare me sometimes, you know that?" she admitted, voice low.
Harry smiled, "Oh don't worry sweetheart, it just means I'm on the right track."
"Don't call me that!"
Tonks's cheeks flushed a shade darker than the wine between them, and she jabbed a finger across the table at him. "Don't call me that!"
Harry chuckled softly, unbothered, as he carved another bite of salmon with surgical neatness. "Slip of the tongue. Won't happen again… unless it does."
Her eyes narrowed, a warning glittering in them, but the faint pink on her face betrayed her more than she'd ever admit. She huffed, grabbing her fork again if only to occupy her hands. "Merlin, you're infuriating."
Harry tilted his head slightly, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "And yet… you're still here."
Tonks stabbed at her eggs a little harder than necessary, muttering something that suspiciously sounded like should've stayed in bed. But she didn't look away.
Harry didn't stop at the Eggs Royale. With the same calm precision, he ordered a plate of brioche French toast drizzled with caramelized pears, a charcuterie board for "sampling presentation," and finally a double espresso, sipping it as though he were born to critique café culture. By the time the bill came, Tonks nearly choked at the number, but Harry slid a neat stack of crisp notes onto the tray without batting an eye—leaving a tip so generous the server nearly bowed. Rising smoothly, he adjusted his black overalls, offered Tonks a hand, and together they walked out into the London air. Within moments, the McLaren was purring back to life, and with a casual grin Harry said, "Next stop—Hermione's."