"Legend tells of an All-Purpose Shop hidden somewhere in the great city of New York. When you've reached the end of your rope, it will appear before you. Step inside, write your request and the price you're willing to pay on a piece of parchment, leave an address where you can be reached, and if the shop's owner accepts your commission, then..."
"Hold up there, Happy. What exactly are you rambling about?" Tony Stark lounged in the backseat, lazily flipping through a fashion magazine as he interrupted his driver's poetic recitation.
"You haven't heard? It's the hottest urban legend going around! They say countless people have had their wishes granted! I want to find this All-Purpose Shop too—make my dreams come true!" Happy's hands remained steady on the wheel, but his voice carried unmistakable excitement.
"Oh? And what's your burning desire? Finding a girlfriend?" Tony asked with practiced disinterest, still turning glossy pages.
"God, no! I want to lose weight—the kind where you don't have to diet or exercise!" Happy's grin was audible. "What about you? If you could get in, what would you wish for?"
Tony snapped the magazine shut with theatrical flair, gazing out at the neon-soaked Vegas landscape. "First off, I'd never reach the end of my rope. Second..." He turned back with that trademark Stark smirk. "What exactly do you think money can't buy me?"
Happy fell silent. Rich bastard.
The sleek car glided to a stop before a glittering casino entrance. "Tony? You're absolutely certain you won't collect your award? You're really going to stand up Colonel Rhodes?" Pepper Potts stood by the passenger door, her expression a masterpiece of professional exasperation.
Tony raised an eyebrow and flashed his most devastating grin. "It's happy hour, Pep!" He swept his arms around two stunning models who'd materialized beside him and strode into the casino without a backward glance, leaving a trail of expensive cologne and casual arrogance.
"I think we can start preparing for damage control," Happy said from the driver's seat, rolling down his window. Pepper shrugged with the weary resignation of someone who'd perfected this routine, sliding into the passenger seat.
"All I can say is I tried my best. Poor Rhodes." She buckled her seatbelt with a sigh. "Come on, let's go stock up on crisis management supplies."
The car pulled away smoothly, merging into the river of Vegas traffic like just another drop in an ocean of vice and dreams.
Deep in the witching hours, a man wandered the streets like a ghost haunting his own life. Taron Albert had nowhere to go and nothing left to do. He'd been a singer once—a real one, with platinum albums and sold-out venues. But a month ago, illness had stolen everything. His vocal cords were damaged beyond repair, scarred tissue where golden notes once lived. Even the most desperate surgical gambles couldn't restore what he'd lost.
For thirty-one days, he'd consulted every specialist money could buy, growing numb to their sympathetic head shakes and carefully worded regrets. Worse still, word had leaked. The entertainment world thrived on fresh blood and tragic falls—his career, his dreams, everything had died exactly one month ago.
A streetlight above him flickered and buzzed like a dying insect. He glanced up with hollow eyes as it surrendered to darkness. But light spilled from a nearby alley mouth, illuminating a weathered sign that made no sense: All-Purpose Shop.
Something beyond reason pulled him forward. The door opened at his touch, and reality shifted—darkness, then warm candlelight. He found himself in a chamber that belonged to another century: stone walls, flickering sconces, and in the center, a simple wooden table bearing an inkwell, a quill pen, and blank parchment.
He sat down heavily, staring at the writing materials with the bewilderment of a man who'd forgotten how to hope. Tentatively, he lifted the quill. Words began flowing across the parchment in elegant script:
1. Write your request
2. Write the payment you offer
3. Write your name and address
4. Only US dollars and gold accepted
6. Payment refusal has consequences
7. Don't believe it? GET OUT!
The final words blazed bold and large before the entire message faded, leaving pristine parchment once more.
Taron dipped the quill with trembling fingers and began to write, each letter a prayer carved in ink:
[Disease destroyed my vocal cords. I want them restored to perfect condition. I want to sing again. I offer everything I own—three million US dollars. I just want my voice back! Address: Penthouse, Doglin Tower, Manhattan. Taron Albert]
He set down the quill, lifted the parchment for one final look, then placed it flat on the table. Burying his face in his hands, he wept without sound—the tears of a man who'd forgotten how to make music with his grief.
BANG!
Taron found himself sprawled on cold pavement, staring up at the harsh streetlight that had somehow returned to life. The shop, the candles, the impossible room—had it all been a hallucination born of desperation?
But ink stained his fingers. Real ink. He scrubbed at the dark smears, heart hammering against his ribs. The stains were definitely there, definitely real.
Hope blazed in his chest like phoenix fire. He scrambled to his feet and ran toward home, choosing to believe in impossible things.
"Miss Gemini, we have a new commission! The payment looks quite... substantial!" A diminutive figure approached, wearing a spotless regulation pillowcase that revealed a sparsely-haired head and enormous flapping ears. Thin fingers delicately presented a piece of parchment to the girl stirring a cauldron.
"How substantial? Remember, Coby—the exchange rate between dollars and Galleons makes American currency practically worthless!" Gemini continued her methodical stirring, the liquid in her cauldron shifting colors like an oil slick.
"Truly substantial! Three million!" Coby's voice pitched higher with excitement. "If only Miss Gemini hadn't abandoned her inheritance, we wouldn't be reduced to this! Taking commissions from Muggles! My poor Miss Gemini! The last heir of the Black family, forced to associate with non-magical folk. What would Kreacher say? Kreacher would murder Coby!" Tears began welling in his tennis-ball-sized eyes.
Gemini Black—posthumous daughter of Sirius Black's one-night stand, seventeen years old and exceptional since birth. Those who knew her claimed she possessed talent rivaling Albus Dumbledore himself. Former Hogwarts "outstanding" student who'd nearly earned "exceptional" admission to Azkaban Academy. Her infractions included but weren't limited to: incinerating half the Forbidden Forest with Fiendfyre, shattering a bottle of Acromantula venom in the kitchens, and ultimately being caught using Avada Kedavra on an Acromantula—granted, the creature had been moments from devouring her classmate, but Unforgivable Curses remained unforgivable, especially when cast by someone under fifteen.
Before her guardian Harry Potter could intervene, Gemini had packed with lightning efficiency and fled Britain for America with her personal house-elf, vanishing into the Muggle world. As an illegal magical immigrant, she couldn't risk official detection, relying on Coby for all public interactions while registering with the American magical congress as a Pure-blood family heir—common enough after Britain's recent war had left so many ancient bloodlines hanging by single threads.
Her hasty departure had left her financially strapped. Though America boasted Gringotts branches, withdrawing funds would trigger immediate detection. Instead, she'd activated a Black family heirloom to establish an All-Purpose Shop with no fixed address—a magical business that existed wherever it was needed most.
"Shut up, Coby! Let me see that commission!" Gemini snapped irritably, snatching the parchment and scanning its contents with the practiced eye of someone who'd learned to survive on her wits alone.