"Tsk, that simple?" Gemini glanced at the commission with practiced assessment. "Coby, third shelf, fourth bottle in the potions cabinet—the crimson one. Bring it here."
"Yes, Miss Gemini." Coby responded with house-elf efficiency, retrieving the requested vial and presenting it with a respectful bow.
Gemini pulled out a blank piece of parchment and traced elegant lines with her wand tip. Words materialized in flowing script: [Have the cash ready, then burn this parchment.]
"Take this to the address and give it to him. Only hand over the potion after you see the money—all of it." She tossed the parchment to Coby without ceremony, her attention already returning to the bubbling cauldron. "The Healing Draught will restore everything damaged to perfect condition. Simple transaction."
"At once, Miss Gemini! Coby will complete the delivery immediately." The house-elf bowed deeply, snapped his fingers with a sharp crack, and vanished along with the note and crimson vial.
In the penthouse of Doglin Tower, Taron Albert sat hunched forward on his leather sofa like a man awaiting execution. His elbows pressed into his knees, hands clasped before his face, feet drumming a nervous rhythm against the marble floor—the only sound he could make without pain.
"Taron! What the hell is going on? Why do you suddenly need this much cash?" John burst through the door, wrestling with a massive steel case that scraped against the doorframe.
"My salvation has arrived!" Taron's eyes blazed with desperate hope as he looked up—the expression of a drowning man who'd spotted distant shore. "I'm going to be healed, John! I can sing again! Get ready to celebrate my resurrection!"
John dropped the case with a metallic thud, collapsing onto the opposite sofa while catching his breath. "Brother, are you absolutely certain about this? Please tell me you didn't fall for some elaborate con job."
Before Taron could respond, reality shifted. A piece of parchment materialized above their coffee table, hovering in defiance of every natural law John had ever believed in. Taron shot to his feet as if electrified.
"What in the name of—" John's jaw went slack. "Is that some kind of hologram? Street magic?" He waved his hands frantically above and below the floating parchment, searching for hidden wires or projectors. Nothing. It simply existed in mid-air, as impossible as morning stars.
Taron's hands trembled like autumn leaves as he carefully lifted the parchment, studying the single line of text with the intensity of a scholar deciphering ancient prophecy. After reading it three times, he spun toward John with wild urgency.
"Fire! Now! Your lighter!"
John fumbled for his Zippo, bewilderment written across his features. "And the case—open it!" Taron commanded. Something in his voice—raw desperation mixed with blazing hope—made John comply instantly. The case fell open, revealing neat stacks of hundred-dollar bills arranged like green bricks.
Taron drew a shuddering breath, ignited the flame with ceremonial care, and touched one corner of the parchment to the fire. The paper caught instantly, burning with unnatural eagerness. Instinct made him release it—both men watched in stunned silence as it continued floating, consuming itself completely until not even ash remained.
"Is that it? Some kind of ritual?" John whispered, his voice barely audible in the sudden quiet.
Where the parchment had burned, a crystal vial appeared—filled with liquid the color of fresh blood. A voice echoed from nowhere and everywhere, thin as winter wind: "Drink it."
Taron reached for the vial with reverent hands. SNAP. The sound of fingers clicking together rang out like a gunshot. The case of money vanished as if it had never existed.
John scrambled to his feet, circling the empty space where three million dollars had been sitting moments before. "Brother! I'm begging you—are you absolutely sure this is legitimate? What if that's poison? What if you just got robbed by some... some wizard?"
"There's no outcome worse than what I'm already living," Taron said with the calm of a man who'd made peace with death. "And if it is poison?" He smiled with heartbreaking serenity. "At least the silence would finally be permanent."
John lunged forward to stop him, but desperation made Taron faster. The cork popped free, and he downed the crimson contents in one decisive gulp.
"Christ!" Taron's face contorted in revulsion, his complexion shifting toward green. "That tastes like I just chugged a bottle of gym socks marinated in sulfur!"
"So this was all an elaborate prank? You got scammed out of three million for the world's most expensive practical joke?" John demanded.
"I think... wait." Taron dropped the empty vial, both hands flying to his throat as his eyes went wide. "Something's happening!"
"Are you dying?! Is it actually poison?! Should I call 911?!" John grabbed his phone, fingers hovering over the emergency number.
Taron held up a trembling hand to stop him. He coughed violently—once, twice, three times—and spat something dark and bloody onto the marble floor. When he looked up, wonder had replaced the pain that had lived in his eyes for thirty-one days.
"I think... I'm healed."
His voice emerged as a whisper, testing. The throat that had felt like broken glass with every word now felt smooth as silk. He tried a higher note, then higher still. The chronic strain from years of vocal abuse had vanished as if it had never existed. His voice soared effortlessly to registers he'd thought lost forever.
John watched in amazement as Taron's voice climbed scale after perfect scale. "Sweet Jesus! It's actually real? What kind of deal did you just make? Was that the devil? Did you trade your soul?"
"No!" Taron's eyes blazed with joy so pure it was almost blinding. "That was my angel, my salvation! I only paid money—nothing but money! John, I can feel the music coming back! The inspiration is flooding in like a dam burst! We need to get to the studio immediately. The world is about to witness the resurrection of Taron Albert!"
"Miss Gemini! The payment has been secured! What shall we purchase?" Coby materialized in the workshop, setting the case of Benjamins on the stone floor with obvious satisfaction.
Gemini carefully sealed her latest potion before glancing at the money with mild surprise. "Well, well—a client who actually honors his commitments. I was half-expecting another debt collection adventure." She crouched beside the case, rifling through the bills with practiced efficiency. "Do we have enough for a proper street-front establishment? Something with multiple floors?"
Coby's fingers worked through rapid calculations. "More than sufficient, Miss Gemini, though the location likely won't be in the most fashionable district."
"Location is irrelevant! We don't cater to ordinary clientele anyway." Gemini sprang to her feet, practically vibrating with excitement. "Go purchase something suitable, Coby! I refuse to spend another night living in this cramped workshop! I knew I could thrive independently!"
"Immediately, Miss Gemini! Coby will handle all arrangements!" The house-elf bowed and vanished, leaving Gemini alone to pack her precious potion ingredients and spell books with the enthusiasm of someone finally escaping prison.
Within forty-eight hours, Coby had navigated all the necessary paperwork—with judicious applications of magical influence, naturally, since fifteen-year-old Gemini couldn't legally establish a business independently.
The new property stood in Brooklyn: a weathered three-story building that had seen better decades. Gemini surveyed her acquisition with the calculating gaze of a general planning a campaign.
"Coby, transform the ground floor into a proper shop! I want floor-to-ceiling potion cabinets, no windows—only candlelight, always burning. Stone and brick aesthetic throughout! Second floor: elegant parlor, fully equipped kitchen, and formal dining room. Slytherin styling—silver and emerald green décor, and it must exude luxury! Third floor for my private chambers—midnight blue theme with a proper four-poster canopy bed! And excavate a basement laboratory and workshop. Any complications?"
"Coby remembers every detail! Work will commence immediately!" The house-elf paused thoughtfully. "Miss Gemini, should we notify the Magical Congress? This establishment will require extensive Muggle interaction."
"Absolutely not! We'll address their concerns when they inevitably discover us." Gemini's voice carried the steel of someone who'd learned to survive on her own terms. "Worst case scenario, we relocate to Mexico—their jurisdiction doesn't extend that far!"
Coby departed for the magical markets to recruit renovation specialists. Following Gemini's exacting specifications, they wielded magic to transform the building with breathtaking speed—the entire project completed in less than twenty-four hours. After Gemini conducted a thorough inspection and paid the contractors with satisfaction, Coby found himself wrestling with growing anxiety about their increasingly visible magical presence in the Muggle world.