Late July hit, and the days turned blazing hot—no clouds, just sun baking everything. All you wanted was a couple pints of iced pumpkin juice and a stroll down Diagon Alley. Maybe top it off with a raspberry-chocolate ice cream from Florean Fortescue's. His stuff was always a treat.
On one ordinary-yet-not-ordinary late-June morning, a shop with zero advertising opened its doors.
The manager was a handsome but anxious-looking wizard. Any Hogwarts kid would've recognized him instantly: Professor Quirrell, the guy who'd fended off a dark wizard and won.
Word was he'd been cursed, injured—never teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts again.
Some students who'd mocked him felt their faces burn. That's why, at the end-of-year feast, they clapped loudest for Quirrell.
Early morning.
Diagon Alley still had a thin mist hanging around. The joke shop next door had a line out the door, but in front of Fairy Tale Workshop? Not a soul.
Eight o'clock—opening time—was minutes away.
Quirrell was starting to wonder if they'd even sell all fifty units.
And the prices? Sky-high. Cheapest was hundreds of Galleons.
Like they didn't care if anyone bought them.
Quirrell got that these were probably some insanely powerful alchemical creations, but cookies? Why were they worth that?
Like the first mobile phone—nobody knew what that little black box could do.
No line outside Fairy Tale Workshop.
But outside Britain? Alchemists had flooded the Ministry with entry requests.
Some were blunt:
"Ministry approval or not—8 a.m., we'll be in Diagon Alley."
…
At 8:01, the shop's entrance exploded with wizards.
Quirrell had never seen anything like it—they just appeared.
He couldn't even tell what countries they were from:
- Some wore sleek silk robes, sharp and businesslike.
- Others had feathered headdresses and expensive leather.
- One was literally a black panther, slinking into a front spot.
But every single one knew the alchemist in charge—Master Tayla.
"Master Tayla…"
"So good to see you, Tayda—lovely weather, isn't it?"
"You've got yourself a real gem, Tayla."
They greeted her, then crowded the display case, eyes hungry.
"Seizing a magical creature's magical authority—like a miracle of alchemy. Let me see—"
A Latina witch snapped her fingers. A stack of Fairy Tale Cookies floated into her hands.
"Human transfiguration in Wagadou's hit its limit. But the magical world's vast—there's always something waiting… Ten of each!"
The second she finished, the others glared daggers.
"You think alchemists here can't afford it? Calm down, miss. If you'd read the sign by the door, you'd know—two per person."
A wizard in black robes said icily.
Everyone shot her a cold look, then started carefully picking their two from the four types.
For most of them, these cookies were for research, not use. Choosing was serious business.
Quirrell's brain was still reeling when a squad in Ministry uniforms marched in.
British Department of Magical Law Enforcement.
Sub-offices included:
- Auror Office
- Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office
- Confiscation of Counterfeit Defensive Spells and Protective Gear
- Improper Use of Magic Office
- Wizengamot Administration
Biggest department in the Ministry.
And right now, they looked starving—and stressed.
Britain had pulled every string to block foreign Ministry staff from entering. Being here? Basically a local wizard perk.
Among them: red-gold-haired Mr. Weasley—head of the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office.
That very morning, he'd gotten the news of a lifetime:
The wizard hailed as the most gifted alchemist in six hundred years—winner of the Udala International Alchemy Conference's Pioneer Gold Medal—was opening an alchemical workshop in Diagon Alley.
Every Ministry department had fought tooth and nail for the honor of sending a rep.
Law Enforcement won. (Largest department, remember?)
"Three thousand Galleons?!"
Mr. Weasley yelped the second he walked in.
That was two, maybe three years' salary.
He winced. The Ministry's budget wasn't enough. The cheaper ones were already gone. With what he had left, he couldn't even buy the lowest-priced option now—a thousand Galleons for a Hippogriff cookie.
Across the shop…
The alchemists were lavish.
"I'll pay triple for one more."
The Wagadou witch cornered Quirrell—he was still dizzy. Ten minutes in, and half the stock was gone.
"Rules are rules."
Quirrell snapped out of it, firm.
"Restock on the 7th of every month, miss."
Also on the sign by the door.
"…"
The Wagadou witch went silent. Seeing Master Tayla herself on duty, she sighed helplessly.
"Damn Tayla… won't sell even one extra…"
She muttered.
Fairy Tale Workshop was chaos—nearly as loud as the joke shop next door.
But more importantly: the buying power in here was unreal. Thousands of Galleons? Just a number.
They spent without blinking.
And the glass case descriptions explained everything:
> Fairy Tale Cookie Series
> Grants the ability to transform a wizard into a true magical creature.
> Currently available:
> - Thestral
> - Bowtruckle
> - Hippogriff
> - Norwegian Ridgeback (juvenile)
Quirrell read it and nearly fainted from excitement.
His eyes shot to the back room—Mr. Green, quietly practicing spells.
He got it. The Daily Prophet hadn't exaggerated. Not even a little.
…He'd been an idiot to doubt.
The cookies vanished before his eyes. Mr. Weasley was sweating bullets:
"Not enough money—too expensive—"
His muttering drowned in the noise.
Outside, curious wizards eyed the bizarrely packed shop. Some tried to push in—only to be shoved aside by reporters with cameras.
They barged toward the door. Quirrell blocked it.
"No press."
"We're the Daily Prophet, sir!"
The lead wizard barked.
"Witch Weekly, sir—the witches are dying to know about this young master."
A young witch beamed.
Heard he was super young and handsome…
"Proxy, Transfiguration Today—just thirty minutes. Ten, even."
A scholarly wizard pleaded last.
But no matter how they begged, Quirrell didn't let a single one in.
Outside: verbal warfare.
Inside: not much better.
While other wizards begged Master Tayla for extra stock, Mr. Weasley couldn't bring himself to ask for a discount.
Sean had been studying Dumbledore's notes on cross-species transfiguration—then overheard Mr. Weasley's grumbling.
He stepped out of the back room.
"Mr. Weasley."
"Hey! Great to see you here, Green—are you… studying?"
Mr. Weasley shoved panic aside. Task was probably doomed anyway.
Worst case: a reprimand. They wouldn't fire him over this… right?
An annoying face flashed in his mind—Lucius Malfoy. Always twisting little things.
"I'm overseeing, sir."
Sean explained.
It was his workshop.
Though Master Tayla was front and center to shield him from smooth-talking alchemists, he still had to watch.
"Overseeing?"
Mr. Weasley didn't quite get it, but didn't press. He turned back to the display, mournful.
"Fifteen hundred Galleons… I could've afforded the seven-hundred-Galleon Bowtruckles, but they're gone. Even the cheapest Hippogriff is a thousand now. I'm short…"
He muttered, drifting to the Bowtruckle case—empty since before they arrived.
He could explain, but the Ministry brass might not listen.
Lost in thought, he heard:
"Sir, looks like there's still some."
"Huh? Green, how…"
He gave a bitter laugh—then froze.
Two Bowtruckle cookies had appeared in the case.
He snatched them faster than a Snitch, paid with a grin—and realized the Ministry had overpaid by a hundred Galleons.
He was thrilled.
But then… confusion. Where'd those cookies come from?
Right on cue, Quirrell entered with a middle-aged witch.
He spotted Sean in the corner.
Ignoring Mr. Weasley, he spoke carefully, respectfully:
"Mr. Green, the Chocolate Frog Card Committee is here for an interview. They'd like to collect some information about you."
Mr. Weasley's jaw dropped so wide you could've fit a whole egg in it.