The nearby storefronts all looked dim and lifeless, their windows plastered layer upon layer with Ministry notices and wanted posters, the whole street was steeped in a suppressed, grim tension.
And yet the Weasley twins' joke shop—Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes blazed through it all like a torch in the dark, standing head and shoulders above everything around it.
The shop's display windows put on a show like a grand fireworks display, dazzling and riotous with colour, snagging the eye of every passerby without fail.
Any witch or wizard who walked past forgot the tense state of the world, unable to stop themselves from turning to look at that overwhelming window display. Quite a few even stopped in open shock, rooted to the spot in besotted fascination.
The left-hand window was crammed with all sorts of novelties: little gold spinning tops that twirled on their own, rubber tentacles that twitched ceaselessly, candies that shimmered with rainbow light, miniature pixie dolls that leapt about, and small metal boxes that let out sharp, piercing shrieks—every single item was brimming with life and mischief.
The right-hand window, meanwhile, was draped with a massive poster. Like the Ministry's grim notices, it had a purple background, but the words splashed across it in blazing yellow were anything but grim, the whole design defiantly out of step with the mood on the street:
WHY WORRY ABOUT YOU-KNOW-WHO?
YOU SHOULD BE WORRIED ABOUT
U-NO-POO —
THE CONSTIPATION SENSATION THAT'S GRIPPING THE NATION!
"Pfft—"
Harry was the first to lose it.
He doubled over laughing, tears were nearly streaming down his face.
The tension that had been knotting his nerves from the grim mood outside melted away in an instant.
Sherlock laughed too, the corners of his mouth lifting into a distinct curve—it seemed the investment he and Harry had made back then really had been the right call. Hermione, Gemma, Fleur, Ginny, and the other girls all broke into smiles as well.
The gloom that had settled over their heart was swept away by that absurd, hilarious poster.
But from behind them came a faint, pained groan.
Mrs. Weasley was staring at the poster, dumbstruck, her lips were moving silently as she muttered "U-No-Poo" to herself, over and over: "They're going to get themselves murdered in their beds!"
She kept her voice low, her face was a mixture of disbelief and faint mortification.
Seeing this, Mrs. Holmes gently patted her arm, comforting her with a smile.
"Don't worry, dear Molly! It's just a bit of fun for the children—everyone's going to love it."
"Yeah, Mum, you're way too wound up about this!" Bill, the eldest Weasley, chimed in as well.
Ron, laughing just as hard as Harry, slapped his own thigh. "This is brilliant!"
The whole group walked into the little shop, laughing and chattering.
What was surprising was that the shop was absolutely packed with customers.
The noise was deafening, loud enough to nearly blow the roof off contrary to the other shops on Diagon Alley, most of which stood empty and forlorn.
It was no exaggeration to say they had to turn sideways just to shuffle a few steps through the crowd; getting anywhere near the shelves was out of the question. The shop floor itself wasn't small by any means, but the shelves were crammed with an overwhelming array of merchandise, and cardboard boxes were stacked high in every corner and along every aisle, some of them piled clear up to the ceiling.
The boxes were stamped with the words "SKIVING SNACKBOXES" —the twins' pride and joy, developed in their final year at Hogwarts before they'd left.
There were also several open crates of trick wands, their lids thrown back to reveal a rainbow of wands inside, the labels reading: "CHEAPEST MODEL—ONE FLICK TURNS INTO A RUBBER CHICKEN OR A PAIR OF TROUSERS."
And there were neat rows of boxed quills, an entire range of them—self-inking, spell-checking, quick-witted-answer quills—each one labelled with an eye-catching description of what it did.
Just then, the crowd loosened up a little.
Hermione and Gemma exchanged a glance, and without a word, both girls grabbed Sherlock by the sleeve and pushed their way toward the counter.
Right by the counter, a group of ten-or-so-year-old witches and wizards had gathered in an excited circle, eyes bright and shining, watching a little wooden figure.
It marched stiffly up a set of tiny steps on its short, jerky legs, climbing toward miniature gallows so lifelike it was eerie—the whole thing absurd and delightful.
Both the figure and the gallows sat atop a box, the label on which read:
REUSABLE HANGMAN—GET THE SPELL WRONG AND HE SWINGS.
"'Patented Product: Daydream Charm...'"
Hermione finally managed to squeeze her way to a large display case by the counter, and stood up on her toes to read the fine print on the back of a beautifully designed box.
The box was printed with a vivid, colourful illustration: a handsome young man and a girl gazing at him as though besotted, the two of them standing side by side on the deck of a pirate ship, a backdrop of brilliant blue sea and golden sunlight behind them, altogether irresistibly eye-catching.
"Simply speak one easy incantation, and step into a high-quality, blissfully realistic thirty-minute daydream.
Suitable for use during ordinary lessons, simple to perform, and virtually undetectable (side effects include a vacant expression and slight drooling). PS: Not for sale to persons under sixteen."
Once she'd finished reading, Hermione couldn't help turning to Sherlock, a flicker of curiosity in her eyes.
"That's such a strange sort of magic!"
When he was little, Sherlock's own dream had been to become a pirate...
"You can have one of these for free, Hermione."
A cheerful voice sounded from nearby.
It was Fred, dressed in a set of gleaming magenta robes that clashed rather magnificently with his fiery red hair and yet somehow the whole effect radiated a kind of brazen energy.
He'd already been beaming from ear to ear over the roaring success of the business, and the moment he spotted Sherlock and the others, his eyes crinkled into an even wider grin as he strode over: "It's been a long time—we've missed you lot terribly! Come on, let me show you around!"
Sherlock nodded, and with Hermione and Gemma in tow, followed Fred toward the back of the shop.
Meanwhile, on the other side, George was warmly welcoming Harry, who hadn't managed to push his way to the front, and started leading him through the shelves instead.
It had to be said—the Weasley twins' imagination and creativity really were extraordinary. Every single item for sale here was bursting with wildly inventive ideas, the kind that left you dazzled and wide-eyed with wonder.
And according to Fred, what was out front was nothing compared to what they had planned. They were now gearing up to move full-force into Defence Against the Dark Arts territory, developing more practical, more entertaining protective products—that, apparently, was where the real money was.
"Fred, you told Sherlock before that even people at the Ministry can't cast a decent Shield Charm?"
Just then, Hermione suddenly remembered something Sherlock had mentioned to her and Gemma before, and asked, curious.
"Ha, he must have told you about the Shield Hats, right?"
Hearing Hermione's question, Fred immediately grinned with pride, puffing out his chest: "That's right! At first we thought the Shield Hats were just a bit of a joke ourselves.
"You know the kind, you get your mate to hex you while you're wearing it, and the hex bounces straight back off your face. Pure prank material, really.
But we never in a million years expected the Ministry to turn around and buy five hundred of them for their entire staff!"
He threw up his hands, his tone equal parts disbelieving and mocking.
"I mean, how do you even explain it? You wouldn't believe how many people—witches and wizards actually working at the Ministry can't cast a proper Shield Charm. And we're still getting massive orders from the Ministry as we speak!"
Hermione and Gemma exchanged a look, a shadow of worry was crossing both their faces while a trace of helplessness flickered in their eyes.
How was the Ministry ever supposed to sort itself out with people like that running things?
Fred, oblivious to the two girls' concern, kept right on, dragging Sherlock along with undimmed enthusiasm to show off more new products: "And here—our Decoy Detonators, they only just went on the shelves and they're nearly sold out already. Look at this!"
He pointed to a great pile of strange little things shaped like black owls, and picked one up to demonstrate.
"All you have to do is chuck one out on the sly, and it goes tearing off, making a huge racket the whole way.
Whenever you need to pull someone's attention elsewhere, this thing is absolutely brilliant.
Skiving off class, dodging a telling-off from a teacher, or... well, any other situation where you need to make yourself scarce."
Sherlock couldn't help smiling as he took a Decoy Detonator and weighed it in his hand—light, and cleverly made.
"Sounds excellent. Genuinely useful, actually."
Seeing that Sherlock was interested, Fred didn't hesitate—he grabbed two and pressed them straight into Sherlock's hands.
Then he glanced over at Gemma and Hermione standing beside him, and a knowing, mischievous grin spread across his face.
In no time he'd grabbed two more and tossed one to each of the girls: "Here, you two can have some fun with these too."
"Oh, we couldn't—let us pay for them."
Hermione said quickly, already reaching for the coin purse in her pocket.
"No charge for you here."
Under Hermione and Gemma's somewhat startled gazes, Fred waved a hand, his tone firm and final.
"Sherlock, you and Harry are our angel investors!"
He turned to explain to Hermione and Gemma.
"George and I talked it over ages ago—every single Knut of our start-up money came from Sherlock and Harry.
Without that backing, there'd be no shop, and certainly none of what we've built since.
So whatever you two fancy, just take it—no need to ask. Only, if anyone asks where you got it, tell them Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes—help us spread the word a bit!"
Hermione and Gemma both blinked, startled, then nodded.
A thousand Galleons really was no small sum—what that meant for a shop's early days went without saying.
Gemma laughed and added. "I bet Diggory's kicking himself now, not putting his money in with yours back then—he could've had a share in all this too."
"We don't know him well," Fred said, shrugging, his tone matter-of-fact. "Not the sort of thing we'd have taken his money for, in any case."
"But even if it doesn't cost Sherlock and Harry anything here, surely Gemma and I still ought to—"
Hermione said, a little hesitant—she'd already spotted several things she liked and had actually been about to reach for her money.
"Come off it, Hermione!"
Fred winked at her, his tone teasing, thick with implication.
"Do the two of you really need to keep things so separate from Sherlock's?"
"Ah!"
Hermione clapped a hand over her mouth in shock, her cheeks were flushing scarlet in an instant, as though she couldn't believe Fred had actually said such a thing. But his very next line left her in absolutely no doubt what he'd meant:
"And it's not just you two—so long as Sherlock gives the word, Luna doesn't have to pay in here either. We worked the three of you into the arrangement ages ago!"
Hermione had no idea what to even say anymore.
Gemma, by comparison, took it a little better though just as she was about to speak, George and Harry happened to come around from the other side.
"That's right! So long as Harry gives the word, Cho Chang doesn't have to pay either!"
George shook Sherlock's hand warmly, then grinned, his eyes carrying the exact same teasing glint as Fred's.
The situation, at this point, could not have been clearer.
In a sense, Mycroft's little scheme had worked perfectly.
Everyone who knew them had simply come to take it for granted—that Sherlock's relationship with Hermione, Gemma, and Luna ran deep.
Just as everyone assumed the same of Harry and Cho Chang.
Teased so bluntly by the Weasley twins, Hermione's face went beet-red in an instant, the colour was spreading from her cheeks all the way to her ears even the tips of her ears were burning.
She stood rooted to the spot, at a complete loss, her thoughts in a tangle.
So was she going to admit it, admit it, or just admit it?
Luckily, just then, a young witch with short blonde hair, dressed in a neat uniform, poked her head out from behind the curtain leading to the back room and said respectfully, "There's a customer out front who'd like to buy a Joke Cauldron, Mr. Weasley and Mr. Weasley."
Both Fred and George being addressed as "Mr. Weasley" at once struck everyone as more than a little funny.
Fred and George, for their part, took the title in perfect stride.
"Right then, Verity, coming."
George nodded to the young witch, and Fred, turning back to Sherlock and the others, said:
"Let's all head out and have a look—good timing, too, you can see our best-sellers while we're at it."
Everyone followed Fred and George back out to the front of the shop.
By then, a cluster of chattering young witches had gathered by a shelf near the window, where a row of dazzling pink bottles sat—small, delicately shaped, filled with a liquid that shimmered with a pearly glow and gave off a faint, sweet scent.
Noticing Ginny standing some distance off, hesitant to approach, a wary look in her eyes, Gemma stepped closer for a look and recognized the items at once:
"Is that... Amortentia?"
"That's right!"
Fred said at once, pleased with himself, picking up a bottle of Amortentia to show everyone.
"Top-shelf Amortentia—the real thing, purest effect, you won't find it anywhere else!"
Hermione frowned a little, sceptical, and asked, "Does it actually work?"
"Does it ever!"
Fred thumped his chest in solemn assurance, explaining earnestly.
"Each dose lasts a full twenty-four hours though the exact length really comes down to the boy's weight, and just how charming the girl herself happens to be. The more charm, the stronger the effect, naturally."
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