"Don't wait, take the flobberworm and go—"
The broad-headed, big-eared clerk's face rearranged itself into a sycophantic grin.
The Floo network installers had arrived. They worked for the Floo Network Authority, under the Department of Magical Transportation in the Ministry of Magic.
They were responsible for building, maintaining, monitoring, and managing the Floo Network.
This time, they took only half an hour to fast-track the connection.
When green fire finally flared to life in the fireplace, it meant that anywhere with a connected hearth—Hogwarts' Great Hall, the Hope Nook—Sean could quickly contact Professor Quirrell.
Actually stepping through into Hogwarts, though, was another story; that would be heavily monitored.
"I've mentioned I've been looking forward to meeting you for a long time, haven't I?"
The wide-headed Floo official was just as respectful.
Who was he kidding? This was basically a teenage, turbo-charged Dumbledore: eleven years old and already holding that kind of title. His future brilliance was obvious.
"Thank you for your help,"
Sean replied politely.
…
The opening date for Fairy Tale Workshop was set: the day after the joke shop opened.
When Quirrell heard that, he honestly didn't know what to feel. Mr Green seemed to be quite famous in the Ministry… and fame could certainly bring money, but it didn't last forever.
In the end, a shop lived or died on the quality of its goods.
Leaving Fairy Tale Workshop, Sean swung back around to the joke shop.
The Weasley twins were in a frenzy of last-minute prep; they'd even hired two Hufflepuff upper-years.
The shelves were crammed with product, and their wall-to-wall posters were already plastered across every surface.
The final night before opening was never going to be peaceful.
By Wednesday—the big day—Mrs Weasley had everyone up at the crack of dawn. They each gobbled down five or six bacon sandwiches, shrugged on their coats, and Mrs Weasley went to the flowerpot on the kitchen mantel to peer inside.
"Not much left, Arthur,"
she sighed.
"We'll need to buy more today… All right, guests first! Sean, you go!"
She held the pot out to him.
"You've got to say these words clearly, dear,"
she told him, while George reached into the pot as well.
"You know there are all sorts of magical fires—you must pick the right one. But as long as you speak clearly…
Remember, the moment you step into the flames, say where you're going—"
"Mum, Sean's done this loads of times already, but—keep your elbows tucked in,"
Ron reminded him.
"Close your eyes, there'll be soot—don't flail about or you might fall out of the wrong grate—but don't panic and come out too early either."
…
Diagon Alley.
"Hurry, kids! I'm so excited,"
Mrs Weasley said.
Sean followed in her wake; he was the only one she was holding tightly by the hand.
As she put it:
"Every Weasley grew up running around Diagon Alley. There's only one little wizard here who needs a bit of extra looking after."
Diagon Alley was already buzzing.
Even though it was early, with mist still hanging low and the sky not fully light, nothing could dampen the crowd's joy and excitement.
Every product line from this shop had taken Britain's wizarding world by storm. Low prices, high quality, fresh and clever ideas—those had become the shop's trademarks.
The only problem was: there was never enough stock.
Wizards had waited a long time for the grand opening; there was no way they'd miss it.
Sean and the Weasleys squeezed their way through the crush. Reporters with cameras were jammed among them, snapping frantic shots of the storefront.
The shop stood out so much that it made the neighbouring facades look drab by comparison—
They'd been buried under an avalanche of advertising.
Meanwhile the Weasley twins' display windows looked like a fireworks show, drawing every eye. Even random passers-by couldn't help turning their heads, and some stared in shock before queueing up with a dazed, fanatical look.
The left-hand window was a riot of colour, filled with toys and tricks that spun, twitched, flashed, leapt, and screamed.
The right-hand window was covered by a massive poster with huge yellow letters:
WHY WORRY ABOUT HEADACHES?
YOU SHOULD WORRY ABOUT CONSTIPATION—CONSTIPATION IS TORTURING THE NATION!
"Mum, let go of Great Sean—we have to go!"
Fred shouted.
Her grip on Sean's hand loosened.
"See you inside,"
Sean told Mrs Weasley, then slipped away down a little side alley that led to the back of the shop.
When he went in through the back door, Fred and George were still pacing non-stop.
He saw Manager Gert at the front as well, anxiously peering at the street, both nervous and excited.
The joke shop's success had exceeded everyone's expectations.
The wizards pouring in might as well have had: Take all my Galleons, just give me your damned products written across their faces.
Sean managed to yank Justin and Hermione out of the flow before they were swept away to who-knew-where.
"Sean, Merlin, this is terrifying,"
Hermione said, still shaken.
"Looks like two shops might not be enough…"
Justin observed.
Then the two of them perked up and followed Sean to browse.
"What's this?"
Justin held up something like a telescope.
"No idea,"
Sean said.
"And this?"
Hermione had joined a crowd of witches clustered around a set of luridly pink products.
"Not sure,"
Sean replied.
"So what are you sure about?"
Hermione was flummoxed.
"These aren't mine,"
Sean explained. Before he could finish, Justin's eyes went black, and he sighed:
"Can someone explain the thought process behind shoving your whole fist into a telescope?"
After a dab of a special ointment, Justin's black eyes faded—but not everyone in the shop was so lucky; every so often there'd be another scream.
Sean watched it all in silence. As the noise rose, he flicked his wand and the scattered products rose into the air and flew neatly back to their proper shelves.
It was no simple trick—each object had to fly in a different direction and needed a different amount of magical force depending on its weight.
He hadn't been able to do that before, but now, after practicing fine control for some time, he could.
"Three Galleons, nine Sickles, one Knut,"
Fred's voice rang out from the stairs as he peered at the boxes in Ron's arms.
"Pay up."
"I'm your brother!"
"Almost forgot. Three Galleons, ten Sickles—call that Knut a Sickle."
"How is it getting more expensive?! I don't have that kind of money!"
"Then you'd better put some things back. And don't you dare put them on the wrong shelves."
Ron dumped a few boxes back, muttering under his breath.
…
By late afternoon the shop had fallen quiet.
Customers left disappointed; there just wasn't enough stock.
Even with all they'd made, they'd badly underestimated British wizards' eagerness to spend.
Every time Fred and George watched a customer go, it was like watching a walking Galleon leave the shop; their hearts practically bled.
But once they saw the storage room piled high with Galleons, they almost hoisted Sean into the air.
Someone's joy is always someone else's worry.
When Professor Quirrell saw those crowds, the anxiety in his eyes nearly overflowed.
After he watched Sean exit the joke shop, it only got worse.
"Mr Green… the Animal Party series really is excellent. Perhaps we should pick a different time…"
he ventured carefully.
He no longer had much confidence in opening Fairy Tale Workshop the next day.
It was obvious to anyone that the crowds were there for the joke shop. Many had already bought something they loved.
Once those products spread, people's standards would rise. With a neighbour that cheap and that good, what shop could compete?
And at this point, they didn't even know where their products were.
The night was very quiet.
Every so often, a wizard leaving the joke shop would walk past, glance curiously at them, then stroll away, unimpressed.
Exactly as Quirrell had predicted.
Sean set a few biscuit boxes on the shelves. There couldn't have been more than fifty; that only made Quirrell more uneasy.
"And these are…?"
Quirrell stared.
"Our stock,"
Sean said.
"Oh—oh… I–I see…"
Quirrell's stammer came back and he forced a bitter smile, saying nothing more.
Inwardly, he made up his mind.
"Relax, Professor Quirrell,"
Sean said, seeing how dejected he'd been for days.
Sean wasn't sure how to explain it, but by tomorrow the professor would understand.
Suddenly the bell over the door rang. Quirrell looked up hopefully, only to see the silver-haired Professor Tayra step inside.
"My student, as I said, tomorrow is the only day we open to the public,"
Professor Tayra said as she walked over, her gaze razor-sharp.
"Only day… open to the public…"
Quirrell faltered, repeating the words in confusion.
"For certain truly great alchemists, their creations initially exist only in very specific hands.
That isn't just a matter of price; there are many factors.
Think of Floo powder—the first transfers are always shrouded in secrecy, because it's too important, and must be tightly controlled…
But alchemists don't want their work to be obscure forever, so they open to the public for one day only."
Tayra was really explaining it to Sean, but she let her apprentice's agent hear as well.
"So… these biscuits—their true public sale period is just one day?"
Quirrell's vision went dark for a moment. Small quantity, no regular sales, and a terrifyingly strong competitor right next door…
He saw nothing but darkness—no future at all.
Even if some part of him felt something didn't quite add up, the string of bad news had numbed his ability to think.