As July approached, the days turned cloudless and scorching, the kind that made you want to grab a few pints of iced pumpkin juice and wander down Diagon Alley. Maybe even treat yourself to a raspberry-chocolate ice cream from Florean Fortescue's, which was always excellent.
On one such late-June day—ordinary and not ordinary at all—a shop with no prior advertising quietly opened its doors.
The shopkeeper was a handsome but slightly worried-looking wizard. Any Hogwarts student who'd been there would have recognized him as Professor Quirinus Quirrell, the man who had faced down a dark wizard and won.
Everyone said he'd been injured and cursed by that dark wizard, and that he'd never be able to return to Hogwarts as the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor.
That knowledge had made some students who'd once mocked him flush with shame; during the end-of-term feast, no one applauded more loudly for Professor Quirrell than they did.
Morning.
A thin mist still clung to Diagon Alley. The joke shop was as crowded as ever with long queues, while in front of Fairy Tale Workshop not a single witch or wizard stood.
In a few minutes, it would strike eight—the opening time.
Looking at the scene, Quirrell had to wonder if even fifty units would sell.
Even so, the prices were sky-high. The cheapest cost several hundred Galleons.
It was as if no one had considered whether anyone would actually buy them.
Quirrell could understand that these were probably powerful alchemical creations, but he really couldn't see how a biscuit could justify such value.
A bit like when the very first mobile phone appeared—no one yet understood how valuable that little black brick would become.
There were no lines at the door of Fairy Tale Workshop, but outside Britain, alchemists' entry applications were piling up at the Ministry of Magic.
Some had even said outright:
"Whether the Ministry approves us or not, at eight o'clock this morning, we will be in Diagon Alley."
…
The area in front of Fairy Tale Workshop was filled in an instant. Wizards of every style appeared at the very second after eight, seemingly out of nowhere.
Quirrell had never seen anything like it—they might as well have blinked into existence.
He couldn't even tell what countries they were from: some wore sharp-cut silk robes, sleek and businesslike; some had feathered headdresses and expensive leather garments; one was literally a black panther, sleek and powerful, who sprang forward to secure a spot near the front.
The one thing they all had in common: they all knew Professor Tayra, who was sitting in the shop as guardian.
"Master Tayra…"
"So pleased to see you again, Master Tayra. Lovely weather, isn't it…"
"You've really picked up a treasure this time, Tayra."
They greeted her, then turned eager eyes toward the display window.
"To seize the magical authority of magical creatures… a godlike alchemical technique. Let me see—"
A Latin American witch snapped her fingers; a full set of Fairy Tale biscuits floated into her hands.
"Uagadou's human transfiguration research has hit a dead end, but in the vast world of magic, there's always something else waiting… I'll take ten of each!"
The moment she said it, wizards all around glared at her.
"Do you think the alchemists here can't afford them? I suggest you calm yourself, madam. If you didn't skip the notice posted on the door, you should know there's a limit of two per person,"
said a wizard in black robes.
Everyone gave her a cool glance, then turned back to carefully pick two from the four available types.
For most of them, the research value far outweighed practical use, so their choices had to be made with great care.
Quirrell's brain was still reeling from all this when another group entered: wizards in standard Ministry robes.
They were from the British Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Its sub-offices included the Auror Office, the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office, the Detection and Confiscation of Counterfeit Defensive Spells and Protective Objects Office, the Improper Use of Magic Office, and the administrative arm of the Wizengamot.
It was the single largest department in the Ministry.
Among them was a wizard with flaming red hair—Arthur Weasley, head of the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office.
It was that very morning he'd received the bombshell:
the wizard hailed as the most gifted alchemist in six hundred years, winner of the Udara International Alchemy Conference's groundbreaking Gold Award, was opening his own alchemical workshop in Diagon Alley.
Every department in the Ministry had scrambled to apply for the privilege of "representing" the Ministry there. In the end, the Department of Magical Law Enforcement won out—as usual, the biggest department got the prize.
"Three thousand Galleons?!"
Mr Weasley yelped as soon as he saw the price list inside.
That was almost two or three years of his salary.
He winced. The funds allotted by the Ministry weren't enough; the cheaper categories were already sold out. All that was left were the more expensive series—and now even the cheapest remaining was a thousand Galleons. There was no way his budget could cover what the Ministry had asked of him.
On the other side of the shop…
The alchemists were buying with gusto.
"I'm willing to pay three times the listed price for one more," said a Uagadou witch to Quirrell. He was still in a daze—ten minutes after opening and half the stock was gone.
"Rules are rules,"
Quirrell snapped back to himself and refused firmly.
"We restock on the seventh of each month, madam,"
he added, nodding at the handwritten notice nailed up by the door.
"…"
The Uagadou witch was silent for a moment, then, seeing Tayra—Uagadou's greatest living alchemist—sitting firmly in place, sighed helplessly.
"Damn you, Tayra. Won't sell even one extra…"
she muttered.
Inside Fairy Tale Workshop it was a raucous scene, no less lively than the joke shop's.
More importantly, the wizards inside had truly terrifying purchasing power. A few thousand Galleons were just numbers to them.
They spent without blinking.
The little placards inside the glass cases explained exactly why:
[Fairy Tale Biscuit Series]
Grants a wizard the ability to truly transform into a magical creature.
Currently available: Thestral, Bowtruckle, Hippogriff, Baby Fire Dragon.
…
Quirrell read that and felt an almost unbearable urge to buy one himself.
His eyes immediately darted to the inner side room, where Mr Green was quietly practicing magic.
He finally understood: there hadn't been a single exaggeration in the Prophet's article, nor in his one, fleeting thought.
…He'd been stupid to ever doubt.
The biscuits vanished at a speed visible to the naked eye. Mr Weasley was sweating bullets.
"Not enough funds—too expensive—"
he muttered, but his words were drowned in the noise.
Outside, the crowd watched the bizarrely jam-packed shop with growing curiosity. Some tried to push their way in, only to be shoved aside by a knot of reporters with cameras.
They tried to storm the door, but Quirrell physically blocked the entrance.
"No press."
"We're from the Daily Prophet, sir!"
cried the wizard at the front.
"Witch Weekly, sir—the witches are dying to hear about this young master,"
said a young witch, face full of hope.
She'd heard the master was incredibly young and handsome…
"Mr Agent, Today in Transfiguration would be honoured if you could give us thirty minutes—no, ten minutes."
The scholarly wizard at the back added his plea.
But no matter what they said, Quirrell didn't let a single reporter in.
There were arguments and raised voices at the door; inside was no calmer.
While other wizards were begging Master Tayra for more stock, Arthur Weasley couldn't even bring himself to ask for a discount.
Sean had been studying Dumbledore's notes on cross-species transfiguration, but he overheard Mr Weasley's grumbling.
Once he'd pieced together what was going on, he stepped out of the side room.
"Mr Weasley,"
he said.
"Green, delighted to see you here—are you here to study?"
Mr Weasley forced himself to set his panic aside. No matter how anxious he was, he probably couldn't complete the assignment anyway.
Worst case, there'd be a reprimand. Surely they wouldn't fire him over this… right?
Involuntarily, a face floated into his mind—Lucius Malfoy, always quick to make trouble out of small things.
"I'm here to keep an eye on things, sir,"
Sean explained.
This was, after all, his alchemy workshop.
Even if Professor Tayra was here in person, keeping him in the background and away from silvered tongues, he still needed to quietly oversee everything.
"Keep an eye…?"
Mr Weasley didn't quite follow, but he didn't push. Instead, he looked back in despair at the price tags.
"Fifteen hundred Galleons… I could just manage the cheaper seven-hundred-Galleon Bowtruckle set, but those are gone. Now the lowest is a thousand for a Hippogriff set—I can't make that up…"
he muttered.
He found himself in front of the Bowtruckle case. It had been empty since before they'd even entered.
In theory, he could explain that, but the Ministry bureaucrats might not listen.
He was still staring, when a voice said:
"Sir, it looks like there are some left."
"Ah, Green, how could there—"
He gave a bitter laugh, then blinked. There, in the glass case, sat two Bowtruckle biscuits.
He snatched them up faster than lightning, and after paying—cheerfully—realized the Ministry stipend even had a hundred Galleons left over.
He was thrilled.
Once the excitement passed, the questions crept back in—where had those biscuits come from?
At that moment, Professor Quirrell walked in with a middle-aged witch.
His eyes immediately found Sean in a quiet corner.
Leaving Arthur unnoticed, he addressed Sean in his usual cautious, respectful tone:
"Mr Green, this is a special interview from the Chocolate Frog Card Committee. They'd like to collect some information about you."
When he finished, Mr Weasley's jaw dropped so far you could've stuffed a chicken egg in his mouth.
~~~
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