Around midnight, Vernon lay awake, the faint rustle of Petunia stirring beside him the only sound in the darkened room. His mind raced, replaying the evening's revelations. Something that big—so quiet and controlled—didn't sit right with him.
Then it clicked.
The night Harry mentioned acquiring Ellerby and Spudmore, the broom company.
Vernon had offered to buy it for him back then, but Harry never brought it up again.
Since that night, the broom market had been eerily silent. No chatter, no bids, no rumors. Nothing.
Two possibilities remained: either the market had genuinely gone cold, or Harry had pulled off something massive—and knowing Harry's sharp business mind, Vernon leaned heavily toward the latter.
Unable to sleep, Vernon threw on his dressing gown and padded downstairs. The house was still and dim, the occasional creak of old wood his only company. As he stepped into the living room, the faint glow of the fireplace bathed the room in amber.
Harry was there, lounging in the armchair, gaze fixed on the ceiling, a glass in hand. From the faraway look in his eyes, it was clear—his mind wasn't here.
Vernon moved quietly and sat down on the opposite armchair. "Couldn't sleep either?" he asked, picking up the half-filled glass of whiskey from the side table.
Harry didn't look at him. "Too much to think about."
They sat in silence, the fire cracking softly between them. Vernon sipped. Harry sipping a butterbeer.
A few more minutes passed before Vernon turned, fixing Harry with a level gaze. "I want some answers, son," he said, voice low but steady. "And I want you to be honest. This doesn't go outside this room."
Harry finally looked over and nodded once.
Vernon leaned in slightly, glass dangling from his fingers. "Did you acquire Ellerby and Spudmore?"
Harry stared back at the fire, eyes reflecting the flickering flames. He didn't even blink.
"I didn't just acquire Ellerby and Spudmore," he said quietly, still staring at the fire. "I own all of them. Every broom company in Britain except Nimbus."
The words were soft. Almost casual. But to Vernon, they landed like thunder.
His glass paused mid-air. Then slowly lowered. "All… of them?"
Harry nodded.
For a long moment, Vernon said nothing. The fire crackled. Somewhere in the upper floorboards, the house creaked.
Disbelief settled in first—thick and unreal. Then confusion, twisting into the start of fear.
His twelve-year-old son… owned seventy percent of the broomstick industry. Not invested in. Owned.
It wasn't just that Harry had money or power. It was the scale. The silence. The precision. Not a whisper in the market. No leaks. No rumors. No noise.
It was the kind of control that came from planning, manipulation, and a mind ten steps ahead of everyone else.
Vernon took another sip of whiskey, slower this time. He could feel it. Sooner or later, his son would hold the entire magical Britain in his grasp. It was only a question of when, not if.
The silence between them stretched—heavy, introspective—until Harry finally turned his head toward Vernon.
"There's something I need from you as well," he said, voice quieter now, but more serious.
Vernon tensed, not from fear, but from the tone. He recognized it. This wasn't Harry asking for a favor.
He was about to be entrusted with something... monumental.
"What is it?" he asked, voice low.
Harry sat forward, elbows on knees, glass dangling loosely in his hand. "What I'm about to ask… is illegal. Not just frowned upon by the Ministry. I'm talking ICW-level illegal. Dangerous enough that if we're caught—really caught—we might become the most wanted wizards on the planet."
Vernon didn't flinch. He just waited.
Harry continued, "I'm building something. Or rather—I want to. Something that could change everything. Not just for wizards, but eventually for Muggles too. I call it Magitech."
Vernon frowned faintly. "Magical technology?"
Harry nodded. "Exactly. A fusion of magic and tech. If it works… it could advance our world by a century. Magical transportation, automated healing, integrated spellcasting interfaces, magical energy converters—hell, we could fix St. Mungo's broken wards overnight. And that's just the start."
Vernon leaned back, processing. "What's the catch?"
"The Statute of Secrecy," Harry replied grimly. "Magitech will be violating it—by default. It blurs the line between what is considered magical knowledge and what is known to non-magical society. And considering that we will need Muggle engineers for this, that is basically breaking the Statute of Secrecy. If this got out now, we'd be condemned globally."
He paused.
"I'm not asking to break the law blindly. This isn't reckless. I have a plan—but I need time. I need infrastructure. I want to build a research and development center. Underground. Hidden. Where the brightest minds I can gather will work with full freedom. Quietly. Illegally."
"And you want me to set it up."
Harry met his eyes. "You're the only one I trust to do it without asking for permission. You've run business. You understand logistics. Discretion. Power. And you've always protected this family. This is for the future of wizards, Dad. A future where a spell can be embedded in a ring. Where a child with squib-like magic can wear a wristband and access spells."
Vernon exhaled slowly, brow furrowing. "And how do you expect to bring it to the public without being executed?"
Harry gave a slight smile. "That's the best part. By the time we introduce Magitech, it won't even be illegal."
He leaned forward now. "Ron and Hermione are working on something—a power classification system. It identifies a wizard's core output using a device. That device reads and stores magical energy. Do you see?"
Vernon blinked. Then nodded slowly. "You're going to use that as your backdoor."
"Exactly," Harry said. "We'll build a different version, of course, something more advanced, more adaptable—but similar enough to be just a 'modification' of the original. By the time ICW tries to intervene, Magitech will already be a derivative of something already legal and adopted."
He sat back, watching Vernon's reaction.
"You don't have to give me an answer now. But I can't do this without you. This… isn't Hogwarts-level playing anymore. We're talking geopolitical ripple effects. The power to collapse entire Ministries—or rebuild them from scratch."
Vernon stared at the fire for a long time, jaw tight, his glass now forgotten on the table.
"You realize," he said finally, "that if this works… you're not just rewriting wizardkind. You're reshaping the world."
Harry didn't blink. "I know."
Another long pause.
"How do we start?" Vernon asked after downing the entire liquid in his glass.
They spoke for hours.
Diagrams were drawn on conjured parchment. Plans drafted, scrapped, redrafted. Harry outlined the lab's layout, the enchantments needed for soundproofing, for cloaking, for warding off even the most sensitive detection spells. Vernon proposed secure supply routes—both magical and Muggle—and a dummy logistics company as a front.
Vernon took it all in, giving ideas at different stages that would work better than Harry's idea. He questioned, cross-examined, and restructured. But never once did he say no.
By the time they were done, it was nearly five in the morning. The sky beyond the windows had begun to pale. A soft light crept into the room, nudging the shadows away.
Harry leaned back in the chair, stretching slightly. HIs fifth butterbeer bottle almost empty now.
"Dad," he said quietly, "don't tell Mum or Sirius. Not yet. Not until we can say that it's legal and we've got everything in place. And whatever you do, don't build it here. Keep it completely off-site, somewhere far. Somewhere quiet."
Vernon nodded, "Yes, I know son. Don't worry, I'll show you what your dad can do when he puts his mind to it."
Harry drained the last of his butterbeer and then stood up, rolling his neck slightly.
"I'll get breakfast ready!" he said, stretching his arms above his head.
Vernon raised a brow but didn't say anything as he watched Harry walk off towards the kitchen. As he disappeared behind the door, Vernon sat back, staring at the dying embers of the fire.
His son wasn't a child anymore.
He was a storm wrapped in calm.
And now, Vernon was part of that storm. Quiet. Powerful. Unstoppable.
The world had no idea what was coming. And by the time they did—it would already be to late to stop it.
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The room was quiet. A deep, contemplative silence—not born of confusion, but of awe and unease.
Thick stone walls wrapped around them like a vault. At the center, a wide obsidian table glinted under enchanted candelight, its surface littered with parchment, magical notes, and one thick, worn diary bound in dragonhide.
Albus Dumbledore stood at the head, fingers steepled beneath his chin, eyes unreadable behind his half-moon glasses.
Around him sat every professor currently employed at Hogwarts. Minerva McGonagall, back straight and lips thin. Severus Snape, arms folded, eyes darker than usual. Filius Flitwick tapped his wand absentmindedly, while Pomona Sprout's hands were clasped tightly together. Remus Lupin sat furthest from the fire, the diary open before him—his expression unreadable. And beside him, the new Defense professor, Thorne.
Tall. Silver-eyed. Cloaked in silence and power. A man said to rival Dumbledore himself in raw magical force, though no one had ever seen him try.
The diary lay open. On its latest page was a spell that shouldn't exist.
A temporal stasis field.
"He's twelve," said McGonagall finally, her voice more brittle than usual. "Albus. He's twelve."
"I'm aware, Minerva," Dumbledore said softly.
Snape leaned forward, voice as cold as steel. "These aren't accidental flukes. These are structured, layered spellcrafts. Invented. Refined. Optimized." He tapped a page with two fingers. "This—" he flicked to another page, "—and this are theoretical constructs that Master Arithmancers wouldn't dare attempt."
Lupin closed the book slowly. "He's not just powerful. He's methodical. He thinks like a magical engineer."
"Worse," muttered Thorne for the first time, voice low. "He thinks like a creator. Every one of these spells—especially the temporal ones—reflects someone thinking beyond rules. He's not bending laws. He's looking for how to rewrite them."
Silence.
Flitwick finally spoke, lifting the mood only slightly. "I will admit, some of these spells… are beautiful. Dangerous, yes—but the elegance in the magical flow diagrams—look here—" he conjured a schematic mid-air. "This is not normal."
"Page seventy-two," Snape said suddenly.
McGonagall turned it and froze. So did Sprout.
"Spatial anchoring," muttered Thorne. "He's planning to use temporal-spatial locking to build an entire isolated reality… with its own adjustable time stream."
Dumbledore didn't respond. He simply reached for the diary and flipped to a seemingly random page near the end. A line of Harry's writing, smaller, scribbled as if mid-thought, barely legible.
"—if time is fixed locally and accelerated internally, I can simulate a ten-year lab in ten hours. Could even teach myself—just need to control the temporal space compression layers. Wonder if the Room of Requirement can be forcibly adapted—"
The professors stared.
Lupin exhaled sharply. "He's trying to build a temporal training field. A personal time pocket."
"A room where one could spend decades while only a few hours passed outside..." Thorne said darkly.
Sprout spoke hesitantly. "Should we… be worried?"
Dumbledore nodded slowly, then turned to a passage that caused a collective intake of breath among the professors.
"Here, he outlines healing charms unlike any we have seen. Rather than merely sealing wounds or accelerating recovery, these spells employ temporal reversal—rewinding the injury itself to a state before harm was done. A temporal healing charm."
Madam Pomfrey would pale to witness such magic, Dumbledore mused silently.
Flitwick, usually serene, whispered, "Healing by reversing time itself… that would require an immense control of temporal magic and magical energy."
"Exactly," Thorne said gravely. "Such manipulation is not just about the healing—it challenges the very fabric of magical law. To alter time in living tissue, even briefly, skirts dangerously close to forbidden magics."
Snape, added, "And yet Potter has theorized this. From a historical standpoint, I dare say that no wizard has ever documented magic in such detail, much less combined different branches of magic together."
Dumbledore drew a deep, weary sigh—one that seemed to carry the weight of decades.
"I have never once considered retirement," he began, voice low and uncharacteristically fragile, "not in all my years at Hogwarts or beyond. Yet… reading this…" He gestured toward the open diary with a faint, tired smile, "I find myself seriously contemplating it."
The room fell into a heavy silence. The professors exchanged glances, some uneasy, others stunned.
McGonagall's eyes narrowed. "Retiring because of a second year?"
"Yes," Dumbledore admitted, "because this second year is unlike any we have ever known. Not merely powerful—he's rewriting the rules. Inventing magic where none existed before. And with a mind that thinks far beyond our traditions."
He chuckled darkly, a sound without true humor. "If Harry Potter chooses the dark path—" He paused, searching for words that did not come easily. "I daresay… the world would have no choice but to bow. There is no one who could stop him."
Snape's lips twitched in a rare, almost grudging respect. "Not when he toys with magic on a level that makes the greatest Arithmancers seem like apprentices."
Thorne's voice was grim. "But to him, this is a plaything...."
Dumbledore's eyes glinted behind his glasses, sharp and clear. "I can only hope he remains the good person we want him to be. For if he does not…" His gaze darkened. "If he falls… the consequences will be beyond anything we can imagine."
He closed the diary carefully, his fingers lingering on the cover for a moment.
"And so, I find myself at a crossroads. How does one guide a storm that can reshape worlds? How do you teach a god not to destroy?"
Dumbledore's words hung heavy in the air, but then, almost simultaneously, the room shifted.
Minerva McGonagall spoke first, her voice firm but carrying a note of conviction. "Albus, I refuse to believe that Harry Potter—of all people—would choose destruction over hope. This boy has shown kindness in ways many of us have not."
Snape, arms still crossed, finally broke his silence, voice low but unmistakably sincere. "He's not like the others. Remember the Moonsbane Elixir. He didn't just hand it over to the Ministry or ask for funding. No. He funded it entirely himself."
Flitwick's eyes brightened with admiration. "Despite generous donations, he never wanted to rely on others. A self-made solution for the werewolves—allowing them to keep their minds intact during transformation. A miracle, really."
Pomona Sprout nodded, a rare smile touching her lips. "That potion changed everything. From a curse to a manageable condition. What once was feared as a violent, uncontrollable affliction has become something... humane."
Lupin, who had remained quiet, spoke softly, his voice filled with respect. "The werewolves owe him more than gratitude. He gave them back their dignity."
Thorne, the new Defense professor, added quietly, "Such compassion is rare in a wizard wielding that much power."
Snape glanced at the diary again, voice grudging but honest. "His intellect may be unmatched, but it is tempered by empathy. Dangerous, yes, but not without conscience."
Dumbledore's gaze softened. "Then perhaps the storm is not one of destruction, but of transformation. If Harry Potter is the force that reshapes the world, it may be for the better."
The professors exchanged thoughtful looks, their unease giving way to cautious hope.
McGonagall concluded, "We must guide him. Not restrain him. Help him wield that power responsibly."
Dumbledore nodded slowly. "Yes. A god, perhaps—but a god who remembers his humanity."
The diary lay closed on the table, a symbol of both the burden and promise resting in the hands of a twelve-year-old boy named Harry Potter.
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The faint grey light of dawn filtered through Hermione's curtains when her eyes blinked open. 5:40 AM. Her body felt like lead, her mind fogged like the aftermath of a fever.
Not surprising. Harry had dropped her home last night—early morning, really. She barely remembered stepping inside before the darkness claimed her.
She sat up, groaning softly as the stiffness in her shoulders made itself known. Her clothes from yesterday still clung to her, wrinkled and slightly damp at the hem. Gross.
Bleary-eyed, she reached for her clock. 5:45 now. If she moved quickly, she could floo back to Hogwarts, freshen up in the dormitory, and get back to work. The research wasn't going to complete itself.
She stumbled to her dresser, pulling out clean clothes with mechanical efficiency. Her brain was still booting up when the soft knock on her bedroom door made her pause.
"Hermione?" came her mother's warm, slightly amused voice.
Opening the door halfway, Hermione peered out, clothes bunched in her arms.
"Is everything alright, Mum?"
Mrs. Granger took one look at the mess of garments and the determined expression on her daughter's face and chuckled. "Darling… Harry left a very specific message with us before he left."
Hermione blinked. "Message?"
"Explicit," her mother said with a chuckle. "You are not allowed to go back to Hogwarts until tomorrow. He said—and I quote—that if you even try, he'll shut down the whole research project himself."
Hermione's jaw dropped. "He what?"
Mrs. Granger just smiled knowingly. "He said both you and Ron looked like you were going to keel over. I'm inclined to agree after seeing you yesterday"
The hypocrisy burned like a quiet ember in Hermione's chest. "He doesn't rest properly either," she muttered under her breath. "Absolute hypocrite."
But despite herself, she couldn't summon proper annoyance. A small part of her—the part behind her aching muscles and bleary eyes—felt… relieved. She and Ron had been going too hard lately. Especially since the research became funded. The stakes were real now, deadlines looming, expectations mounting.
"And," Mrs. Granger added as she turned to head downstairs, "he left another request."
Hermione raised an eyebrow. "Another?"
"Soft drinks. Soda. Loads of it. Said he's bored of butterbeer and pumpkin juice. Wanted a change of palate. He'll pay, of course."
Hermione closed the door and leaned her forehead against it, half laughing.
Of course Harry wanted fizzy drinks. That guy is always eating or drinking something or the other.
Hypocrite or not, she thought fondly, he was their hypocrite.
And frankly… a quiet day with her family and no ancient spell diagrams didn't sound half bad for once. Specially not after last week.
But honestly… it had been worth it. Working themselves to the bone wasn't just blind obsession—it was necessity. They were close. So close to turning their system from theory to reality.
The framework was built. The models were ready. Funding, thanks to Harry, was secured.
All that was left was the core: how to reliably measure a wizard's prowess. Magic wasn't numbers or weights—it was will, skill, instinct, power, intellect, emotion. And trying to get something that quantified that?
Hermione bit her lip.
Something in her gut told her that this wasn't the final stretch—it was the beginning of the hard part. Everything before was scaffolding. This… this was the foundation.
They were about to step into uncharted territory, and despite the weight of exhaustion pulling at her bones, a familiar fire stirred in her chest.
They were going to finish it. No matter how long it took.
But—later.
Right now, she needed a shower, breakfast, and maybe—maybe, no definitely—some soda shopping.
The smell of toast and scrambled eggs greeted Hermione as she padded into the kitchen, her hair still damp from the shower, frizz curling around her temples.
Mrs. Granger was already at the stove, humming softly to herself as she flipped another slice of bread onto the growing stack.
"Morning, darling," she greeted, handing over a plate without ceremony. "Eat. You look like you've been dragged through five hedge mazes backwards."
Hermione gave a tired laugh, settling into her usual seat at the table. "Feels about right."
Her father glanced over his newspaper, lowering it slightly to give her a once-over. "Busy night at wizard school?"
"Research," she said simply, stabbing at the eggs with her fork. "Important research."
"Does this important research have anything to do with why your wizard friend looked ready to hex the entire world when he dropped you off?"
Hermione winced. "Harry's… protective. Overbearing, more like."
"Good instincts," Mr. Granger muttered before returning to his paper.
Mrs. Granger slid a mug of tea in front of her next. "Overbearing or not, he's right. You need rest. And hydration. And vitamins."
Hermione smiled softly into her tea. Normalcy. For a few hours at least, she could pretend she wasn't trying to build a magical system that could redefine magical society itself.
The eggs were warm, the tea was strong, and for just a fleeting moment, the weight of spell diagrams, magical formulas, and power measurements could stay outside her home.
As she finished the last bite of toast, Hermione glanced up at her father, who was once again buried in his newspaper.
"Dad," she began carefully, "I was thinking—since I'm apparently banned from Hogwarts for the day—I might pop down to the shops later. Harry asked for some fizzy drinks."
Mr. Granger peered at her over his reading glasses. "No, you won't."
Hermione blinked. "What?"
"You're not going anywhere," he said, folding the newspaper with deliberate care. "You'll rest. I'll go get a few bottles after work."
Hermione couldn't help the laugh that escaped her lips. "Dad, no. You don't understand—Harry's few is not anyone else's few."
Both her parents looked at her with identical raised eyebrows.
"I'm serious," she said, still smiling. "When Harry says 'a few,' he means at least a dozen crates. Minimum."
Mrs. Granger's eyes widened. "Crates?"
Hermione nodded, leaning back with a resigned fondness. "You know how he is about food. Last year he bought enough sweets to feed all of Gryffindor for a year. And I don't mean just a handful of treats—I'm talking twenty or thirty packs of Chocolate Frogs alone. Each pack had fifteen frogs. Similar numbers for Bertie Bott's Beans, Cauldron Cakes, Licorice wands…"
Mr. Granger just stared. "How's the boy not rolled out of Hogwarts like a barrel?"
Hermione laughed properly this time. "Because Harry's Harry. He burns through energy like he's fighting a dragon before breakfast."
"And you let him buy all that?"
"Of course not. Fred and George banned him from sweet-shopping this year. They literally hexed his money pouch to lock if he even thinks about it. Not that it will do any good since Harry can just break the hex with a simple thought."
Mrs. Granger chuckled, shaking her head. "Well. Fizzy drinks, then."
Mr. Granger sighed theatrically. "Fine. I'll bring the car around after work. We'll both go. But you're pushing the trolley, young lady."
Hermione smirked into her tea. "Deal."
For all its peace, the weight of what awaited her back at Hogwarts coiled like a silent knot in the back of her mind.
But that could wait.
For now—tea, warm food, and maybe hunting down an unreasonable number of fizzy drink crates.
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Ron woke with his face mashed into his pillow, hair sticking up in all directions, and the vague sense that someone was yelling downstairs.
Or maybe not yelling—just Fred and George talking at normal volume, which was basically the same thing.
Groaning, he shoved himself upright, squinting at the soft light creeping through the window. Judging by the color of it, it was still stupid early. He rubbed at his eyes, memories from the previous night slowly untangling in his head.
Just as he was about to get up from his bed, he door burst open without ceremony.
"Rise and shine, ickle Ronniekins," Fred grinned.
"You're on vacation," George added helpfully.
"What—?"
Ginny appeared behind them, already dressed and tying her hair back into a ponytail. "Harry's orders. You and Hermione are banned from Hogwarts until tomorrow."
Fred wagged a finger. "Attempt to show your freckled face at school before then and he's apparently going to shut the whole research thing down."
"Word for word," George said, nodding sagely.
Ron scowled. "He can't just ban me—"
"Already did," Ginny said breezily.
Before Ron could gather a proper argument, all three of them grabbed their cloaks and headed downstairs. By the time he got his slippers on and made it after them, they were gathering things in the living room.
Before he could ask anything, the three of them Disapparated without a sound.
Mrs. Weasley, standing by the kitchen doorway, huffed with crossed arms. "I still don't understand how they manage that. Harry teaching them that silent Apparition. Honestly, it feels really unnatural."
Ron flopped onto the couch, muttering, "When were things ever natural with that git?"
He sat there for a bit, staring at the patterns on the Burrow's living room rug, brain trying to restart like a rusty lawnmower. Part of him felt guilty about not being at Hogwarts, pushing forward. Another part… well, that part was kind of enjoying sitting somewhere that didn't smell like ink, parchment, and frustration.
The soft creak of footsteps on the stairs made him glance up.
"Morning, son," Mr. Weasley greeted, adjusting his belt as he came down. "You look like you lost a duel to a troll."
"Feels about right," Ron muttered.
"Arthur! Ronald! Breakfast is ready!" Mrs. Weasley's voice floated in from the kitchen, brisk and purposeful as ever.
With matching shrugs, father and son headed into the kitchen, drawn by the heavenly aroma of sizzling bacon and warm bread. The long, slightly battered table was already set, plates gleaming, butter melting in a dish near the stack of toast.
Ron slumped into his usual seat as Mr. Weasley sat opposite, rolling up his sleeves.
Mrs. Weasley placed a heaping platter of eggs between them with a practiced flick of her wand. "Eat up. Merlin knows you need it."
Ron wasted no time piling food onto his plate. His stomach, which had been indifferent moments ago, roared to life like a dragon finding its flame.
"Fred, George, and Ginny gone already?" Mr. Weasley asked mildly as he reached for the bacon.
"Yeah," Ron said around a mouthful of eggs. "Off to Hogwarts."
Mrs. Weasley tutted, bustling back toward the stove. "Without a sound again. I'll never get used to that. Apparition's supposed to crack, not vanish like fog on a summer morning."
"Actually, no, Mum. It's not," Ron said, swallowing quickly, surprising even himself with how steady his voice sounded. "The crack happens when you force your magic into it like—like stuffing too much into a cauldron all at once. Makes it burst."
Mrs. Weasley blinked at him, spatula frozen mid-flip.
"If you weave it through the movement instead," Ron continued, "sort of like flowing water instead of a geyser, it's smooth. No noise."
Mrs. Weasley huffed, flicking her wand a bit too sharply as she Summoned the jam. "Well, I've been trying, I have. I practice almost every morning, and I still crack like a Christmas cracker."
Ron smiled faintly. "You'll get it. You've been improving. Harry said once you can properly feel your magic and guide it, not shove it, it'll stop. He showed us over the summer, remember?"
"I remember," she muttered, folding her arms. "Still not fair. I've been Apparating for decades, and now suddenly I've got homework again."
Mr. Weasley chuckled as he buttered a slice of toast. "You'll manage, Molly. Magic's like plumbing—you don't fix it by banging it with a wrench, you finesse it."
Mrs. Weasley gave him a flat look but her lips twitched despite herself.
"And besides," Mr. Weasley added casually, "you're already better than most. Not many witches your age learning new tricks. Even started wandless work, haven't you?"
That softened her mood. "Little spells," she admitted. "Harry's teaching is very… different."
"Effective though," Arthur said, taking a bite of toast. "I'm getting the hang of silent Apparition now. Makes slipping away in public much easier."
Ron snorted. "You're both doing great. Honestly, Mum—you'll probably be doing wandless cooking spells by Christmas if you keep at it."
That earned a full laugh from Mrs. Weasley. "Imagine that. No wand, no noise—just dinner appearing on the table. That's a future I like."
Finally settling down with her own plate, Mrs. Weasley gave Ron a keen look over the rim of her tea. "Alright then—what exactly is this research you and Hermione have been buried under? You've barely written anything about it."
Ron swallowed a bite of toast and leaned back, scratching his chin. "It's… complicated. But basically—we're trying to build a system to measure magical prowess. Not just raw power—but control over magical energy as well."
Mrs. Weasley blinked, "Measure it? How? Similar to how Healers measure magical exhaustion?"
"Not really," Ron said. "It's a different way of approach. If we are capable of making the system, it will be able to measure the raw power as in quantity of magical energy in a wizard."
Arthur leaned forward, curious. "Standardizing magical ability… that's ambitious. And useful."
"Yeah," Ron nodded. "Yeah blame Harry for this idea. Once me and Hermione asked him just how powerful he is. He answered that he had no idea since there was no way of measuring."
Mrs. Weasley frowned. "I don't like the idea of people being 'rated.' Feels... impersonal."
Ron shrugged spearing his eggs, "It may be. But if we know just how powerful we are then we know what we can do to be better. That's the idea anyway."
Mrs. Weasley looked thoughtful, her fork pausing midair. "Well… I still don't like the idea of turning everything into numbers, but… if it helps people… and with you lot doing it, at least it'll be done right."
Ron smiled faintly. "That's the plan."
Arthur nodded, "Well just be sure to take rest once in a while."
"Yeah, I will, Dad" Ron said helping himself to another steak sandwich. "
As he polished off the last of his eggs, Ron leaned back with a content sigh. "I should head to Diagon Alley later. Need to stock up on snacks. Between me and Hermione tearing through the research, we've practically emptied the whole stash the twins bought on the train."
Mrs. Weasley gave him a disapproving glance but said nothing. Arthur, on the other hand, chuckled softly. "Sounds about right."
"We could go together," Mrs. Weasley suggested, setting her fork down neatly. "Your father and I were headed there anyway."
Ron nodded, "Okay. I'll go clean up and get dressed."
"Don't forget your cloak," Mrs. Weasley called as he pushed his chair back. "Forecast said rain."
"Got it," Ron said, stretching. "Snacks first, rain later."
With that, he padded off toward the stairs, already making a mental list of everything he'd need—Chocolate Frogs, Cauldron cakes, some spicy snacks from that bakery they visited once. Well he will just stock up a lot, since there were basically a lot of people.