10:45 a.m., February 2nd.
The wheels touched down at San Francisco International with a soft jolt that barely stirred Harry awake. The private jet had been quiet and steady the whole way across the ocean, and with Victor nearby keeping an eye on everything, he had allowed himself to sleep deeper than he usually did.
The cabin door opened, letting in the sharp, cool California air. Harry stepped out first, squinting at the bright stretch of runway. Then he took a long breath, filling his lungs.
A grin spread across his face.
"Ah—now that's good," he said, louder than he meant to. "Feels great to be back."
Victor blinked at him. "Back? You've been to San Francisco before?"
Harry's mind tripped over itself for half a second, then he shrugged with easy confidence.
"In my dreams," he said casually. Well he couldn't tell Victor that he had one of his companies subsidiaries in this state. Well in his previous life at least.
Victor stared at him for a beat, trying to figure out if that was sarcasm or something deeper. Harry pretended not to notice and kept walking.
The rental car service was already waiting. Victor had booked it days ago, knowing they'd be covering a lot of ground across the States. The driver—a tall man with calm eyes—held the door open as they approached.
"Where to first?" Victor asked, adjusting his bag over his shoulder.
Harry stopped mid-step, spun around, and pointed straight at him."First place? Victor… my friend… we are getting a cheeseburger."
Victor sighed in a way that suggested he had prepared himself for far more complicated problems than this, yet somehow this boy still managed to surprise him.
"You ate breakfast before landing," he reminded him.
Harry waved that off. "That was pre-cheeseburger food. It doesn't count."
Victor muttered something about "a bottomless stomach" under his breath as they climbed into the car. Once they pulled out of the airport, he leaned forward and told the driver, "Best cheeseburger nearby. Please."
The driver nodded like he had received a sacred mission.
They ended up at a local place tucked between a gas station and a flower shop, the kind of place that didn't look like much but smelled incredible the moment they stepped out of the car.
Harry was sold instantly.
Ten minutes later, when the food finally arrived, the driver and Victor watched, stunned, as the boy tore through his meal like a man returning from war. One burger vanished. Then another. Then another.
By the time he reached the sixth one, Victor was staring at him the same way one might stare at a natural disaster.
"I share," Harry said defensively nodding to the meal in front of both Victor and the driver with the generosity of a king.
"Yes," Victor said slowly, "but you also inhale food."
Harry wiped his hands, leaned back in the booth, and sighed in complete satisfaction.
"This," he declared, staring at the mountain of wrappers, "is why America was invented."
Victor dropped his face into his palm. The driver couldn't agree more as he shook quietly with laughter.
"Kid," he said, "you sure you ain't American already?"
After the meal, Victor asked where they were going and Harry said, first they are going to go around the city.
If the burger joint was an introduction, the next several hours became a full-blown immersion into American culture—or at least the version of it that lived in malls.
Harry didn't walk into stores. He stormed them, dragging Victor along like a man riding a hurricane.
He tried on sunglasses with dramatic flair.He gravitated toward shirts that made Victor mutter prayers.He chose sneakers in colors that should not coexist.He bought novelty keychains simply because they jingled pleasantly.He fell in love with a giant stuffed corgi, declared it his "spiritual companion," and carried it everywhere thereafter.
Victor attempted reason once or twice, but Harry stopped him with the straight-faced solemnity of a philosopher.
"Practicality has no place in a land whose national food pyramid is 80 percent grease."
The driver laughed so hard he had to excuse himself.
By the time they finished, the trunk was so full the car nearly sighed when it closed.
He darted from vendor to vendor along Fisherman's Wharf, acquiring snacks with the eagerness of a child who'd never been allowed treats in his life.
He tried chili dogs dripping with sauce, pretzels nearly the size of steering wheels, and fresh churros dusted in cinnamon. He devoured clam chowder served in a sourdough bread bowl, then proceeded to eat the bowl too while Victor looked on helplessly.
He talked to everyone he met.
To the busker playing a guitar with more enthusiasm than talent.To tourists who asked him for directions he absolutely did not know.To a dog in sunglasses, whose owner happily let Harry take a photo with him.To two grandmothers who adored him in under thirty seconds.To a group of teens who dragged him into a selfie and declared him "chill."
Victor watched with a kind of dazed resignation, wondering if it was possible for someone to be too charismatic.
The sun had dipped low when they passed a neighborhood where the air was rich with the unmistakable scent of grilled meat. Music played from a speaker set on a porch, children ran across the lawn, and an entire family was gathered around a barbecue pit that crackled with sizzling wings and ribs.
Harry slowed, captivated.
A broad-shouldered man noticed him lingering and called out, "You hungry, little man?"
Harry didn't even pretend to be polite. "Yes. Very."
Victor nearly choked. "Harry—!"
But the man laughed—a big, warm, rolling sound—and waved them closer.
"Well come on, then. We got plenty. Grab a plate."
Harry's eyes went wide. "Are you serious?"
"This is a cookout," the man said. "Nobody walks away hungry."
The driver leaned toward Victor, whispering in a tone that carried the gravity of ancient wisdom, "You have no idea how rare this is. Kid just got invited to a Black family cookout. That's… like a cultural knighthood."
And so it began.
Harry was handed a heaping plate loaded with ribs glazed in sauce, chicken fresh off the grill, collard greens, mac and cheese, cornbread, potato salad, and peach cobbler so fragrant it felt like a hug.
He played tag with the younger kids.He lost spectacularly at Uno and accused everyone of treason.He danced—terribly—and received cheers for the effort.He was claimed by several aunties who fussed over his hair and declared him "precious."He learned the proper use of the word "bruh."
By the time they departed, the family matriarch pressed a container of leftovers into Harry's hands and patted his cheek.
"You come back anytime, baby."
Harry's smile was bright enough to rival the sunset. And before leaving, he had given everyone a gift from all the shopping he had done before.
When they reached their hotel late that night, Harry collapsed onto the bed surrounded by leftover shopping bags, wrappers, and the stuffed corgi, his hair still faintly smelling of barbecue smoke.
Victor stared at him, utterly wrung out. "You've eaten enough for ten grown men. In one day."
Harry raised one finger without opening his eyes. "I love America."
"That's not love," Victor muttered. "That's a black hole devouring stuff."
Harry looked out the window toward the glowing city skyline.
"Tomorrow," he murmured with a smirk, "the real fun starts."
Victor's breath caught—not because of what he said, but how he said it. Calm. Certain. Dangerous. The tone of someone who already knew the outcome of a game no one else realized had begun.
And in that instant Victor understood one thing with absolute clarity:
Harry's net worth wasn't just going to grow.
It was about to explode—tenfold, a hundredfold—at the very least.
A storm was coming.
And this twelve year old was about to sow chaos in San Francisco.
The same morning Great Hall on the other hand, buzzed with the usual morning noise—clattering cutlery, sleepy chatter, a few overcaffeinated seventh-years trying to finish homework before class. But underneath it all was an unmistakable thread of confusion.
Because Harry Potter's seat was empty.
Ron kept craning his neck toward the doors. Hermione had already checked the dorm. Twice. Neville was wringing his hands, muttering that maybe Harry had gone flying at dawn. Even Luna had tilted her head, as if listening for footsteps that never came.
"He didn't say anything yesterday," Hermione muttered, frustrated. "Not a word! How does someone just… vanish?"
Abigail who was also looking for her brother pouted, "How did he disappear and not tell me?"
Ginny nodded in agreement, muttering about 'carelessness and madness'.
"He forgot. Must have." Ron said with a helpless shrug. "It's Harry. He doesn't even know what he does half of the time."
That earned a sigh because, maddeningly, it was entirely believable.
Then the hall shifted.
Dumbledore stood.
The Great Hall froze. He rarely—rarely—spoke during breakfast. The silence was instant, heavy, expectant.
His eyes scanned the hall, soft yet carrying a weight that made even the ghosts lean closer.
"Magic," he began, "is vast. Limitless. A horizon that expands each time a witch or wizard dares to challenge it."
A ripple of tension moved across the tables.
Ron and Hermione straightened at once.
Because nothing good ever followed Dumbledore waxing poetic so early in the morning.
"Hogwarts," he continued, "has long been a place of learning, discovery, and history. And this morning… it has done something unprecedented."
A murmur rose—excited, nervous.
Most of the students were already glancing toward where Harry should have been sitting.
Dumbledore smiled faintly.
"Last year, a student of ours made history by becoming the youngest Potions Master Britain has ever seen."
Gasps. Whispers. Several first-years dropped their toasts as they got to know from their seniors that Harry had gotten his potion mastery at the age of 11. At least the muggle born ones.
"And this year," Dumbledore went on, his voice growing stronger, "we had his friends make us something so tangible that soon entirety of Magical Britain... no entirety of magical world will be using to classify strengths of wizards and witches." He said as he gestured towards Ron and Hermione.
They flushed and looked at their plates unable to bear the weight of the stares again.
"But as it just so happens," Dumbledore continued. "Harry Potter had shattered the peace of Magical Britain yet again."
"He had gotten a mastery yet again."
The hall leaned forward as one excited about what mastery Harry had gotten again. His friends were gasping as they never knew about this.
"But this time, he had not gotten just one... but four."
Silence.
Then the world detonated.
"FOUR?!" someone shrieked.
"No way—no bleeding way—"
"He's twelve!"
"He's not HUMAN!"
Even the professors—who already knew—winced at the sheer volume of chaos that erupted. Some of the Slytherins looked one argument away from a theological crisis. A couple of Hufflepuffs appeared to be praying.
Dumbledore held up a hand. It took a full minute for the hall to calm.
"Charms," he listed. "Transfiguration. Defense Against the Dark Arts. And Arithmancy. All passed with full marks."
More shrieks. Someone fainted. A Ravenclaw started laughing hysterically.
Ron's fork slipped out of his hand.
Hermione's mouth fell open like her brain had simply hit a blue screen.
Daphne and Pansy held their hands as they were too shocked to process this information. The twins for once could only stare at Dumbledore, their minds unable to comprehend this information.
Abigail and Ginny were too stunned to speak and could only mutter incomprehensible sounds as they tried to make a sentence.
Neville squeaked.
Draco looked both impressed and visibly shook as his cousin just did something considered impossible, yet again.
Dumbledore waited patiently for the mayhem to burn itself out before continuing—though his eyes twinkled with unmistakable mischief.
"There is…" He paused, choosing his words carefully. "…one more matter."
The hall quieted instantly.
"Harry has accomplished something else. Something that cannot be publicly revealed yet. It will require the Department of Mysteries to assist in its disclosure, and therefore must remain confidential for several weeks."
Students exchanged confused, anxious glances.
Dumbledore's tone softened.
"However… I do not wish for our students to remain entirely in the dark. So, after breakfast, all sixth- and seventh-year students will remain behind."
His eyes flickered once, almost reverently.
"You will witness his creation yourselves."
A stunned hush fell over the hall.
Hermione whispered, "He created something?"
Ron whispered back, "Something the Unspeakables have to reveal?!"
Abigail muttered, "I wanna see it too..."
Luna calmly buttered her toast. "I imagine it will be remarkable. Harry rarely creates boring things."
Dumbledore clapped his hands once, gently.
"Please enjoy your breakfast."
Dumbledore's voice rang out again, slicing through the lingering murmur like a perfectly tuned bell.
"One final note," he said, the sparkle of mischief now tempered by practicality. "I almost forgot amidst the… excitement of recent events. Harry Potter is currently on leave."
The hall stilled once more, though this time not from shock but a dawning curiosity.
"His leave," Dumbledore continued, "will last a minimum of one week, and a maximum of two. During this time, the teaching of the basics of magic—Charms, Transfiguration, D.A.D.A., and Arithmancy—will be conducted by two of his most trusted friends: Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger."
A ripple of murmurs passed through the tables. Some students' jaws dropped. Others whispered about the sheer audacity of putting Ron and Hermione in charge of the entire class. Even Ron and Hermione looked as if they were hearing about this for the first time.
"Now, I must clarify," Dumbledore said, raising a hand, "Harry is not currently in the country. He departed last night, and there is no way to contact him for clarification. Which means," his blue eyes twinkled faintly, "you may rely entirely upon the discretion and competence of your classmates as instructors. I have every confidence in their abilities."
Ron choked slightly, Hermione looked pale, and a few nearby students nearly fell out of their seats in excitement.
"Of course," Dumbledore added, with a wry tilt of his head, "any issues arising… well, you will have to manage them as best you can until Harry returns. And perhaps, in doing so, you will learn that magic is not merely about mastery, but about collaboration, creativity, and adaptability."
He gave a final nod to the hall, and though the breakfast had already been one of the most chaotic in Hogwarts' memory, the weight of his announcement settled in.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
3:30 pm, February 10th
The two cars waited on the tarmac like loyal beasts—one regal, one feral.
The Rolls-Royce Silver Spur gleamed under the morning sun, elegant and immovable, while beside it Sirius leaned casually on the black McLaren F1, looking like trouble personified. Vernon stood next to the Rolls, hands folded, trying to look composed even though excitement practically radiated off him.
They were allowed this close only because it was another privately chartered flight, and they had been waiting for ten minutes when the jet finally touched down.
Vernon released a long, exhausted sigh.
Sirius smirked. "The entire country is looking for this kid right now, what do you think he is going to say about that?"
Vernon muttered, "He'll likely try to bail."
The plane's door opened.
Harry emerged.
Both men stared.
Because Harry walked out wearing something so ridiculous that it should be illegal but somehow he still looked good in it. Bermuda short, white sneakers, t-shirt and a bloody coat. A coat!
Victor followed behind him, with the dead-eyed stare of a man who had seen too much or been kept up by his thoughts for too many nights.
Harry yelled happily across the tarmac, his voice echoing over the engines. "I BOUGHT PRESENTS!"
Vernon blinked. "Dear lord."
Sirius laughed outright. "America broke him."
"America fed him," Victor corrected faintly. "Fed him constantly."
They approached, and after the bare-minimum airport formalities were completed, Harry immediately dumped all his stuff into the Rolls.
"Well!" he declared, dusting his hands dramatically. "I'm driving the McLaren!"
Sirius's eyes widened. "No— absolutely not—"
But Harry had already snatched the keys from his hand with the speed of a criminal mastermind.
"See you at home!" he shouted, sprinting with a mad grin.
"HARRY, WAIT—"
Too late.
The McLaren's engine roared like an awakened dragon greeting its master, and the black car blur shot forward, tearing down the private runway with a shriek of tires.
Sirius froze.
Vernon froze.
Victor simply closed his eyes, accepting whatever gods had planned.
Finally, Sirius muttered, "Even his damn car treats him different. I couldn't even get it above 80mph..."
Vernon finished, "Yes, he must have done something to it beforehand..."
They all stood there for a moment in silence.
Then they climbed into the Rolls.
The driver pulled away smoothly, and the two men turned as one toward Victor, whose twitching eyelid betrayed a deep, spiritual exhaustion.
Vernon spoke first. "You look… traumatized."
Sirius nodded solemnly. "Utterly hexed. What happened?"
Victor stared straight ahead.
Finally, he whispered, "He bought… one hundred and twenty-three startups."
The Rolls jerked slightly as the driver momentarily lost control.
Vernon sputtered. "ONE HUNDRED AND—"
"And twenty-three," Victor repeated lifelessly.
Sirius choked. "How— How does a twelve-year-old even find a hundred and twenty-three startups in a week?!"
Victor raked a hand down his face.
"He didn't find them. He knew them. He walked into cities like he had a map in his brain. He went exactly to the building, exactly to the floor, asked for exactly the right founder… and immediately agreed to fund them."
Sirius stared. "Without interviews?"
"No interviews."
"Without due diligence?"
"No due diligence. He just handed them the contracts."
"Without even hearing a pitch?"
Victor whimpered. "He knew their ideas before they talked. He just walked in and said, 'Yes, I'll fund you, here's the capital structure, don't change your vision.' And they all acted like he was some divine benefactor."
Vernon's mouth opened and closed.
Sirius whispered, horrified, "So he… what? Played angel investor roulette?"
Victor snapped. "He didn't play anything! He looked like a prophet! Like he knew the exact future direction of each industry. He kept dragging me around the country like a man possessed. If I didn't know better I'd think—"
He swallowed.
Vernon pressed gently, "Think what?"
Victor whispered, "—that he's some reincarnated businessman from the future."
Silence.
The Rolls glided forward.
Finally Sirius muttered, "Honestly? Given everything else he's done, I'd believe it."
Victor gave a hollow laugh.
"Oh, no. Not a deity. Not this time."
"What then?"
"A madman," Victor concluded, head dropping back against the seat. "A madman who invested without a plan. Without analysis. Without structure."
Vernon frowned. "That doesn't sound like him."
Victor groaned. "I know. That's why I'm terrified."
Sirius sighed deeply.
"Well… at least he seems happy."
Victor stared out the window as the McLaren-sized absence on the highway mocked him.
"Terrifyingly happy."
The Rolls continued down the road. The three men shared a long, heavy silence—each imagining the mountain of chaos Harry had purchased across America.
The Rolls purred down the road, sunlight streaming through the windows, but none of the three men felt warm. If anything, a collective chill crawled over them as they processed Victor's confession.
Vernon finally croaked, "A hundred and twenty-three…"
"Startups," Victor repeated, voice hollow. "He even bought one that wasn't founded yet. The man was still sketching it on a napkin."
Sirius dragged a hand through his hair. "Of course he did. Of course he walked into a diner and bought someone's napkin dreams."
Victor didn't even blink. "He bought the diner too."
The driver choked.
Vernon slammed a hand over his own face. "Oh for— Why?!"
"Because the cook made good pancakes," Victor muttered. "Apparently that's a valid acquisition reason now."
Sirius groaned. "I'm going to need two bottles of Firewhisky and a priest. And that is at the very least."
Victor ignored him, staring at the passing countryside with the thousand-yard stare of a war veteran.
"You don't understand," he continued faintly. "He didn't even slow down between deals. He just marched from one company to the next one as if the country were laid out on an internal spreadsheet only he could see. He didn't hesitate. Not once. He negotiated like he had the ending of the story in advance."
Vernon rubbed his temples. "He has a plan."
Victor trembled. "No, that's what's wrong. He didn't plan anything. Not a single flowchart. Not a single strategy outline. He just—"
"Bought America?" Sirius offered helplessly.
"Yes."
Silence again.
Finally Vernon shifted, voice low. "What about food? Did he at least behave normally when he wasn't… you know… purchasing cities?"
The twitch in Victor's eye deepened. "…He ate six meals a day."
"That's normal for him," Sirius said.
"He dragged us across the country for barbecue, cheesesteaks, tacos, clam chowder, twenty-three different kinds of ribs, twenty-seven milkshakes, a pie-eating contest—"
Vernon interrupted, horrified. "Did he win?"
Victor didn't answer immediately.
Sirius exhaled sharply. "…He won."
"He won," Victor admitted bleakly. "And they gave him a trophy shaped like a giant golden pie. He put it in the overhead compartment of the jet like it was a sacred relic."
Sirius pressed both hands over his face. "He's becoming American."
"No," Victor whispered. "America became him."
Another long moment passed. The car kept gliding on the road smoothly as they made their way towards Moonstone Dunvegan.
"Do you think he realizes that he is wanted by the Department of Mysteries and perhaps the entire Ministry?" Sirius turned to Vernon.
Vernon chuckled nervously. "I don't think so otherwise he would have directly apparated back to Hogwarts from the airport itself."
Victor was confused even more now, "Um... Why is he wanted by the Department of Mysteries and the entire Ministry?"
Sirius blinked at Victor's question, then let out a low whistle.
"Oh. Right. You didn't hear any of that, did you?" he said, almost cheerfully.
Victor stared between them. "Hear what? What did he do now?"
Vernon let out the most unhinged laugh Sirius had ever heard from him. It was half-pride, half-despair, and entirely parental chaos.
"Don't worry, Victor," Vernon said, patting his shoulder. "Harry's not wanted wanted."
Sirius grinned. "Not criminally. Yet."
Vernon rolled his eyes. "He's wanted in a good way. The 'history books and international conferences' kind of way. Not the 'manhunt' kind."
Victor leaned back slowly. "That does not make me feel any safer."
Sirius snorted. "Look, the news hasn't spread outside Magical Britain only because the Ministry keeps choking it every time it tries to leak. They're terrified. Utterly terrified."
Vernon nodded, still wearing that dazed, proud expression. "You know, Harry is brilliant. But he's also an idiot."
"Hey," Sirius protested. "He's my idiot."
"I raised him," Vernon countered with a shrug. "I get priority in calling him stupid."
Victor lifted both hands. "I'm going to need you to explain why the Department of Mysteries is looking for a twelve-year-old who just bought a diner."
Sirius buckled his seatbelt a little tighter, as if the information itself might cause turbulence.
"Alright," he began, unable to hide the admiration creeping into his voice. "Here's the short version."
"Nothing good ever follows that sentence," Victor muttered.
Sirius continued anyway."Four mastery exams. In four days."
Victor blinked. "Four what?"
"Masteries," Vernon repeated, dead serious. "For Charms, Transfiguration, Defence Against the Dark Arts, and Arithmancy."
Victor stared as if someone had just told him the sky had turned purple.
"That's… that's impossible."
Sirius gestured wildly. "Exactly! That's why the Ministry is panicking! They think physics might be next!"
Vernon leaned back and sighed dreamily. "And that's not even the worst of it."
Victor croaked, "There's worse?!"
Vernon cleared his throat and said with the resignation of a man who'd stopped being surprised two disasters ago,"He also created a new dimension."
Victor's jaw dropped.
"A what?"
"A dimension," Sirius repeated as casually as if talking about a grocery list. "An actual, fully stable pocket world."
Victor's brain sputtered. "He— he made a world?!"
"Opened one," Vernon corrected. "Technically. But then he went and added one tiny little adjustment to it."
Sirius grinned, wicked and exhausted. "Time dilation."
Victor's voice cracked. "Time dilation?"
"Mm-hmm." Vernon held up a single finger. "One day outside equals one hundred days inside."
The car fell absolutely silent.
Victor's lips parted soundlessly before he managed to whisper, "He... engineered time..."
"Yep," Sirius replied. "And he is also the only person in entirety of magical world with five masteries before the age of thirteen."
Vernon puffed his chest a little. "That idiot boy of mine."
Victor slumped back against the seat, defeated by reality.
He rubbed his face and whispered the only thing his unraveling mind could grasp:
"…And I was worried about the startups…"
"…When did he even do all that?"
Sirius and Vernon exchanged a glance.
Then both looked away, like men bracing for the incoming explosion.
Vernon coughed. "Right… well… the last mastery exam—the Arithmancy one—was completed during the day you guys left."
Victor blinked. "The day we left for America?"
"Yes."
"The day he walked into the private jet, charmed the entire air hostesses and got himself all kinds of food and liquor?"
Vernon and Sirius looked back at this, both stupefied. "Yes?"
Victor stared at them.
"He completed the mastery exam during the day? And left for America during the night?"
Vernon nodded.
Victor inhaled sharply, like a man preparing for CPR. "And the dimension? When did he create—sorry—'open' that?"
Sirius grinned with the manic energy of someone who had given up fighting the absurdity of his godson.
"Oh, that? Before the exams."
Victor froze.
"Before," he repeated hollowly.
"Yep," Vernon said, popping the 'p.' "As in before he sat for any of the four exams."
Victor stared at them like they were quoting fairy tales.
"So… let me understand this. He opened a different dimension—one with a one-hundred-to-one time differential—before taking four mastery exams. And then he took those exams. And then he left the country. And then he bought one hundred and twenty-three startups."
Sirius shrugged. "Sounds right."