Diagon Alley
"Lucien, thanks for sending me that pesticide potion! Without it, those blasted flesh-eating slugs would've devoured every cabbage in the school garden!" Hagrid said with a hearty laugh, a massive satchel slung over his shoulder as he chatted with Lucien.
Lucien waved it off. "No problem, glad it worked."
Hagrid rummaged in his bag and pulled out two enormous oranges, handing one each to Lucien and Harry. "Give these a try! I reckon they're pretty tasty. I got some seeds to plant in the garden, too. When they grow, come by and have some!"
Lucien held the orange, nearly half the size of his head, and wondered if this could even be called an orange anymore. A whole meal wouldn't finish it! But for a half-giant like Hagrid, it was just right—his size called for something a bit more… substantial.
"Magic's pretty wild, huh?" Lucien muttered to himself.
Hagrid said a quick goodbye, mentioning he was off to check for other plant seeds.
Lucien stuffed the giant orange into his pocket, noticing Harry still clutching his, staring at it like it was some mysterious artifact. Lucien handed him a small bag. "Here, you can put it in this."
Harry took the palm-sized bag and tried sliding the orange in. To his surprise, it slipped in smoothly, the bag barely bulging. "Lucien, is this like your pocket? The Undetectable Extension Charm, right?"
"Sort of. It's a shrinking satchel, a little gadget I made myself," Lucien replied.
The shrinking satchel worked similarly to the Undetectable Extension Charm but used an ancient magic called "scaling down." Instead of expanding the container's space, it shrank the stored items with a miniature array. That meant no living things could be stored—ever. Lucien had learned this trick from his mentor, Nicolas Flamel, whose vast collection of magical tomes was a treasure trove of quirky, fascinating spells.
Why not just use the Extension Charm, which he knew well? Simple: those containers were regulated by the Ministry. Private use was fine, but selling them publicly? That'd earn you a visit from the Ministry, probably with a stern invitation for tea at their headquarters. Plus, the market for Extension Charm containers was already cornered, and the prices were sky-high.
So Lucien went with the ancient magic only he and Nicolas knew. It was harder for competitors to crack, and easier to make.
Harry, curious, fiddled with the small black bag, its smooth fabric embroidered with simple silver patterns—elegant yet understated. He noticed a small emblem on one corner: an open book, its pages fanning out like an eagle's wings. On the book's cover, tiny but clear, were the initials: L.G.
Harry paused, thinking it must stand for Lucien Grafton. Pointing at the emblem, he asked, "Lucien, what's this?"
"Logo. Or a brand, if you will," Lucien said with a grin.
Harry blinked. "A brand? So this is… a product?"
"Yup."
Harry's eyes lit up. Last year, he'd seen Lucien stuff all sorts of things into his pockets—textbooks, cauldrons, Quidditch gear—and envied how convenient it was. After learning it was the Extension Charm, he'd vowed to master it, but the spell was a headache, way too complex.
Still, he admired Lucien's skill and was determined to learn from him, dreaming of making his own pocket or backpack someday. But now, with a ready-made item in hand, Harry was tempted. And since Lucien said it was a product with a logo, it was clearly for sale.
Clearing his throat, Harry asked, "So, uh, Lucien, how much for the bag?"
Lucien's lips twitched into a sly smile. A celebrity endorser like Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived? Perfect for spreading the word. "The one you're holding is the practical version, about the size of a wardrobe. Costs 20 Galleons, lasts six months."
He added, "If you're interested, I'll give you the cost price. But you've gotta help me spread the word at school—especially in Gryffindor."
Harry nodded eagerly. Money wasn't an issue, and helping Lucien out sounded great. "Deal!"
"There are other versions, too," Lucien said, handing Harry a list. "Different sizes, durations, and prices."
Harry's eyes widened at the options: a basic version for just five Sickles—pocket money for most young wizards—equivalent to a backpack, lasting two months. Perfect for books, though it'd fill up fast. The weight barely increased after storing the orange, making it a real load-lightener.
Then there was the VIP version, top-tier in size, duration, and price. What caught Harry's eye was a bolded, highlighted line: The VIP version offers customization, with the customer's name, family crest, or favorite design embroidered on the satchel.
"Lucien, why's this line emphasized?" Harry asked, hesitating. "It feels like… the VIP version's price is more about this customization than the size or duration."
Lucien's smile turned playful. "Some people will love that feature."
Like certain wizards who valued prestige and appearances above all else.
Harry nodded, not fully getting it but trusting Lucien's reasoning. He dug into his coin pouch, counted out the Galleons, and handed them over.
---
Flourish and Blotts
"Ladies, please, don't push! Mind the books!" a weary wizard shouted, trying to calm the crowd of middle-aged witches. But Gilderoy Lockhart's charm had them in a frenzy.
The wizard sighed, baffled by Lockhart's appeal. Sure, he was handsome, with a dazzling smile and a colorful resume, but… was that really it?
Inside the shop, a striking man in a forget-me-not blue robe stood tall, his blue eyes warm and approachable, his wavy blonde hair tucked under a pointed wizard hat that added a playful edge to his polished look.
The moment he appeared, the waiting witches erupted. "Gilderoy Lockhart!" "Lockhart!" "I bought all your books!"
Lockhart waved to his fans, flashing his signature smile—eight perfect, gleaming teeth on display. The crowd went wild again.
Lucien, standing in the crowd, sized him up. Nice look—definitely a hit with the middle-aged witch crowd. He couldn't help but think of a certain internet celebrity from his past life. But Lockhart's magical circuits? Weak. Barely better than some underage wizards. Just like in the books, the guy was all flash, no substance. His finesse with the Memory Charm was decent, probably his only real skill.
Compared to last year's Quirrell, next year's Lupin, or the disguised Moody (Barty Crouch Jr.), Lockhart was a lightweight. Those others had real skills to learn from. Lockhart? Not so much.
If he actually taught Defense Against the Dark Arts for a full year, it'd be a waste of everyone's time. If there was a way to get this fame-hungry fraud to leave early… Lucien pondered the curse Voldemort had supposedly placed on the position. Maybe a little nudge could help.
His thoughts were interrupted by a loud voice. "Out of the way! Move!"
"For the Daily Prophet!" a short, grumpy man barked, waving a massive black camera as he hopped around Lockhart, snapping photos from every angle.
The man didn't care about the crowd, nearly crashing into Penelope, who was standing beside Lucien, too busy eyeing Lockhart's poses to notice.
Lucien saw it coming but didn't move. As the man got within half a meter of Penelope, a faint red glow flickered from a ring on her finger.
The man suddenly slipped, face-planting onto the floor with a thud, stars in his eyes. Lucien didn't even glance at him, instead thinking about the alchemical ring he'd given his aunt. The magic triggered quickly, its counterattack perfectly balanced—not too weak, not too extreme. Combined with her other alchemical jewelry, she was well-protected.
He'd also added an alert charm—if anything went wrong, he'd know instantly. With his growing reputation in the wizarding world from selling alchemical items, potions, and publishing papers, Lucien knew rivals or vengeful dark wizards might target his family instead of him at Hogwarts. The era might be peaceful, with fewer daring to challenge the Ministry, but Lucien wasn't one to bet on odds.
If danger triggered the alert, his phoenix, Glimmer, could Apparate him back in a flash. Anyone foolish enough to attack had better hope the jewelry's magic took them out first, because otherwise…
As the short man ate dirt, his camera flew out, landing in front of Lockhart as a battered wreck. Lockhart's smile froze for a second, a flicker of embarrassment and annoyance in his eyes. He glanced at the fallen Daily Prophet reporter, disdain briefly showing before he plastered on his grin again.
Then Lockhart felt a gaze—emerald-green eyes. He spotted their owner in the crowd: a handsome boy with dark blonde hair. Beside him was a striking woman, both watching him with cool, appraising looks, not the usual awe or envy.
It irked him. Instinctively, he turned his head, avoiding their stares. Then he noticed something else—messy black hair, glasses, that face…
"Harry Potter! It's Harry Potter!" Lockhart shouted, practically bouncing with excitement. The Boy Who Lived, a legend from birth, with fame Lockhart could only dream of, despite all his stolen stories and books.
Harry was a star worth latching onto.
Rushing forward, Lockhart deliberately sidestepped the blonde boy—he didn't like those eyes or some nobody wizard stealing his spotlight. Looks alone might get you a meal, but only lasting fame and a polished resume ensured a lifetime of comfort.
Grabbing Harry's arm, Lockhart felt his own fame meter tick up. What luck to run into the Savior at his book signing! This was a publicity goldmine.
Harry, caught in Lockhart's grip, flushed with embarrassment. He glanced at Lucien, who gave him an encouraging nod. Lucien had warned him Lockhart might try to ride his fame, and now Harry marveled at his friend's foresight while bracing for what came next.
As Lockhart dragged Harry to the front, the reporter miraculously recovered, finding his camera intact. "Take the shots, my good man," Lockhart whispered.
The reporter, too confused to question it, got to work.
In the crowd, Lucien discreetly tucked his wand back into his sleeve. A rare chance for publicity like this couldn't be wasted.
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