Four days had slipped by in the time-dilated dimension, yet inside the vast living hall of the castle Dumbledore created, time felt strangely irrelevant.
The hall glowed with its own soft, perpetual light. And in the centre of it all, the entire Hogwarts faculty sat in varying states of existential collapse.
Dumbledore occupied a high-backed chair, fingers steepled beneath his beard, eyes distant and bright with something perilously close to childlike wonder. McGonagall stood rigid by the window, staring out at the empty city. Snape paced in tight circles, black robes snapping like whips. Flitwick perched the edge of a couch, tiny hands clutching a mug of tea that had long gone cold. Pomfrey kept pressing two fingers to her own wrist, checking her pulse as if afraid her heart might simply give up from sheer disbelief.
Remus Lupin sat with his head in his hands. Vector, Babbling, Burbage, Sinistra, Sprout, Kettleburn, Trelawney, and even the ever-stoic Thorne—all of them wore the same shell-shocked expression of people who had watched the laws of magic... No laws of their reality be completely broken apart.
Four hours.
That was all it had taken.
That was all it had taken a barely 13 year old with an overactive imagination to rewrite laws of reality simply because he hated being told what was possible.
All of it flowing from the mind and will of one boy.
The silence had grown heavy, broken only by the soft chime of a hovering tea tray offering refills no one accepted.
McGonagall finally spoke, voice tight. "He is not even thirteen."
Snape stopped pacing. His laugh was short, bitter, and entirely without humour. "Thirteen. And he apparated the entire senior staff of Hogwarts through wards that have stood for a thousand years as though they were tissue paper. Without sound. Without sensation. As if we had simply stepped from one room to the next."
Flitwick's voice trembled with something between awe and hysteria. "The spatial expansion alone... the way the structure responds to thought... the living wards... I have spent decades studying charm theory and I cannot begin to fathom how he layered it all."
Pomfrey rubbed her temples. "He spoke of unification. Magical and Muggle. Peaceful. And when we pressed him, he offered his own head on a silver platter if he failed." She shuddered. "The conviction in that boy's voice… Merlin help us."
Remus lifted his head, eyes haunted. "He treats reality like clay. And he is so terribly, quietly certain he can shape it into something better."
Dumbledore, for once, said nothing at first. His eyes were distant, fixed on some inner horizon only he could see. When he finally spoke, his voice carried a note of genuine delight that cut through the tension like sunlight through storm clouds.
"Do you know," he murmured, almost to himself, "for the first time in many long years… I feel like a boy again. Standing before a door that has never been opened, wondering what wonders lie beyond." A soft chuckle escaped him. "Harry has reminded this old man what it feels like to fall in love with magic all over again."
The other professors stared at him.
McGonagall's lips thinned. "Albus, the boy is talking about merging two entire worlds. He offered us his head as collateral."
"And yet," Dumbledore replied gently, "he believes he can do it. Not with arrogance. With certainty. The same certainty with which he built this dimension in what felt like the blink of an eye."
Vector leaned forward, voice hushed. "He showed us the projections. The scale of Nexus already operating in the background. The research wings that came up with Magitech. The wing dealing with medicine, food, entertainment. Everything. All of it movving forward while he sits at Hogwarts with other students."
Babbling shook her head slowly. "And we agreed to join. All of us. Because after seeing what he can do… how could we not?"
Sprout gave a weak laugh. "I grow plants for a living. He grows entire ecosystems. Floating ones."
Kettleburn muttered something about "dangerous creatures" and then trailed off realising even magical beasts would probably bow to whatever Harry decided to create next.
Trelawney adjusted her enormous glasses with trembling fingers. "The stars themselves seemed to rearrange when he spoke of unification… or perhaps that was just my inner eye having a panic attack."
Sinistra stared at the ceiling as though expecting it to reveal new constellations. "What they told us about him, the way he works, the way he thinks... I think he already has the entire ministry dancing on his palm."
Thorne, usually unflappable, ran a hand over his face. "Yeah, makes you wonder doesn't it. Did Fudge really stand down on his own, or was he 'persuaded' by someone?"
"'Cause that guy had stuck to the office like gum under the desk," Babbling muttered, voice hushed with reluctant admiration.
A low ripple of uneasy laughter moved through the group, but it died quickly, swallowed by the vastness around them. The floating platforms overhead drifted in gentle silence, carrying untouched tea sets and half-forgotten books.
Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, fingers still steepled, but the twinkle in his eyes had deepened into something brighter, almost feverish. The inner child he had spoken of earlier was wide awake now, peering out with breathless fascination.
"Persuasion," he murmured, tasting the word. "A gentle word for what our young Herald is capable of. And yet… I find myself less frightened than I perhaps should be." He chuckled softly, the sound warm and oddly delighted.
McGonagall's lips pressed into a thin line, but even she could not hide the faint tremor in her voice. "Albus, the boy offered his own head on a silver platter if he fails. That is not the language of a child playing at greatness. That is the language of someone who has already calculated every variable and found no room for failure."
Snape stopped pacing. His black eyes glittered with something dangerously close to godly awe. "How much do you wanna bet that he has done something huge in China?"
Remus lifted his head from his hands, voice rough. "I'm not betting anything because I'm 100% sure that he certainly went to China for more than just food."
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The late evening light glinted off the long, gleaming rows of supercars as Harry, Hermione, Tonks and Ron stepped through the wide glass doors of his usual dealership.
Derek spotted Harry the instant the group entered. The man's face split into broad, genuine grin that made the corners of his eyes crinkle. He was already striding forward, arms open like he was greeting a favourite nephew rather than his single largest customer.
"Harry, my boy!" Collins boomed, clapping Harry on the shoulder with the easy familiarity of someone who had sold him nearly half his current inventory. "Back so soon? I thought you had already gotten all the kinds I keep here."
Harry returned the grin, shaking the man's hand firmly. "Not quite yet, Mr. Derek. Thought I'd bring some friends this time. Derek Collins, meet Hermione, Tonks, and Ron. My friends."
Collins shook each of their hands with warm enthusiasm, though his eyebrows rose slightly at the sheer normalcy of the three teenagers standing beside his most extravagant client. "Pleasure to meet you all. Any friend of Harry's is welcome here. Coffee? Tea?"
Ron's eyes were already glazing over at the nearest row of sleek black and silver machines. Hermione looked faintly overwhelmed. Tonks—currently in a brown ponytail and leather jacket—whistled low as she circled a bright red Ferrari F40.
Harry steered Derek away as they walked while the three of them looked at cars.
"Blimey," Ron muttered, voice hushed with awe. "These aren't cars. These are… weapons. Weapons built specifically against bank vaults."
Hermione elbowed him. "Don't say that."
Tonks chimed in, "Well he isn't wrong Hermione. Look at how well it attacked Harry, Sirius and Vernon."
"We have 90 cars in total, all from this dealer."
"Yeah, no wonder the owner is so pleased to meet Harry. I would be pleased too, to see the guy that is funding my entire generation ahead," Hermione added dryly.
Ron who was looking at the inside of a Vector W8, "I wonder how much in total they have spent so far..."
Hermione who was showing Tonks how the door of the Commendatore 112i worked, hissed back, "At the very least 100 million pounds. And that's like 12 million galleons roughly."
"My family's net worth is around 15 million galleons in total, and these 3 crazy's have spent roughly my family's net worth in cars?" Ron's head shot up, the words coming out of his mouth harder than expected.
Hermione glared at him and he muttered an apology sheepishly.
Harry on the other hand was falling into a familiar rhythm of conversation with the owner. The staff moved different around Harry, they were more friendly. But then again, he was, after all, the customer who had single-handedly(along with Vernon and Sirius) purchased ninety cars from this dealership in just last year alone.
"That Lamborghini you took last time, the one for that birthday gift. Hope that girl liked it."
Harry's smile softened, genuine but understated. "She did. Drives it like she was born in the driver's seat. Although just in tracks so far."
Just then, the door opened and a tall, broad-shouldered man stepped in, built like a rugby played who had decided suits looked better than jerseys. Richard Harlan, private aircraft broker and long-time friend of Derek, walked in scanning the room until his gaze landed on Harry. His face lit up with the same easy recognition.
"Harry Potter," Richard called, crossing the floor and offering a firm handshake. "Good to see you again, lad. How's the 727 treating you?"
Harry returned the grip with a nod. "It's been treating me well. How have you been?"
Richard took a seat, "I'm good, lad. So what did you want to talk about?"
Harry didn't waste time. "I need a BBJ 747-8. Brand new. Fully factory-fresh. No pre-owned. Can you get one for me by the end of May, early June at the latest?"
The entire showroom seemed to freeze.
Richard's friendly expression locked into place for a full three seconds before his brain caught up. "A… Boeing Business Jet 747-8? New? Not a conversion—a factory 747-8?"
Harry nodded calmly. "That's the one."
Richard ran a hand over his neatly trimmed beard, voice rising an octave. "Harry… do you have any idea what a new 747-8 costs? We're talking four hundred million pounds. Four hundred. Million. Pounds. Not including any custom work."
Harry didn't blink. "Well, Nexus will handle all the interior fitting and customization themselves. I'm just the guy that got the message to get it."
Richard rubbed his temples and stared at the ceiling. "What do you need a BBJ 747-8 for anyway?"
Harry shrugged, "All they said me was that the company was expanding and there was need for executive flight that could seat more than 50 at once."
The room seemed to freeze.
Derek had his mouth open staring at Harry. Richard's friendly expression locked into place for a full three seconds before his brain caught up. "A... Boeing Business Jet 747-8? New? Not a conversion—a factory 747-8?"
Harry nodded calmly. "That's the one."
Richard ran a hand over his neatly trimmed beard, voice rising an octave. "Harry… do you have any idea what a new 747-8 costs? We're talking four hundred million pounds. Four hundred. Million. Pounds. Not including any custom work."
Harry didn't blink. "Well, Nexus will handle all the interior fitting and customisation themselves. I'm just the guy that got the message to get it."
Richard rubbed his temples and stared at the ceiling as if praying for strength. "What do you need a BBJ 747-8 for anyway? That's not a private jet, Harry. That's the Queen of the Skies. You could fit three 727s inside one and still have room for a ballroom."
Harry shrugged, perfectly casual. "All they told me was that the company is expanding and there's need for executive flight that can seat more than fifty at once. Long-haul, multiple teams, lots of equipment. You know how it is."
Richard let out a disbelieving laugh. "No, lad, I don't know how it is. Most companies dream of a Gulfstream. You're asking for a flying palace that costs more than some small countries' GDP."
Harry simply reached into his jacket, pulled out a chequebook, and wrote with quick, confident strokes. He tore the slip free and slid it across the polished desk.
Four hundred million pounds.
Richard stared at the piece of paper like it might explode. "Harry…"
"If you can get it faster than end of May," Harry added smoothly, "I'll throw in another ten million as commission. Personal. Off the books. Just make the deadline."
The dealer's hand actually trembled as he picked up the cheque. "You're serious."
"Dead serious," Harry said, leaning back with that easy, confident smile. "Nexus needs the plane. I need it on the tarmac by early June at the latest. Whatever it costs to expedite—pay it. I'll cover the difference."
Behind them, hidden among the rows of supercars, Hermione's face had gone bone-white. She grabbed Ron's sleeve before he could take a single step forward.
"Seventy-eight million Galleons," she whispered frantically, doing the conversion in her head. "Ron—seventy-eight million Galleons. That's... that's more than the entire budget of Hogwarts for like fifteen-twenty years. That's enough to fund an entire organisation for decades."
Ron looked like he was about to march over and demand Harry explain himself on the spot. Tonks's hair flickered from pink to electric blue and back again in shock.
Hermione's grip tightened. "Not here. Wait until we're alone with him. Do not make a scene in front of the Muggles."
The conversation between Harry and Richard stretched on for another twenty minutes—Richard making frantic notes, calling suppliers on the spot, sweating through his shirt while Harry remained utterly calm, discussing delivery windows, registration, and fuel specifications as though they were ordering takeaway.
When they finally stepped back outside, the silver Rolls-Royce Silver Spur was waiting, engine purring softly. Harry slid behind the wheel. The other three piled in—Hermione in the front passenger seat, Ron and Tonks in the back—still reeling.
The moment the privacy screen rose and the car pulled smoothly into London traffic, the dam broke.
"Harry James Potter," Hermione hissed, twisting in her seat, "seventy-eight million Galleons. You just wrote a cheque for the equivalent of seventy-eight million Galleons like it was nothing!"
Ron leaned forward between the seats, eyes wild. "Mate, does anyone in Nexus even know you just dropped that kind of money on a plane? Does Nexus's financials even cover that? What are you doing? Why are you spending that much?"
Tonks's voice cracked. "You didn't even blink! You just… handed over four hundred million pounds and offered another ten million as a bonus!"
Harry kept one hand loose on the wheel, guiding the Rolls through the bustling streets with casual ease. "Stop, stop—everyone breathe."
They did not breathe.
He sighed. "The reason is simple. I need that plane for Nexus because the coming summer break is going to be busy. Not with vacation—with work. Work that will have entire Nexus teams travelling to different countries in the span of weeks. That's why I got the jet."
Hermione's eyes narrowed. "And the financials?"
Harry glanced at her, perfectly calm. "Nexus's liquid assets are around one billion Galleons. So yes, Nexus has the ability to get the jet." He paused, then added quietly, "Not saying that I used Nexus's account, though."
The car went deathly silent.
Ron's voice came out strangled. "What do you mean you didn't use Nexus's account?"
Harry changed lanes smoothly. "I used my own. I haven't talked about it with the others yet. I'm going to, so I paid for the whole plane myself."
Another hell broke loose.
Hermione actually grabbed the dashboard. "Your own? Harry, how—how much money do you even have?"
Tonks leaned so far forward her seatbelt locked. "A thirteen-year-old just casually spent the equivalent of nearly fifty million Galleons from his own pocket and called it 'his own'. Explain. Right now."
Ron looked ready to faint. "Mate… we thought the Weasleys were doing well now because of Nexus. Ten, fifteen million Galleons net worth if you split us out. And you just… paid for a jumbo jet like it was a new broom."
Harry chuckled, the sound warm and unbothered as he guided the Silver Spur around a double-decker bus. "You guys are bossy today."
"Harry," Hermione warned, voice dangerously low.
He exhaled through his nose, lied quickly. "Fine. I earned around hundred million Galleons last year, okay? That's all I'm going to say. Merlin's beard, you three are relentless."
The car fell into stunned silence once more.
Ron made a noise like a deflating balloon. "Hundred… million… Galleons."
Hermione's mouth opened, closed, then opened again. "Last year. You earned a hundred million Galleons last year. As a twelve-year-old."
Tonks slumped back against the seat, hair flickering wildly between colours. "I think I need to lie down. Preferably in a dark room where reality makes sense again."
Harry glanced at them in the rear-view mirror, eyes sparkling with quiet amusement.
"Don't worry about it," he said simply. "I have enough. You guys wanna stop by some place?"
Tonks sat up so fast her seatbelt locked. "Yes. Absolutely yes. You're rich, Harry. Disgustingly, stupidly rich. And I refuse to be reserved about it today."
Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but Tonks was already leaning between the seats, pink hair flickering with excitement.
"First stop: that massive jewelry place we passed on the way in. The one with the ridiculous window displays. I want something shiny and pointless and expensive. Because you can afford it, and I've spent my whole life being sensible."
Harry's lips twitched. "Okay, sweetheart"
"Don't call me that!" Tonks flared up, a blush appearing on her cheeks.
Ron shifted uncomfortably in the back, still processing the numbers. "I… I don't need anything, mate."
Tonks elbowed him. "Shut up, Weasley. We're exploiting him today. It's practically a public service."
They pulled up outside the gleaming storefront of a high-end jeweler. Tonks dragged them inside like a woman on a mission. She zeroed in on a necklace of white gold and diamonds that looked like liquid starlight, then added a matching bracelet and a pair of earrings "just because they match." The total came to nearly three hundred thousand pounds. She didn't even blink when Harry handed over the card.
"Next," she declared, still buzzing, "I want something ridiculous. Something I'd never buy for myself."
Harry indulged her. They wandered into a boutique selling dresses and Tonks bought herself a black dress fitted with real gold accents and insisted Harry get that for her. And he did.
Harry paid for everything without comment, the same easy smile on his face.
"One more thing," she declared, grinning up at him. "Watches. I want a watch that costs more than most people's houses."
Harry looked at her, one eyebrow raised, the faintest trace of amusement in his voice. "You don't even wear the Patek I gave you last Christmas."
Tonks didn't miss a beat. "So? Do you drive your ninety cars every day?"
Harry's mouth twitched. "Fair point. But not today."
Tonk's steps faltered. "Why not?"
"Because I really don't want to sit through the customization talks right now, and I have other business to take care of right now." Harry replied steering them toward the Rolls. "I'll get you one later. I need to come here anyway to pick up the signature uniform pieces for the professors."
Tonks narrowed her eyes but eventually relented with a dramatic sigh. "Fine. But I'm holding you to that."
The next stop was Harry's regular high-end spirits shop tucked away on a quiet Mayfair street. The moment they walked in the owner, Mr. Alistair Graves, lit up like he'd seen an old friend.
"Mr. Potter! Good to see you again, sir. The usual restock?"
Harry nodded. "Yes, but anything new, Mr. Graves?"
The shop was enormous—more like a cathedral to liquid gold than a mere store. Towering wooden racks stretched three stories high, connected by rolling ladders and glass walkways. Soft lighting made every bottle glow like treasure. Graves chuckled and waved toward the back.
"Plenty new. Shall I fetch the carts?"
Harry's eyes sparkled with mischief. "Two, please. I really wanna stock up today."
Moments later, two shopping trolleys, polished brass and dark oak, clearly custom-made for this madhouse of a store, were rolled out. Harry claimed one immediately, and handed the other to Ron.
"Right," he declared, "let's stock up today."
Tonks let out a delighted cackle as she eyed the bottles on the shelves. Ron and Hermione exchanged a look that was half-exasperated, half-excited, then followed suit.
Harry pushed off, wheels whispering over the polished floor as he led the little convoy into the maze of racks.
"First round's for the group back home," he announced, scanning shelves with quick, decisive eyes. He paused in front of a row of deep amber bottles, picked up one, studied the label, then put it back and grabbed another. "This one's for Hermione," he said, dropping five bottles of The Balvenie 21 Year Old PortWood into his cart without further explanation. "She loves the sherry notes."
Hermione blinked, staring at the bottles, then at Harry, then back at the bottles. "How did you—?"
"Next," Harry said, already moving on.
He slowed in front of a locked case of vintage Macallans, compared two bottles side by side for a moment, then nodded. "Ron—Macallan 18, 1975 vintage. Five bottles."
Ron's ears went pink, but he didn't argue. He just accepted the bottles into his cart like they were ordinary groceries.
Tonks leaned over her own trolley, grinning. "What about me?"
Harry shot her a sideways look, then veered toward a chilled section. "Stolichnaya Elit. Five bottles. Because you like things that look expensive and taste even better."
The game continued. Harry moved through the aisles like a general on a mission, occasionally pausing, comparing, discarding, then committing.
"Ginny—Veuve Clicquot La Grande Dame 1985. Five."
"Pansy—Château d'Yquem 1983. Five."
"Daphne—Cristal Louis Roederer 1988. Five."
"Percy—Taylor's Vintage Port 1977. Five."
"Astoria—Perrier-Jouët Belle Epoque, the flower bottle. Five."
"Draco—Hennessy Richard. Five."
"Luna—Absinthe Clandestine. Five."
"Twins—Chartreuse V.E.P. Five each."
"Abigail—Louis Roederer Cristal Rosé 1988. Five."
Each time he made a choice he'd glance at the bottle, tilt it to catch the light, sometimes compare it to another, then drop five identical ones into the one cart with casual finality. The others simply followed, watching the growing mountain of bottles with increasing bemusement.
By the time they reached the counter, the two carts were dangerously full. Mr. Graves tallied everything with the calm professionalism of a man who had long since stopped being surprised by Harry Potter's shopping habits. The final bill came to roughly fourteen thousand five hundred pounds.
Harry handed over his card without even glancing at the total. The transaction took less than thirty seconds.
As they wheeled everything out to the waiting Rolls, Hermione finally spoke, voice carefully neutral. "You know… this wasn't even worth mentioning after the jet."
Harry loaded the last box into the boot, or rather pretended to while the boxes went into his subspace pouch, closed it with a soft thud, and slid behind the wheel once more.
"I think we'll make it by 11:40," he said, starting the engine.
"As long as we don't stop anywhere else for more 'stocking up'" Ron muttered.