Friday—13th November, 1992
Draco sat on the edge of his bed, wand still clutched loosely in his hand.
The classroom had been buzzing only minutes ago—spells flying, ideas exchange, laughter even. And yet, now... the Slytherin dormitory felt suffocating. Silent. Cold. As if the very walls resented what he had learned.
He looked down at his wand. A simple piece of wood.
But in Harry's class, it had felt... alive. More than a tool. More than just tradition.
He had cast a spell today—a third-year charm—with such grace, such control, that it had shocked even him. No incantation. No flourished theatrics. Just intent. Just understanding.
That's what Potter was teaching them. Not just spells, but the language of magic itself.
And he was good at it. Not just powerful. Good. Patient. Encouraging. He'd walked over to Draco — Draco! — earlier that day when his flame-freezing charm had sputtered, and calmly explained how to shift his magical output instead of his wording.
No mocking. No gloating. Just help.
And that... that confused Draco more than anything else.
Why? Why help him? After everything he'd said. After how he'd acted. Harry should hate him. Should've humiliated him.
But he didn't. And he never had.
The silence of the dormitory deepened, echoing the noise in his head.
What if Potter was right? What if everything Father ever taught him was just... poison?
He laid back on his bed thinking, eyes unfocused.
Maybe it wasn't just the magic that was broken in this world.
Maybe it was the people teaching it.
Draco stared up at the emerald-lined canopy of his bed, the velvet curtains drawn half-shut, casting long shadows across the dormitory floor. The dim torchlight flickered on the stone walls, but his thoughts burned brighter.
Friends.
What a joke.
He had none.
Not really.
Crabbe and Goyle? Glorified bodyguards. Less like friends, more like… furniture that followed him around. Furniture that snored and chewed with their mouths open. They couldn't hold a conversation if their lives depended on it — unless it was about food or smashing something.
He snorted.
Merlin, I don't even think Goyle knows how to spell his own name without help.
And yet, that was all he had. That was what Father had called "proper company." Pureblood heirs. Obedient. Loyal. Unthinking.
Exactly what he was supposed to be.
But what had it gotten him?
Isolation.
Mocked by most of the school. Hated by almost everyone. Feared by some. Ignored by others. Everyone just assumed he was a smaller, blonder version of Lucius Malfoy—a future Death Eater in training.
And maybe... that's exactly what he'd been turning into. Slowly. Surely.
He let out a slow breath, chest tight.
Father had trained him to believe in blood, in power, in control. He'd taught him that compassion was weakness and friendship was currency.
But then came Potter — this anomaly of a boy — breaking every rule of magical society without ever saying it out loud. He wasn't just powerful. He shared it. Gave it freely, even to those who didn't deserve it.
Even to him.
Draco clenched his fists.
Why the hell is he like that?
He should be arrogant. Should rub it in everyone's faces. But instead… he taught. He helped. He lifted others.
And in doing so, he made everyone stronger.
Even Draco.
Today, for the first time in years, Draco had felt… proud of his magic. Not because it was flashy or because it got him praise. But because it was his. Because he understood it. Because it flowed through him, not as something inherited — but as something earned.
He closed his eyes.
He didn't know what he believed in anymore. But he knew one thing:
He didn't want to be like his father.
Not ever.
Later that night the dorm was silent, save for the occasional Goyle's wheezing snores. Draco sat alone at his desk, the quill unmoving in his hand. A single sheet of parchment lay before him—still blank.
He stared at it.
For once, he didn't know how to begin.
How do you tell your mother that you hate the man who gave you his name?
That every time you hear "Malfoy," you feel a weight on your chest, as if it belongs to someone else — someone cruel, someone hollow?
He'd be furious if he saw me now. If he knew I'd been… learning from Potter.
Draco swallowed.
But this wasn't about his father. Not tonight.
It was about her.
The only one who ever tried to protect him — in her quiet, careful ways. The one who shielded him when Father's temper flared. The one who tucked him in as a child and whispered stories that weren't about bloodlines and power, but about dragons and stars and magic that made the world beautiful.
He dipped the quill in ink and finally began to write.
Dear Mother,
I hope you're well. I know I don't write often—not properly, at least. Most of my letters are just... updates for Father's sake. But this one is for you.
Only you.
There's something happening here. Something strange. And I don't mean the usual Hogwarts sort of strange. I mean… in me.
I don't know how to explain it, but Potter — he's teaching this class. Basics of Magic, it's called. It should be a joke, right? Basics. I thought so too.
But it's not.
Mother, it's changed how I think about everything. Magic, yes, but also people. And maybe even myself.
He teaches everyone. Helps everyone. Even me.
He shouldn't—I've never been kind to him—but he does. Without asking for anything back. And I... I feel like I'm learning real magic for the first time. Not just wand movements and incantations, but why they matter. Why I matter. I'm doing third-year spells now. Effortlessly. It feels like breathing.
I've started to see that Father was wrong—about so much. About blood, about power, about what makes someone strong. I'm not sure who I am anymore, but I know who I don't want to be.
I don't want to be him.
And I know you tried, Mother. You always tried to keep me from his path. I remember.
You tried to show me better.
I just didn't understand back then.
But I'm beginning to now.
I miss you. I hope you're safe. I hope you're happy—even if just a little.
Your son,
Draco.
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Early morning next day, Narcissa was in her bedroom, holding a paper that trembled slightly in her hand.
She had read it once. Then again. And again.
Now she simply held it, fingers brushing over her son's careful script as if the ink itself were fragile — as if she could smudge the moment away by mistake.
The fire crackled softly beside her. The room, though richly furnished, felt cold. It always had. But tonight… there was warmth in her chest she hadn't felt in years.
Her son — her Draco — had chosen to write to her. Not a dictated report. Not something Lucius would have reviewed. But a real letter. Honest. Raw. Vulnerable.
Her lips quirked into a small smile, and for a moment, her usual cold mask cracked.
There was pain in the letter, yes. Regret. Confusion. But also… hope. A chance. A second path she never thought Draco would see — let alone consider.
And it wasn't her who had shown it to him.
It was Harry Potter.
The boy that all death eaters hated more than anything. Her husband being no exception. The boy with impossible power... and the audacity to show kindness to a Malfoy.
Narcissa folded the letter delicately and pressed it to her chest, eyes closing.
"You've done more than I ever could, Mr. Potter. You gave my son a future I didn't know how to give."
No owl would carry that message.
But the gratitude lingered in her heart — silent, sincere, and steady.
For the first time in a long time, she allowed herself to believe:
For the first time, there was a small flicker of hope in her.
He still has a chance.
Draco had seen something different. Something Lucius could never understand. Something she had barely dared to hope for.
Kindness. Equality. Magic that didn't require cruelty. A world where blood didn't determine worth.
And Harry Potter — the boy Lucius sneered at in every breath — had ignited it.
Her hands clenched slowly on the edge of the table.
For so long, she had endured. Smiled at the right parties. Stood beside a man who had used fear like a second wand. Her dignity had been her armor. Her silence — a prison.
But now?
Now, her son's words had carved a crack in that prison.
And through it, hope flickered.
She reached for parchment. A clean, crisp sheet. Not for Draco. Not for Lucius. But for herself.
She needed to divorce her husband. To take her son away from his influence so that her baby could have a chance at a normal life. Yes she would lose her status. Her wealth. Possibly even her safety.
But she would gain something she thought lost long ago.
A future. For Draco.
He deserved better than the darkness his father had wrapped around their lives.
And she, Narcissa Black Malfoy... No, Narcissa Black, would do what her husband never had the courage to do—
Protect their child.
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The Room of Requirement workshop buzzed with energy—part invention lab, part experiment zone.
Sparks hissed from a half-melted copper coil. A levitating quill scratched wild notes onto parchment by itself. Fred stood bent over a palm-sized silver ring clamped tightly in vice, wand tip glowing as he traced a thin line of runes into its surface.
"Right, we've layered the absorption runes... but if it combusts again, you're cleaning the place." Fred muttered, not looking up.
George, hunched beside him with a magnifying lens clipped to his googles, adjusted a tine tuning knob on the tiny spell-core nestled inside the ring. "It didn't combust. It enthusiastically rejected the last enchantment."
Fred snorted. "Enthusiastic is what Mum calls Ron when he is stuffing his mouth with whatever his hands can reach."
A beat passed. George tapped the side of the ring with his wand. A faint click echoed. "Alright. Core's stable. Ready to imprint?"
Fred smirked. "Let's do it. If we succeed, then we have a stunning ring on our hand. Pun intended."
George sighed, "You and your bad puns." He pointed his wand at the ring and whispered, "Stupefy."
The red light flared—but didn't release. Instead, it flowed into the ring, vanishing with a quiet hum. The metal shimmered briefly.
Both twins blinked.
Fred leaned in. "That—looked like it worked?"
George ran a finger over the cool surface. "It's not even warm. That shouldn't have worked."
Fred grinned. "Which means it definitely did. Now, who's testing it?"
George stepped back immediately. "Oi, I tried the jinxed quills last time. You turned my handwriting into love poems for three days."
Fred winced. "They were good poems, to be fair."
"You rhymed 'goblin' with 'hobblin'. You're up."
Fred groaned, eyes flicking toward the ring like it might bite. "Fine, fine. If I lose consciousness, tell Mum I died a hero."
He picked up the ring gingerly, as if it might explode, and slipped it onto his finger. Both held their breath.
Nothing happened.
Fred frowned. "Huh. Bit of a let down."
George cocked his head. "Maybe it's delayed?"
Fred poked the ring. "Or maybe it's defective—"
CRACK!
A blast of red light surged from the ring. George dove to the side, rolling behind a desk as a chair nearby exploded in a puff of splinters. Fred blinked, swaying, then staggered backward and sat down hard on the floor, dazed.
Silence.
George peeked from behind the desk, wide-eyed. "Fred… are you alive?"
Fred blinked. "The ring... Georgie... I think we might have created something far beyond our initial scope."
George slowly emerged, wand raised just in case. He stepped over to Fred, whose hair was standing up slightly and eyes still wide.
"No kidding," George muttered, crouching beside him. "You look like you just kissed a Bludger."
Fred raised his hand, staring at the ring. "I didn't even cast it. Just touched it."
George took the ring gently, inspecting the faint shimmer of embedded magic still dancing across the surface. "That wasn't a backfire. That was a clean Stunner. No wand. No incantation. Instant discharge."
They sat in stunned silence for a moment.
Fred broke it. "We were trying to make a self-stunning prank ring. You know, for laughs."
"Yeah," George said slowly, "but instead… we made a spell-storing wearable."
Fred's brows furrowed. "You think it's reusable?"
"Only one way to find out." George plucked his wand and re-imbued the ring with another Stupefy. This time, the ring pulsed gently, as if waiting.
Fred backed up. "Oh no. You're trying it this time. I just got my brain scrambled."
George hesitated, then tapped the ring with one finger.
The blast exploded outward again — this time straight into the wall, charring it black.
They both stood frozen. Mouths open. Smoke curling in the air.
"...Merlin's breeches," George whispered. "Fred, we just made a bloody spell storing ring."
Fred turned to him, breath shallow. "A ring that stores a spell… and casts it instantly… just by touch."
George nodded slowly, the gears already turning. "Aurors. Duels. Emergency defense. Even battlefield tactics…"
Fred gulped. "This isn't a joke anymore, is it?"
"No," George said, eyes sharp now. "It's a revolution."
Fred stared at the scorched wall, then at his fingers. "We're not pranksters anymore, George."
George was still frozen, eyes darting between the smoking wall and the ring in his hand. "We just made a magical artifact. A proper one. Like… the kind that ends up in the Department of Mysteries."
A long pause. Fred sat down heavily on a crate, muttering, "We were trying to make someone slap themselves unconscious at a dinner party."
"And instead, we've built a silent, trigger-based spellcasting device," George whispered, almost reverently. "No wand. No words. Just—" He tapped the ring again.
Nothing happened.
"Spell used up?" Fred guessed.
George nodded. "Seems like one spell per charge. But it's… clean. Controlled. Bloody brilliant."
They looked at each other—elated, terrified, and slightly giddy.
Fred stood, pacing. "This changes everything Georgie. This product might be a bigger hit that we can handle."
George still couldn't take his eyes off the ring, as though afraid it might vanish if he blinked. "Yes… Imagine if someone was able to store an Avada Kedavra. Or any of the other Unforgivables."
The room felt colder. Both brothers fell silent, the rush of invention dampened by the chilling reality of what they'd made. This wasn't just a prank item anymore—it was a weapon.
Fred finally spoke, his voice quieter. "If this falls into the wrong hands, it could be chaos."
George's jaw tightened. "And in the right hands… it could save lives. Aurors, Hit Wizards—they'd kill for something like this."
They stared at each other, and the same answer came unspoken but absolute.
"Harry."
In a blur of motion, they gathered every scrap of parchment, the ring, and the half-finished prototypes, shoving them into a box. Not another word passed between them as they slipped out of the Room of Requirement. The corridors felt too empty, too loud in their silence, the only sound their hurried footsteps echoing against the stone.
Fifteen tense minutes later, they stepped into the Gryffindor common room.
Harry was there—slouched in a corner armchair, a book resting over his face, likely dozing. Lilith sat nearby, watching him with a dangerous glint in her eyes.
The twins exchanged a glance. No time for subtlety.
"Harry," Fred hissed, shaking his shoulder.
Harry stirred, groggy. "Wha—"
"Up. Now." George's voice was low but urgent.
Before Harry could ask, they had him by the arms, dragging him out of the common room and down two flights of stairs until they reached the empty classroom they'd been using for apparition practice. Fred shut the door, George's wand already flicking through a rapid silencing charm. Fred layered an illusion charm over the doorframe—one of Harry's own inventions.
Harry, now very much awake, looked between them with raised brows. "Okay. Either you've both lost your minds or this is about to be interesting. What's going on?"
Fred exchanged a look with George before speaking fast. "We were trying to make a ring that'd stun anyone who put it on. Harmless prank. Easy laugh."
George held up the small silver band between two fingers, his expression unreadable. "Instead… we made this. It can store a spell. Any spell. And fire it with a single tap."
Harry's brow furrowed. "Store a spell?"
"Watch," Fred said. He tapped the ring lightly—nothing happened. "We just used it, so it's empty. But earlier, it fired off a Stupefy like it had been cast fresh. No wand, no incantation. Just raw magic waiting to be unleashed."
Fred flicked his wand, a flash of red light shooting toward the small silver band. The instant the Stunner touched the ring, it vanished—absorbed without a trace.Harry leaned forward, eyes narrowing.
Fred then aimed at the far wall and tapped the ring lightly with his finger.
Thwip!
A red bolt erupted, striking the wall with the same precision and power as if it had been cast by a wand.
Harry's breath caught. His mind began racing—dozens of possibilities unfolding at once. This was genius. This was dangerous. This was… both.
In Auror hands, it could be a lifesaver. In the wrong hands, it could be instant, silent death. A single tap for an Unforgivable. No warning. No counter.
Then—an idea. A restriction. What if they keyed the magic so the ring could only store specific spells—stunners, shields—nothing lethal? Combined with strict distribution to Aurors only, it could tip the scales toward safety rather than chaos.
His eyes snapped up to Fred and George.
"I've got an idea," Harry said, his voice low but certain.
Fred and George exchanged a look, clearly not expecting Harry to speak so quickly—or with that kind of tone.
"What idea?" George asked, leaning forward, the grin on his face fading into curiosity.
Harry took the ring from Fred, holding it delicately between his fingers as if weighing it."This thing is… brilliant," he admitted, "but you've basically invented a silent, pocket-sized spell storage. No traceable movement, no warning, no counterspell if someone doesn't see it coming."
Fred winced. "Yeah… when you put it like that—"
"It's dangerous," Harry cut in, "and that means if it's ever sold freely, it will be used to kill."
The twins looked uneasy now, and George scratched the back of his neck. "Alright, so… what's your fix?"
Harry's eyes gleamed with the spark of a plan.
"Limit it. Build the enchantment so it can only store a few specific spells—non-lethal ones. A stunner. Maybe the most advanced shielding spell. That's it. No hexes, no curses, no Unforgivables."
Fred frowned. "You can do that?"
"Yes," Harry said, smirking. "Hand it over, I'll fix it now."
Fred handed over the ring and Harry immediately let his magical energy seep into it. In a minute he had figured out the entire thing.
Elythral appeared in Harry's hand with a whisper of silver light. Without a word, he tapped the ring.
The air shimmered. A delicate lattice of golden lines bloomed above the ring, twisting into a three-dimensional projection of its magical circuitry. Runes glowed like constellations, each pulse revealing the pathways where magic flowed.
Harry's finger hovered over one rune in particular—a jagged spiral intersected by two vertical strokes."This one," he said. "Korrath's Bind. It's the reason the ring can store and release any spell."
Fred leaned closer, frowning. "But… that's the rune for a single-trigger enchantment, isn't it?"
Harry smirked. "Close. You meant to use the Raalven Lock, which would've just stunned whoever wore the ring. But this—" he tapped the glowing Korrath's Bind—"is a cousin to it. Almost identical, except for this extra tail stroke at the end. That single mark changes everything. Instead of discharging once on contact, it turns the ring into a spell reservoir."
George groaned. "So we accidentally made a… magic gun?"
"Pretty much," Harry said. "And yes, it's a common mistake—half the wizarding world couldn't tell Korrath's Bind and Raalven Lock apart without a rune-detecting charm."
He waved Elythral again, replacing the highlighted rune with a different symbol—a diamond shape split by a horizontal line, pulsing with soft blue light."This," he explained, "is the Thalyss Ward. Paired with a limiter array—" numbers and sigils bloomed in the hologram, forming a tight circular equation around the rune—"it will only accept non-lethal spell signatures. Stunners, shields, maybe a Disarming Charm if you want to expand later. Nothing else will imprint."
The twins' eyes lit up as they followed the shifting equations. "That… would solve everything," Fred said slowly.
"Exactly," Harry replied. His magic surged into the hologram, rewriting the runic framework with surgical precision. The gold lines flared, then sank back into the ring with a faint chime.
"It's done," he said. "Now it'll only store a stunner or any variant of a shielding charm. No curses. No accidents."
The twins exchanged a look of admiration—and just a bit of awe.
Harry's eyes flicked from the newly tuned ring to the twins."How much did it cost you to make this?"
Fred scratched the back of his neck. "About five hundred and sixty galleons… so far. But that's 'cause we've been mucking around with experiments and scrapped batches."
George nodded. "If we made it with this exact goal in mind, maybe… three-fifty to four hundred?"
Harry's gaze unfocused for half a second as he ran the numbers in his head, and then a slow, predatory smirk curled across his lips."Congratulations, gentlemen. This ring now costs two thousand galleons to manufacture."
The twins blinked in unison."…Harry, did you hear us? We just said—"
"Three-fifty to four hundred," Harry finished for them. "Yes. I heard." His smirk deepened. "I'm telling you it now costs two thousand."
They exchanged another confused glance. And then, almost comically, realization slammed into them."Ohhh…" Fred's grin widened like a shark's.George's eyes gleamed. "You're not raising the cost—you're raising the value."
"Exactly," Harry said, tossing the ring to George with casual precision. "Perceived cost is what matters. People will pay more if they believe they're buying something rare, dangerous, and difficult to make. You'll sell fewer—but the profit margin will make you grin in your sleep."
Fred let out a low whistle. "You're a monstrous beast, Potter."
Harry's smirk didn't falter. "And you're welcome."
Without warning, he grabbed both their wrists. The world folded in on itself——no pop, no crack, no sound at all—and they were gone.
They landed soundlessly, the air rippling faintly as the world settled back into focus. A towering set of polished mahogany doors stood before them, gleaming under the enchanted ceiling lights. The golden nameplate read in elegant cursive:
Amelia Bones — Minister of Magic
But before they could so much as blink, their attention snapped to the figure standing before the door.
Dolores Umbridge.
Fred and George froze. Their father's words about her echoed in their heads—saccharine on the outside, venom on the inside, with a love for rules that bordered on obsessive. And worse, she hated students stepping out of line… which they were most certainly doing.
She spotted them instantly, her gaze flicking over the twins before settling on Harry. Her toad-like face morphed into something resembling a smile.
"Oh, Mister Potter," she cooed, her voice dripping honey and poison in equal measure. "Right on time."
The twins exchanged a quick, nervous glance.Right on time?She's not chewing him out?
Without another word, Umbridge turned, grasped the heavy brass handle, and swung the doors wide. "Please go in, Madam Bones is inside."
No detention. No shrill scolding. Not even a hint of suspicion.
Fred's eyebrows shot up. George's mouth twitched.
Harry, on the other hand, walked forward as though this was the most natural thing in the world, not even sparing Umbridge a glance. The twins scrambled after him, still trying to figure out what sort of alternate reality they had landed in.
As they crossed the threshold into Amelia Bones' office, Fred leaned toward George and whispered, "Either Harry's blackmailing her… or we're already dead and this is the afterlife."
George whispered back, "If it's the afterlife, the tea better be good."
Harry's lips twitched at the corners, but he said nothing.
Amelia Bones had been dealing with bureaucratic chaos all morning—misfiled werewolf legislation, a squabble between two department heads, and the usual mess of half-baked proposals. She had not expected Harry Potter to stroll into her office like he owned the place. And certainly not with the Weasley twins in tow.
Her eyes swept over them, disbelief flashing sharp and immediate."You three should be at Hogwarts," she said, voice clipped. "Unless I've gone mad and the school term has suddenly ended?"
When none of them moved to answer, her gaze zeroed in on Harry."And you—don't even think about telling me you flooed here. The only way to get into the Ministry without being on a watch list is… Merlin help me, did you just Apparate out of Hogwarts?"
The twins looked visibly uncomfortable at that since they didn't think Harry wanted to spread around that idea. But here he was.
Amelia's voice took on a sharper edge. "Do you have the faintest idea how dangerous—how illegal—that is? And if Sirius knew you were risking your neck—" She cut herself off, jaw tight. "He'd have my head for letting you leave here in one piece."
Harry didn't flinch, didn't apologise. He just smiled.
"I came," he said, each word measured, "to give you something that will push the British Ministry of Magic beyond anything the world is looking forward to."
Her irritation froze, curiosity slamming into her like a Bludger. She'd heard the stories from Sirius—the boy was talented, reckless when it mattered, but never prone to empty boasts. If Harry Potter said something would change the Ministry forever, she had every reason to believe him.
Her mind ticked over in silent calculation. If he's right… if this is real…
"Go on," she said finally, voice low.
Harry turned to the twins. "Fred. George. Show her."