A summer morning in Devon.
A cool breeze swept over the sleepy countryside outside Ottery St Catchpole, rustling through the tall reeds on Stoathead Hill and sending waves rippling across the field like a green sea.
To most villagers of Ottery St Catchpole, Stoathead Hill was just an ordinary patch of overgrown wilderness.
But the wind knew better.
Hidden deep within that swaying sea of reeds stood a peculiar Wizarding home, tucked out of sight from Muggle eyes, surrounded by a wild garden and a small, clear pond that rippled gently with the breeze.
The house itself was tall and crooked, seemingly stacked together with more hope than structure. Only the ground floor looked solid and well-kept, the wooden walls bearing the marks of age, but clearly maintained with care. Hanging by the front door was a slightly tilted sign carved with the name: "The Burrow."
The sign stood as a quiet reminder of the young couple who had moved here over twenty years ago. Back then, they had poured all their love and dreams into that modest ground-floor room.
But life, as it often does, had other plans.
As their family grew, so did the house, awkwardly expanding upwards like a tree reaching for the sky, each floor added to accommodate another child, another laugh, another story.
Until it became the eccentric, lopsided structure it was today.
At the very top of The Burrow was the attic. It had once been haunted by a noisy ghoul, but now it served a new purpose. Shelves lined the slanted walls, packed with dusty ingredient jars, potion bottles, and mismatched boxes. Though the space was cramped and cluttered, a clear area had been carefully preserved in the center.
There, under a slanted skylight, stood a small wooden workbench. Various tools and brewing implements were neatly laid out. A flickering flame danced beneath a simmering cauldron, its contents bubbling steadily.
Standing in front of it was a boy with tousled red hair and a serious expression, Peter Weasley.
He had just finished preparing his final ingredient. With practiced focus, he checked the potion's temperature again.
"Cloak grass... a shred of African tree snake skin... and just a pinch of fairy wing," Peter muttered to himself, adjusting the flame beneath the cauldron.
He turned the heat down, waiting for it to drop just enough. Then, with careful precision, he added the final ingredient in his hand.
"And now... fluid grass," he whispered, "for the body-softening base... perfect for a beauty potion."
He leaned in, closely watching the liquid swirl and shift. As the fluid grass dissolved, the thick black mixture began to change.
The bubbling slowed.
The murkiness cleared.
And in a sudden, almost magical transformation, the potion became a smooth, glossy liquid—clear and pale like melted rock sugar, releasing a sweet, delicate fragrance into the attic air.
Peter's eyes lit up.
"Success."
Peter quickly and precisely pulled a small crate of glass vials from a seemingly cluttered ingredient shelf nearby. With a wave of his well-worn wand, he levitated the contents of the cauldron and neatly poured the potion into individual bottles.
He then carefully affixed his handwritten label:
[Peter's Beauty Potion – Anti-Wrinkle Formula]
[For external use only. Massage gently to reduce wrinkles and restore smooth, youthful skin.]
With everything finally bottled and labeled, Peter stretched, joints popping with a satisfying crack. He turned to gaze out of the attic's small window, watching the sea of morning-lit reeds sway like waves beneath the breeze. The sky along the horizon was beginning to glow a soft gold.
He paused for a moment, lost in thought.
It had been eleven years since he'd transmigrated into this world.
He had been born into the Weasley family, his hair as red as fire, his surname unmistakable. He had five older brothers: Bill, Charlie, Percy, Fred, and George.
And his twin brother, the one he'd quite literally kicked into second place during childbirth, was named Ronald Bilius Weasley, or just Ron.
How could Peter not know what world he had been reborn into?
The world of Harry Potter.
Even back then, his memories from his past life had remained vivid—he had recalled them often. But after living here for over a decade, even those memories had begun to blur and fade with time.
Peter shook his head, brushing the thoughts aside.
Instead, he called out silently in his mind:
"System."
At once, a translucent panel, visible only to him, appeared before his eyes:
[Host: Peter Weasley]
[Magical Power Scale: 370 (Average adult wizard: 500)]
[Talents]
Charms: 7
Dark Arts: 6
Transfiguration: 7
Potions: 10
Herbology: 6
Divination: 2
(Max value: 10)
[Spells Mastered]
Occlumency Lv5 (MAX), Shield Charm (Protego) Lv3 (2/8), Disarming Charm (Expelliarmus) Lv2 (2/4), Levitation Charm (Wingardium Leviosa) Lv2 (0/4), Full Body-Bind Curse (Petrificus Totalus) Lv2 (0/4), Fire-Making Charm (Incendio) Lv2 (1/4), Wand-Lighting Charm (Lumos) Lv2 (0/2)
[Potions Mastered]
Cheering Potion Invigoration DraughtBlood-Replenishing PotionSleekeazy's Hair PotionHair-Raising PotionBeauty Potion (Master Level – with multiple custom formulas)
[Reputation Points: 12]
This system had awakened the moment Peter was born into this world.
Having read the Harry Potter novels and watched the films in his previous life, Peter was well aware of one thing: this world was only going to become more dangerous as time went on. So from the very moment he was born, he never once considered simply lying flat and doing nothing.
And honestly, having a system helped give him that determination.
Peter's eyes drifted over to the familiar words on his system panel—"Potion-making: 10."
Even though he had seen it countless times, just looking at that perfect number brought him an odd sense of satisfaction, like scratching an itch he hadn't even realized he had. His inner perfectionist felt deeply at peace.
Most of the other talent scores on his panel were innate, assigned at birth. But Potion-making was different. That one had come from the "Beginner's Gift Package" granted by the system when it first awakened. Alongside Max-Level Occlumency, the reward included one randomly selected talent upgraded to its maximum value.
And Peter had been lucky—very lucky.
Over the past eleven years, he had slowly uncovered how his system, officially named the Reputation System, worked. It wasn't like the systems in games or other novels. There were no daily tasks, no item shop, and no spin-the-wheel lottery.
Its core mechanic, true to its name, was this: Each month, the system assessed Peter's reputation in the wizarding world and awarded Reputation Points accordingly.
Those Reputation Points were essential for progression. In the spell list on his panel, the numbers in parentheses beside each spell represented the number of Reputation Points needed to raise that spell to the next level.
The more complex the magic, the more points required.
Sure, spell proficiency could improve through daily practice too—but that path was slow and heavily reliant on natural talent.
So in hindsight, Peter was deeply grateful that his one max-level gift had landed on Potion-making.
Unlike most branches of magic, Potion-making was something that didn't demand flashy spellwork or a high-powered wand. With just ingredients, a formula, and a working cauldron, even a young wizard with no wand—like Peter at the time—could begin brewing.
While it was a deeply complex art at the high end, its entry barrier was low, which made it ideal for someone like him.
Peter had always been a cautious person by nature.
He knew full well that both his identity as a transmigrator and the existence of the system were massive secrets—ones that could never be revealed. So in the early years of his childhood, he took care never to show anything that would seem too abnormal.
It wasn't until he turned four that he began subtly cultivating the image of a "child genius."
He started by outshining Ron in the basics: reading, writing, even drawing—things that could be chalked up to early interest or natural smarts.
By the time he was seven, he began shifting that genius label toward his true strength: Potion-making.
He started with the simplest concoctions, slowly building his knowledge year after year. At first, he'd ask Bill and Charlie for occasional guidance, masking it as curiosity. But eventually, Peter surpassed needing help. He began tweaking formulas, experimenting independently, and even submitting articles on his modifications.
Four years later, he had become a moderately famous young potion-brewer in his own right.
He gained the most attention in one particular niche—beauty potions.
His custom improvements and published papers on anti-wrinkle, skin-firming, and revitalizing brews earned him a reputation as something of a "Beauty Master" and, humorously, a "Friend of Witches" in certain magical circles.
Why had he chosen to specialize in beauty potions?
Simple.
They were easy to promote, quick to become popular, and sold extremely well.