At first, Peter had dreamed of becoming a rising star in the world of Potioneering.
He had the passion. He had the skill. And he certainly had the talent.
Unfortunately, what he didn't have… was space to shine.
There were just too many famous names in the field—master brewers whose work was already trusted and widely distributed throughout the wizarding world.
Back when Peter started out, he focused on standard healing potions—like Invigoration Draughts and Blood-Replenishing Potions. But no matter how carefully he brewed them, they couldn't compete with those made by established Potioneers.
Even the local apothecaries refused to stock them.
"Unproven," they'd say. "Unreliable. Unnecessary when we have better."
But then came the spark of inspiration.
One afternoon, he'd walked into the kitchen to find his mother washing Ginny's thick, unruly hair. She was muttering under her breath, frustrated by how tangled it was and how expensive the latest bottle of Sleekeazy's Hair Potion had been.
That was the moment it struck him—like a bolt of lightning to the brain.
Why try to fight with legendary healers over healing potions?
Why not aim for a different market entirely—one that was massive, loyal, and always eager to spend?
Women and children.
Of course!
There was no audience more consistent or emotionally driven than that. And witches, after all, were still women—with all the same desires, insecurities, and habits.
Their pursuit of beauty, combined with their deep fear of aging, made them more willing to part with their gold than even the most extravagant male wizards.
Even back then, at just eight years old, Peter was a complete unknown in the wizarding community.
And yet—there were witches bold enough to give his earliest creation, "Peter's Beauty", a try.
To this day, the brand had grown into a fully-fledged potion series in his hands.
And not only had it brought him a rising reputation in niche wizarding circles—it was now bringing in hundreds of Galleons per month in sales.
That was more money than even Bill earned on his Gringotts salary.
Knock knock.
A soft rap on the attic door pulled Peter out of his thoughts.
"Peter, darling? Are you done up there?"
It was his mother's voice, warm and patient as always.
Peter closed the system panel with a thought. While carefully placing each bottle of beauty potion into an empty padded box, he called out, "I'm done, Mum! Has Ms. Primpanell's owl arrived yet?"
The attic door creaked open, and Molly Weasley stepped inside. Her plump frame filled the doorway, and she greeted him with a warm smile before affectionately ruffling his flaming red hair.
"The owl's downstairs, love," she said kindly. "Your father's feeding it some snacks—no need to rush."
As she spoke, she reached into the folds of her apron and pulled out a jingling money pouch, setting it gently on Peter's workbench.
"This is what the owl brought from Ms. Primpanell. Be sure to keep it safe, Peter."
Peter frowned slightly. "Mum, you should hold onto it…"
"No," Molly interrupted firmly, her expression turning serious for just a moment before softening again. She reached out and pulled Peter into a hug, wrapping him in her familiar warmth.
"My darling boy, how could we let you keep giving your hard-earned money to the family like that? Your father and I have always said: whether it's you, Bill, or Charlie, the money you earn belongs to you. You've already helped us enough."
This wasn't the first time they'd had this conversation.
Ever since Peter had begun making money from his potion business, he'd tried again and again to give a share to the family—to ease their burdens, to contribute in his own way.
But Molly never accepted more than the occasional gift. And in the end, as always, Peter sighed and tucked the pouch away without argument.
He couldn't deny it—whether reading about them in his past life or living among them now, the Weasleys were poor in Galleons, yes. But when it came to love, warmth, and character, Arthur and Molly Weasley were two of the finest parents anyone could ask for.
With Molly's help, he sealed the box, casting a soft protective charm to prevent the glass bottles from clinking or breaking during flight. Then, carefully lifting the package, Peter followed her down the stairs.
On the ground floor, Arthur Weasley had just finished feeding the owl. He was now seated at the kitchen table, peering over the latest copy of The Daily Prophet.
"Good morning, Dad!" Peter greeted cheerfully.
"Morning, Peter," Arthur replied with a smile, setting his tea aside. "Come along now—the owl's getting a bit antsy."
"If you knew it was getting impatient, why didn't you go upstairs and help Peter pack?" Molly snapped, hands on her hips. "Arthur Weasley, what exactly do you do every morning besides hiding behind that blasted newspaper? Poor Peter's been up there working for days on end—brewing potions isn't easy, and not once have you offered to lend a hand! You never help with the housework either!"
Arthur immediately ducked his head behind the paper again, trying to shield himself from the storm.
And so, just like that, another typical Weasley morning began—with Molly's passionate scolding echoing through the kitchen, and the owl flapping its wings frantically as it took off with the enchanted delivery box.
It was a scene Peter had grown very used to.
Familiar. Loud. Warm.
Home.
Peter went to wash up, keeping his expression perfectly neutral.
As he passed the enchanted dressing mirror hanging in the hallway, the mirror gave a dramatic tremble—clearly about to offer one of its usual snarky comments.
"Don't even think about it," Peter warned flatly, pulling out his battered old wand and pointing it threateningly at the glass.
The mirror froze in place, silenced by the glare and the wand.
Only after he had walked past did it manage to whisper—just barely audible—"Sloppy…"
By the time Peter finished washing up, the rest of the house had been stirred into motion by Molly's wake-up calls. Down the hall, a familiar freckled face was just about to slip into the bathroom. The boy paused mid-step when he spotted Peter and looked instantly uncomfortable.
Peter smiled pleasantly. "Good morning, Ron!"
Ron puffed out his cheeks in frustration and mumbled, "Morning, Peter…"
"Where are your manners?" Molly's voice bellowed from downstairs, somehow hearing even that. "Call him Brother! He's older than you!"
Ron's cheeks burned. "Only by five minutes!" he protested weakly.
The smile on Peter's face grew wider.
He still vividly remembered the moment of their birth. Technically, Ron should've come out first—but even in the womb, Peter had felt too squashed. So in a final act of desperation, he gave his twin brother a mighty kick that ended up flipping their order.
Before Ron could continue sulking, two identical voices suddenly spoke behind him.
Two pairs of arms looped over his shoulders—Fred and George had arrived, each grinning like mischievous Aurors escorting a high-profile prisoner.
"Five minutes older is still older," said one of them. "Right, George?"
"Absolutely, Fred," said the other. "Just like how I'm ten seconds older than you—so you've got to call me Brother."
"Wait, no—I'm ten seconds older than you!"
"Rubbish. I clearly remember Mum saying I came out first!"
"Delusional, George."
"I'm Fred."
"No, I'm Fred!"
Their usual banter spun out of control, leaving Ron caught between them, eyes darting left and right as if he were in the middle of a Quidditch match.
He groaned, dizzy and thoroughly exasperated.
Fortunately, before Ron could get pulled deeper into the twins' nonsense, Ginny came skipping over. With a bright smile, she threw herself into Peter's arms, wrapping him in a warm hug.
That gave Ron just the distraction he needed. He mumbled something under his breath, ducked his head, and dashed into the bathroom before anyone could stop him.
"Good morning, Peter!" Ginny beamed.
"Morning, Ginny," Peter replied, smiling as he placed a gentle kiss on her forehead.
Among all his siblings, Peter had always been closest to Ginny.
Part of it was timing—by the time she was born, he had already come to terms with his life in this world. He had begun to accept this loving, chaotic, magical family not just as circumstance, but as his own.
And part of it was that the two of them looked remarkably alike—both with striking red hair, bright eyes, and a natural charm. In fact, Peter and Ginny were often considered the most "photogenic" of the Weasley siblings.
When they were younger, Arthur and Molly would sometimes joke that Peter and Ginny looked more like twins than Peter and Ron did—despite the fact that Peter and Ron were actual twins.
Eventually, the raucous noise of the morning died down, and breakfast passed.
But today was different.
Arthur didn't rush off to work at the Ministry of Magic like usual.
Percy, who would typically excuse himself and vanish into his room to study, instead sat quietly by the window, gazing out with an unreadable expression.
Fred and George, who were usually already outside causing mischief or planning pranks by this time, remained in their seats—occasionally teasing Ron, but even they seemed unusually reserved.
And Ron, who under normal circumstances would have already stormed off to sulk after the twins' antics, was still there too—tense, quiet, but present.
The entire Weasley family was waiting.
Waiting for one thing.
The Hogwarts letter.
Time ticked by. The sun had already risen high enough to spill golden light over Stoathead Hill and into the kitchen of The Burrow.
Then finally—it came.
A soft flutter of wings echoed outside the window.
Molly, who had been pretending to remain calm but had clearly been restless all morning, stood up at once and rushed to the window to open it.
Arthur set his newspaper aside and retrieved the remaining owl treats from earlier that morning, laying them on the kitchen table.
A few moments later, an owl soared through the open window and landed gracefully on the table.
Tied to its leg were two thick envelopes made of heavy parchment. Even without touching them, the glinting red wax seals on the front were unmistakable—the Hogwarts crest: a capital H centered on a shield surrounded by the emblems of a lion, eagle, badger, and snake.
Molly gasped with excitement, rushing forward to untie the envelopes. She turned them over in her hands, and after reading the names on the back, she let out a string of relieved exclamations.
"Oh, thank Merlin—it's the Hogwarts acceptance letters!" she said, beaming. "I've been worried all night thinking, what if they didn't arrive today?"
Arthur leaned over curiously but, being more restrained, didn't try to snatch the letters out of her hands. He cleared his throat and said in a casual tone, "You really do worry too much. Why wouldn't Peter get in?"
Molly huffed, clearly not buying his calm act. "It's not Peter I was worried about—it's Ron! You know how I get… ever since he was little, he's been like a lump of stone. His accidental magic barely ever shows up at all…"
"Mum!" Ron blurted out, his face already redder than his hair.
He dashed forward and snatched the letters from her hands, quickly tossing Peter's across the table before clutching his own like a lifeline and running upstairs at full speed.
Peter chuckled softly as he caught his letter midair. He wasn't offended—he knew Ron had just been anxious and embarrassed.
Turning the envelope over, he read the words printed in elegant green ink:
Mr. Peter Weasley
The Burrow
Dining Room
Just then, the system panel appeared in front of his eyes, flickering softly.
[Main Quest Activated]
[Main Quest ①: Enroll at Hogwarts – Incomplete]
[Reward: 1 Talent Point, 50 Magic Power]