Every surface was a riot of color—blazing orange, violent purple, acid green. Shelves groaned under the weight of enchanted pranks: boxes that shuddered, jars that swirled with suspicious smoke, and small, furry things that chittered from behind wire mesh.

The air itself hummed, thick with the scent of gunpowder, cheap perfume, and ozone from poorly contained charms. To a trained eye, the magic in the room didn’t just sparkle; it pressed, a low-grade, chaotic thrum against the senses.

Y/n stood just inside the doorway, a still point in the storm. Her gaze swept the room, methodical, cataloging.

Behind the main counter, Fred Weasley was hunched over a small, smoking cauldron, his back to the door. He wore a faded Weasley sweater, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, revealing forearms dusted with fine, ginger hair and a faint, silvery scar.

Y/n moved forward, her steps quiet on the wooden floor. She paused by a display of Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder, her fingers not touching the vial, but hovering near it, as if taking its temperature.

Fred finally straightened, wiping his hands on a rag that was more stain than fabric. He turned, a customer-service smile already plastered on his face. It faltered, then vanished completely as his eyes landed on her.

She was young. Too young, in his estimation, to be in his shop looking so… assessing. She wasn’t gawking at the Nose-Biting Teacups. She was reading the tiny, hastily scribbled warning label on a jar of Puking Pastilles.