A week of holidays flew by in no time.

First things first, I waited until everyone except Molly went off to the beach to destroy the Horcrux. Poured a bit of venom on it, just to be sure, and gave it a stab with the fang. The diary let out a low, chilling screech and released a puff of black smoke, which quickly dissipated.

I spent a couple of days crafting a handle for the fang and knocking together something like a sheath. I carved out some wooden plates, wrapped them in dragon-hide strips from my lab gloves, and secured it all with magical tape. Not the prettiest sight, but solid as anything. Getting the gloves to cut? That was a saga in itself—they hardly yielded to the knife. Still, I didn’t fancy nicking myself rummaging through my charmed bag, so it was worth the effort. The fang and venom stayed stashed away; I wouldn’t need them on holiday. But I kept one vial and a bit of the skin to try selling through Charlie—if the stuff’s worth anything, that is. Who knows? I might need to hire a professional to destroy the ring. Not a chance I’m tackling that myself.

I swung by the blokes at the workshop for a chat and a catch-up, but I didn’t have time for work this year. Flitwick had loaded me up with a couple of books and a hefty summer assignment. I had to send him completed tests on what I’d learned, and since we’d be off on a trip soon, I didn’t want to drag my feet.

I didn’t see Luna at all, but I did stop by the next morning to see her and her dad off. It was a bit sad, but seeing Xenophilius looking chipper and reasonably grounded was a relief. At least he was engaging with real life, even if it was through his mythical creature quests, and spending time with his daughter. I was genuinely happy for her. They disappeared through a portal with a wave, and Luna promised to bring me back a Crumple-Horned Snorkack’s horn and a claw from another beastie I didn’t catch the name of.

I cracked on with Flitwick’s assignment while the twins tinkered with Merlin knows what in their room. Evenings were for Quidditch, except for Percy, of course. Speaking of Percy, we patched things up. After our falling-out and his split with Penelope, he’d taken to ignoring me entirely, only responding with short, cold answers if I spoke to him. Honestly, it got to me. I’d been on a bit of an adrenaline-fueled tear at the time and went too far. Percy was my first proper friend in this world and the best brother I’ve had. So, I swallowed my pride and apologised. He’s forgiving like that. Plus, he had a stack of books his mates had given him for summer reading, and I marked a few for myself to borrow when we got back from Romania.

Ginny, meanwhile, was busy with her puffskeins and darting off daily to visit her friend Daisy Crowley, a half-blood Hufflepuff who lived in Hogsmeade with her mum and gran. I don’t remember book-Ginny having close friends, but here she’s made a few, bonding over a shared love of puffskeins and, apparently, Harry Potter. Think about it—he’s a hero, a star athlete, and not bad-looking. Add puffskeins to the mix, and you’ve hit peak girl crush territory. Let’s just hope Harry never finds out.

Oh, and Colin Creevey was part of their gang, naturally, with his magic camera in tow.

Their little fan club consisted of three Gryffindor girls from Ginny’s dorm, one Hufflepuff (Daisy), Colin, his brother (who hasn’t even started at Hogwarts but already idolises Harry), and Ginny as their fearless leader. They’d meet three times a week at Daisy’s house. No clue how the Creeveys got there—they’re Muggle-born—but Ginny used the Floo Network, with Dad escorting her. I couldn’t fathom what they found so engaging that they couldn’t part ways even for summer. One day, I caught them in the kitchen, painting porcelain teacups with magical designs: lightning bolts, glasses (with Harry’s as the model on the table), Gryffindor scarves, Snitches, Philosopher’s Stones (I think?), and brooms—all moving, naturally. I’ll admit, it was a decent set. Daisy’s mum planned to sell them, and apparently, they sold well. This was their third batch.

“What d’you think, Ron?” Ginny asked, proudly showing me a cup with a messy-haired boy on a broom reaching for a Snitch. Thankfully, he was drawn from the back; they hadn’t quite mastered faces yet.

“Looks nice,” I said. “But don’t you think this is getting a bit much?”

“What’re you on about, Ron?” Colin piped up. “This is for charity—we’re saving up for new brooms for the team. Slytherin’s got state-of-the-art ones, and ours are rubbish. We’ve already made thirty Galleons!”

“Fair enough,” I said. “But why drag Harry into it? He hates all the fame as it is. He’d lose his mind if he knew his face was on every cup. The poor bloke would end up with a complex…”

“Actually, Ron,” Ginny said with a huff, “there’s a souvenir shop in Diagon Alley with six whole shelves dedicated to Harry. That’s where they take foreign visitors for British keepsakes.”

“Really?” I blinked. “What do they even put on six shelves?”

“Figurines, dolls, statuettes, paperweights, colouring books, jewellery boxes, cups like ours, handkerchiefs with embroidered lightning bolts and HP monograms, cufflinks—loads of stuff. Even little toy wands like Harry’s. Don’t you remember? I had a rattle with a baby Harry and his scar on it when I was little. Shame the twins broke it…”

That floored me. Harry’s got plain cotton hankies, and someone else has with his monograms?

“But I’ve never seen that shop,” I protested.

“That’s because you lot always sprint through the alley for supplies, while Mum actually takes me in,” Ginny said, nose in the air.

“Still, Ginny, it’s not right,” I said, shaking my head.

“But the sets with Harry sell better,” Daisy mumbled, wilting under my glare.

“Right,” I said. “Here’s the deal: I’ll give you some ideas to make even more money, but you’ve got to promise not to put Harry’s image on any more of your crafts. I don’t care about souvenirs, but I’m his mate. The last thing I want is for him to think we’re pals because of his fame. Got it, Ginny?”

"Alright," my sister said reluctantly, crossing her arms. "Go on, then..."

"For starters, you lot need bigger mugs, not these dainty cups," I began, letting the ideas roll. "Your problem is you’re only aiming at Gryffindors and Harry’s fans. But loads of people can’t stand him, and most don’t give a toss. No one in Slytherin’s going to buy anything with Potter’s face on it. And anyone who’s already bought a set isn’t buying another one—they don’t need to."

"So what’s your grand idea, then?" Dennis asked. He was easily the best artist of the group.

"You paint mugs in house colours," I explained. "Like, have a Gryffindor scarf wrapped around the rim, fluttering a bit, with a message underneath: ‘To the Best Mate,’ ‘To the Prettiest Girl,’ ‘To the Most Brilliant,’ or something like that. Got it? You split it into themes—romantic ones for Valentine’s, house pride ones like, ‘Ravenclaw Rules,’ or ‘Gryffindor Forever.’"

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"Oh, Ron, that’s actually a brilliant idea," my sister said, perking up, and the rest of the group started chiming in their approval.

"Or a sports series," I carried on. "You could draw goal hoops with a Quidditch cup below and write something like, ‘To the Top Keeper,’ or ‘Best Supporter.’ Or even a scarf and a Snitch with ‘Seeker of the Century.’ Get creative! Don’t just stick to your house—if you’re making money, aim at all the houses. Slytherins are loaded and vain—let them splash out on us. And the Ravenclaws? They’ll snap up mugs that say, ‘Smarter Than Merlin,’ or ‘Hogwarts’ National Treasure.’ Make the scarf your signature thing, and you can slap whatever else you fancy beneath it. Even fluffy creatures, like ‘My Puffskein Is the Cutest.’

"You could also do custom photo mugs. Ask Flitwick for the spell to transfer pictures. Paint a nice frame, slap a couple’s photo in it, and add a personalised message. I heard there’s a cafe for couples in Hogsmeade—if you strike a deal with the owner, that’d make for a cracking souvenir. Get the twins involved for advertising—they’re good at this sort of thing and could work out an arrangement with the cafe owner since you lot can’t go to Hogsmeade yet. And leave Harry out of it," I added with a bit of a growl, heading for the door. "Otherwise, I’ll find a way to shut your little club down. Dennis, good to meet you, mate. Hope you end up in Gryffindor. It’s a right laugh," I said with a grin, hoping to leave a good impression.

Merlin, being the older brother to a lovesick teen and Harry’s best mate at the same time was exhausting.

----------------------------------------

The day before we left, I popped into Percy’s room. I needed to hand over Scabbers. Percy, of course, had his nose in a book again. He’s graduating next year and already dreaming of a career as Minister. For now, though, he’s hoping to become Head Boy. I mean, I know he will, but the poor bloke’s still fretting over it.

"Still scheming your rise to power, Percy?" I teased as he put down his well-thumbed copy of “How Prefects Can Achieve Power”.

"And what’s wrong with wanting a successful career in the Ministry and bringing glory to our family?" he asked sternly, adjusting his glasses. "I do hope you’re not going to mock me like the twins do."

"Course not," I said earnestly. "I’d be chuffed for you. But honestly, Percy, you’re barking up the wrong tree if you think the Ministry’s the way to go."

"And why’s that?" he asked, frowning.

"Because that kind of power is fleeting, and it doesn’t just depend on your talents and hard work," I replied. "It can collapse faster than a house of cards, and you’ll be left with nothing."

"Explain," he said, his frown deepening.

"Alright," I said, leaning forward. "You’re not getting a good job at the Ministry straight off the street, right? Someone’s got to recommend you. Dad, for instance."

"Or Dumbledore," Percy said thoughtfully. "He might write me a glowing reference if I’m Head Boy. And he’s got good relations with Father, so maybe he’d put in a good word for me."

"Fair enough," I nodded. "Hagrid mentioned Fudge listens to Dumbledore, so let’s say Dumbledore recommends you, and you’re hired—not as some basic secretary, but as a personal assistant to a department head. That’s as good as it’ll get, even with a reference from the Chief Warlock himself."

"Alright," Percy said, his brow furrowing further. "And then?"

"You’ll work hard, like you do, but mostly you’ll be sorting mail, fetching tea, and doing the odd menial task. Where’s the glory in that?"

"It’s just the start, Ron," he argued confidently. "If I do my job well, I’ll prove myself as reliable, and eventually, I could become head of the department."

"Yeah, dream on," I snorted. "That’ll only happen if Fudge stays in power, or if Dumbledore and Fudge don’t fall out. If there’s a power shift and Fudge gets booted, the new Minister will bring in their own people for all the top jobs, and you’ll be out of luck. Worse, they might hold a grudge against Dad for backing Dumbledore. Are you willing to go against the family for a cushy position, Percy? Against Dad?"

"Erm… Ron, that’s possible, I suppose... Besides, what other choice do I have?"

"How about Hogwarts?" I countered.

"Hogwarts?" he repeated, baffled. "Are you suggesting I become a professor? Ron," he added with a condescending tone, "what sort of glory would that bring?"

"Do you even know the names of Fudge’s secretary? Bagman’s? Crouch’s?" I asked, narrowing my eyes.

"No," he admitted, looking confused. "What’s that got to do with anything?"

"Everything," I said, smirking. "Bagman’s been in his position for a decade, and so has Crouch. Even Dad’s been there ages. No one knows their assistants, the ones fetching tea all those years. But every student knows who teaches Transfiguration or Charms at Hogwarts. Around forty kids join every year, and just as many leave. So, Percy Weasley—the ex-Head Boy, top student, and all-around legend—would be a household name in no time. Way quicker than ten years of bootlicking in the Ministry."

"Ron, mind your language," Percy snapped, though he looked pensive. "Honestly, I've never really thought about it like that."

"Well, you should," I said, watching as Percy jumped up and began pacing the room nervously.

"At Hogwarts, a regular professor earns eighty Galleons and has everything laid on. Meanwhile, a personal assistant at the Ministry only makes fifty. Plus, the prospects! McGonagall isn’t getting any younger, and she’s still trying to juggle three roles. Who’s she going to pass the Head of House duties to? Not exactly a queue of trustworthy candidates, is there? Before you know it, you could be Head of Gryffindor. And let’s face it, Dumbledore’s pushing a hundred by now—Percival Weasley, Headmaster of Hogwarts. Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?"

"I’ll think about it," Percy replied thoughtfully.

"Do that," I nodded. "No one's taken Binns’s spot in years. Kettleburn’s been begging to retire for three years straight, and they’ve gone through two Muggle Studies professors since Quirrell. You could even write a book—maybe on wizarding history or Muggle studies."

"Be serious," Percy laughed as he flopped back down on the bed next to me.

"What’s so funny?" I asked, feeling a bit miffed. "You wrote all that stuff about Hogwarts in your notebook. It was so detailed, I felt like I’d already been there. Ginny even used it to get her bearings in the castle before she started. You’ve got talent, Percy, and here you are banging on about the Ministry. You could be bigger than Lockhart—or even Bathilda Bagshot!"

"Alright, alright," Percy said, holding up a hand to stop me. "Don’t take it to heart. I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s just... unexpected, that’s all."

"Fine, we’ll leave it," I said, relenting. "But for the record, the twins are way ahead of you on thinking long-term. They’ve already got the whole school hooked on their pranks. Everyone knows them, and once they open their joke shop after graduation, it’ll be packed."

No one in the family seemed jealous about my trip. Ginny sulked a bit when she found out Harry was coming along, but Mum wasn’t going to let her come anyway, so she got over it. The twins could’ve come too, but they didn’t want to spend the money. They had plenty of summer orders to keep them busy anyway.

We picked up Hermione and Harry in Dad’s enchanted car—or rather, we flew there. The day before, I rang both of them from the village post office to confirm the time.

Surprisingly, Harry’s relatives let him go without a fuss. He wrote in my notebook that his uncle hadn’t even bothered to lock up his trunk this year and told him to study harder, which apparently shocked and pleased him in equal measure.

I had my own reason to celebrate—this time, no one took my wand off me. Though I did have to have a serious talk with Dad to get there.

"Dad, my best mate’s Harry Potter. He faced off against an unhinged Quirrell in first year, and Hermione got caught in the crossfire. Being around Harry isn’t exactly safe, and you know it. Do you think I’ll be able to fend off trouble with my fists? I’m not planning to mess with Unforgivables or anything, but I need to keep practicing what I already know. I even wanted to ask Charlie to teach us some simple spells while we’re staying with him. And besides, Flitwick gave me loads of work. He says I’ve got a knack for Charms and even gave me extra books. Maybe he’ll take me on as an apprentice someday, and here you are, holding me back with that daft rule. What’s so bad about revising what I’ve already learned?"

"Alright," Dad said after a moment’s thought, relenting. "You can practice the spells you already know, but if you learn anything new, you’re showing me first. I trust you, Ron. Don’t let me down."

Now I feel more confident. I might even ask Charlie to teach me the Patronus Charm—no way am I keen on facing Dementors. Even a little wisp’s better than nothing, isn’t it?