"I'll go and see what's happened over there," Professor McGonagall said, her gaze fixed on the black smoke curling above Gringotts. "Do not be shy, Mr. Williams. You may look around by yourself for a little while. If you find anything suitable, you may purchase it."
She gave him a small encouraging wink, making it clear that she expected him to treat this as a lesson in independence rather than a test. Then she swept out of the Junk Shop and disappeared into the crowd of witches and wizards hurrying toward the bank.
Roger watched her go, then turned his eyes toward Gringotts. Smoke continued to rise in the distance, thick and dark against the bright sky above Diagon Alley. He tightened his fingers around his new wand as a deep unease crept through him.
It must be Quirrell, he thought. He has blown open one of Gringotts' underground vaults.
Once Harry Potter entered the story, Voldemort seemed to wake along with him. From that point on, trouble came year after year like clockwork. The first year was manageable because Dumbledore could still keep watch most of the time, but after that, the so-called Savior grew increasingly bold, reckless, and tangled in danger.
Roger remembered that Harry even died once later in the story. He was not Harry Potter, and Dumbledore would not be watching over him with the same care. He could not rely on anyone else for his safety, and more importantly, he did not want to.
Looking at the number in his mind, Roger quietly inhaled. His magic power was still only 2.3, painfully low for a boy who had already brushed against the wider world's danger. Hopefully, he could find something here that might help him improve it.
"Young man," Erwin said, sliding back into Roger's personal space with a pot full of old wands, "although Professor McGonagall said you could browse, I believe you'll have use for these things in the future. Take these old wands, for example."
He leaned closer and lowered his voice like a man offering state secrets. "Think about it. Your own wand is monitored by the Ministry, but an old wand costs only one Galleon. You could practice spells freely. Isn't that wonderful?"
Roger looked at the pot of worn wands. Some were chipped, some polished smooth from years of use, and a few looked as though they had survived small explosions. Erwin, however, spoke as if each one were a key to greatness.
"Once you get to Hogwarts, the other young wizards will still be struggling to pronounce their spells," Erwin continued, tirelessly pressing the sale. "But you will cast them perfectly. Your professors will award your house extra points, your Head of House will be proud, and everyone will call you a genius."
He grinned broadly. "Even the little witches will admire you."
"Mr. Erwin," Roger said politely, "I can already cast some spells without a wand. Lumos."
He lifted one finger, and a small point of light bloomed at its tip. The glow hovered steadily in front of Erwin's cloudy eyes.
Erwin blinked. Then he rubbed his eyes hard, as if the problem might be on his face rather than in front of him. "You really are only eleven?"
"Is wandless magic difficult?" Roger asked, looking up at him with wide, innocent eyes.
Erwin stared at him for a long moment, then let out a defeated sigh. "Wandless casting is an advanced skill. It's normally something students only begin touching in later years, if they touch it at all."
"No wonder Professor McGonagall brought you here personally," he muttered. "It's been years since I've seen her take a first-year shopping herself."
"I only practiced occasionally," Roger said modestly. "There is still a great deal I need to learn."
His humble smile only made Erwin look more irritated. There was nothing more annoying than a child delivering an accidental humblebrag with a completely sincere face.
"Mr. Erwin, may I look around by myself?" Roger asked.
"Go on, then," Erwin said, waving him away. "But if you break anything, you pay for it."
Despite his talent, Roger knew his years in Azkaban had left both visible and hidden injuries behind. His body was weak, and his magic was even weaker than it should have been. On one dusty shelf, he found a book titled The Intrinsic Laws of Natural Magical Growth, and after a quick glance, his heart sank.
According to the author's research, an average eleven-year-old wizard's magic should be around five points. Roger's was only 2.3. He had lost more than half of what he should have had.
A cold glint passed through his eyes. He would not forget the Dementors of Azkaban. Nor would he forget Barty Crouch Sr.
Fortunately, he still possessed unusual talent. With practice, he could steadily raise the level of his spells, and given enough time, even a clear spring could flood a planet if it never stopped flowing. More importantly, his simulation ability allowed him to glimpse paths through the future, even if every use came with a cost.
I remember Ginny getting Voldemort's Horcrux from a bookshop, Roger thought, scanning an entire shelf of second-hand books. Every so often, he pulled one out and flipped through the pages.
His memory of the original story was not perfect. He had forgotten, for example, that Tom Riddle's diary was actually in Lucius Malfoy's possession before it reached Ginny. After searching for a while, Roger found nothing like it and gave up.
Looks like I remembered wrong.
He shrugged lightly. Tom Riddle's diary was not absolutely necessary. It would have been useful to have young Voldemort help accelerate his studies, but useful did not mean essential. Relying on a Horcrux was dangerous, and Roger had enough danger pressing at his back already.
"Mr. Erwin, how much are these?" Roger asked after walking around the shop.
He had mainly gathered books on Potions and Ancient Runes. Potions might help him recover or strengthen his magic, while Ancient Runes could help him understand older forms of magic that had gradually vanished from ordinary practice. Both were more valuable to him than random spellbooks he lacked the power to properly use.
He had considered looking for books on charms and dueling as well, but his magic power was too limited. Rather than becoming mediocre at everything, he preferred to focus on a few paths with real potential. Jessica had once told him that his father had only truly excelled at Lumos, yet Theodore had pushed that simple spell far enough to hold off Barty Crouch.
"Young man, don't you want any spellbooks?" Erwin asked at once. "I have several excellent ones here, very rare, very—"
"The Standard Book of Spells, Grade One and A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration are enough for now," Roger interrupted gently. "Those two textbooks will be enough for my studies before term begins."
Erwin looked at the stack Roger had chosen and began silently calculating. Advanced Potion-Making was old, at least ten years out of date, but he had bought it for three Sickles. Selling it for five would still be a profit.
One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi was in decent condition. Eight Sickles sounded reasonable enough, not too low and not too outrageous. As for niche books like Ancient Runic Interpretation, practically no one wanted them, so if he had bought one for a Knut and sold it for three Sickles, who could blame him?
The Collection of Ancient Talismans had cost him four Sickles years ago. Selling it for seven now was perfectly fair in his own mind. After all, he was practically doing the boy a favor by letting him clear out difficult stock.
"These books," Erwin began grandly, "were found from various places, and many are rarely seen on the market anymore. This copy of A Study of Runic Symbols, for example, is so uncommon that even the Hogwarts library may not have—"
"Mr. Erwin," Roger said, "please give me a specific price, including the first-year textbooks and stationery."
"Right, right." Erwin cleared his throat. "You've selected ten additional books, all rare and excellent. For Professor McGonagall's sake, I'll give you a discount."
He tapped the stack. "Each would normally be between five and ten Sickles, but I'll average them at five Sickles each. That makes fifty Sickles."
Roger said nothing, so Erwin continued quickly.
"Eight first-year textbooks, plus quills, parchment, and ink, total twenty-five Sickles. The cauldron set you requested includes crystal, copper, and tin, so I'll make that thirty Sickles. Glass phials are two Sickles, the brass scales are ten, and the telescope is twenty."
Erwin's eyes gleamed. "All together, that makes one hundred and thirty-seven Sickles. You certainly can't carry all of it by hand, so I'll add a backpack with a permanent Undetectable Extension Charm at a special price. Only fifteen Sickles. Let's round the whole thing to one hundred and fifty Sickles."
He looked at Roger expectantly. "You know the exchange rate for wizarding currency, yes?"
"I know," Roger said. "One Galleon is seventeen Sickles, and one Sickle is twenty-nine Knuts."
"Exactly." Erwin beamed. "So one hundred and fifty Sickles is eight Galleons and fourteen Sickles."
"Mr. Erwin, that price isn't very reasonable." Roger shook his head and pointed at the stack of old books he had pulled out. "These are all old stock. Each is worth one Sickle at most. If you disagree, I can always wait until term starts and look for them in the school library."
"Impossible," Erwin cried, sounding as though someone had stepped on his foot. He pointed at the top book, Advanced Potion-Making, and objected loudly. "A brand-new copy of this costs nine Galleons."
"Then let's put it back," Roger said, casually pushing it aside without the slightest hesitation.
"Wait," Erwin said quickly, stopping him at once, because he knew very well that high-level Potions books had a small market and were extremely difficult to sell.
.....
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