Information asymmetry.
That's the one thing every wizard has to deal with in a fight.
And Sean, with his baby-faced twelve-year-old looks, could weaponize it better than almost anyone.
In a full-on duel, a Sean who could cast master-level Transfiguration, fire off two completely different spells at once, and silently sling dark curses without a word could stall a team of elite Aurors for a solid minute or two.
Exactly what he'd expected.
His weakness was just as obvious: he'd only been doing magic for a couple of years. His raw magical reserves were still tiny compared to an adult's. He simply didn't have the horsepower to keep the big stuff going for long.
He had two paths:
1. Wait for his magical core to mature naturally (wizards get stronger every year until well into adulthood), or
2. Get so ridiculously good with the spells he already knew that they barely cost him any power at all.
Sean picked door number two.
[Proficient] level in Transfiguration should be just enough, he decided.
For the next few days the farmhouse grounds rang with spell-fire. Marcus Flint—ex-Slytherin Beater, fully qualified hit-wizard, and current bodyguard—sparred with him every afternoon.
Marcus spotted the problem instantly: Sean's casting time on the really nasty transfigurations was way too slow. Marcus could comfortably fire three or four Expelliarmus curses in the gap.
At first Sean could only counter with Protego and then follow up with weak stinging hexes.
Then, terrifyingly, he started transfiguring the ground under Marcus's feet while still holding the shield charm.
Marcus ate dirt. Hard.
When Marcus switched to a nonstop storm of spells to stop the long-cast transfigurations, Sean did something even crazier: he dropped the big spells entirely and started spamming tiny, instant transfigurations—turning pebbles into needles, patches of grass into razor wire—just enough to force Marcus to waste time casting Iron Armor charms.
Marcus had never seen a kid adapt that fast. The level of control was insane.
Sean, meanwhile, was finally mapping the exact edges of what he could and couldn't do yet.
And yeah—he still had a long way to go with Transfiguration.
…
A full month had passed since Fairy Tale Bakery last opened.
The entire British wizarding world was buzzing.
Witch Weekly photographers camped outside the shop hoping for even a blurry shot of the mysterious alchemist's back.
Half the witches in the country (including, embarrassingly, Mrs. Weasley) were obsessed.
"Mum's more excited about Se— I mean, that alchemist—than she ever was about Gilderoy Lockhart," Ron muttered, showing Harry the cover of Gilderoy Lockhart's Guide to Household Pests. The moving photo of the blond ponce winked smugly at them.
"Is that the alchemist who might be at Hogwarts?" Harry asked, still catching up.
"More than 'might be,'" Ron said, turning scarlet and refusing to elaborate.
An owl swooped in with the Daily Prophet. While Harry tore open the envelope, Ron lowered his voice.
"You still planning to go back to the Dursleys?"
"I don't have a choice," Harry said quietly.
"We'll figure something out," Ron promised. "Justin wrote—he's looking into your aunt and uncle. We've got your back."
Harry's eyes stung. He blinked fast and pretended to focus on the newspaper.
Front page: the familiar brick storefront, the tall, dark-haired boy's back turned to the camera.
Ron got that secret little thrill every time he saw the photo—he knew something ninety-nine percent of the wizarding world didn't.
Underneath the picture, bold capitals screamed:
AN UNPRECEDENTED INVITATION-ONLY SYSTEM! Gimmick or the real deal?
Harry skimmed it, expecting skepticism. Instead it was pure hype.
Rita Skeeter (big blonde curls, acid-green quill) had declared that receiving one of the shop's legendary invitation letters was now the ultimate status symbol. If you didn't have one, maybe you just weren't that important.
Witches and wizards across the country were losing their minds—until Rita casually dropped the names of two people who had accepted invitations without hesitation:
Albus Dumbledore.
Nicolas Flamel.
Game over. If those two said it was legit, it was legit.
The problem? The shop sent invitations by paper plane. You couldn't buy your way in, bribe anyone, or even beg. The planes just… showed up. Or they didn't.
Late afternoon, Diagon Alley.
Warm sunlight shimmered off the cobblestones. Florean Fortescue's outdoor tables sat empty except for one sleepy parasol.
A dozen impossibly dignified witches and wizards had gathered a respectful distance from the shop, trying (and failing) to look casual.
From inside Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, Fred and George watched the crowd and finally understood what Sean had meant by "It won't disturb the neighbors."
Inside the shop itself, everything had been renovated again.
A towering ebony door carved from a single slab of wood now guarded the entrance; the brass knocker was an ouroboros biting its own tail.
The old flat display cases had been stood upright, each one now backed by a lifelike, three-dimensional magical creature that moved and breathed behind the glass.
Sean was early, waiting for Professor Tala to arrive. A copy of the Prophet had just flown in; he glanced at the headline and raised an eyebrow.
Status symbol? Really?
The invitation system wasn't complicated at all. Fairy Tale Cookies had absurdly low production runs—most batches were pre-bought by alchemists and the Ministry before the public ever saw them. Limiting openings to seventy invitation letters (or however many paper planes he actually felt like sending) just gave him breathing room to breathe and craft in peace.
That was it.
Everything else? Pure, glorious accident.