The air of Diagon Alley struck him like a wall the moment he stepped out of Gringotts.
The cool gloom of marble and iron gave way to sunlight glinting off brass shop signs, hawkers calling about quills and broom oils, children darting between legs with ice creams clutched tightly in their hands.
It was chaos—deliberate chaos, like a carnival stitched together with coin and wandwork.
Cassius paused on the steps, slipping a hand into his pocket where the vault key sat heavy and warm.
His other hand brushed the pouch at his belt, weighted now with true wizarding currency.
Power.
Real, tangible spending power.
But power unprotected was weakness.
And so his first stop was not quills or robes or the amusements of candy shops.
No, his first stop was Mystics & Marvels.
The store crouched between a broom repair workshop and an apothecary that smelled of vinegar and nettles.
Its sign was little more than curling bronze letters over a dark wooden door, but there was a hum to it — an almost imperceptible pressure on the air that spoke of enchantments woven deep into its frame.
He pushed the door open.
A bell tinkled overhead, but the sound was warped, elongated, as though it had to pass through water before reaching his ears.
The inside was dim.
Shelves climbed the walls, stacked not with books or parchment, but with objects of travel: trunks of dragon hide, compass-like devices that glowed faintly, lockets etched with shifting runes.
On one wall hung a collection of satchels and bags in every size, leather ranging from tawny brown to black so deep it seemed to drink the lantern light.
Behind the counter, a witch in her middle years looked up from polishing a clasp.
Her eyes flicked over him—taking in his age, his bearing, his attire—and her brows knit faintly.
"Lost, little one?" she asked, voice dry.
Cassius approached the counter without hesitation, folding his hands neatly in front of him.
"No. I am here to make a purchase."
Her lips twitched, halfway to a smirk.
"Are you now? And what sort of purchase does a boy of—what, five summers?—intend to make?"
Cassius ignored the tone.
"A bag. Specifically: messenger style, leather. Durable. Fitted with an undetectable extension charm. And"—he let the words fall like coin on wood—"a secure ownership lock. Only I may open it."
The witch's smirk slipped.
Her eyes narrowed.
"That," she said slowly, "is not a toy. Do you even know the cost of such a thing?"
Cassius drew the pouch from his belt.
The soft jingle of coins within cut across the dim shop like thunder.
He placed it on the counter and loosened the drawstring just enough for the glow of Galleons emminate from within.
"I do," he said simply.
For a long moment, the witch studied him.
Not the gold, but him—his unflinching eyes, his steady hands.
At last, she nodded once.
"Very well."
Her mind probably racing with worry about questioning a pure-blood child and the wrath she was going to face once his parents walked in to check up on him.
She rose from her stool and moved to the wall of bags, her fingers tracing the straps until she stopped at one: dark brown leather, smooth but sturdy, its clasp polished to a dull shine.
She lifted it carefully and set it on the counter.
"This one will suit. Simple, but reliable. The charms are woven deep—nothing flashy, no needless enchantments to draw attention. Inside, you'll find a space expanded to accommodate the contents of a small room. It will never grow heavy, no matter how much you put within. And the lock—" she tapped the clasp, which shimmered faintly "—is bound to the assigned magical signature the moment you touch it with intent. No thief, wizard or otherwise, will open it without you, and it can be handed down to descendants once the owner has removed their imprint from the lock."
Cassius brushed his fingers over the leather.
Warm.
Alive, almost, with the faint thrum of charms.
The leather no doubt from a magical creature like a Occuary, or perhaps even dragon.
"It will do," he said.
The witch named the price.
A sum that would have made a family blanch.
A regular employee at the ministry would need to save up their monthly salary for an entire year to meet the price, and thats assuming they werent spending a single knut on themselves.
Enough to cover a first year's school supplies five fold.
Cassius untied the pouch and began to count, stacking Galleons in deliberate rows across the counter.
Fifty.
Seventy-five.
One hundred.
The sound of gold clinking against wood filled the shop like a heartbeat.
When he had finished, the witch gathered the coins silently, slipping them into a drawer that clicked shut with wards.
The bag remained before him.
His.
Cassius lifted it and slung it over his shoulder.
The strap adjusted itself to his small frame, fitting snug without pinching.
Inside, the space waited, cavernous and unseen.
He touched the clasp once more, not being required to much else as his magical imprint was taken in by the bag, and a crest matching his created one from Gringotts appeared on the lock.
The lock shimmered, then dimmed, binding itself to him.
Done.
The witch watched him, expression unreadable.
"Strange times," she murmured. "Strange children."
she had watched the entire process, almost numb to proceedings having watched this young lord, pull out such a sum he'd been entrusted with, only to then not bring the bag back to his folks, but instead bind it right then and there to himself.
Most puzzlingly, the crest, it wasnt a known notably family crest to her, certainly not one of the Pure 28, perhaps he was from a foreign family who'd just recently moved over?
Cassius only inclined his head.
"May your wares never falter."
He turned and left, the bell above the door chiming its warped note once again as sunlight struck him on the street.
Outside, the chaos of Diagon Alley rushed back in—children laughing, cauldrons clanging, parchment fluttering from a newsstand.
But now Cassius moved differently.
At his hip hung a bag that could swallow fortunes, secrets, even futures, and never reveal them.
It was the first tool.
The first piece of armor.
The first true expense on a path that would demand many.
He shifted the strap across his chest and set his eyes down the street.
The shopping spree could begin.
And with each purchase, each investment, the world of magic would open itself further to him—until one day, he would not simply walk among them.
He would own them.