On the road outside Hermione's house, a car appeared out of thin air without drawing anyone's attention.
That car was anything but ordinary. It had charms permanently set on it—like a Disillusionment Charm and a Muggle-Repelling Charm.
Of course, those spells couldn't fool a young witch. The moment Hermione heard the engine outside, she hurried out.
When she saw the car that had suddenly appeared on the road, her eyes lit up with delight. Her lips curved into a bright, uncontrollable smile.
What a wonderful day. She finally got to see Harry again!
But the second Hermione reached the car, it felt like the sky collapsed.
In the back seat, a small, adorable girl was clinging to Harry like she wanted to crawl into his ribcage.
Her arms were locked tightly around his waist. Her head was pressed against his chest, and her face wore the kind of blissful, satisfied smile that made Hermione's vision go black.
No.
Who was she? And why did she get to do that?
Hermione had never done that. She was the one who came first!
Just then, Harry opened the door. He wore the same warm smile he always did as he spoke to Hermione.
"Good evening, Hermione. Perfect timing—get in. We're about to leave."
Hermione was a smart girl. She wasn't about to let jealousy ruin the trip and inconvenience Harry.
She forced down the chaos in her chest, climbed into the car quickly, and sat beside Harry. Then, without hesitation, she reached out and wrapped both arms around Harry's other arm.
And she even quietly put some strength into it—since she was stronger than Ginny, she smoothly and wordlessly shoved Ginny out of Harry's embrace.
After doing all that, Miss Otter's cheeks went a little red. She looked shy as she said, "Harry, I'm a bit cold… and it's really cramped in here, so… please hold me tighter."
Harry obviously understood what Hermione was doing. Helpless, he pulled Hermione closer.
As for a twelve- or thirteen-year-old witch coming up with a tactic like that to deal with Ginny—Harry didn't doubt it for a second.
British young witches learned about romance early. And besides, Harry had once been to a world full of ninjas where kids as young as six or seven were already dating. That was what you called precocious.
Pushed out of Harry's arms, Ginny glared at Hermione in anger. But her wounded-little-animal stare didn't threaten Hermione at all—if anything, it made Hermione snort with disdain.
Kid, if you think you can steal my man, you're nowhere close.
Seeing Hermione react like that, tiny Ginny instantly realized: this witch—one year older than her—was a bad woman trying to steal Harry!
And Ginny was never giving up on Harry. He'd been her idol since she was little!
Ginny let out a cold huff too, shoving herself toward Hermione's side. And just like that, the two young witches started battling for territory.
Ron watched the whole thing with a sour expression. Harry was just too popular. It wasn't only Hermione—now even Ron's own sister, Ginny, clearly adored Harry.
When was Ron going to be that popular?
He really didn't want to spend his Hogwarts years single.
Up front, the Weasley twins glanced back now and then, shaking their heads in pure helplessness.
Sure, they were Harry's friends, but they couldn't help feeling jealous about this kind of thing. After all, the girl they liked—Angelina—had shown them some interest before. It wasn't impossible that she might've ended up dating Fred or George someday.
But now that was never going to happen.
Because Harry's arrival was like a sun rising—completely drowning out the faint light of every other star.
…
At dawn the next morning, while the sky was still pale and dim, the little car flew low over the countryside, arriving beside a small wooden house outside Ottery St Catchpole in Devon, England. It slowly descended and came to a stop.
Everyone climbed out. The twins led the way, jogging toward the house and waving Harry and Hermione over.
"Harry! Hermione! Come on—welcome to the Weasley family home!"
From a distance, the Weasleys' house looked like something straight out of a fairy tale—strange and charming in equal measure.
It was built from several crooked, mismatched wooden sections jammed together, like a giant had lazily stacked pieces of a toy castle.
Nothing lined up at the same angle. Some parts leaned slightly, yet somehow held themselves up with a bizarre sense of balance.
The thatched roof was uneven in color—some patches darker, some nearly faded white—weathered by years of wind and rain, glowing softly under the morning light.
When they got closer, Harry looked up and saw a sign stuck at a slant near the front. On it were letters that read: The Burrow.
From the pigpen out front came loud snorts and grunts, and several plump brown chickens pecked around the yard.
Honestly, even if The Burrow couldn't compare to the floating city Harry planned to build, it was still fantastically magical—perfectly fitting for the wizarding world.
They'd barely stepped inside when hurried footsteps suddenly pounded across the yard.
Ron's face went green. He stared toward the house like he'd seen a ghost.
Mrs. Weasley was marching toward them from the far end of the garden, and the chickens scattered in panic.
It was honestly impressive—this round, kind-faced woman somehow looked exactly like a tiger baring its fangs.
"Ah!"
"Oh, no!"
Fred and George yelped.
Mrs. Weasley stopped in front of them, hands on hips, glaring at each guilty face in turn.
She wore a patterned apron, and a wand was tucked into the pocket.
"Well, well," she said, looking furious.
"Morning, Mum," George tried, forcing his smile into something cute and harmless, hoping it might put out the fire.
It didn't.
Mrs. Weasley spoke in a low voice that was somehow more terrifying than shouting.
"Do you have any idea how worried I was? Your beds were empty. No note. The car was gone. I thought you'd crashed—I nearly went out of my mind! Do you know I've never been this frightened in my life? Just wait until your father gets back and hears about this!"
"Bill, Charlie, and Percy never pulled stunts like this!"
At Percy's name, Fred muttered with obvious bitterness, "Perfect Percy."
Clearly, there was history there.
And honestly, that was normal. Two prank-loving twins and a stiff, serious prefect like Percy were never going to coexist peacefully.
"You should learn from him!" Mrs. Weasley jabbed a finger into Fred's chest as she scolded. "You could've died! You could've been seen! You could've gotten your father sacked!"
After laying into her three sons for a long while, Mrs. Weasley finally turned to Harry and Hermione.
It really was true—women were unpredictable, no matter their age.
The moment her gaze landed on Harry, her expression softened into something warm and gentle.
"It's so lovely to see you, Harry… and Hermione. Come inside and have some breakfast. I think you'll like my cooking."
The living room of The Burrow was cozy and cluttered.
The floorboards were wooden, and they creaked faintly underfoot.
There were a few old but comfortable sofas, covered in cushions of every color. The fireplace was the heart of the room, always burning with a warm fire. The mantel was crowded with magical photographs, little ornaments, and stacks of spellbooks piled three layers deep.
Mrs. Weasley quickly made breakfast with magic. She tipped seven or eight sausages onto Harry's and Hermione's plates, smiling as she said, "Go on—try them. They might taste different from Muggle sausages."
Harry took a bite. It really was good.
Magic in the wizarding world came from the mind and intent. Even magically-made food tasted different depending on who cast the spell.
Mrs. Weasley's cooking had a soft warmth to it—just like her. Loud and fussy on the surface, but genuinely kind underneath.
Even while eating, Hermione and Ginny both sat beside Harry. Even though Harry already had plenty of food, they still kept spearing food from their own plates and insisting on stuffing it into his mouth.
When two people fight, someone's going to get hurt. In Harry's case, it was his dignity—his mouth ended up smeared with grease, and he could only laugh helplessly.
After everyone ate their fill, they still hadn't slept all night. Fred finally said, "Mum, I'm exhausted. I want to go to bed."
Mrs. Weasley frowned. "No. You did this to yourselves. Now go clear the garden of gnomes—they're causing havoc again."
Then she turned to Harry and Hermione, smiling gently again.
"Harry, Hermione, you can go sleep. I've prepared a room for you."
Harry wasn't about to let his friends do the work alone—especially when they'd stayed up all night just to come get him and Hermione.
He smiled. "I'll help them clear the gnomes. I've never actually seen how it's done."
"What a good boy," Mrs. Weasley said, looking even softer. "I'll give you a book—Lockhart knows a great deal about it."
She pulled a thick book from the mantel.
George groaned. "Mum, we know how to get rid of garden gnomes."
Harry glanced at the cover. In fancy gold script, it read: Gilderoy Lockhart's Guide to Household Pests.
Below the title was a big photo of a handsome wizard with wavy blond hair and bright blue eyes.
"Oh, he's marvellous," Mrs. Weasley said. "He really knows his household pests. It's a wonderful book…"
"Mum worships him," Fred muttered under his breath.
"Don't be ridiculous, Fred," Mrs. Weasley said, blushing. "All right then—if you think you know more than Lockhart, go on. But if I check the garden and find even one gnome still there, you'll regret it."
Yawning and complaining, the Weasley boys shuffled outside, and Harry followed.
Garden gnomes were hideous little things—short, rough-skinned, tough as old leather, with bald heads that made them look even stranger.
In the wizarding world, you didn't kill them. You grabbed them, lifted them high, spun them hard until they were completely dizzy, then flung them away as far as you could.
After being put through that, the gnomes would stagger off on their own and stop causing trouble.
Working together, they finally cleared every last gnome from the yard and headed back inside The Burrow.
That was when the front door banged open.
A middle-aged man strode in.
He had striking red hair, and he looked a lot like Ron.
He hurried inside, pulled off his glasses, went straight to a nearby table, snatched up a sandwich, and started devouring it. Even while eating, he grumbled with a hint of resentment.
"Brutal. Too many spot-checks lately. Six raids tonight alone. Soon it'll be nine in one night."
Ron explained to Harry and Hermione, who looked confused.
"Dad works at the Ministry of Magic—in the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office. But he's the complete opposite of his job. He loves Muggles. Like… he's obsessed."
Harry's expression turned odd. Someone who wanted to reform the wizarding world like he did obviously knew what that office handled—stopping wizards from enchanting Muggle objects.
And yet Mr. Weasley…
Harry couldn't help looking at the car outside.
Just then, Mr. Weasley noticed Harry. When his eyes fell on the faint lightning-shaped scar on Harry's forehead, he froze in shock.
"Ah—you're…?"
Harry smiled politely. "Hello, Mr. Weasley. I'm Harry. Harry Potter."
"Merlin's beard—Harry Potter?" Mr. Weasley burst out, delighted. "It's wonderful to meet you! Ron's told us so much about you. Thank you for looking after Ron at school."
Mr. Weasley was practically buzzing with excitement.
"Of course," Harry said warmly. "Ron's helped me a lot at school too."
Ron's face went red.
Because, at school, Ron was usually the one dragging them down—more like Harry and Hermione's sidecar than anything else.
At least… that was what other students sometimes said.
Mr. Weasley clearly had bigger interests, though. He leaned in eagerly.
"Harry, I've heard you used to live in the Muggle world. What do you think of it?"
Harry thought about the technological levels he'd seen across the multiverse and answered, "Muggles are advancing incredibly fast. From starving just to survive to where they are now—it's only been a few hundred years."
"I think, given enough time, they'll invent even more fascinating things. Some of them might even end up with effects similar to magic."
Mr. Weasley looked pleasantly surprised. Then he nodded with intense agreement.
"Exactly! There are many things Muggles do that wizards could learn from—especially their constant creation and innovation. Like the sun that bloomed over that island decades ago… even wizards couldn't do that."
That wasn't necessarily true.
Harry thought about the ancient magic recorded in old texts—and the power Grindelwald had once wielded. Maybe ancient wizards really could produce magic that surpassed a nuclear explosion.
But Harry didn't argue. His gaze shifted slightly. He felt like Mr. Weasley's beliefs might align with his own, so he tested the waters with a smile.
"Right. The wizarding world has been closed off and stuck in its ways for too long. If this continues, sooner or later Muggles will surpass us."
"I think the wizarding world needs a massive reform."
The moment he said it, the entire room went silent.
Mr. Weasley stared at Harry in shock, disbelief written across his face.
The famous savior. A Potions master. A gifted Quidditch player. The one who had defeated Voldemort twice…
And yet, for some reason, as Mr. Weasley watched Harry's calm expression—and those eyes, deep as if they could swallow light like a black hole—a heavy fear rose in his chest.
It was like…
He was looking at a Dark Lord even more powerful.
And one who was rising fast.
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