"G-g-g-good… okay."
A bunch of wild ideas flashed through Professor Quirrell's head. He didn't ask a single question, just carefully tucked the stuff into a box, hiding the worry in his voice.
He wasn't exactly a genius, and he couldn't figure out what this was, but how could cookies (or whatever) compete with that joke shop?
As he spoke, Diagon Alley bustled around them. No wizard paid their conversation any mind.
"Professor, you zoned out."
Sean tilted his head up and said.
"Oh—right—"
Quirrell snapped back, sliding a contract into Sean's hands.
"Mr. Green, take a look. Diagon Alley, Number 77. Rent's five hundred Galleons a year."
Hearing the number, Sean nodded. Lower than he'd expected.
This was the priciest wizard shopping street in Britain—anywhere from a few hundred to a thousand Galleons was normal.
The joke shop's rent was seven hundred. This place was cheaper, sohow. Maybe because it was a total wreck.
Sean took the magical contract but didn't sign right away. He sent off a paper airplane and waited for his teacher.
With magic involved, you could never be too careful.
He glanced toward Transfigured Couture. Professor McGonagall's stern brows softened a little as she chatted with the shop's impeccably grood, blonde manager.
Sean let out a quiet breath of relief. Getting this whole thing approved had been a hassle.
In the end, Professor Tella convinced McGonagall with, "I haven't had a disciple in seventy years," and "It's alchemical tradition for the master to oversee the student's workshop."
Any minute now, Professor Tella would show up after getting Sean's ssage.
But first, Sean had one more must-do.
He pulled out another contract and handed it to Quirrell.
"Professor, take a look."
Quirrell accepted it, a little dazed.
The word Salary practically stabbed his eyes.
It had been ages since he'd done anything for pay.
Last ti, he'd "donated" everything he owned.
"Annual salary of fifteen hundred Galleons—this, this is way too much!"
Quirrell shivered.
"N-n-no, I don't need anything like that, Mr. Green. Quirrell isn't an ungrateful little man… at least not anymore… With pay like this, you could hire dozens of wizards…"
He'd never even thought about getting paid. Just minutes ago, when Sean explained what they'd be selling, Quirrell had already braced himself for scraping by.
His body was slowly recovering. With his skills, covering a year's rent and operating costs wouldn't be hard.
But seeing such a huge salary? He panicked—could their shop even turn a profit?
The contract glinted in the sunlight. The terms were detailed but straightforward.
Client Sean was obligated to pay Agent Quirrell 1,500 Galleons annually and provide a steady supply of potions.
Agent Quirrell had to fiercely protect the client's interests, keep the client's secrets, help run the business, and never hide or deceive the client—period.
Fair deal: the client paid top Galleon, the agent gave true loyalty.
"The only wizard perfect for this job? I only know one, Professor."
Sean said.
Faced with Sean's earnest request, Quirrell's eyes welled up.
It had been… so long since anyone treated him like this…
Diagon Alley roared with life. The rainy season had just ended; clouds drifted in from every direction, and shafts of sunlight pierced the sky.
He had choices now—no death, no fear. He could do anything, go anywhere.
He stood at the corner a long ti, but he didn't read the fine print before signing—he didn't need to.
"Professor, you haven't checked the back requirents…"
Sean said, surprised.
"Oh, no need, Mr. Green."
Because no contract could demand more loyalty than he was already giving.
A brief silence settled between them.
Quirrell stared at the rundown shop, worry creasing his face.
Seconds later, a brisk figure strode up nearby.
"My disciple—decent location."
Professor Tella approached, crouched beside Sean, inspected the contract, and gave him a nod.
"Professor Quirrell—didn't expect to see you here."
Soon, Tella and Quirrell were chatting.
Or "chatting"—their eyes barely left Sean.
"What're you naming your alchemy workshop?"
Tella suddenly turned and asked.
"Fairytale Workshop, Professor."
Sean thought for a second, then answered.
"Should've known."
She ruffled his hair and hurried off.
Sean quickly said goodbye to Quirrell and headed back to Transfigured Couture.
McGonagall, looking like she'd just finished a shopping spree, dragged Sean off to buy a few more gifts.
…
At the entrance to Diagon Alley, Sean and McGonagall lugged bags and packages. With a flick of her wand, the professor shrank everything into tiny trinkets.
"Apparition's rough on the stomach—drink sothing, child."
McGonagall said.
Sean nodded, waved his own wand, and a vial of potion floated out of a bag—one of many from Professor Snape, perfect for easing the nausea.
The world twisted in a flash of light and shadow.
Sean landed amid rolling hills and lush adows.
Ahead stood a several-story, ramshackle house with a bright red roof and four or five chimneys—definitely not up to Muggle building codes.
But pure magic. This was a house built by spells alone.
At the base stood a short, roundish woman with bright blue eyes and a kind face.
"Professor McGonagall, I'm so glad you brought the boy!"
Mrs. Weasley thanked McGonagall warmly.
"Co on, dear. I hear you're curious about our old wreck of a house—perfect! You've got a whole week to explore it…"
Mrs. Weasley grabbed Sean's hand and marched off, completely missing the weird, fleeting look McGonagall shot them.
"See you, Professor."
Sean called.
"Second week, I'll pick you up. Marcus wants you to know he's missed you terribly."
McGonagall vanished.
The Burrow was huge.
A lopsided sign out front read The Burrow.
The house itself was a crazy patchwork of rooms stacked at odd angles.
Out back was a beat-up little stone shed with broomsticks peeking through the cracks.
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