The next few days blurred into a cycle of morning chores, mid-day research, and nightly debates with the twins about magical distribution networks. I had to admit: they were geniuses in all the wrong ways—and I respected that.
One afternoon, I sat the twins down in the room we'd commandeered for magical scheming. I pulled out a pristine studio-sized trunk—polished, reinforced, enchanted to be soundproof and prank-proof. They blinked in unison.
"Before I hand these over," I said, producing two scrolls, "I need you to read and sign these contracts. They're binding, magically and legally. They ensure secrecy about the origins of the trunks, their enchantments, and any related services. Basically, if you blab, your tongues will twist themselves into sentient pretzels for a week."
Fred grinned. "That's horrifyingly specific. I love it."
George raised a brow. "You write this yourself?"
"With a little help from a very dramatic book on magical clauses. All I ask is that when, not if, when, you succeed in creating your own joke shop in the future, I am given a 20 percent stake in your shop."
Fred and George glanced at each other. There was a long, thoughtful silence.
Fred hesitated. "This doesn't seem fair."
I leaned back with a small smirk. "It may seem that way, but this trunk by itself is worth more than anything you're giving up."
George narrowed his eyes. "What exactly is in it? We don't know anything except that it's enchanted."
"That trunk alone may be worth more than your house," I replied.
That gave them pause.
Fred tilted his head. "That's a big claim. Without knowing what it does, it's hard to agree."
I heaved a dramatic sigh and folded my arms. "Have I ever lied to you?"
They exchanged a long look, then leaned in, whispering in hushed tones. After a full minute of intense twin-speak, George finally looked back.
"You might've omitted a few things. But no... you've never lied to us."
Fred nodded. "We'll agree with that."
"All I ask," I continued smoothly, "is that when, not if—when—you succeed in creating your own joke shop in the future, I am given a 20 percent stake in your shop."
Again, they deliberated in hushed voices, throwing in the occasional raised brow and speculative glance at the trunk.
George eventually said, "Fine, but we ask for an addendum to the contract, should this trunk not meet our expectations, we have the right to change that percentage from 20 percent to 10 percent. I hope you realize we are placing a lot of trust in you about this."
"Yeah," Fred nodded. "We like you Sky but this is our future you are asking us to gamble."
"Then how about this in return," I continued, "not only will you benefit from this trunk, but I'll help supply you with resources—provided they're legal and not too dark in nature. Plus, you'll get a discount for said items as compensation instead of the 10 percent stake deduction?"
Fred wiped an imaginary tear from his eye. "You're the best dodgy benefactor we could've asked for."
George clapped me on the shoulder. "And we solemnly swear not to blow you up. Probably.""
Fred grinned. "I love it."
At this, I start to make the changes to the contract and adding the stated addendums before handing it back to the twins.
George raised a brow. "You write this yourself?"
"With a little help from a very dramatic book on magical clauses. Now sign, please."
They skimmed. Signed. And then I handed over the trunk.
"Soundproof, prank-proof, and big enough for all your bad ideas," I said.
Fred reached for the latch with barely contained excitement and opened the trunk.
Instead of seeing what they expected to be some magical prank object, they saw something completely out of their magical imagination.
The inside revealed a drop-down ladder leading to what looked like a professionally lit studio-sized room. Fred climbed in first, followed by George. I leaned against the edge, waiting for the yelling.
"...Bloody hell," Fred whispered.
The room was cavernous, built like a mad scientist's lair. Shelves lined with prototype fireworks, storage cabinets labeled "Probably Safe," a large central worktable covered in parchment blueprints and charmed ink quills, and even an entire wall dedicated to organizing joke shop supply components—flashing gum, trick wands, and a few choice "in development" items. The lighting was adjustable with the flick of a wand, and even the air smelled faintly of cinnamon and ozone.
Fred and George turned around slowly, eyes wide with reverence.
Fred blinked. "This... this is a temple."
George dropped to his knees in mock worship. "You're not a man, you're a myth."
Then Fred cried. Not even a tear—full blubber.
"You beautiful criminal," George sniffed.
"We hereby give you 25% instead of the initial agreed upon 20% of any future business. In exchange, you help with distribution inside Hogwarts. Deal?" Fred snapped with excitement.
I smirked. "Deal."
"I don't know whether to say thank you or sell my soul," Fred added.
"Same thing, really," I replied.
During their final nights stay at the Burrow, I went into my warehouse trunk to finish up the minor few tweaks on all the enchanted quills I had obtained in Diagon Ally.
Hermione, meanwhile, was organizing every text we'd gotten. She was still peeved none of Lockhart's books made it into the official Guide due to Marchbanks' veto.
She knew why and fully understood the reasons but the fact that a textbook from a professor was being denied rubbed her the wrong way.
"Maybe we can add a parody section," I offered.
She didn't laugh. She was seriously considering it.
One night before bed, Arthur sat with me at the kitchen table. He looked unsure.
"You know, Sky, you're quite the mystery. But... thank you. For the gold. And the help."
I raised a mug. "Think of it as an investment. If I need anything—legal or mildly gray—I'll call on you."
Molly walked in just in time to hear that. "Arthur, you are not helping anyone smuggle garden gnomes through the Floo again."
"No promises!" I called cheerfully.
"Molly, that was just one time. No one got hurt." Arthur said in exasperated tone.
And with that, I knew the Burrow was as much a home as anywhere could be.
Even if half its occupants were dangerously close to discovering my secret storage system.
By the time the train ride back rolled around, I was ready.
But Diagon Alley had changed me.
And Lucius Malfoy's "gift" was still burning a hole in my thoughts.
I'd play the game. I'd even smile while doing it.
But I was done underestimating people who thought they knew how to move pawns.
I am already dealing with Dumbledore as it is.
What is it with people and their chess games.