"HALL WEASLEY, WHAT'S YOUR DREAM IN LIFE?"
Mum had that tone. The one that meant she'd already decided the answer was wrong.
"I want to be the Niffler of Hogwarts," Hall said. "The Wolf of Wall Street."
"The what of Hogwarts?"
"A Niffler. You know. Attracted to shiny things. Causes chaos. Very successful."
"Is that why you sold Ron to the Diggory family to be a house-elf?"
"Mum, relax. I told him he'd come back on his own."
"HALL. THAT IS YOUR BROTHER. YOU CANNOT BUY OR SELL—"
"Technically," he said, already backing toward the stairs, "I can do both."
The laughter faded as quickly as it had come.
Hall Weasley had been in this world for eleven years. Seven sons, and he was the seventh — the spare to the spare to the spare, six older brothers ahead of him in the line of hand-me-downs. One of those brothers was his twin, Ron, which meant even being born had been a shared experience.
When he'd first realized he'd been reborn into the wizarding world, he'd been thrilled. Magic. Wands. A school that wasn't a muggle secondary school in London.
Then, at age nine, Mum and Dad noticed something was off. A trip to St. Mungo's later: Squib.
The family had tiptoed around him for weeks. Mum overcooked his favorite treacle tart. Dad offered to show him how to tinker with muggle plugs. Even the ghoul in the attic seemed to quiet down.
Hall was the one who told them it was fine. It wasn't, but they needed to hear it more than he needed to say it.
Two years passed. No owl. No Hogwarts. He'd made peace with it.
Then Ron's acceptance letter arrived.
Then, when hope had almost run out, something shifted.
[Pay-to-Win System Activated]
Hall stared at the ceiling of the attic bedroom he shared with Ron. The ghoul banged on a pipe somewhere above his head.
A pay-to-win system. Of all the systems in the multiverse, I got the one that requires capital. Do you people know what the Weasleys are famous for?
He answered his own question.
Poverty. We're famous for poverty.
[Compensation Gift Pack Sent — Please Check]
He sat up. Compensation. That implied the system knew it was late. That implied guilt. Guilt meant free stuff.
He opened it.
[S-Rank Ability: Memory Palace (Upgradeable)]
[A-Rank Ability: Disguise Mage (Upgradeable)]
[1000 Galleons]
Hall's breath caught.
One thousand Galleons.
He pulled up his status panel, more out of reflex than anything else.
Host: Hall Weasley
Bloodline: Wizard Bloodline (Squib)
Magic: LV0 (0/100)
Physique: 8/10
Comprehension: 0/10
Talents:
S-Rank: Memory Palace (Upgradeable)
A-Rank: Disguise Mage (Upgradeable)
C-Rank: None
B-Rank: None
Available Galleons: 1000 Galleons, 21 Knuts
One thousand Galleons. The Weasley family vault at Gringotts had, at last count, one Galleon and a handful of Sickles. A single new wand cost seven. Ron was using Charlie's old hand-me-down, which was held together with spellotape and hope.
Hall looked at his reflection in the dusty attic mirror — faded robes, patched at the elbows. Same as Ron. Same as every Weasley boy before them.
This money could change things. New wands. New robes. And later — when George and Fred got around to opening that joke shop — seed funding. That shop was a goldmine in the making. He'd seen enough of the future to know.
He forced himself to focus on the system.
Memory Palace: photographic memory. Everything he saw could be stored, reviewed, recalled at will. Useful for a Squib who'd need every edge he could get.
Disguise Mage: complete appearance change. He could impersonate Fred and George to sell Ron. Not that he'd actually do that. Probably.
Not that Mum would let him live long enough to try.
"That's it?" he said aloud. "Two abilities? And what am I supposed to do with Disguise Mage as a Squib? Blend into the wallpaper?"
[Host's abilities can be upgraded, purchased, or learned through practice]
"I have no money."
The system helpfully enlarged a line on his panel.
[Available Galleons: 1000 Galleons, 21 Knuts]
Hall went quiet.
Right. Not poor anymore. Keep forgetting.
He sat on the edge of his bed — a narrow thing with a sagging mattress — and read the fine print. The system ran on cold, hard cash. Unlocking skills cost Galleons. Upgrading magic cost Galleons. Everything cost Galleons.
One point of magic experience: 10 Galleons. Required experience scaled exponentially per level.
Activating a talent: 100 Galleons. Learning a branch skill like a Scouring Charm or a Blemish-Draught: 10 Galleons.
Talents started at C-Rank. Upgrading from C to B: 1,000 Galleons. B to A: 5,000. A to S: 10,000. S to SS: 100,000.
He did the math. He didn't like the answer.
This thing is a money-eating monster.
But the upside: once a talent was active, spells wouldn't fail. They'd only get stronger, scaling with the talent rank. A C-Rank Cleaning Charm might dust a shelf. An S-Rank one might strip the wallpaper off.
Hall's mind started moving faster. Money was the bottleneck. Money had always been the bottleneck. But now he had a way to convert cash into power, and he knew enough about the future to know where to invest.
The Battle of Hogwarts. Fred, dead in an explosion. George, deaf in one ear. The snake-faced bastard and his followers tearing through everything.
Not this time.
First things first. I need to get into Hogwarts.
He was a Squib — or had been, until thirty seconds ago. He spent 100 Galleons on the system panel, watching the number drop like a stone in a well. The system page flickered and updated.
Host: Hall Weasley
Bloodline: Wizard Bloodline
Magic: LV1 (50/100)
Available Galleons: 400 Galleons, 21 Knuts
The pain of watching that number shrink was physical. His chest actually ached.
But he wasn't a Squib anymore.
Now he just needed an acceptance letter.
The owl from Hogwarts had come and gone. Ron's letter sat on the kitchen table downstairs. The deadline had passed. Did he really have to wait until next year?
He was about to resign himself to it when something clicked.
Dinner. Last night. Dad had been furious at the dinner table, stabbing a baked potato with unnecessary violence.
"—Old Man William's son. Moved from Germany to the next town over, and the boy got three acceptance letters."
Three. Hogwarts. Beauxbatons. Durmstrang.
"The family are traditional Durmstrang students," Dad had ranted. "Have been for generations. They didn't even consider Hogwarts! Old Man William wouldn't hear of it."
"This is outrageous!" Dad had said, taking a vengeful bite of potato.
Hall had filed it away at the time. Now it looked less like a dinner anecdote and more like an opportunity.
He tore a scrap of parchment, scribbled a few lines, and bribed Percy's owl with one of Mum's biscuits. Fifteen minutes later, a reply came back.
Henry William was happy to sell his unwanted Hogwarts acceptance letter. A reasonable price, he suggested. Ten Galleons. They had, after all, collaborated before on that goblin situation.
Hall raised an eyebrow and picked up his quill.
"Five Galleons."
The owl took off into the evening light, and Hall sat back on his bed, watching it go.
The negotiation had just started.
The Leaky Cauldron was quiet for a Tuesday afternoon. Two boys sat in a corner booth, a crumpled parchment between them on the scarred wooden table.
"Six Galleons," Hall said, sliding the coins across. "As agreed."
Henry William pocketed them without counting. "Pleasure doing business with you."
He signed the contract without reading it — a boy who clearly had no idea what he was giving up — and tossed a folded acceptance letter across the table.
Hall caught it. Smoothed it flat. Read every word.
HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore
(Order of Merlin, First Class; Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards; Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot)
Dear Mr. William,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress
Below it, the standard first-year supply list. Hall read it three times, committing it to memory — not that he needed the Memory Palace for this; he'd have the letter with him.
Henry William was already counting his Galleons, clearly eager to spend them on prank toys from Zonko's. "Not sure what you see in Hogwarts, honestly. Durmstrang's where the real magic happens."
"If you say so."
"I do." Henry pocketed the last Galleon and stood. "Well. Good luck at your second-rate school."
Hall tucked the letter into his inner pocket. "Good luck at your iceberg."
Henry frowned, not sure if he'd been insulted. He left.