The oak tree has always been a symbol.
In ancient legends, it represented mystery, authority, strength, sanctity, and longevity. The Greeks believed that the mighty Zeus governed the oaks, and that a sacred tree stood in his temple, its rustling leaves considered divine omens.
To the old Druidic orders, the oak was no less revered. Druids would harvest mistletoe from its branches at specific times of year, believing it to be a panacea of sorts—a cure-all bestowed by the natural world.
In the secluded valley, Ino stood quietly before three towering oak trees, studying the peculiar gifts hanging from their branches.
This time, things were different.
One tree bore a long robe shrouded in a faint silver glow, paired with two slender staves. Another offered up a miniature well, no taller than a teacup. And of course, the third presented the usual glittering offerings: jewels and gold, as predictable as they were mysterious.
The latter two made sense to him. But the robe and staves, radiating magical luminescence, were something else entirely. Just by looking at them, you could tell they weren't ordinary magical items. They wanted to be noticed.
And yet, no matter how curious Ino was, the gifts weren't "ripe" yet. They couldn't be touched before their time. That was the rule of the oaks unwritten, perhaps, but ironclad.
As he gazed at the strange new offering, Ino's thoughts drifted back to something Wilhelm had told him a few days prior:
"There's no Harvest Goddess in your story. The fact that anything ever grew here, let alone gave you gifts, is because of you. The stories you see are only what your own lantern can illuminate."
Strange as it sounded, Ino had to admit it rang true.
Looking back, he realized that neither the original sanctuary nor this valley had ever been invaded or attacked. Even Poseidon, who had once flown into a rage, had left them untouched.
"Wish-fulfillment magic…" Ino murmured under his breath.
He thought back, sifting through moments he'd once brushed off as coincidence. The first seed had germinated only after he'd cast a protective charm near the castle gates. The jewels and gold from the first gift? Likely rooted in his own fears during his wandering years, when gold had meant food, warmth, and safety.
Then came the crystal ball, the blue lantern, the little red windmill…
"I wanted control over fate. I wanted a loyal house-elf, one that wouldn't turn on me. I wanted the valley to be self-sufficient. I wanted real food, not whatever that powdered gloop was back then…"
His voice trailed off as he stood beneath the oaks, almost reverent now.
The whole thing felt absurd but also perfectly reasonable. Magic had never followed the rules of the mundane. Perhaps this was just another Room of Requirement in disguise—only with a longer cooldown and a one-person user limit.
"A robe… but why not a moon?" Ino frowned, puzzled. "Should've asked for a proper moon. The valley's nights feel too empty without it."
Meanwhile, back at Hogwarts, the peaceful quiet of the valley stood in stark contrast to the noisy bustle inside Greenhouse 12.
The disruption wasn't due to any rare magical plants or dangerous pruning spells. No, today was publication day for a new issue of Hogwarts Chronicles, the student-run magazine that had quickly become something of a campus sensation.
At just seven Sickles a copy, its witty, sometimes scandalous contents and clever enchantments had made it wildly popular, even beyond school grounds.
Outside the greenhouse, the scent of ink and fresh grass mingled in the warm air. Dozens of neatly bundled magazines lay stacked like relics from a freshly unboxed time capsule, each promising a glimpse into someone else's drama.
"Ron, 130 copies to Diagon Alley," called Colin, emerging from the office with a thick leather-bound ledger in hand. "And 45 of those come with view movie-mirror inserts. Here's the address actually, scratch that. Let Hannah take care of Diagon Alley."
At the sound of her name, Hannah twitched her golden pigtails with a practiced flick, her expression wholly unbothered.
"Fine by me. But same rules, I don't want the pay. I want the deluxe edition. You promised, remember."
She held out both hands expectantly, eyes gleaming.
Money didn't matter to Hannah. But collecting every limited edition of Hogwarts Chronicles? That had become her obsession. Like chocolate frog cards, but shinier and far more dramatic.
"You'll get your copy," Colin nodded. "Same as always. One copy per person. No exceptions."
He then turned toward Ron, who was suspiciously quiet.
Ron scowled slightly. He wanted that collector's edition too.
It wasn't just a nicer binding it came with a five-inch enchanted movie-mirror and one randomly inserted signed photo from a featured student or staff member. You could get Professor McGonagall… or that sixth-year Ravenclaw who was inexplicably famous for taming a kelpie with violin music.
This month, rumor had it that 25 deluxe editions contained a rare dual signature: Dumbledore and Swinburne, captured together in one frame.
Naturally, Colin and Draco had "accidentally" let that tidbit slip during lunch, and the school had been in a mild frenzy ever since.
Ron stared at the stack of magazines, his gut twisting.
He could flip one of those rare editions for a small fortune, probably enough to cover a few weeks of expenses. But even he, a member of the staff, had no clue which issue held the prize. Only Colin and Draco knew. One didn't care about Galleons, and the other was disgustingly ethical when it came to this particular lottery.
Twenty-five copies. One chance in twenty-five. And a fifteen-Galleon buy-in. That was… not great odds.
Ron bit his lip. His brain spun with calculations.
And then he thought of Lavender. Their weekly tea dates at Madam Puddifoot's weren't exactly cheap. Neither were the robes he needed to maintain his "responsible prefect" image.
No. He couldn't risk it.
"I'll take the standard pay, Colin."
The words hit the air like a confession.
He didn't notice Hannah's exaggerated eye-roll.
"You're unbelievable! Fine. Twenty Galleons. Sell me your slot."
Ron blinked.
Twenty?
Two deluxe magazines plus her offer would total thirty-five Galleons, nearly half a Ministry clerk's monthly pay.
He looked up, stunned. He'd always known Hannah came from money, but this? The Three Broomsticks must be running some sort of underground gambling ring.
"Are you still hesitating?" Hannah pressed, hands on her hips. "This is a once-only offer, Weasley."
"No! I mean, yes—I'll sell! I was just surprised, that's all."
Hannah smirked and handed over the coins with all the flair of a dragon tamer making a deal.
Colin watched the exchange from the doorway, silently amused. As deputy editor, he believed in the rules, but he wasn't about to intervene when everyone stayed within the lines.