We stepped past the enchantment threshold, and the real magic began.
The streets of La Place Cachée were no less impressive the second time around. If anything, the morning sun gave the entire quarter a kind of gleaming confidence—as if even the cobblestones were smug about their magical superiority.
"Every shop looks like it's auditioning for a fairy tale," Dan murmured, staring at a storefront where pastries were animating themselves into swans.
"Those are actual fairy tale pastries," Emma corrected. "I read about them in Modern Magical Confectionary. They turn back into éclairs at midnight."
Gabrielle was walking slightly ahead of me now, close but not clinging, humming something faint under her breath. Hermione walked on my other side, arms crossed, eyes flicking from shop to shop—but not at me.
"This is amazing," I said, trying for diplomatic.
"Mmm," Hermione replied.
Fleur, walking gracefully at the front with her parents, glanced over her shoulder and smiled.
"We have arranged to visit several shops of note. Enchanted fabrics, rare books, artisan spellwork—you will enjoy it."
"Will there be snacks?" I asked.
"It would hardly be French magic without them," she replied.
Gabrielle turned slightly and offered a tiny grin.
"The best shop has cloud sugar," she whispered. "It melts even in your dreams."
"Noted," I said. "We raid that one first."
Hermione raised an eyebrow. "Raid? Should I be concerned?"
"Only if you're morally opposed to aggressive browsing," I replied smoothly.
Dan leaned toward me. "Do you think anything here takes Muggle credit cards?"
"Only if they ask you to solve three riddles and a limerick before checking out." I replied.
We stepped into the open plaza and were immediately met with the scent of spiced citrus and warm cinnamon. A floating chalkboard danced overhead, advertising a three-for-two special on pocket-sized potions with unpredictable results.
Hermione stopped in her tracks at the sight of a spiraling bookstall that re-shelved itself.
"Alright," I muttered. "I give it twenty seconds before she buys something heavy."
"Ten," Gabrielle whispered confidently.
I glanced down at her. "Why so confident?"
She looked up at me with a small smile. "Because she had the look. The same look my maman gets when she sees a new hat display. And also... she was drooling a little."
"I was not drooling," Hermione said sharply, straightening her shoulders and smoothing her shirt with entirely too much dignity. She discreetly wiped the corner of her mouth with her sleeve, just in case.
Hermione took a determined step toward the bookstall.
"Let's start with the bookstore," she said brightly.
Without missing a beat, Dan, Emma, and I chorused, "No."
Hermione blinked. "What?"
"You know what you've done." I said.
"We've done the book thing," Dan added.
"We're still recovering from the last bookstore in England," Emma said. "It took an enchanted expanding trunk and three painkillers to get everything home."
Gabrielle raised a hand shyly. "Maybe the books can be last?"
Hermione huffed. "Fine. But I'm coming back."
"We know," we all replied in unison.
The first boutique we stepped into had a sign that read: Chic, Charms, & Casual Catastrophes.
The interior smelled of lavender and faint superiority. Floating bolts of fabric drifted across the ceiling, occasionally whispering judgments in French.
"This place is fancier than the Yule Ball afterparty I imagined but never got invited to," I muttered.
A seemingly new mirror on the wall turned to face me and sniffed. "Monsieur, that haircut was last century."
Gabrielle blinked. "They talk?"
"Worse. They sass," I said.
A silver-haired witch behind the counter raised an eyebrow as we entered, then gave a dramatic bow. "Bienvenue. We tailor not just to the body—but to the soul."
"My soul's allergic to tight collars," Dan whispered.
I let out a light snicker at that remark.
Aaah Dan, Never change.
The moment Fleur stepped into the central fitting circle, every light in the boutique shifted to spotlight her. A chorus of enchanted mannequins sighed.
"Of course they did," Hermione muttered.
A nearby wardrobe unfolded dramatically and presented Fleur with a set of robes in moonlight silk. "You honor our existence," it said with actual reverence.
Hermione received a robe labeled "practical, no-nonsense, mildly repressed." The mannequin offering it looked like it pitied her.
"You're joking," she said.
I stepped onto a side dais. Instantly, a velvet cloak leapt from a shelf and draped itself around my shoulders. It flared unnecessarily.
"This is ridiculous," I grinned.
The mirror looked me over and huffed. "And yet... somehow works."
Gabrielle giggled.
"What do you think?" I asked her.
She shyly tugged at the edge of the cloak. "It suits you. But maybe less... dramatic?"
"Tragically, this is the least dramatic one I could find."
Emma stepped forward. "Do these robes come with a matching mortgage contract?"
"Of course," the saleswitch said. "Also, a list of acceptable galas."
I straightened the cloak, gave the mannequin a smirk, and walked up to the register. I paid in full. Soul-related investments should always be honored, after all.
Hermione called after me. "Sky, did you—"
"They said it matched my soul," I called back. "Who am I to argue with fashion?"
The next shop we entered was tucked between a perfume vendor and a fortune teller's gazebo: a cluttered little artisan stall that looked like a cross between a trunk, a jewelry box, and a fever dream.
The sign read: Trinketorium Enchanté – Objects of Wonder and Questionable Usefulness.
Gabrielle perked up as we stepped inside. "This one is my favorite," she whispered.
Dozens of enchanted curiosities sparkled on the shelves. Glowing bracelets, miniature broomstick brooches, charms that whistled when held upside down, and one very unsettling pair of self-scratching spectacles.
Dan picked up a tiny umbrella that unfurled into a tea set.
"That's actually brilliant," Emma said. "Why don't we have these at home?"
"Because," Dan replied, "we'd forget we were drinking tea and accidentally close the umbrella."
At the center of the room, Gabrielle pointed to a glass case filled with swirling, pastel-colored bracelets.
"Cloud sugar," she explained. "They melt into cotton candy when you wear them in the sun."
"Wait—they're edible?" I asked.
She nodded. "Only if you believe in dessert."
One in particular caught her eye—white and gold, subtle and elegant. She hesitated, glanced at me, then reached for it.
She turned to me shyly, the bracelet in her palm.
"Would you… wear it?"
I blinked. "You're giving it to me?"
She nodded again, this time more firmly.
I took the bracelet like it was an heirloom relic, bowed slightly, and said with complete seriousness, "I shall guard it with honor, valor, and only mild stickiness."
Hermione, somewhere behind me, let out a sound suspiciously like a huff.
Fleur tilted her head but said nothing.
I turned to Gabrielle. "It's official now. I'm contractually obligated to conquer at least two minor kingdoms in your name."
She giggled and beamed.
And for once, I didn't feel the need to steal anything.
As the others admired cloud sugar charms and a collection of rings that changed color depending on your daily mood (and possibly your moral alignment), I wandered a bit deeper into the shop's back corner. There, tucked between a stack of singing maps and a levitating hourglass, was a dusty pedestal holding two objects that immediately caught my eye.
One was a thick leather-bound tome with silver filigree curling along its spine. It looked ancient but solid, the kind of book you don't open so much as negotiate with.
The other was a quill, long and slender, with what looked like phoenix feather set in a bronze stem. It sat nestled in a velvet-lined case next to a plaque too tarnished to be read clearly.
I called over the vendor—a goblin wearing half-moon glasses and a robe with too many pockets.
"What's this?"
The goblin adjusted his glasses. "That is the Neverending Tome. A rare artifact—produces unlimited parchment for writing. It bookmarks itself by intention, organizes entries by your preference, and will never be thicker than an inch."
"And the quill?"
"An antique. A transcriptive relic, used before Gemino was refined. Copies text at a rapid pace from one book to another. No longer practical in the age of scribing charms, but highly collectible."
"They both work?"
"Flawlessly. The tome is keyed to intention. The quill simply needs ink."
I looked back at the tome.
A book that could hold everything I ever needed to write—and find it all again.
"I'll take both."
The goblin smiled faintly. "Excellent choice, monsieur."
And this time, I didn't even flinch at the price.
Before leaving, a curious thought struck me.
"You wouldn't happen to have a set of Vanishing Cabinets, would you?" I asked casually, as though inquiring about sugar quills.
The goblin gave me a long, measured look over the rims of his glasses. "No," he said slowly. "And if I did, I wouldn't be admitting it to a boy with that particular smile."
"Fair," I said, grinning. "Had to ask."
So this is how real shopping feels?
I have mixed feelings.
......I don't like it.