Pluto Projector.

Chapter Eleven.

"We really haven't got too long," Molly said. "So we'll just have a quick look around and then back to the car. We must be close, that's number ninety-two... ninety-four..."

"Whoa," said Ron, stopping in his tracks. Due to how much of a hurry Fred and George often had (Y/n) in when taking her to their shop, she never got the chance to properly look at the front of Weasley' Wizard Wheezes.

Set against the dull, poster-muffled shop fronts around them, Fred and George's windows hit the eye like a firework display. Casual passersby were looking back over their shoulders at the windows, and a few rather stunned-looking people had actually come to a halt, transfixed. The left-hand window was dazzlingly full of an assortment of goods that revolved, popped, flashed, bounced, and shrieked. The right-hand window was covered in a gigantic poster, purple like those of the Ministry, but emblazoned with flashing yellow letters:

WHY ARE YOU WORRYING ABOUT
YOU-KNOW-WHO?
YOU SHOULD BE WORRYING ABOUT
U-NO-POO—
THE CONSTIPATION SENSATION
THAT'S GRIPPING THE NATION!

(Y/n)'s jaw was on the floor and Harry started to laugh. There was a weak moan beside them and they looked around to see Molly gazing, dumbfounded, at the poster. Her lips moved silently, mouthing the name "U-No-Poo."

"They'll be murdered in their beds!" Molly whispered.

"No they won't!" said Ron, who, like Harry, was laughing. "This is brilliant!"
And he and Harry led the way into the shop. It was packed with customers and near impossible to get to the shelves. Boxes were piled to the ceiling: Here were the Skiving Snackboxes that the twins had perfected during their last, unfished year at Hogwarts; Harry noticed that Nosebleed Nougat was most popular, with only one battered box left on the shelf. There were bins full of trick wands, the cheapest merely turning into rubber chickens or pairs of briefs when waved, the most expensive beating the unwary user around the head and neck, and boxes of quills, which came in Self-Inking, Spell-Checking, and Smart-Answer varieties. A space cleared in the crowd, and Harry pushed his way toward the counter, where a gaggle of delighted ten-year-olds were watching a tiny little wooden man slowly ascending the steps to a real set of gallows, both perched on a box that read: REUSABLE HANGMAN— SPELL IT OR HE'LL SWING!

"'Patented Daydream Charms...'" Hermione and (Y/n) had managed to squeeze through to a large display near the counter and Hermione was reading the information on the back of a box bearing a highly coloured picture of a handsome youth and a swooning girl who were standing on the deck of a pirate ship. 
"'One simple incantation and you will enter a top-quality, highly realistic, thirty-minute daydream, easy to fit into the average school lesson and virtually undetectable (side effects include vacant expression and minor drooling). Not for sale to under-sixteens.' You know," said Hermione, looking up at Harry and (Y/n), "that really is extraordinary magic!"

"For that, Hermione," said a voice behind them, "you can have one for free." A beaming Fred stood before them, wearing a set of magenta robes that clashed magnificently with his flaming hair. "I'd offer you the same, (Y/n), but why use one when you can have the real thing?"

"I do not need magic to have a lucid daydream," (Y/n) said dismissively. Harry and Hermione laughed over Fred's failed attempt at flirting.

"How are you, Harry?" Fred said, shaking hands with the boy in question. "And what happened to your eye, Hermione? (Y/n)'s been no help."

"Hey!"

"Your punching telescope," Hermione said ruefully.

"Oh, that's it, then?" Fred murmured. "Here—" He pulled a tub out of his pocket and handed it to Hermione, who unscrewed it gingerly to reveal a thick yellow paste. "Just dab it on, that bruise'll be gone within the hour," said Fred. "We had to find a decent bruise remover. We're testing most of our products on ourselves."