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Chapter 19: Capitalist moral code
🕑 Added 2025-08-29 02:29:18 +0000 UTCThe carriages began to slow down one by one, their wheels softly screeching against the damp cobblestones of the path. The Thestrals, invisible to most, snorted calmly as they stopped before the grand entrance of Hogwarts.
The imposing silhouette of the castle emerged from the mist like a living fortress, its towers stabbing into the dark sky like gothic spears, its windows glowing with light.
A figure was waiting at the entrance: Professor Slughorn, well-dressed and wearing a faintly enthusiastic smile. Beside him, several prefects were already stepping down from carriages to help organize the students.
At the sight of them, Alicia shot upright as if propelled by a spring. “To work,” she said, straightening her robe and stepping down without hesitation. The moment her feet touched the ground, she was already giving instructions to a couple of confused second-years.
“Is she always like this?” Pandora asked as she got down with Ryan behind her.
“Yes,” Emmeline replied, and Ryan nodded.
“Alicia was born ready to organize people and hand out schedules,” Ryan said.
Once outside, the students had to leave their trunks and cages with a group of house-elves, who popped in and out with admirable efficiency. Ryan carefully placed his, along with Pandora’s.
They walked toward the great stone staircase, surrounded by other students chatting excitedly. The chill seeped through the folds of Ryan’s robe, but he paid no attention, he was far too focused on the castle.
Ryan was literally speechless for a second.
The first sight of the massive oak doors, flanked by magical torches. The entrance hall with its soaring ceiling, the floating chandeliers, the echo of footsteps resonating on living stone. The moving staircases in the distance, shifting like the gears of some ancient clockwork.
He was there. Truly there.
A shiver ran from the nape of his neck down to his ankles. He pinched his right cheek to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. If he was, it was the longest and most realistic dream he had ever had. He had been living this new life for over a month now.
'Calm down, don’t look like a first-year kid…' he thought, taking a deep breath.
His expression stayed reasonably neutral, but his eyes danced with a mix of wonder and reverence he couldn’t fully hide.
Pandora, watching him from the side, raised an eyebrow. “Excited?”
“Me? Why?” Ryan shot back, feigning confusion.
“You look just as excited, or more, than when you bought sweets on the train,” Pandora said with a half-smile. She didn’t mean it to tease him. It was more… endearing. Strange to see him like that, like a boy who had finally arrived at the place he truly belonged.
Instead of denying it, Ryan shrugged with a lopsided smile.
“Oh, no. I’m just excited thinking about all the sales I’ll make. You two were only the beginning,” he replied, briefly gesturing at them with his chin.
Pandora laughed softly, and they walked together through the crowd. Emmeline followed closely behind, showing no hint of being impressed. To her, the castle seemed simply the place you returned to after summer.
“Hey,” Ryan said, lowering his voice a little as they approached the Great Hall, “You still haven’t told me why you bet on Hufflepuff.”
Pandora turned to him with a small smile. “Intrigued?”
“Quite,” Ryan admitted, genuinely.
“It’s simple,” she said, in that analytical tone that made her sound like a walking library. “Most eleven-year-olds don’t arrive with ambitions of greatness or grand goals. They’re children. It’s more likely they’ll have traits typical of Hufflepuff: loyalty, honesty, the desire to belong and make friends. That makes them the majority profile.”
Ryan narrowed his eyes, almost as if evaluating a thesis. “That sounds… statistical.”
“It is,” Pandora nodded. “Of course, there are always exceptions, and there could be more brave Gryffindors or Slytherins with clear goals. But on average, I bet on the curve. And you two,” she added, glancing sideways at Emmeline and Ryan, “bet with your hearts. I bet with my head.”
“You have my respect. That’s why you’re Ravenclaw,” Ryan admitted with a smile, before looking ahead and adding with feigned regret, “Now I want to change my bet. Is it too late?”
“We already shook hands. The bet is sealed. With emotional magic and all,” Pandora replied.
“A shame,” Ryan sighed. Then he turned slightly to his left. “Did you hear that, Vance? We’re at a disadvantage. And it seems your intelligence has been overshadowed this time by a Ravenclaw. You should be worried.”
Emmeline didn’t even turn her head. She kept her eyes fixed on the castle walls and answered with impeccable calm:
“You’re living proof that statistics can also fail.”
“What do you mean?” Ryan asked, blinking in confusion.
Now Emmeline did turn her face slightly toward him. Her blue eyes shone with that brilliance that didn’t need to raise its voice to impose itself.
“Statistically, I thought it impossible that your vague indifference would ever change. But look at you now: one invention already sold in the middle of Diagon Alley, and another not yet released that already has a waiting list.”
“And don’t forget he read an advanced Transfiguration book on the train,” Pandora added, supplying another piece of evidence.
“True. Who knows, maybe this year you’ll recover some of the points you’ve lost in past years. Just don’t give McGonagall a heart attack,” Emmeline said with slight solemnity.
'Acid humor?' Ryan thought, not expecting the heart attack remark about McGonagall to come from Emmeline.
Ryan opened his mouth, then closed it again. He wasn’t sure if he felt flattered, provoked, or clinically analyzed.
“Thanks… I guess,” he murmured at last, with a half-smile.
The Great Hall opened before them like a vast magical vault, both welcoming and solemn. Hundreds of floating candles lit the long tables of each house.
The enchanted ceiling reflected a deep night sky, speckled with stars. As they passed, portraits whispered and professors lined the main table. A murmur of excitement coursed through the air like static electricity.
Pandora stopped just before parting ways, at the point where the paths branched toward the different house tables. She turned toward Ryan. Her hair, with those ashy-blonde tones so distinctly hers, fell in flawless waves that somehow managed to look intentionally tousled.
“See you later, Gryffindor. Good luck. You’ll need it, statistically,” she said.
“Oh, such confidence. I couldn’t bear to see my dignity enslaved in Potions class,” Ryan said, amused.
She held his gaze for another second, then smiled faintly and walked away with the calm of someone moving at her own pace, no matter the world around her.
Ryan watched her for just a moment longer than he would have considered prudent.
“You like her,” Emmeline said as she walked past him.
“Like her? I think you’re exaggerating, Vance,” Ryan replied immediately, strolling beside her with his usual nonchalant step. “I’d call it… interest. Scientifically curious, if you want to give it an academic label.”
Emmeline didn’t respond. But the corner of her lips curved ever so slightly. She was testing him, of course. Watching him. Playing at pulling reactions. Most people would get nervous after such an accusation, but she knew Ryan was different, and that was entertaining.
Near the Gryffindor table, Emmeline spotted her usual group: Marlene, Dorcas, and Alicia, all chatting and saving her a seat as if it were a natural extension of her presence.
Ryan, without thinking too much, turned to her. “Want to sit with me this time?”
Emmeline raised an eyebrow without stopping. “Why?”
“Because of the bet, obviously,” Ryan said, shrugging. “If we lose, at least I’d like to have you nearby so we can plan our revenge against Pandora.”
Emmeline stopped. She looked at him with her serene blue eyes, calculating without hurry, as though she were weighing more than one variable in her mind.
“I already shared a compartment with you. Alicia knows.”
She subtly gestured with her chin toward the prefect, who at that moment was talking with Dorcas.
“And Marlene is your ex-girlfriend. If I also spend the entire dinner sitting and talking with you, on the very first night of the year, I’d be straining relationships unnecessarily. I’ve shared a dorm with them since first year. I’m not interested in creating pointless emotional discomfort.”
There was no reproach in her voice. No coldness. Just carefully managed emotional logic. Emmeline knew nothing was going on with Ryan.
In fact, she had been surprisingly comfortable with him on the train. He wasn’t exhausting, wasn’t clumsy or noisy. He had quick responses, well-measured sarcasm, and a versatile intelligence that sometimes disguised itself as a joke and other times as soft criticism. An interesting companion for dinner, no doubt.
But… not that night.
Ryan understood without difficulty. He nodded with a small smile, not the least bit bothered.
“I get it. Don’t worry. I’ll see you later.”
And he raised his hand in a light gesture, as if sealing a friendly agreement.
Emmeline nodded and headed toward her group, naturally slipping back into her place.
Ryan, for his part, walked a little further down the Gryffindor table in search of an empty seat. He wasn’t in a hurry. He observed carefully, like someone surveying terrain for the first time. Even though it wasn’t the first time, he had the memories. But it was the first time for him.
There was space. That wasn’t the problem.
The problem… was the looks.
Several of them. Disguised, but not enough.
Looks that didn’t say hello or how was your summer? but rather this guy again?
They weren’t directly hostile, but neither did they carry the usual camaraderie that permeated Gryffindor. Hogwarts might have rival houses, but within each house, group spirit usually prevailed. Gryffindor, especially, was known for that. But not this time.
Not for him.
The answer was obvious.
The original Ryan’s first years had been chaotic: a rebellious boy, brilliant at times, charismatic when he wanted, but absolutely indifferent to the rules. He was never a hermit or an outcast. Quite the opposite, when he put his mind to it, he could be the life of the party, the kind of guy who made everyone laugh with a single sarcastic remark or a well-timed joke.
But he had no close friends. He was that kind of person everyone knew, but no one really knew.
A satellite orbiting many tables, without gravitating to any.
And then, last year, everything went to hell.
Thirty-five points lost.
All because of him. Only him.
And Gryffindor ended up second in the House Cup, losing by twenty points to Slytherin.
A bitter defeat. Not for lack of merit, but because they had already won it. And a single student, him, had thrown it all away.
He remembered. The tension in the common room.
The whispers in the hallways. Even some Slytherins would pat him mockingly on the shoulder, as if congratulating a useful traitor.
And the worst part was that Ryan hadn’t even shown remorse at the end of term. He kept his head high, as if he didn’t care.
There were no insults, no aggressive gestures, of course, since the former Ryan was not someone who let himself be intimidated by anyone. He was confident, and also an Ollivander.
But he wasn’t entirely welcome.
'It’s worse than I thought,' Ryan mused as he finally sat down in a more distant spot. Not empty, but slightly on the margins of the table’s social center.
On his left, a second- or third-year boy was flipping through some Gobstones as if they were sacred magical relics. On his right, a pair of fourth-year twins murmured between themselves, not even bothering to hide their disinterest in his presence. They gave him a quick, neutral glance before returning to their conversation.
He searched the Ravenclaw table to see if Pandora was as solitary as he was, but to his surprise, she was chatting calmly with a pale girl with braids and a strange wool hat. At times Pandora’s gaze drifted up to the enchanted ceiling, as if she were seeing something only she could see.
'I lost in the social game,' Ryan thought with a half-smile of mocking self-pity. Ravenclaw 1, Gryffindor 0.
He stretched out on the bench and let his mind drift toward more productive matters, as he always did when his surroundings offered nothing interesting to absorb.
The speed-reading glasses.
His second invention.
He had already made three units. Emmeline and Pandora were on the official waiting list.
Should he sell them on a larger scale? Like he had with the quills, more than 100 units sold.
The creation process was far longer than the quills, where each one took him 15 minutes and he could currently make 6–8 a day if he worked two hours.
For the glasses, there were two steps to the process:
1- Runic Inscription on the Frame. The difficulty was moderate, and at present it took him two hours. He could pause and rest, of course, he had to trace the runes with his wand, and it was a process he could do in batches.
2- Enchanting the Lenses. The difficulty was far higher. One mistake, and the lenses cracked. The magic had to flow with absolute precision. It was like painting with fire on ice. This step took 3 hours.
Total time: 5 hours per unit.
And now… school had begun.
Classes from morning on, breaks, lunch, homework, assignments… he wouldn’t be free until four in the afternoon. And even then, he had to use that time to self-study, practice spells, read the books he had bought from the system.
The routine was no longer as manageable as during the holidays.
Even dividing the work across three days, at 1.5–2 hours a day, it would take him a full week or more to have just two pairs of glasses ready.
Pandora and Emmeline could have theirs in 10 days at most, if he dedicated an hour per day.
So no, he couldn’t mass produce them. Not like the quills.
At best, he could make 2 per week. Which meant about 8 glasses per month. Considering the price, they would be expensive items.
If he offered them, he knew they would become popular.
Most wouldn’t understand the technical details, but all it would take was word spreading:
“They’re magical glasses.”
“They make you read twice as fast.”
“Ryan Ollivander made them. Did you hear he also created the quills that write in the air?”
Boom. Instant demand.
But potential clients wouldn’t all be like Emmeline or Pandora, people he knew were good.
They would be Slytherins. Pure-bloods. Purists. Racists…
Yes, he could sell them for much more. A lot more. And they would buy without bargaining.
But he also knew exactly whom he’d be helping.
Future Death Eaters.
Kids who one day would learn the Cruciatus Curse as if it were just another practical spell.
Youngsters who would use those glasses not to read adventure novels or theoretical Transfiguration books… but dark grimoires.
And that…
That he would not allow.
He had no problem with ambition. Or with intelligence.
He could respect a competitive student, even an arrogant one, if they used knowledge to better themselves.
But he wasn’t going to polish the academic résumé of someone who dreamed of torturing Muggles for fun.
He wasn’t going to be the idiot who, for a handful of galleons, made life easier for a Lestrange.
That’s why he made a decision.
One that would probably cost him sales.
And, perhaps, earn him enemies with ancient names and deep pockets.
Mulciber wants a pair of glasses? Sorry, they’re sold out.
Rosier shows up with a hundred galleons and a cold smile? No, thanks. You can shove them where Lumos doesn’t shine.
Bellatrix Black herself comes up with her profane altar face and asks me for a pair?
Cast an Avada Kedavra at me first… and maybe I’ll think about it.
He smiled to himself.
“My glasses, my rules,” he muttered under his breath, almost amused, leaning his elbow on the table like the CEO of some underground company.
