Redniro
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Chapter 10: Small fortune
🕑 Added 2025-08-29 02:16:39 +0000 UTCAugust 31, 1971
The sunlight filtered through the curtains with a lazy softness, tinged with that melancholy gold that marked the end of summer. In his room, Ryan shut the lid of his trunk with a soft click. Everything was ready for his return to Hogwarts. Fifth year would begin the next day.
At last, tomorrow Hogwarts would begin.
It had been forty-one days since his first official sale of enchanted quills, and a little over two months since he had arrived in this new world.
From that moment on, Ryan’s life had become like a finely tuned clock: a strict, almost monastic routine, dedicated entirely to study, magic, business, and of course, his family.
Each day began at eight sharp. He had breakfast with his mother, Iris—always punctual, always present. Then he devoted an hour and a half to manufacturing: five quills a day, no more. Even though he knew he could make six or even seven, his speed and efficiency improving with each passing day, he kept his pace steady and moderate. It was enough for current demand, and he preferred to conserve energy for the rest of his schedule.
At nine-thirty, the most demanding part of the day began: studying the book the system had given him, Theory of Enchantment I. A complex, rigorous work, far longer than Practical Rune Manual I. It wasn’t a spellbook with charms like Alohomora or Expelliarmus, but a treatise on the art of enchanting objects. Dense. Theoretical. Demanding. Yet also enjoyable, if you learned how to approach it.
He spent the hours until one-thirty reading, underlining, writing in the air with his quill, reflecting, and testing the theoretical principles with small experiments. For thirty full days, he worked this way until he grasped the text completely, both conceptually and in practice.
From one-thirty to two-thirty he had lunch, slightly late, but his mother always joined him.
After that, training resumed. Two hours dedicated exclusively to offensive and defensive magic. Containment spells, stunning charms, hexes, shields. He wanted precision, speed, and greater power. Greater intent.
After those intense two hours, he had afternoon tea with his mother and uncle. A short but warm moment. They spoke about many things.
At five o’clock, he immersed himself in another discipline: Transfiguration. He wanted mastery. Not just to pass his O.W.L. with the necessary grade, though that was important, since without a good score he couldn’t take the subject in sixth and seventh year, but for a more concrete ambition. His goal was to conjure a real shield. Metal. Physical. Solid. Strong enough to withstand even a Killing Curse. That was the aim.
Because the Death Eaters and Voldemort, in the future, would attack with Unforgivable Curses, and a Protego could not defend against them. His mother guided him here, a true expert. Under her tutelage, Ryan advanced quickly.
At seven he had dinner. He always shared the moment with his mother, but many days his grandparents, Garrick and Margaret, joined them as well.
An hour later, he immersed himself in one of his weaker areas: Potions. He devoted an hour daily to studying recipes, processes, ingredients—and, of course, practice. He had noticed the system contained new potion recipes, so it was crucial to reach a decent level to eventually brew them.
At nine, he stepped into the garden, under the night sky, to train. Physical conditioning. Cardio, push-ups, endurance, speed. Unusual for a wizard, but he refused to be the kind who couldn’t run ten minutes or who froze in place during a duel, relying only on a wand. He needed speed, coordination, strength.
Finally, after that, he gave himself a more creative break: an hour for what he called “free creation.” He tinkered with new ideas. Tested combinations with the system’s special spell, Inscribere. Experimented with small prototypes. Revisited the formula for the Quick-Reading Glasses.
At eleven, his routine ended, and he allowed himself more freedom—lounging, reading a novel. And by midnight, he slept. Eight full hours.
At first glance, his routine might have seemed exhausting. Precise schedules. Defined tasks. Study, practice, work, training.
But Ryan enjoyed it. It wasn’t a military regimen. It was a path he was savoring.
The old Ryan had barely had friends. No social commitments. Just a handful of letters to answer, and little else.
On the other hand, his social time was with his family. And for Ryan, who had been an orphan in his past life, that was time he cherished deeply.
He spent time with his mother, Iris. He accompanied her on shopping trips, helped carry bags, went out for ice cream. They chatted over tea. They laughed. They debated about Transfiguration, about magic, and more.
Some days he broke the routine without guilt if it meant accompanying his mother or visiting his grandparents.
In those forty-one days, he had produced two hundred and five new quills, which were added to the eleven he had left after his first sales. A total of two hundred and sixteen.
Of those, one hundred and ninety-five had been sold.
The reception had been better than most would have expected, though not for Ryan.
At first, he had imagined that demand would far surpass his production capacity, raising the price of each unit to ridiculous levels. Fifteen, twenty, twenty-five galleons, or even more.
Clearly, that had been a naïve overestimation. The magical market, though smaller than the Muggle one, didn’t function under such simplistic laws. It wasn’t a network of magical speculators desperate for rare objects. It was a far more traditional, conservative world… but also receptive to innovation when presented with elegance and utility.
So the price held steady, as it was a new and useful invention not seen in the quill market for a very long time.
Scribbulus, the most visible shop in the Alley, bought from him steadily throughout the weeks, selling out the first lot of ten in just four days. By the end of August, they had purchased seventy quills, each lot sold at seven galleons apiece.
Amanuensis Quills, the specialized boutique, sold fewer but to a more demanding clientele. The Flumes selected models with great care, asking him to craft them using more expensive feathers than eagle quills, paying twelve or even fifteen galleons for such quills. In total, he sold forty-five there.
Creepy Scrawlers Stationers was perhaps the biggest surprise. The eccentric Indigo Skale, with her round glasses and silver-threaded braids, adored the concept. In that time she bought a total of fifty units.
Finally, thanks to the influence of his family, his mother, his grandparents, and the friends to whom Ryan had given his very first quills as gifts, he managed to sell directly, without any middleman. Around thirty quills.
Since he had sold several quills independently and others as premium-quality models, his total profit amounted to: 1,920 galleons.
However, from that he had to deduct 155 galleons in raw materials.
His net profit came to approximately 1,765 galleons. Plus the 115 he already had = 1,880 galleons.
From the eighty galleons the original Ryan had once saved, he now had more than twenty times that. And all within just two months of arriving.
Ryan leaned back in his chair, fingers laced behind his neck, eyes on the ceiling.
In his old world, that would have been the equivalent of ten to twelve thousand dollars in net income. A little more, a little less. And this was in 1971…
He knew that a basic Ministry of Magic employee—clerks, administrative aides, magical maintenance staff—earned between 120 and 180 galleons per month. Enough to live on, but without luxuries.
Intermediate employees, such as minor department heads or specialized administrators, earned around 200 to 280 galleons monthly.
Hit Wizards—trained fighters in the Magical Law Enforcement Squad—earned 400 galleons a month. They were the front line in high-risk operations: dangerous arrests, riot control, rapid response against dark magic.
And getting that post required more than waving a wand. At least five O.W.L.s were mandatory, including Defense Against the Dark Arts, plus discipline, physical training, and nerves of steel.
An Auror—tracker, infiltrator, investigator, fighter—could earn 500 galleons monthly to start. Veterans reached 700, depending on experience and reputation.
And Hogwarts professors?
A regular teacher earned around 500 galleons a month, though the number varied by subject and seniority.
Heads of House, with greater responsibilities and prestige, reached 600, while the Deputy Headmaster or Deputy Headmistress could make 750.
Then there were independent merchants, a more volatile world.
Many made less than 300 galleons during slow months, though they had seasonal peaks of high profit. Bookshops, robe shops, school-supply stores, for example, made their best sales in August, right before term started.
Other trades thrived on passion, and higher margins.
Quidditch, for instance. A sport as popular as it was revered. High-end brooms could easily cost more than 100 galleons apiece, and the buyers were many: dreamy teenagers, professional players, enthusiastic adults. It was a luxury market, driven not by need but by desire. And where there’s desire, there are galleons.
Even so, Ryan, a fifteen-year-old who hadn’t even begun his fifth year at Hogwarts, had generated a net profit of 1,765 galleons in one month and eleven days.
That figure was three and a half times the monthly salary of a rookie Auror, someone who had completed seven full years at Hogwarts, passed at least five N.E.W.T.s with distinction, and survived three more brutal years of Ministry training.
An Auror risked their life against dark wizards, dangerous creatures, and more.
He had done it selling quills. Yes, quills, from the safety of his home, working only an hour and a half each day.
Of course, they weren’t ordinary quills, but the point stood.
“Heh… this is only the beginning…” he murmured, a half-smile curling his lips as his imagination ran wild.
For a moment, he pictured himself swimming in a pool brimming with golden galleons, laughing like a madman in the style of Scrooge McDuck. Coins clinking beneath his feet. He even imagined himself with a monocle and top hat.
Ridiculous… but glorious.
He shook his head, amused by his own delusion, and tore his eyes from the ceiling. Sitting up, he opened one of his desk drawers. Inside lay two black velvet cases, neatly aligned.
He opened the first with care.
There it was. A pair of Quick-Reading Glasses. His second invention. Far more difficult than the quills. They required a full understanding of two branches of system-granted magic: Runes and Object Enchantments. He had finished them two days ago, the first of three units.
This version was for his mother. The frame was crafted from a light alloy of sterling silver and thestral bone, resilient yet light. Elegant. He had paid four galleons for the frame and three for the lenses, refined from quartz.
The rune of cognitive acceleration had been inscribed by his own hand, using Inscribere, along the inner arms of the frame. A complex design, with the finest of strokes. It hadn’t been easy: it required absolute precision, and he had repeated the process over a dozen times on failed models before daring to attempt the final product.
The real challenge, however, had been the enchantment. He was used to using Inscribere after so much practice with the quills and after having studied the entire book.
He had to apply a Clarity Enchantment and a Prolonged Resilience Enchantment directly onto the lenses, something delicate and very difficult.
Patience was a virtue when creating these kinds of objects. Theory of Enchantment I had guided him, but turning theory into the real, practical crafting of a complex object was a battlefield.
The first crystals cracked under too much energy. Others simply failed to hold the spell.
It took him thirty days to master the book, to understand it beyond its surface content. The remaining eleven days he dedicated entirely to experimenting, correcting mistakes, and perfecting the design.
He had produced three pairs in total: one for himself, another for his mother, and the last, a more sober design, for his uncle Joseph who, despite being a squib, could still use them.
He had tested each one. They worked perfectly. The reading field became sharper, the eyes didn’t tire, and above all: the reading pace doubled. He could read twice as much, with the same clarity, in half the time. It was… astonishing.
He still didn’t know if he would sell them like the quills, since the process was slower and more expensive, and tomorrow Hogwarts would begin. Maybe he could sell them directly at Hogwarts to wealthy students, charging fifty galleons or more for each pair.
“I’ll see,” he murmured, as he picked up the two cases, his mother’s and his uncle’s, and left his room.
