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Chapter 8: Deal
🕑 Added 2025-08-29 02:14:06 +0000 UTCRyan closed the door after saying goodbye to his mother, the suitcase held firmly in his right hand. He was dressed elegantly, though not ostentatiously. Carefully presentable. Like a young entrepreneur who knew the worth of his product, but also knew he shouldn’t look desperate.
He walked to the family fireplace, crouched down, and grabbed a handful from the jar labeled Floo Powder. He threw the powder decisively into the flames. The fire burst into a vibrant green.
“Diagon Alley,” he pronounced clearly, and vanished in a whirl of emerald.
Seconds later, he appeared in one of the many fireplaces connected to the famous Alley. Stepping out, he brushed the dust off his shoulders and lifted his gaze.
Diagon Alley greeted him with its usual bustle. Witches and wizards of all ages, shopkeepers, students, families holding school lists in their hands. It was just over a month before the start of term at Hogwarts, and the first-years especially were eager to buy their supplies.
Ryan no longer felt like a tourist. In these twenty-one days since his arrival in this world, he had walked these streets many times. He knew where the shops were, the best corners to observe unnoticed, even the lesser-used shortcuts.
As he moved through the crowd, he reviewed his strategy in his head.
First: Scribbulus.
Large shop, school supplies. The go-to place for every Hogwarts student from first year to seventh. He had bought there every year since he was eleven. He knew the owner, a man with ink-stained hands and a gray mustache. It was the ideal place to sell in bulk, though they would likely want a lower unit price. That didn’t matter. Quick sales built reputation.
Second: Amanuensis Quills.
A boutique for quill fanatics. He had never set foot inside before; the old Ryan had never cared enough about the instrument to look for something exclusive. But now he understood. Here they sold more on style than on quantity. Collectors, scribes, Ministry calligraphers, artists of the written word.
The clientele wasn’t wide, but they would certainly pay more for quality. Perfect for a future luxury line. And if the elderly owners saw potential in his creation, they might become patrons rather than just buyers.
Third: Creepy Scrawlers Stationers.
Weird name. Eccentric style. Young owner, according to Iris. He pictured her as a witch in her thirties with a bohemian robe, round glasses, and a taste for the extravagant.
Iris had made a teasing comment about “using his charm” to close the deal, but Ryan dismissed the idea with a grimace. Even so, if the owner was as creative as the shop suggested, she could be a key ally in making the product stand out. Walking publicity.
He had thirty quills in the suitcase. Ten for each shop. It made no sense to concentrate on just one. Not if he wanted to build reputation and visibility.
The morning sun fell obliquely between the crooked buildings of the Alley. Ryan walked with steady but unhurried steps, allowing himself to look around. Though he had already spent more than twenty days in this world, in this new body, in this new life, Diagon Alley still amazed him.
There was something in the air. Not just the smell of parchment, ink, and mint sweets. It was… living magic. In the shop windows that moved on their own, in the talking signs, in the owls perched on rooftops, in the robes billowing without wind. Sometimes chaotic, sometimes charming.
There had been no attacks from Voldemort yet, nor from the Death Eaters. In fact, Voldemort hadn’t even risen to notoriety, and his name was still unknown. According to the canon timeline Ryan remembered, the war was supposed to unfold from 1971 to 1980. But this was a different timeline, and there could be changes.
The good thing was that, at least for now, Diagon Alley remained what it was meant to be: busy, vibrant, and with magical commerce at its peak.
He passed by Flourish & Blotts, where a sign announced the arrival of a new volume of Advanced Transfiguration Theory. Then he crossed in front of the cauldron shop, from which came the smell of overheated tin. A little further on, he saw the elegant hand-painted sign: Scribbulus Writing Instruments.
His first stop.
He pushed open the wooden door, which chimed softly as it swung.
The interior was wide and well lit, with dark wooden shelves filled with rolls of parchment, bottles of ink in every imaginable color, quills of all sizes, textures, and origins. A central display case exhibited the most expensive ones. At the back, behind the counter, a bald wizard with a gray mustache and thin glasses was reading a parchment with a bored expression.
There was movement.
Three children, clearly first-years, flitted through the aisles with their school lists in hand. They were accompanied by their parents, who watched them with a mix of tenderness and exhaustion.
'So much energy… and there’s still more than a month before classes begin,' Ryan thought, watching the children. Older students usually left their shopping until the last minute. Especially the lazier ones. Like the old Ryan.
His eyes shifted to the adults: well-made clothes, canes with carved handles, exotic hats. Wizards with money, clearly.
That was when a spark of opportunity lit within him, the kind of spark every merchant feels when they see a possible play.
He approached the counter.
“Good morning, Mr. Perks,” he greeted with a smile and a clear voice.
The wizard looked up, recognized him at once, and smiled. “Well, if it isn’t young Ollivander! You’ve grown, boy. Five years already since you came to buy your first school kit?”
At the sound of the name Ollivander, one of the parents accompanying a child raised his eyebrows and murmured something to his wife. Another turned his head toward him with sudden interest. They had clearly just come from the wand shop. Could he be the grandson of that Ollivander? Everything pointed to yes, given his age.
Which meant that, if he was Garrick’s grandson, then he was the son of Iris Ollivander. For those who kept up with the magical academic world, she was well known, a distinguished Transfiguration theorist.
The same one who had appeared several times in Transfiguration Today and who had declined multiple institutional posts in order to devote herself to independent research.
“Yes, time flies,” Ryan said with a faint smile.
“And what brings you here? You always leave your shopping until the last minute,” Perks asked with an intrigued smile, lowering his voice like one who keeps a regular customer’s secret.
“I’m not here to buy my school supplies today,” Ryan replied. “I’m here to offer you a business opportunity.”
And without breaking eye contact, he set his suitcase on the counter with an almost theatrical elegance. He unlatched it slowly, letting the lid swing open on its own. Thirty perfectly aligned quills presented themselves like a small magical army.
Perks tilted his head, somewhat puzzled. “They look like eagle quills… good quality, yes, but—?”
“They’re not ordinary eagle quills,” Ryan cut in, his voice firmer now, raising it just enough. On purpose. So the parents would hear. So heads would turn. So interest would grow.
He picked up one of the quills, held it casually, and spoke clearly, like a master of ceremonies.
“These quills write in the air. No ink. No parchment. You can erase, redo. Perfect for taking notes, sketching, for whatever you want to study, or even leaving floating reminders around the room.”
He traced his name in the air with a swift stroke. The letters floated, glowing sky-blue. Then, with a flick, he erased them instantly. As if they had never been there.
A child let out a “Woow!” One of the fathers stepped closer. The shop’s atmosphere tilted subtly in his favor.
“Original enchantment. Fully legal magic. Functional and elegant.”
He turned back to Perks, not letting the moment slip.
“You won’t find this kind of quill anywhere else. It’s a unique opportunity.”
One of the girls, barely eleven, tugged at her father’s robe. “Daddy… I want one.”
The father looked at Ryan, surprised and weighing his options. Another parent frowned, clearly doing mental arithmetic.
Ryan seized the moment and leaned slightly toward the girl.
“What’s your name?” he asked kindly. “And what’s your favorite color?”
“My name’s Elinor… and I like violet,” she answered, her voice trembling with excitement.
Ryan smiled. He searched through the quills and, after a few seconds, pulled one out. With a graceful motion, he wrote in the air:
ELINOR. In bright violet.
Elinor covered her mouth with her hands. The parents murmured among themselves. Elinor’s father was already reaching for his wallet.
“How much is it?” he asked bluntly, visibly uncomfortable with the thought of denying his daughter something she so clearly wanted.
Before answering, Ryan turned his head toward Perks. He wasn’t foolish. He knew making a sale inside another man’s shop without permission was discourteous, even if the opportunity was begging to be taken.
Perks was already watching him with a raised eyebrow.
But then he smiled. “Go on, young Ollivander. Make the sale. Let’s call it… a market test,” he said, half amused, half curious.
Ryan nodded in gratitude. He knew the man surely wanted to see how much he was charging for a quill, and how people would react.
He turned back to Elinor’s father, his voice steady but polite:
“Ten galleons per unit. The writing can last up to four hours before it fades, though it can also be erased instantly with a simple flick. The color is chosen when the quill is made, with multiple preset variants available. No ink or parchment required.”
The father, caught between pride, resignation, and reason, pulled out the coins and handed them to Ryan, who passed him the violet quill.
The man then gave it to his daughter, who could barely contain her joy.
“Thank you, sir,” she said, beaming as she gazed at her name glowing in the air.
The other two children watched with shining eyes, almost hypnotized, pleading silently with their parents. But the adults exchanged cautious glances. With a wordless decision, they chose not to buy. Ten galleons was no small sum. They could afford it, certainly, but preferred to wait, to see whether what they had witnessed was truly useful… or just a flashy trick.
Ryan realized it. Reputation was built over time.
The parents finished their school shopping and left with their children, leaving behind a faint, warm emptiness in the air.
Now only he and Perks remained.
The shopkeeper folded his arms over the counter, studying Ryan with new eyes. With respect.
“Well, boy,” Perks said at last, “Ten galleons. Quite bold, I must say. A regular eagle quill costs about… ten sickles. And you’ve just sold one for more than sixteen times that.”
“It isn’t an ordinary quill. It’s very useful. And there’s nothing like it on the market,” Ryan replied with a measured smile.
Perks nodded; he knew the boy was right.
“How many do you have for me?” he asked, leaning toward the suitcase full of quills.
“Twenty-nine. If you’d like them all, I could even offer exclusivity,” Ryan answered naturally, letting the idea fall with elegance, without pressure.
He said nothing about the other shops. Because threatening to take the product to the competition was a cheap tactic, one that could easily backfire.
Perks, of course, read between the lines. And shook his head with a smile.
“No, no. Twenty-nine is too many for now. Though they’re worth the price. At ten galleons I could sell them… maybe even twelve. But it’s a new product. And while the demonstration was brilliant, there’s still no guarantee that everyone will be willing to pay that much for a quill. Even a magical one.”
Ryan nodded. He had expected this, and wanted it.
“Ten units,” Perks decided. “At seven galleons each. I’ll put them in a special display, labeled as an exclusive novelty. If I see interest, I’ll come back for more. We could even sign a more formal agreement.”
Seven galleons per quill. The calculation was automatic: seventy galleons for that single delivery. The profit was enormous. About sixty-four galleons net, after deducting the production cost of the eagle quills.
He extended his hand without hesitation.
“Deal.”
They shook hands.
The first official business transaction of his life was closed. Magical quills sold. A major shop as a distribution point.
Days earlier, when he had bought the thirty eagle quills, he had spent about 17.6 galleons. His capital had then been 61.5, dropping to 43.9 galleons.
Now, after this double sale—one direct to Elinor’s father for ten galleons, and another of ten units to Scribbulus for seventy—his capital shot up to 123.9 galleons.
And best of all, he still had nineteen units left to sell.
The investment was completely recovered, and the profit margin was exceptional.
Two days before this visit to Diagon Alley, he had officially registered his creation.
He had gone to the Department of Magical Artifact Regulation, specifically the Office of New Creations Registration—a discreet, seldom-visited subdivision where artisans, inventors, and mostly eccentrics gathered to try to get the world to recognize their ideas.
Unlike Muggle bureaucracy, it didn’t require endless forms or months of waiting. In the wizarding world, a simple practical demonstration of the invention before an authorized official, along with inscription in the Scroll of New Creations Registry, was enough.
Once the object was validated and verified that it didn’t infringe on dark enchantment laws or illegal interference, the system sealed the invention with an authorship charm.
It was classified as a non-offensive enchanted object for general use, with a risk level of zero.
He hadn’t done it out of fear of being copied. The knowledge of the system was exceptional, and it would be very difficult for anyone to replicate it exactly. And besides, the Inscribere spell was unique. Very few wizards worked with practical rune inscriptions, and fewer still could apply them with precision.
He did it for a simpler reason, to sell his quills with total peace of mind. No one could stop him for “unregulated trade,” nor accuse him of distributing magical objects without approval.
On the other hand, the Ollivander name had certainly helped.
Ryan left Scribbulus with a lighter suitcase, a fuller pocket, and a faint smile on his face. Next stop: Amanuensis Quills. A shop dedicated exclusively to quills. Surely, they would appreciate an invention in quillcraft that hadn’t been seen in a long time.
