Redniro
patreon
Chapter 7: Low cost, high profit
🕑 Added 2025-08-29 02:12:02 +0000 UTCAfter dinner came dessert, and soon after, the guests returned home. Ryan wished his mother goodnight and went back to his room.
On his desk, he carefully set down the fifteen galleons he had earned that evening. The clink of gold against wood brought a smile to his face. For a first sale, it was a more than respectable sum.
The magical currency of Britain consisted of three different coins; in descending order of value, they were: Galleon, Sickle, and Knut; gold, silver, and bronze.
Seventeen Sickles equaled one Galleon. Twenty-nine Knuts equaled a Sickle, meaning it took 493 Knuts to make a Galleon.
Each eagle quill he had used as a base cost about 10 Sickles, which was roughly 0.59 Galleons, just over half a Galleon per unit. From that single sale, he had earned a margin of 14.41 Galleons, an extraordinary profit considering the low production cost.
However, Ryan was also mindful of the gifts. That night he had given away five enchanted quills, to his mother, his uncle Joseph, Anah, Sebastian, and his grandmother Margaret. That represented an expense of 50 Sickles, plus the quill sold to Garrick, totaling 60 Sickles, which came to about 3.5 Galleons.
And even with all that expense, he had still gained 11.5 Galleons from selling just one quill. A more than positive balance.
Beyond the material cost was his time. Inscribing the rune correctly took about twenty minutes per quill, including alignment adjustments, magical activation, and checks to ensure the light trace wouldn’t fail. He could make between five and six quills per day, dedicating two focused hours without draining his magical reserves or interfering with his training or studies.
It was a sustainable pace.
At present, his capital stood at 61.5 Galleons.
On the other hand, he could create differentiated product lines: economy, standard, and luxury, targeting multiple markets. That meant buying ordinary quills for the economy line, worth about 5 Sickles. Then eagle quills as the standard. Then pricier options: pheasant quills, more elegant, at 15 Sickles. Peacock quills at 1 Galleon. And one of the most expensive he had seen in a Diagon Alley shop: a Fwooper quill for 3 Galleons.
The Fwooper, an African bird with brilliant pink, lime, yellow, or orange plumage, was famous for providing fantastical quills, highly coveted by pure-blood wizards, writers, or Ministry workers eager to stand out.
And the best part? For him, the work was the same.
It didn’t matter if it was a cheap quill or a collector’s piece, the magical inscription process was identical. The effort didn’t vary. Only the buyer’s perceived value changed.
In other words: more profit, minimal extra effort.
Even the ordinary or eagle versions held enormous potential if the product became popular. And if demand grew beyond expectations, as he suspected it would, the luxury versions would be coveted by wealthy wizards, public officials, pure-blood families, or professors.
Hogwarts alone had nearly a thousand students. Add in teachers, other magic schools, adults with magical professions, entire families… the potential market was tens of thousands of people.
But there was one “problem”: he was alone. The sole supplier.
Although, thinking about it… was that really a problem?
No. It wasn’t. It was an advantage.
Scarcity was a blessing in disguise. He couldn’t meet all the demand, true, but that only made his quills even more valuable. Exotic. Exclusive. Objects of desire.
Prices would inflate naturally.
And later, when his name began to spread in hushed tones through Diagon Alley or the corridors of Hogwarts, he could sell by commission.
No middlemen. No shops. No sharing the pie.
The clients would come to him.
And he would decide who deserved an enchanted quill and how much it cost to obtain one.
A smile crept across his face. One of those mischievous, greedy smiles that any goblin banker would applaud with respect.
He could already smell the money, and he liked the scent.
But that wasn’t all. He knew runes had a lifespan. He could make them last longer, more stable. He could use combinations to prolong their effect for years.
But he wouldn’t.
Why? Because he wasn’t a romantic fool.
He was a capitalist in training.
A quill that lasts forever… is a customer who never returns.
A quill with a one-year lifespan, like a school pencil, on the other hand, creates a cycle. Rotation. Return.
Still, in honor of his conscience, he had been reasonable. He wasn’t a swindler.
The rune would last, on average, an entire school year with frequent use. That was more than enough. When it stopped working, it wouldn’t be a scam, it would simply be magic completing its natural cycle.
Later on, he could even adjust the lifespan depending on the product line:
Economy quills might last six months.
Standard, like eagle quills, a year.
And luxury ones—pheasant, peacock, or Fwooper, could last several years as a premium feature or not.
He hadn’t decided yet. But he was already considering it.
As for the quills he had gifted his mother, his uncle, his grandmother, and the others…
Yes, they would last a year.
But he had no intention of selling them new ones afterward.
When those wore out, he would gift them luxury quills, with longer-lasting runes. Out of affection, and because they were family.
…
Five days passed since his first sale.
It was officially his twenty-first day in this new world.
And Ryan hadn’t stopped.
In that time, he managed to produce thirty enchanted quills, all eagle, his standard line.
He had purchased exactly thirty medium-quality quills at ten Sickles each, spending a total of 300 Sickles, or 17.6 Galleons.
It had been intense but rewarding. He worked every day to inscribe six quills daily, his sustainable maximum without draining his magical reserves or neglecting his training and studies.
He decided not to launch an economy line, at least for now. He realized that when someone was willing to pay seven, ten, or fifteen Galleons for a magical quill, they weren’t going to settle for the cheapest if the difference in price to a higher-quality one was only a Galleon or two.
Ordinary quills might have their place later, of course, but not now.
He hadn’t only worked on quills. He continued his magical training, both offensive and defensive, refining his accuracy, control, and attack power. His mother joined him, happy to help and to have a sparring partner.
On another note, he had completely finished the Practical Manual of Magical Runes I.
One hundred percent done. Baby steps achieved. It was time to buy the next system textbook.
He already knew which one he would purchase, but that was for another moment.
Now he had another mission.
He stood in his room, well-dressed, wearing a fitted shirt, a light jacket, more modern in style (well, modern for 1971) than magical, and dark trousers. He looked at himself in the mirror and nodded with conviction.
“Perfect. Now this is what I call seller’s presence,” he murmured.
He turned toward the bed, where his leather suitcase awaited. Inside, cushioned and perfectly arranged, were his thirty magical quills, ready to be displayed—and, if luck was on his side, sold today.
He closed the suitcase, lifted it firmly, and left the room.
He went down the stairs with a measured stride. The house was quiet, bathed in the soft glow of the morning sun. He glanced into the living room.
Empty.
Strange. His mother was usually there, reading or drinking tea. If she wasn’t in the living room, nor in the kitchen trying new recipes, there was only one possible place she could be. Her study.
Although Iris had devoted much of Ryan’s childhood to raising him, she had never abandoned her passion: Transfiguration. She had been a brilliant student and a talented researcher, with a deep focus on advanced theory.
She had her own personal studio, and since Ryan began Hogwarts, she had thrown herself back into her academic career with renewed strength.
She hadn’t accepted positions at the Ministry or at Hogwarts, despite being invited more than once. Even McGonagall respected her deeply for her knowledge; they were colleagues who shared the same passion.
Iris preferred to research at her own pace, publish articles, collaborate with journals such as Transfiguration Today, and politely turn down any offer that might compromise her independence.
Ryan reached her oak door and knocked softly twice.
“Come in,” came Iris’s voice from within.
He opened the door and stepped inside.
His mother was seated at a massive black-oak desk. She wore none of her usual expressions, no mocking smile, no sarcastic smirk, no gentle sweetness. Only absolute concentration.
Around her floated formulas written in suspended violet ink. Transformation matrices turned slowly like magical gears, alongside symmetrical structures and theories so complex that Ryan could barely follow them.
Some stretched across the walls. Others hovered at mid-height, perfectly aligned.
It was a visual symphony of advanced Transfiguration.
Ryan smiled faintly. It was working. The quill was truly of real use to his mother, an investigator and theorist of the highest level.
“Looks like my gift… is coming in handy,” Ryan remarked.
Iris turned her head slightly, regarding him out of the corner of her eye.
She raised an eyebrow. Smiled. “Well… my son in one of his rare humble moments. But I must say yes. It’s very useful, Ryan. Very much so.”
She stood from her chair and began to walk toward him. She passed through one of the floating formulas as though it were mist. The magical letters didn’t dissolve or tremble; they remained suspended, unaltered.
“For theory, it’s a thousand times better than parchment or blackboards,” she explained as she approached. “I don’t need to archive anything yet. I just think, move variables, see the patterns. It’s… comfortable.”
She stopped in front of him.
Then she noticed her son’s attire. Formal. Impeccable. And the suitcase in his hand.
“Oh, such elegance. I see the time has come to sell,” Iris commented with a faint smile, evaluating him from head to toe as if he were one of her own works of art.
Ryan lifted the suitcase slightly, as if to show off a jewel, and nodded.
“I was thinking,” he added, his eyes gleaming with mischief, “I could take a picture of you working like this… The famous researcher Iris Ollivander, model of prestige and productivity, using a quill of my invention. Good publicity, don’t you think?”
Iris let out a brief laugh, elegant and sharp.
“If you want, I can be your photo model,” she replied in her trademark ironic tone, “but I must say I don’t come cheap. Beauty and talent aren’t free.”
“Tsch, stingy,” Ryan muttered, rolling his eyes.
“Narcissist, please,” Iris corrected him, smiling theatrically before her face grew more serious.
Her eyes dropped briefly to his jacket. Gently, she smoothed it over his chest, making sure the collar sat just right. Then she looked him in the eyes.
“I’m proud of you,” she said softly, her voice firm. “I always have been… but this is different. Seeing you sell your first invention, your first product… Just like your grandfather, though of course that was more than a hundred years ago,” she added with a teasing note at the end.
Ryan glanced away slightly, lips pressed together in a faintly shy gesture. The praise had clearly struck home, though he wasn’t about to admit it. “It’s not a big deal. Grandpa sells wands… some of the best in the world. I’m only going to sell a few quills with a neat trick.”
Iris studied him a moment longer. Then, without a word, she brushed his shoulders once more and smiled.
“Don’t sell yourself short. Magical quills with special functions are rare for a reason, Ryan. Ideas, everyone has them. But making them work… making sure they don’t explode, don’t fade, that they’re stable, useful, durable… That’s the hard part.”
She adjusted his collar with an almost maternal gesture. “What you did isn’t common. And you know it.”
Ryan didn’t reply, but his gaze dropped slightly.
Iris then leaned in, kissed him on the cheek, and as she walked back toward her desk, she said as casually as if it were nothing, “Oh, and if you go to Creepy Scrawlers, remember the owner is the daughter now. She’s around thirty, inherited the business. Use that charming face of yours, yes? Get a good deal.”
Ryan froze in the doorway, spinning on his heels with an offended expression. “She’s twice my age, Mother. And I’m your son. For Merlin’s sake,” he grumbled.
Iris, already walking back to her suspended formula, let out a light laugh. “Oh, don’t be so sensitive.”
Ryan huffed, indignant, but couldn’t stop himself from laughing as he closed the door behind him. His mother was impossible, and wonderful.
