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Chapter 39: Small interest
🕑 Added 2025-09-25 23:38:46 +0000 UTCWhen the classroom door closed behind him, Ryan walked off toward his workshop to study, make quills, the usual.
As he walked, he thought. Most of the time, he could predict people just by watching how they entered a room.
A pattern.
He thought the same of Tristin. When she spoke to him at breakfast, with that social-queen air, her nails painted a flawless red, robes perfectly fitted, and her gaze measured down to the millimeter, Ryan had already formed the full diagnosis:
She wants a quill. And surely for free.
His mental plan was simple: keep his composure, reject any attempt at manipulation, don’t confuse business with beauty, and get out with his dignity intact and the price unchanged.
After all, how many times had he already seen it? He’d already had a few girls who, when trying to buy from him, attempted to flirt. And he wasn’t an idiot.
Of course, he could give a quill away if he wanted. It cost him 0.59 galleons to buy a good eagle feather, and thirteen minutes of work to inscribe the runes.
His profit margin was absurd.
But that didn’t mean he was going to throw gold out the window just because a pretty girl batted her lashes or offered him a compliment.
No. He flirted with select girls who interested him both in looks and personality. Not the easy ones.
Emmeline, Pandora, and Mia. Proud, confident, intense personalities. They weren’t easy. They weren’t predictable. And that’s why they caught his interest.
They didn’t ask for discounts, though they didn’t refuse his goodwill or charm when he offered it. To Emmeline, the griffin quill in thanks for her help. To Pandora, letting her pay for the glasses in installments and at a pretty low price for being his first client. And to Mia, shaving off two galleons for making her wait, and for letting him flirt a little.
And then Tristin surprised him. Not by what she asked. But by how she asked. She had wanted to speak alone not to trick him.
Not to put on a seduction act in exchange for a discount. But for the opposite.
Because she couldn’t afford to pay all at once.
Five installments. Two galleons a month. So far, the longest plan he had ever agreed to. Most others were three payments, sometimes two.
And she had done it without debasing herself. Though he did notice the way her eyes lowered and her tone softened, as if she felt smaller for not having money.
He knew that feeling very well. In his past life, he had been an orphan… And he would never mock someone for having to stretch every coin just to hold on to their dignity.
Because now he understood: Tristin wasn’t a spoiled diva. She was a strategist. A survivor.
Someone who had learned to plan every step, every word, every piece of clothing, not out of vanity, but out of social survival.
And at Hogwarts, that was necessary.
Because Hogwarts wasn’t just “a colorful, cheerful school of magic” like the books and movies from his old world made it seem.
It was a boarding school. Of teenagers.
From eleven to seventeen years old.
Seven levels of unwritten hierarchies, social pressure, constant comparisons, and closed environments where everything is seen, everything is known, and everything is judged.
The difference was that here, on top of worrying about exams, cruel classmates, or fitting in… people could do magic.
Magic that could hurt you. Magic that could be used to humiliate, to impress, to dominate.
And in the middle of it all, entire houses built on principles and bloodlines. Purist families. Magical aristocracy. Surnames that believed they owned the castle.
Slytherin, in particular, was a nest of degenerate nobility, of future Death Eaters with their heads full of inherited ideas.
And this was 1971. Twenty years before the “Harry Potter Hogwarts.”
This was a rougher Hogwarts, older, more hierarchical. Where rules of etiquette and blood were still enforced at wandpoint.
Where saying you were Muggle-born automatically painted a target on your back.
And what was coming was far worse. Because soon, Voldemort would begin his rise. The purist ideals, already spoken aloud and present, would grow more extreme, more open.
In that context, surviving as a half-blood girl from a lower-middle-class family, with only two galleons a month and an image that demanded constant perfection, wasn’t an act of frivolity or manipulation.
On the other hand, Ryan thought about her appearance. He could admit it without hesitation: her face was among the most beautiful he had seen at Hogwarts.
Light blue eyes that knew how to look with calm, defined lips, features that blended elegance and presence, and hair perfectly arranged, shining even under the castle’s dim light.
On par with Emmeline, perhaps. But what impressed him most wasn’t just the beauty itself. It was the control.
Every piece of her uniform, every fold of her robe, the exact length of her skirt, the dark stockings without a single fuzz, the bright red nail polish without a single crack.
All measured.
For someone who could only spend two galleons a month without ruining her social image, maintaining that level of perfection required more than style: it required financial intelligence, self-control and probably personal sacrifice.
Ryan thought, as he had before, of the future Weasleys.
Seven siblings. A single income. Hand-me-down clothes. Worn robes. Old wands. Poverty, in their case, was impossible to hide. It was part of the character.
But with Tristin, none of it showed. Not a stain, not a loose seam, not a misplaced expression.
And yes, one might assume she got things by “other means.”
That with her body, her face, her presence, it would be enough for a boy to pay what she couldn’t.
And yes, Ryan wasn’t naïve. He knew that at Hogwarts, as in any boarding school full of teenagers, things happened.
Relationships of convenience. Favor for favor. Prestige traded for attention. He had seen more than one attempt at emotional bartering.
But Tristin hadn’t done that with him. She had asked for installments plainly, with an aggressive dignity, declaring that if there were a contract she would read it thoroughly from beginning to end.
So, at least for now, he could say it clearly: Tristin Jones was not a slut.
Interesting, Ryan thought with a faint smile, as he whistled and headed toward his workshop.
Sunday’s routine was perfect.
After breakfast and that unexpectedly revealing conversation with Tristin, he shut himself away in his study/workshop. He worked for two hours on quills.
Twelve enchanted quills. A good number. Mechanical, repetitive work, but only he could make these quills, which meant his profit was very good.
Among them, of course, was Tristin’s. And he decided to add a little surprise, already amused at the thought of her reaction when she’d see it and start telling him she wasn’t going to pay more and wouldn’t sign anything.
After the craftsmanship, he continued his usual Sunday routine. Studying the Rune Book II, the Transfiguration textbook—the usual.
He took breaks after about four straight hours.
During his pauses he went down to the Gryffindor common room, where Gideon and Fabian greeted him with that overflowing energy that seemed to run in Prewett blood.
He noticed a certain curiosity in their looks.
Not just theirs. Also Dorcas and Celeste’s. Emmeline held his gaze for just a second longer than normal, and Marlene hid her interest worse than she thought she did. As for Alicia, she wasn’t anywhere to be seen, surely in the library.
None of them asked. But they all wanted to. It was obvious.
After all, they wanted to know if Tristin had managed to sweet-talk him into giving her a quill for free, or at least a discount.
But Ryan said nothing. Not a single comment.
So Sunday slipped away from him like fine sand through his fingers. No more surprises.
Monday came with its usual rhythm. Classes, homework, nothing out of the ordinary.
And at 5:27, Ryan headed for the same classroom as the day before. The agreed time was 5:30.
He found it empty, quiet, lit by a window that let in the soft glow of sunset.
He sat calmly on the teacher’s desk as if it were just another chair. He didn’t have to wait long.
At 5:30 sharp, the door opened and Tristin stepped inside. Impeccable as the day before. As if she hadn’t sat through a single class all day.
She entered without a word and closed the door behind her softly.
Ryan smiled faintly, without rising yet. “Punctuality and elegance. A model client,” he said.
“Do you have the quill?” she asked naturally, maintaining her façade as Gryffindor’s popular queen.
He nodded and rose from the desk with that careless way of moving he had, as if the entire world followed the rhythm of his ego.
He slipped his hand into his robes and pulled out a black case, smooth, with gleaming bronze clasps.
He held it in one hand like a jewel.
Tristin took it. And for an instant, her eyes lit up.
Finally. She was in. The newest, priciest, most visible magical fashion.
And though more than a hundred students already had Ollivander’s enchanted quills, Hogwarts had over six hundred students. It was still exclusive.
She opened the case with careful movements, and her expression changed instantly. She frowned.
The quill wasn’t a standard eagle feather. It was premium, larger, more elegant, and more expensive.
It was worth nearly double the standard one without enchantment. 1.20 galleons instead of 0.59.
And while the final selling price was usually 10 galleons, a premium quill could easily justify 11 or even 12.
And she didn’t have that.
She looked at him with a contained expression, but narrowed eyes. “This quill… isn’t the regular base. Shouldn’t it cost me more?”
Ryan raised his eyebrows with feigned surprise. “Ah, that,” he said, as if he’d just remembered. “Yes. When I sat down to make it last night I realized I was out of standard quills. I only had that one, premium eagle feather.”
He made a theatrical pause. “I could have ordered more stock, of course. But by the time they arrived… and since I had promised to deliver yours today…”
He shrugged. “I don’t like breaking my word as a merchant. So I used that one. For the inconvenience, it’s on the house.”
Tristin studied him. She knew he was lying, from his tone and expression.
Did she care? Not exactly. Could she prove it? Not at all. And deep down, that part of her that constantly analyzed intentions couldn’t help but wonder:
Did he do it to impress her? To amuse himself with her reaction? Or simply because he liked teasing people with his odd, egotistical charm?
“Fine,” Tristin said at last, taking the quill.
She held it carefully. Examined it.
Then she lifted it and, with a small flick of her wrist, began to write in the air. The letters floated, perfect, in that dark red she had asked for. Like enchanted smoke. Beautiful, elegant, and perfectly visible.
Tristin lowered the quill. She turned it slightly between her fingers. “You’re not going to charge me extra, are you?”
Ryan smiled again, this time with that particular glint in his eyes that never quite revealed whether it was mockery, flirtation, or both.
“Charge you extra?” Ryan repeated. “And risk you dragging me to court for breach of verbal contract? Not a chance. You’d scare me more than a Gringotts goblin.”
“Good, you’d better. I know a lot of magical legal laws,” Tristin said. She placed the quill back in the case and tucked it into her robes.
Ryan raised his hands in mock surrender, a faint amused smile tugging at his lips. Could this girl be a future magical lawyer?
Then Tristin took out her purse. As Ryan had expected, it wasn’t the kind of purse that screamed poverty or neglect. Just ordinary. Neither luxurious nor overly plain.
She opened it calmly, though not without tension in her fingers. Ryan watched without a word.
And then he noticed. She didn’t take out two gold galleons. She pulled smaller coins. A silver sickle. Another. Some bronze knuts, counted one by one, with her fingers held straight so they wouldn’t tremble.
She was meticulous. Precise. Ryan made no gesture. He only observed, as any decent merchant would.
One. Two. Three…
At one point, halfway through the count, one of the knuts slipped from her fingers and hit the floor with a sharp clink that echoed across the classroom.
She bent down quickly, but he was quicker. He stooped, picked it up with two fingers, and held it out to her with a half-smile.
“Careful. Don’t let money get away from you. It has the bad habit of not coming back.”
His tone wasn’t mocking. Nor sarcastic. Tristin looked at him for a second. Then she took the coin and nodded.
“Thanks. Sometimes they slip,” she said neutrally, though inside she knew that small accident had exposed her more than she liked.
She finished counting the coins until she reached the sum and handed them to Ryan, who placed them into his wallet.
“That’s all. Enjoy your quill, I hope you like it. See you.”
He raised his hand in a calm gesture, like someone bidding farewell to a colleague, or a queen. No exaggerated bow, no obvious flirting.
Tristin watched him as he walked away. The door closed softly behind him.
