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Chapter 6: First sale
🕑 Added 2025-08-29 02:09:30 +0000 UTCThe magical pendulum clock struck six o’clock in Iris and Ryan’s house as the aroma of beef and pumpkin stew mingled with the unmistakable scent of enchanted wax and old books.
In the kitchen, Iris stirred a pot with her wand while humming a Muggle tune. Her brother Joseph was reading the Daily Prophet, standing by the window.
Joseph Ollivander, 34 years old, wore a formal olive-colored robe with golden trim. His black hair, neatly combed to the side, gleamed under the floating oil lamp. His thin face and round gold-rimmed glasses gave him a slightly intellectual air.
Though he was a Squib, he never behaved as if that made him any less than a wizard. In fact, his sharp intelligence, sarcasm, and dry humor made him stand out in any group. He shared the same ironic, defiant attitude as Ryan and Iris.
In the living room, next to the enchanted fireplace that crackled softly with bluish flames, Ryan’s grandparents were waiting, chatting with an old pair of family friends.
Garrick Ollivander, his straight white hair falling to his shoulders, wore a high-collared gray linen robe. His posture was straight, unshakable. His silvery gaze swept calmly across the room, as if silently measuring the magical quality of every object.
Deep inside, he still carried the mindset of a wand craftsman: a meticulous observer and a man of few words unless it came to matching a wizard with a wand. His personal wand rested in his inner pocket.
Across from Garrick, seated with distinguished poise, was Margaret Ollivander, his wife and Ryan’s grandmother. She had forged an imposing reputation in her own right. Intelligent, critical, and as sharp with words as her grandson when inspired, she maintained a somewhat formal relationship with Ryan, but never cold. She cared for him deeply and, though not quick to admit it, felt a fierce pride in her grandson.
“And the young Ollivander?” asked one of the guests, a bald old wizard in a garnet robe with a St. Mungo’s brooch pinned to his chest. His name was Sebastian Cole.
“Upstairs,” Joseph answered as he entered the living room. “He said he’d come down when he finished reading a book. That was two hours ago.”
“What kind of book?” inquired Sebastian’s wife. Her name was Anah, a petite witch with white hair and a hat adorned with feathers that shifted colors.
“The last book I saw him reading was On Transubstantial Transfiguration,” Iris replied, stepping into the room with a glass of wine, “But lately he’s also been reading potions, enchantments, and ancient runes.”
“Our Ryan? Studying?” Margaret narrowed her eyes skeptically. “Did he hit his head, or did he fall for some Ravenclaw?”
“Neither,” Iris answered with a restrained smile. “He’s just… motivated. I suppose it has to do with the OWLs.”
“Hogwarts’ OWLs manage to affect even Ryan,” Joseph murmured, half incredulous, half amused.
The guests laughed. Garrick’s lips twitched into the faintest smile. Margaret smoothed her skirt thoughtfully.
“Then perhaps he is finally awakening as an Ollivander,” Garrick murmured, almost like ancestral approval.
Iris said nothing for a moment, though her eyes betrayed a swirl of emotions: pride and intrigue. She knew her son well. That look he had carried for days meant he was up to something. He practiced his martial magic in the yard, studied for hours in the library, but then shut himself in his room. Studying again? But what exactly?
The creak of a wooden step cut through the murmur of conversation. Everyone turned their heads toward the staircase.
Ryan descended with a steady stride, clad in a dark training robe, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his hair slightly tousled.
A sideways smile lit his face, carrying that razor-sharp sarcasm inherited from his mother, his uncle, his grandmother… practically the family trademark.
“Are you gossiping about me again, or do you simply have nothing more interesting to discuss?” he asked as he reached the last step, projecting his voice.
“Ryan!” Anah exclaimed with delight. “Just look how tall you’ve grown!”
“Madame Cole, it’s an honor to see you as splendid as ever. Is that hat new? It looks spectacular on you… envy of the other witches,” Ryan greeted her with an exaggerated bow.
Anah let out a delighted laugh. “You always knew how to flatter a witch, even as a kid.”
Then Ryan turned to Sebastian, extending his hand with a friendly smile. “Mister Sebastian. Your presence, as always, elevates the level of healing in this home.”
“I don’t know if you’re evaluating me or if you’ve already detected my back problems from reading hunched over.”
“Both,” replied Sebastian with a knowing smile. “And I also notice the dark circles under your eyes. You’re pushing yourself too hard, boy.”
“Guilty,” said Ryan, raising his hands. “The OWLs are stealing my sleep… and I haven’t even started fifth year yet! Damn school system putting more stress on us than a Dementor does on Azkaban prisoners.”
Everyone laughed at the remark. Then Ryan walked over to his grandparents—first to his grandmother Margaret.
“Grandmother, you look younger every day. Did you steal the Philosopher’s Stone without anyone noticing?” he said with a cheeky grin.
Margaret looked him up and down, wearing that expression that blended hidden pride with an imminent critique.
“Your compliments don’t work on me anymore, child. I’m tired of hearing them. What is it, do you want more money?” asked Margaret.
“I’m just a loving grandson praising his grandmother,” Ryan said, feigning hurt.
“Of course you are…” Margaret muttered with the faintest smile.
Ryan chuckled softly before turning to his grandfather.
“Sir Ollivander,” he said with forced solemnity, standing at attention like a military cadet. “Reporting for family duty.”
Garrick lifted his gaze and observed him in silence. In his eyes there was a faint gleam, barely perceptible, as if he were recognizing something. Then he gave a slight nod.
“You’re late,” he said simply.
“I got distracted studying,” Ryan replied with a shrug.
Iris raised her eyebrows, a mixture of sarcasm and genuine intrigue in her face. It was the perfect moment to ask. “And may we know what you’ve been studying with such zeal and secrecy in your room? Or is it some ultra-classified secret?”
Joseph let out a muffled laugh. Everyone turned to Ryan with curiosity.
Ryan smiled faintly, as if he had been waiting for that question.
“I’m glad you asked, Mother,” he said, pulling a small dark leather case from his robe. He opened it theatrically and took out a slender black quill.
“Here. A gift from me,” he added, handing the quill to his mother.
Iris set her wineglass on the table with a trace of playful suspicion and took the quill her son offered. It was black, elegant, with the slightest silver details. At first glance it looked like a quill more refined and costly than a basic one, well-crafted yet not flashy enough to attract too much attention.
“Oh… a quill. Thank you, sweetie. Though I already have about twenty,” Iris remarked teasingly, raising an eyebrow.
“Try it,” said Ryan, crossing his arms.
Iris turned to look for parchment on a nearby table, but Ryan stopped her with a gesture.
“No. In the air.”
“In the air?”
“Yes. Write in the air,” Ryan nodded.
Iris gave him a skeptical look. Margaret clicked her tongue in mock disapproval, and Sebastian muttered something like, “careful it doesn’t explode on you or something.”
Anah watched with a mix of interest and confusion. Sebastian raised an eyebrow, still undecided whether this was a joke or something else.
With an elegant movement, Iris lifted the quill and, without breaking eye contact with Ryan, began tracing a word in the air.
And then everyone saw how, as the quill glided, its tip lit with a faint violet glow.
The word "Hello" floated in the air as if drawn with liquid light, hanging there with a magical clarity impossible to ignore. It didn’t vanish. It didn’t flicker. It remained, glowing and perfectly legible.
A brief silence filled the room.
“This isn’t ink…” Iris murmured, inspecting the tip. “Is this… a spell?”
“Let’s say it’s… an enchantment with a touch of craftsmanship. Whatever you write stays in the air, or wherever you write, for up to four hours. Perfect for professors, researchers, diligent students, or leaving glowing messages for ungrateful children,” Ryan answered, keeping the details vague.
“And how do you erase it?” Iris asked curiously.
“Quick tap with the tip on the text,” Ryan explained, pointing. “One touch… and it disappears.”
Iris tried it. She tapped the word Hello with the tip, and it faded smoothly like candle smoke.
“Brilliant!” said Anah, clutching her chest. “I want one!”
“I knew it,” Joseph remarked, turning toward Ryan with a smile. “All those hours I spent talking to you about magical inventions… finally paid off.”
Margaret said nothing at first, but her gaze had softened, filled with a mix of recognition and affection. Garrick, on the other hand, studied him with sharper focus. Not with astonishment. Not with surprise. But with analysis, like a craftsman evaluating another’s work for the first time.
Iris approached her son and hugged him. “Thanks,” she said sincerely. “It’s an excellent gift.”
Ryan accepted the embrace. “You’re welcome… Though I must admit I was this close to charging you for it,” he said with a faint smile.
“I’d be worried if you didn’t say that,” Iris replied with a laugh. “But still, if I buy it, I expect an extended warranty. Wouldn’t want to spend money and have it stop working in two days.”
“Negotiable.”
“Does that mean I can have one too?” asked Sebastian, raising an eyebrow. “I’m willing to pay, of course.”
“Me too,” added Anah, her eyes still sparkling. “Name your price and I’ll pay you right now. I don’t know how long it takes you, or if we need to supply a quill…”
Ryan gave them a theatrical look, as if seriously considering it. In truth, he was pleased.
He had done his research. Nowhere in the magical market was there a quill like this: writing with floating light in the air, lasting hours, erasable at will. It was a unique object.
“Since you insist…” he said, pulling another case from his robe. From it he drew a deep blue quill with silver details. “Uncle Joseph. This one’s for you. Midnight blue, your favorite color, isn’t it?”
Joseph blinked. “Even for a Squib?” he asked, astonished.
“Yes. The spell is contained in the quill… You don’t need magic to activate it,” Ryan replied. Not entirely a lie. The rune he had ensured was barely visible, thanks to a method from the book the system had given him, was what gave the quill its magic and allowed it to write in the air.
Joseph took the quill, fascinated, and immediately tried it. He traced his name in the air and saw it glow like a floating signature. “This is amazing…”
Ryan smiled, and before the others could start clamoring, he produced two more quills, one crimson for Sebastian and one mauve for Anah, already prepared.
“I can’t charge you for these,” Ryan said, handing them over. “Not after all the birthday gifts you’ve given me over the years. Consider this… retroactive compensation.”
“I’m proud,” Iris commented with a faint smile. “I didn’t raise a greedy merchant. Or at least not one without a conscience.”
“And what about me? Don’t you plan on giving one to your grandmother’s little boy?” Margaret cut in, raising an eyebrow with that sharp tone everyone already knew.
Ryan gave her a sinisterly affectionate smile and pulled out another quill. This one was an elegant burgundy with black details.
“Of course. Duchess-dark color. Perfect for jotting down critiques and compliments with the same intensity.”
Margaret took it without saying a word. But her smile, faint as it was, was undeniable.
At last, Ryan fell silent. His gaze slowly drifted across the room. Garrick was watching him. Gray eyes, still and steady. As if he already knew his quill was on its way.
Ryan reached into his robe and pulled out another quill. He lifted it with measured theatricality and began speaking with exaggerated solemnity, in a tone everyone recognized as an imitation of his grandfather’s speeches:
“Smoke-gray color, with a rigid, clean body. Durable, precise, stable writing. Ideal for firm strokes, for straight lines, to steady both hand and judgment. Especially crafted for artisans who value structure, form… and permanence.”
Everyone looked on, a little confused. Why so much ceremony for Garrick’s quill? Did his grandson want praise from him? But that didn’t seem like Ryan’s style.
Ryan lowered the quill, held it between thumb and forefinger, and finally said: “Twenty galleons.”
There was a brief silence.
Now everyone understood. Clearly, it wasn’t recognition he wanted. He wanted to sell it. Classic Ryan.
“You’re selling it to me?” Garrick asked, narrowing his eyes.
“What about all the gifts I gave you for your birthdays?” he added.
Anah covered her mouth to keep from laughing. Iris and Joseph barely contained their amusement.
“Come on, Grandpa. It’s just twenty galleons. You always told me an Ollivander must know the value of his work. That quality isn’t given away for free, except to children just beginning their magical journey. And that if I want to be independent one day, I can’t keep spending money that isn’t really mine,” Ryan said, almost quoting him word for word.
Garrick didn’t reply immediately. But his right eyebrow lifted ever so slightly, the closest anyone could get to amusement from him.
“Besides,” Ryan continued, twirling the quill between his fingers, “the new Hogwarts year is about to begin. Hundreds of first-years buying wands. Some even come from other schools just to purchase yours. Seven galleons a wand, isn’t that right?”
Garrick gave a slow nod.
“Then don’t tell me you don’t have twenty galleons to invest in your grandson. Think of it as a strategic alliance, an intergenerational investment!”
Garrick gave another almost imperceptible nod. Ryan’s reasoning was sound. He had already given away five quills: to Iris, Joseph, Sebastian, Anah, and Margaret. A considerable loss of stock if one accounted for production costs.
The old craftsman shifted in his chair. He examined the quill with the eye of someone evaluating not just the object… but the intent behind it.
“Let’s see…” he finally said in a neutral tone, as if he were back in his shop. “An ordinary quill costs about five sickles. This is a refined eagle feather, better crafted than the common school variety. Perhaps ten sickles. Zero point forty-seven galleons, give or take.”
Ryan nodded. He knew what was coming.
“It has a complex enchantment, that’s true,” Garrick continued. “More elaborate than the Quick-Quotes Quills that let you write a little faster. These, on the other hand, project writing in the air with stable light. A lasting function, erasable at will. That would put them at… five galleons. But considering it’s a new invention and production is limited, it could go for ten to fifteen galleons.”
He stopped. His sharp silver gaze fixed on Ryan.
“But twenty? You’re trying to swindle me. You know it. And I know it too.”
Ryan didn’t flinch. He only tilted his head with that smile inherited from his mother.
“You’re wise, Grandpa. Fine, as a grandson’s favor, twelve galleons.”
“Fifteen,” Garrick corrected with surgical precision, without raising his voice. “It’s a good object.”
Ryan was surprised at the price increase, but accepted. Better for him.
Garrick pulled a small leather pouch from his pocket, took out fifteen galleons, and handed them to Ryan, who accepted them with a faint smile.
'Half the investment recovered…' he thought, tucking the money away.
He had bought the formula for the Floating Light Pen for thirty galleons. But he soon realized that a pen would not have the same impact in a traditionalist market like the wizarding one.
So he made the necessary adjustment: he adapted the formula to magical quills. The process was the same. The formula was compatible. Only the object changed, both pen and quill had the same function. But the quill inspired magical trust, tradition, and history. Pens, with their Muggle aura, did not.
It wasn’t that Ryan looked down on objects that were more “Muggle” in nature; he was simply adapting to the market and to the taste of the majority of wizards.
“My son, the merchant,” Iris said with a sarcastic yet proud smile, raising her glass. “First sale, huh?”
“First of many,” Ryan replied in a triumphant tone, reaching for a glass of wine to toast, but his mother stopped him.
Dinner began shortly after. The aroma of beef and pumpkin stew filled the air while enchanted dishes served themselves in rhythm with the appetite. Ryan ate while fielding comments, praise, theories, and questions. He had to answer them all with diplomatic skill, while keeping his secret.
He didn’t mention the formula. Nor the system he used. Nor the enchanted book of practical rune knowledge. All of that was worth far more than any quill. And it wasn’t something he intended to share. Not because he distrusted anyone at this table… but simply because he had no way of explaining it without sounding insane.
How could he tell them he had a system that provided him with formulas, arcane knowledge, and more?
So he attributed everything to his precocious genius and his ironclad discipline.
He said he had been experimenting, testing spells on new objects. That the idea had come to him while studying a more advanced enchantment book. It was technical enough to sound credible… and vague enough to reveal nothing.
No one said it aloud, but deep down it wasn’t so hard to believe. Not when Garrick had spent years telling him that an Ollivander must be independent. That magical craftsmanship was a tradition worthy of respect. That observation, patience, and creation were the marks of a complete wizard, beyond combat or fame.
He might not be a wandmaker. But Ryan… was beginning to resemble a craftsman.
Just before dessert, Ryan met his grandfather’s eyes. For a moment, he considered asking for help.
Garrick had spent decades in Diagon Alley. He knew everyone, shop owners, suppliers, distributors. He was friend, former classmate, former rival, and advisor to more than half of London’s magical merchants. One word from him, and Ryan’s quills could be displayed in quality shop windows by the next day.
But Ryan chose not to. He would do it himself. He would present the quills to specialized shops, those that sold school supplies, decorative quills, or everyday magical items. He would strike deals, set a wholesale price, and try to find the best arrangement possible, maybe even a shop that wanted exclusivity.
Opening his own store wasn’t in his plans. He didn’t have the time, money, or staff. Hogwarts was just around the corner. His school life would consume him entirely. But if he managed to place his invention in well-positioned shops, he could earn passive income while studying.
Garrick, without saying a word, watched him. His grandson was clearly looking to make money from this idea. He could see it in every gesture, every measured response, in the way he gauged reactions. The old craftsman recognized that look.
And he also noticed that Ryan hadn’t asked for his help.
Not out of pride.
Out of choice.
And though he didn’t say it, Garrick respected that.
