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Chapter 5: Routine
🕑 Added 2025-08-29 02:07:54 +0000 UTCFifteen days had passed since he arrived in the world of Harry Potter under the identity of Ryan Ollivander.
Fifteen days of intense study.
He had spent much of that time locked in his room, reading Practical Runic Manual I.
While other boys his age would have used the holidays to laze around, hang out with friends, or whatever else, Ryan had stayed home studying and spending time with his new family, his mother and his uncle Joseph.
The progress was good. Despite being an introductory book, it wasn’t as simple as a first- or second-year Hogwarts textbook. But with his good comprehension and memory, he kept pace easily. More than an introduction, it was a gateway to a forgotten world of knowledge.
As for the Inscribere spell, he had already mastered the wand movement, the exact tone, and the magical rhythm required to engrave basic runes onto surfaces like wood, leather, or parchment.
He remembered his first functional inscription as if it had happened just five minutes ago.
That afternoon he had prepared a fresh sheet of parchment, completely blank. He placed it carefully on the table and, after rehearsing the pattern in his mind, raised his wand with confidence.
“Inscribere: Ignis,” he pronounced, as he traced the symbol with firm, fluid motions.
The wand tip left behind a faint trail of light, and as the final stroke was completed, the rune for Fire appeared clearly on the parchment. An elegant symbol, almost artistic, with curving lines like flames and an inner spiral.
Ryan gazed at it in wonder.
Then, with a slight flick of his wand and no words, he activated the rune. The rune responded. With a faint hum it lit up. A bright red glow spread from its edges and, in an instant: fwoosh! The parchment burst into flames. Within seconds, it was reduced to clean ashes, leaving no mess.
Ryan said nothing, only smiled faintly at his first success.
Then, an idea flashed through his mind like lightning.
What if those runes could be inscribed onto small portable talismans… charged, but inactive, waiting for a signal to release?
He imagined thin slips of reinforced parchment engraved with runic symbols: fire, explosion, paralysis…
He could carry several with him without risk… until he chose to use them.
In combat, it would be enough to toss one of those runic seals toward an enemy and activate the rune with a simple wand motion.
“Inscribere: Explosio,” he whispered, picturing the symbol engraved on a foldable talisman.
He could see it flying through the air… and upon impact: boom!
“Like magical paper grenades,” he murmured with a crooked smile.
Discreet, lightweight, and perfectly legal… at least for now. And they had another clear advantage: the magical expenditure occurred at the moment of creation, not activation.
That is to say, if he inscribed ten explosive talismans in one afternoon, he’d be exhausted, yes…
But then he could store them, carry them, and when the time came, unleash them without spending a single drop more of his magic.
Preloaded attacks. Efficient. Intelligent.
On the other hand, during those days, Ryan continued with his peculiar system of “selling” sentimental objects to his mother and his uncle.
In reality, it wasn’t a true sale. Neither of the adults spent any galleons. Ryan simply handed them personal items he claimed he no longer needed—an old broom, a quill, a worn-out scarf—and they, with a knowing smile, returned the money to him in the form of a “symbolic transaction.”
They didn’t question it much. For them, it was just one of the boy’s whims. For Ryan, it was strategy.
Thanks to this, he managed to gather 80 galleons: all the savings the original Ryan had left.
Much less than he expected.
The Ollivanders were a high-class family, owners of a legendary shop with centuries of prestige. That his previous version had only 80 galleons saved up —the equivalent of about 400 British pounds—seemed frankly disappointing.
The system, in addition to allowing him to purchase books, had seven formulas available for sale.
The cheapest of them all: the Floating Light Pen, for 30 galleons.
A simple object: it allowed you to write spells or words in the air, with magical light of different colors depending on the inscribed rune.
Required level: Practical Runic Manual I. Check.
Cost: affordable.
Usefulness: good.
Difficulty: in theory, low.
It sounded simple. Almost trivial.
Ryan thought he could make it on his own. He didn’t want to spend a third of his funds on something so… basic.
He hadn’t finished Practical Runic Manual I completely, but he already understood more than 90%. Only a few optional sections and special cases remained, which he preferred to review once he had more practical experience.
And besides, he already understood the function of the magical pen.
How hard could it be?
Much harder than he thought.
Trying to create a formula from scratch was like inventing a new spell.
You could have a clear idea of the result… but without the specific knowledge, without knowing what catalysts to use, without understanding the channeling pattern, the ideal runic geometry, or the limits of magical stability, you were in the dark.
And the worst part: an error didn’t just mean failure. Sometimes it meant the object would self-destruct, or worse, explode.
Ryan found this out the hard way. He spent two full days trying to replicate the Light Pen.
He tested five variations. Three failed completely. One worked… for three seconds, before sparking and charring. And the last one left his face splattered in glowing ink. Literally.
There was a vast difference between understanding a formula… and creating one.
For example, at Hogwarts there were talented students in various fields like Charms or Potions. But their talent lay in study. Those who created a brand-new potion? Almost none. You could be brilliant at following a recipe.
But inventing a potion from scratch, even with great knowledge, was a different art. Unstable.
It wasn’t just about mixing ingredients at random. It was about understanding deep interactions, magical equivalences, symbolic energies and how they intertwined.
Ryan came to the conclusion that what the system sold was time. By giving you the formulas, it saved you weeks, months, even years depending on the complexity of the invention and the trial-and-error process.
And in his situation, with a magical war looming, time was as valuable a resource as gold.
Of course, besides studying like a bookworm, he also trained his offensive magic, the one the previous Ryan had known.
And that had been a pleasant surprise.
He discovered that, although that Ryan had been lazy and uninterested in theoretical study, he wasn’t completely useless. In fact, he wasn’t bad at practical spells. He knew the basics of magical dueling: Expelliarmus, Stupefy, Depulso, Petrificus Totalus, Protego…
Protego in particular surprised him.
According to what Ryan remembered from the Harry Potter canon, Protego wasn’t a common spell among the average adult.
Even the Weasley twins told Harry that many adult wizards didn’t even know how to cast it properly.
However, the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor they had in fourth year had taught them Protego. Perhaps because, with a different professor every year thanks to Voldemort’s curse on the position, it worked out in their favor. That professor didn’t care much for the official program.
And Ryan, though a cynical, sarcastic boy uninterested in theory, had indeed learned it.
Perhaps because, with his sharp tongue, rebellious streak, anti-system attitude, and tendency to get into trouble, he knew he needed to defend himself if he wanted to survive, in style.
He was, after all, an Ollivander.
And that, for the former Ryan, did mean something. A surname with history, pride, and expectations.
That’s why, even if he never read books willingly, he had taken seriously everything that was useful in practice: dueling, defensive spells, minor curses…
The sort of things one learned on their own, out of necessity and desire, before learning them in class. Just as Harry had done, when he had to survive the Triwizard Tournament.
By practicing these offensive and defensive spells, he realized they had grown stronger. More stable.
An Expelliarmus that once only disarmed… now pushed his opponent back several steps if he cast it with enough intent. It wasn’t enough to throw them against a wall, but it was progress.
His Incendio was more powerful, both in fire and in range. He could actually use it in a duel now; it was no longer just a spell for lighting a damned candle.
Even Protego felt stronger, firmer upon impact. It was as though his spells had received a small level up.
Though, to be honest, not such a small one.
The reason? He wasn’t sure.
Maybe it was because the body now hosted another soul, stronger, more determined.
Or because, with both “Ryans” fused, his magical reserves had increased.
Perhaps it was his greater willpower, his determination, or the near-obsessive focus with which he trained. He didn’t know.
But all the better for him. He set a strict routine to refine his offensive and defensive magic. And he clearly defined the three pillars every spell had to master:
1. Verbalization + Intention
Was he saying it correctly… and with conviction?
Pronunciation had to be precise, with the right intonation.
But even more important: magical intent.
Visualizing the effect, desiring it, focusing it.
Not just reciting, but imposing will upon the words.
If he improved in this aspect, then he achieved:
Reduced casting time
Fewer failures from mispronunciation
Increased possibility of future nonverbal casting
2. Wand Movement
Was he moving the wand with precision and fluidity?
Every spell had a pattern: rhythm, angle, stroke, energy.
The slightest tremor… and the spell weakened, losing potency that could be decisive.
If he improved in this aspect, then he achieved:
Increased accuracy
Reduced mana expenditure (if the stroke was more efficient)
Potential to use an abbreviated movement, further reducing casting time
3. Magical Understanding
Did he truly understand the spell?
Its applications, its limits, its variants?
...
His mother noticed these changes in Ryan’s mindset. He trained in the garden every day at the same hour, systematically. Then he locked himself in his room for hours. He also spent time in the house library, reading books on Potions, Charms, and Transfiguration.
Since Ryan didn’t train in secret, it was obvious Iris noticed the change. Her son, once lazy and selectively allergic to effort, especially theory, was now a study-and-training fanatic.
If it weren’t for the fact that they still spent time together, making the same sarcastic jokes as always and acting like an unintentional comedy duo, she might have thought her son had been swapped out for a model 2.0.
“What did they do to my son, and where’s the original?” Iris joked one afternoon, leaning against the doorframe with a steaming cup of tea and a raised eyebrow.
Ryan turned, still panting. He had been practicing a combination of spells, trying to weave them together into continuous offense and defense.
“I’ve got a cool-guy reputation to maintain… I can’t let myself be intimidated,” Ryan replied with a smile.
Iris nodded solemnly, taking a sip of her tea. She watched him closely, saying nothing.
Ryan wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “Are you scanning me with your eyes or something?” he asked, feigning shyness like a girl caught under a bold stare.
Iris rolled her eyes and couldn’t help but smile.
Because yes, Iris noticed. She saw him training every day, studying books he had never opened before, spending hours in the house library, locking himself in his room. But she didn’t question it.
Maybe, she thought, the time had come. Fifth year wasn’t just any year.
The O.W.L.s were a crucial barrier in the life of any young wizard. A filter between magical childhood… and the future.
And Ryan, rebellious as he was, knew those exams determined which subjects he could take afterward, which jobs he could pursue, what kind of wizard he would become.
Or perhaps… it also had to do with the breakup with Marlene. Iris wasn’t blind to what had happened.
No matter how much Ryan pretended, she knew her son well enough to notice that relationship had been different. Deeper. Less superficial than with… well, than with “the other crazy one,” as they joked about her.
Marlene had been more than just a school girlfriend. There had been a connection, and there was wounded pride when she ended it. Maybe all of that had pushed him to change.
To focus.
To rebuild himself.
Iris didn’t know exactly what had motivated him.
She only knew her son was changing, and that filled her with pride to see him making an effort and using his talent.
“Well, Mr. Cool,” Iris finally said, pushing off the doorframe, “I’ll let you keep at your Auror training. But when you’re done, do me a favor and come to the kitchen. Your favorite dessert will be ready in ten minutes.”
“Alright, I’ll be there,” Ryan said with a smile, and his mother went back inside the house.
When she stepped inside, Ryan stood still for a moment.
He thought about the relationship the former Ryan had with his mother.
The old Ryan, who never seemed to try, and yet still passed every year, dodged punishments, and somehow remained well-liked. He had a kind of unintentional popularity, born of his good looks, mostly inherited from his mother, mixed with that aura of “I couldn’t care less” that somehow came across as intriguing. And of course, because of his surname: Ollivander.
The relationship he had with Iris was far closer than you’d expect from a fifteen-year-old boy. And not in a bad way.
Rather, in a strange but beautiful way. Almost improbable.
An ordinary teenager wouldn’t write to his mother about his love troubles in such detail. Not even half of it.
But the former Ryan did. He sat down to write her long letters from Hogwarts, telling her everything:
Which girl was staring too much.
Who was chasing him.
How it made him feel.
Who had confessed love after Gryffindor won a Quidditch match, right in the middle of the celebration, when he hadn’t even watched the game and had just shown up for the party.
Letters that included names, nicknames, direct quotes, even pros-and-cons lists like case files. He also wrote about clever pranks, his daily life, funny anecdotes…
And the most incredible part, was that Iris answered him.
Not like a worried mother.
Not with moral lessons. But like an accomplice. With ironic comments, sharp advice, blunt opinions.
And Ryan clearly sought out and valued his mother acting that way. The new Ryan… couldn’t help but feel both envious and grateful.
Because he had never had a mother. And now, suddenly, he did. A mother who understood him. Who teased him, poked at him, hugged him with words.
A mother who listened to him talk about magic, girls, spells, and fears. And that bond wasn’t something he planned to let the damned Death Eaters and Voldemort take away from him.
