Tristin Jones POV
I left the Great Hall walking quietly alongside Ollivander.
We didn't say a word. And honestly, I thought it was perfect. After all, it was supposed to be "a private talk," wasn't it? Just like I'd said. Though deep down… I wasn't entirely sure what I expected to find at the end of that walk.
People think I love being the center of attention. That I crave it. That I live for it.
And yes, I won't lie to myself: I do like being looked at. I like knowing I have presence. That my hair is flawless, that my skin is every girl's envy, that I walk as if I know exactly where I'm going.
But all of that is armor. A necessary disguise. Because if you show weakness in a place like Hogwarts, they eat you alive.
And I'm not about to let that happen.
No one knows that my wizard father shows up once a month like he's the postman. That I live with my Muggle mom in a two-room flat and shared a bed with my cousin until I was ten. No one knows that my allowance is one, maybe two, galleons a month. And that many times I have to choose between buying a new magical eyeliner or saving for Hogsmeade.
So I manage my money as best I can. My relationships, too.
I've never been a slut, though I know more than one person thinks so. Of course it bothers me. But I hide it behind smiles and eye rolls. I let it slide. Because I don't have room for unnecessary drama.
And because, deep down, I know they don't understand.
The boys I've been with were real. I liked them. They made me feel safe, or special, or at least less alone. Did I sometimes let them buy me things? Obviously. What girl doesn't like to be spoiled by her boyfriend?
But today I wasn't here to seduce Ollivander. I just wanted to buy one of the quills he sells.
Everyone has them. That's an exaggeration, but a huge part of the castle owns one.
I think more than a hundred students already use his famous Enchanted Quills, and only thirty days have passed since the start of term. Even the Charms professor has one.
They're sleek, agile, with invisible ink that floats in the air like enchanted smoke. And they last four hours before disappearing if you don't erase them.
They're brilliant and expensive. Ten galleons.
For an eagle feather quill that, without enchantment, wouldn't even be worth 0.6 galleons.
But of course, it's Ryan Ollivander's. The stylish inventor. The reformed rebel. And he belongs to that famous family that's been selling the best wands in the world for hundreds of years.
I swallowed hard without showing it. I didn't have ten galleons. Not even close.
I only had five left. And I couldn't ask my mom.
She already does enough. She works at a beauty salon in London and barely manages to cover my things. She sends me letters with drawn hearts and phrases like "my little witch," and I hide them because I don't want anyone to see.
So I had to find a way. Negotiate. Of course, without lowering my dignity, I'm not that kind of girl. I want him to take me seriously.
Not see me as that Tristin so many girls call a slut just because they envy the way I look…
He walked beside me with that careless stride, saying nothing, as if he wasn't in a hurry and suspected nothing.
We entered a room near the Divination classroom. Deserted. Vaulted ceilings. A small window letting in the light.
Ryan leaned his back against the wall, arms crossed. His face carried that mix of relaxed and bored, like he was there as a formality more than out of any real interest.
"Well…" he finally said, "So? Which quill do you want?"
His tone was lazy, without urgency, without hidden intent. Nothing like an attempt to impress me or flirt.
It was just business.
I looked at him for a few seconds.
Took a deep breath. "First of all… I want to make sure this conversation doesn't leave this room, okay?"
Ryan blinked once, barely, and looked at me with a raised eyebrow.
"I respect my clients' privacy," he said as if it were obvious. "If you don't want anyone to know which quill color you chose, no one will know. Unspoken Unbreakable Vow."
I might have laughed if I hadn't been so tense.
I shook my head slightly. "That's not it," I clarified in a lower voice. "It's just that… I heard you sometimes do installments."
The word hung in the air like an invisible feather.
I didn't even look at him when I said it. I felt small. Like my robes were tightening against my chest.
Ryan didn't answer right away. But I saw it. In the way he shifted his weight. In the way he looked at me with a new seriousness, no irony, no mockery.
He put the pieces together. He knew why I'd asked for privacy. He understood what it meant to need to pay in installments.
And the strangest part was that he didn't say anything cruel. Nothing condescending.
"Yes. I do interest-free installments," he finally replied. "The current price is ten galleons."
I nodded. "I can't just drop ten galleons all at once. I only want a payment plan…" I said, still staring at the floor.
He studied me for another second.
"I could offer three payments of four, three, and three," he suggested matter-of-factly. "That makes ten. No interest."
I felt a sting in my stomach.
Not because of the offer, but because, I couldn't.
"I can't," I admitted softly. "I can't pay four right now. I only have five. And I can't spend more than two per month or I won't make it to the end of the month."
I didn't know why I was telling him this.
But I said it anyway.
"Could you make it five installments? All two galleons each?" I asked, feeling the shame crawl up my neck like a slow burn.
The silence lasted a little longer than I would have liked, and for a second I thought he was going to laugh.
Or say it wasn't worth selling a quill in that many payments when so many people were ready to pay him in full on the spot.
But he didn't. He didn't look at me with pity. And somehow, that was worse. Because I didn't know how to read it.
Ryan nodded, simple, without theatrics, without that arrogant half-smile he used so often.
"Fine. Five payments of two galleons," he said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
His tone was neutral. But not empty. As if he suddenly saw me differently. As if I was no longer the girl who asked for privacy with a diva's air.
"What color do you want?" he asked next, cutting straight to the point.
"Dark red. Not shiny, but more… elegant. Like old letter ink," I replied without much thought. I had already decided before coming.
He nodded once more.
"I'll have it for you tomorrow," he said plainly.
I nodded back, this time with a bit more relief. I crossed my arms, more out of habit than cold, and shot him a sidelong glance.
"And the payments?" I asked, getting back to the practical part. "How do you want me to pay you?"
Because yes, I want to pay it in five installments. And no, I don't have ten galleons lying around, not even close. But if I've learned anything from these past years managing what little allowance I get… it's that people don't give things away. At least not if you don't have a meaningful relationship with them.
And sometimes what seems simple has fine print.
"Tomorrow I'll give you the quill and you'll pay me the first installment. The next month, the second, and so on until the fifth," he replied.
"Do I have to sign something?" I asked bluntly.
Ryan raised an eyebrow, surprised. "Sign?"
"A contract. A promissory note. Some kind of magical binding charm. Something that forces me to pay extra interest if I'm late by a day, or lets you take my stuff if I fail to pay."
He smiled, just barely. "No. I'm not going to make you sign anything."
"Well. If you ever do… just know I don't sign anything without reading every single line," I said firmly.
"My mother almost signed a lease contract with a clause that said they could charge double the rent for every late day… and also enter the flat without notice. I was thirteen. I was the one who read it and told her not to sign."
My tone wasn't dramatic. Just clear.
Ryan looked at me with a mix of surprise and… respect?
I couldn't be sure. I'm no Seer. But it wasn't mockery, that much was certain.
"Noted," he said, still with that small smile but no trace of irony. "Five installments. Two galleons each. The first tomorrow when I hand you the quill, the rest every thirty days. No interest. No contracts. No hidden enchantments."
I nodded slowly.
"I'm not one to leave debts," I said, more to myself than to him.
"I don't think you are," he replied, and for the first time his voice was completely serious. "And if you ever can't pay one of the installments… just tell me. We'll work it out. No problem."
I stared at him for a moment.
That kind of response wasn't normal. Not at Hogwarts. Not among kids with more galleons than empathy.
"Thank you… for the installments and the trust…" I murmured, without emotional makeup.
He only gave a slight nod. Then, as if the air had gotten too heavy, he straightened up and shifted back into Ollivander mode instantly.
"Well then," he said suddenly, standing with that relaxed, confident posture that comes so naturally to him.
His tone returned to that charming theatricality that makes him as unbearable as he is magnetic.
"Tomorrow after class, in this very same empty room, I'll hand you the quill. I now depart to fulfill my noble purpose," he went on as he turned toward the door, "to personally craft the best quill on the market. Red, elegant… and of course, outrageously expensive. A jewel worthy of a demanding client."
I didn't laugh. But I smiled. Very, very faintly. Just a trace on my lips.
Almost an exhale of relief.
And when the door closed behind him, I was alone again in that empty room. I didn't know exactly what to feel.
I had secured the quill. On my terms. Without discounts. Without manipulation. Without giving up my pride.
But something stranger had happened too. I had revealed myself.
Truly.
I told him I couldn't pay ten galleons. That I needed installments. That I would read every line if he made me sign something. That money was tight.
And he didn't laugh. He didn't look at me with pity. Or disdain.
I smoothed down my skirt in silence, as if that could also straighten out what I felt inside.
And I walked out of the classroom without looking back.
As I made my way down the corridor, I couldn't help wondering if Ryan now saw me differently.
Because until today, I'm sure he had me in the same category as everyone else: the Gryffindor diva, the blonde with blue eyes, the girl who walks as if the castle owed her something, the manipulator, the one who always gets what she wants with either a smile or social pressure.
And to be honest, I wouldn't blame him for that.
We had never really talked. Same year, same house… and yet, we were two planets orbiting miles apart.
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