Ryan closed the door softly behind him. The corridor was almost empty at that hour: neither fully crowded, nor fully silent. A group of Hufflepuffs passed by laughing in the distance, and a few Ravenclaw girls were arguing about potion ingredients near the staircase.
He didn't hurry.
He strolled calmly down the fourth-floor corridor, hands in his pockets, head tilted slightly to one side.
He turned into one of the less-frequented hallways, the one that faced a series of old, dusty stained-glass windows. He walked a few more meters until he stopped in front of a stone structure jutting out from the wall: a rectangular ledge, part of an old decorative molding, probably meant for a statue that was never placed there, or one someone had forgotten.
From below it looked like just another architectural detail. But Ryan already knew it well.
He glanced to both sides. No one. Then, without hesitation, he pushed off, planted a foot in a side crack, and climbed with the agility of someone who had done it dozens of times. In a few seconds, he reached the ledge, more than four meters above the ground. It wasn't spacious, but just wide enough to lie down with a bit of comfort—if one didn't mind heights or cold stone.
He lay back. Rested his head against the rough stone. Crossed his arms behind his neck. One leg stretched out, the other bent.
He pulled out his dark sunglasses, even though there wasn't much sun, and put them on. It was about twenty minutes to six.
He wasn't thinking about Tristin. Nor about what quills he was supposed to deliver.
He was thinking about the magical fight club he wanted to start, to hold duels and run illegal bets. He hadn't found any place to host the club. He didn't have much time, and he spent little of it exploring the castle. He hadn't even gone into the Forbidden Forest.
'A disgrace to my reputation as a rebellious entrepreneur,' he thought with irony.
'I wonder if the Marauders have already created the famous map…' Ryan mused.
He doubted it. They were in their fourth year. And to create a map like that, one that tracked every person in the castle in real time, would take more than just talent.
They would need a complete understanding of Hogwarts: passageways, hidden classrooms, restricted accesses, even spots like the one he was lying on now. It wasn't enough to be clever; they had to have walked the castle's bones.
And Ryan doubted anyone, no matter how brilliant, could have done that before fifth year. At least not in such depth.
But as he was lost in thought, the distant murmur of footsteps broke the silence. He didn't notice them at first.
Only when the voices grew closer, carried by the echo of the hallway, did his attention return to the present.
He leaned out slightly, moving his head just enough.
It was Mulciber and Evan Rosier. Fifth-years, like him. Slytherins. Supremacists. One aggressive, the other a complicit spectator. Both wearing smiles that never meant anything good.
And right in their path, a girl.
First or second year. A Hufflepuff robe. Few things defined her more quickly than her frightened expression, the freckles on her cheeks, the crooked glasses, and the way she clutched a charmed quill to her chest. One of Ryan's inventions.
Ryan frowned slightly behind his sunglasses.
The scene unfolded fast and cruel, giving him no time to intervene. Mulciber said something he couldn't catch. He shoved the girl with a rough elbow to her shoulder. She stumbled a little. Evan let out a dry laugh.
"What's this?" Mulciber said, yanking the quill from her hands with violent ease. "Where did you get money to buy this, mudblood? Did you steal it?"
"No… I bought it… please, it's mine…" the girl stammered, eyes wide and wet, staring at her quill.
Mulciber examined the object for a moment. He turned it in his hand. Smiled with that cold twist he wore whenever something amused him more than it should.
"What a waste," he muttered.
He stretched out his hand and let it drop.
The quill hit the floor with a soft but sharp crack. Then, without a pause, Mulciber lifted a foot and crushed it.
Ryan only managed to see the moment when the tip of the quill snapped beneath Mulciber's boot. Then they kept walking, laughing, never looking back.
No one had noticed Ryan. No one ever looked four meters up.
The girl lowered her head. She stared at the remains of her quill with a silently devastated expression. She bent down, or tried to, as if picking up the pieces might somehow undo what had happened.
That was when Ryan jumped.
He landed in a light knee bend, right beside her. The sound of his shoes hitting the ground startled her.
She looked at him, tears threatening to spill from her eyes, mixed with astonishment. She recognized him instantly.
"Ryan… Ollivander?" the girl asked in surprise.
Ryan didn't answer right away.
He crouched in silence. Picked up the remains of the quill with care, as if they still held some dignity. He held it between his fingers, examining it briefly, while his sunglasses completely hid the expression in his eyes.
Then he rose smoothly to his feet. Extended his arm and handed the broken quill back to the girl. She took it with trembling hands, eyes lowered.
Ryan still said nothing. He turned his head slightly. Watched Mulciber and Rosier's backs as they walked away, their arrogance fed by impunity.
Then he spoke. Not a shout. Just a clear voice.
"Hey, Mulciber," Ryan said casually, as if calling him to return a forgotten book. "Do you feel more of a man after stomping on an eleven-year-old girl's belongings?"
Both stopped.
Rosier turned first, amused, as if expecting to see some lunatic with no sense of self-preservation.
Mulciber took half a second longer. Then he turned as well, one eyebrow slightly raised.
The girl swallowed hard, frozen. She clutched the broken quill to her chest as though it could shield her. And without moving, she watched Ryan's back. Unshaken.
Ryan didn't stop. He moved forward. Step by step. Slow. Unhurried. Mulciber's eyes were on him. Rosier's too.
And then, in that brief silence of suspended tension, Ryan calmly removed his sunglasses, folded them with a soft click, finally revealing those gray eyes that didn't fear looking down, or up, at anyone.
A crooked smile spread across his face. It wasn't kind, nor friendly.
Mulciber tilted his head slightly, like a bored predator. And with a harsh, yet steady tone, he said, "I'm doing you a favor, Ollivander. That little thing of yours in the hands of a mudblood would only drag down your prestige. You're welcome."
He stepped forward. The movement wasn't rushed or clumsy. It was provocative. There was no fear in his eyes. Only disgust.
Ryan stopped. Watched him in silence for a couple of seconds.
Rosier smirked lazily, waiting for sarcasm. A joke. A retreat with some lofty remark.
After all, to him, Ryan Ollivander was nothing more than a clown with good publicity. A Gryffindor who thought he was interesting just because he sold enchanted quills to students. Beyond that, there was nothing noteworthy about him.
But instead of speaking, Ryan laughed. A short laugh.
Mulciber frowned. "What's so funny?" he snapped.
Ryan lifted his gaze slightly, as if considering the question with genuine thought. "I thought Slytherins were supposed to be smarter. You know: ambition, cunning, pure-blood and all that textbook nonsense… but you two…"
He made a vague gesture with his hand, as if brushing away something annoying in the air.
"You're so basic you make me doubt. Are Lucius and the others just as brainless? Or are you two a separate branch with a bit more inbreeding in the mix?"
Evan's smile froze on his face, his eyes sharpening dangerously at Ryan.
Mulciber's eyes went cold.
Ryan took in the silence that followed his comment. Mulciber's scowl. Rosier's frozen smile.
Then he raised an eyebrow, as if realizing something. "Oh… right. Sorry. I'm using words that are too difficult."
He placed a hand on his chest in theatrical apology.
"Inbreeding," he repeated, with the condescending tone of a teacher. "It's when a magical family only breeds among themselves or with a couple of surnames that share more genes than broomsticks in the same closet. Result: reduced genetic diversity, increased mental defects, and that face of yours," he said, staring directly at Mulciber.
Mulciber took another step, fists slightly clenched, but Ryan didn't flinch. He scanned him up and down and smiled with a relaxed brow.
"You're like a walking wardrobe," he said. "Square head, no neck, troll shoulders, and that back as if you'd been assembled in a carpenter's shop."
He paused a second. Measured him again.
"And it's not fat, no, that would be more interesting. It's… mass. Mass without direction. A kind of crude bulk, like a caveman fresh out of the mold. I can't tell if you're trying to intimidate me or if that's just all there is."
Mulciber no longer bothered to hide it. The muscle in his jaw tightened. His lips pressed together with a rage he could no longer conceal. Rosier stopped smiling altogether.
And then Mulciber snapped. His hand slid into his robe, reaching for his wand in a swift movement.
But he wasn't faster than Ryan.
A red flash sliced through the air. No words, no warning. Just the soft hum of a nonverbal Expelliarmus, cast with precision and power.
Mulciber's wand flew from his hand before he could even aim.
It hit the ground with a sharp crack and landed right at Ryan's feet. He stepped forward once more and, without looking down, placed the polished sole of his shoe on top of the wand.
'What!?' Mulciber and Evan thought at once, without needing to say it. The surprise was clear on their faces.
That Expelliarmus had been far too quick. Wordless. No exaggerated motion. Just a red flash and the wand flying.
Both stared at Ryan as if seeing something new. Something that didn't fit the image they had of him. That egotistical Gryffindor show-off, that clown with star-like airs, the charming inventor who duped girls out of galleons… had just disarmed him without moving a single facial muscle.
Ryan tilted his head calmly. "Did you really think I could lose to you?"
His tone wasn't mocking. It was disappointed. "Lose to a being made slow by inbreeding? Tsk, tsk, you hold yourself in very high regard."
Mulciber gritted his teeth, ready to spit a threat or snatch his wand back. But he didn't get the chance.
Because Evan Rosier, seeing his friend disarmed like a beginner and finally sensing a real threat, reacted.
His wand shot out from his sleeve with speed, and he fired a nonverbal spell straight at Ryan. He was fast. Not as fast as Ryan, but faster than the average for their age.
The blue flash streaked toward Ryan's chest. But Ryan was already moving.
"Protego," he murmured, barely audible, with a faint smile.
The shield rose invisible, only revealing itself on impact, dissolving the spell with a bright hum. Not a step back.
"Much better," said Ryan, half-smiling like someone congratulating a more decent opponent.
And without giving them time to breathe, he moved his wand again. A second Expelliarmus, just as quick as the first, surged wordlessly with precision.
Evan tried to raise a Protego, managed it just in time, but Ryan's spell tore through it with unexpected force, hurling him several steps backward.
He had to fight for balance to avoid hitting the ground.
His wand flew from his hand, hit the floor with a dry sound, and rolled to a stop beside Mulciber's.
Silence.
Ryan lowered his wand with calm. Then glanced at both lying on the floor, as if deciding whether it was even worth returning them.
"And here I thought Slytherins came with a reputation included," he said into the air, almost to himself. "What a disappointment. I really thought Rosier, at least, would give me a minute of entertainment."
Rosier, chest heaving, looked at him caught between restrained fury and bewilderment. Mulciber still said nothing.
"Well," Ryan added with a smile sharp, "with skills like yours, it makes sense your favorite targets are first-years."
The grimaces of annoyance twisted on their faces instantly. Humiliation. Rage. And they were about to spit out some threat or insult…
But Ryan was faster. Again.
"Immobulus Duo," he said, with a smooth, swift flick of his wrist.
A pale burst shot forward in a straight line and, upon impact, split into two flashes that wrapped around Mulciber and Rosier at the same time.
They froze instantly.
Motionless. Standing. Like statues that breathed. Eyes fixed. Jaws clenched. Unable to move a single finger.
Ryan lowered his arm, twirled the wand lightly between his fingers like someone playing with a key, and walked toward them. Slowly. With soft, almost elegant steps.
The girl behind him was still there, silent. She barely breathed, her mouth half-open in shock at what she was seeing.
Ryan stopped in front of them. Looked at Mulciber calmly. And there, in those suspended seconds, he saw what he was searching for.
A glimpse, slight, but real, of fear. Not shouted. Not admitted. But in the eyes. Enough for Ryan to smile, just faintly.
"Don't be afraid," he said softly, in an almost didactic tone. "I'm only going to collect a small fee for breaking one of my quills… and nearly making a little girl cry in fear."
Without raising his voice, without losing that strange calm, he closed his fist and drove it with precision into Mulciber's stomach.
The impact was sharp. Mulciber's body bent slightly, all the air rushing out of his lungs, trapped in a muffled gasp.
Ryan turned his face toward Rosier. Not a word. Another punch. Just as sharp. Right between the plexus and the pride.
Rosier shuddered slightly in his rigid stance.
Then Ryan raised his wand again, stepped back, and with two smooth motions cast:
"Depulso."
"Depulso."
The two bodies were hurled violently backward. They rolled across the stone floor several meters, robes tangled, kicking up a fine cloud of dust and grit.
When they finally stopped, the immobilization curse was already unraveling. Both began to move. Slowly, gasping, feeling the pain from the blow in their stomachs.
'That bastard's stronger than he looks,' Evan thought, his body still aching, his pride crushed.
Both of them rose to their feet with effort. Robes wrinkled, knees dusty, faces tense. They looked at him from a distance.
And they didn't dare advance. Their wands were still on the floor, at Ryan's feet. But more than that, it was his gaze.
Those gray eyes cold and expectant. As if he wanted them to try. As if he expected them to shout at him, to insult him, to lunge again. Not out of defense. For pleasure. For the simple desire to keep hitting them.
Rosier felt it clearly. And for the first time in years, he didn't step forward. Instead, he spoke. His voice didn't tremble, but every word came wrapped in contained poison.
"All right, Ollivander. You win. Congratulations," he paused, swallowing, "Now give the wands back."
Ryan looked at them without moving. Then he lowered his gaze. His shoes were still planted on the two wands.
"No."
Evan blinked, surprised. "What?"
Ryan looked up again with disdain. "Leave. Maybe I'll give them back when I'm in a good mood. Or maybe not. We'll see."
Mulciber clenched his fists, but said nothing. Evan took a step forward, careful not to close the distance.
"That's theft. A wizard's wand is important. If we report you, you'll be screwed."
Ryan smiled faintly. "Do it. Report me. Call McGonagall, Slughorn, Dumbledore if you like."
His eyes didn't waver.
"But if you're still here in ten seconds, the next time I immobilize you, my fist goes straight into your faces. Who knows, maybe I'll get carried away and end up giving you more blows than I planned…"
The silence grew heavy. That threat, delivered with the same calm you use to tell the time, sounded more real than any spell.
Evan knew it. Mulciber too. They saw it in his eyes. He wasn't joking. Not this time. They glanced at each other briefly and left.
They walked away with mute rage. Pride in shreds, dirty backs, fury hanging from their teeth like unused venom.
Ryan watched them until they turned the corner. Only then did he lift a foot. He crouched, picked up the two wands, and tucked them into his robe.
...
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