From Newt, Tom had "borrowed" a Nimbus 2000.
Lucius Malfoy had gifted him a Nimbus 2001.
And now, freshly delivered to his hands, a Firebolt.
In shops, Firebolts were never displayed with a price tag. The cost was negotiated in private, typically between four and six thousand Galleons. If you were willing to wait, it leaned toward the lower end. If you wanted it urgently, you paid more.
Even indulgent Lucius would not purchase one for Draco.
For Tom, however, the gift was simply accepted. Between him and the Greengrass family, price was irrelevant. It was merely a toy.
...
Diagon Alley.
Tom accompanied Mrs. Greengrass into a modest shop not far from Ollivanders.
The store had opened the previous year. It sold miscellaneous items and a selection of alchemical tools Tom had supplied. Business had been mediocre. Wizards were not particularly enthusiastic about combat oriented alchemical devices, especially when the prices were steep.
"Madam," the lone shop assistant greeted politely upon seeing Mrs. Greengrass.
Mrs. Greengrass surveyed the interior, then issued a calm instruction.
"Remove all current stock. New goods will arrive tomorrow."
The assistant blinked in surprise but immediately complied. A diligent employee knew better than to question such orders. As long as the shop remained open, fewer customers simply meant a quieter shift.
"Is the space sufficient?" Mrs. Greengrass asked Tom.
He nodded casually.
"A single sales window will do. We may need additional staff at the start. Temporary workers should suffice. Is the advertisement arranged?"
"The Daily Prophet has secured the page. I will visit an old acquaintance shortly. As for staff, perhaps permanent hires would be wiser?"
"Let us observe demand first," Tom replied. "This is not a fast moving consumable. The initial rush will be heavy. After that, purchasing frequency will decline."
They did not lower their voices.
The assistant listened with growing confusion.
Both the Madam and this handsome young man spoke as though the new product would sell explosively.
Where did their confidence come from?
After inspecting the shop, Mrs. Greengrass headed to the Ministry. Tom turned instead toward Gringotts.
...
When he presented the agreed upon equipment and bank cards, the goblin manager's jaw nearly hit the floor.
"This… this is impossible."
Tom leaned back, propping his feet on the desk.
"Thirty thousand cards. Is that truly so difficult, Raphael? Payment, please."
The goblin's name had amused Tom when he first learned it. A goblin named after an archangel.
Raphael dabbed sweat from his brow.
"Mr. Riddle, are you certain there are no defects?"
If Tom failed to deliver, profit split would change.
But if he succeeded, the goblins would pay more per unit. Three Sickles extra per card. Five Galleons extra per machine. Individually minor. Collectively catastrophic.
Hundreds of thousands of Galleons.
"I guarantee no card will malfunction," Tom replied lightly. "If anyone tampers with them, I will know. Care to test that theory?"
Raphael forced a strained smile.
"Surely you jest. We would never…"
Moments earlier, he had indeed contemplated sabotage. But now was not the time for open hostility. Decisions of that magnitude exceeded a regional manager's authority.
He surrendered and paid.
As agreed, prices rose by five percent.
Fifteen Sickles for two cards. Fifteen Galleons per machine.
In total, Tom walked away with over forty three thousand Galleons.
After material costs, nearly forty thousand remained.
Cost price?
Of course it was cost price.
If one did not calculate profit margins at several dozen times over, how could it be called cost?
...
Leaving Gringotts after finalizing both the card system and "WhatsApp" cooperation, Tom headed toward Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour to bring Daphne and Astoria some desserts.
Florean, a devoted scholar of magical history, had excelled in the subject despite Professor Binns's soporific lectures. After Tom published "Chronicles of the Wizarding World," Florean had frequently written to him, even offering valuable insights.
Tom fully intended to leverage that scholarly goodwill into a few complimentary scoops.
As September approached, Diagon Alley bustled with students preparing for the new term. Along the way, Tom encountered numerous classmates.
Slytherins greeted him warmly, whether sincerely or strategically.
Students from the other houses offered distant nods.
The constant exchanges slowed him considerably.
By the time he reached the ice cream shop, before he could greet Florean seated beneath a parasol, an excited voice called out behind him.
"Tom?"
He turned.
Harry stood there, accompanied by a man with long black hair and a roguish air.
Harry hurried forward, smiling broadly.
"Tom! I didn't expect to see you here. Hermione wrote that you were in France."
"Returned today. Quite a coincidence."
"Let me introduce you." Harry gestured proudly. "This is Sirius. My godfather."
Sirius Black no longer resembled the skeletal figure who had emerged from Azkaban months earlier. He had regained weight, his lean frame now strong. With his sharp features and carefree demeanor, he carried the aura of a rebellious artist.
More than a few girls passing by cast lingering glances.
Sirius extended his hand with a grin.
"Tom. May I call you that?"
Tom shook it firmly.
"Of course. Congratulations on your exoneration."
"That is largely thanks to you," Sirius laughed. "Without you finding Peter, I would have rotted away unjustly."
"I have wanted to thank you properly for some time. Fortunate that we meet today. Come, let us speak inside."
The invitation carried warmth.
And perhaps the beginning of something far more complicated.