Chapter 59

Ryan woke with a faint groan, sunk deep into the sheets of his double bed, which still smelled faintly of his lotion, and of a light floral scent that wasn’t his. He opened his eyes slowly, blinking against the morning light that slipped through the half-open curtains.

His head throbbed with a mild hangover, the kind that came from alcohol that seemed harmless at first, until you realized, far too late, that Gideon and Fabian had brought something far too strong for teenagers: Daisy-root Brew, he remembered now.

'Damn Prewetts…'

He turned onto his side. And there she was.

A girl. Tristin Jones. Same year as him, and, of course, a Gryffindor.

She was sleeping peacefully, facing his side, wrapped only in one of his shirts, a white one, far too large for her frame, but perfect as an improvised dress. Her blonde hair fell in soft waves over the pillow, and one leg peeked out from under the sheets as if claiming territory.

She looked different without her perfectly fitted uniform, without the stockings, the robe, or her neatly painted lips.

Ryan propped himself up on one elbow and watched her silently, still processing the sight.

This hadn’t been a mistake. It hadn’t been some drunken accident.

Sure, they’d been drinking. There had been loud music, laughter, pushing, dancing, flirting, but he remembered it clearly.

They had started exchanging glances until he approached her, and what began as playful teasing turned into something mutual, laughter, brushing hands, and then a kiss in one of the dark corners of the hall.

When things grew more intense and she didn’t seem to mind, Ryan suggested they leave, come here, to his room. Tristin had only raised an eyebrow, as if she’d been expecting the invitation.

A pinch of Floo powder. A quick excuse. They slipped quietly through the dining-room fireplace and tiptoed up to the second floor. Iris was asleep.

And of course, they’d had sex.

Months ago, Ryan had sold Tristin an enchanted quill. She’d asked to pay in five installments, the most anyone had ever requested, but Ryan had agreed, keeping the arrangement secret at her request.

After that, they hadn’t talked much. They crossed paths in class, of course, exchanged polite greetings, a few glances, and nothing more. She had her group of friends, Ryan had his, and after classes, he always dove straight into his routines.

Ryan stretched silently, leaning back against the headboard. Then he looked at Tristin for a moment, and finally leaned a little closer to whisper in her ear.

“Wake up, Queen of Gryffindor,” he murmured softly, teasingly. “Hogwarts starts tomorrow.”

Tristin frowned, muttered something incoherent, and turned to the other side, scrunching her face as if the real world were deeply offensive.

“Five more minutes…” she mumbled, her voice still thick with sleep.

“Well, I can give you five minutes,” Ryan said, “while I admire your sleeping face wearing my shirt.”

That finally made Tristin open her blue eyes slowly. She blinked twice, looked at him lazily from the pillow, and didn’t move. She simply gazed at him with that familiar expression of hers, halfway between haughty and amused.

"Do you like how your shirt looks on me?" she finally asked, sitting up slowly and adjusting the loose fabric. A few buttons were undone, revealing just a little more than necessary, very deliberately so.

Ryan ran a hand through his hair and watched her for a moment, as if admiring a work of art.

“I’d be lying if I said I didn’t. Probably one of my greatest achievements, having Tristin Jones wear my shirt and sleep in it…” he paused theatrically, “I’m going to keep it and never wear it again. It’s reached its final form.”

Tristin sighed, half amusement, half exasperation, clearly used to Ryan’s sarcastic tone by now.

“What time is it?” she asked, turning in the bed with a more alert look, beginning to search for her scattered clothes, her underwear and robe strewn across the wooden floor.

Ryan stood up casually, stretching. He walked over to his dresser and slipped on another shirt, this one dark gray. While buttoning it, he glanced at the slow-turning wall clock near the window.

“Nine o’clock,” he announced, spinning on his heels to look at her again.

Tristin, sitting at the edge of the bed with her feet barely touching the floor, held a stocking in one hand and took in the room properly for the first time.

Ryan Ollivander’s bedroom was nothing like she had imagined.

It was larger than normal, rectangular, with high ceilings and exposed wooden beams. A bookshelf ran along an entire wall, packed with magical objects, components, thick books, and half-finished contraptions. On the desk lay enchanted quills in progress, scrolls covered in strange symbols, cut glass pieces, frames, and stacks of parchment.

It wasn’t messy, but it wasn’t tidy either. It felt alive. As if the space was genuinely used every day.

“So this is your secret lair,” Tristin said, leaning down to pick her bra up off the floor. “I should’ve guessed you’d sleep surrounded by weird books, enchanted quills, and half-built artifacts.”

Ryan shrugged. “Brilliant minds need environments that match their brilliance.”

“Uh-huh. Right. And I suppose that big mirror over there is for the daily ego check?” she said, pointing toward the full-length mirror in the corner.

“You’re quite talkative this morning, considering last night you could barely say two sentences without blushing,” Ryan said, laughing as he approached her.

She looked up, brow slightly furrowed, meeting his gaze directly.

“I did not blush,” she said, with a confidence that sounded like a challenge.

As she spoke, she began to slowly unbutton the shirt she still wore, without haste, revealing part of her torso. Ryan, still smiling, leaned down naturally and moved closer to kiss her.

But Tristin turned her head slightly, offering him her cheek with a neutral expression.

“What are you doing?” she asked quietly, not angry, just firm.

Ryan stopped without losing composure. He stayed inches away, tilting his head slightly, his expression a mix of curiosity and amusement.

“Wow,” he said with a smile that wasn’t mocking but genuinely surprised. “Didn’t think I’d ever get rejected for a kiss… not after what we did last night.”

Tristin took off Ryan’s shirt, slipped into her own, and began buttoning it calmly. “It was a party, Ryan.”

He nodded, crossing his arms like someone analyzing an experiment.

“Of course. Makes sense,” he said in his usual analytical, relaxed tone. “Your ex-boyfriend was Gryffindor’s Quidditch captain… high standards, huh?”

Tristin glanced at him from the corner of her eye, neither confirming nor denying it.

Ryan smiled wider, with no trace of bitterness.

“Still, I think I’ve got a better reputation than some guy who hits a ball in the air while riding a broom,” he added. “I mean… I invented enchanted quills used by over two hundred students, including you, now I sell rapid-reading glasses for more than sixty-five Galleons each… I defeated two Slytherin gorillas and exposed them in a public hearing that cost their House a hundred points…”

He paused for a second, gazing up at the ceiling with mock modesty.

“Am I forgetting something?”

“Humility,” Tristin shot back dryly as she put on her shoes.

“And besides, do you really think Quidditch doesn’t matter?” she said, turning toward him with her arms crossed. “Even if you don’t go to the matches, the stadium’s always full. Or do you think charm only counts when it comes with sales stats and personal branding?”

Ryan narrowed his eyes in amusement. He loved sharp answers like that, especially from someone who, last night, had melted right through that perfectly composed exterior.

“It worked on you last night, didn’t it?” Ryan said, raising an eyebrow.

Tristin, holding his folded shirt in her hands, froze for a second. Then, without hesitation, she threw it straight at his chest, a perfect hit.

“You’re insufferable.”

“Thank you. I try,” Ryan replied, catching the shirt midair with flawless reflexes.

Tristin turned to grab her robe and took a deep breath. Her tone stayed firm, but her cheeks were a little pinker than usual, which, of course, Ryan noticed immediately.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” Tristin added, not looking at him. “It was a party. Nothing more.”

“Did I say otherwise?” Ryan replied. “Believe me, Jones, if I wanted to get you emotionally tangled, I wouldn’t start with sarcasm and self-centered remarks. I only tried to kiss you because I liked your face when you woke up, that’s all. I’m not looking for anything serious with you.”

Tristin looked at him sideways, brow slightly furrowed. It wasn’t clear if she felt flattered or insulted. Her expression stayed neutral, the kind she used when she didn’t want to show a thing.

He smiled, as if she’d just passed a character test.

“Good,” Ryan said, in a tone more practical than romantic. “We should head to the living room. The fireplace with the Floo Powder’s there. My mother’s already in her office by this hour,” he gestured vaguely toward the back of the house, “so we have to move quickly.”

Tristin raised an eyebrow. “Your mother works in her private office wearing a bathrobe while her son sneaks girls into his room through the fireplace?”

“Of course,” Ryan said without missing a beat. “Did you think my wit was a coincidence? Her name’s Iris, researcher, brilliant theorist… and quite modern. She gives me free rein in my romantic life, as long as I don’t give her grandchildren with someone unworthy. Or someone who can’t cast a Protego.”

Tristin let out a quiet, resigned laugh as they crossed the carpeted hallway with light, silent steps.

When they reached the living room, the magical fireplace was already glowing with warm embers. Ryan stepped ahead, took the jar of Floo Powder from the mantel, and held it out to her.

“All right. There it is. Throw in the powder, say where you’re going, and that’s it. Your house, Diagon Alley, Hogsmeade, wherever…”

“How generous,” Tristin said, taking a pinch of powder with effortless grace.

She tossed the Floo Powder into the fire, which immediately burst into bright green flames. She turned to him one last time.

“See you on the train, Ollivander.”

“See you, Jones.”

With a confident step, Tristin vanished into the flames.

Ryan stared at the fire for a moment. Barely half a second after her figure disappeared, he let out a long sigh and turned around, stretching his arms over his head with the lazy ease of someone still fighting off a hangover.

'What the hell was that alcohol…?' Ryan thought. He’d have to find out later, maybe it could even be a good business, smuggling and selling it at Hogwarts for parties.

Butterbeer at celebrations? Seriously? That stuff didn’t have a single drop of real alcohol. No one wanted that. Not when you were stuck in a magical boarding school, full of hormones and with an irrational passion for watching people fly on broomsticks elbowing each other midair.

“All right… back to what matters,” he muttered to himself as he walked down the hallway, his bare feet sinking into the soft carpet. “Two pairs of glasses to finish before tomorrow, last day of vacation, and… at least one more session with the ring. If I want to survive McGonagall’s assignments without dying in the process, I’ll need mental clarity.”

Time to work.