Chapter 51

[POV of Lily Evans]

The last class of the day always felt long, but today it was especially slow.

Partly because it was History of Magic, taught by a professor who spoke in slow motion and without the slightest enthusiasm.

I stared at my parchment, the inkpot, the quill. Drew circles without meaning to.

It was 4:20 p.m. In ten minutes, the bell would ring. In fifteen, I’d be heading down to the dungeons, to caretaker Filch’s office. For the third time.

And he’d be there.

Ryan Ollivander.

Since the trial, I hadn’t stopped thinking about him. Not for the reasons that would make me blush if Mary hinted at them, though yes, he did have those kinds of eyes you don’t forget easily, but because of everything I’d seen in a matter of days. What I really saw.

Before, Ryan was just a name that came with laughter, sarcasm, and rumors of business, someone who could sell more than two quills a day easily. The charismatic inventor who made quills that wrote in the air, who walked as if the whole castle belonged to him, with that arrogant confidence that annoyed more than a few.

But now…

Now he was also the boy who stepped forward to defend a frightened girl without expecting anything in return. The one who mocked Mulciber and Rosier, and then disarmed them without even breaking a sweat.

And the one who, in front of all Hogwarts, dared to expose them. Not out of anger or vanity, but from a place that surprised me: justice.

Yes, justice. Not the kind you proclaim out loud to look good, but the kind you feel inside, when something simply can’t be left unpunished.

And then, the riddle. Merlin, the riddle.

I don’t know how I convinced him to let me help, but I did. It was brilliant, unnecessarily complex, and completely unnecessary. But also fair. A punishment that felt more symbolic than cruel.

That’s why I agreed to share the detention with him. Because it wasn’t fair for him to take all the blame when I had helped too. And because, though I wouldn’t admit it easily, I was curious to know more about that so… contradictory boy.

Heir to a very important family: the Ollivanders. Everyone at Hogwarts, myself included, bought our wands from his grandfather. Turns out he’s an artisan too, or rather, an inventor. Charismatic, egotistical, a graduate in pure sarcasm.

And at the same time, someone capable of gifting a little girl an enchanted peacock feather quill, just so she wouldn’t feel broken inside.

I sighed. The clock read 4:29.

Third day of detention. One hour of punishment with him, surrounded by rags, dust, and moth-eaten furniture. Sorting papers, cleaning shelves, wiping floors...

Ryan arranged shelves with the same focus I imagined he used when creating his inventions. Sometimes he hummed. Sometimes he’d make a snarky comment that made me smile, even when I didn’t want to. But it wasn’t an act. It wasn’t a mask.

It was just him.

And though part of me wanted to keep seeing him as a talented narcissist, another part, harder to ignore each time, was beginning to think Ryan Ollivander was something more than a clever boy with a silver tongue.

It was obvious, surprisingly so, that he was someone with principles. Principles he didn’t show easily. Principles that only surfaced when they truly mattered. And that, oddly enough, made me more curious than any of his inventions.

CLANG!

The monotonous sound of the magic bell marked the end of class. A second later, Professor Binns, floating half a meter above his desk, lifted his gaze without emotion and, in his usual drawn-out, lifeless voice, announced:

“Class dismissed. Read the next chapter… for the following lesson…”

And without waiting for any reaction, he drifted through the wall with his usual funereal grace.

I let out another sigh, this one more resigned, and began packing my things. Closed the book, gathered my quill and ink, rolled up the parchment, all while already thinking about the shelf we’d have to tackle today. The one at the back. The dustiest one. The one where Filch kept jars labeled with things like “dried slug essence” and “old rat horns.”

As I fastened my bag, I felt someone sit on the desk beside me.

“Excited for your detention date with Ollivander?” Mary said, lowering her voice but smiling mischievously.

I turned to her, one eyebrow raised.

“It’s not a date, Mary. It’s an hour of forced labor with rags and dust. Oh, and without magic.”

“Uh-huh,” another voice chimed in. It was Karen, leaning against the back of my chair. “With rags, dust… and Ryan Ollivander. Who, by the way, now looks like he stepped straight out of a forbidden library romance novel.”

“What are you talking about?” I protested, fastening the buckle of my bag a bit too tightly.

Mary let out a giggle.

“Oh, come on, Lily. Ever since the trial, half of Hogwarts sees him as some mix between a mysterious vigilante and a dashing magical movie hero. You told us yourself he disarmed Rosier like he was a puppet. And they say Mulciber doesn’t even dare look him in the eye anymore.”

“And don’t forget that little girl, Eliza,” added Karen. “She hugged him in front of everyone the next day! And he… hugged her back! I almost went ‘Awww’ out loud and wanted to hug him myself.”

“Well, yes,” I admitted, lowering my voice a little, not wanting to sound defensive, “It was very, noble of him.”

Mary glanced at me sideways, amused.

“Noble? Is that what hardworking fourth-year students say when they’re starting to get curious about a fifth-year Gryffindor with a reputation as an eccentric genius and killer-charming eyes?”

I rolled my eyes. “I’m not getting curious about anyone. I’m just… observing. Objectively.”

Karen burst out laughing. “Sure. Like anyone could spend an hour with him three days in a row and not start wondering what’s underneath all that arrogance and sarcasm.”

“Maybe just more sarcasm,” I replied, standing up and slinging my bag over my shoulder.

But even as I tried to sound indifferent, I couldn’t help it. My mind was already back there again. In Filch’s office. In the dust. Among the shelves.

And with Ryan.

Mary, still teasing me, pulled out a quill and wrote in the air:

[Evans + Ollivander?]

The floating ink, bright pink and playfully cursive, hung between us, glowing and impossible to ignore.

“Mary…” I sighed, unable to hide a small smile, “You really need to channel that energy into your Charms homework.”

“It’s field research,” she said with mock seriousness. “Observation of human reactions to magically provocative stimuli.”

Karen leaned toward the floating writing, which was still shamelessly hanging there, and then nodded toward the quill.

“Did you buy that quill from Ollivander?”

“Yes, thanks for noticing,” Mary replied, twirling the quill between her fingers like a stage wand. “At first I thought he was just a jerk, another arrogant show-off with good publicity… and that these quills were a ridiculous luxury. But after seeing what he did yesterday with that little girl, and how he gave her a quill without even bragging about it… I don’t know. I liked him. He earned my trust.”

Karen raised her eyebrows.

“Whoa. Didn’t know you were a moral shopper now. I told you a thousand times these quills are actually useful for studying,” she added, as the glowing message continued to float above our heads. “You don’t waste parchment, you can jot notes, make mind maps, diagrams… or annoy Lily, like you just did.”

“Yes. And they last four hours if you don’t erase them,” said Mary in an expert tone. “We could leave one in the common room. Something like: Ryan, I don’t want our detention together to end. Kisses, Lily Evans.”

“No!” I laughed, faster than I meant to. Then I tried to sound serious. “Don’t you dare. Besides, I don’t even have one of those quills, so I wouldn’t be able to erase the message.”

“You haven’t bought one yet?” asked Karen. “You know the guy’s trustworthy.”

I shook my head. “I know he’s a good person… but ten galleons is a lot. My family doesn’t give me that much allowance, I’d have to save for months.”

I said it honestly, without shame. It was simply the truth. My family wasn’t rich. A middle-class Muggle family. And I wasn’t an only child.

Mary pursed her lips for a moment, then nodded. “Right. I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

Karen nudged me lightly. “Well, maybe now… with your direct connection to the star manufacturer…” she smiled, “you could get one on a ‘special deal.’”

“I’m not that kind of girl,” I replied, not looking at them while gathering my things. “But I did hear from Lupin that Ryan offers payment in installments without interest, I could ask him.”

“Oh, that’s right! I heard that too! You could buy one from him and we’d all have matching quills!” said Mary enthusiastically.

I nodded. Ryan didn’t seem like someone who’d take advantage of others. And after what he did for Eliza, the quill, the trial…

I no longer saw him as an arrogant salesman. I saw him as someone fair. Brilliant, yes. Sometimes unbearable. But also… surprisingly human.

I’ll ask him about the installments. If I can afford it, I’ll buy one—it’d be useful for studying.

I walked back to the Gryffindor common room first. Went up to my dorm, dropped my bag on the bed, stacked the books I’d used today on my desk, and took a few seconds to tie up my hair while looking in the mirror. Something simple. Practical. Not for anyone, just because I didn’t want to end up with cobwebs in my hair again.

I went downstairs, crossed the entrance hall… and stopped in front of the door.

Room 234-00. Argus Filch’s office.

A sinister name for a place full of dust, damp, and the energy of a thousand generations of school punishments.

I arrived ten minutes early. Not because I was eager. No. I just liked being punctual. That was all.

I leaned my back against the stone wall, right beside the frame, and stayed there.

Waiting. The door was closed. Nothing could be heard from inside, which was a good sign.

Five minutes passed. Then six. Seven.

At eight minutes, I adjusted the collar of my robe and crossed my arms. And two minutes before the exact time, I heard footsteps coming from the right corridor.

Calm and there he was.

Ryan Ollivander.

With his sleeves rolled up to the elbows and that easy stride of someone walking into his own private office, not into the most dreaded room in the castle.

He looked at me and smiled that half-smile of his. As if to say: We meet again.

“Evans,” he greeted, as though we were about to attend a prefects’ meeting and not spend an hour wiping dust off furniture with damp rags. “Always so punctual. I’m starting to suspect you actually enjoy coming here.

“I just like not adding extra minutes to the punishment,” I replied, raising an eyebrow with mock sternness.

Ryan shrugged. “Good policy.”

And he stayed beside me. Without saying another word.

For a moment, we shared that rare kind of silence where neither of us felt the need to speak.

Only the faint echo of footsteps and the creak of a door somewhere above us. At exactly five o’clock, the steady, dragging steps drew closer.

The entry door opened with a screech, and there stood Argus Filch, wrapped in his usual brown coat, hunched over, wearing his perpetually sour expression. Beside him, like a living shadow, walked Mrs. Norris, his gaunt, red-eyed cat, who seemed to judge you the moment her paws touched the floor.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Filch,” I said politely.

He gave me a fleeting glance, barely a grunt in acknowledgment, but when he saw Ryan, something in his face changed.

It wasn’t a smile, Filch didn’t smile, but his frown eased by a millimeter, and his tone became, almost friendly.

“Ah, Ollivander. Right on time, as always.”

Ryan nodded with absurd ease, as if he were the host here, not the one serving detention.

“Of course, always punctual in my duties. How’s the quill I gave you, sir?”

Filch let out a snort that, on his emotional scale, might have counted as enthusiasm. “A marvel, boy. I can write messages in the air, and the letters last more than eight hours.”

More than eight hours? I thought, surprised.

That was far longer than the regular quills he sold, the ones that only kept the writing visible for four hours.

And he gave it to him for free?

“I’m glad it worked as promised,” said Ryan, crossing his arms with mock modesty.

I didn’t say a word. Just rolled my eyes. So that’s how he did it.

Ever since the second day of detention, Filch’s attitude had changed drastically, no more grumbling, no more glaring over our shoulders every second, no more threats about hanging us upside down in the dungeons.

Now I knew why.

Of course Ryan had bribed him.

Of course he’d used his charming salesman act to win over even the grumpiest caretaker in the castle.

And of course it worked.

Filch pulled out a massive ring of old keys, each one looking like it had been forged in the fifteenth century, and searched for the right one with deliberate slowness.

“Well, well. Today you’ll handle the back shelf and the unclassified jars. Nothing too difficult. I have matters to attend to,” he said gravely while unlocking the squeaky office door.

He gestured for us to enter. Mrs. Norris sat right at the threshold, a whiskered sentinel.

“My cat will keep an eye on you. But I know you’ll do a fine job. You’re not the slacking type, are you?”

Ryan put on an offended face.

“Us? Never. The dust trembles when it sees us coming.”

Filch gave a snort that, for a brief instant, almost sounded like a laugh.

“I hope so, Ollivander. I hope so.”

And he left, stooped, dragging his feet, his coat trailing behind him, the torchlight making him look like part of the castle itself.

The door stayed slightly ajar. Mrs. Norris stared at us with those eyes that could make you feel guilty just for breathing.

Ryan turned to me and raised his eyebrows. “Ready for another glorious session of penance?”

“Only if you promise not to bribe any more school officials,” I replied, stepping in beside him.

Ryan chuckled under his breath.

And so, our third day of detention began.