Chương 11: Chapter 12 : Diagon Alley II

The inside of Gringotts turned out to be far larger than Tyson had expected. Probably the Undetectable Extension Charm at play. The ceiling stretched high overhead, supported by enormous marble pillars that gleamed beneath hanging chandeliers. Sunlight poured through the tall windows near the upper walls, spilling over polished white floors until the whole hall seemed to shine. It looked less like a bank and more like a cathedral built for money.

Rows of raised desks stretched across both sides of the vast chamber, each occupied by goblins hunched over ledgers and parchment. Quills scratched endlessly across paper, the only sound breaking the otherwise oppressive silence. Tyson slowed, looking around. His father did the same.

"This is a bank?" his father muttered under his breath, staring up at the absurd scale of the place. His mother's eyes moved from one marble pillar to the next, equally caught off guard by the grandeur. For a place run by creatures everyone described as greedy, they certainly knew how to make greed look elegant. Professor McGonagall, meanwhile, looked entirely unsurprised. She walked forward at an even pace, like this was no different from entering a post office.

She led them toward the nearest unoccupied desk, where a goblin sat buried in paperwork, long fingers moving with precise, almost mechanical efficiency.

"Good day," Professor McGonagall said. The goblin looked up. Its sharp face immediately twisted into irritation, as though the interruption itself was offensive. McGonagall either didn't notice or didn't care, "This young man would like to exchange British pounds for Galleons." The goblin's narrow eyes moved across Tyson and his parents before stopping on the Hogwarts letter in Tyson's hand.

"First-year Muggle-born?" it asked. Tyson nodded, "Yes."

"Present your acceptance letter." Tyson handed it over. The goblin inspected it thoroughly, eyes scanning every line like it expected to find a flaw somewhere. Only after a long moment did it hand the parchment back.

"The standard exchange rate is five pounds to one Galleon," it said.

"One Galleon equals seventeen Sickles. One Sickle equals twenty-nine Knuts. Muggle-born students are permitted to exchange no more than two thousand pounds annually." Tyson gave a small nod, "Thank you. We'd like to exchange a thousand pounds then." There went half his savings. The other half, however, was staying untouched. They were his future investments. His father had already offered to cover everything, insisting Tyson keep his money, but Tyson wasn't having that. He was an independent American boy.

He couldn't let his parents pay his college fees.... School fees. Same thing. If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

"You sure?" his father asked quietly, glancing at him. Tyson nodded, "I've got enough." His father looked like he wanted to argue, but in the end only sighed, "Well its your money." Tyson caught the faint note of approval in his voice. His mother on the other hand looked far less approving. The goblin counted the bills quickly, checking each note with practiced care before setting them aside. A moment later, it pushed forward a small leather pouch. It landed with a heavy clink. Tyson opened it and looked inside.

Two hundred Galleons. Heavy gold coins sat stacked together, their weight far more satisfying than bank notes could ever be. After finishing the exchange, they stepped back out into Diagon Alley. Tyson adjusted the pouch at his side, feeling its weight settle against his hip. Professor McGonagall glanced at him, "Alright, Mister Steward. Now that you have Galleons, let's get your school supplies." Tyson nodded, and the next hour passed in a blur of shops, crowds, and magical oddities.

McGonagall led them through half the alley, methodically crossing off everything on the list while his parents trailed behind, stopping every few minutes to stare at something strange. Madam Malkin's robes were warm and admittedly of good quality, but Tyson still thought they looked a bit ridiculous. He understood the point of wearing uniforms in theory. They offered efficiency, equality, and easy identification, but long black robes seemed excessive. And a bit too chuunibyou for his taste.

The pointed hat somehow managed to be even worse. Tyson stared at it for a moment before quickly stuffing it into his newly bought trunk under his parents' amused gazes. He'd just treat the uniform as cosplay. Anyways, he had seen straight guys cosplaying as Makima. Just how much worse could cosplaying as a wizard be? After paying the witch 15 Galleons and 2 Sickles, they went on to buy the other items on the list.

A standard cauldron, glass phials, brass scales, basic potion ingredients, and a telescope that was far better than it had any right to be. The thing delivered viewing quality absurdly beyond what its size should have allowed. Tyson spent nearly five minutes testing it and came to the deeply unsettling conclusion that the enchanted instrument could rival equipment that would cost a fortune in the Muggle world. That made him wonder.

If wizards could casually build telescopes capable of competing with scientific observatories, why had no one bothered inventing a fuckin' pen? Seriously. The priorities of magical civilization were highly questionable. Tyson even thought they were deliberately stalling their own progress. Tyson's stash of Galleons reduced with every purchase. At the end, he was only left with 10 Galleons and a dozen Sickles. And that was despite him being very frugal in his spending. Books took a big chunk of it.

As it turned out, knowledge was expensive in every world. But he bought them anyway. Books were rarely a bad investment. Not only the first-year textbooks, he also bought reference manuals, supplementary guides, and additional reading material like "A Brief History of the Magical World," "Runes for Beginners," "Laws of the Wizarding World," and a few others which caught his eye. He also bought the Charms textbooks from first to fourth year. He needed the fourth-year textbook to read up on Accio.

And since he was buying it, it felt like he might as well buy the second and third year as well, because why not? By the time he finished, he'd accumulated enough reading material to start a respectable private library, and fifty Galleons had vanished from his pouch. Another big chunk went to his trunk. At first glance, it looked quite ordinary: large, sturdy, reinforced at the corners, with decent wheels and solid locks. Then the shopkeeper opened it.

And Tyson immediately decided he was getting that shit, even if he had to borrow some money from his father. Fuck being American! He wanted the trunk at all costs! How could he not? The thing was enormous from inside, easily the size of a small room. Years of reading fantasy novels had thoroughly conditioned him to appreciate storage artifacts that casually violated reality. If the universe was handing him a box bigger on the inside, he wasn't about to question it. He was buying it. No debate.

Fortunately, it ended up being just under his budget. Twenty Galleons vanished from his pouch like that. But he still bought the best model he could reasonably justify. Some things, though, Tyson refused to purchase out of sheer distaste. Quills were one of them. Like literal quills. Actual feather quill. In this day and age. The wizards were mad! Human civilization had spent centuries improving writing technology. Ink pens, fountain pens, ballpoints, mechanical pencils.

There were entire industries dedicated to making writing easier, cleaner, and faster. And magical Britain had apparently looked at all of it and collectively decided, 'No, bird feathers solos.' Unbelievable. Tyson bought several boxes of ballpoint pens instead. They were cheaper, cleaner, and faster. Plus, objectively superior. More importantly, he was fairly certain Hogwarts students would realize that eventually. And if they did... Then there was probably money to be made here.

That thought stayed with him as he adjusted the weight of his trunk and looked down the street toward the final destination.

'Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B. C.' It was finally time to get armed.