The fireplace in the Peverell drawing room was cold, massive, and smelled like dead soot.
I stood inside the grate, clutching the heavy goblin-silver mirror with one hand and a small, crusty pouch of Floo Powder I'd found in a cracked urn with the other. It was the only magical asset left in the house.
"One pinch," I muttered, looking at the sparkling green dust. "One-way ticket."
In the Nether-Core novel, Ren Wu used teleportation arrays that cost thousands of Spirit Stones. Here, in this backward British wizarding society, people traveled by shouting into fireplaces.
Inefficient. Dirty. Utterly ridiculous.
I loved it.
Primitive transport meant slow supply chains. If the supply chains were slow, there was arbitrage to be made.
I threw the powder down. Green flames roared to life, licking at my shins but not burning. They felt like warm wind, swirling with a magical density that made the hair on my arms stand up.
"Diagon Alley!" I shouted, my voice cracking slightly under the strain of holding the heavy mirror.
The world dissolved.
It wasn't a gentle fade. It was a violent yank behind the navel. The Peverell drawing room vanished, replaced by a spinning vortex of green and gray grates. I saw flashes of other wizards' living rooms—a fat wizard eating toast, a witch scolding a cat—blurring past like a film reel on fast-forward.
I tucked my elbows in—a reflex from my corporate travel days—and braced for impact.
I shot out of a grate and slammed face-first onto a wooden floor. The mirror clattered beside me, miraculously unbroken, though the frame groaned under the impact.
I stood up, dusting off my moth-eaten robes. The room was dim, smelling of stale beer, sherry, and unwashed bodies.
"Alright there, lad?"
I looked up. A hunchbacked man with a toothless grin and skin like wrinkled parchment was wiping a glass behind a wooden bar. Tom the Innkeeper. The Leaky Cauldron.
The place was a dump. In the mortal world, a health inspector would have condemned this building in five minutes. Here, it was the gateway to the magical capital.
I dragged the heavy mirror onto a nearby table. The wood was sticky with spilled butterbeer.
I looked Tom in the eye.
"I need liquidity."
Tom blinked, looking at the dirty boy speaking like a banker. He set down his rag and leaned over the bar, squinting at the object.
"Liquidity?" he muttered. "You mean gold?"
He looked down at the mirror. His eyes widened slightly.
To an untrained eye, it was a cracked piece of junk. But Tom had been serving purebloods for fifty years. He knew the difference between junk and antiquity.
"That's... that's goblin silver," Tom muttered, running a gnarled finger over the black, tarnished frame. "And that crest... haven't seen that triangle in decades. That's Peverell work. Where'd you nick it, boy?"
"I am Damon Peverell," I said, flashing the signet ring on my finger. It was loose on my eleven-year-old digit, but the obsidian stone with the Deathly Hallows crest caught the dim light perfectly. "And I'm not nicking it. I'm liquidating it. 20 Galleons."
Tom scratched his chin, his eyes darting between the ring and the mirror. He sniffed.
"10. It's cracked. Bad luck, broken mirrors."
I didn't flinch. I triggered the System.
Appraise: Tom the Innkeeper.
> [Target: Tom]
> [Desire: Respectability]
> [Weakness: Wants his pub to rival the Three Broomsticks]
> [Current Cash on Hand: 45 Galleons]
>
"The glass is cracked," I countered smoothly, leaning forward. "But the frame is goblin silver from the 14th century. Do you know what that means, Tom? It means it doesn't tarnish. You hang this behind your bar, polish it up, and suddenly this place doesn't look like a hole in the wall. It looks like a historic landmark. A place where the Ancient Houses used to drink."
I tapped the frame.
"Scrap value alone is 12. Historical value brings it to 25. I'm offering it to you for 15 because I'm in a hurry and I like your establishment's... rustic charm."
It was a lie. But I hit his weakness. He didn't want a mirror; he wanted prestige.
Tom grinned, revealing gums that had seen better centuries. He reached under the counter and slapped a pile of gold coins on the sticky wood.
"12. And a bowl of pea soup. Take it or leave it."
I looked at the soup bubbling in a cauldron behind him. It looked like grey sludge.
"Deal," I said. "Hold the soup."
Ten minutes later, I walked out into the small courtyard behind the pub, feeling 12 Galleons heavier and significantly less hungry. I had bought a stale roll from a passing witch for two Sickles.
I stood before the brick wall.
I tapped the specific brick—three up, two across—with my bare hand. Nothing happened.
Right. No wand.
"Excuse me," I said to a passing wizard in violent purple robes. "Could you?"
The wizard grunted, tapped the wall, and hurried on.
The bricks folded away. They rotated and shivered, opening a hole that grew wider and wider until it revealed a cobbled street twisting out of sight.
And then, the noise hit me.
Diagon Alley.
It was exactly as the books described, and yet, completely different. The books described the whimsy—the cauldrons bubbling on the pavement, the owls hooting, the broomsticks zooming in display cases.
I didn't see whimsy.
I saw the Economy.
I saw supply chains. I saw demand spikes. I saw inefficiencies everywhere.
System. Scan.
> [Location: Diagon Alley]
> [Economic Status: High Activity]
> [Opportunity Density: 88%]
> [Market Trend: Inflationary (Hogwarts shopping season)]
>
I walked through the crowd, my eyes darting.
Apothecary: I smelled the dragon liver before I saw it. Selling at 17 Sickles an ounce. A 200% markup from the raw material cost I remembered from the lore. Robbery.
Eeylops Owl Emporium: Dozens of children buying predators. A subscription model trap. You buy the owl for 10 Galleons, but you pay 50 Galleons a year in treats and cages. Smart business model for Eeylops; bad investment for the kids.
Madam Malkin's: Seasonal fashion cycles. Good margin, but high competition.
Then, the flow of the street changed.
Down near the white marble pillars of Gringotts, the crowd wasn't moving. It was clotting.
A massive knot of witches and wizards had formed, blocking the main thoroughfare. People were standing on tiptoes. I heard shrieks that reminded me of teenage fans at a pop concert.
"It's him!" someone shrieked, their voice piercing the din.
"Is that Hagrid? Who's the boy?"
"Bless my soul, look at the scar! It's Harry Potter!"
My steps slowed.
Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived. The protagonist of this reality.
And he was currently being swarmed.
I pushed my way toward the edge of the mob. Through the gaps in the robes, I saw them.
Rubeus Hagrid stood like a lighthouse in a storm, his massive frame towering over everyone. But even he looked helpless. He was trying to shield a small, scrawny boy with messy black hair and taped-up glasses.
Harry looked terrified.
He wasn't smiling. He wasn't waving. He was shrinking into himself.
People were grabbing his hand, patting his shoulder, shoving parchment in his face. A wizard in a top hat was practically pulling Harry's arm out of its socket to shake it.
It was a security nightmare.
And an opportunity.
I checked the System.
> [Target: Harry James Potter]
> [Value: Infinite (Cultural Icon)]
> [Current State: Distressed/Overwhelmed]
> [Action Suggestion: Manage the Asset.]
>
"Manage the asset," I muttered. "Don't mind if I do."
I adjusted my collar. I pushed through the crowd. I didn't say "Excuse me." I used my elbows and the confident, angry walk of a man who is late for a board meeting. People moved instinctively. In any world, magical or mortal, people step aside for someone who looks like they have the authority to fire them.
I broke through the inner circle.
Hagrid was looking around wildly, his face flushing red.
"Back! Give 'im space! He's jus' a boy!" Hagrid boomed, but he was too gentle to actually push anyone.
I stepped in front of Harry.
I turned to the crowd, raised my hand, and snapped my fingers. The sound was sharp, cutting through the murmurs like a whip crack.
"Alright, that's enough!" I shouted.
My voice wasn't deep—I was eleven, after all—but I injected it with the tone of a CEO dismissing a room full of underperforming interns.
The crowd paused. They blinked at this random child in dusty noble robes ordering them around.
I turned to a witch who was reaching for Harry's sleeve with a quill. "You. Did you pay the admission fee?"
The witch froze, her hand hovering in mid-air. "The... what?"
"The admission fee," I lied smoothly, pulling the black Ledger from my pocket. I didn't open it—I just held it like a clipboard. "Mr. Potter is on a tight schedule. Gringotts business. Official Hogwarts orientation. He isn't a petting zoo exhibit."
I looked at the mob, scanning their faces. I saw awe. I saw fanaticism. But mostly, I saw a desperate need to be part of the moment.
"If you want a handshake, there is a queuing system."
I pointed to the wizard in the top hat.
"You, sir. You grabbed his arm. That's a premium interaction. 5 Sickles."
The wizard sputtered. "I—I just wanted to welcome him back!"
"And you have," I said coldly. "But time is money, and Mr. Potter's time is the most expensive currency in Britain. 5 Sickles for a handshake. 1 Galleon for a signature. Proceeds go to... the 'Orphaned War Heroes Fund'."
I channeled every ounce of Nether-Core energy I had. I glared at them with the eyes of a miniature Ren Wu. I let the Peverell arrogance bleed out.
The crowd hesitated. They looked at Hagrid, waiting for him to stop me.
Hagrid just looked confused. He opened his mouth, but I shot him a look that said 'Trust me'. He closed it.
Then, the wizard in the top hat reached into his pocket.
If there is a price, people assume there is value.
"I'll pay! One Galleon! For a signature!"
I held out my hand. The gold coin dropped into my palm. It was heavy. Warm. Real.
I turned to Harry, who was staring at me with wide green eyes behind his broken glasses. He looked like a deer in headlights.
"Sign this, Mr. Potter," I whispered, handing him the wizard's parchment and a quill I'd plucked from the witch's hand. "Fast. Trust me."
Harry hesitated. Then scribbled his name. His hand was shaking.
I handed the parchment to the wizard. "Pleasure doing business. Move along. Next!"
It triggered a chain reaction.
"Me too!"
"Here! Take my Sickles!"
For the next three minutes, I turned the chaotic mob into a transaction line. I was a conductor, and greed was my orchestra.
"No shoving. The line starts here. One at a time. No photos."
Hagrid watched, his beetle-black eyes wide, as I efficiently fleeced the crowd. I collected 7 Galleons and 14 Sickles before the crowd finally thinned out, their hunger for celebrity momentarily sated by the transaction.
"Right," I said, pocketing the heavy coins. The weight of them against my thigh was the most comforting feeling I'd had since waking up.
I turned to Hagrid and looked up. "He's all yours, giant man. Keep moving toward the bank before they realize I'm not his manager."
Hagrid blinked. "Blimey. Who are you, lad? You handled 'em like... like a Ministry official."
I looked at Harry. Up close, the scar was jagged and raw. But what struck me was his posture. He was hunched, expecting a blow. He had the eyes of a victim.
He needed to toughen up if he was going to survive the market I planned to build.
"I'm Damon," I said, offering a hand to Harry. Not for money this time, but for the connection.
"Damon Peverell."
Harry hesitated, then took my hand. His grip was weak, hesitant.
System. Contact Established.
> [Contact Recorded: Harry Potter]
> [Relationship Level: Acquaintance]
> [Potential Value: S-Tier]
> [Hidden Trait: Horcrux (Dormant)]
>
I ignored the Horcrux warning for now. That was a long-term acquisition target.
"Thanks, Damon," Harry said quietly. "I didn't know there was a fee. Do I... do I owe you?"
I smirked, patting my pocket full of illicit gains.
"There's a fee for everything in this world, Potter. You just have to know who's collecting it. Consider this one on the house."
I tipped my head to Hagrid. "Guard him well. He's worth more than the vault you're taking him to."
I turned and walked away toward the white marble steps of Gringotts, leaving them stunned on the cobblestones. I didn't look back. Cool guys don't look back at explosions, and smart businessmen don't look back at the deal once it's closed.
I checked my total liquidity as I climbed the steps to the bank.
12 Galleons (Mirror) + 7 Galleons (Scam) + 14 Sickles = ~19.8 Galleons.
It wasn't a fortune. It wouldn't buy a Nimbus 2000. But for a boy who woke up with zero assets an hour ago, it was infinite growth.
I looked up at the crooked goblin guards flanking the silver doors of Gringotts. They held long, wicked halberds and stared at me with beady, suspicious eyes.
They saw a dusty boy in rags.
I saw a challenge.
I gripped the Black Ledger in my pocket.
"Time for my first audit," I whispered.
[Next Chapter: The Goblin Audit]
(In which Damon faces a sneering teller and proves that math is sharper than a goblin's claw.)
Author's Thoughts:
Damon is obsessed with "Ren Wu," the protagonist of the novel he read before dying.
If you are curious about the "Original Guidebook" Damon is using—and want to see what the Full System looks like when it's unleashed without mercy—check out my main contracted work:
📖 [I Died 2,000 Years Ago: The Underworld Fears Me]
It has 600+ chapters, a darker tone, and an MC who doesn't just buy empires—he conquers them.
Next Chapter Preview: Damon walks into Gringotts with 19 Galleons and an attitude problem. The goblins aren't ready for a Peverell who knows how to count.