Chapter 6

'If you fail to plan, you are planning to fail' – Benjamin Franklin

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Mauldin Magcrim is squinting at the books when Frances comes to him. She brings him word about a businessman. A businessman? He wonders. When he asks for a name, she does not give it to him. She didn't bother to ask, and he shakes his head at her lack of forethought.

Not many businessmen visited him. In fact, none have visited for many, many years. He gets the odd Ministry official or two, twice per year for inspection as per Ministry regulation, but no businessmen. It wasn't that his family business was unknown, not at all; they've been around since 189 BC. But they had long ago foregone the business of shop keeping for manufacturing and have an established list of clients that has not changed. Thus, he made his wares and sold them to shopkeepers who then sold them for profit. His clients preferred to make their orders by owl and so he did not warrant a visit. Wiseacre's hadn't visited him once in the last decade, despite how many instruments he makes and sells them. So, a visiting businessman...

The man Frances leads him to is young, possibly in his mid-twenties and handsome. He is well dressed in black and blue robes and had the look of a proper pureblood, which further piqued Mauldin's interest. Handsome fellow must've gotten Frances too flustered to ask for a name, he thought. Mauldin is uncomfortably aware of his less than stellar appearance; his ruffled shirt and dusty trousers. He pats a hand over his thinning hair, and then greets the man.

"Ah, good morning, I'm Mauldin Magcrim of Mauldin Manufacturers. And you are?" He asked with some cheer, extending a hand.

A warm hand clasped his own. When the young man spoke his voice was deep and warm.

"Marek Canmore," he said. "Mauldin…may I call you Mauldin?"

Amber eyes, steadfast, settled on Mauldin's own and he is entreated with a slow, inviting smile. His cheeks grow warm.

"Uh, yes! Yes, of course."

"Wonderful," said Mr. Canmore. A beat passes and the man's eyes flit back down to their clasped hands. Mr. Canmore's hand was slightly limp in his own and Mauldin, embarrassed, realized he had yet to release the man. He lets go as though burned and hastily clears his throat, becoming uncomfortably aware of Mr. Canmore's eyes.

"W-well, what can I for you Mr. Canmore?" he asked, stumbling over his words.

The other man tilted his head, drawing Mauldin's eyes to the smooth, pale angular line of his jaw.

"To start…perhaps a room where we can speak. Privately…I have a proposition for you."

For a moment, Mauldin is gripped with the foolish thought that Mr. Canmore was beguiling him. Mr. Canmore stared at him through hooded eyes, not unlike the coquettish witches from The Amorous Rag. The thought crossed Mauldin's mind before he became aware of Frances hovering at the edge of his periphery, watching them both. Flushing, he quickly dismissed Frances.

Mauldin feels like a moth drawn into the light; like prey within the lion's claws. He's pulled between a sensation of excitement and desperation, and he gestured someplace behind him.

"Certainly, r-right this way," he mutters.

He isn't sure how he managed, seeing as all the life has left his legs, but despite Mr. Canmore's assessing eyes on his person, he remembered how to walk to his office.

"I reckon they'll be a war."

"That's bollocks."

"Bloody out' yer mind mate. Ya think they'll figh' a war wit us?"

"It's true! I he'rd talks. All these bloody German abes settlin' in London. They're running from something."

"They're not Arabs, they're Jews."

"Thats wat I said."

"You said abes."

"Abes means Jews you arse. Wats the fooking difference?"

"Mark my words, by the end of this year they'll be shipping off our sons to fight their war!"

"Oh Annabeth please, we'll not go to war. Britain can't afford another one."

"Well, I heard from Elizabeth, who heard it from Stevenson's wife. You know her with the—"

"Yes, yes."

"Well her brother is in the RAF. He says, that word is, that they're still saving the armaments from the last war. He reckons it's because they'll be putting them to use soon."

"Those are just talks!"

"The last war was just talks and look at how quickly they became actions."

"Have you heard?"

"Heard what?"

"Chamberlain. It's all over the papers. The agreement in Mu—"

"Agreement?! More like a bloody appeasement. Chamberlain's shown his belly and made the rest of us look like cowards!"

"It's a good thing. We don't need another war—"

"—hasn't even been ten years since the last one."

"You think those dogs care?! They got the Sudetenland. What's next?"

"I say it's not our problem. Sudetenland has Germans so let the Germans handle them."

"Oh they're handling them. Killing them more like it. Parliament won't admit it because then they'd have to do something about it. Germans are killing Jews. Why do you think they're migrating here? France? and the states?"

"They're just rumors."

"Even rumors have a grain of truth. Fuhrer Hitler has been spreading his ideology of the perfect Aryan for years. Is it so surprising that Jews don't fit into his plans for a new world?"

"But to go so far as to kill them? Really Arthur?"

"Why not? Is it so baffling that such evil exists?"

"…but the whole country?"

"Not all of them, no. But the propaganda makes some bitter and Hitler has given them a convenient scapegoat. It's a mob mentality."

"That's just speculation."

"Perhaps…"

"All this talk of war is making me thirsty. Let us drink instead."

Clink.

"What do you reckon will do it?" Asked Marek. It was mid October and he was sitting in the library, slumped on a chair with his legs crossed. Not far from where he sat, Richard prepared afternoon tea. Momentarily, Marek lamented the absence of good coffee. What a time to be in, when coffee was the peasantry's drink. He remembered when he first asked for it, only to be meant to be scandalized looks.

"Master?"

"The war. What do you think will spark it?"

"You think we'll be at war…so soon after the last?"

"Germany is bitter and fueled by extreme nationalism. Already, she's annexed Austria. There are rumors that she's arming herself despite the treaty and now this? Perhaps I'm needlessly speculating, but you can't ignore facts."

"No, I suppose not, how dreadful. If you say we'll be at war, I believe you."

"Hm. Tired of debating with me Richard?" Asked Marek bemusedly. He grabbed the tea that was placed on the table in front of him.

"Oh, I wouldn't dare. You seem to have manifested an oracle's foresight."

An oracle's foresight, thought Marek, smiling into his cup. Truer words have never been spoken. There was something surreal about watching the world take a nosedive toward imminent implosion. If he were a wiser man or cowardly, Marek would author his own seclusion and quester himself away in a bunker; he would wait for Allied victory.

But he's never been the type to run away from challenges and he had Tom to think about.

He felt removed, in the way that only the prescient would feel with foreknowledge; detached from the unfolding exposition. Without his precognition, he might have succumbed to the wave of jitteriness that has taken hold of Britain's citizens. A threat was in the air and there was a maddening urgency to quell it. No one wanted to think too deeply or look too closely, lest they invite further uncertainty and chaos.

But even he felt the anticipation, the wait for the other shoe to drop. Germany had annexed Austria earlier in the year and now, Chamberlain had promised them Sudetenland just days ago. If events preceded as before, Kristallnacht was less than a month away in November.

If Marek was a fool perhaps, he in his arrogance, would've tried to change things.

But he wasn't a fool and he wasn't here to play God. He could interfere for his own gain and derail the path that was set long before his first birth, and then what? Would the war begin the same way? Would it ever end?

It would be the height of arrogance to think that he could control the outcome of what he changes. So far, he kept from dipping his fingers into things that could resonate too far in the muggle world and the effects have remained small in the grand scheme of things. And yet…

Marek twirled the object in his hands; it was a ballpoint pen. Laid before him, on the table next to his tea and scones, were several fountain pens, an older variant of the dip pen, a muggle quill from the last century, and a magical quill. Marek contemplated the opportunity presented to him.

Over the summer, the Biro brothers patented the first commercially viable ballpoint pen, known as Biro, and it was quickly growing into popularity. He jumped at the opportunity because in the small object in his hands, he saw change that would resonate in the muggle world and the potential waves it could make in the wizarding world. Good change, because surely, no harm could come from the production of pens? How could he resist? This was an opening that could send his name circulating in the wizarding world and give him another ledge to climb.

Marek smirked. Perhaps he was an arrogant fool.

Fountain pens were still the preferred choice of this era, but he knew people would come around when they saw the benefits of Biro pens. Less time consuming, no ink stains, and versatile.

He hoped the same could be said for wizards. Hundreds, if not thousands of years using quills and a bottle of ink. How tightly they clung to their traditions. Either they would come around to the idea of pens or reject it. He hoped for the former, but to be certain of his success he wanted to introduce the idea slowly. First with dip pens, which weren't all that different from normal quills; then he would follow with fountain pens and ballpoint pens, charmed to be refillable. He was of the mind that wizards would be more receptive to the product if it evolved as a result of their own ideas. Some of them might just buy the pens for their sleeker, metallic aesthetic alone due to impulsivity, something Marek planned to exploit. He knew which group would be likely to make that impulsive purchase.

The children. It's all for the children.

The thing about children, they were ...adaptable, flexible, and so very, very curious. Given half the chance to poke at something new, they would do it, thoughtless of the consequences, of risks. They did not think "Can I?", they thought "I will" and that was the beauty in them. They did not let rules stop them; they did not fear discarding tradition; and they did not stay their hands for common sense. Impulsive and callous, yet quick to change and quicker to learn.

Marek would exploit them, and he expected their parents to follow suit. He would start with halfblood and muggleborn children as they would be familiar with the tools before him and in turn, he expected their pureblood counterparts to attempt to outmaneuver them by purchasing from a superior selection.

They would follow to reinforce their imagined superiority over their peers. All through pens. How comical.

Marek chuckled, sipping his tea. At Richard's puzzlement, he waved a hand in dismissal.

Tom had expressed interest in the idea and already agreed to advertise the initial product. He merely waited for Marek to send him a prototype.

Dear Marek,

Pens would be preferable to quills. My year mates often complain about the mess left behind from ink droplets and spills. I believe they would be receptive to the idea and the design possibilities would intrigue them. My influence would allow me to advertise it.

The curriculum is rather disappointing thus far and unchallenging. I can already do the necessary spells in the books wandlessly and performing them with my wand is pitifully easy.

Regardless of what you said about excelling, while I do show superior mastery of performing spells, I don't pointlessly reveal my wandless ability. When I do, its proven effective in deterring certain characters from foolish wand waving around me.

Also, I've discovered that I'm a descendant of Salazar Slytherin because I speak parseltongue. It is the language of snakes. I believe my father likely shares this trait as well. As for making friends, I've made allies. These are individuals mutually invested in one's magical advancement. They are not unpleasant.

Yours,

Tom

Influence. Effective in deterring foolish wand waving. Marek's lips twitched. He hoped Tom hadn't followed his example and strangled someone. That wouldn't be conducive to keeping him off the path of becoming a dark lord.

He sighed. Really, it had been a mistake on his part, losing his temper so thoroughly. But Peggy had it coming as soon as she'd touched him. Marek responded to Tom's letter with a care package and a promise to send him a prototype pen soon.

So, Tom has found his connection to Slytherin. Marek expects he'll be searching for his father under that name. Still, it wouldn't be till his fifth year that he discovers the Gaunts and consequently the Riddles. That is if Marek didn't show him the genealogy book he'd bought recently or take him to Gringotts for a bloodline test.

Does he know about the killing curse yet? Marek hoped not.

Speaking of bloodlines, it was an interesting and unexpected discovery to see the glimmering name on the Goblin's genealogy parchment. After Tom left for Hogwarts, he'd gone to Gringotts for an inheritance test and was surprised to learn that he was directly descendant from several Lestranges. The closest relation being a squib. He checked Arthur's family records to confirm the presence of Lestrange blood and was pleased to find her.

Joan Lestrange was a squib who married William Stanley, the Earl of Derby and became known as Baroness Lestrange of Knockyn in 1664. This was shortly before the Statue of Secrecy came into effect. Their great great grandchild Eethel Stanley became the 7th Baroness in their line. She married the Baron Stephen Willaby and they had Charles Willaby, who then had Arthur.

Charles currently retained the title Baron Strange; Marek guessed the Le part had been dropped over the centuries. While he was pleased to have a magical ancestry, he sobered to the fact that they would likely assassinate him for being a filthy mudblood. Oh well, he thought, he was going to be the best of them.

He planned to be the best of them. Much like Tom, Marek picked up the first year's spells quickly. His ebony wand with thestrail hair made the execution of magic more effective and focused; he realized he didn't need to use all his mental prowess to conjure or change the state of things. The concentration required for casting a simple lumos wandlessly was twofold what was required to cast it with his wand.

By virtue of his progress, Marek understood and appreciated the logic of wands. In the same respect, he recognized it for the gilded trap it was. For all the lauded power the wand gives the wizard, if he loses it, he is powerless.

He is powerless if he could not perform wandlessly. He is powerless, if he could not perform proficiently; which was not the case for many wizards.

Marek wasn't going to let that be true for himself or Tom. They would both hone their wandless ability until it became as easy breathing. Seeing that all that was required for casting magic was knowledge, concentration, and intent, he planned for them both to master the mind arts.

By the end of the third week of October, Marek had sent a letter to the Department of Magical Industry, referenced by courtesy of the Muggle Liaison Office. He penned the letter under Canmore and wrote it with more specific focus: how does one patent an invention and obtain a business license in the wizarding world?

He sent the inquiry off with Beatrice.

Not one to delay, Marek also visited Diagon Alley to speak with its business owners. He charmed them with small talk and took an interest in their stories. Tom, not the canon Tom, but his predecessor, told him how The Leaky Cauldron became an entranceway to Britain's largest shopping center. Madam Malkin, who was many decades younger and all too happy with his attentions, spoke of how she monopolized the cloth-making business in Diagon Alley. Rogare, whom he visited once more for a wand holster, told him little about his beginnings but that he started on his own many years ago, with his own funds as Gringotts was selective with whom they gave out loans. Networking and exemplary work brought Samuel Rogare the acclaim he was given by the elite. At Wiseacre's Wizarding Equipment, he learned how and where many of their magical instruments were manufactured.

With their anecdotes, Marek was beginning to construct a picture of how business and entrepreneurship worked in the wizarding world.

Much of it was not all too different from how business in the muggle world was run. You needed a business license, which you would renew once every three years; a name that was unique and registered with the Department of Magical Industry; if you needed a loan, you would speak to Gringotts; if you intended to merge with another business, you must obtain an official contract with Gringotts and inform the appropriate parties of the merge.

The Department of Magical Industry's response to his letter was not anecdotal but an outline of the process in starting and conducting business in the Wizarding while maintaining the Statue of Secrecy. It was helpful that they included a list of legal businesses registered within magical Britain and all the industries that said business were conducted in. Many of them were tied to or conducted by the Ministry.

A muggle capitalist would mourn this society, thought Marek. Privatization and capitalism existed, though sparingly, in institutions such as the Daily Prophet, Gringotts, and the countless broom-making businesses, but the Ministry owned and regulated much of magical industry and trade. It gave them a lot of power, but also crippled their efficiency. A single entity with a hand in nearly every facet of wizarding society; such a complex conglomerate was likely festering with corruption and inadequately enforcing policy.

The only way to change such a system was to have power. The type of power that Marek needed to be given to him by free will. Threats of violence and fear mongering like Grindelwald and Voldemort would not keep him in power for long. He needed to influence the Ministry, by way of powerful friends or wealth. He did not have powerful friends, so wealth it would have to be.

Power followed wealth.

Wealth established the impression of authority.

Authority was built upon credibility.

To be credible, Marek had to be reputable.

To be reputable, he needed a way to make a name for himself and he could feasibly do it with his pen business. His vision was that, eventually, the pen business would pave the way for other changes. May haps, it grows into a socio-economic gamechanger. An empire that it'll keep Tom busy.

Marek decided then that he would pay a visit to Mauldin Magcrim.

Notes:

Man oh man, I'm a bullshitter you guys. I don't know anything about obtaining political power by way of wealth. I've never done it before because I'm dirt poor. Have you?

Mauldin Manufacturers and the Department of Magical Industry are made up. Idk if manufacturers actually exists, but I bet they do. It makes sense. Then again, Madam Malkin's out here producing every bit of clothing for a lot of fucking people! Does she even have employees?!

I can see Samuel winging it on his own. He has a selective clientele and expensive tastes.

Why did I go with ballpoint pens? Because the first commercially viable ballpoint pens were patented by the Biro brothers in June 1938. Its one of the simplest inventions and one I see easily gaining popularity. Just think of the customizations. Who wouldn't want a durable, refillable quill that had a sleek, metallic sheen, complete with a feather on the end? And just think of the engravings! People will be craving their house mottos and business names all over them.

Hope you enjoyed! Someone suggested I make a discord for this fanfic. I don't know how effectively it'll be, but here's the link if you want to get in on instantaneous discussion. /E7pTzDh