For the next ten days, Christopher practically lived at Bloomsbury Publishing.
Every morning at seven sharp, he appeared in Barry’s office, and he didn’t leave until eleven at night.
The editorial team worked overtime, proofreading every line and debating every choice of wording.
Barry personally served as the book’s editor, something extremely rare in the history of the publishing house—a chief editor personally editing a debut author’s manuscript.
“Have you lost your mind?” the publisher’s financial director said, staring wide-eyed at the budget report Barry had submitted.
“An initial print run of thirty thousand copies?
For a debut author who didn’t even leave a phone number?”
“Thirty thousand is only the first batch,” Barry said calmly.
“And the second?”
“We’ll see how sales look.”
The financial director flipped through the budget sheet and shook his head.
“Barry, I know you’ve always had a good eye, but this time—”
“This time is different,” Barry cut him off.
“Have you read the book?”
“No.”
“Then you’re not qualified to say that.”
The financial director choked, opened his mouth, and in the end, signed his name.
On the eleventh day, the first batch of books finally came out of the printing house.
Christopher stood in the publisher’s warehouse, watching box after box of brand-new books being stacked neatly.
On the cover, a little boy with round glasses stood before a steam train.
Above his head stretched a sky full of stars, and beneath his feet lay a stone path leading toward a castle.
Title: Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone: Part One.
Author: Allen Wayne.
He reached out, picked up a copy, opened it to the title page, and smelled the fresh ink of a newly printed book.
“Well?” Barry walked over, holding a copy of his own.
“It feels like a dream,” Christopher said.
“Doesn’t it just?” Barry smiled.
“By the way, still no news from Allen Wayne?”
“None.” Christopher shook his head.
“I’ve had my assistant watch the mail and the phone every day.
Nothing.”
“Then how is he supposed to collect his royalties?”
“I don’t know either.”
Barry sighed.
“Forget it.
Let’s get the book into stores first.
I’ve already contacted the largest chain bookstores across the country.
Each one has taken two hundred copies.”
“Only two hundred?” Christopher frowned.
“Debut author.
Fantasy.
Bookshops don’t dare take too big a risk,” Barry explained.
“Independent shops ordered even fewer.
Most only took thirty or fifty copies.”
“How many have been distributed in total?”
“Around eight thousand.”
Christopher was silent for a moment.
Then he said, “Not enough.”
“What?”
“I said it’s not enough.” Christopher looked up, his gaze firm.
“Barry, you need to have the printers keep going.”
“But—”
“Within three days, those bookshops will absolutely be calling to ask for more stock.”
Barry stared at him for several seconds before finally smiling helplessly.
“That confidence of yours really is unbearable.”
“I’m serious,” Christopher said.
“Trust me.
This book will spread far faster than we imagine.”
“All right.” Barry shrugged.
“In any case, I’ve already given the printing house notice.
They can reprint at any time.”
“How many more?”
“We’ll take it up to fifty thousand for now.”
Christopher nodded, then placed the copy in his briefcase.
“You’re taking one home?” Barry asked.
“No.
This one is for me,” Christopher said.
“I’m keeping it as a collector’s copy.”
…
In a chain bookshop in central London, a clerk named Tom was tidying the shelves.
He was a university student in his early twenties, working part-time at the shop.
As evening approached, more and more customers gradually came in.
Secondary-school students after class, office workers after work, young parents pushing prams… all kinds of people came and went, weaving between the shelves.
Tom placed the last stack of new books onto the recommendation display in the children’s literature section, then patted the dust from his hands.
He glanced at the stack.
Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone: Part One.
“Written by a newcomer?” he muttered, not paying it much attention.
This shop received dozens of new books every day.
Most of them simply lay there in obscurity until, months later, they were returned to the publisher.
He turned and went to tidy the science-fiction section nearby.
Just then, a boy in school uniform walked in.
He looked about fourteen or fifteen, carrying a schoolbag, wearing black-framed glasses, his hair a messy tangle.
The boy’s name was Jack.
He was a student at a nearby secondary school.
He came to this bookshop once or twice every week to see if any new fantasy novels had been released.
He was a fanatic for fantasy.
The Lord of the Rings, The Chronicles of Narnia, His Dark Materials…
As long as a fantasy work could be found on the market, he had read almost all of it.
School had ended early today, so he walked into the bookshop out of habit.
“Got any new fantasy novels?” he asked Tom.
Tom thought for a moment.
“Oh, there’s a new one today.
It’s over in the children’s literature section.”
“Children’s literature?” Jack frowned.
“I’m not a kid.”
“You can still take a look.
Doesn’t cost anything,” Tom said with a smile.
Jack curled his lip, but he still walked toward the children’s literature section.
He saw Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone: Part One.
The little boy on the cover wore round glasses, with a lightning-shaped scar on his forehead.
“Harry Potter?” Jack read the title aloud.
“Never heard of it.”
He picked up the book, turned it over, and read the blurb.
A boy.
A secret.
A letter delivered by owl…
“Another orphan-saves-the-world story?” he thought.
“How old-fashioned.”
He was about to put the book back, but for some reason, he still opened to the first page.
[Mr.
and Mrs.
Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal…]
Time passed, second by second.
Jack stood in front of the bookshelf, motionless.
His eyes were fixed tightly on the pages, his fingers turning them one by one.
He saw the Dursleys.
He saw the boy who lived in the cupboard under the stairs.
He saw the owl delivering letters.
He saw the magical world hidden inside a London train station.
Diagon Alley, Ollivanders, the goblins of Gringotts, the Leaky Cauldron…
Every detail was so real, so vivid.
He felt as if he weren’t reading a book at all, but had truly stepped into that world.
Alongside Harry, he bought a wand.
Alongside Harry, he passed through Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.
Alongside Harry, he boarded the train bound for Hogwarts.
He saw the castle, the talking Sorting Hat, the moving staircases, the portraits that could speak…
“Merlin’s beard…” he murmured, not even realizing he had picked up one of the characters’ sayings from the book.
“Excuse me, lad.
You’re blocking the shelf.”
A voice came from behind him.
Jack abruptly snapped back to his senses and found a middle-aged man standing behind him, holding another book, his expression a little impatient.
“Ah, sorry!”
Jack quickly stepped aside.
He looked down at Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone: Part One in his hands, his heart beating faster.
He had to buy this book.
He strode quickly to the counter and placed it down.
“I’ll take this one.”
Tom glanced at the book, then at him.
“Is it good?”
“It’s good,” Jack said.
He paused, then added, “Very, very, very good.”
“Then I’ll grab a copy after my shift too,” Tom said with a grin.
“Three pounds.”
Jack dug into his pocket and pulled out a ten-pound note.
After paying, he hugged the book to his chest and prepared to leave.
When he reached the door, he couldn’t help looking back.
The children’s literature section, which had been empty before, now had several people gathered around it.
A middle-aged man in a suit was leaning against the shelf, holding a copy of Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone: Part One, completely absorbed.
A young woman was crouched on the floor with the book spread open on her knees, turning the pages one by one.
There was even an elderly lady wearing reading glasses, standing before the shelf with a copy in her hands.
None of them spoke.
They simply read in silence.
The whole corner was so quiet that only the sound of pages turning remained.
Jack opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but in the end, he said nothing.
He turned and left the bookshop.
Outside, the sky had already darkened, and the streetlamps cast a dim yellow glow.
Holding the book, he hurried toward home.
Right now, all he wanted was to get back quickly, lie down on his bed, and finish the whole thing in one breath.
He had a feeling—
This book would become the greatest story he had ever read in his life.
At the same time, in another bookshop in London, the same scene was unfolding.
A middle-aged woman in a trench coat stood before the shelves, holding Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone: Part One.
She was a teacher at a nearby primary school.
Her name was Margaret.
She had originally come to choose some extra reading material for the children in her class, but by chance, she had noticed this book.
She flipped through it casually.
Then she couldn’t put it down.
By the time she finally lifted her head from the pages, nearly an hour had passed.
“My goodness…” she murmured.
“I have to recommend this book to every child in my class.”
She took the book to the counter and bought five copies in one go.
“For my friends’ children,” she explained to the clerk.
But in truth, she knew one of them was for herself.
…
Meanwhile, in an independent bookshop in Manchester, the owner, Simon, was closing up.
He was a book lover in his fifties and had been running the shop for more than twenty years.
His eye for new books had always been exacting, and he rarely held much expectation for works by debut authors.
But that afternoon, when he opened the sample copies sent by the publisher, he casually flipped through a few pages of Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone: Part One.
Then he sat behind the counter and read all the way until now.
“Boss, we need to close,” the clerk reminded him.
“Hm?
Oh, right.”
Simon came back to himself and closed the book.
He looked at the little boy on the cover and fell silent for a moment.
Then he picked up the telephone and dialed the publisher’s number.
“Hello?
This is Simon’s Bookshop in Manchester.
I’d like to ask whether I can add to my order of Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone: Part One.”
A tired voice came from the other end.
“Yes, but the first batch is nearly gone.”
“Then please add one hundred… no, five hundred copies for me.”
“Five hundred?
Didn’t you only order twenty before?”
“I know,” Simon said.
“But I have a feeling this book is going to sell very well.”
After hanging up, he placed the book in his bag, ready to take it home and continue reading.
When he stepped out of the shop, he looked back at the stack of Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone: Part One on the shelf.
“This book is far too interesting,” he murmured to himself.
Night deepened.
Christopher sat in his office, holding a glass of whisky.
On the desk lay his copy of Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone: Part One.
He had already read it three times, yet every reread revealed new details.
He set down the glass, picked up the telephone, and dialed Barry’s number.
“Hello?” Barry’s voice sounded exhausted.
“It’s me,” Christopher said.
“How are things on your end?”
“I’ve just received calls from three bookshops.
All of them want to increase their orders,” Barry said.
“What did I tell you?”
“You win.” Barry sighed.
“I’ve already told the printing house to work through the night.”
“It still won’t be enough,” Christopher said.
“There’ll be even more calls tomorrow.”
“I know.
It’s absolutely insane.”
“This was all within our expectations, wasn’t it?”
The two men let out a knowing laugh.
The hotter the book became, the more money they would earn.
“Allen…” Christopher murmured softly.
“You’d better not disappoint us.”
~
Push the book forward by Adding to library and sending powerstones~!