Christopher took the cardboard box and opened it; inside were several laminated card samples.
The first card is [Flying Broom - Firebolt ]. The card depicts a streamlined broom suspended in the night sky, with a silver-white trail trailing behind it.
The second card is a special ability card called [ Time Reversal ]. The card features a spinning golden hourglass with the following text printed below. "This turn, you may return one played card to your hand."
The third card is [Black Dog Form - Sirius Black ]. The card depicts a thin black dog standing in the moonlight, with the card's tagline. "It looks like a stray dog, but it's actually more loyal than most people."
He examined the three cards over and over several times, finally placing them back on the table with a slight smile.
"The card design is better than the last batch," he said, pointing to the now-empty doorway, not knowing if Barry heard him.
The days that followed passed even faster than Christopher had anticipated.
He arrives at the publishing house at seven o'clock every morning and doesn't leave the office until nine o'clock at night, spending all his time proofreading manuscripts.
Barry went even further, setting up a cot in his office and not going home for three or four days straight, his beard growing long enough to tie a tie.
Two people took turns overseeing the final proofreading of the manuscript, scrutinizing every punctuation mark, lest a typesetter accidentally print a crucial plot point as something else.
On Wednesday afternoon, the printing plant delivered the first batch of sample books. Christopher and Barry each took a copy and sat in the office, flipping through them from beginning to end.
The paper's feel, the ink color, the binding line position, and the smoothness of the cover lamination were all checked against the inspection checklist.
When he reached the last page of the last chapter, Christopher closed the sample book and placed it on the table, pressing his finger on the cover.
"Alright," he said, "We can start distributing the goods now."
Barry tossed the sample book onto the table, leaned back in his chair with a long creak, and said, "All I want to do right now is sleep all day."
Unfortunately, he didn't get to sleep.
The next morning, people from the marketing department rushed into his office carrying a stack of order forms from bookstores all over the country.
Alfred, the owner of the flagship store on Oxford Street, ordered 35,000 copies; Simon, the owner of the store in Manchester, ordered 60,000 copies; Duncan of the store in Edinburgh, ordered 40,000 copies.
Even William from Liverpool was yelling on the phone, "Eight thousand copies for each of the seven stores, not a single one less!"
Barry made notes on the order form while on the phone.
Finally, he slammed the stack of forms on the table and yelled at Christopher, "Print another 500,000 copies! Go do it now!"
Time flew by amidst the roar of the printing press, the flapping of owls' wings, and the ringing of telephones.
By the end of the first week of November, every bookstore window in Great Britain had been adorned with new posters: a black dog leaping across an entire street in the moonlight against a dark purple background.
Monday, November 15th.
Alfred, the owner of the flagship bookstore on Oxford Street, learned his lesson this time and set up a row of folding barriers at the entrance to guide the queue from the store to the alley next door, so as not to block the entire sidewalk.
At four in the morning, he opened the back door and looked outside. There were at least a hundred people standing outside the fence. Several of them were wrapped in blankets and sitting on folding chairs with thermos cups and half-eaten sandwiches next to them.
"Boss," Mary poked her head out of the shop, "Guess how many I counted?"
"Stop guessing." Alfred hung his coat behind the counter and rolled up the sleeves twice. "Just tell me, how much stock do you have?"
"Forty thousand books. The warehouse is full, and even the temporary storage room in the alley is full."
Is that enough?
Mary thought for a moment, "We ordered 30,000 copies of the first half, and sold 27,000 in the first three days. This time it's the complete version, I guess it will sell 35,000 in three days."
"Then send another five thousand over to have on hand." Alfred walked to the shop window and glanced outside. The line was still getting longer; the end of the line had already turned into the alley next door. "Tell the publisher to expedite the delivery."
In Manchester, this time, Mr. Simon didn't stand at the door directing traffic. Instead, he moved a chair and sat in the middle of the shop entrance, with a folding table in front of him, on which sat a stack of new books and a megaphone.
As the group passed by, he greeted each person in turn, his witty remarks never ceasing.
"Hey, Old John." He waved to a middle-aged man in a bowler hat in the line, "Didn't you say last time that the first half was too long and you weren't planning to buy the second half?"
The man named Old John, without batting an eye, slammed the five-pound note on the table. "I'm not calling this a purchase, I'm calling this a review."
"I need to see for myself whether the second half has improved, so I can write an objective reader report later."
Simon handed over the book, suppressing a laugh, "Alright, alright, it's a review, right? Should I give you a review invoice?"
A young witch behind Old John burst out laughing. Old John turned around and glared at her, but she wasn't afraid and laughed even louder.
A low chuckle rippled through the queue, and those who had been getting impatient from the long wait cheered up.
People started chatting with those around them, discussing which part of the first half was the most infuriating, and whether Harry would ever figure out who gave him the Firebolt in the second half.
At the entrance of Duncan Bookstore in Edinburgh, Duncan didn't use a megaphone this time; instead, he painted the wall in front of the store dark purple and wrote a huge line of words on it in white paint:
"The second half is here. Come in and see if you're right or wrong."
A line of small, crooked text was added at the bottom, "For those who say the first half isn't good, I've prepared a return channel for you—turn left, it's the bookstore next door."
When the people in line saw his small print, the whole line burst into laughter, with someone shouting, " Duncan, you're so mean!"
Duncan, standing at the store entrance with his hands on his hips, replied, "I'm doing this for their own good, so they don't regret what they bought."
At 9:00 AM sharp, the gates opened, and the line surged in like water whose dam had been pulled.
Alfred stood behind the counter, his hands flying across the counter as he collected money, handed out books, and gave change, working seamlessly with Peter was responsible for moving books next to him.
Mary set up a makeshift counter at the other end to accept large bills, and the tin cash box in front of her was so full that it couldn't be closed in less than forty minutes.
By the afternoon, the first group of people who bought the book were already sitting at home or in cafes, opening Chapter Twelve.
On a bench outside a chain bookstore in London, a young man wearing round-framed glasses had a book spread out on his lap, his fingers flipping through the pages rapidly.
Upon reaching a certain chapter, he suddenly gasped, turned to the stranger next to him who was also holding a book, and shouted, "I told you Black wasn't a traitor!"
The person next to him was so startled by his shout that he almost dropped his book, but after regaining his composure, he grinned:
"You only just got to that? I found it half an hour ago, and there's more to come."
"What's even more explosive?"
"You'll find out as you read on; I won't give away any spoilers."
This dialogue is happening simultaneously in every corner of Great Britain.
Most of the readers who had previously expressed some reservations about the first half of the book had stopped complaining. They were flipping through the pages rapidly, pausing to catch their breath at certain pages before continuing to turn the pages.
In his office in Bloomsbury, Christopher and Barry stood side by side by the window, each holding a cup of hot tea, watching the long line of people that snaked around two corners in Russell Square below.
"How many do you think we can sell today?" Barry asked.
"I won't guess," Christopher said, taking a sip of tea. "I just want to know if Martin Amis read anything today."
Barry thought about the scene for a moment, then smiled and clinked his teacup against Christopher's.