***
Hagrid chuckles softly.
"Hahah… how about that, eh?"
He looks at us one by one, enjoying our faces like he just revealed a simple trick.
"Alright, breathe and come back to the present," he continues. "Come on, follow me. Stay close to me, Harry."
"Yes, Hagrid," Harry answers quickly, almost glued to his coat.
We move on.
The noise is the first thing that hits me. It's not chaos… but it's constant. Voices. Little bells. The clinking of metal. Old wood creaking. And a strange smell, a mix of parchment, spices, smoke, and ancient dust.
Hermione walks at my side.
She doesn't speak.
That says enough.
Her eyes don't stop: they go from shop to shop, from sign to sign. Her head moves like she's trying to swallow the whole place in one go.
Mum and Dad walk more slowly. Dad tries to look calm. He isn't. You can tell by how he turns every few steps, watching. Mum is impressed.
Harry walks ahead with Hagrid.
I hear him reading in a low voice, looking at his list like it's a joke.
"'Uniform… three black robes…'" he murmurs, still with the tone of someone who can't quite believe what he's living.
Suddenly he raises his voice.
"Hagrid… how am I supposed to buy all this?"
His tone changes.
"It says…"—he swallows—"it says I need a cauldron, a wand, books… and I don't have money!"
Hagrid lets out a deep, calm laugh.
"Don't worry, Harry. Do you really think your parents didn't leave you money?"
Harry blinks.
"Money?"
"Of course. We'll go to Gringotts Bank to take it out."
Harry stays still for a second. Then he lets out a breath.
"Brilliant…" he says, much more animated.
Hermione looks at me.
"A magical bank," she whispers.
"Looks like it," I answer.
Inside, I'm curious.
Very curious.
Gringotts.
I remember the name. I remember the goblins. I remember they're not exactly friendly.
We keep walking.
I pass a shop displaying cauldrons stacked up to the ceiling: copper, pewter, iron. One stack moves on its own and rearranges itself with a soft thump.
Dad sees it.
He says nothing.
But he sees it.
Hermione points at a window display with books that turn pages on their own, like they're breathing.
"Did you see that?" she whispers.
"I saw it."
She smiles.
So do I.
And then we see it.
Gringotts.
The building is white. Too white. Enormous columns. Imposing. It feels… important.
At the door there are two figures.
Not human.
Short. Long fingers. Sharp faces. Small, calculating eyes.
Dad slows down slightly.
"Are they…?"
"Goblins," Hagrid says, like he's talking about the weather.
One of them watches us with an expression I can't quite decode. It's not hostile. But it's not kind either.
It's… evaluative.
Hermione squeezes my sleeve a little.
"They're real," she whispers.
"Yes," I answer. "Very real."
Hagrid pushes the door.
The inside is even more impressive.
Marble. Ridiculous height. A heavy silence, broken only by the scratching of quills and the dragging of metal.
Rows of goblins behind very tall counters, checking gigantic account books, weighing coins, examining gems with tiny magnifying glasses.
Dad swallows.
Mum doesn't blink.
Hermione… is fascinated.
I watch everything carefully.
This place isn't chaotic like the Alley.
It's precise.
Cold.
Ancient.
A bank that's been running for centuries. You can tell.
Before we reach the counters, Hagrid stops and leans a little toward us.
"One thing before you talk to the goblins," he says in a low voice. "Be direct. Clear. And respectful."
Dad nods.
"Respectful how?"
"No jokes. No messing about. They don't like wasting time."
Hermione swallows.
"Are they dangerous?"
Hagrid tilts his head.
"No… if you don't give them reasons."
That doesn't fully calm anyone.
We go deeper into the great hall. The marble reflects the light from high lamps. The sound of quills scratching parchment is constant.
Hagrid points with his umbrella.
"Go to that counter over there."
Dad looks where he points.
"Why us?"
"Because as Muggles you probably don't have magical money," Hagrid answers naturally. "Over there you can exchange."
Dad frowns.
"Exchange?"
Hagrid nods.
"They accept Muggle money. Pounds and all that. But it's not what they prefer."
Mum raises an eyebrow.
"What do they prefer?"
"Noble metals. Gold. Silver. Precious stones. Things that don't depend on governments that change every ten years."
Dad lets out a nervous laugh.
"Can't say they're wrong."
We walk up to the indicated counter.
The goblin behind the desk is shorter than I expected, but his presence fills the space. Dark eyes. Long nose. Thin fingers like tools.
He looks at us. First Dad. Then Mum. Then Hermione and me.
"Currency exchange," he says, without greeting.
Direct.
Dad clears his throat.
"Yes. We're Muggle parents. Our children will be attending Hogwarts this year."
The goblin nods slightly.
"Standard Ministry rate for Muggle guardians. Regulated conversion."
He takes out a strange metal abacus. The beads move by themselves when he mentions figures.
"One pound sterling currently equals approximately five Sickles and two Knuts, subject to internal fluctuation in the magical market."
Dad blinks.
"Sickles?"
Hermione whispers:
"Middle coin."
I add quietly:
"Galleons up. Knuts down."
The goblin hears us.
"Correct."
He takes three coins from the drawer to show them.
"One Galleon equals seventeen Sickles. One Sickle equals twenty-nine Knuts."
Dad does the mental math. You can see it.
"And how much would we need for… school supplies?"
The goblin checks a prepared table.
"Standard first-year kit, including wand, books, robes, and basic cauldron… estimated between seven and fifteen Galleons, depending on quality."
Dad exhales slowly.
Mum does a quick calculation.
"That… isn't outrageous."
The goblin inclines his head.
"The Ministry requires the conversion rate to be fair. Not competitive. Not generous. Fair."
Dad pulls out his wallet.
"Do you take cash?"
"We take it," the goblin answers. "Although metal is always preferable."
Dad hands over several bills. The goblin examines them with more curiosity than interest. He places them on a tray that disappears through a slot.
The beads on the abacus move.
A small cloth pouch drops onto the counter with a heavy, satisfying sound.
Hermione leans in a little.
The goblin pushes the pouch toward Dad.
"Eight Galleons. Three Sickles. Twelve Knuts."
Dad opens the bag.
The gold coins shine with a warmer light than normal gold. They feel heavier than they look.
Mum smiles.
"They're beautiful."
Dad looks at the pouch. Then at the goblin. Then at Mum.
And he does something I didn't expect.
He takes off his watch.
It's a gold watch. He always wears it. Even on Sundays.
He holds it a second longer than necessary.
He places it on the counter.
"I also want to exchange this."
Mum looks at him.
But she doesn't stop him.
The goblin takes the watch with long, precise fingers. He weighs it in his hand. He examines it against the light.
"Solid gold… good purity," he murmurs.
He places it on a metal scale. The needles move on their own.
Dad also pulls out the rest of the money he withdrew from the bank that morning. Not all of it, but almost. Bills folded carefully.
He sets them on the counter without theatrics.
The beads on the abacus move again.
Faster this time.
The goblin calculates.
"Total," he finally says. "Two hundred and forty-eight Galleons. And some additional Sickles."
Hermione lets out a small sound she tries to hide.
I don't say anything.
Dad doesn't either.
The goblin looks up.
"I remind you there is an annual conversion limit for pounds sterling," he says in a neutral tone. "Three hundred Galleons per year."
Pause.
"Noble metals and jewels have no limit."
There's no judgment in his voice. Just information.
Dad nods.
"Understood."
The new pouch they set in front of us is much heavier.
When Dad lifts it, the sound of gold shifting inside is different. Fuller. More final.
Mum looks at it.
She doesn't smile.
But she doesn't look regretful either.
I look at Dad's wrist.
The watch is gone.
I don't say anything.
But I notice.
Hermione looks at me.
"It's a lot," she whispers.
"Yes."
I'm not thinking about the money.
I'm thinking about what it means.
Dad didn't just pay for school supplies.
He just bet on something he still doesn't understand.
And he didn't hesitate.
That weighs more than gold.
Dad doesn't move right away. He holds the pouch a second longer. Then he looks at the goblin.
"One more question."
The goblin barely looks up.
"Yes?"
"Is it possible to open an account here?"
The silence that follows isn't awkward.
It's evaluative.
The goblin observes Dad. Then Mum. Then Hermione and me.
"Muggles cannot open accounts," he answers, without emotion.
Dad nods, like he already knew.
"But our children can."
It isn't a question.
The goblin inclines his head.
"Magical individuals may store their capital in Gringotts. There is no age limit. Only solvency."
Hermione blinks.
I don't.
"What is required?" Dad asks.
The goblin extends a hand toward the adjacent counter.
"There you may begin the process."
Dad tilts his head slightly.
"Thank you."
The goblin nods once. Professional. No unnecessary courtesy.
We move to the indicated counter.
Another goblin. Younger. Or maybe just thinner.
"Vault opening," he says before Dad finishes speaking.
Dad breathes.
"Yes. For my two children."
The goblin takes out a parchment. He unrolls it with precision.
"Minimum requirements:"
He lifts a long finger.
"Initial deposit of fifty Galleons per holder."
Second finger.
"Magical signature."
Third finger.
"Blood linking."
Mum frowns.
"Blood linking?"
The goblin explains without changing tone.
"One drop. For the key."
Hermione looks at me.
I look at her.
Dad asks:
"Why blood?"
The goblin isn't offended. He doesn't smile either.
"The key responds to the magical signature and the living trace of the holder. It cannot be used by another without consequences."
A minimal pause.
"It cannot be opened without the owner's express permission. The key recognizes intent. Not only physical contact."
Dad frowns.
"Intent?"
"If someone attempts to use it without the holder's consent, the key disables temporarily."
Direct. No dramatics.
"In case of loss or destruction," he continues, "a replacement fee of ten Galleons is paid to issue a new linked key."
The goblin adds, as a final reminder:
"We recommend not losing it."
There's no threat.
But it doesn't sound optional either.
Dad nods.
"Understood."
Mum hesitates a second before asking:
"And us? Will we be able to access our children's account?"
The goblin shakes his head gently.
"Muggles cannot be co-holders. But they may be listed as administrative custodians until magical majority."
Hermione whispers:
"Magical majority?"
I answer on impulse.
"Seventeen."
I say it before thinking if I should.
The goblin looks at me.
And smiles.
It isn't a kind smile. Not mocking either. It's… appreciative. But with those fine teeth, it still looks a bit unsettling.
"Correct."
I feel the looks.
Dad watches me a second longer than normal.
Mum too.
Hermione tilts her head slightly toward me.
No one says anything.
The goblin continues, as if nothing happened.
"Until then, the parents may authorize withdrawals with the holder physically present. No independent access."
That calms Mum a bit.
Dad looks at the pouch of coins.
Then he looks at the two of us.
I hold his gaze.
"We don't need two vaults, Dad," I say. "One joint one is fine. Family. Under our surname."
Hermione nods immediately.
"Yes. Just one."
Dad looks back at the goblin.
"Can we have a joint account?"
The goblin doesn't seem surprised.
"A family vault can be created. Both would be full holders."
Pause.
"Minimum deposit: fifty Galleons."
Dad nods.
Hermione exhales softly.
The goblin continues:
"The creation of the linked key carries an administrative fee of ten Galleons."
"Sixty total," Dad says.
"Correct."
Dad opens the pouch. He counts carefully. The sound of gold on marble is clean, heavy.
Fifty.
Ten more.
Sixty Galleons separated from the rest.
The goblin collects them without hurry.
"We will proceed."
He unrolls another parchment.
It's thicker than the previous one. Reinforced edge. It doesn't look like a form.
It looks like a contract meant to last decades.
"Family co-holdership contract," he says. "Joint vault under the declared surname."
"Granger," Dad says.
The parchment reacts slightly, as if it heard.
The letters arrange themselves.
GRANGER appears at the top.
Hermione looks at it with wide eyes.
So do I.
"Both holders must accept the usage clauses," the goblin continues. "No withdrawal may be made if one holder formally objects to access."
Hermione looks at me.
"Does that mean if I get mad at you, you can't go in?" she whispers.
"Only if you do the formal process," I whisper back.
The goblin doesn't smile.
But almost.
"The vault recognizes conscious intent. Not passing emotions."
Hermione looks satisfied.
The goblin points to two spaces.
"Place your hand here."
Hermione extends hers first.
I follow.
The parchment is cold.
But it isn't paper.
I feel it as soon as my fingers touch it.
It isn't a normal sensation.
It's… current.
Like the air before a storm: it changes, and you notice even if no one says it.
Hermione breathes.
So do I.
And then I see it.
Not exactly with my eyes.
I see it in the air.
Magic isn't completely invisible.
It moves.
It flows like thin threads suspended, currents crossing the hall: from the goblins, from the vaults, from the marble itself.
It was always there.
But now it's… attentive.
When our hands touch the parchment, one of those currents curves.
It narrows.
It stretches.
Like someone is pulling a thread between us.
Hermione doesn't see it.
Dad doesn't either.
But I do.
The thread vibrates slightly.
It goes from my hand to hers.
Then it drops toward the metal disc waiting for blood.
The goblin says a word in a low voice.
The disc absorbs the drops.
And the thread changes.
It becomes more defined.
More stable.
It's no longer just a thread.
It's a bond.
A circuit.
The bank's magic responds.
I feel it.
Like the building itself recognizes the agreement and accepts it.
The metal vibrates.
The key takes shape.
And when the goblin places it in front of us, the current settles.
It doesn't disappear.
It integrates.
Hermione smiles without knowing exactly why.
I pull my hand back slowly. The tingling takes a second to fade.
I look at the air.
The currents are still there. Flowing between vaults, contracts, metals, and ancient names.
This place doesn't run only on gold.
It runs on agreements.
And the magic records them all.
Hermione takes the key.
"We have a vault," she whispers.
I don't look at the key.
I look at the space between us.
The thread is still there.
Fainter.
But firm.
***
We leave the bank.
The air of the Alley feels different after Gringotts' cold marble. More alive. Louder.
Hermione walks with the key in her pocket. She touched it three times since we left. Like she needed to make sure it's still there.
I haven't looked at it again.
We wait for Hagrid and Harry near an ice cream stand.
Hagrid and Harry finally come out.
"Harry," Hagrid says, "do you want an ice cream? I'll pay for it. You earned it."
Harry looks at him.
He nods.
"Yes… thanks, Hagrid."
Hagrid orders a huge one. Ridiculous. Harry tries not to smile too much.
He half succeeds.
Hagrid looks at us.
"Come on. Uniforms first. Then tools, books… and last, the most important."
He pauses dramatically.
"Your wands."
Hermione literally vibrates.
I smile.
***
We walk to the robe shop.
The golden sign announces:
Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions.
We go in.
The woman who greets us is short, round, with a measuring tape hanging around her neck and a permanent smile.
"Oh, first-years!" she says as soon as she sees us. "How exciting!"
She puts us on stools without asking permission.
The tape measures itself around us.
"What handsome twins!" she tells Mum. "Everything will look good on them, you'll see."
Mum smiles.
Dad tries not to laugh.
Hermione lets herself be measured with absolute dignity.
I stay still.
Harry climbs onto the stool next to mine.
Madam Malkin watches him a second longer.
She blinks.
"You are…?"
Harry nods slightly.
The woman puts a hand to her chest.
"Oh, sweetheart…" she says, with genuine emotion. "What an honor."
She doesn't make a show. She just treats him with extra care, like she's adjusting something delicate.
"We'll have you perfect for Hogwarts."
Hermione watches everything with interest.
We leave with robes folded and packaged.
Then comes the "small things" part: bottles, scales, telescopes.
Hermione compares quills like they're scalpels.
"This one has a better line," she says.
"It's a quill," I answer.
"Not all of them write the same."
I accept defeat.
Enchanted trunks.
The shopkeeper knocks on one with his knuckles.
"Expanded space. Waterproof. Basic anti-theft. Not recommended for internal explosions."
Dad raises an eyebrow.
"Internal explosions?"
"First year," the shopkeeper answers, like it's normal.
Hermione is already inspecting locks.
Harry looks into the trunk Hagrid opens for him.
He goes quiet for a second.
"Do… do all of you have trunks like this?" he asks.
The shopkeeper gives a brief, proud laugh.
"Not everyone buys them in first year. They're more expensive because of the enchantments. But nearly every witch or wizard ends up with one."
Harry nods slowly.
He looks relieved that he isn't doing something "weird."
"Then we're getting ahead of the future," I say. "Very responsible of us."
Hermione looks at me.
"You are not responsible."
"Today I am."
The shopkeeper adjusts the trunk's size until it's manageable and smiles, like he just closed a deal with functional adults.
I look at Harry.
"'Normal' is a generous word. We're in an alley hidden behind a pub that people can't see."
Harry blinks.
"That's true."
"If the bank is guarded by goblins and the ice cream tastes like something that doesn't exist in the Muggle world," I continue, "the expanded trunk is the least strange thing today."
Harry lets out a small laugh.
"I guess so."
Hermione crosses her arms.
"It's logical we need more space. We have many books."
Harry looks at her.
"You like books?"
"A lot."
I add:
"Too much."
Hermione steps on my foot.
Harry smiles. This time it's more natural.
"I've never had my own books," he says.
That changes the tone for a second.
I look at his clothes again. Big. Worn. Long sleeves covering half his thumb. He's thinner than he should be.
Mum notices too.
I see it in the way her expression hardens slightly. It isn't pity. It's something firmer. Protective.
Dad stops checking the trunk and looks at Harry with a different attention.
Hagrid pretends not to hear.
But he hears.
I shrug, without dramatizing.
"Well, now you'll have too many," I say. "And if one is boring, hand it to me. I'll sacrifice myself for friendship."
Harry looks at me, unsure if I'm serious.
"It's a joke," I add. "More or less."
That makes him laugh again. Looser.
Hermione lowers her voice.
"We can trade them whenever we want."
Harry nods.
"Really?"
"Of course. We're friends, aren't we?" she says, like it's obvious.
And something changes there.
He's no longer walking behind Hagrid.
He's walking with us.
In the bookshop the smell is different. Heavier. Older. Like dust that learned how to think.
Hermione almost vibrates when she walks in.
"This is incredible…" she whispers, running her fingers over the spines.
The shelves reach the ceiling. Some books rearrange themselves. Others murmur when someone touches them.
Harry looks at everything cautiously, like he doesn't want to pick up anything that doesn't belong to him yet.
"You can pick them up," I tell him.
He does.
Slowly.
He takes the first he sees: The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1).
He opens it carefully. The pages crackle.
Hermione is already holding another: A History of Magic.
"It has more than a thousand pages…" she says with reverence, not complaint.
"That explains a lot," I mutter.
She ignores me.
Harry lifts another.
"A History of Hogwarts… do you think this explains everything?"
Hermione turns her head toward him like he just said the right word.
"I hope so."
I grab one at random: A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration.
I flip through it.
A drawing changes from mouse to cup and back.
"Well… this seems useful. I always wanted to turn something into something that's useless to me."
Harry lets out a short laugh.
Hermione already has three books in her arms.
One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi.
Magical Theory.
And one that isn't on the list and she's going to defend with her life.
"Hermione," I say, "we don't need the entire library today."
"Yes we do," she answers without looking at me.
Harry watches the pile.
"Are we really going to learn all this?"
"Probably not in the first week," I say. "Maybe in the second."
He smiles.
He moves more comfortably among the shelves.
He picks up Magical Drafts and Potions.
"This one sounds dangerous."
"It is," I answer with absolute calm.
Harry blinks.
"Great."
He adds it to his pile.
Dad hears one of my comments while he pays—something about books needing giant warning labels.
Mum gives me that look that means: behave.
She doesn't scold me.
But the translation is clear.
Harry presses his pile against his chest, like it's something fragile.
***
The cauldron shop smells like hot metal and something slightly acidic.
There are rows of pewter, copper, and iron stacked with almost military order.
Hermione already has the potions book open. She didn't last five minutes without starting to read.
She holds it with one hand while with the other she touches the rim of a cauldron.
"It says the standard pewter distributes heat better and withstands unstable reactions," she reads aloud, without looking up.
Harry blinks.
"You already read it?"
"She started two minutes ago," I say. "I think she's on the third chapter."
Hermione hits my arm with the book.
"Don't exaggerate."
"Ow. That actually hurt," I say, rubbing my arm.
The shopkeeper, a thin man with round glasses, nods.
"She's right, miss. Pewter, size two, is recommended for first year. Easier to clean too."
Harry looks at the cauldrons like he's choosing a pet.
"So… that one?"
"That one," Hermione says with absolute certainty.
Harry smiles, looser now.
"I'm glad someone read before I did."
"That's what we're here for," I say. "Hermione reads for me and I exist."
Hermione hits me again, gentler this time.
While the shopkeeper wraps the cauldrons, I hear Dad talking to Hagrid behind us.
"Are there always this many new students?" Dad asks, looking around.
"Every year quite a few come in," Hagrid answers. "Hogwarts is big. Very big."
"And is it safe?" Mum asks, direct.
She doesn't say it with fear. She says it like a mother.
Hagrid scratches his beard for a second.
"It's the safest school there is for a young witch or wizard."
Dad doesn't look fully convinced.
Hagrid adds, with simple firmness:
"Albus Dumbledore is the headmaster. The most powerful wizard in England. While he's there… the kids will be protected."
Mum and Dad look at each other.
They don't know Dumbledore.
But they know that tone. The tone of someone who truly believes.
And Hagrid believes.
Dad nods slowly.
"Then we trust that."
Mum presses the fabric of my newly folded robe a little.
"Alright," she says.
***
We leave the cauldron shop with the metal still ringing in our ears.
The Alley stays alive. People crossing. Owls flying overhead. A couple of brooms slowly spinning in a display window.
Hagrid checks the list one more time.
"Right… uniforms, books, cauldrons…" he murmurs. "Only one thing left."
Hermione and I look at each other.
No need to say it.
Wands.
We start walking toward the narrower part of the Alley.
The shop is at the end. More discreet than the others. Old façade. A slightly worn golden sign.
Ollivanders.
Harry stares at the window a second longer than we do.
Before we move forward, Hagrid stops.
"Harry," he says, scratching his beard, "wait here and go in with your new friends, yeah? I have to pick up something important. I'll be back in a few minutes."
Harry blinks.
"Important?"
"Yes," Hagrid answers, already turning. "Won't be long."
He doesn't explain more.
He walks off toward another part of the Alley.
Harry watches him go.
Then he looks at us.
There's a small doubt on his face.
Hermione steps toward him.
"Come on," she says naturally. "He won't be long."
Harry nods.
Dad adjusts the pouch under his arm.
Mum studies the shopfront, thoughtful.
I look at the door.
Hermione takes a deep breath.
Harry shoves his hands into the pockets of his too-big clothes.
Dad looks at us.
"Shall we go in?"
Hermione nods.
Harry too.
I reach for the handle.
The bell rings.
The sound is fine. Clean.
We go in slowly.
The air is different here. Quieter. Heavier.
It doesn't smell like a shop: it smells like old wood, dust kept for too long… history locked away.
Dust hangs in every beam of light that slips through the window. Boxes stacked to the ceiling. Thousands.
No bright displays, nothing trying to sell you a fantasy.
Just endless shelves, organized and disorganized at the same time.
Like the workshop of someone brilliant who stopped pretending to be normal decades ago.
We walk up to the counter. Mum and Dad stay a step behind.
"Hello?" I call out loud.
The shop swallows my voice. The echo is minimal, like the place doesn't want to give anything back.
Silence.
And then, in the back, something moves.
Not footsteps.
A ladder.
The ladder slides on its own along the upper rails, slow, precise, like it knows exactly where it's going.
A man comes down it with an unsettling smoothness.
Tall. Very thin. Almost white hair, fine and messy. Pale skin under the dim light, almost translucent.
And those eyes… big, clear, silvery.
Too attentive.
They don't look "at" people.
They assess them.
He stops in front of us.
He watches us one by one: Mum, Dad, Hermione… me.
And finally, Harry.
His face doesn't show surprise.
It shows recognition.
"Ah…" he says in a low voice. "Harry Potter."
Harry stays still, like his name weighs more in here.
Ollivander steps closer. He doesn't invade, but he does… impose.
"It seems like only yesterday I sold his first wand to his father," he murmurs. "And to his mother."
Harry swallows.
"You knew them?"
Ollivander smiles slightly.
It isn't a kind smile.
It's the smile of someone who collects other people's memories like tools.
"Of course. I never forget a wand."
"Your father… eleven inches. Mahogany. Flexible. An excellent wand."
Another pause.
"And your mother… ten and a quarter. Willow. Elegant. Very fine."
Harry barely breathes.
Hermione does, but so quietly it's like she's embarrassed to make noise in a place like this.
Ollivander turns sharply, like he just remembered other human beings exist in the room.
"First-years…" he murmurs, and his voice sounds almost pleased. "Good."
His eyes go back to Harry.
"Let's see, let's see…"
He moves toward the shelves with unexpected speed. His hands run along boxes, take one out, look at it like he's listening through the wood, put it back. Another. Another.
The silence grows denser.
He comes back with a thin box.
"Try this."
He opens it.
"Eleven inches. Ash. Phoenix feather. Flexible."
Harry takes it, moves it slightly…
A stack of boxes shakes in a corner. Two fall with a dry thud.
Ollivander takes it from him with the same ease you'd take a teaspoon from someone.
"No, no, no… definitely not."
Another box.
"Twelve inches. Red oak. Unicorn hair. Excellent control."
Harry tries it.
The curtains tremble. Dust falls like fine rain.
Ollivander tilts his head.
"Too direct… too obedient. No."
More boxes. More attempts.
A vase vibrates. A blue spark crackles and dies. A shelf creaks like it's breathing.
Harry tenses more and more. Like he's failing an exam he doesn't understand.
"Don't worry," Ollivander says, gentle, without truly comforting him. "The wand chooses the wizard."
It doesn't sound like a motivational phrase.
It sounds like law.
Ollivander goes still suddenly.
His eyes fix on a high shelf.
He walks to it without hesitation.
He takes out a long, dusty box, as if he'd been waiting for this exact moment to touch it.
He holds it a second longer.
And whispers, to himself:
"Ah… yes."
He returns to the counter.
He opens the box carefully.
"Eleven inches. Holly. Phoenix feather core."
Harry looks at the wand like it's fragile.
Ollivander watches him, and then says, in that strange tone between museum and confession:
"The phoenix feather…"
He stops.
Like he's savoring the phrase.
"It so happens the phoenix that gave this feather… gave one more."
He lifts a finger, as if that matters by itself.
"Only one."
Harry blinks.
"Another?"
"Yes…" Ollivander smiles slightly. "Two feathers. Two wands. Very curious, indeed."
He tilts his head and looks at the scar on Harry's forehead like it's technical data.
"And the sister of this wand… is the one that gave you that scar."
Absolute silence.
Mum goes rigid.
Dad too.
Hermione brings a hand to her mouth, but she doesn't speak.
Harry… doesn't move.
Ollivander finally hands him the wand.
"Go on," he says. "Wave it."
Harry takes it.
He holds it.
And before he even moves it, I feel it.
Not with my eyes.
With that strange "sense" I've carried since I was a child.
There's a tension in the air, like something is stretching toward him.
Like the wand isn't simply waiting…
But insisting.
Harry waves the wand.
For everyone, the shop lights up: a clear glow at the tip, a clean flash that doesn't explode anything, doesn't break anything.
Just light.
But I see more.
I see—or I feel it like I see it—a very fine pull, a thread that hooks from the wand to Harry like a connection finding its exact place.
It isn't violent.
It's… right.
It fits with a "click" that makes no sound, but my body recognizes it.
And for an instant, I swear the wand pushes toward his magic.
Like it wants to seal the deal before anyone argues.
Harry stares at the glow like something has been returned to him that he didn't know he was missing.
Ollivander breathes, almost satisfied.
"Extraordinary," he murmurs.
And his eyes shift slightly.
Like he noticed something too.
Not what I notice. Not even close.
But… a shadow of it.
Like someone hearing a whisper from another room.
Ollivander inclines his head, fascinated.
"Very curious…" he says softly, more to himself than to us. "Very curious indeed."
The glow at the tip stabilizes.
Ollivander nods, like he's confirming a calculation.
"Perfect."
Harry pays still in silence, like he's afraid speaking will break something.
Ollivander puts the money away without looking.
Then he lifts his gaze.
His silvery eyes settle on Hermione.
And something in his expression changes.
Not surprise.
Interest.
"And you, miss…" he says with sharp softness. "Forward."
Hermione swallows, but she steps forward firmly.
I let go of her hand.
Ollivander doesn't need to ask anything. He's already measuring her with his eyes.
"Clear mind," he murmurs. "Determination… structure… discipline."
He turns to the shelves without further explanation.
He doesn't hesitate much.
He comes back with a box.
"Try this. Ten inches. Birch. Unicorn hair core. Rigid."
Hermione takes it.
She waves it.
A dry gust crosses the shop and knocks down a small sign.
Nothing else.
Ollivander frowns slightly.
"No. Too contained."
He takes it from her without ceremony.
He returns to the shelves.
This time he takes less time.
He comes back with another, thinner box.
He opens it carefully.
"Vine. Ten and three-quarter inches. Dragon heartstring fiber core. Slightly flexible."
Hermione takes it.
And the air changes.
It isn't an explosion.
It's order.
The suspended dust seems to line up. The boxes stop vibrating. A clean sense of stability runs through the shop.
The tip gives a warm, brief flash, like a spark finding its correct circuit.
Hermione breathes.
I feel it.
With Hermione there's no pull.
There's fit.
Like an equation that suddenly balances.
Ollivander smiles.
"Ah… excellent. Vine seeks purpose. And dragon heart responds with intensity. A demanding combination."
Hermione looks at the wand with scientific reverence.
She doesn't smile wide.
But her eyes shine.
"It's… light," she whispers.
"It will be as long as you are," Ollivander answers, like a warning or a blessing. It isn't clear which.
Hermione comes back to my side.
Her energy feels… focused. Compact.
Now the silvery eyes turn to me.
And stay there.
A second longer than normal.
"And you…" he says softly.
He doesn't sound curious.
He sounds expectant.
I step forward.
I'm not nervous.
I'm attentive.
Ollivander turns to the shelves, and this time he doesn't move with the earlier distracted lightness.
He examines boxes like he's searching for something that doesn't want to be found easily.
He returns with one.
"Maple. Twelve and a quarter inches. Unicorn hair core. Flexible."
I take it.
And I don't wave it right away.
I hold it.
I breathe.
I close my fingers carefully, feeling the balance, the weight, the temperature.
It isn't just wood. It has an internal texture. A pulse. A faint current.
I let my magic move first.
I don't push it.
I let it touch the wand.
It's like reaching out in the dark.
The wand responds… but not fully.
There's contact. There's a spark. But the feeling is flat, incomplete.
I move it slightly.
A shelf vibrates. A soft creak in the ceiling.
It isn't rejection.
But it isn't home either.
Ollivander takes it back.
He doesn't look disappointed.
He looks… intrigued.
"No," he murmurs. "Not this one."
Another box.
"Walnut. Twelve inches. Dragon heart core. Rigid."
I take it.
This time I go deeper.
I guide the magic with conscious intent. I slide it along the core. I look for the point where both currents can meet.
The wand responds strongly. Too strongly.
A whip of energy shakes the air. A blue spark hits the ceiling. A stack of boxes wobbles.
Hermione takes a small step back.
I feel the internal friction.
Too dominant. Too one-sided.
The wand wants to lead.
Not to dialogue.
I give it back before Ollivander has to ask.
He watches me now with a different intensity.
It isn't only evaluation.
It's calculation.
"Curious…" he says under his breath.
He turns toward a higher section of the shop.
This time he takes longer.
He pulls out a long box covered in a thin layer of dust.
He holds it a second extra before bringing it over.
"Let's see."
He opens it carefully.
"Maple. Twelve and a quarter inches. Phoenix feather core. Very flexible."
The air shifts slightly at the words.
I take the wand.
And before I do anything, I feel it.
Not as an object.
As a presence.
I extend my magic, but not in a straight line. I spread it carefully, like I'm searching for an exact frequency.
The wand responds.
It doesn't push.
It doesn't impose.
It leans.
Like it adjusts its tone to mine.
I guide the energy deeper.
And this time… there's no friction.
It's like two gears finally matching in size and rhythm.
Like the wood recognizes the pattern of my magic and says: yes.
I wave it.
There's no explosion.
No burst.
The shop's light becomes clearer, more defined. The suspended dust rises gently, like gravity hesitates for a second.
The air vibrates low, steady.
And I see it.
Not a tense thread.
A net.
The magical currents of the place react, but not violently. They align. They settle.
The wand doesn't absorb my magic.
It flows with it.
The sensation is clean.
Right.
Inside, something clicks.
Not audible.
But final.
The wand doesn't just accept.
It cooperates.
Ollivander tilts his head.
His eyes shine with something almost reverent.
"Curious… curious…" he repeats.
It doesn't sound unsettling this time.
It sounds surprised.
"Not all young people try to guide the wand before testing it," he adds quietly. "Most simply wave and wait."
His silvery eyes narrow.
"But you were… listening."
It isn't a question.
It's a statement.
The energy doesn't disperse at once.
It settles.
It remains.
The light stabilizes at the tip.
It doesn't shake.
It doesn't explode.
It doesn't do anything dramatic.
It simply… stays.
Right.
And, for a second, I have a strange suspicion:
Ollivander feels it.
He doesn't see it like I do.
But he catches something. A minimal echo. Like he senses only the edge of what, for me, is a whole storm.
"Interesting," he murmurs.
"Why maple?" I ask.
Hermione looks at me from the side.
Mum too.
Dad seems surprised that I question it.
Ollivander smiles slightly.
"Maple does not choose rigid wizards."
He steps a little closer.
"It prefers those who change. Who adapt. Who do not cling to one single way of doing things."
The wand pulses lightly in my hand. Not against me. With me.
"And that it's very flexible?" I press.
His silvery eyes shine with something sharper now.
"Flexibility is not weakness," he says. "It is capacity to adjust. Very flexible wands respond better to wizards who evolve… but they also detect hesitation."
Brief silence.
"They do not tolerate prolonged indecision."
I look at the wood between my fingers.
"And the phoenix feather?"
Ollivander exhales through his nose, pleased that I ask.
"Phoenix feather is demanding. It does not choose just anyone."
He pauses.
"It seeks will. Capacity to recover. Wizards who do not break easily."
Another pause, like he's choosing how much to say.
"And when combined with maple…"
He inclines his head slightly.
"You get a wand that does not impose direction. It responds to it."
I close my eyes for a second.
And this time I don't let the magic flow without thinking.
I guide it.
Carefully.
I don't push.
I listen.
The sensation is different.
Like the wand is… evaluating back.
Looking for fine tuning.
Not power.
Compatibility.
The magic slides through the wood and returns to me without resistance.
It fits.
Like a gear finally finding its exact position.
Ollivander notices.
His fingers tense slightly on the counter.
"Curious…" he murmurs.
He isn't saying it because of the combination.
He's saying it because of the way.
He watches me more carefully now.
"Very curious."
I open my eyes.
The light at the tip is stable. Clean.
No explosion.
No spectacle.
Just alignment.
The wand doesn't dominate me.
I don't dominate it.
We understand each other.
At that moment, we hear dry knocks against the shop window.
We turn.
There's Hagrid, huge, taking up half the window like the shop is too small for him. He has Harry's trolley—already loaded—and on top of it, a cage.
Inside, a white owl. White for real. So clean it looks like it was just pulled out of the snow.
Hedwig, I think.
Hagrid calls to Harry with a gesture. Come. Harry sees him and lights up completely. He leaves almost without thinking, trotting quickly to the door, like he's afraid the owl will disappear if he blinks.
I turn back to Ollivander.
He was already moving away from the counter, with that way he has of moving as if he floats a little above the dust.
"Thank you very much, Mr. Ollivander," I tell him, "for answering my curiosity."
Ollivander doesn't stop completely. He only inclines his head, barely, like the sentence fit where it should.
"No need," he says softly. "It is always a pleasure to attend to curious minds… and capable ones."
***
6,679 Words
This is the longest chapter so far, and I'm really happy about that. The funny part is I didn't even realize it until I finished and started correcting, editing, and deleting things like a maniac.
Result: 3 hours and 19 minutes of writing.
Yes, I have a stopwatch. And yes, I pause it every time I take a break. I was curious how long it takes me to put a chapter together without counting the existential pauses.
Thanks for keeping the support going. If you want to help me reach more people, vote—because that feeds the algorithm and my ego (moderately).
As Xerxes says in 300: "I am a generous god"…
I'm not sure if having two love interests counts as a harem; you guys can confirm that for me. But they are Luna Lovegood and Hermione Granger, in that specific order. Don't expect it to happen very quickly.