Thousands of narrow boxes filled the towering shelves of Ollivander's, the shop itself narrow and cramped, as though time itself had forgotten it. There was little in the way of decoration, save for a single wand resting on a velvet cushion of deep purple near the counter. The dim light, emanating from a single lamp, cast long shadows that danced upon the worn wooden floor. Nicholas and his mother approached the counter, where an old man stood, his silver eyes gleaming with recognition and a knowing smile spreading across his face. This was Garrick Ollivander, the legendary wandmaker his grandfather had spoken of.
"Ah, new customers," Ollivander said, his voice soft yet full of wisdom. "It must be our first meeting, though there is something familiar about you... those eyes, remind me of a lineage steeped in honor and ancient magic. A family recently risen to prominence once more." He paused, his gaze sharpening as if piecing together a memory long forgotten. "The Gryff family, yes, the sole descendants of Godric Gryffindor himself."
Nicholas felt a shiver run down his spine at the mention of his ancestor, but he held his composure. Ollivander's voice softened, his tone more personal. "Your grandfather, a most noble man, used to visit my shop often. He and your grandmother, may her soul rest peacefully, were known for their generosity—often buying wands for less fortunate students at Hogwarts."
Nicholas allowed the old wandmaker his moment of reflection, watching him with quiet reverence. Then, with deliberate care, he reached inside his coat and withdrew a wand, one that had been passed down to him from his grandfather. It was old but pristine, its surface smooth with age yet brimming with untapped power. "Sir," Nicholas began respectfully, "my grandfather told me to ask you about this wand."
Ollivander's silver eyes widened in astonishment the moment he saw the wand. He gingerly took it from Nicholas, cradling it as though holding a priceless artifact. "By Merlin's beard," he murmured, his voice filled with awe. "A wand of legend—no less significant than the Elder Wand itself."
The old man's hands moved deftly, examining the wand with the precision of a master craftsman. "This is no ordinary wand. It is a masterpiece, crafted by none other than my ancestor, Antiochus Ollivander. He was commissioned by Godric Gryffindor's grandmother, the powerful Seer, Madam Maeve."
Ollivander's voice grew reverent as he recounted the tale. "Madam Maeve foresaw the greatness her grandson would achieve, and she requested Antiochus create a wand that would serve not only Godric, but also his descendants. For this commission, she offered a quarter of the Gryffindor family's vast wealth. She believed in Godric's future so fiercely that she wanted a wand that would reflect his unyielding spirit."
Nicholas listened, captivated by the history unfolding before him. Ollivander continued, his tone growing more animated as he described the wand's craftsmanship. "The wood is ancient oak, harvested from a sacred druidic grove in Ireland. Oak symbolizes strength and resilience, qualities Gryffindor embodied. But the true magic of this wand lies within its core: a feather from a phoenix named Ignis. Phoenixes are creatures of unparalleled bravery, and Ignis was known for her fierce loyalty and courage. Antiochus believed this feather would impart those very qualities to the wand's wielder."
Ollivander's voice dropped to a near whisper as he leaned closer, eyes twinkling. "Antiochus crafted the wand over many weeks, weaving powerful ancient spells into its core. But there was a condition—a special enchantment placed by Madam Maeve herself. The wand would recognize Gryffindor's bloodline and serve his descendants for everyday magic. Simple levitations, charms, defensive spells—these it would perform without protest. However..." He paused for effect, letting the weight of his words settle on Nicholas. "To unlock its true potential, the wielder must prove themselves worthy by displaying the very traits Gryffindor cherished: bravery, loyalty, and selflessness."
Nicholas's heart sank slightly. "So that's why I've struggled beyond the basic spells," he thought to himself, his mind racing. It wasn't that he lacked skill—it was that the wand had not yet deemed him worthy. His voice faltered as he murmured, "I'm not... worthy yet."
Ollivander, ever perceptive, laid a comforting hand on Nicholas's shoulder. "Do not be disheartened, young Gryff. The wand chooses the wizard, but sometimes, it takes time for the wizard to grow into the wand." His voice was gentle, almost fatherly. "You will wield this wand's full power one day, but when that day comes is not for me to say. That is a destiny only you can fulfill."
Nicholas nodded, still feeling the weight of responsibility pressing on his shoulders. Just as he began to ponder what it meant to be truly worthy, Ollivander changed the subject, his eyes twinkling with fresh enthusiasm. "Your grandfather also purchased another wand here, and it would be wise for you to choose a more suitable wand for the time being."
"Now, let us find you a wand that will serve you well during your time at Hogwarts." Ollivander motioned for Nicholas to step forward, and with a graceful flourish, he began to inspect the shelves. His hands skimmed over the rows of boxes before he selected one seemingly at random. He placed the slender box on the counter, opening it carefully.
"This wand," Ollivander began, pulling a sleek, polished wand from the box, "is made from holly, with a core of phoenix feather. Very powerful, especially for casting spells of great protection." His eyes twinkled knowingly, as if the wand held some unspoken history.
Nicholas took the wand tentatively and gave it a gentle wave, but immediately a glass bottle on the shelf behind him exploded into tiny shards. Startled, he set the wand down hurriedly.
Ollivander shook his head thoughtfully. "No, no, clearly not the right match. A most curious wand... I suppose it will wait for another destined soul to claim it."
He returned the wand to its box, then turned to select another. "Perhaps... unicorn hair? An excellent core for those who prefer consistency in magic." He handed Nicholas a wand made from a smooth, light-colored wood—applewood, as he explained.
But again, the match was off. Nicholas could feel it in his fingers the moment the wand touched his palm; there was no connection, no spark. The magic felt distant, like trying to grasp at something just beyond his reach.
Ollivander seemed unfazed by the failure, though his silver eyes remained sharp and calculating. "Wands are peculiar things, Mr. Gryff. They choose their wizard as much as the wizard chooses them. There's no rushing the process."
He moved further down the shelves, pulling out a wand that was finely carved with intricate designs. "Ebony," he said, his voice lowering as if the mere mention of the wood carried significance. "A powerful wood, often wielded by those with strong convictions, unwavering in their beliefs. This one contains a dragon heartstring core from a Welsh Green. Calm creatures, unless provoked, at which point their strength is formidable."
Nicholas's curiosity piqued at the description. There was something about the way Ollivander spoke of the wand that resonated with him. The wandmaker extended the dark, glossy wand toward Nicholas, who reached out hesitantly. The moment the wood touched his skin, a sudden warmth flooded through his hand, traveling up his arm and settling into his chest. It was a calming but undeniably strong sensation, like the quiet before a storm.
Nicholas's eyes widened as the connection solidified. He lifted the ebony wand higher, instinctively giving it a small flick. A stream of golden sparks burst forth from the tip, casting the entire shop in a soft glow. The magic felt natural, effortless. The wand hummed with life, resonating with Nicholas's very core.
Ollivander's face broke into a rare, knowing smile. "Ah, yes. Ebony with a dragon heartstring core from a Welsh Green. A wand for one who knows their mind, unshaken by the opinions of others. This wand will serve you well, Mr. Gryff. It possesses a calm strength, but when needed, it will unleash a power few could withstand."
Nicholas held the wand up to the light, marveling at the way it seemed to pulse with magic, as if it were alive in his hand. His mother, standing to the side, smiled softly, pride and admiration evident in her eyes.
"I believe we have found your match," Ollivander said, his voice gentle but firm. He placed the empty box back on the shelf, no longer needed. "This wand will be with you through thick and thin. Treat it well, and it will not fail you."
Nicholas nodded, feeling the weight of the wand in his hand, not heavy but grounding like it was meant to be a part of him. It was more than a tool—it was an extension of himself, a companion for the magical journey ahead.
Garrick Ollivander's eyes lingered on the young Gryff with a contemplative gaze. His expression grew more thoughtful, as if he were considering something deeper about the boy standing before him. With a soft, almost reverent tone, he spoke again.
"Remember this, young Gryff: while the wand is indeed powerful, it is the wizard who defines the true measure of its potential. Greatness runs in your blood, that much is clear. But it is your choices, your actions, that will reveal who you truly are in the end." His silver eyes glinted with some ancient knowledge as he handed Nicholas a sleek, intricately carved box. "Inside is the wand of Godric Gryffindor—keep it safe, as your family has for generations."
Nicholas accepted the box with great care. Before he could fully form his thanks, the shop's atmosphere shifted. A soft bell chimed somewhere in the depths of the store, signaling the arrival of a new customer. The door creaked open and a large figure, accompanied by a thin, black-haired boy with glasses, stepped through.
The boy looked familiar. Nicholas squinted, immediately recognizing him. His mind raced back to the zoo—this was the boy from the strange incident near the snake enclosure. The one his parents had asked him about. But now, the boy had a different air about him, less constrained and more curious, his green eyes wide as they took in the wonders of Ollivander's shop.
Before Nicholas could voice his thoughts, his mother, Marilyn, whispered beside him, still marveling at the ancient atmosphere around them. "Nicholas, isn't that the boy we saw at the zoo? The one you told us about?" Her voice held the lightness of someone who was still trying to adjust to the magical world they were now part of.
Nicholas only nodded, not wanting to draw too much attention as his gaze darted between his mother and the boy. The large man with the boy gave a friendly nod toward them but seemed focused on the task at hand.
Ollivander's demeanor shifted once more. He glided forward, his pale eyes gleaming in the dim light of the shop. "Ah, yes. Mr. Potter," he said in that soft, haunting tone that seemed to carry more than just words. His voice filled the small room, enveloping everyone present. "I wondered when I'd be seeing you."
Nicholas's eyes widened a little. Harry Potter—the boy of legend, the one spoken of in hushed tones in magical families, had now appeared in the wizarding world. Nicholas had read about him, talked about him with his friends, but seeing him in person was entirely different. He instinctively leaned closer to his mother, eager to observe the scene unfolding before them.
Harry blinked, clearly taken aback. "You know who I am?" His voice was unsure, as if the concept of fame still eluded him.
Ollivander's expression softened, though his gaze never wavered. "My dear boy, I have known every wizard who has passed through these doors. And it just so happens that your mother and father purchased their first wands here, as well." He spoke with the kind of certainty that comes from having lived through many lives, each memory stored in the endless rows of wands surrounding them. "Your father's wand... Eleven inches. Mahogany. Pliable. Excellent for Transfiguration." Ollivander's pale eyes glinted as he recalled. "And your mother... Ten and a quarter inches. Willow. Swishy. Perfect for Charms work."
Ollivander moved with fluid grace towards the towering shelves, his long fingers gliding over the various wand boxes, as though the wands themselves were whispering to him. He pulled out a tape measure from his pocket, its silver markings catching the dim light of the shop.
"Which is your wand arm?" Ollivander asked, his voice calm but with an undertone of expectation.
"Er... I'm right-handed," Harry responded nervously, watching as the tape measure came to life of its own accord. It began taking precise measurements—shoulder to fingertip, wrist to elbow, floor to knee—even across Harry's nostrils, much to his confusion.
"That will do," Ollivander murmured, and the tape measure fell limp, its task completed. "Now, let us begin."
He handed Harry his first wand—beechwood and dragon heartstring, nine inches, flexible. But the moment Harry waved it, Ollivander snatched it back. "No, no... definitely not."
Box after box came down from the shelves as Harry tried maple with phoenix feather, then ebony with unicorn hair, but nothing seemed to connect. Each time, Ollivander would frown, muttering to himself, before moving on to the next option.
Nicholas and his mother watched with fascination, their attention entirely on Harry and the mounting tension with each failed attempt. Nicholas could feel the boy's nerves as clearly as his own, wondering if this was how he'd appeared to Ollivander only moments ago.
At last, Ollivander stopped before a high shelf, eyes gleaming. His voice lowered to an almost reverent tone. "Tricky customer, eh? Not to worry. The wand always chooses the wizard." He reached up slowly, pulling down a box with care. "Holly and phoenix feather. Eleven inches. Nice and supple."
As soon as Harry took the wand, a warm light glowed from his hand, and a shower of red and gold sparks filled the room, casting long shadows on the walls. The magic was palpable, alive, and undeniable.
Ollivander's eyes widened, and his voice dropped to a near whisper. "Curious… very curious…"
Harry, looking somewhat alarmed, asked, "What's curious?"
The wandmaker leaned in closer, his pale eyes fixed on the boy. "I remember every wand I have ever sold, Mr. Potter. It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather resides in your wand gave another... just one other. It is curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand, when its brother—why, its brother gave you that scar."
Harry's hand flew instinctively to his forehead, brushing over the lightning-shaped scar hidden beneath his hair.
"Yes," Ollivander continued, his voice filled with the weight of history. "The wand chooses the wizard, Mr. Potter. Though it is not always clear why. But I think it is safe to say… we can expect great things from you. After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things. Terrible, yes... but great."
As the time came to depart from Ollivander's shop, Nicholas and his mother exchanged glances, sensing that they had lingered perhaps a moment too long. The air was thick with the lingering enchantment of their experience, yet an unspoken acknowledgment hung between them that it was time to continue their journey. In the corner of his eye, Nicholas caught sight of Harry Potter, the two boys shared a moment of mutual curiosity, their eyes locking for an instant. Nicholas couldn't help but smile, feeling an odd sense of kinship with the boy who had already made waves in the wizarding world since he was an infant. He inclined his head in a respectful greeting.
…
In the bustling heart of Diagon Alley, the Leaky Cauldron stood as a timeless sentinel, its weathered exterior belying the warmth and magic that thrived within. The air was thick with the aroma of butterbeer and hearty stews, mingling with the excited chatter of witches and wizards preparing for the new school year at Hogwarts. Amidst this lively atmosphere, Marilyn and Nicholas Gryff sat at a corner table, their newly acquired school supplies neatly stacked beside them.
"A poor boy," Marilyn Gryff said softly, her voice tinged with sorrow. "No one deserves to lose their parents at such a tender age. No one, and I mean that with all my heart. What an abhorrent man that dark wizard must have been." Her eyes glistened with unshed tears as she listened to her son, Nicholas, recount the tragic tale of Harry Potter's parents. The story had resonated deeply with her, a narrative plucked from the pages of a prestigious autobiography housed in their library, detailing the trials of the wizarding world during the tumultuous times of the Second Wizarding War.
Little did Nicholas know that he would soon cross paths with the very boy whose life had been forever altered by that malevolent force—and that they might share the same fate of attending Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry that very year.
"Perhaps," Marilyn suggested gently, her maternal instincts as finely tuned as any Hollywood performance, "you should make an effort to befriend the boy, Harry, was it?" Her fingers, adorned with rings that seemed oddly out of place in this magical setting, traced the rim of her gillywater glass. "He seemed quite eager for companionship earlier, did he not? It would do you both good, I believe."
Nicholas, his young face a canvas of conflicting emotions, took a thoughtful sip of his butterbeer. The frothy beverage left a mustache on his upper lip, which he hastily wiped away with the sleeve of his new Hogwarts robe. "Mother," he replied, a hint of exasperation coloring his tone, "we still don't even know if he'll be attending Hogwarts this year." His eyes, a striking blue that seemed to hold the very essence of magic, darted around the crowded pub. "Besides," he added, his voice dropping to match his mother's hushed tones, "even if I were to befriend him, it wouldn't be out of pity. That wouldn't be right, would it? A Gryff must always act with honor and integrity, as Grandfather always says."
Marilyn's lips curled into a fond smile, reminiscent of the enigmatic expressions she often wore on the silver screen. She watched her son with a mixture of pride and amusement, noting how his young face betrayed a combination of indignation and determination far beyond his years. With a playful gleam in her eye, she reached out and gently pinched his cheeks, causing a blush to spread across his face like a Warming Charm.
Nicholas squirmed in his seat, casting a furtive glance around the bustling Leaky Cauldron. The pub was alive with the chatter of witches and wizards, their conversations a symphony of magical terms and excited predictions about the coming school year. "Mum, please," he grumbled, unable to hide the hint of a smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth despite his feigned annoyance. "We're in public. What if some Muggle Wizard recognizes you?"
"Ah, my dearest Nico," Marilyn exclaimed, her voice softening as she released his cheeks from her gentle grasp. Her eyes, sparkling with a mixture of pride and affection, met his gaze. "You possess a heart of pure nobility, a trait that shall undoubtedly serve you well in the extraordinary years that lie ahead at Hogwarts." She paused, her expression growing more earnest as she continued to study her son's face, noting how much he had grown.
The room around them seemed to hum with an otherworldly energy, magical trinkets and moving photographs adorning the walls, a testament to the rich history of the wizarding world. A soft breeze from an open window carried the faint scent of parchment and enchanted ink, mingling with the aromatic steam rising from a cauldron of bubbling soup behind the bar.
"I don't believe that for a moment, Mum," Nicholas retorted, his voice carrying a hint of the rebellious spirit that often accompanies youth. However, upon realizing the sharpness of his tone, he quickly added, "Forgive me, I spoke out of turn." His eyes darted to their table, where his new wand lay in its ornate box, a symbol of the magical journey he was about to embark upon—a journey his father had never been able to take.
Remembering a snippet of conversation he had overheard between Marilyn and her manager, Nicholas's curiosity got the better of him. He knew his mother was often sought after for various film roles. "I couldn't help but overhear you speaking with your manager last week, Mother," he began, his voice tinged with a mix of concern and sullenness. "Will you be departing soon for another movie?"
Marilyn's eyes twinkled with mischief and warmth, reminiscent of the charm she often exuded on screen. She gently placed her hand atop Nicholas's, her touch as comforting as a warming charm on a cold winter's night. "My dear boy," she began, her voice rich with emotion, "I shall be here until precisely September the 1st. I wouldn't dream of missing my son's departure to the wondrous world of Hogwarts." She paused, allowing her words to sink in. "No amount of Muggle money or fame could possibly entice me away from such a momentous occasion. This, I promise Nico, on my honor as your mother."
The room seemed to brighten as Nicholas's smile grew, his joy as palpable as accidental magic. He gazed at his mother with unbridled adoration, grateful beyond measure for her presence in his life. "Thank you, Mum," he murmured, his voice carrying a sincere warmth, the words more heartfelt than any spell.
Marilyn Gryff returned his gaze with a gentle, knowing smile, the kind that spoke of countless unspoken assurances. She glanced towards a dimly lit corner of the pub. "I believe it is high time we return to the estate, Nicholas. It appears Loras and Viraj have concluded their business as well."
Nicholas turned his head to follow his mother's gaze, spotting Loras and Viraj, who were now standing from their seats near the entrance. Clad in robes bearing the insignia of the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol, the two wizards had been vigilant in their watch over them, ever since an unsavory figure had attempted to shadow Nicholas and his mother through Diagon Alley earlier that day. With the precision of seasoned enforcers, they had apprehended the would-be stalker—who had harbored less than honorable intentions—and swiftly turned him over to an Auror nearby. To a Muggle, an Auror might resemble a secretive detective or a soldier; yet in the wizarding world, their role carried a gravity far greater.
Loras, tall and steadfast with a stern yet respectful demeanor, inclined his head towards Marilyn and Nicholas. "Are you prepared to depart, Madam Gryff? Sir Nicholas?" His voice was formal, yet tinged with a respectful note, recognizing the status of the Gryff family.
Marilyn gave a gracious nod before reaching into her elegant velvet handbag, pulling out a small leather pouch. With a deft movement, she pressed a few golden Galleons into Loras's palm, the coins glinting in the dim light. "A small token of my appreciation. Do take it, and see that you and your partner enjoy a fine supper, on behalf of the Gryff family."
Loras began to protest, his tone earnest. "I truly cannot accept, Ma'am—"
"I must insist, Loras," she interrupted, her voice firm yet kind, a subtle smile playing at her lips. "You have performed your duty admirably, and it is but a trifle to express my gratitude."
Relenting, Loras offered a rare smile as he pocketed the coins. "You are too generous, Ma'am. Thank you, truly."
Viraj, who had remained silent, gave a courteous nod, his expression softening in appreciation. "Your kindness is much appreciated, Ma'am. We shall ensure your safety to the very last."
Marilyn shook her head softly, raising a hand to forestall any further offers. "You have done enough, gentlemen. Our path from here is but a leisurely stroll through these quaint streets, and Nicholas and I would relish a moment of solitude amidst the evening bustle."
As the wooden door of the Leaky Cauldron creaked shut behind them, Nicholas and Marilyn stepped out into the cool evening air of Charing Cross Road. The Leaky Cauldron's ancient facade seemed to blend into the mundane surroundings of Muggle London, the enchanted entrance obscured to all but wizardkind.
The transition from the magical to the Muggle world always felt like stepping between realms, and Nicholas took in the scene with curious eyes. The lively hum of traffic and the glow of neon signs created a stark contrast to the cobbled charm of Diagon Alley, which still clung to his mind like a distant dream. He walked close to his mother, his hand brushing the hem of her coat as they moved along the bustling pavement.
Marilyn glanced down at him, offering a small, reassuring smile as they navigated through the evening crowds. "London holds its own kind of magic, doesn't it, Nicholas?" she remarked softly, her voice carrying a note of fondness. "Though I'm sure it's a different sort than what you'll come to know at Hogwarts."
As they turned a corner, the neon glow of Charing Cross faded slightly, giving way to the more subdued light of streetlamps. A sleek, black car awaited them at the curb, its polished exterior glimmering under the orange glow. The vehicle stood out amidst the city's usual traffic, its license plate discreetly enchanted to ensure minimal attention. At the helm was an older man clad in a dark, crisply pressed uniform, his hands gloved and posture impeccable—Lawrence, one of the long-time chauffeurs of the Gryff estate.
As Marilyn and Nicholas approached, Lawrence stepped forward, his polished shoes clicking softly against the pavement. With a swift, practiced motion, he opened the rear door, his gloved hand extended in a gesture of respect. "Madam Gryff, Master Nicholas," he greeted, his voice as smooth as velvet and tinged with the deference of one who had served the Gryff lineage for decades. "I trust your visit to Diagon Alley was most productive?"
Nicholas gave a polite nod in return, though his mind wandered momentarily. He recalled his grandfather, Godfrey Gryff, explaining the family's unusual tradition—how the Gryff estate chose to employ Squibs like Lawrence. It was both a gesture of compassion and a strategic safeguard. Squibs, who straddled the line between the magical and non-magical worlds, ensured that the Gryff family's secrets remained well-guarded, while providing a place of dignity to those often cast aside by their own families due to their lack of magic. Nicholas had seen firsthand how Lawrence's presence around the estate blended an air of formality with a touch of unspoken kinship.
"Indeed it was, Lawrence," Marilyn responded with a gracious smile, resting a hand on Nicholas's back to guide him into the car's leather-lined interior. "Nicholas has all that he needs for school, and perhaps a few things he doesn't," she added with a knowing glance towards her son, whose cheeks flushed slightly at the mention of his extra purchases.
Nicholas ducked into the car, the familiar scent of polished leather and the gentle warmth of the interior offering a welcome respite from the cool night air. As he slid across the seat, he glanced up at his mother, watching as she settled beside him with her customary grace. The door closed behind them with a muted thud, sealing the two of them in a cocoon of comfort and quiet, the outside world muffled to a distant hum.
Lawrence, satisfied that his passengers were safely situated, took his place in the driver's seat. The engine purred to life, its hum smooth and steady, like the low murmur of a well-versed incantation. With a precise turn of the wheel, the car glided into the flow of London's evening traffic, merging seamlessly with the stream of vehicles. From the back seat, the city lights appeared as blurred streaks of gold and white, casting fleeting shadows across Nicholas's thoughtful expression.