The wand shop was dimly lit, with tall, narrow shelves stacked from floor to ceiling, each filled with long, thin boxes. The air was thick with the scent of wood and varnish, and there was a palpable sense of something ancient and powerful about the place.
Grindelwald had spoken of Ollivander before. He had told Harry that while Ollivander wasn't a Great Wizard by any means, he was an extraordinarily skilled artisan, someone whose expertise in wandmaking was unparalleled. Because of this, Harry entered the shop with respect in mind, though not deference. He was on his best behavior, but he remained composed, knowing that he was not beholden to anyone.
From the shadows at the back of the shop, Garrick Ollivander appeared, his silver hair wild, his pale eyes gleaming as they locked onto Harry. He approached with a kind of deliberate grace, as though every step he took carried a weight of centuries of knowledge and skill.
"Ah," Ollivander said softly, his voice carrying an almost ethereal quality. "Harry Potter. I wondered when I would be seeing you."
Harry nodded slightly, his face composed as he met the older man's gaze. "I've come for my wand."
"Indeed," Ollivander whispered, his eyes never leaving Harry's scar. "I remember every wand I have ever sold, Mr. Potter. And I remember your parents' wands well. Your mother's wand was ten and a quarter inches, willow, swishy—an excellent wand for charms. Your father's was eleven inches, mahogany, pliable—a powerful wand for Transfiguration."
Harry's attention sharpened, his curiosity piqued at the mention of his parents. Grindelwald had told him little about them, and the Dursleys had never acknowledged their existence at all. Ollivander's words were the first real details he had ever heard about his parents beyond their names.
"You sold them their wands?" Harry asked, his voice calm, though there was an edge of curiosity.
Ollivander nodded, his pale eyes watching Harry closely. "I did. They were both remarkable wizards in their own right. Your mother had a remarkable gift for charm work, and your father—brilliant in Transfiguration. Their wands chose them well."
The mention of his parents' talents caught Harry off guard. He had always imagined them as figures of mystery, but now they were becoming real—people with skills and accomplishments that defined them. It was a lot to process, but Harry remained outwardly composed.
Flitwick, standing nearby, overheard the conversation and stepped forward. "Your parents were some of the brightest students I ever had, Harry," he said warmly. "Your mother's Charms work was extraordinary. And your father… well, his mastery of Transfiguration was something to behold."
Harry glanced at Flitwick, taking in the added details. His parents' legacy seemed much more tangible now, more than just names whispered in stories. But Harry wasn't quite ready to explore his emotions about it.
Ollivander, meanwhile, had already begun pulling wand boxes from the shelves. He handed Harry a wand, but as soon as it touched his hand, it felt wrong. There was no connection, nothing that sparked any sense of belonging.
"Give it a wave," Ollivander instructed.
Harry flicked the wand, but nothing happened. Ollivander quickly retrieved another, offering it to Harry. Again, the connection was off.
Several more wands followed, but none of them felt right. Harry remained calm throughout the process, though a flicker of frustration began to rise.
"Curious," Ollivander murmured, his pale eyes narrowing. He turned and reached for a box from a higher shelf, this one older and more worn than the others. He opened it carefully, revealing a wand that seemed to shimmer faintly under the dim light.
"Holly, eleven inches, phoenix feather core," Ollivander said softly, holding the wand out to Harry. "This wand," Ollivander continued, "was made with a feather from the same phoenix that gave its feather for the Dark Lord's wand. A curious bond, indeed."
Harry took the wand, and immediately, he felt it—a warm, powerful connection that seemed to pulse through him. The balance was perfect, the fit natural. This was the right wand.
A soft, golden light filled the room as Harry gave it a small wave.
"Ah, yes," Ollivander whispered, his voice barely audible. "A powerful match indeed."
Harry studied the wand in his hand, feeling the resonance of its magic. The mention of its connection to Voldemort didn't unsettle him; if anything, it intrigued him. A wand was simply a tool—a powerful one, certainly—but it was the wizard who commanded it.
Flitwick, standing nearby, seemed more concerned by this revelation than Harry. "Harry," he said gently, stepping forward, "there's no need to worry about that connection. A wand is just a wand. It doesn't define who you are or what you will become."
Harry glanced at Flitwick, sensing the professor's concern, but he wasn't worried. "It's just a wand," Harry said calmly, his tone even. "A good match, that's all."
Ollivander gave a small nod, clearly impressed by Harry's composure. "It has chosen you, Mr. Potter, and I trust it will serve you well."
Harry thanked Ollivander politely, tucking the wand away with care. The experience was significant, but he wasn't one to dwell on it. The wand had chosen him, and now he had what he needed.
As they stepped outside, the sunlight of Diagon Alley greeted them once more. Flitwick gave Harry a measured glance, still trying to gauge how the boy felt about the wand's connection to Voldemort, but Harry remained as composed as ever.
"Shall we head to Flourish and Blotts?" Flitwick asked, his tone lightening.
Harry nodded, a rare flicker of excitement crossing his face. "Yes. Let's go."
With that, they made their way toward the bookstore, leaving behind the quiet shop where Harry had claimed his wand—and, perhaps, a deeper connection to the magical world than he had anticipated.
Harry wandered through the aisles of Flourish and Blotts, his initial excitement quickly dampened by the quality of the books on display. His expectations had been high—Grindelwald had shown him the power of knowledge, and Harry had hoped to find tomes filled with wisdom, spells, and insight. Instead, the first few books he picked up felt… shallow. British wizards seemed to have an odd fondness for flowery language and fanciful writing, particularly the more modern works.
One section, in particular, caught his eye. A whole row of books featured the same smiling, winking blond man on the cover, apparently the author—named Gilderoy Lockhart. His books had titles like Wanderings with Werewolves and Gadding with Ghouls, which sparked Harry's curiosity for a moment. But a quick skim through the pages revealed the truth—florid descriptions, ridiculous anecdotes, and the kind of over-the-top writing that did little more than inflate the author's ego. There was no real magic here, no knowledge to be gained, just empty words.
Harry put the book back on the shelf with a soft sigh of disappointment and moved to another part of the store, hoping to find something more substantial. His patience was rewarded after a few minutes of searching. There, tucked away in the less frequented aisles, were older volumes, their spines worn and the titles embossed in faded gold. These books, while written in a somewhat dated style, carried a weight that the others lacked. The language was more formal, but Harry didn't mind. He knew how to read between the lines, to extract the real value from even the most archaic of texts.
He quickly began to amass a pile of books, each one offering a deeper dive into subjects that intrigued him—advanced spellwork, magical theory, ancient runes, potions beyond the basics. As he skimmed through them, one name stuck in his mind from a book he had briefly glanced at: Hedwig. It had a certain elegance to it, and he filed it away, unsure of why the name resonated but knowing it would come in handy.
By the time Flitwick returned, having left Harry alone to browse while he attended to some errand, Harry had gathered several dozen books. The clerk had already levitated them into his trunk, the stack carefully packed alongside his school texts. Flitwick approached with a soft smile, holding a snowy white owl, its feathers gleaming even in the dim light of the shop.
"Happy early birthday, Harry," Flitwick said excitedly. "I thought you might need a companion at Hogwarts, and every wizard needs an owl. This one here is a beauty, isn't she?"
Harry looked at the owl, her sharp eyes watching him with intelligence. He wasn't surprised by the gift—after all, it seemed fitting that someone of his stature should be presented with something so fine. Still, he accepted it with a small nod of gratitude. "Thank you, Professor. She's perfect."
Flitwick beamed, clearly pleased by Harry's reaction.
Harry looked at the owl for a moment, the name from earlier springing to mind. "I'll call her Hedwig," he said, his voice calm and assured.
The owl tilted her head, as if acknowledging the name, and Harry felt a strange sense of satisfaction. He had come to Diagon Alley to prepare for school, but in the process, he had gained much more—a library, a wand, and now a companion. He was ready.
As they left the bookstore, his new collection of knowledge safely stored in his trunk and Hedwig perched on his shoulder, Harry felt a sense of quiet anticipation for what lay ahead. The world was his to conquer, one spell at a time.
As the day in Diagon Alley came to an end, Harry and Professor Flitwick stood outside the Leaky Cauldron. The sky was starting to darken, and the busy energy of the day had begun to fade into the evening calm. Flitwick, always perceptive, glanced up at Harry.
"I'll escort you home, Harry," Flitwick said, his voice kind but firm. "It wouldn't be right to leave you on your own."
Harry didn't argue. He knew better than to push back when it came to safety, especially with Flitwick. And while it was true that Harry had learned to navigate the world on his own, he also understood that appearing too independent—too aloof from the structures around him—might draw unwanted attention. Besides, Flitwick was acting out of responsibility.
The professor held out his hand, and Harry accepted it, feeling the pull of Side-Along Apparition as the world around him spun and twisted. Within seconds, they landed on the front path of Number Four, Privet Drive. The familiar, dull sight of the Dursleys' house stood before them.
Flitwick released his grip and gave Harry a warm smile. "There you are. Safe and sound."
Harry straightened, adjusting his robes with a calm nod. "Thank you, Professor."
Flitwick hesitated for a moment, then cleared his throat. "Before I go, Harry, about the train on September 1st. Do you need assistance getting to King's Cross? I'd be happy to help, perhaps Side-Along Apparate you again, if it's easier."
Harry smiled politely, though inwardly, he knew the importance of maintaining his independence from Dumbledore and his network. It would be all too easy to accept Flitwick's offer, but that would signal reliance on the wrong people.
"That's very kind of you, Professor, but I have arrangements already," Harry replied smoothly. "My uncle will drive me."
Flitwick studied him for a moment, then nodded, though there was a flicker of hesitation. "Very well, Harry. But if anything changes, don't hesitate to reach out."
"I will," Harry said, his tone respectful. "Thank you again for everything today. I hope you enjoy the rest of your summer."
Flitwick's face brightened at the polite farewell. "And I wish the same for you. I'll see you at Hogwarts soon enough."
With a final nod, the small professor stepped back and, with a flick of his wand, disappeared with a soft pop.
Harry turned back to the house, his mind already shifting to his plans for the weeks ahead. The Dursleys, as always, were of no consequence. Vernon would drive him to the station without complaint when the time came—he would see to that.