Chapter 4: The Start of Something Magic

Arcturus stepped out of the towering white building of Gringotts, blinking as the midday sun warmed his face. Beside him, Étienne still looked a little pale, his hand resting briefly on the marble wall as though steadying himself.

"Mon dieu," Étienne muttered under his breath, tugging at the collar of his cloak. "Those carts will be the end of me."

Arcturus smirked but said nothing. He didn't want to admit that, even though he'd been exhilarated during the ride, he could still feel a faint wobble in his legs.

Étienne glanced at his wristwatch, his brows furrowing slightly. "We've got about thirty minutes before we're due to meet your aunt and the girls at the entrance to the Alley," he said, straightening his coat. "Should be just enough time for a stroll."

Arcturus nodded, falling into step beside his uncle. The cobbled streets of Diagon Alley bustled with witches and wizards darting in and out of shops, their robes swishing as they carried packages and exchanged lively chatter. The air smelled of parchment, fresh bread, and the faint tang of something distinctly magical.

As they walked, they passed shop windows brimming with all sorts of enchantments: quills that wrote on their own, cauldrons stirring themselves, and brooms that hovered invitingly in mid-air. But it wasn't until they reached a small café that Arcturus slowed, his eyes locking on the display in the window.

There, perfectly centered on a tiered stand, sat a strawberry cake. The golden sponge layers gleamed with a glaze of strawberry syrup, thick swirls of cream separating each tier. Fresh, ruby-red strawberries were nestled delicately on top, glistening in the sunlight.

Étienne, noticing that Arcturus had stopped walking, turned back with a quizzical look. His lips twitched into a grin when he followed the boy's gaze.

"Of course," Étienne said, chuckling softly. "Strawberries." He tilted his head toward the café, reading the whimsical sign above the door. The Witches' Whisk. "What do you think, Arcturus? Fancy a slice before we meet the others?"

Before Étienne could even finish his sentence, Arcturus had already opened the café door, a bell chiming cheerfully as he disappeared inside. Étienne laughed, shaking his head. "I suppose that's a yes."

Inside, the café was cozy and inviting, with wooden beams strung with enchanted fairy lights that twinkled softly. A display case near the counter showcased rows of colorful pastries and desserts, from treacle tarts to éclairs that seemed to sparkle faintly under the warm light.

Arcturus was already at the counter, his golden eyes bright as he pointed eagerly at the strawberry cake. The girl behind the counter—a petite witch with chestnut curls and a smattering of freckles—smiled at him, her laughter bubbling up as he leaned forward, clearly trying to get the best look at the cake.

"I'll take a slice of zat, please!" Arcturus said, his voice brimming with excitement.

The girl nodded, her smile widening. "Good choice. You've got great taste—this is my favorite dessert." She winked at him as she carefully plated the slice, adding an extra strawberry on the side for good measure.

Étienne, having finally caught up, leaned casually against the counter. "I'll just have a coffee," he said to the girl, his tone amused as he watched Arcturus practically vibrating with excitement.

Once their orders were ready, they found a table by the window. Arcturus slid into his seat, his plate already in hand, while Étienne settled across from him, sipping his coffee and watching the bustling street outside.

The first bite of cake was everything Arcturus had hoped for. The sponge was soft and moist, the cream light and airy, and the strawberries were perfectly sweet with just a hint of tartness. He closed his eyes briefly, savoring the flavor as though it was the best thing he'd eaten in years.

Étienne chuckled, his coffee cup resting lightly in his hand. "You act like you've never had cake before," he teased.

Arcturus opened his eyes, a smear of cream on the corner of his mouth. "Not like this," he said earnestly, taking another bite. "It's perfect."

Étienne's gaze softened as he watched the boy eat, his enthusiasm so genuine that it was contagious. Moments like these—simple, unguarded—reminded him just how young Arcturus still was.

The café buzzed quietly with the sounds of clinking plates and soft conversations, but at their little window table, there was a sense of peace.

"Take your time," Étienne said, leaning back in his chair. "We still have a few minutes." His tone was light, but there was a knowing glint in his eye.

Arcturus paused mid-bite, the fork hovering just inches from his mouth. The taste of the strawberries—their sweetness mingling with the cool cream—stirred something deep in his mind. A memory that had resurfaced many times before flickered into focus, faint and distant, like sunlight breaking through fog.

He could see their small kitchen, filled with the warm glow of late afternoon. There had been laughter, and then pain—the sharp sting on his tiny palm after he'd brushed against the stove. He remembered crying, clutching his hand as tears streaked his cheeks.

And then, his mother had been there. He could see her crouching beside him, her golden eyes filled with worry as she gently took his hand in hers.

"Ça va aller," she'd said softly, though the rest of her words escaped him now. What stood out was how she reached for something on the counter—a bright red strawberry—and popped it into his mouth.

The taste had overwhelmed everything else. Sweet and tangy, it filled his senses and dulled the pain in his hand until it was almost forgotten. Even now, the memory lingered, tied to that single bite of strawberry, her soft voice, and the gentle way she wiped his tears away.

He swallowed the bite of cake slowly, letting the sweetness settle over him. Though the memory had faded around the edges, the feeling it left behind was clear: love and comfort, simple and unwavering.

"What's on your mind?" Étienne asked, his voice breaking the quiet.

Arcturus blinked, glancing up. "Nothing," he said quickly, though his tone softened as he added, "Just… remembering something."

Étienne studied him for a moment before nodding. "Good memories, I hope."

Arcturus didn't answer directly. Instead, he let the faintest of smiles tug at his lips as he took another bite of the cake.

"Yeah," he murmured. "Good memories."

Arcturus and Étienne stood near the brick archway leading out of Diagon Alley, the bustling street stretching behind them. Wizards and witches hurried by, laden with bags and boxes, their robes billowing in the breeze. Étienne checked his wristwatch again, sighing heavily as he rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"They're twenty minutes late," he muttered, glancing toward the crowd.

Arcturus leaned casually against the wall, his hands stuffed in his jacket pockets. The delay didn't bother him much—he was still absorbing the sights and sounds of the magical alley. A group of witches darted past, laughing as they struggled to control a hovering stack of cauldrons, and a goblin was loudly haggling with a wizard holding an oversized dragon-hide suitcase.

Étienne opened his mouth to grumble again, but just then, a familiar voice called out, "Over here!"

Arcturus turned to see the girls weaving through the crowd. Céleste led the way, her wand pointed toward a suitcase that hovered neatly beside her, bobbing gently as it glided over the cobblestones. Behind her, Aurelie trudged along, her arms full of shopping bags and her expression tight with irritation. Arcturus frowned slightly as he noticed a faint red mark on her forehead.

Before he could ask about it, Élodie sprinted ahead, her auburn curls bouncing wildly as she barreled toward them. She stopped in front of Arcturus and Étienne, barely pausing to catch her breath before launching into an animated monologue.

"Arcturus! You won't believe all the amazing things we found! I got these books—look!" She rifled through her bag and pulled out two colorful, glossy covers. "They're all about Harry Potter! Did you know he's only nine years old, and he's already fought dragons? And traveled the world? He even—"

"Élodie."

Aurelie's sharp, exasperated voice cut through her sister's rambling. She had finally caught up, her shopping bags clattering onto the ground as she threw her arms up in frustration.

"For the last time," Aurelie said, pressing her fingers to the faint red mark on her forehead, "Harry Potter has not fought dragons. He has not traveled the world. And he definitely hasn't done half the ridiculous things you believe." She jabbed a finger at Élodie's books. "These are stories. Fiction. Make-believe."

Élodie crossed her arms and shot her sister a scowl. "How do you know they're not real? You weren't there."

Aurelie let out an audible groan, pressing her hand to her forehead in what could only be described as a theatrical facepalm. "Because it's ridiculous! No nine-year-old has ever fought dragons. It's impossible."

"Maybe he is special," Élodie shot back, her chin jutting defiantly. "He survived the Killing Curse and defeated You-Know-Who as a baby! When he gets to Hogwarts, he's going to be legendary—way more famous than anyone else there!"

Étienne chuckled under his breath, clearly amused by the exchange. "Ah, sibling disagreements," he said with a small smile. "Classic and endlessly entertaining."

Arcturus, meanwhile, couldn't help but grin at Élodie's stubborn enthusiasm. She clutched the books to her chest as though they held the secrets of the universe, her bright eyes daring anyone to challenge her.

"Well, sure, surviving the Killing Curse is impressive," Aurelie muttered, crossing her arms and glancing at Élodie. "But that doesn't make him some kind of superhero. He's just a kid—he didn't do anything, it just… happened."

Céleste arrived moments later, guiding the floating suitcase to a halt beside them. "Girls, enough," she said firmly, though there was a trace of amusement in her voice. "Let's not have an argument in the middle of the street."

"It's not an argument," Élodie declared, puffing out her chest. "I'm just explaining the truth!"

Aurelie shot her sister a look that could have melted steel but wisely chose to hold her tongue.

The cobbled streets of Diagon Alley were alive with movement and chatter as the family stood together near the entrance to a small courtyard. Céleste held the now much heavier suitcase steady with a flick of her wand, its expansion charms making it far more spacious than it appeared. She scanned the parchment list in her hand, her brows furrowing slightly as she muttered under her breath.

"Everything is sorted," she said, tucking the parchment into her bag. "Except for the school uniform and the wand."

She leaned toward Étienne and whispered something in French, her tone light but purposeful. Étienne listened, then nodded in agreement, his lips curving into a faint smile. "Good idea," he said.

Turning to the children, Céleste handed Aurelie the suitcase handle and smoothed down Élodie's hair, which had become wild during their time in the bustling alley. "Girls, take Arcturus to Madam Malkin's. He'll need his uniform sorted before anything else."

"Do we have to?" Aurelie asked, wrinkling her nose, though her hand was already gripping the floating suitcase.

"Yes," Étienne replied with a wry grin, "and you can practice your English while you're at it."

Both sisters groaned simultaneously but nodded. Arcturus rolled his eyes, adjusting his jacket as they made their way down the street. The colorful storefronts passed in a blur, but Arcturus couldn't help but glance up at the hanging signs—apothecaries, quill shops, and potion vendors—all inviting and full of curious wonders.

When they reached Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions, Aurelie stepped forward and pushed open the door. A little bell jingled overhead, announcing their arrival.

The shop was warm and filled with bolts of fabric in every color imaginable. Mannequins in finely tailored robes stood along the walls, some shimmering with enchantments that made the fabric glow faintly in the light. Sewing machines worked away on their own in a corner, the needles darting through fabric with precise movements. The scent of fresh linen and lavender polish filled the air.

Madam Malkin herself, a plump woman with sharp eyes and a friendly smile, approached them from behind the counter. She had a measuring tape draped around her neck and a pin cushion strapped to her wrist.

"Hello, dears!" she said brightly, her English accent sharp but pleasant. "What can I help you with today?"

The three children froze for a moment, exchanging nervous glances. Aurelie and Élodie both hesitated, fidgeting slightly as they exchanged unsure looks. Their English was passable, but neither wanted to take the lead.

Finally, both sisters pointed in unison toward Arcturus.

Madam Malkin's sharp eyes zeroed in on him, her smile widening slightly. "A Hogwarts uniform, then?" she asked kindly.

Arcturus straightened his shoulders, glancing briefly at his cousins before stepping forward. "Yes, it's for me," he said clearly, his English accented but steady.

"Wonderful! Step right this way, dear," Madam Malkin said, ushering him to a small platform surrounded by three tall mirrors. She motioned for him to stand still as she summoned her enchanted measuring tape, which sprang to life and began zipping around him, taking measurements with mechanical precision.

Arcturus stood patiently as Madam Malkin worked, pinning bits of fabric against him and scribbling down notes on a clipboard. Aurelie and Élodie wandered the shop, poking at the fabric bolts and whispering to each other about a particularly ugly robe displayed in the window.

When the fittings were done, Madam Malkin handed Arcturus a small receipt and asked for the delivery address. He gave her the address of Étienne and Céleste's cottage, carefully pronouncing each word.

"Lovely," Madam Malkin said, her wand flicking as she jotted it down. "Your robes will be delivered by owl post within the week."

"Merci beaucoup… euh, thank you so very much," Arcturus blurted out, his voice faltering slightly as he switched to English. He flushed immediately, the tips of his ears burning as he realized how formal he sounded.

Madam Malkin's lips twitched with amusement, though she merely inclined her head with a warm, "You're very welcome."

Behind him, Aurelie let out a quiet snicker, elbowing Élodie, who struggled not to burst out laughing. Arcturus adjusted his jacket stiffly, pretending not to notice as he cleared his throat and stepped back from the counter.

As the children stepped outside Madam Malkin's, the bright sunlight made them squint for a moment. Céleste and Étienne were waiting just outside, their expressions calm but pleased. In Étienne's hands was a large birdcage containing a sleek black owl with piercing yellow eyes.

The owl looked half-asleep, its feathers glossy and pristine, and its gaze fixed lazily on the new arrivals.

"What's this?" Arcturus asked, tilting his head as he took in the striking creature.

"Your owl," Étienne said simply, holding the cage out for Arcturus to inspect. "So you don't forget to write often."

Céleste smiled warmly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "It's a late birthday gift," she said gently. "We thought you could use a companion for your first year at Hogwarts."

Arcturus crouched slightly, his golden eyes meeting the owl's. He reached a hand toward the cage, his fingers brushing against the bars. The owl's tired yellow gaze shifted toward his hand briefly before it slowly blinked, closed its eyes, and seemed to fall asleep.

"I think it just fell asleep," Arcturus said flatly, his lips twitching into a small grin.

Élodie giggled, pointing at the owl. "It looks just like you when you wake up!"

Aurelie smirked, crossing her arms as she leaned in for a better look. "You can't just call him Mr. Owl. What's his name going to be?"

Arcturus tilted his head thoughtfully, considering. "What about… Strawberry?" he offered, glancing at the owl.

At that, the owl's eyes snapped open, fixing Arcturus with a sharp, disapproving glare. Élodie burst into laughter, nearly doubling over, while Aurelie raised an eyebrow, her expression incredulous.

"Strawberry?" Aurelie repeated, shaking her head. "He definitely hates it. You'd better come up with something better."

Arcturus chuckled softly, leaning closer to the cage as he thought it over. His fingers tapped lightly on the bars. "Alright, fine… Hypnos. After the Greek god of sleep."

The owl blinked slowly, its expression inscrutable, before settling its head against its wing and closing its eyes once more. It gave a small, almost approving ruffle of its feathers before drifting back to sleep.

"I think he likes it," Arcturus said, standing up straight and glancing at the others.

"Of course he does," Élodie said with a grin. "You'd better send me a letter with him first!"

Céleste smiled at her nephew. "Hypnos suits him. He looks very dignified—and very sleepy."

Étienne handed the cage to Arcturus with a nod. "Take good care of him. And remember, writing home isn't just a suggestion."

The family stood in front of Ollivander's, the shop looking as though it had been plucked from a long-forgotten era. Its narrow, weathered facade leaned slightly against its neighboring buildings, as if time itself had made it weary. The golden lettering above the door read Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C. Though faded, it still held an undeniable charm.

In the dusty window display sat a single wand, resting on a cushion of deep purple velvet. Light shimmered faintly around the wand, as if it had been enchanted to glow just so. Dust motes floated lazily in the sunlight streaming through the glass, and the faint smell of aged wood and parchment seemed to hang in the air.

Étienne adjusted the strap of his bag and glanced at Céleste. "There's no need for all of us to go in," he said, his tone practical. "Finding the right wand can take time—sometimes hours. We might as well wait somewhere comfortable."

Céleste nodded in agreement, though her attention briefly turned to Élodie, who was all but bouncing on the spot. Aurelie, on the other hand, stood slightly apart from the group, looking thoroughly bored.

"We'll head to the Leaky Cauldron," Céleste said, turning to Arcturus. "You know the way, don't you? When you're done, meet us there. We'll grab something to eat while we wait."

"Yes, of course," Arcturus replied. He'd spent the morning memorizing the twists and turns of Diagon Alley and was confident he could find the iconic inn again.

"I want to go in with him!" Élodie piped up suddenly, her wide eyes darting between the shop and her parents. "Please, I won't touch anything!"

Céleste shook her head firmly, her tone patient but resolute. "This isn't a shop for browsing, Élodie. It's not like the bookshop or the apothecary. Let Arcturus handle this on his own—it's important."

"But—"

"No buts," Étienne said, stepping in. "Let him go. You can ask all your questions later."

Élodie huffed, crossing her arms and muttering something under her breath, but Aurelie's amused smirk only made her pout harder.

"Take your time," Céleste added, giving Arcturus an encouraging smile. "There's no rush. We'll be waiting at the Leaky Cauldron."

Arcturus nodded, steeling himself as he turned to face the weathered door of Ollivander's. He hesitated for only a moment before gripping the brass handle and stepping inside.

As Arcturus stepped into Ollivander's shop, the door creaked shut behind him with a hollow click, cutting off the bustling noise of Diagon Alley and replacing it with a deep, unsettling quiet. The air inside was heavy, carrying the faint scent of polished wood and something older, almost like parchment that had been locked away for centuries.

The dim lighting came from a single lamp on the counter, casting long shadows across the walls. Tall, narrow shelves stretched up to the ceiling, crammed with hundreds—no, thousands—of slim, dusty boxes. They loomed over him like watchful sentinels, the entire space vibrating with a strange, static energy that seemed to hum in his ears.

Arcturus took a hesitant step forward, his footsteps echoing faintly on the wooden floor. There was no one at the counter. For a moment, he wondered if the shop was empty, or if perhaps he had come at the wrong time. He opened his mouth to call out but hesitated, unsure if it was appropriate to disturb the silence.

Then, from nowhere, a voice spoke just beside him.

"First wand, I presume?"

Arcturus jumped violently, his heart slamming against his ribs as he clutched his chest. Turning quickly, he found himself face-to-face with an older man who had seemingly appeared out of thin air. The man's pale, silvery eyes seemed to gleam in the dim light, and his thin, wiry frame was draped in robes that looked as ancient as the shop itself.

Ollivander.

The wandmaker tilted his head slightly, the corners of his mouth twitching upward in a faint smile. "Apologies if I startled you," he said softly, though there was a glimmer of amusement in his tone. "It's a habit of mine, I'm afraid."

Arcturus swallowed hard, his heart still racing. "Er… oui, zis is my first wand." he managed, his voice steadier than he felt.

Ollivander's eyes narrowed slightly, studying him with an intensity that made Arcturus shift uncomfortably. He stepped back, clasping his hands behind his back as he murmured, "Ah… there is nothing quite like a wizard's first wand. A momentous occasion, indeed."

His gaze lingered on Arcturus for a bit longer before he continued, his voice quieter, more reflective. "It feels like only yesterday that your father, Regulus, stood in this very shop, searching for his own… and your mother, Amélie, not long after."

Arcturus froze, his breath catching in his throat. His father. His mother. He didn't have many memories of them, but hearing their names spoken aloud felt like a thread pulling taut inside him.

Ollivander, seemingly unaware of the effect his words had, continued, his voice low and reflective. "I've been selling wands to the Black family for as long as I can remember. Fine lineage, indeed." He paused for a moment, tilting his head as though recalling something distant. "Why, I sold a wand to your uncle Sirius as well."

At this name, Ollivander hesitated, his eyes flickering with a hint of something unreadable—perhaps pity, perhaps regret.

The name hung in the air like a cold weight, and Arcturus felt his stomach tighten. He had heard the stories, whispered among wizards and witches, spoken in hushed tones at home. Sirius Black. Voldemort's right hand, some had claimed. A murderer of Muggles, locked away in Azkaban for the rest of his life. The name was infamous, synonymous with betrayal and violence.

"You… you knew my uncle?" Arcturus's voice was barely above a whisper, hesitant, almost unwilling to ask. His accent softened the edges of the words, but it couldn't hide the weight behind them—the quiet grief, the unspoken fear. "Before… before 'e became what 'e is?"

Ollivander's expression remained carefully neutral. "I knew him as a boy," he said simply, his tone distant. "Bright. Determined. But wands… they reflect us, in many ways. And sometimes, the paths they lead us down can be unpredictable."

Arcturus swallowed hard, unsure of how to respond. The atmosphere in the room felt heavier now, as though the very air had turned to stone. He decided to change the subject.

"Ow did you know who I was?" Arcturus asked suddenly, his voice firmer now. "I did not say anyzing."

Ollivander's lips curved into a faint smile, and his pale eyes gleamed with something almost otherworldly. "Ah, Mr. Black," he said softly, his tone carrying a weight that sent a shiver down Arcturus's spine. "The wand chooses the wizard, yes—but I also have a way of knowing those who walk through my door. Call it intuition… or experience."

"Which is your wand hand, Mr. Black?" Ollivander asked, his sharp, silvery eyes studying Arcturus with unnerving precision.

"My left," Arcturus replied, his voice steady despite the knot forming in his stomach.

Ollivander gave a faint nod, then flicked his wrist. A tape measure leapt into the air from the counter behind him, moving as if alive. Arcturus froze as the enchanted tool zipped toward him, hovering inches from his face before beginning its meticulous work.

"Hold out your arm," Ollivander instructed.

Arcturus obeyed, feeling slightly foolish as the tape measure wrapped itself around his wrist, then darted up to measure the length of his forearm. It circled his head, paused to measure the space between his eyes, and then—much to Arcturus's dismay—hovered briefly near his nose.

"What… what iz it doing?" he asked, trying to lean away.

"Measuring your nostrils, of course," Ollivander replied absentmindedly, as though this were perfectly ordinary.

Arcturus stiffened, feeling his cheeks heat with embarrassment. The tape measure moved on quickly, finally retracting into Ollivander's hand with a snap.

The wandmaker turned away, his fingers trailing along the shelves as he murmured to himself. After a moment, he pulled down a slim box and opened it with care.

"Try this one," he said, handing the wand to Arcturus.

Arcturus took it hesitantly, the polished wood cool in his hand. He barely had a chance to grip it before Ollivander snatched it back with a sharp, "No, no, that won't do at all."

The process repeated itself several times. Arcturus would hold a wand for a moment—some longer than others—but each time, Ollivander would take it away, muttering things like, "Too rigid," or, "Not quite right."

Finally, Ollivander handed him another wand, his pale eyes glinting with curiosity. "Now, give this one a wave."

Arcturus hesitated, then raised the wand and flicked it toward the corner of the room. A loud crack echoed through the shop as a large globe standing in the corner shattered into pieces, scattering shards of glass and dust everywhere.

Arcturus's stomach plummeted. "Merde—! I—I'm so sorry!" He set the wand down as if it had bitten him.

Ollivander, however, seemed entirely unfazed. "No harm done," he said, waving a dismissive hand. "It happens more often than you'd think. Cranky customers make for cranky wands. Let me see…"

The wandmaker turned and disappeared through a door at the back of the shop, leaving Arcturus alone in the quiet room.

Arcturus exhaled slowly, glancing around as he tried to steady himself. The shelves towered above him, filled with dusty wand boxes that seemed to hum faintly with an energy he couldn't quite place. His eyes drifted toward the shop window, where a single wand lay on display.

It rested on a purple velvet cushion, bathed in faint golden light that highlighted the thin layer of dust that had settled on its surface. Something about the wand caught his attention. It looked out of place—forgotten, almost—as if it had been sitting there untouched for decades.

Drawn by a quiet curiosity, Arcturus stepped toward the window. The closer he got, the more he noticed the delicate details of the wand's design. Its wood was smooth and elegant, with faint, intricate carvings running along its length. Despite its layer of dust, it gleamed faintly in the light, as though waiting.

Arcturus hesitated only for a moment before reaching out. His fingers brushed the wood, and the moment he picked it up, a coolness surged through his body. It wasn't uncomfortable—if anything, it was oddly soothing, like the invigorating chill he remembered from a childhood weekend in Finland. He could almost feel the rush of stepping out of the sauna into the snow, the brief shock of cold giving way to a refreshing calm before diving back into the warmth again. The air around him seemed to hum softly, and his golden eyes widened as he stared down at the wand in his hand.

"Extraordinary," a voice said, breaking the spell.

Arcturus turned quickly to see Ollivander standing by the counter, his pale, silvery eyes gleaming with what looked like relief. The wandmaker's calm demeanor had shifted ever so slightly, a subtle tension in his shoulders now gone. His lips curved into the faintest of smiles, though the expression seemed layered with something else—an unspoken weight finally lifted.

'"Ah," Ollivander murmured, his voice quiet but edged with a peculiar satisfaction. "So, it has finally found its match."

"That wand…" Ollivander murmured, his voice trailing off as he stepped forward. His pale eyes flicked from Arcturus to the wand, and back again. "I had nearly forgotten about it."

Arcturus frowned slightly, his fingers tightening around the wand. "Forgotten? Pourquoi?"

Ollivander came to a stop by the counter, his gaze fixed on the wand. "I gave up on it thirty years ago," he said, his tone low. "I thought it was defective… unresponsive to any witch or wizard who tried it. It had sat there ever since, waiting. And now, here you are."

Arcturus glanced down at the wand, his curiosity growing. "What is so special about it?"

Ollivander hesitated, as though weighing his words carefully. "It was crafted by my father, in his younger days," he said finally. "A… let's call it an experiment. He was traveling in Siberia at the time, and, well…" Ollivander's lips twitched faintly, "he was known to indulge in his fair share of firewhisky."

Arcturus raised an eyebrow, unsure whether he should laugh.

"It's elder wood," Ollivander continued, his voice reverent now. "Thirteen inches, unyielding. Rare and powerful in its own right—elder wood is not for the faint-hearted. It demands a wielder with strength, resilience, and purpose. But what makes this wand truly unique is its core."

Arcturus leaned slightly forward, his golden eyes sharp with curiosity. "What iz ze core?"

Ollivander's pale eyes locked onto his. "A thread from a Dementor's cloak," he said softly.

The words hung in the air like a thunderclap. Arcturus's grip on the wand tightened as a shiver ran down his spine.

"It's a strange thing," Ollivander admitted. "My father was proud of it at the time, though I suspect the firewhisky had something to do with that. But a wand with such a core… it's not for just anyone." He paused, his gaze sharpening. "And yet, it has chosen you."

Arcturus stared down at the wand, his mind racing with questions. A coolness pulsed through his hand at first, sharp and bracing, but it quickly shifted to a deep warmth that spread through his body, grounding him like an anchor. Just as he began to grow accustomed to the warmth, a faint chill returned, crackling along his skin like frost creeping over a windowpane. The strange interplay of sensations was both unsettling and invigorating.

"Well," Ollivander said finally, his voice breaking the silence. "It seems the wand has found its wizard at last."

Arcturus shifted uncomfortably, staring at the wand as the chill tingled through his fingers again. He cleared his throat, glancing up at Ollivander.

"Ehm—are you sure zis iz ze one? I mean—per'aps zere iz anozzer wand zat could work? Somezing… less unnervin'?"

The words tumbled out in a rush, his accent thicker than usual, betraying his nerves.

"I do not exactly want people thinkin' I am… you know, some sort of dark wizard or somezing."

He exhaled sharply, pressing his lips into a thin line, as if realizing too late how much he had just blurted out.

Ollivander raised an eyebrow, his pale eyes twinkling as he leaned forward slightly. "Mr. Black, let me assure you, a wand does not make a wizard. It is your heart, your choices, that define you—not the wood or the core within your wand."

Arcturus frowned, still skeptical. "Right, but… a thread from a Dementor's cloak? Zat is not exactly what you would call… comfortin'."

Ollivander tilted his head, his expression serene but entirely unreadable. "It is… unique, yes. But there's no need to broadcast the specifics of your wand's core to anyone. That is a personal matter, Mr. Black. No one need know unless you choose to tell them."

Arcturus hesitated, still feeling the wand's subtle pulse of power in his hand. "So, you are sayin' I just… do not mention it?"

"Precisely," Ollivander replied with a small smile. "Many wizards have no idea what their wand cores are, and it doesn't trouble them in the slightest. Consider it… an advantage. A wand chooses its wizard, and it has chosen you, Mr. Black. Keep its secrets close, and it will serve you well."

Arcturus stared at him for a long moment, then sighed in defeat, holding the wand out to Ollivander. "Alright… but if zis thing starts whisperin' to me in ze middle of ze night, I am comin' back."

Ollivanders lips twitched ever so slightly. "If it whispers, listen carefully. Some wands have very interesting things to say… though I do advise against answering back too often. People might start to worry." Ollivander accepted the wand with a reverence that made Arcturus's chest tighten, his long fingers brushing the polished wood as though it were a relic of great power. With meticulous care, he nestled it into a slim box, wrapping it in a fine cloth as if safeguarding a piece of history.

Arcturus stilled, eyeing the wandmaker with wary skepticism.

For a moment, Ollivander's pale, silvery eyes lingered on Arcturus as though he were studying not just the boy, but the very essence of who he was. His expression softened, his lips pressing into a faint, contemplative line. Then, with a subtle nod, he seemed to reach a silent decision, as if glimpsing some distant truth.

"I expect great things from you, Mr. Black" he said, his voice low but deliberate, resonating with an unmistakable gravity that seemed to hang in the air long after the words had been spoken."

"Just call me Arcturus," he muttered, forcing himself to keep his voice light. "Mister Black makes me sound like I should 'ave grey 'air and a walkin' cane."

Ollivander's lips twitched, the barest hint of a smile softening his usual gravitas. "As you wish… Arcturus," he said, his voice carrying the same quiet weight as before, but with a touch of warmth that hadn't been there before."

"Zank you, Monsieur Ollivander," Arcturus said, dipping his head slightly, his voice soft but sincere.

Ollivander waved a dismissive hand, though his silvery eyes glinted with something unreadable. "The thanks are unnecessary. It is the wand that chose you—and it seems it has waited quite some time to find you."

With that, Ollivander wrapped the wand in a fine cloth and placed it carefully in a long, slim box. He tied it with a simple ribbon before sliding it across the counter.

"Treat it well, Arcturus," he said, his voice quiet but firm. "I have a feeling your journey will be anything but ordinary."

Arcturus nodded, taking the box carefully in his hands. He hesitated for a moment, his golden eyes meeting Ollivander's once more, before turning toward the door.

As he stepped outside into the bustling street, the hum of Diagon Alley replaced the stillness of the shop. The wand in his hand felt like both a comfort and a challenge—an object filled with untapped power, waiting for him to discover its potential.

With a steadying breath, Arcturus set off toward the Leaky Cauldron, the weight of the wand in his hand serving as a reminder that his path had only just begun.