"Harry, Harry!" Hagrid knocked on the window of the wand shop, earning Harry's attention. "Happy Birthday!" He cheered, raising the snowy barn owl into view. Harry grinned, full of excitement. "Ready to get yer wand now, Elara?" Hagrid looked down at her, and she nodded.

The bell above the shop door jingled faintly as Elara stepped into Ollivanders, following close behind Hagrid. The air inside was heavy with the scent of aged wood and varnish, a musty tang that spoke of centuries-old craftsmanship. Wand boxes towered up to the ceiling in precarious stacks, casting long shadows across the narrow space. Dust motes swirled lazily in the dim light filtering through the small, fogged windows. Elara's breath caught in her throat as she took in the room. It felt like stepping into another world, one ancient and alive with energy.

In the center of the room, Harry stood beside an older man with wispy white hair and piercing, curious eyes. Harry's face was alight with wonder as he turned a slim wand over in his hands. His messy black hair fell into his face as he looked up at them and grinned. "The wood is Holly," he said, holding the wand out for Elara to see, "with a phoenix feather core."

"Well, don't just stand there," the shopkeeper—who Elara assumed to be Ollivander himself—said with a smooth yet faintly raspy voice. His silvery gaze fixed on Elara, assessing her as though he were looking through her entirely. "Come forward, Miss...?"

"Elara," she said softly, her voice nearly swallowed by the room's weighty silence.

"Elara." Ollivander tested the name thoughtfully, nodding once before motioning her forward. "Very well. Step up."

She glanced at Hagrid, who gave her an encouraging nudge, his hand nearly engulfing her shoulder. With a nervous breath, she approached the counter, feeling the weight of expectation settle heavily around her.

Ollivander began pulling boxes from the towering shelves with a swiftness that betrayed his age. "The wand chooses the witch," he explained, handing her a slender wand of Ash with a Dragon Heartstring core. "The challenge, of course, is finding the right match."

She barely had time to process the wand in her hand before a sharp, stinging heat surged through her palm. The wand shot sparks violently, singeing a nearby stack of boxes and leaving a faint scorch mark on the counter.

"No, no, not that one," Ollivander muttered, swiftly plucking the wand back and replacing it with one made of Aspen.

It felt lifeless in her grip, as though it resisted her touch entirely. When she gave it a small flick, the air around her rippled unnaturally, sending a glass display case shattering to the floor. She gasped, dropping the wand on the counter as if it had bitten her.

"Hmm, interesting," Ollivander said, his expression growing more intrigued than concerned. He tried a wand of Blackthorn next, then Dogwood—both with similarly forceful rejections. The Blackthorn wand emitted an almost feral snarl of energy that caused a cabinet door to fling itself open, while the Dogwood wand gave off a sharp crack, almost like thunder.

Elara's cheeks burned with embarrassment. "I don't think any of these like me very much," she mumbled.

Harry gave her a reassuring grin. "You're just making it interesting," he joked, though he stepped back a bit, just in case.

Hagrid chuckled nervously, though his watchful eyes stayed fixed on Elara. Ollivander, meanwhile, appeared more intrigued than ever.
1 Hour Later
Elara stood in the dimly lit shop, around her, discarded wands lay scattered across the counter—one after another, none had worked. Each attempt had ended in silence, a faint spark, or, in one alarming instance, a hole in the roof.

Hagrid watched her with an encouraging smile, but Elara could feel the tension in the room. But Ollivander, with his calm, curious demeanor, was all the more fascinated and excited as he inspected the latest wand she had tried.

"Well," he muttered, slipping the wand back into its box with a softclick, "this is most unusual. Very rare for someone to go through so many without a match."

Is it because of my magic?She wondered. She remembered Hagrid's words last night, speaking of 'wandless-magic' like something unusual. Yet that was all she had ever known. She had never known spells, incantations, wands, or anything wands feel alive, as if they have magic of their own. It's almost like my magic clashes with theirs, not quite fitting into a box.

Elara shifted on her feet, the unease settling in her chest like a stone. She had known she was different—her magic had always set her apart in the muggle world—but now, it felt as though even the wizarding world didn't know what to make of her.

Ollivander's sharp, pale eyes studied her more closely. "Forgive me, my dear," he said after a moment. "But what did you say your name was?"

"Elara," she replied hesitantly. "Elara Willow. At least... that's what Hagrid told me."

The moment the name left her lips, Ollivander froze. His expression shifted from curiosity to something deeper—recognition mixed with a touch of reverence.

"Willow..." he repeated, almost to himself. He stepped back, his fingers trailing along the rows of boxes behind him as though searching for a memory. "The Willows were extraordinary wandmakers, you know. Their craftsmanship was unmatched—truly unparalleled."

Elara blinked, caught off guard. "You... you knew my parents?"

Ollivander nodded slowly, his gaze distant. "Indeed. Your father, Alder, and your mother, Sylva. They were geniuses in their craft, though their methods were... unconventional. They believed wands could embody not just power, but harmony—melding different woods and cores to create something wholly unique. A controversial belief." He turned to face her fully, his voice quieter now. "They made one final wand before their deaths. A masterpiece, though I deemed it too dangerous to sell. It was... temperamental, unpredictable. But also... extraordinary."

Elara's heart raced. "What happened to it?"

Ollivander didn't answer immediately. Instead, he moved to a locked cabinet at the far end of the room. With a flick of his wand, the lock clicked open, and he carefully retrieved a long, dust-covered box.

"I kept it," he said, his voice tinged with regret. "I couldn't bring myself to destroy it, despite its flaws. Something told me it wasn't meant to be discarded."

He placed the box on the counter in front of Elara and opened it with a reverent hand. Inside lay a wand unlike anyone had seen before. Its shaft was a swirling blend of dark and light woods, fused so seamlessly that the colors seemed to shift in the light. The handle bore intricate carvings of leaves and vines, and the very air around it seemed to hum with energy. The vine itself began to glow bright, sending out trails of magic swirling around Elara.

Ollivander exhaled, his expression a mixture of awe and satisfaction. "Of course," he murmured. "It was made for you." Ollivander's gaze softened as he delicately placed the wand into Elara's trembling hands. "This wand," he continued, "is unlike any other in existence. I remember your parents' work well. Alder and Sylva Willow were master wandmakers, but this... this was their final masterpiece. A Unicorn core wand forged not of one wood, or even two, buttwelve—each chosen with great care for its symbolism and magical resonance. The result is extraordinary, but also... volatile. It would take someone with exceptional balance to wield it."

Elara's brow furrowed as Ollivander motioned for her to sit. Hagrid lingered nearby, his massive hands clasped nervously. "Why twelve?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Ollivander tilted his head, as if considering how much to reveal. Then, with a deep breath, he began to list the woods, his voice rich with admiration and caution.

Alder—unyielding, yet supple, chosen for its connection to strength and steadfastness, though often favoring its opposite, those who are considerate and helpful. Alder is best with non-verbal spells.

Apple—a wood of great purity and harmony, symbolizing a heart driven by the desire to heal and help others. An unusual ability to converse with other magical beings in their native tongues is often found among apple wand owners.

Beech—the wood of understanding and tolerance, drawn to those wise beyond their years.

Black Walnut—suited to those with powerful insight and intuition, but it can be capricious, demanding clarity of self.

Cedar—crafted for those with perspicacity and perception, as well as a dangerous protective nature.

Chestnut—drawn to those with curiosity and adaptability, but only if their intentions are sincere. It's often attracted to those who are skilled tamers of magical beasts, those who possess great gifts in Herbology, and those who are natural fliers

English Oak—a symbol of strength and courage, preferring those deeply connected to their true selves. Less well-known is the propensity for owners of English oak wands to have powerful intuition, and, often, an affinity with the magic of the natural world, creatures and plants alike.

Pear—a wood of rare magic, suited for those with a kind, wise, and generous heart.

Pine—favors those with sharp intellect and a vision that reaches beyond the ordinary. Drawn to those seen as loners, carrying an air of mystery and intrigue. The wood also craves creativity with a keen sensitivity to non-verbal magic.

Silver Lime—often found in wands for those gifted with great intuition and foresight, deeply in tune with the unseen, especially those with a natural ability for Legilimency.

Vine—favored by the Druids, a wood of unexpected power, drawn to seekers of greater purpose who are destined for transformative journeys. The vine favors those with hidden depths in their personality, people who frequently astound those who think they know them best.

"And lastly...Willow," Ollivander continued, his gaze settling on her intently. "Loved by the Druids just as much as Vine, It chooses those with great potential for healing, for embracing change, and for mastering the magic within themselves. But it's owners usually are ones plagued by insecurities. The wood, much like Pine and Alder, has an immense aptitude for non-verbal magic that shines through the humble. It has always been a proverb in my family that 'he who has furthest to travel will go fastest with Willow.'"

Elara swallowed hard, her hands trembling slightly as she ran her fingers along the intricate carvings of the wand. The swirling woods seemed to almost hum in her grip.

"All of these... they're supposed to be me?" she murmured.

Ollivander smiled faintly. "Not supposed to be, my dear. Theyareyou. Every piece of this wand was crafted with the traits of its wielder in mind. To harmonize with such a wand, one must embody each of these virtues—not perfectly, but in balance." He paused, his expression growing serious. "It is a dangerous wand in the wrong hands, but with you... I believe it will be magnificent."

Elara hesitated, her mind swimming with thoughts of the responsibility this wand represented. Sensing her unease, Ollivander explained further.

"This wand, my dear, is not one of great power—no, it is not to be mistaken for something like the Elder Wand. Power, after all, is an illusion, shaped by those who wield it. What makes this wand extraordinary is its specificity. It is not simply a tool, but a mirror—a reflection of you. Every wood, every curve, every fiber of its being was chosen with you in mind, though your parents could not have known who you would grow to be. And yet... here it is, waiting for the one soul it was destined to bond with."

Elara glanced down at the wand in her hands, the swirling woods glimmering faintly under the shop's flickering light. "So, it's not... special?" she asked tentatively.

Ollivander chuckled softly, the corners of his mouth lifting in a gentle smile. "Ah, no, you misunderstand me. It is special, yes—exquisitely so. But it is not powerful in and of itself. This wand does not grant strength; it does not command obedience. What it does, uniquely, is channel the magic already within you. It is a match—a perfect one. And such perfection, Miss Elara, is rare indeed." He paused, his voice softening, tinged with admiration. "It is not the wand that defines the witch or wizard, but the other way around. In your hands, this wand will do wonders. In another's... it would likely cause unspeakable danger at rejection, or perhaps do nothing at all."

Elara stared at it, her breath caught in her throat. She felt a pull, as though the wand was calling to her.

"Go on," Ollivander urged. "Try it."

With trembling hands, Elara gripped the wand properly. The moment her fingers closed around it, a rush of warmth shot through her arm, spreading to her very core. A soft, golden light emanated from the wand's tip, filling the room with a comforting glow.

Awe once again filled Ollivander, "Yes, made for you indeed." he whispered.

Elara looked up at him, her eyes wide. "But... why? Why did they make this for me?"

Ollivander smiled faintly, though there was a sadness in his gaze. "Perhaps they knew, even then, that you would need a wand as unique as your magic. A wand that could guide you through the path ahead."

Hagrid, who had been silent until now, cleared his throat, his voice soft and awestruck. "Blimey, Elara... I always knew yeh were special, but this... this is somethin' else." he said, "Reckon they'd be right proud to see this."

Elara clutched the wand tightly, tears welling in her eyes. For the first time, she felt a tangible connection to the parents she had never known—a piece of their love, their craft, now in her hands.

Back in the leaky cauldron, the three enjoyed a meal in completion of a long day's work.

"You all right Harry? Yeh seem very quiet." Hagrid observed.

Harry hesitated, "He... killed my parents, didn't he? The one who gave me this..." Harry touched a scar on his forehead. Hagrid stared down at his food rather sheepishly, yet almost pensive. "You know, Hagrid, I know you do." Harry pressed.

Elara's eyes darted up, and Hagrid let out a sigh. "First, and understand this, Harry... you too Elara, cuz it's very important: Not all wizards are good. Some of them go bad. A few years ago... there was one wizard who went as bad as youcango. And his name was V..." Hagrid struggled, "His name was V..."

"Maybe if you wrote it down?" Harry suggested.

"No, I can't spell it." Hagrid sighed, preparing himself. "All right... Voldemort." he whispered in such a low tone it was barely audible.

"Voldemort?" Harry repeated much more loudly.

"Shhh!" Hagrid hushed. "It was dark times,verydark times. Voldemort started to gather some followers. Brought them over to the dark side. Anyone that stood up to him, ended up dead. Your parents fought against him, but nobody lived once he'd decided to kill them. Nobody, not one... except you."

"Me?" Harry whispered in disbelief, "Voldemort tried to killme?"

"Yes," Hagrid nodded. "That ain't no ordinary cut on your forehead, Harry. A mark like that only comes from being touched by a curse, and an evil curse at that."

"What happened to V..." Harry started, then thought better of it. "To You-Know-Who?"

"Well..." Hagrid breathed out, "Some say he died. Codswallop, in my opinion. Nope, I reckon he's out there still... too tired to carry on. But one thing's absolutely certain." He leaned in with intensity, "Something about you stumped him that night. That's why you're famous. That's why everybody knows your name. You're the 'Boy Who Lived'."

Harry seemed to fade into his mind, wondering about all he had just heard, and Elara sat across from him. She stirred her bowl of stew absentmindedly, her expression unreadable. Hagrid shifted uncomfortably, his massive hands gripping a tankard of ale as he glanced between the two children. "Well," he began, his deep voice hesitant, "Since I'm on the subject... there's something I need to tell you too, Elara. Seems only right I tell the both of yeh the full story. It ain't easy, but... I reckon yeh deserve the truth."

Elara looked up, her spoon still in her hand. There was a flicker of something in her eyes—curiosity mingled with apprehension. Harry glanced at her, his own recent revelations giving him an understanding look.

"I told yeh, Elara, that yer parents were magical folk. But what I didn't tell yeh... is how they died."

The spoon slipped from Elara's fingers, landing softly in her bowl. She straightened in her seat, her gaze fixed on Hagrid. "Go on," she said quietly.

Hagrid took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling like a great bellows. "Yer parents, Alder an' Sylva Willow... they were good people, and just like Harry's, part of a group that fought against... You-Know-Who."

Elara nodded slightly, her lips pressed together. Hagrid continued, his voice softer now.

"They hid yeh, Elara. When You-Know-Who came after them, they hid yeh in the Forbidden Forest but didn't tell anyone. Then, they sent Dumbledore a letter, asking him to find you but with no clues as to where you were hidden. He looked everywhere he could think of, to no avail, until one day I stumbled across yeh. By the time I found yeh, they'd..." His voice caught, and he looked away briefly, blinking rapidly. "They'd been killed."

Elara's breath hitched. She stared at the table, her hands clenching the edge. "Killed by him?" she whispered, barely audible over the noise of the tavern.

Hagrid nodded solemnly. "Aye. Voldemort. Same as Harry's parents."

The weight of the words settled over the table. Harry looked at her, his green eyes wide with understanding and shared pain. Elara stayed silent for a moment, her face a mask of concentration as she fought to process the information.

Hagrid hesitated before continuing. "It's why Dumbledore decided to send yeh both to the Muggle world. Thought it'd be safer there—out o' sight from You-Know-Who an' his followers. Harry was left with his aunt and uncle, and yeh..." He paused, his voice thick with emotion. "I gave you to Dumbledore, who brought yeh to a family he thought could give yeh a quiet life. But I..."

Elara looked up, her eyes searching his face. "You didn't want to let me go, did you?"

Hagrid shook his head slowly, a tear glistening in his eye. "Not for a moment. Yeh were just a wee thing. Called me 'Papa,' though yeh wouldn't remember. It weren't easy lettin' yeh go, but Dumbledore said it was for the best... yer parents had asked him to keep yeh safe." He offered a gentle smile and put his hand on her shoulder. "They loved yeh, Elara," Hagrid said earnestly, leaning forward, his large hands resting on the table. "More than anything. They gave their lives to protect yeh."

A tear slipped down Elara's cheek, but she quickly wiped it away, shaking her head. "I... I don't even remember them," she said, her voice trembling. "I've been trying to piece everything together, and now that I know... I don't know what to feel."

Hagrid reached across the table, his massive hand covering hers gently. "It's a lot to take in, I know. But they'd be proud o' yeh. They gave yeh a chance to live. To be who yeh are."

Elara nodded, her eyes glistening. She glanced at Harry, who gave her a small, empathetic smile.

"You're not alone," Harry said softly. "We've both lost... but we're still here."

Elara managed a faint smile in return, her heart heavy yet oddly comforted. She felt the stirrings of a connection, not just to her past, but to someone who understood the same kind of pain.

As the conversation lulled, Hagrid patted both their hands awkwardly. "Right, well. Let's finish up, then. In one month's time you'll be at Hogwarts! Be sure to study those books we got."

Despite the weight of the truth that had been shared, a sense of resolution settled over the table. It wasn't an end, but rather a beginning—for both Elara and Harry. They had only just met today, yet they already had more in common than anyone else in their lives. A truly unexpected friendship.