Welcome to The Wandmaker's Heir—a quiet reimagining of the wizarding world, told through the eyes of Celeste Ollivander, a girl who listens more than she speaks, and who hears the old songs still hidden in wandwood and core.
This story walks beside Philosopher's Stone, sometimes in shadow, sometimes in light, and occasionally straying down a different path entirely. While the world may feel familiar, some things—events, characters, magic—may unfold differently than you remember.
At its heart, this is a story about legacy, intuition, and the kind of magic that doesn't need to shout to be powerful.
Thank you for being here.
- Gryff
Diagon Alley was a living, breathing marvel of magic.
The cobblestones beneath Harry's feet were warm from the sun, smoothed and dimpled by generations of witches and wizards. The air shimmered with enchantment. Laughter spilled from the open doors of Flourish and Blotts, owls hooted from cages stacked high at Eeylops Owl Emporium, and the scent of toffee and treacle tart wafted from the direction of the Leaky Cauldron. Somewhere nearby, a self-stirring cauldron was bubbling merrily in midair, and a wizard in emerald robes was arguing with a hat that wouldn't stop singing.
It was dazzling. Overwhelming. Wonderful.
Harry wandered wide-eyed through the crowd until he found himself standing before a narrow, crooked shop nestled between a robe boutique and a dusty apothecary. The sign above the door was old and faded, the gold lettering flaking at the edges:
Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.
The display window held only a single wand resting on a threadbare cushion of deep purple velvet. Dust floated in the sunlight like tiny stars.
Harry hesitated, then pushed open the door.
A small brass bell chimed overhead, and the noise of the street was immediately swallowed by silence. The air inside was cool and dry, thick with the scent of polished wood, old parchment, and something faintly earth. It felt like stepping into a forgotten forest wrapped in cobwebs and memory.
Tall shelves stretched to the ceiling, each one crammed with slender wand boxes stacked neatly in what looked like organized chaos. Ladders rolled silently along the walls, and beams of dusty sunlight slanted down like ghostly spotlights. No one appeared to be present.
Harry stepped inside cautiously, the floor creaking beneath his feet.
Before he could call out, a soft voice reached him from somewhere in the shadows.
"Grandfather's out at the moment," the voice said, low and melodic. "But I can help, if you like."
He turned.
A girl had stepped into the light, and for a moment, Harry wasn't sure she hadn't simply materialised out of thin air. She was his age with skin like porcelain and long silvery-blonde hair that fell in waves down her back, catching the light like strands of moonlight. Her robes were a soft gray trimmed in violet, worn with quiet elegance. Her eyes, a soft storm-gray, studied him with a gaze that was neither shy nor bold, but impossibly calm - as if she saw something in him he hadn't noticed himself.
She moved like mist - graceful, unhurried, as though the stillness of the shop clung to her and obeyed her rhythm.
"I'm Celeste," she said, voice like velvet and falling snow. "Celeste Ollivander."
Harry's mouth opened slightly. "I'm… Harry. Harry Potter."
Something flickered in her eyes - not the abrupt flash of shock, but the warm glow of deep recognition. And something else. A kind of solemn kindness.
"I thought so," she whispered, almost as if confessing a secret to the gentle silence. "Grandfather wondered when you'd be coming for your first wand."
Before he could reply, she turned and walked toward one of the shelves. Her fingers glided delicately over the assortment of boxes, the light touch reminiscent of a master musician caressing the strings of an unseen harp. Occasionally, she paused, her head tilting inquisitively as if tuning her senses to a private melody no one else could hear.
"Wands aren't simply made," she murmured tenderly, still facing the shelves. "They're felt. Heard. Understood. My grandfather always says they possess their own songs - if only one knows how to listen."
With a slow, deliberate motion, she retrieved a box, opened it to reveal the wand within and extended it towards him. "Rowan and unicorn hair. Ten inches. A bit rigid. Try this one, give it a wave."
Harry took the wand. The moment it touched his fingers, an odd pressure seemed to swell in the air. He waved it hesitantly - and in that moment, a resounding crack broke the quiet. A vase on the counter shattered into glittering shards, and a sudden gust nudged a long-forgotten scroll from a distant shelf.
"Absolutely not," Celeste murmured, her voice low and determined as she swiftly selected another option.
The next wand was shorter - maple and dragon heartstring. As Harry raised it, an unexpected cascade of boxes tumbled from the shelves, clattering to the floor like a chaotic cascade of dominos. In a fluid motion, Celeste caught one box in midair, her composure as steady as a calm sea in twilight, as if Harry wasn't causing chaos within the shop.
"No. Not at all."
The third wand was slender and pale, its surface etched with delicate runes. Phoenix feather, again. "This one's sensitive," she warned.
Harry barely had time to tilt his wrist when the wand burst into erratic sparks. A nearby shelf shuddered, and even a lone quill burst into flame. Quick as a flash, Celeste retrieved it from him with both hands.
"Temperamental," she murmured as she carefully nestled the rebellious wand back into its box. "It seems more suited to someone who likes setting things on fire."
Harry exhaled, his cheeks warming with embarrassment. "Is this normal?"
Celeste's smile was subtle and knowing. "Perfectly normal. You're not choosing the wand - it's choosing you, and trust me, they have very strong opinions."
With renewed determination, she turned and moved along the aisles with an air of certainty. Her hand reached out, paused as if sensing an electric hum in the atmosphere, and gently freed a box from a high shelf. Her eyes sparkled with quiet triumph.
"This one," she whispered reverently.
Returning to him, she cradled the box with both hands. The wand inside was crafted from smooth holly wood, its surface unadorned and simple, yet the space around it seemed to shift, charged with an unspoken promise.
Harry accepted it, and as his fingers curled around its shaft, a tender warmth blossomed up his arm. It wasn't a burst of sparks or a sudden clamor, but rather, a soft, golden luminescence radiated from the tip, gracefully curling into the air like stardust-wreathed smoke. The shelves whispered in quiet approval, the motes of dust settled like tiny confetti, and an almost sacred stillness embraced the shop.
"That," Celeste breathed, her voice quiet, "is the one."
Harry's eyes widened in wonder as he gazed at the wand. "I think... I think it likes me."
Celeste remained silent, her eyes fixated on him with a ponderous, searching look. She had witnessed moments like these before, yet never quite so vividly. The wand didn't just choose him. It recognised him.
"You were always meant for it," she said softly. "Holly and phoenix feather. Eleven inches. Supple. The core... comes from a very special phoenix. One that gave only one other feather."
At that moment, a slow creak at the front of the shop announced someone's arrival. The bell above the door chimed a soft, subtle note, as if it too acknowledged the profound gravity of the moment. Celeste's gaze drifted toward the entrance, her expression warming.
"Grandfather."
An old man stepped into the shop with a kind of quiet gravity, moving like someone who belonged not just to the room, but to the very air it breathed. His silvery hair was brushed back, his eyes pale and sharp beneath heavy lids that missed nothing. There was a kind of magic in him that didn't need to be seen to be felt - woven into every gesture, every quiet breath.
"Ah," Garrick Ollivander said, his voice a thoughtful murmur as he gazed at Harry. "I see you've finally arrived, young Mr. Potter."
He advanced slowly, his gaze lingering on the wand cradled in Harry's hand. His deep, unreadable eyes, honed by witnessing countless generations of wizards, scanned Harry with a mix of curiosity and timeless understanding. He stepped closer, eyes narrowing ever so slightly as they landed on the wand in Harry's grasp. His fingers hovered in the air, not quite reaching for it.
"Holly and phoenix feather," he murmured thoughtfully. "Eleven inches. Supple. Very curious... very curious indeed. Celeste… are you certain?"
Celeste tilted her head slightly, a teasing glimmer dancing in her eyes, though her voice remained quiet and respectful. "Grandfather, you of all people should know - the wand chooses the wizard."
She held his gaze for a long, silent heartbeat before adding, "But yes. I'm certain."
A pause passed between them, something old and unspoken. Then Ollivander gave the faintest nod - approval or curiosity, it was hard to say - and turned his full attention to Harry, who felt very confused at the apparent significance of the wand he now held.
"Sorry, sir… but what's curious?"
"I remember every wand I've ever sold, Mr. Potter," he said. "It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather resides in your wand gave another feather - just one other."
Celeste stood silently beside him, watching Harry closely, her expression unreadable but gentle.
"It is curious that you should be destined for this wand," Ollivander continued, "when its brother gave you that scar."
Harry's breath hitched in his throat. "And who owned that wand?"
Celeste shifted slightly, her gaze flicking to her grandfather as she bit her lip. This was a rather delicate subject.
"We do not speak his name," Ollivander said softly.
A silence fell. The wand in Harry's hand pulsed gently, warm and watchful.
"The wand chooses the wizard, Mr. Potter. It's not always clear why," Ollivander went on, his voice reverent, "but I think it is clear that we can expect great things from you."
He leaned in just slightly, pale eyes gleaming. "After all… He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things. Terrible… yes. But great."
Celeste's voice followed, soft and steady in the quiet that lingered as she offered him a small smile. "You'll do great things, Harry Potter," she said gently. "Just... don't forget who you are while you're doing them."
~o~o~o~o~
The steam exhaled in a soft, lingering sigh from the scarlet engine as Celeste stood on the bustling platform, her small fingers wrapped firmly around the timeworn handle of her trunk. Just moments before, her grandfather had pressed a gentle kiss to her temple, his voice low and earnest as he whispered, "Listen closely. Magic speaks when it matters most."
Now he had blended into the crowd - a silver silhouette among the throngs at platform nine and three-quarters. Though she stood alone, she felt no fear.
Before her, the train loomed majestic and alive, its vibrant red body pulsing with movement. Students leaned excitedly from windows, trunks thudded robustly on waiting steps, and the air was filled with a symphony of enthusiastic noises - owls hooting from intricately fashioned cages, robes swirling with every step, and cats adding soft mews to the cacophony of laughter and the occasional hiccup. With a quiet resolve, Celeste boarded the train, her heart beating in tandem with its rhythm.
She passed open compartments full of chattering students, sliding doors rattling in their frames, until she found one that was empty except for a slumbering tabby curled on the bench. She sat beside it carefully, placing her small trunk on the floor and drawing her knees up beside her on the seat.
The cat didn't stir. It snored faintly.
Outside the window, the station started to blur as the train began to leave, and then soon, the city fell away into fields and sky and colour. Celeste leaned her forehead against the cool glass, letting the rhythmic clatter of the train lull her thoughts into motion. She could still feel the quiet hum of wandwood on her fingertips, the way her own wand - willow and unicorn hair - had pulsed gently in her hand when she first touched it. Gentle, like a heartbeat.
Her grandfather hadn't said much when it had chosen her. Just a soft, "Yes. That's right," and a touch to her shoulder that said the rest.
The landscape streamed by in streaks of green and gold. Celeste opened her satchel and pulled out a slim, navy-blue notebook. Inside were carefully inked sketches of wand cores and magical trees, annotated with thoughts in her looping, deliberate hand. She didn't draw anything new - just turned the pages, letting the familiar shapes soothe her excited nerves.
She had never been away from her grandfather for more than two nights.
She had never worn school robes before.
And she had never seen Hogwarts.
Her chest fluttered at the thought.
The door to the compartment slid open with a soft clack. A girl with bushy brown hair peeked inside, her cheeks slightly flushed.
"Oh, sorry! I thought this one was empty."
Celeste shook her head gently. "It's alright. You can come in, if you'd like."
The girl stepped inside, visibly relieved. "Thank you. Everywhere else was full. I'm Hermione Granger."
"Celeste Ollivander."
Hermione blinked. "Ollivander? As in the wand shop?"
Celeste nodded, tucking her notebook closed.
"Wow," Hermione said, clearly awed. "You must know everything about wandlore."
A soft, knowing smile graced Celeste's lips. "Not everything. But I listen well."
They made themselves comfortable, with Hermione taking a seat opposite Celeste. A light, breathless laugh escaped Hermione as she enthusiastically recounted her summer discoveries. "I read everything I could find about wands this summer. Unicorn hair cores are the most reliable, but dragon heartstring is more powerful in dueling - and phoenix feathers are rarer but unpredictable, right?"
"Mostly true," Celeste said, folding her hands in her lap. "But wands don't always behave how books expect them to."
Hermione blinked. "What do you mean?"
"Magic is like a melody," Celeste said, eyes gleaming with quiet certainty as she explained. "You can study it, learn it - but sometimes, it surprises even the most careful listener. A wand doesn't merely mirror its wizard or witch - it learns them, grows with them."
Hermione looked thoughtful, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "I never thought of it that way."
Celeste tilted her head, her voice soft but certain. "It's not always about strength. Sometimes, it's about harmony."
Hermione was quiet for a moment. Then, with a spark of curiosity, she asked, "What's your wand?"
"Willow and unicorn hair," Celeste replied, with a note of quiet pride. "Twelve inches. Quite bendy."
She reached carefully into her satchel and drew out a slim, pale wand from a soft velvet wrap. It was simple, elegant - carved from a gently spiraled piece of willow wood, faintly polished to a sheen that shimmered in the compartment's soft light. She passed it to Hermione with both hands, reverently.
Hermione took it as though it might sing to her. "It's beautiful."
Celeste smiled. "Thank you. It was the second one I ever touched. The first… snapped in half when I picked it up."
Hermione blinked in surprise. "Really?"
"Mm. Grandfather said the wand was being dramatic. But sometimes, that's how they say no."
Hermione let out a soft laugh. "I can't imagine choosing a wand like that."
"You don't choose it," Celeste said gently, reclaiming hers and slipping it back into its wrap. "It chooses you. Though sometimes… it needs to make a bit of a scene first."
The girls shared a soft laugh - nervous, but real, and somehow grounding. The kind that settled something inside Celeste's chest. It felt good to laugh with someone her own age, someone who didn't treat her like a curiosity or a name on a shop sign. Hermione opened her mouth, about to say something else, but before she could speak, the compartment door slid open with a sudden clack.
A boy with a round, earnest face and flushed cheeks stood in the doorway, slightly out of breath and holding a crooked wand in one hand.
"Sorry," he said, blinking at them. "Have either of you seen a toad? I've lost mine. His name's Trevor."
Celeste and Hermione exchanged glances, and then Hermione answered.
"No, but I could help you look, if you like?"
The boy blinked. "Really? Thanks! I'm Neville - Neville Longbottom."
"Hermione Granger," she said quickly, already standing and brushing a wrinkle from her robes.
Celeste gave them both a small smile. "Celeste Ollivander."
Neville blinked at her. "As in - Ollivander's? The wand shop?"
She nodded once, accustomed to the spark of recognition that often flickered in people's eyes at the mention of her family's name.
Hermione turned to Celeste. "Do you mind staying here? Just in case someone else tries to take the compartment."
"Of course," Celeste said, already settling back into her seat. "I'll keep it safe."
Hermione gave her a grateful smile. "We'll be quick!"
The two disappeared down the corridor, voices fading into the hum of the train and the rattle of wheels beneath them. Celeste leaned back into her seat, the velvet of the cushion soft beneath her palms. The compartment was silent again, save for the gentle snore of the tabby still curled next to her and the distant murmur of voices beyond the door.
She traced the edge of her wand case with her fingers, feeling the faint warmth of the willow through the fabric. Somewhere, in the gentle rhythm of the train, she felt a pull - familiar and distant all at once. Not fear. Not even nerves. Just... a quiet knowing. Like something inside her had been waiting for this journey longer than she'd realised.
Soon, she'd see the castle her grandfather had spoken of in hushes and reverence. The place where her parents once studied. The place where she would begin - not as Celeste Ollivander, granddaughter of the wandmaker - but hopefully, just as Celeste.
She was looking forward to it.