Chapter 2

The moment Draco and Felicia stepped inside, the scent of aged wood, dust, and old parchment enveloped them. The door clicked shut behind them, and with it, the bustle of Diagon Alley seemed to fade into silence, as though the shop existed slightly out of time.

Wand boxes lined the shelves from floor to ceiling, stacked in precarious towers that looked haphazard but were, no doubt, meticulously arranged. The air hummed with quiet, residual magic—an ancient sort of stillness that wasn't truly still at all. The whole place felt alive, as if it were holding its breath, waiting.

They approached the counter, their footsteps softened by the well-worn wooden floor. There was no sign of anyone—only the presence of the space itself, the dense quiet pressing in around them.

Draco spotted a small brass bell on the counter, next to a placard that read Ring for Service. Without hesitation, he tapped it once.

Ding.

Then, before he could strike it a second time, Felicia's hand shot out and caught his wrist. She gave him a warning look, her mouth just opening to scold him—

When a head appeared suddenly in the doorway behind the counter.

Garrick Ollivander.

His pale, silvery hair stuck out in wisps and tufts, wild and unruly like static caught in the wind. His moon-pale eyes fixed on them both with unsettling intensity, like he was peering straight through their skin and into the bones beneath.

"Ahh… I was wondering when I might be seeing the two of you," he said, his voice soft but sharp, as though echoing from somewhere deeper than the shop itself.

Those strange, silvery eyes flicked from Draco to Felicia, narrowing slightly as he studied them in silence. Then, the corners of his mouth turned up in a quiet, knowing smile.

"Yes… very interesting indeed."

Draco straightened, instinctively adjusting his posture, as though rising to meet a challenge. He angled himself subtly in front of Felicia, as if to present himself first.

"We're here for our wands," he said, his voice carrying its usual air of superiority—as if their purpose hadn't already been obvious.

Ollivander gave a low chuckle, one that seemed to stir the dust motes in the air. "Yes, of course you are."

He reached out with long, bony fingers, tapping them rhythmically against a neat stack of wand boxes on the counter as he looked them over once more.

"Well then… let's begin, shall we?"

Felicia's gaze wandered over the endless shelves, her eyes wide with quiet admiration. The sheer number of wand boxes was overwhelming. Each one represented careful craftsmanship, powerful magic—and time. So much time.

"I can't imagine what it must be like to keep all this organized," she murmured, half to herself.

The chaotic neatness reminded her of her father's study, filled with dragon tomes, scrolls, and arcane instruments. Some of the texts were rare collectibles; others were his own writings, scattered among the clutter with a system only he understood.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Draco's hand reaching toward one of the wand boxes, his fingers twitching with curiosity. Without looking, she tapped his wrist.

He barely reacted, save for a brief glare cast her way. Still, he drew his hand back, subtly annoyed. He hadn't been that close to knocking anything over. She was just being—predictably—overcautious.

Ollivander, however, seemed entirely unbothered. In fact, there was a flicker of amusement in his pale, gleaming eyes.

"Oh, my dear, it is quite the task," he said, gesturing with a graceful sweep of his long fingers toward the towering stacks. "But there is a method. Every wand knows its rightful owner… the trick is merely discovering the match."

His gaze lingered on Felicia for a beat longer than necessary—curious, appraising—before turning to Draco with a small, knowing smile.

"Now then, young Malfoy… let's see what we have for you."

Ollivander moved with surprising swiftness, his long, pale fingers trailing along the edges of the shelves as he searched. Every so often, he cast a glance back at Draco, his eyes gleaming with quiet calculation.

At last, he paused and plucked a slender box from a towering stack.

"Try this—oak, twelve inches, phoenix feather core. Reasonably springy."

He opened the box with a flourish, lifting the wand and offering it to Draco by the handle. Draco took it with an air of confidence, as though it were already his, and gave it a casual flick.

Immediately, the top shelf shuddered. A deep, low rattle echoed through the shop, the sound swelling in intensity until Ollivander swiftly stepped forward and plucked the wand from Draco's grasp.

"No, no… not quite," he murmured, slipping it back into its box.

Another wand followed, and then another. Each was tried, tested, and rejected. One emitted a sudden crack of heat that caused the service bell on the counter to burst into flames.

Ollivander's eyes widened, and he quickly doused the fire with a flick of his own wand. "Definitely not that one," he said, more to himself than anyone else, shaking his head as he tucked it back into its case.

Draco was beginning to look mildly irritated, though he hid it well behind a practiced mask of indifference. Felicia noticed, of course. He was never good at waiting for things he cared about—especially not things his father would scrutinize. The longer it took to find a wand, the more uncertainty crept in, and Draco hated uncertainty.

Everything about this moment mattered to him. And that made him tense.

Then, just as the frustration began to settle thick in the air, Ollivander's expression shifted. His brows lifted as if some long-forgotten memory had resurfaced.

"Ah… yes."

He turned his attention to the higher shelves, scanning the boxes carefully until his eyes landed on one in particular.

"Perhaps… this one," he murmured.

Ollivander climbed the ladder with practiced ease, reaching for a box nestled high among the older shelves. He retrieved it with care, descending slowly before returning to the counter. With a sense of quiet reverence, he opened the lid.

"Hawthorn, ten inches. Unicorn hair core. Unyielding."

Draco took the wand without hesitation, and the moment his fingers curled around the polished wood, something shifted. A soft, resonant pulse of magic surged up his arm—cool, controlled, and precise. From the tip of the wand, a delicate silver wisp unfurled and curled through the air like smoke caught in moonlight.

Felicia's eyes widened with excitement, and she glanced at Ollivander, silently seeking confirmation of what she was witnessing.

The wandmaker gave a slow, approving nod. "Yes… a powerful match. Hawthorn wands are tricky things. They favor those of a complex nature—individuals capable of deep loyalty and sharp defiance alike."

His gaze met Draco's, sharp and searching. "Unicorn hair at the core. A curious contrast—steadfast, pure, but do not be fooled. It demands honesty. This wand will not suffer deception lightly. To master it requires discipline, and sincerity."

Draco gave the wand a small, precise flourish, testing its balance. His lips curled into a smirk, but the usual arrogance was absent. Instead, there was something rarer in his tone—something closer to satisfaction.

"Obviously," he said.

Felicia watched him, quietly struck by how different he looked in that moment—unguarded, almost at peace. She let out a small laugh, not mocking, but warm. It was rare to see him without the weight of expectation pressing on his shoulders.

"That wand definitely suits you," she said, smiling.

Draco shot her a look, half-expecting a tease, but the sincerity in her face stopped him short. Based on everything Ollivander had said, the wand didn't match the version of Draco most people saw.

It matched the one he usually kept hidden.

Ollivander turned to Felicia, his pale, silvery eyes glinting with something between curiosity and anticipation. "Now then… let's see what awaits you, Miss Forester."

Felicia looked up at him, her own eyes bright with a mix of excitement and wonder. After witnessing the look of rare satisfaction on Draco's face, she knew the trial and error would be worth it.

But hers didn't go nearly as smoothly.

Wand after wand was presented, tested, and quickly dismissed. Each attempt felt off—some too weak, others wild and uncontrollable. By the twelfth wand, a chaotic burst of magic erupted. Boxes shot from the shelves like fireworks, spinning and tumbling through the air in a dazzling, unruly display. Ollivander immediately snatched the wand away, his brows drawn in focused concern.

There was something strange about her magic—something he couldn't quite place, though it stirred an old memory.

"Just a moment…" he murmured, flicking his wand to repair the damage. Shelves realigned, boxes nestled back into place, and silence returned to the room—if only briefly.

He turned and disappeared into the back room. Moments later came the sound of boxes opening, parchment rustling, the dull thunk of wood against wood, a few metallic clicks—then silence.

Felicia and Draco exchanged a glance.

"I feel like he's about to bring me a troll's club," Felicia muttered under her breath.

Draco raised an eyebrow. "I can't imagine why he hasn't found your match out here."

Normally, such a deviation might have felt like indulgence or special treatment, but Draco had seen it all firsthand—none of the wands had worked. They either failed to direct her magic or refused to respond altogether.

"Never thought you would have a harder time than me," he added, tone somewhere between surprise and intrigue.

"Found it!" Ollivander announced, reappearing from the back room with his already-wild hair looking even more disheveled. There was an unmistakable gleam in his pale eyes—brighter, sharper than before, as though he'd uncovered a long-buried secret.

"Try this one," he said with a note of reverence. "Elm. Ten inches. Dragon heartstring core. Unyielding."

The box he carried was clearly aged, worn by time. Dust clung to its wooden surface, not simply settled on it, but embedded into the grain. Its craftsmanship was different—old, elegant. Felicia recognized the style immediately. It was like her grandfather's wand box, the one displayed in the family portrait hall at Forester Estate.

The wand inside was a deep, rich brown with a subtle twist in the wood near the handle—simple, yet striking. It was beautiful. But there was something else beneath the surface, something wild. She could feel it before she even touched it.

As her fingers closed around the handle, her eyes widened.

The sensation wasn't like the others. Where the previous wands sputtered and resisted—unable to channel her magic fully—this one welcomed it. No, amplified it. Her magic didn't leak out or bottleneck; it flowed, powerful and precise. The wand held steady, as if built to endure and refine that force.

"I was correct…" Ollivander murmured, his voice tinged with awe. He watched her closely, the glint in his eyes a mix of intrigue and approval.

The air around them shifted subtly, vibrating with a low hum of energy. It wasn't loud, but it was present—a quiet acknowledgment from the shop itself, or perhaps from the wand.

"I had wondered…" he said under his breath, as though speaking more to himself than to them. "And I couldn't help myself…"

He stepped closer, eyes locked on Felicia and the wand that now rested so naturally in her grip. There was something dangerous about it—something untamed. Yet, in her hands, it seemed to calm. Not subdued, but willing.

It hadn't been conquered.

It had chosen.

"Elm," Ollivander murmured, fingers steepled in quiet thought. "A wood of grace and precision… known for favoring those with innate control, with discipline built into their very nature."

He paused, his pale gaze flicking to Felicia's expression—knowing she could already feel the truth of what he was saying.

"And yet…" His eyes glinted faintly. "Dragon heartstring. A core of fire and raw power. Unpredictable in the wrong hands. Unyielding. Demanding."

He nodded slowly to himself, his voice turning almost reverent. "This wand… it has never truly chosen before. Temperamental, you see. It was never satisfied."

His gaze settled on her fully now. A small, knowing smile curved his lips.

"But you… ah, yes. It would seem you and this wand understand each other."

From the sidelines, Draco scoffed lightly, though it lacked venom. "Of course. Even your wand has an attitude."

Ollivander chuckled, the sound soft and knowing, but he didn't disagree. Instead, he folded his hands behind his back with a nod of approval.

"Yes, I believe it will serve you well, Miss Forester." He tilted his head, expression growing thoughtful. "It's an old wand… one of my father's early creations. Perhaps it was simply waiting—for the right witch to come along."

With quiet finality, he closed the empty box and placed it aside.

"Yes," he said, voice calm but certain. "We've found your match."

After the payment was handled, Felicia turned to Ollivander with a grateful smile.

"Thank you for your help," she said warmly, then nudged Draco, who was still inspecting his wand like it might whisper secrets to him.

He blinked, realizing he'd lost track of the moment. With a scoff that was more for show than substance, he gave a dismissive wave. "Right. Thank you. I'll be sure everyone knows where I got my wand."

Felicia shook her head with a faint smile before offering a proper curtsey to Ollivander. When she turned and moved toward the door, Draco—finally snapping out of his reverie—stepped ahead just in time to open it for her.

She gave him a sidelong glance and a smirk as she stepped outside, knowing full well he'd be obsessing over that wand the entire day.

Waiting just beyond the shop were both sets of parents: the Foresters and the Malfoys.

Galdur Forester and Lucius Malfoy stood in close conversation—an old habit from their youth. Once childhood friends, their bond had frayed during the rise of You-Know-Who. Though Galdur had never severed ties completely, he'd learned long ago to detach emotion from the Malfoy name. What remained now was a façade, maintained for tradition's sake and social advantage.

Nearby, Selene Forester and Narcissa Malfoy stood engaged in quieter discussion, speaking more about school than politics, their tones polite but cautious.

As Draco stepped out, his smirk faded just slightly, his posture instinctively straightening. His eyes flicked to his father. Lucius stood tall, back straight, voice low and composed as he spoke to Galdur. He didn't glance at Draco—didn't need to. It was assumed Draco had done what was expected of him.

In contrast, Galdur turned the moment Felicia emerged, his expression softening immediately. A flicker of warmth crossed his features, and the faintest smile tugged at the corners of his mouth—quiet, but unmistakably proud.

Draco tightened his grip on the wand, feeling the smooth hawthorn wood settle against his palm. He had done well today—as expected. But that was all it was: expected. There was no praise for meeting the standard when excellence was simply presumed.

Lucius finally turned his gaze toward his son, offering a small nod of acknowledgment. "I trust everything went smoothly?"

Draco straightened, sliding effortlessly back into the composed posture he'd been taught to wear like a second skin.

"Of course, Father."

Lucius gave a faint hum of approval, already turning back to Galdur as if the matter required no further discussion. The conversation resumed, the weight of unspoken expectations hanging heavy in the air.

Draco glanced sideways at Felicia. She'd noticed—of course she had. She always noticed. He exhaled softly, rolling his shoulders back in a small, reflexive attempt to shake off the tension.

"Well," he muttered under his breath, his tone low and dry, meant only for her, "at least one of us got a proper welcome back."

Felicia didn't need to ask what he meant.

Galdur hadn't spoken much, but his expression had said enough—pride, affection, warmth. In contrast, Lucius's approval had been brief, clipped, and absent of emotion.

She gave Draco a small nudge with her elbow—gentle, but grounding.

"You did good today, Draco… just try not to set the house on fire," Felicia said with a smirk.

Draco scoffed softly, though there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes. "Tch. As if I'd make some amateur mistake like that."

With a practiced motion, he slipped his wand into the inner pocket of his robes, the gesture smooth and deliberate.

The adults had wrapped up their conversations, and Draco noticed his father casting a brief glance toward Felicia before turning away without a word, already walking off—fully expecting his son to follow without hesitation.

Felicia turned to him. "I'll see you at Hogwarts."

Draco returned her look, his smirk returning with practiced ease. "I'll see you there… Forester." His tone held just the right amount of mischief. "Try not to let that thing bite anyone before the Sorting."

With that, he turned and followed after Lucius, back straight, expression composed.

But as he walked, his fingers drifted over the polished surface of his new wand, tracing it absently—his mind still quietly turning over everything that had unfolded that day.