The moment the door to Ollivanders swung shut behind them with a soft chime, the noise of Diagon Alley vanished.
The shop was narrow, dimly lit, and packed from floor to ceiling with wand boxes stacked in towering, precarious piles. It smelled faintly of varnish, candle wax, and time.
Rigel stepped in behind Dora, his sharp blue eyes scanning the shop's strange stillness. There was something heavy about the place—not oppressive, but ancient. As if the air itself remembered every wand ever sold.
Then, out of the shadows between shelves, a voice emerged—soft, ethereal.
"Ah… Miss Black... And… Mr. Black."
Garrick Ollivander, gaunt and pale, with eyes like silver moonlight, appeared without a sound. His gaze flicked from one child to the other. "I wondered when I might be seeing the two of you."
Dora grinned. "We're here for our wands."
"Of course." Ollivander moved like smoke, gliding to the shelves. "Ladies first."
He beckoned Dora forward and she bounced up eagerly, brushing a streak of rebellious pink from her hair, which shifted back to brown as her excitement built.
"Try this. Hazel and phoenix feather, ten inches."
She gave it a swish—and a sudden spark! shot from the tip, igniting a nearby quill into flame.
"No, no. Not quite," Ollivander muttered, quickly vanishing the fire.
Next came a wand of maple, then ash, then hornbeam. Each reacted awkwardly—fizzling, jerking, or refusing to respond.
Then Ollivander paused. His long fingers plucked a slender box from a shelf near the back.
"Hmm. I wonder."
He drew from it a wand of cherry wood, warm in hue and elegant in shape. The grain gleamed faintly, like polished rose-gold under the dim light. "Cherry wood. Ten and three-quarter inches. Unicorn hair core. Supple. A wand with a refined nature. Rather selective, too."
Dora reached for it, and the moment her fingers touched the smooth surface, a gentle warmth bloomed in the air.
A soft swirl of glittering pink and gold light twisted upward from the tip. It felt like laughter held in silence, light waiting to be released.
Dora gasped. "It's… perfect."
Ollivander smiled faintly. "Yes. A wand for charmwork, elegance, and the will to change."
Dora twirled it once and tucked it proudly behind her ear. "Your turn, Rigel."
Now all eyes turned to the boy.
Rigel approached the counter more slowly, his face unreadable beneath the soft sweep of dark hair. He flexed his fingers once before resting them on the wooden surface, pulse quiet but quick.
"Let's begin," Ollivander said softly.
One by one, wands came forth: pine, ebony, laurel, even an intriguing ash wand with dragon heartstring—but none answered him.
Some sparked wildly, others did nothing at all. One cracked a pane of glass in the window. Rigel remained silent throughout, face composed.
Then—without Ollivander lifting a finger—a single wand box glided from the top shelf. It hovered down, slow and deliberate, as if choosing him.
Ollivander's expression sharpened. "Ah… how very curious indeed."
He opened the box with care and withdrew a dark, coiled wand—blackthorn, heavy and elegant, almost bramble-like in texture, its surface twisted in subtle spirals. The core shimmered faintly within.
"This wand has not found a bearer in many years," he said. "Blackthorn. Eleven and a half inches. Slightly rigid. Core of thestral tail hair."
At that, Dora's head turned sharply. Even she had heard of how rare—how strange—that core was.
Rigel took the wand.
The effect was instantaneous.
A pulse of air expanded from his chest, soft and silent, as if the very room exhaled with him. Light from the lanterns flickered low.
A single spark ignited at the tip of the wand, cold white with a tinge of indigo, and then faded gently into the air.
The silence in the shop was absolute.
Ollivander looked at Rigel, expression unreadable.
"Blackthorn is a wand of power, but not lightly given. It is a survivor's wand, one that thrives with its master through hardship.
And a thestral core… that is a wand that knows loss. It bonds only with those who have seen death—not just with their eyes, but with their soul."
Rigel remained quiet, but his grip on the wand was firm. He didn't look up, didn't need to. He knew it had chosen him.
The hum beneath his skin, the resonance in his chest—this wand didn't just respond to him. It recognized him.
Dora looked at him sideways. Her wand had felt like a song waiting to be sung.
His felt like a storm waiting to break.
They stepped out of Ollivanders a few minutes later, both quiet now, each holding something far more personal than they had expected.
In the bright light of the alley, Dora gave a soft whistle.
"Well," she said, glancing at Rigel, "looks like your wand's more serious than you are."
He gave a rare, lopsided smile.
"Maybe it's just waiting for me to catch up."
And with that, they rejoined the bustling crowd—two new wand-bearers, each bound to a future neither of them could yet imagine.
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Author's notes.
Please give me power stones.