Ollivanders, Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C. looked quiet and unimportant from the outside. Dusty windows, faded gold lettering, and a narrow door that creaked when pushed open.
But the moment Harris stepped inside, he felt it.
Magic.
It was in the air, soft and heavy like a blanket. The room smelled of old wood, parchment, and something else, something glowing just out of reach. Stacks of long, thin boxes covered the walls from floor to ceiling. It was silent, like a library holding its breath.
"Good morning," came a gentle, raspy voice.
An old man stepped out from between the shelves. He was thin, with wild white hair and pale, cloudy eyes that shimmered strangely. Ink stains marked his fingers, and his robes looked older than some buildings.
"Ah," he said, eyeing Harris and his parents with polite interest. "New wand, I suppose?"
"Yes," Harris said quietly, stepping forward.
The old man nodded and looked at Mara and Thom.
"First time in Ollivanders?" he asked kindly.
"Yes," Thom said. "We weren't sure where to start."
"You've started at the right place," the wandmaker said. Then he turned his gaze back to Harris.
"I am Garrick Ollivander," he said, voice soft but sure. "I remember every wand I've ever sold. Professor McGonagall's, for example. Fir wood. Ten and three-quarters inches. Quite rigid. Excellent for Transfiguration."
His eyes lingered on Harris. "But I don't know you."
Harris felt a tiny chill at those words.
Ollivander didn't ask questions, didn't push. Instead, he simply raised a hand and a floating tape measure sprang to life. It danced around Harris, measuring his arm length, wrist, shoulder width even the space between his eyes.
"Curious…" Ollivander muttered. Then he turned, pulled a narrow box from a shelf, and handed it to Harris.
"Ash wood. Unicorn hair core. Eleven inches. Steady and reliable."
Harris took it carefully. The moment he touched it, a burst of blue light shot out from the tip and knocked the box off the counter.
Ollivander chuckled. "No, no. Definitely not that one."
He tried more.
One fizzed and made his hair stand on end.
Another made the curtains flap like wings.
One wand sparked so wildly it cracked a glass jar on the wall.
"Hmm…" Ollivander frowned. "Tricky. You're not easy to match."
Then he turned to a high shelf in the corner. His fingers hovered over the boxes like he was listening for something.
Finally, he picked a long, dark case and opened it with care.
"Let's try this one," he said.
"Blackthorn. Phoenix feather. Ten and a quarter inches. A rare combination. Strong. Protective. Made for someone who has known struggle… and grown from it."
Harris reached out and took the wand.
The warmth was instant.
It wasn't hot, it was calm. Like stepping into sunlight after the rain. The lights in the shop glowed brighter. The hair on his arms lifted.
He raised the wand, gave a small wave, and golden sparks flowed from the tip like a firework.
"Yes," Ollivander whispered. "Yes, that's the one."
Mara clapped softly. Thom blinked, surprised.
"You found it already?" Thom asked.
Harris nodded. "No. It found me."
Ollivander closed the box gently. "Remember this, the wand chooses the wizard. And though the wand learns from the wizard… the wizard is shaped by the wand as well."
Harris held the wand a little tighter.
Outside, the sun had started to break through the clouds.
As they stepped into Diagon Alley again, Harris felt something shift. The magic in the air now felt… closer.
He looked across the street and froze.
Near Madam Malkin's robe shop stood a girl in emerald-green robes, silver trim at the sleeves. She had soft blonde hair, tied back, and cool blue eyes. A woman, likely her mother, stood beside her, looking just as elegant.
The girl turned, and their eyes met.
She gave him a small nod. Not rude, not smug. Just… noticing.
Then she turned back into the shop.
Harris stood still for a moment.
He didn't know who she was.
But he had a feeling their paths would cross again.
Her name, he'd later learn, was Summer Greengrass.
And this was only the beginning.