Eliot Clarke stepped into Ollivanders, the legendary wand shop, heart hammering in his chest. The air inside was thick with the scent of polished wood, dust, and something electric—magic woven into every shelf and box.
From the shadows, Garrick Ollivander emerged, his silvery eyes glinting with curiosity. "Ah, Mr. Clarke," he said, voice soft as velvet and sharp as a knife. "I've been expecting you."
Eliot swallowed, nerves prickling. He'd imagined this moment for years, but standing here, he felt the weight of destiny settle on his shoulders.
Ollivander wasted no time. He measured Eliot's arm span, his wrist to elbow, even the circumference of his head, all the while muttering to himself.
"Every wand has a core of a powerful magical substance," he explained, selecting a slender box from the nearest shelf. "No two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two wizards are."
He handed Eliot the first wand. "Hawthorn, ten inches, unicorn hair."
Eliot gripped it, but nothing happened. The wand felt cold, almost indifferent in his hand.
Ollivander frowned and snatched it back. "No, no, not that one. Let's try… willow, twelve inches, dragon heartstring."
Eliot took the next wand. A faint tingle, but as he gave it a tentative wave, a stack of parchment fluttered off a nearby table and scattered across the floor.
Ollivander tutted, quickly retrieving the wand. "Not quite. The match must be perfect."
He tried again. "Elm, eleven and a quarter, unicorn hair."
Eliot barely touched it before the tip fizzled out with a sad little puff of smoke.
Ollivander's eyes gleamed. "Curious. Very curious. One more, I think."
He reached to the highest shelf, drawing down a box wrapped in deep blue velvet. "Ash wood, thirteen inches, phoenix feather core. Let's see…"
Eliot's fingers closed around the wand—and instantly, a surge of warmth flooded his arm. The wand hummed, alive, and a shower of silver and gold sparks burst from its tip, bathing the shop in radiant light.
Ollivander's eyes widened. "Extraordinary," he whispered. "Ash wood is known for its steadfast nature, and phoenix feather cores are among the rarest, capable of the greatest range of magic. But this… this is unique."
Eliot stared at the wand, feeling its pulse—steady, powerful, almost as if it recognized him.
"What makes it unique?" he asked.
Ollivander leaned in, voice dropping to a hush. "This phoenix feather comes from a bird that was reborn not once, but three times—each time stronger. Such a core embodies the cycle of death, life, and rebirth. It seeks a master who understands what it means to begin again."
Eliot felt a thrill of recognition, memories of his own rebirth flickering in his mind. The wand seemed to echo his journey.
"This wand," Ollivander continued, "will be a loyal companion, but it demands integrity and purpose."
Eliot nodded, feeling the gravity of the bond.
When he stepped out of Ollivanders, wand in hand, the world seemed brighter, sharper. The wand pulsed gently, as if to say, I'm here.
That evening, by the fire at his grandfather's manor, Eliot turned the wand over in his hands, thinking of the path ahead. The wand sent a gentle warmth through his fingers—a silent promise.
Eliot smiled, determination in his eyes. "Together," he whispered, "we'll uncover the truths of this world—and beyond."