Sitting at his new desk, Sean flipped through the battered notebook Gavin had given him, his brow furrowing deeper with every page.
With a heavy sigh, Sean closed the notebook and pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling the weight of frustration settle on his shoulders.
The notebook was filled with Gavin's magical conjectures and discoveries from his school days. Its contents were astonishing—a record of Gavin's learning and research from youth to early adulthood. But it had one glaring flaw.
The notes were too advanced, unsystematic, and at times, downright chaotic. Gavin had scribbled down whatever came to mind, relying on his own deep magical knowledge to keep things concise. He understood his own shorthand, but for anyone else, it was an indecipherable maze.
This made it nearly impossible for Sean to study. Beyond the relatively simple sections at the beginning, the later parts required a systematic magical education—something Sean lacked. To truly understand, he would have needed to study magic at Hogwarts and build a solid foundation in magical theory.
Other transmigrators could master all sorts of magic before even setting foot in school, but here I am, struggling to make sense of a notebook, Sean thought bitterly. Maybe I really am a fake transmigrator. He snapped the notebook shut and stood, determined to get some fresh air.
Yesterday, a Hogwarts owl had delivered his acceptance letter.
Sean himself wasn't particularly excited, but his parents were over the moon, as if they were the ones about to attend Hogwarts.
He understood their joy. As Squibs, his parents had always dreamed of entering Hogwarts. Now, with Sean's letter, it was as if their wish had been fulfilled through him. Their excitement was contagious, even if Sean tried not to show it.
After changing clothes and heading to the living room, Sean found his parents already dressed and waiting at the door, practically vibrating with anticipation.
Yad and Martha knew exactly how to get to Diagon Alley, so they arrived at the Leaky Cauldron without any trouble. With help from the bar staff, they slipped through the hidden passage and into the magical heart of London.
Diagon Alley was bustling, filled with families—many of them Muggles—bringing their children to buy school supplies. Wizarding families were there too, though fewer in number. It wasn't that there were fewer magical children, but many wizarding families had already prepared most of what they needed and were only picking up a few last-minute items.
Shopping was a joy, and wizards were no exception.
After exchanging the gold notes Gavin had given him at Gringotts, the family dove into the excitement of shopping.
Martha carried Sean's new robes, Yad juggled stacks of books, and together, they made their way to Ollivanders—Sean's most anticipated stop of the day.
Diagon Alley buzzed with an energy that was still utterly surreal to Sean, but Ollivanders, tucked away on the south side, felt like stepping into a pocket of ancient silence. The shop was small, its weathered facade almost lost between more boisterous neighbors. A single, perpetually dusty window offered a tantalizing, slightly unsettling glimpse of countless wand boxes stacked in shadowed rows, like tiny coffins awaiting their occupants.
The moment Sean stepped inside with his parents, the air thickened. It was a claustrophobic space, the sheer density of unseen magic pressing in. The scent of aged wood, something akin to ozone, and the almost metallic tang of raw, dormant power filled his lungs. It was overwhelming.
Sean, feeling a familiar knot of nerves tighten in his stomach – a knot that had been present ever since this whole 'you're a wizard, Sean' bombshell dropped – cleared his throat. "Excuse me?" he called out, his voice sounding ridiculously small in the echoing silence. "Is anyone here?"
A beat of silence, then…
"Good morning…"
The reply was a soft, almost spectral whisper that seemed to materialize from the deepest shadows of the shop, sending a shiver down Sean's spine. Then, he emerged. Garrick Ollivander. Piercing, moon-silver eyes that seemed to see right into Sean's soul – no, through it – were framed by a mane of untamed white hair that defied gravity. He was exactly as the whispered stories (the ones Sean was still trying to process as real) described. He regarded the small family, his gaze lingering on Sean with an unnerving intensity before he gave a polite, almost archaic nod.
"Hogwarts first years, are we?" Ollivander's voice was soft, yet it carried an undeniable authority.
"Yes, sir," Sean managed, trying to keep his voice steady. "I… I need a wand." Understatement of the century, he thought wryly.
A faint, almost knowing smile touched Ollivander's lips. "Of course you do," he murmured, his eyes glinting with an ancient curiosity that made Sean feel like a particularly interesting insect under a microscope. "Every Hogwarts student needs the wand that chooses them. The wand, Mr…?" He paused, pulling a massive, leather-bound ledger from beneath the scarred counter with surprising ease. Picking up a long, feathered quill that looked like it belonged to a griffin, he prompted, "Name, if you please?"
"Sean. Sean Bulstrode."
The quill froze mid-air. Ollivander's silvery eyes flickered, a spark of undeniable recognition – or was it something else? – igniting within them. He studied Sean for a long, unnerving moment, a silent hum seeming to emanate from him. Then, with an elegant, almost reverent flourish, he delicately inscribed the name into his ledger. Sean felt like a page had just been turned in a book he didn't even know he was in.
"Now then, Mr. Bulstrode…" Ollivander mused, and suddenly, a silver measuring tape shot out from his sleeve, whizzing around Sean like an inquisitive snake. It didn't just measure his wand arm; it darted from shoulder to forearm, wrist to finger, even, bizarrely, the distance between his nostrils, all while Ollivander muttered arcane calculations under his breath. "Every Ollivander wand is a unique creation, you understand. Crafted with the utmost care, never duplicated. There is a perfect match for everyone… if one is patient enough to find it." His gaze was distant, as if seeing centuries of wizards pass before him.
He finally glided towards the towering shelves, selecting a slender, unassuming box. He opened it with a touch so reverent Sean half-expected a choir to start singing. "Silver lime and unicorn tail hair. Twelve inches precisely. A wand often drawn to those gifted in the subtle arts of Divination and Memory Charms. A curious combination… quite rare."
Sean reached out, his heart thumping. Could it be this easy? He accepted the wand. The wood felt smooth, cool… and utterly dead in his hand.
Ollivander's brow furrowed almost imperceptibly, his smile dimming. He gently, almost sadly, took the wand back. "No, no. Not quite. Promising, certainly, but not yours." He returned it to its box with a sigh. "Let us try another."
The old wandmaker moved with a surprising, almost fluid agility for his age, circling the towering shelves like a predatory bird before scaling a tall, rickety ladder to retrieve a dust-covered box from the very highest point. As he descended, he brushed the thick layer of dust away with a soft, almost mournful sigh. "Blackthorn and dragon heartstring. Eleven and three-quarter inches. A warrior's wand, this one—powerful, unyielding. Its wielder is often destined for greatness… or calamity." A thrill, mixed with a healthy dose of fear, shot through Sean.
He took the dark, heavy wand, feeling a faint thrum of power. Ollivander watched, his head tilted. "Well? Give it a wave."
Sean, feeling a surge of nervous energy, gave the wand a careful, tentative wave.
BOOM!
An entire shelf beside them exploded outwards, wand boxes raining down like chaotic confetti, wood splintering. Sean yelped, jumping back, his parents gasping.
Ollivander didn't even flinch. Instead, a wild, almost manic glint sparked in his ancient eyes. "Fascinating! Destructive, yes, but such power! Not many can bring down my shelves on their first try, young man!" A wide, slightly unsettling grin spread across his face. "You, Mr. Bulstrode, are going to be a delightful challenge." He leaned in, peering intently at Sean's hand, his voice dropping to an conspiratorial whisper. "Oh, I do love a picky customer. The right wand is out there, Mr. Bulstrode. Waiting for you."
He turned back to the shelves, humming a strange, tuneless melody, seemingly invigorated by the destruction.
Meanwhile, Sean, heart still hammering against his ribs from the explosion, glanced around the delightful chaos. Amidst the scattered, fallen boxes, one near the counter, almost hidden by the debris, snagged his attention. Its lid had popped open in the small earthquake, and the wand within lay half-slipped from its velvet cradle. It wasn't just that it was exposed; the wand, a sleek shaft of dark, almost black wood, seemed to pulse with a faint, inner light, like a captured star. It wasn't beckoning; it was demanding.
An irresistible pull, a silent summons, tugged at something deep within Sean, something primal he hadn't known existed. Ignoring the fresh assortment Ollivander was gathering, he found himself moving towards it. He reached out, his fingers brushing against the cool, surprisingly textured wood.
The instant his skin made contact, a jolt, fierce and exhilarating, shot up his arm, straight to his core. This was it.
Blue-white sparks, crackling like miniature lightning, erupted from the wand's tip, dancing along its length. The unassuming box it lay in vanished, consumed by an instantaneous, smokeless flash of azure fire, leaving only a faint scent of ozone. Sean, feeling an incredible, almost overwhelming surge of energy – his energy, amplified, focused – gave the dark wand an instinctive, sweeping flick.
Brilliant, jagged streaks of sapphire light, shot through with electric blue, arced through the shop, illuminating every dusty corner in a dazzling, momentary tableau of raw, untamed power. The very air vibrated.
Ollivander, who had just plucked another hopeful candidate from a high shelf, froze mid-motion. His jaw was slightly agape.
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