Harry carefully untied the red cloth ribbon and unrolled the parchment. In elegant script, it read:
Dear Harry,
(Author's note: Just because this is a letter doesn't mean it lacks foundation! The protagonist of this book—Adrian Blackwood—acts with integrity!)
As you read these words, I imagine you've already had quite the surprise tonight.
When I first saw you at school, I recognized you immediately—you're Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. Every young witch and wizard grows up hearing your name, and I was no exception.
But due to the Statute of Secrecy and instructions from the Ministry of Magic—particularly from Professor Dumbledore—I wasn't allowed to reveal that I came from a wizarding family. I hope this small concealment won't affect the friendship we've built.
Like you, I've also received my Hogwarts acceptance letter.
We'll need to visit Diagon Alley to purchase our supplies. I'm going tomorrow. If you'd like to go together, send a reply with Edward—my family's owl. If tomorrow doesn't work for you, let me know which day you're going, and I'll meet you there.
Your loyal friend,
(Author's note: No hero worship here! Adrian Blackwood doesn't kneel to anyone—especially not just for fame!)
Adrian
Harry's emotions swirled. On one hand, he was thrilled Adrian would also be going to Hogwarts—he wouldn't be alone in this strange new world. On the other hand, the realization that Adrian had hidden such a huge secret hurt, even if Harry understood why. Hagrid had already explained that the Ministry had rules about magic in front of Muggles. Still, Harry couldn't help feeling a little betrayed—Adrian had become more like a brother than just a friend.
But he couldn't stay angry. Adrian had reached out, openly and kindly, despite what must have been strict orders from the adults. Harry picked up a quill from Hagrid's knapsack and scribbled his reply on the back of the parchment.
Dear Adrian,
I'm so glad we'll be attending the same school. Nothing will change our friendship.
Hagrid (he's Hogwarts' Keeper of Keys and Grounds) is taking me to Diagon Alley tomorrow to get my school things. Let's meet up there!
Your best friend,
Harry
After writing the letter, Harry turned to find Hagrid gently feeding Adrian's owl, Edward. He was offering sausages mixed with corn, which the owl gratefully accepted.
"I'm good with animals," Hagrid said modestly, catching Harry watching. "Most o' the creatures at Hogwarts are under my care. Dumbledore trusts me."
Harry smiled. Even in a tiny hut atop a rock in the middle of the sea, surrounded by raging winds and salty rain, magic was happening.
He approached Edward with the letter. The owl, though soaked and clearly tired from flying in the storm, perked up and extended its leg. Harry tied the parchment securely. Hagrid opened the window, and to their surprise, the wind had calmed and even a few stars twinkled through breaks in the clouds.
With a powerful beat of his wings, Edward launched into the night, carrying Harry's joy skyward.
The next morning, Morgan Le Fay Blackwood—Adrian's mother—was up at the crack of dawn, clanging pots and pans in the kitchen as she made breakfast.
"Up, up! Adrian, Daisy, we've a lot to buy today!" she called cheerfully. Like Muggle mothers, witches became especially energetic when shopping was involved.
After a hearty breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast, and bacon, the Blackwoods once again used their Ministry-authorized Portkey to Diagon Alley. Their first stop, as always, was Gringotts Wizarding Bank. After descending into the vaults and collecting the family's gold Galleons, Mrs. Blackwood assigned the shopping tasks.
"Adrian, I'll take you to Ollivanders for your wand first. Len, you fetch the potion ingredients. Daisy, you and your father get the textbooks and a brass scale. Everyone meet at Madam Malkin's for robes—nothing shabby! Madam Malkin's is the best!"
Adrian suspected her urgency was less about efficiency and more about getting to the robe shop early enough to browse.
They made their way down the cobbled street to a small, timeworn shop with a faded gold sign: Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C. In the dusty window, a single wand rested atop a faded purple cushion.
As they stepped inside, a silver bell tinkled somewhere in the back.
The shop was narrow and cramped, with towering stacks of wand boxes reaching to the ceiling. There was only a single spindly chair near the door.
Because it was still early in the day, the shop was empty—eerily quiet. Adrian held his breath.
"Good morning," came a soft voice.
An old man with shock-white hair and pale, misty eyes glided out from behind the counter. "Garrick Ollivander," he said, eyeing Adrian intently, as if measuring him with a glance.
"Most witches and wizards come here last—never understood why," Ollivander muttered, almost to himself. "The wand chooses the wizard, after all. Nothing is more important than finding your true match."
His gaze shifted to Mrs. Blackwood. "Ah yes, I remember your wand. Walnut, ten and a quarter inches, with a unicorn hair core. Elegant, precise—just like you."
"Still remember after all these years," she said warmly. "This is my youngest son, Adrian. He's here for his first wand."
"Of course, of course." Ollivander flicked his wand, and a measuring tape leapt from a drawer. "Which is your wand arm?"
"My right," Adrian answered. Then, curious, he added, "Mr. Ollivander, does your surname come from 'olive wood'? Like a wand made from olive trees?"
The old man's eyes twinkled. "Very perceptive! You may belong in Ravenclaw, my boy. But names are tricky things—just like wands. Now, hold out your arm, if you please."
The tape measure zipped through the air, taking measurements on its own—wrist to shoulder, shoulder to fingertips, height, nose length—even between his nostrils.
Adrian stood still, heart racing with anticipation. Somewhere in this shop, the wand that would define his future was waiting.
The measuring tape slithered smoothly from shoulder to fingertip, then wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, knee to armpit, and finally around Adrian's head. Although Adrian wasn't sure how these peculiar measurements would help, especially as his body was still rapidly growing, he cooperated fully. Perhaps it helped Garrick Ollivander narrow down the wand options faster? Either way, Adrian braced himself for what he expected to be a long and possibly dramatic selection process—after all, in stories, protagonists always struggled to find their wand…
Mr. Ollivander disappeared among the towering stacks of wand boxes, his pale eyes gleaming with focus. The measuring tape dropped to the floor, coiled itself neatly, and remained still. "Let's begin with this one, Mr. Blackwood," he said, returning with a slender box. "Beech wood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Reasonably springy. A wand known for elegance and precision. It thrives with those who are tolerant and wise, but it resists narrow-mindedness."
Adrian accepted the wand, gave it a quick wave, and—BANG! A windowpane near the front of the shop cracked with the force of a magical explosion. Adrian grimaced, but Ollivander simply nodded. "That's a strong reaction. Not ideal, but a start. You're clearly not narrow-minded."
"But… that's it?" Adrian asked, puzzled. "It doesn't feel completely right. May I try another?"
Mr. Ollivander paused, surprised, then gave a slight smile. "Most young wizards jump at the first wand that reacts. But yes, if you insist, I suppose there's merit in ceremony." He rummaged again and returned with another. "Applewood with unicorn hair. Ten and a half inches. Subtle flexibility. Applewood is rare and powerful, unsuited for dark magic. Unicorn hair makes for the most dependable wands—difficult to turn to the Dark Arts, and extremely loyal to their original owner."
Just as Adrian reached out, Ollivander swiftly pulled the wand back. His expression changed—something unreadable passed through his pale eyes. "No, not this one," he muttered, storing the wand behind the counter without explanation.
Adrian blinked. Had that been a warning? Was Ollivander implying he might become a dark wizard? He tried to shake off the thought.
Wand after wand followed—rowan with phoenix feather, blackthorn with dragon heartstring, even vinewood with veela hair—but nothing seemed quite right. Some sparked with force, others fizzled with indifference. Ollivander wiped sweat from his brow as the process dragged on, now fully immersed in the challenge of finding the perfect match. "Mr. Blackwood," he muttered, half to himself, "either you are uncommonly choosy or your wand is refusing to be found."
Finally, Ollivander disappeared into the back room and returned with a box wrapped in dusty, silky cloth. "This one has been here nearly a century. Mahogany. Phoenix feather. Eleven and a quarter inches. Quite rigid. Originally carved for a member of the German Melkmond royal wizarding family."
As soon as Adrian held the wand, a warmth surged up his arm. Sparks of silver and gold arced gently from the tip. The room seemed to recognize something had clicked. A quiet power pulsed between wizard and wand.
"Ah," Ollivander breathed. "Mahogany is excellent for Transfiguration—strong and enduring, especially good for protection spells. And phoenix feather, the rarest core, is the most versatile. They are difficult to master and even more difficult to earn the loyalty of. But once matched, they can produce magic of extraordinary range and subtlety. This wand has been waiting for someone worthy."
He boxed the wand and handed Adrian a care kit, murmuring as he worked. "Remarkable. Most remarkable. This wand refused every hand for nearly a century. But it chose you. And it did so without hesitation."
Adrian gave a polite nod, though a hint of unease flickered behind his eyes. Ollivander's intensity was… a lot. He recalled the rumors: that Ollivander's children had all died young, and some believed he was searching for an heir to carry on his legacy. Surely he doesn't think I'd become a wandmaker, Adrian thought to himself.
The wand cost thirteen Galleons, which his mother Morgan Blackwood paid without flinching. Ollivander bowed deeply as he handed over the wand box, his pale gaze lingering on Adrian with strange reverence.
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