"Arrogant, extreme, explosive…"
Peter sat on the stone steps outside Ollivander's wand shop, sunlight streaming over his shoulders, casting golden highlights on the smooth, pale wand resting in his fingers.
The wand's surface gleamed subtly—elder wood, rare and infamous. In his lap, Fruit Tea was curled lazily, purring with a rhythmic thrum, the rise and fall of its chest oddly soothing.
Ollivander's voice still echoed in Peter's ears, soft and grave as it had been only moments ago.
"Dragon heartstring hardly rejects any magic, Mr. Peter Weasley. It doesn't flinch from the dark like unicorn hair, nor does it uphold balance like phoenix feather. It fuels whatever the wielder desires—ruthlessly, brilliantly, dangerously."
"But I must caution you—it is the most volatile of the three cores. And combined with elder wood… you hold in your hand a wand born to defy the heavens. Elder wood craves greatness. It chafes under mediocrity. It yearns for the pinnacle."
"Some say the Elder Wand brings misfortune. I say... it reveals the truth. When your strength fades, when your destiny dims, it may leave you. It is loyal only to power."
"You've heard the stories, haven't you? The Tales of Beedle the Bard. Folklore, yes—but the legend of the Elder Wand endures because its essence has never belonged to anyone."
Peter gently ran a finger down the wand's length. It was smooth, cool, and unlike anything he'd ever touched. There was a bone-like firmness to it—a strength that didn't shout, but waited.
It pulsed faintly beneath his fingertips.
It's happy, he thought, feeling the wand vibrate ever so slightly in tune with his own magic, as if it were a bowstring finally stretched to the right tension.
"So..." Peter murmured, staring at the wand, "...will you abandon me too?"
Of course, it didn't answer. It had no voice. And yet...
"Meow."
Fruit Tea stirred, lifting her great orange-gold head. She blinked at him with sharp green eyes, then stretched and pressed her nose gently to his chin.
A slow, rumbling purr vibrated through her body.
Peter chuckled, scratching her thick mane with affection. "You're the loyal type, huh?"
The cat meowed again and nestled back down, resting one heavy paw protectively over his knee.
For a moment, Peter didn't feel like a transmigrant with a mysterious wand and a destiny he couldn't yet see.
He just felt like a boy—on the cusp of something vast and thrilling—with a cat in his lap and the sun at his back.
He closed his eyes, the elder wand warm in his hand, and whispered silently to the world:
I won't be ordinary. You won't need to leave me.
Peter let the massive, lion-sized cat burrow into his arms, her head pressing fondly against his chest, her deep purring like the rumble of a warm, well-fed engine.
How could he possibly worry about being betrayed by a wand?
Ollivander's ominous warnings might have unsettled another child, but not Peter.
Destiny no longer unique? Unless another transmigrator from his world showed up—highly unlikely.
No longer powerful? Then he'd simply keep pushing, growing, learning—until he was unmatched.
Defeated? By someone else? He nearly laughed aloud. Impossible.
Even Ollivander, sly old fox that he was, had only dared to describe the Elder Wand's reputation through the lens of fairy tales—The Tales of Beedle the Bard and other bedtime whispers.
But Peter knew better. The Elder Wand was real.
It had passed through the hands of legends—Grindelwald, who had tried to reshape the world; Dumbledore, who held it in stillness like a sheathed sword.
And did it ever abandon either of them? No. It served them until the moment they made their final choices.
In the end, a wand was just a tool. Powerful, yes. But power, Peter believed, belonged to the one holding it—not the stick in their hand.
He smirked and tucked the wand into the leather holster at his hip, the wood cool and proud against his side.
"You crave power?" he murmured. "Good. One day, I'll show you who wields the real Elder Wand."
Behind him, the door to Ollivander's creaked open with a cheery chime.
Out came Ron, practically bursting with pride, a long wand in hand and a grin stretched across his freckled face.
"Fourteen inches, willow, unicorn hair core—brilliant, yeah?" he beamed, striking a ridiculous pose. "You should've seen it, Peter! I made thousands of boxes fly at once! It was wild!"
Peter leaned back on his elbows, lips twitching. "Did you get a wand case?"
"Eh?"
Ron's smile faltered.
"They're delicate, you know," Peter said casually. "Need regular oiling. Even have special scented wax kits. A proper set costs at least a few dozen Sickles."
Ron blinked. "Uh…"
Peter tilted his head innocently. "And I was thinking of getting you one for Halloween. But I suppose... if you're already all set..."
Ron sniffled. He tried to hold firm. He wanted to hold firm.
But Halloween gifts…
No! He was falling for it again!
Before he could recover, the shop door opened again, and Molly bustled out, holding a small bag of wand polish samples and smiling with satisfaction.
That was the last stop on their Diagon Alley journey.
Peter stood and dusted himself off, Fruit Tea leaping gracefully to his shoulder like a well-trained sentry.
Ron was still sulking beside him, muttering about scented wax and how wand care kits were a scam.
Well—maybe the day hadn't ended perfectly for Ron.
But for Peter?
It had only just begun.
By the time they returned to The Burrow through the fireplace, the afternoon sun was already dipping toward the horizon.
Owls began arriving not long after, hooting at the windows and perching atop mailboxes. One by one, they delivered Peter's school supplies—robes, books, cauldron—and of course, Fruit Tea, whose dignified bulk had ruled out traveling by Floo powder.
In addition to essentials, Peter had bought a generous pile of sweets for Ginny—Chocolate Frogs, Fizzing Whizzbees, Peppermint Toads. The little girl squealed in delight, threw her arms around him, and planted a big kiss on his cheek before skipping off, half of the candy stuffed in her arms, the other half offered to Fruit Tea like a royal tribute.
From the moment she'd laid eyes on the enormous "kitten," Ginny had been smitten.
Fruit Tea sniffed her wrist, detected Peter's scent, and immediately accepted her as a trusted sibling. The next moment, the beast was rubbing its thick fur all over Ginny's skirt, letting her drag it around the house like a living, purring parade float. Together, they patrolled the Burrow, claiming every rug, chair, and step as Fruit Tea's new territory.
This, of course, plunged Ron into despair.
He locked himself in his room for the rest of the day and refused to let Scabbers out of its hiding spot. Even at dinner, he stared suspiciously at Fruit Tea from across the table, clutching his rat like a soldier guarding a prisoner of war.
But rats, as it turns out, are not easily imprisoned.
At dawn the next morning, Fruit Tea caught Scabbers red-pawed on the second-floor windowsill.
The rat had somehow pried open the window, tied a few ginger biscuits around its tail like a sack of loot, and was halfway to launching an escape mission.
Stupefy.
A single, silent Stunning Spell from Peter—who had been watching this entire scene unfold from the rooftop—and Scabbers flopped over like a soggy sock.
By the time Ron, up for a midnight bathroom run, discovered the chaos, Scabbers was dangling from Fruit Tea's mouth like a limp plush toy, half his fur missing and his eyes filled with existential dread.
Ron shrieked like a banshee. He tried to wrestle Fruit Tea away. He tried to scold Peter. He even tried to banish the cat entirely—until Ginny stormed in and gave him a solid thumping with her tiny fists.
"Don't you dare hurt Fruit Tea! He's a hero!"
The next day, Ron hammered every window in his room shut and begged Arthur to craft a custom rat-safe fortress.
From then on, Scabbers lived in a reinforced cage beneath Ron's bed, wrapped in three socks and hidden behind stacks of Wizard Chess pieces.
Every time Peter passed Ron's floor with Fruit Tea trailing behind him, Ron would peer through a barely cracked door, eyes wide and paranoid, as though Peter had personally declared war.
Honestly, he looked like a budget spy from a low-budget thriller.
The only time Ron truly relaxed was during Peter's bi-monthly Potion-brewing sessions.
For several days each fortnight, Peter disappeared into the attic, brewing complicated elixirs while Fruit Tea acted as his silent assistant, curled like a golden lion atop his ingredient crates.
Ron celebrated those days like national holidays.
As for Scabbers—Peter didn't pay the rat much attention. So long as it didn't escape or betray its owner, it wasn't his concern. Though, something about that rat always felt... odd.
Still, he had better things to do.
In the final days before the term began, Peter kept to his familiar rhythm. Brew Potions. Read ahead. Practice spells in secret. Ever since he was eight, he'd been learning magic through secondhand textbooks and battered wands from his older brothers.
He had made impressive progress for a self-taught boy, though without a proper teacher, his technique was uneven. He lacked polish.
Arthur and Molly? Too busy with work and raising seven children.
Percy? A stick-in-the-mud prefect who treated Peter like a distracting background character in his heroic academic journey.
Fred and George?
Don't even ask.
Peter still remembered the passage from a novel in his past life that claimed Harry Potter—at age twelve—had to teach Fred and George Expelliarmus.
Ridiculous.
Time flowed, and finally, September 1st arrived!