Chapter 3
The door to Ollivanders creaked open with the soft chime of a silver bell. The shop was narrow and deep, its shelves lined from floor to ceiling with long, thin boxes in various shades of brown and grey. A layer of dust coated the oldest corners of the room, and the scent of polished wood and parchment lingered heavily in the air. It was quiet, almost reverently so, like stepping into an ancient library that had seen centuries pass.
Thomas felt it the moment he crossed the threshold—a shift in the atmosphere, subtle yet distinct, like the air itself recognized the gravity of what was about to happen. This was more than shopping. This was ceremony.
Professor McGonagall gave a single knock on the worn wooden counter. From behind a curtain of shadows emerged an elderly man with ghostly pale skin, clouded eyes that still somehow missed nothing, and a voice as delicate and precise as the craftsmanship he was known for.
"Ah, Minerva," said Garrick Ollivander, his eyes twinkling with familiarity. "It's been... oh, thirty-nine years, hasn't it? Fir wood and dragon heartstring, nine and a half inches, slightly springy. A fine wand. Very fine."
Thomas blinked. He had heard the man's voice before, of course—years ago, in another life, echoing from speakers as he watched Daniel Radcliffe step up for his wand. But this was real. And even though Ollivander's tone and timing were familiar, the moment had weight now that couldn't be imitated by any screen.
McGonagall offered a tight smile. "You remember every wand you've ever sold."
"Indeed," Ollivander said, smiling vaguely as he turned to Thomas. "And you, young man, must be here for your first."
Thomas stepped forward, suddenly aware of how much dust was on his trainers. "Yes, sir."
"Thomas...?"
"Thomas Greene."
Ollivander gave a soft hum, and then, with a motion that seemed both random and impossibly deliberate, glided to a nearby shelf and pulled down a long, forest-green box.
"Beechwood, unicorn hair, eleven inches. Supple. Good for charm work."
Thomas took the wand in hand. It was warm. He gave it a hesitant wave.
A stack of parchment nearby burst into flames.
"Hmm. No, no, not quite," Ollivander murmured, snatching the wand away and muttering something as he returned it to its box.
So began a cycle that felt to Thomas like a strange mix of game, test, and sacred rite. One by one, Ollivander had him try wand after wand.
"Rowan and phoenix feather, ten and three-quarter inches, pliant." A puff of purple smoke erupted and made Thomas sneeze uncontrollably.
"Blackthorn and dragon heartstring, twelve inches, rigid." A chair turned upside down and hovered in the air, refusing to right itself.
"Cedar and unicorn hair, nine and three-quarters." That one sent a sharp jolt of heat through Thomas's palm, making him drop it with a startled yelp.
He tried an ash wand that cracked a nearby glass bottle, and a mahogany wand that gave off a high-pitched whistle when waved. Each failed in its own spectacular or awkward fashion.
Finally, Ollivander stood silently for a long moment, eyes fixed on a high shelf near the back.
"I wonder..." he murmured. He moved slowly this time, more careful than before, and retrieved a box thinner and older-looking than the rest. He opened it with quiet reverence and pulled out a wand that seemed to glow softly in the dim light.
"Holly and phoenix feather," he said. "Eleven inches. Nice and supple. A powerful wand. Curious... very curious..."
Thomas stared at it, heart thudding. He knew this wand. He knew it.
He reached out and took it. The warmth spread immediately from the wood into his fingers, his wrist, his arm. It was like the wand had been waiting for him.
A breeze stirred in the shop, though there were no open windows.
"Remarkable," Ollivander whispered. "You see, the phoenix whose feather resides in your wand gave only one other. It resides in the wand of a... different wizard. A very powerful one."
Thomas's fingers tightened slightly. Something tickled at the back of his mind.
"Do you... know who it was?" he asked.
"I do," Ollivander replied, though he did not elaborate. "But that is not important today. What is important is that the wand has chosen you. It always does, Mr. Greene."
Thomas glanced at McGonagall, but her expression was unreadable. The words phoenix feather, holly, twin cores spun in his head. In the world he remembered, that wand was Harry Potter's. And its twin belonged to Voldemort. But this wasn't that world. He was here. He had changed things.
Had he taken Harry's wand? Was that even possible?
He forced himself to smile faintly. "Thank you, Mr. Ollivander."
"Yes, yes," the old man said, suddenly businesslike again. "Very good. That'll be seven Galleons."
McGonagall handed over the money, then turned to Thomas. "Come along. That concludes our shopping."
They exited the shop, the bell tinkling behind them. The alley was less crowded now as the late afternoon sun dipped lower.
"Professor," Thomas asked as they walked, "that wand... it felt like it knew me."
"That's not uncommon," McGonagall replied. "A wand's allegiance is a subtle thing, but powerful. You may find that connection grows deeper the more you use it. But remember—magic is not in the wand alone. You'll need discipline. Focus. Practice."
He nodded. "I understand."
She looked at him thoughtfully. "You asked clever questions in the alley. You're clearly thinking ahead."
"I just want to be ready," he said, the words quiet, serious.
"Good. That will serve you well."
They stopped near a quiet brick wall behind the Leaky Cauldron. She offered him her arm. "Now, let's get you home."
He hesitated only briefly before taking it.
The world twisted.
---
Thomas stumbled slightly as they appeared just outside his house. The late summer sun glinted off the windows. His mum's car was still parked in the drive.
Professor McGonagall dusted off her robes and straightened her hat. "That will be all for today. The train departs on the first of September. Be ready by ten in the morning. I'll send instructions closer to the date."
"Thank you, Professor," Thomas said.
She gave a curt nod. "I look forward to seeing how you do at Hogwarts, Mr. Greene." Then, with a quiet pop, she Disapparated.
Thomas exhaled and headed inside.
---
His mum looked up from the kitchen table. "You're back. Did you get everything?"
He grinned. "All of it. Even the owl. You should see him."
"You didn't spend too much, did you?" she asked, always practical.
"No. Professor McGonagall covered it for now. Said the Ministry handles things for muggle-borns."
She paused, absorbing that. "You really are going to a magic school."
He nodded. "Yeah. I really am."
---
Later, in his room, he unpacked his supplies methodically. His cauldron was gleaming and surprisingly light. The phials shimmered slightly in the dim light. His scales were heavier than expected. He carefully arranged the books in order, one by one:
The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1 by Miranda Goshawk. A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot. Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling. A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration by Emeric Switch. One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore. Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger. Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander. The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin Trimble.
He ran his fingers along the spines. These weren't just props in a fictional world anymore. They were real. They held knowledge. Power. And danger, too.
He opened Magical Theory and began to skim, eyes darting over concepts that felt like dense academic philosophy mixed with quantum mechanics and spiritual science. It wasn't light reading.
Still, he devoured page after page until the daylight faded from his window.
He leaned back at last, the wand resting beside him on the desk, and stared at the ceiling.
So much had gone according to the script... but not everything. The wand. The missing familiarity from the shopkeepers. The slightly different energy.
What else would change? What had changed already because he was here?
"I need to be ready," he whispered to himself.
He glanced over at the owl cage. The midnight-black barn owl with white speckles gazed at him with intelligent eyes, tilting its head slightly. "I'll call you Nyx," he said softly.
Nyx hooted in approval—or at least acknowledgment.
Thomas reached over, picked up his wand, and turned it in his hand. It felt right. Familiar. But it shouldn't.
He had a growing feeling—quiet, persistent—that the story he thought he knew wasn't going to play out the same way. Maybe it couldn't.
And that meant he had to be more than a fan with foreknowledge. He had to be a student. A planner. A survivor.
The real game was just beginning.