Chapter Five: The Wand's Choice
"Thank you, Miss Granger," Elian said as they stepped back into the bustling sunlight of Diagon Alley. "Could you point me towards Ollivanders?"
Hermonie, who had been about to go and find Harry and Ron, hesitated. She looked at the older boy with the first-year list, who seemed both confident and completely out of his depth. A mix of pity for his orphan status and burning curiosity about his circumstances decided it.
"It's just down there, but the lanes can be confusing. Harry and Ron are probably still with Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. I'll take you."
As they walked, Elian asked careful questions about Hogwarts—the houses, the classes, the teachers. From her answers, he pieced it together: the Triwizard Tournament was over, Voldemort was back, and they were starting their fifth year. The timeline clicked into place with a grim certainty.
Soon they stood before a narrow, shabby shop. Peeling gold letters over the door read: Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C. A single wand lay on a faded purple cushion in the dusty window.
"This is it," Hermione announced with the pride of a seasoned guide. "Every witch and wizard gets their wand here. Well, the wand chooses the wizard, really. I'll come in with you."
A tinkling bell announced their entry into the cramped, quiet shop. The air was thick with dust and a sense of deep, waiting magic.
"Ah! Miss Hermione Granger," a soft, dreamy voice said. Mr. Ollivander emerged from the shadows, his wide, pale eyes like moons. "Vine wood, dragon heartstring core. Ten and three-quarter inches. A powerful, sometimes stubborn combination. It rarely chooses witches. It remembers you well."
His silvery gaze then shifted to Elian, and his expression became one of pure, unadulterated puzzlement. "And you, sir? I do not recall… I remember every wand I've ever sold, and you… you are not in my memory."
"My name is Elian Throne, sir. I'm starting at Hogwarts this year. I need a wand."
"Starting? How curious…" Ollivander murmured, but his confusion was already being overridden by professional interest. He drifted closer, studying Elian's face. "Well, we shall see. It is not you who buys the wand, remember. It is the wand that selects—"
He never finished his sentence.
Click-clack. Rattle-thump.
All around them, the thousands of narrow drawers that reached to the ceiling began to tremble. Then they shook. Then they convulsed. Dozens of drawers shot open of their own accord, their contents humming violently. The entire shop filled with a sound like a agitated beehive combined with an earthquake of wood.
"Merlin's beard!" Hermione gasped, stepping back and clutching her own wand.
Ollivander whirled, not in fear, but in profound, electrified astonishment. He stared at Elian as if seeing him for the first time. "Impossible…" he breathed, his whisper cutting through the cacophony. "They are all… stirring. Every last one. Why…? What are you?"
Elian stood frozen, feeling the magical energy in the shop swirling around him like a storm, drawn to the quiet pulse of the Eye beneath his shirt. He didn't know what to do.
Then, a new sound.
Click.
It was a soft, definitive sound, like a perfect lock turning. And as soon as it echoed in the crowded space, the riot ceased. Every trembling drawer slid shut. Every humming wand fell silent. The shop became preternaturally still.
From a high, dark corner, a single, long box drifted down silently, as if carried by an invisible hand. It settled gently on the dusty counter between them.
Ollivander approached it with reverence, his fingers trembling slightly as he lifted the lid. Nestled inside on faded velvet lay a wand. Its wood was a deep, warm brown, smooth and straight, with a subtle spiral grain. He lifted it, his expression one of awe.
"Hawthorn and phoenix feather," he whispered. "Eleven inches precisely. Reasonably supple." He looked from the wand to Elian, his pale eyes blazing with a light they had not held before. "This… this wand has waited here for over fifty years.
Hermione's hand flew to her mouth, her eyes darting between the wand and Elian's stunned face.
Ollivander extended the wand, handle first. "I wonder," he said, his voice filled with a strange mixture of trepidation and excitement. "What will this one do?"
Tentatively, Elian reached out and closed his fingers around the handle.
A warm current, not a shock, flowed up his arm. A shower of golden sparks, gentle and bright, erupted from the tip, casting dancing light across the dusty shelves and illuminating Hermione's awestruck face. The wand hummed softly in his grip, a contented, resonant sound that seemed to settle into his very bones.
(End of Chapter)
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