The door closed behind them.
The sound vanished.
Not silence. Something heavier.
Jon stopped walking without realising it. The shop felt narrow, but not cramped. Old shelves rose at angles that made no architectural sense, stacked with long boxes that seemed unconcerned with gravity.
Dust floated in the light, unmoving.
"This place feels… attentive," Jon said quietly.
"Good," a voice replied. "That means it has noticed you."
Jon turned.
The man behind the counter looked fragile in the way antique glass does. Pale eyes. Long fingers. Someone who had handled dangerous things for a very long time, and survived by understanding them.
"Ollivander," the man said, as though the name were sufficient explanation. "You must be Jon Smith."
Jon hesitated. "We haven't met."
"No," Ollivander agreed. "But tools remember their users. Especially unfinished ones."
Lynn inhaled sharply, but said nothing.
Ollivander stepped closer, studying Jon without blinking. "You look like your mother did. Same restraint. Same habit of watching before acting."
Jon frowned. "That sounds like a flaw."
"It is," Ollivander said calmly. "Until it isn't."
A measuring tape slid from the counter and circled Jon. It did not rush. It paused at his wrist, lingered near his temple, then retreated.
"Hm," Ollivander murmured. "You don't reach for power. That complicates things."
"Story of my life," Jon said.
The first wand arrived without ceremony. It landed in Jon's palm, inert.
He moved it.
Nothing.
The second vibrated unpleasantly, like holding something impatient.
He set it down at once.
Ollivander nodded. "You reject shortcuts."
The third wand pulsed once, then snapped a stack of boxes from the shelf.
Jon winced. "That one has opinions."
"Too many," Ollivander agreed.
Several more attempts followed. None violent. None dramatic. Each wrong in a different way.
Finally, Ollivander paused.
He walked to the back of the shop, where light barely reached, and retrieved a narrow box untouched by dust.
"This one does not seek ambition," he said. "It responds to pattern recognition."
Jon raised an eyebrow. "That sounds suspiciously specific."
Ollivander opened the box.
The wand inside was unassuming. Smooth. Balanced.
When Jon picked it up, there was no explosion.
No sparks.
Just warmth.
Not excitement. Familiarity.
He lifted it.
The air shifted. Not outward, but inward. The shelves creaked softly, settling into place.
Jon exhaled.
"That feels," he said slowly, "efficient."
Ollivander smiled, the first real one. "Yes. Grapevine wood favours those who connect ideas rather than chase power. Unicorn hair reinforces consistency."
He tilted his head. "You will not be the fastest. You will not be the loudest. But this wand will not fail you when precision matters."
Jon nodded once.
"That's acceptable."
Ollivander wrapped the wand with care. "Six Galleons. Treat it like a partner, not a weapon."
Outside, the noise of the alley rushed back into existence.
Jon held the box tighter than necessary.
The day continued. Shops blurred. Purchases stacked. By the time they returned home, the excitement had cooled into something steadier.
Real.
That evening, two owls waited for them.
One brought books. The other brought a letter.
Family. Dinner. An invitation he did not yet understand.
As his mother organised supplies, Jon slid the wand into his sleeve. It rested there easily, as though it had always belonged.
Not chosen.
Matched.
For the first time since waking into this life, Jon felt aligned.
Not special.
Prepared.
(End of Chapter 3)