[Third Person's PoV]
"By Merlin's beard…" Ollivander muttered under his breath, utterly mystified by the sight before him. Arthur stood motionless, encased in a swirling pillar of wands — dozens of them — all levitating in perfect harmony as they rotated slowly around him like planets orbiting a sun. Each wand seemed to shimmer with an otherworldly glow, humming with suppressed magic as if eager to be chosen.
Merlin's eyebrow twitched in mild irritation at the invocation of her name, but she said nothing.
"So uh… which one am I supposed to pick up exactly?" Arthur asked, scratching his cheek with an awkward chuckle. Despite the strange situation, a wide, almost boyish grin stretched across his face — he was clearly enjoying the moment more than he was confused by it.
Ollivander was nearly speechless. "Whichever one calls to you, I suppose…" he said slowly, his eyes wide. "In all my years — and I have lived through many — I have never witnessed a phenomenon quite like this. It's... magnificent. Extraordinary! Never before has a wizard been met with the acceptance of all the wands at once. This is… unprecedented. As far as my records — and memory — can tell, such an event has never occurred in our history."
He began to circle Arthur, his hands clasped behind his back, examining him with the kind of intensity one might reserve for a once-in-a-lifetime artifact. "The rule has always been: the wand chooses the wizard, never the other way around. But you… you might be the exception. It's possible that for you, it's reversed — the wand doesn't choose you… you choose the wand."
Nicholas and Perenelle Flamel exchanged wary glances nearby. While they hadn't predicted this exact outcome, they had strongly suspected something out of the ordinary would happen, given Arthur's uncanny nature and the many unusual events that followed him.
Ollivander placed a thoughtful hand beneath his chin, tapping it slowly. "My best advice — and I mean this sincerely — is to feel. Reach out with your instincts. Let your soul guide you. A wand is not just a tool; it is a lifelong partner. It must resonate with your very essence."
Arthur slowly turned his head, eyes narrowing as he studied the many wands spinning around him like a carousel of destiny. Each one was different — in wood, length, core, and aura — yet each seemed equally welcoming. He extended his hand and let one wand drift into his palm.
"Blackthorn, unicorn tail hair, nine inches," Ollivander said immediately, his voice automatic with practiced precision.
Arthur gave it a casual wave. A bright burst of light exploded from the tip with a dazzling flare, illuminating the room for a second.
Then, quietly, he shook his head and said, "No… I'm sorry." He returned the wand carefully back into its vacant orbit.
He reached out for another.
"Applewood, Thunderbird tail feather, eleven and a half inches," Ollivander identified again, eyes gleaming.
Arthur tested it with a flick. A bolt of lightning shot from the wand like a cracking whip, scorching the floor before fading into smoke.
"You're powerful, no doubt… but not the right one for me," Arthur said, sounding almost apologetic as he slotted it back into its revolving place.
"We're going to be here for a while, aren't we?" he sighed with a resigned smile.
"Arthur," Merlin called out suddenly. "Third row. Five o'clock."
Without hesitation, Arthur's hand shot out toward the direction she indicated. A wand floated down to him — elegant and unique. It was a healthy golden-brown in color, with dark black roots spiraling delicately up its length, merging at the tip in a perfect spiral.
Ollivander stepped forward, mouth slightly open, but Arthur beat him to it. With a graceful motion, he swung the wand.
Blue roses — vivid and ethereal — blossomed into existence, raining gently around him like petals in a dream. The entire chamber was cast into a surreal, almost sacred beauty, like something captured in an enchanted painting — or perhaps something that could inspire one.
The deep blue of the petals contrasted brilliantly with Arthur's equally striking blue eyes. He raised his hand, letting a few petals fall onto his palm, their softness carrying a certain sense of peace.
With another wave, the petals swirled around him, converging into a single long-stemmed rose, glowing faintly with residual magic. He turned toward Merlin and extended it out with a smirk.
"For you~," he said smoothly.
Merlin rolled her eyes, a smirk playing at the corner of her lips. Holding her owl cage in one hand, she gave a playful curtsy by picking up the hem of her dress with the other. "Thank you~," she teased as she accepted the enchanted rose.
Arthur stared down at the wand still in his hand, curiosity lighting his features. "I like this one… What is it?"
Ollivander's eyes lit up with reverence as he began to explain. "That, my dear boy, is made of English oak — thirteen and a half inches in length. A wand made for good times and bad, steadfast and loyal, as loyal as the wizard who earns it. Wands of English oak are rare and demand partners of immense strength, courage, and fidelity."
He paused, studying Arthur carefully. "Owners of such wands often possess deep intuition and an affinity for the natural world — its creatures, its plants, and the magic that connects all things. The oak tree is known as the King of the Forest, and its wood must be collected only between the winter and summer solstices — a sacred rule respected by wandcrafters for generations."
Arthur blinked in pleasant surprise. 'Huh… my birthday's not long after the winter solstice. That's actually kind of perfect,' he thought, smiling.
Ollivander nodded as if reading his thoughts. "The fact that you feel comfortable wielding a wand made of English oak speaks volumes about who you are — or who you're destined to become."
Arthur turned slightly bashful at the praise, rubbing the back of his neck… but his moment of modesty didn't last. His expression shifted when he noticed a flicker of something change in Ollivander's eyes — subtle, but clear. A shadow of concern.
It was a look both Nicholas and Perenelle picked up on immediately.
"What's wrong?" Nicholas asked his brows knitting with concern.
Ollivander let out a long, thoughtful sigh, his brows knitting together as he glanced at Arthur's wand with a conflicted expression. "It is not the wood that gives me pause," he began, his voice dropping ever so slightly, "but rather… the core. It's crafted from Thestral tail hair."
Arthur froze. His gaze lowered to the wand resting in his hand, the warmth it had offered moments ago suddenly feeling heavier, weightier with meaning.
"Thestrals?" Perenelle asked in a hushed voice, worry creeping into her tone. "Aren't they…?"
Ollivander nodded solemnly, confirming her concern without needing to elaborate. "Yes. Thestrals are magical creatures that can only be seen by those who have witnessed death firsthand. Their tail hair has long been regarded as one of the rarest and most difficult substances to use in wand-making. Exceptionally powerful, yes, but notoriously temperamental. Such a core does not simply bond—it demands understanding. Acceptance. Only a witch or wizard who has truly come to terms with death can master a wand with a Thestral core."
The silence that followed was heavy and profound.
"More than that," Ollivander continued, his eyes never leaving Arthur, "these wands often carry deep ties to the themes of mortality—loss, grief, acceptance. They are chosen by individuals who have lived through those truths and carry the weight of them still. It speaks of someone who has either experienced death in a profound way… or who understands it on a level beyond most."
All eyes turned toward Arthur. He stared quietly at the wand in his hands, a small, sad smile tugging at his lips. There was no fear in his eyes, only contemplation. Reflection.
'It must be because of my reincarnation… or…' he began to think, but the second possibility clawed at the back of his mind like a shadow. He didn't let himself finish the thought.
"Art?" Perenelle called gently, while Nicholas echoed her a second later. Both of them had caught something—just for a flicker of a moment—in his expression. A glint of pain, a distant sorrow, something heavy for someone so young to bear.
But Arthur only gave them a smile, soft and sincere. He shook his head with a calm reassurance, burying the moment behind a practiced composure. "Bit of a heavy-handed metaphor for a wand, huh?" he said with a laugh that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Still, I'm happy with it. I'm ready to make my purchase."
Ollivander studied him for a moment longer, then nodded, the lines of concern still visible around his eyes. "Very well, young man. If you are truly certain, I shall see to the final preparations."
…
Moments later, Arthur exited the shop with his wand tucked neatly in its box, a satisfied grin plastered across his face. He walked with a confident spring in his step, clearly overjoyed despite the gravity of what had just transpired. Behind him, the Flamels followed a touch more slowly, both glancing at each other with lingering worry.
Merlin kept pace at Arthur's side, twirling the vibrant blue rose he had gifted her earlier between her fingers. Before the flower was adorned her hair, tucked just behind her ear—a splash of color that blended beautifully with her silver hair. After a pause, Arthur turned to her with curiosity in his eyes.
"Say, Merlin," he began, "did King Arthur—uh, the original one—wield a wand like mine?"
Merlin gave a faint smirk at the question, her fingers brushing the rose absently. "Yes and no" she answered, her tone calm and matter-of-fact. "His wand was also crafted from English oak, but the core was dragon heartstring. Quite the fiery one, in both wand and wielder. My first wand was also made out of English oak"
Arthur's eyebrows shot up in amusement. "Really? Well, by Merlin's hairy chin, what a coincidence!"
At that, Merlin's smile dropped like a rock. She turned her head slowly, violet eyes narrowing in clear warning. "Don't start," she said coldly. "We are not making that a thing."
Arthur burst into laughter, already imagining how infuriated she'd get each time he used it. "Oh, I think I just found the perfect counter for whenever you prank or tease me. It's poetic justice, really."
"I swear, Arthur," Merlin muttered darkly, though a tinge of red crept up her cheeks. "Just because I love you doesn't mean I won't beat you black and blue if you keep this up. Need I remind you—I'm still the one training you."
Arthur dramatically placed a hand on his chest and exclaimed, "By Merlin's hairy legs, I'd best tread carefully then!" Then he roared with laughter at her expression, completely unrepentant.
Merlin stopped mid-step and slowly turned on her heel, eyes gleaming dangerously. She handed the owl cage over to Nicholas with an unsettlingly calm smile. "Nick, would you mind holding Mercury for just a moment?"
Nicholas blinked. "Uh… sure?"
Before Arthur could even process what was happening, Merlin's expression changed. The teasing was gone. Her pupils narrowed like a predator's as she sprinted after him with the fury of a woman who had been pushed just an inch too far.
"I'll show you who has hairy legs!" she shouted, charging at him.
"I'M SORRY!!" Arthur screamed as he bolted down the cobbled street, eyes wide in terror, memories of her intense training sessions flashing before him like a war veteran reliving trauma. He dodged past a group of startled shoppers, nearly tripping over his own feet in his desperation to escape.
Nicholas and Perenelle simply stood there, blinking in stunned silence. Nicholas glanced down at the owl cage in his hands, then looked at Perenelle. She turned to meet his gaze with an expression that perfectly mirrored his own:
Complete and utter bewilderment.
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