Chapter 6
Returning to Gringotts, Sainz was met with a reception unlike any he'd ever experienced.
He was no longer the anonymous Muggle-born first-year, overlooked and disregarded. Now, he was Mr. Autumn—a man with his own vault, a vault stuffed with gold. And in the eyes of goblins, nothing spoke louder.
Goblins were nothing if not pragmatic. If you had gold, you were a distinguished guest. They didn't care where it came from, as long as it ended up safely stored in their bank. And if, like Mr. Autumn, you deposited sixty thousand Galleons in one go, your name carried weight. You weren't merely a client; you were a patron. You even got your own account manager. They even sold him a magical purse—at a discount.
"I am your exclusive account manager," said a goblin with a slightly squashed nose and a professionally neutral expression. "You may call me Balco. This"—he handed over a black leather pouch that radiated faint magic—"is your magic purse. So long as you don't stray too far, it will follow you faithfully. There are two thousand Galleons inside. As for the rest of your funds, your vault is under Class B insurance. No one accesses it but you—and myself, of course, when I perform routine maintenance and ensure no dust accumulates."
Sainz smiled as he accepted the purse. "Balco, I trust in your capabilities. After all, it was your talent that stood out to me among the rest."
Balco's lips curled in a toothy grin—a goblin's version of delight, which still managed to be unsettling. "You won't regret placing your trust in me."
Sainz refrained from saying that it was simply easier to remember Balco because his nose didn't follow the same sharp-pointed pattern as the others. When most of them looked nearly identical, you clung to whatever detail you could.
"Hold on tight. We're going up," Balco warned as they stepped into the cart.
The rickety mine-cart jerked into motion, accelerating into a dizzying, twisting ascent that sent lesser men screaming. Compared to the Knight Bus, though, it was practically a relaxing jaunt through the countryside. Sainz, with his strengthened frame, barely blinked.
By the time he emerged into the daylight of Diagon Alley, it was close to noon. Shielding his eyes against the sun, he made his way down the cobbled street toward Ollivander's, intent on finishing yesterday's business.
25 Diagon Alley. Ollivanders.
The legendary wand shop stood just as he remembered it: narrow, ancient, and soaked in time. Its golden-lettered sign—peeling and faded—still proclaimed its legacy:
"Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C."
A single wand rested in the dusty window display, laid gently atop a once-purple cushion now dulled by age. Even without stepping inside, the place exuded a solemn weight, as though every inch of the space carried the echoes of magic from centuries past.
The bell above the door jingled as he stepped in.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Sainz Autumn," came a soft, deliberate voice.
From the shadowed back room emerged an old man with cloud-pale eyes. Those eyes—round and moonlike—shone with unsettling clarity. Harry Potter had once described them as moonlight piercing the dark. Sainz, seeing them now, understood the comparison.
"Mr. Ollivander," Sainz said with a courteous nod, "I trust our arrangement from yesterday still holds?"
Most children of eleven might've fidgeted or trembled under that unblinking stare. But beneath Sainz's youthful face was a soul who'd lived nearly forty years across two lives. He met the old wandmaker's gaze without flinching.
"No need to reaffirm it," Ollivander replied softly. "The wand chooses the wizard, Mr. Autumn. Your wand has chosen—applewood, unicorn hair core, twelve inches, flexible, powerful. A rare combination. The most tranquil, refined wand I've made in years. It is, without a doubt, for someone of great discipline."
Sainz allowed himself a nod of acknowledgment. "It suits me perfectly. Thank you for your craftsmanship."
Ollivander's thin lips twitched. "Not every tree becomes wandwood, just as not every soul becomes a wizard. Applewood is rarer still. When a piece does make the cut, it holds deep, resonant power. Its wielders often possess lofty ideals and long lives. Some have even been known to speak with animals. Did you know the author of Mermen: A Comprehensive Guide to Their Language and Habits used an applewood wand?"
He pointed lightly at Sainz. "Applewood resists dark magic. Especially when paired with unicorn hair. That core is difficult to corrupt and deeply loyal to its first master."
Sainz opened his hand, revealing the slender, pale wand. "It's like a part of me already. Balanced. Exact. I trust it as I trust my own hands."
The wandmaker tilted his head. "Then why return for more?"
"You said it yourself, sir," Sainz replied smoothly. "Wands choose the wizard. I didn't choose them—they chose me. Leaving them behind yesterday felt like abandonment. I've only come to take them home."
Ollivander's lips thinned. He still remembered the scene vividly—this strange boy pointing a borrowed wand at a trash bin and, in a single flash, reducing it to molten metal.
"No. No, certainly not that one," he had muttered then, nearly blinded by the sudden blast of light.
And then the boy had said, "If the wand chooses the wizard, then shouldn't we let them choose for themselves?"
It was an idea no other child had ever suggested. With a reluctant shrug, Ollivander had lifted the restrictions on the shelves. What followed had nearly bowled him over: dozens of wands surged toward the boy like bees to nectar. Five had reached him first. And once they did, the others calmed.
All five were twelve inches in length. The coincidence—if it was one—was eerie.
"You're not wrong," Ollivander said now, eyes narrowing. "Those wands chose you. Even ones that shouldn't get along with each other. You are…a complicated individual."
He sighed. "Very well. Two hundred and eighty Galleons."
Sainz paid without blinking.
Ollivander began listing the wands aloud, as if reading a prophecy:
Hornbeam, dragon heartstring, twelve inches. Tough and assertive, adapts quickly, channels power like a torrent.
Ebony, thunderbird feather, twelve inches. Unyielding, excellent at spellwork, brilliant at Transfiguration. Dangerous and unique.
Walnut, phoenix feather, twelve inches. Lightweight, rare, highly selective. Loyal only when deeply bonded. Often wields innovation.
Vine wood, Thestral tail hair, twelve inches. Extremely rare. Born of whim, it should never have matched anyone. And yet it did. Vine chooses visionaries—those who will one day astound the world.
Ollivander's voice softened, as if speaking to himself. "I never imagined it would find someone. But it chose you."
Sainz gave a small smile, letting his fingers rest lightly on the wands. "Then I suppose I must be destined for something…unexpected."