Fruity, it turned out, really did have kneazle blood.
Thanks to those sharpened instincts in her lineage, the feline had clearly sensed something unusual. For the rest of their shopping trip, she stayed firmly attached to Ron, sniffing him from head to toe. Her solemn cat face and piercing gaze had Ron trembling with anxiety.
He didn't dare protest. Instead, he silently mourned the fate of Scabbers.
With miscellaneous shopping finally complete, Molly checked another item off her parchment list and gave a satisfied nod.
"All right then. Just Ollivanders left. Ron, Vaughn, my darlings, you're about to get your very own wands!"
That last bit at least managed to put a hint of relief back on Ron's worried face.
Together, the Weasleys made their way deeper into Diagon Alley. Ollivanders was one of the oldest shops in the wizarding world, predating even the Leaky Cauldron, which had been established in the 1500s.
Hidden at the very end of the winding alley, Ollivanders looked more like an abandoned shack than a legendary wand shop. Its peeling paint, dust-covered windows, and cramped front made it easy to overlook. Only the hand-painted sign hinted at the centuries of craftsmanship within:
"Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C."
They stepped inside.
The shop was tiny and overstuffed. Narrow boxes were stacked haphazardly, rising in towering columns that nearly touched the ceiling. There must have been thousands of wands in there, possibly more.
The silence inside was almost magical. The only sound came from the faint chime of the doorbell, its lingering echo amplifying the sense that something ancient was watching from the dust.
Then a figure emerged from behind one of the shelves, a pale-eyed old man with silvery hair and a gaze like twin moons in the gloom.
"Ah, good afternoon. Welcome to Ollivanders," he greeted softly, his voice wispy and distant.
Vaughn noticed Ron swallow nervously beside him, hard enough to be audible.
Molly, of course, was unfazed. This wasn't her first trip here, not by a long shot. She had come five times before, including once for herself.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Ollivander," she called out brightly. "Do you still remember me?"
"Of course, of course," Ollivander replied with a slow nod, his tone lilting. "Molly Prewett Weasley. You really must stop asking that every time. I'm not that senile… not yet."
He turned to the boys and narrowed his moonlit eyes.
"So these are the new Hogwarts-bound Weasleys?"
"Yes, Mr. Ollivander," Molly said, beaming.
"Ah, back-to-school season. My favorite time of year. Not for the money, mind you - well, not only for the money. But because the wands I've crafted finally meet their destined owners."
He cupped one hand around his ear as if listening to distant music. "Can you hear them? Some of them are already cheering. So, then… who wants to go first?"
Gulp.
Ron, predictably, panicked. He grabbed Molly's sleeve in desperation and bolted for the door.
"Let Vaughn go first, Mum! I just need some air!"
Molly sighed and followed her flustered son outside, leaving Vaughn alone with the peculiar wandmaker, who was already pulling a measuring tape from his pocket.
"Vaughn Weasley, which is your wand arm?"
"My right," Vaughn replied.
Ollivander nodded and began circling him, murmuring softly as he measured.
"I've heard of you, Mr. Weasley. A prodigy in Potions, are you?"
"Thank you, sir. That's kind of you."
"You seem remarkably calm," the wandmaker said suddenly, sounding vaguely intrigued.
Vaughn gave a small shrug. "I've spent hours hovering over simmering cauldrons that could explode if I so much as blinked wrong. Standing still while someone measures my ear? Feels relaxing, honestly."
Ollivander clapped his hands lightly and nodded. "Yes, yes, a mark of all true craftsmen. A little eccentricity, a few obsessive quirks, and the sort of deep convictions that baffle the rest of the world."
Vaughn raised a brow. "So all this measuring... that's one of your eccentricities?"
"Hardly. It's essential," Ollivander replied. "Every witch and wizard is unique, and so is every wand. I must understand you if I'm to find your perfect match."
Vaughn looked up at the mountain of boxes towering overhead. "I've heard you only use unicorn hair, phoenix feathers, and dragon heartstrings for wand cores. With such limited ingredients, how do you prevent overlap?"
"Ah," Ollivander's face lit up. "A question worthy of a potions prodigy. You've gone straight to the heart of it. To most children, I explain simply: every unicorn, phoenix, and dragon is unique. Which is true, of course, but only half the story. The real distinction lies in the wood."
By now, he had finished his measuring and withdrew a long, narrow box.
"Let's try this. Twelve inches, dragon heartstring core, fir wood. Suited for those with strong focus and even stronger will."
Vaughn accepted the wand and gave it a cautious wave.
A powerful gust of wind roared through the cramped shop.
Ollivander swiftly snatched the wand back with a wink. "Oh, it liked you, very much, but you're not its match."
He reached for another.
"Ten and a half inches, also dragon heartstring, elm wood. Some say elm favors purebloods, but I believe that's a myth started by certain old families. What it does prefer is a noble soul with natural leadership."
Vaughn barely flicked the wand before golden sparks burst in all directions.
Ollivander took it back just as quickly.
"A great reaction, but again… not quite right."
After two attempts, Vaughn began to sense something. Thanks to his sharp instinct for magical ingredients, he could feel the subtle reactions of the wands. Ollivander's earlier comment, that some wands were "cheering" might not have been pure showmanship after all.
Both test wands had radiated something, something that brushed up against his senses like the whisper of an emotion. Excitement. Joy. Not from him, from them.
So, as Ollivander reached for a third wand, Vaughn held up a hand.
"Wait. You mentioned the wand's wood earlier. Am I right in thinking each wand has its own personality and preferences and that it's the wood that determines this?"
Ollivander froze. His wide, pale eyes blinked. For a long second, he just stared.
Then he slowly nodded.
"Remarkably perceptive, Mr. Weasley. That insight is the heart of wandlore. The core determines the wand's magical nature, but the wood… the wood chooses the wizard."
Vaughn went quiet, his mind racing. He couldn't hear wands cheering, not like Ollivander. But thinking back to those first two trials, to the faint thrill humming from the wand itself, he realized something.
He wasn't just any Hogwarts student.
He had crossed worlds.
Maybe the reason those wands didn't suit him was because none of them were meant for someone like him.
Wand and wizard didn't just choose each other, they completed each other.
Ollivander couldn't possibly know that.
Closing his eyes, Vaughn let go of the Occlumency he'd kept active since arriving in this world. He allowed his magic to flow freely for the first time.
And he felt it.
Somewhere in the shop, something called.
Vaughn walked to a forgotten corner of the shelves, reached into a crooked stack, and pulled out a box that practically buzzed in his hand.
As soon as he opened it, the wand inside nearly leapt into his fingers.
Crackle.
He gave it a single wave.
The air lit up with arcs of lightning, jumping like sleek silver serpents between shelves. The energy flowed and split, dancing over box tops before fading into soft sparks.
Ollivander stared, mouth agape.
"Fourteen inches. Dragon heartstring… and elder wood. Arrogant. Volatile. Incredibly rare. It chooses only those with a singular destiny…"