The cage jostled against his body as Cassius pushed through the last press of Diagon Alley's crowd.
Noctis stirred within, the scrape of talons against wood base and the low rumble of a hoot vibrating like warning.
"Patience," Cassius murmured.
His voice was soft, but the bird settled, as if reassured.
Ahead stood the crooked shop front of Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.
The sign was faded, almost humble, but to Cassius it was a monument.
This was the forge of kings and killers, the shop that had armed generations of witches and wizards—including both Voldemort and Harry Potter.
It wasnt the only wandshop on Diagon alley but they had a history dating back to the time of ancient magic when wands were first being used to begin with.
On top of that, newbie wands were created here using Dragonheartstrin, unicorn hair, or phoenix tail feathers, as opposed to Jimmy Kiddel's, or Maud's Magical Miscellany who offer up wands with Kneazle whiskers, Kelpie hair, troll whiskers, and sometimes Veela hair.
He adjusted his grip on the cage and stepped inside.
The bell overhead gave a thin, metallic chime, the kind that sounded less like welcome and more like warning.
The air was dust-thick, shadows cut by streaks of light slanting from high windows.
Stacks of narrow wand boxes towered to the ceiling, leaning precariously but never falling.
Cassius bent, set Noctis' cage carefully aside near the door, and then straightened.
He folded his hands before him and stared at the empty counter.
He knew what was supposed to come next.
The stories all agreed—Ollivander loved to appear suddenly, sliding out of the shadows to startle nervous eleven-year-olds.
So Cassius waited.
He did not fidget.
He did not crane his neck.
He simply watched, calm, a boy carved from stone.
Eyes cooly looking over the ceiling high stacks of wand boxes the entire contents of the store probably holding a few thousand wands total.
The silence stretched until, at last, a shuffling noise preceded the arrival of an old man with silver eyes, pale as the moon.
Garrick Ollivander emerged from between shelves, his smile faint, curious.
"Good afternoon," he said, tone smooth as parchment. "I wondered who had walked through my door. Another young hopeful, come early for their first wand—"
His words faltered when he saw the blank, unblinking stare that met him.
No startled jump.
No wide-eyed awe.
Only stillness.
Ollivander's lips twitched. "Ah. You knew."
"Yes," Cassius replied simply "It is wizarding law afterall to prevent the misuse of magic."
A flicker of interest passed through those pale eyes.
But then the wandmaker's expression hardened into the polite firmness of a man who had said the same thing a thousand times before.
"You are young," Ollivander said. "Far too young. Wands choose their wizards at eleven, when the magic has stabilized. Before then… it is folly."
"I disagree," Cassius said. "If one is skilled enough control over their magic using a foci is all the more important to begin early before the core has settled."
Ollivander shook his head.
"I cannot. The law as you stated before, not to mention the tradition—both bind me. To sell a true wand to one so young would be to invite disaster. Your power would not match the wood, the core. It would warp, perhaps even destroy you."
Cassius did not flinch.
He tried angles—logic, persuasion, hints of coin slipped like daggers between words.
But the wandmaker was iron.
He would only sell a true wand should he return at the proper age of 11 and for Seven Galleons as dicated by the Ministry for all first wands.
Finally, Cassius drew back, masking his frustration behind a calm expression.
"Then what can you sell me?"
Ollivander paused.
Then, after a long moment, he gestured toward a narrow side shelf.
"Training wands. Rarely asked for, save by wealthy families who wish their children to learn discipline early. They are… substitutes."
He moved with surprising swiftness for his age, drawing down a thin box.
Inside lay a wand—not simple, not plain, but lacking the quiet gravity of a true one.
Wands created of Metal not Wood, or Bone.
As most in wandlore would tell you, wood, and bone grow with their partner strengthening with training and practice, but metal... metal is gold, no growth is possible, what it has is set literally in stone.
"This will not draw upon your magic," Ollivander explained, laying it across Cassius' waiting hands. "It runs on a small reservoir within, renewed by charms. Think of it as a candle: it will burn, but only so long as there is wax. You may practice motions, channel spell-forms—but the fire will never be your own."
Cassius turned the wand over slowly.
Even without a core, it thrummed faintly.
Not life.
Not true choice.
But potential.
And saving him the trouble of endless testing to find the wand for him since metal did not reject a user, simply being a tool for whoever wanted to wield it.
"It guides as well," Ollivander continued, eyes intent. "If your wrist falters, the wand will correct it. If your angle is wrong, it will nudge you. But the spells are few. Simple illumination. Minor levitation. Harmless sparks. No more."
Cassius looked up.
"Cost?"
"Fifteen Galleons."
A steep price for an imitation.
Enough to buy three cauldrons, or two new first year wands.
But knowledge was worth the expense.
Cassius reached for his pouch.
Coins clinked softly, the sound bright against the gloom.
He stacked them neatly on the counter.
Ollivander accepted them without comment, though his gaze lingered, sharp as a scalpel.
"A cleaning kit," Cassius added. "And a holster, as well if you please."
"Two Sickles."
Cassius produced them at once.
The wand, went to the holster, which he strapped to his thigh, the cleaning kit, and wandbox went into his messenger bag.
The cleaning kit—a velvet cloth, oil, and a brush for dust.
The holster itself was fairly standard, just a single belt of leather with a vertical leather lengthy pouch with an opening at the top to place the wand within.
Adjusting it up and down after testing to find the perfect height for him to easily reach his wand, but not so high that would result in an awkward motion drawing his arm up to high to draw it fully.
Ollivander studied him a long while.
"You will come back," he said finally. Not as question, but as prophecy.
"When the time is right, your true wand will be waiting. I have waited my whole life for… special matches."
Cassius only inclined his head, the faintest gesture of acknowledgment, and turned playing a smirk across his lips as he thought mischieviously about how he might just have to visit the old man largest competitor Gregorovich in Bulgaria before his return to Britain to attend school.
Noctis ruffled feathers inside the cage as Cassius retrieved it, as if sensing the currents in the air.
The bell above the door chimed when he stepped out, and Ollivander's silver gaze followed him until the shop was once more swallowed in silence.
His shopping was done with for now, but the robes would still take some more time before they would be completed so, rather than just pigging out on unmeltable ice cream, candy of ever flavour, or even snacks that cause various gags and pranks to occur, he instead headed back for the entrance of the alley.
Destination Leaky Cauldron, purpose... Lunch!