Chapter Six: The Unusual Core
A profound silence settled over Ollivander's shop after the sudden, violent stirring of every wand. The dust motes seemed to hang still in the slanted sunlight.
Ollivander stared at Elian, his pale eyes wide with a mixture of shock and dawning revelation. "This cannot be… but it is…" he whispered, more to himself than to them. "That particular wand has been here for… an age."
He turned abruptly and shuffled into the deepest recesses of the shop, muttering under his breath. The shelves seemed to lean in as he passed.
Hermione grabbed Elian's sleeve, her voice a hushed whisper. "Have you had training? Real training?"
Elian shook his head, as bewildered as she was. "Nothing. Just… instincts."
She released his arm, her mind clearly racing, trying to fit this square peg of an event into the round hole of everything she knew from Hogwarts: A History.
After a few long minutes, Ollivander returned, cradling a long, narrow box that looked far older than any other in the shop. It was made of a dark wood, worn smooth at the edges, and bound with tarnished silver clasps.
"Mister Throne," the wandmaker said, his voice filled with a solemn reverence. "It seems the wand that has been waiting is not one of my usual makes. Perhaps the one it seeks is you. This wand comes from materials acquired by my great-great-grandfather on a journey to distant, mysterious lands far to the east."
With gentle, almost ceremonial care, he opened the box.
Inside, resting on frayed velvet the colour of dried blood, lay a wand. It was striking. The wood was a deep, rich ebony, so dark it was almost black, but shot through with faint, swirling veins of a deep, crimson red, like embers in a night-time forest. It looked both ancient and immensely powerful.
Ollivander's long, pale fingers hovered above it. "The wand wood is sandalwood, of a variety I have never seen again. The core…" he paused, his voice dropping. "The core is a single hair from the tail of a Zouwu. Thirteen and a half inches. Unyielding flexibility. Profoundly mysterious."
Elian's breath caught. Sandalwood. A Zouwu. Both were rooted in legends from a world that felt both intimately familiar and impossibly distant now. A sharp pang of homesickness, for a home he could never return to, lanced through him.
"It has resided in this shop for generations," Ollivander continued, his gaze distant. "Countless witches and wizards have tried it over the decades. None could stir it to life. It has waited in silence." He lifted the wand from its cradle and offered it to Elian, handle first. "Until now."
The moment Elian's fingers closed around the grip, the shop warmed. A low, resonant thrum vibrated up his arm, more felt than heard. The crimson veins in the wand flared with a soft, inner light, and for a fleeting second, the air seemed to shimmer with the ghostly echo of a powerful, exotic creature's cry—a deep, rumbling purr that held the promise of incredible speed and strength.
Ollivander exhaled sharply. "As the legends said. The Zouwu is a creature of great magic and fierce loyalty. This is the only wand in existence to use such a core. It is yours."
He watched, expectant. "Give it a wave."
Elian felt the warm, potent energy within the wand hum in sync with his own pulse. He gave it a gentle, experimental flick.
WHOOM.
A pulse of deep red light, visible for just an instant, expanded from the wand tip like a silent ripple. Every drawer in the shop gave a single, respectful shudder, a unified salute, and then fell perfectly still. The crimson light in the wand faded back to its dormant, ember-like state.
Elian paid the seven gold Galleons—a standard price that felt ludicrously small for such an artifact. As they stepped back into the busy alley, the normal sounds of Diagon Alley felt loud and jarring.
"Well," Hermione said, pulling her thoughts together with visible effort. "Madam Malkin's for robes is just there. Flourish and Blotts for books is across the way. Potage's for your cauldron is next to it. You should be able to manage from here. I… I really should find Harry and Ron."
Elian nodded. "Thank you, Hermione. Truly."
She gave him one last, deeply curious look, then turned and vanished into the crowd, her bushy hair bobbing above the sea of pointed hats.
The rest of the afternoon was a blur of essential purchases. Elian was measured for robes at Madam Malkin's, bought his pewter cauldron, glass phials, and a set of brass scales. At Flourish and Blotts, he collected his first-year textbooks: A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration, One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi, The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection. The weight of the books and the dwindling weight of his coin pouch made it all feel real.
Back at 12 Grimmauld Place, the temporary headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix, Hermione found Harry and Ron in the dusty drawing-room.
"You will not believe what happened today," she announced, perching on the arm of a threadbare sofa.
Between Ron's interruptions and Harry's quiet listening, she recounted the meeting at Gringotts and the extraordinary scene at Ollivander's.
"A sixteen-year-old firstie? Pull the other one, it's got bells on," Ron scoffed, swallowing a mouthful of sandwich. "Right, Harry?"
Harry, who was absently levitating a copy of the Daily Prophet with a flick of his wand, looked thoughtful. "The Goblet of Fire was fooled. Ancient magic can be tricked."
Ron's face paled slightly. "You don't think… you think he's a Death Eater? Sent by You-Know-Who? But Dumbledore met him!"
"Don't be ridiculous, Ron," Hermione said crisply. "If You-Know-Who wanted to infiltrate Hogwarts, he wouldn't use someone so blatantly unusual. Professor Dumbledore isn't easily fooled."
Harry nodded slowly, but a shadow remained in his green eyes. Distrust was a habit now, and strange occurrences were rarely good news. He let the newspaper drop. "We'll see tomorrow, I suppose."
Hermione, exhausted by the day's wonders and worries, soon retired. Sleep, however, was not quick to find Elian back at Carnaby Street.
His new belongings were packed neatly into a second-hand trunk he'd bought. His sandalwood wand lay on his bedside table, the faint red veins seeming to glow in the moonlight. Excitement thrummed through him, a live wire of anticipation for the Hogwarts Express tomorrow.
But instead of trying to sleep, he sat cross-legged on the floor. He closed his eyes, reaching not for the wild, instinctive magic he'd used before, but for the structured, disciplined energy the system in his mind hinted at. He focused on his breathing, on the image of a weapon—a simple shield of crackling orange light, like the ones he'd seen in the films of another life.
Over and over, he stretched his will and his magic, trying to coax a tangible form from the air. Sparks fizzled and died. Wisps of light flared and faded. It was frustrating, exhausting work.
But deep in his chest, the Eye of Agamotto felt warm against his skin, and the Zouwu wand on the table hummed in silent, steady encouragement.
(End of Chapter)
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