Chapter 1 - Welcome to Diagon Alley
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United Kingdom, London.
An owl streaked swiftly across the skies above London, startling a group of small animals hiding in a corner and drawing the attention of a few passersby.
Seeing a bird of prey like an owl within the city limits of London was, after all, a rare sight.
However, those who stopped to watch were mostly children or tourists from out of town.
In contrast, the local Londoners remained far calmer, all wearing expressions of mild indifference, as if this were nothing unusual.
It was just an owl. Rare, yes—but not unheard of, especially every year in July, when they became far more common.
And it just so happened to be mid-July now.
"Making a fuss over nothing—just a bunch of uncultured outsiders."
The old gentlemen straightened their backs, their short shirts seeming to transform into tailored suits in an instant. With a vague sense of superiority, they lifted their chins, their steps even becoming noticeably lighter.
No one noticed that, after crossing a certain street, the owl suddenly vanished from the sky.
As though it had passed through an invisible veil, in the blink of an eye, the owl reappeared above another street—one far livelier than the last.
Only this time, the people below were dressed in all manner of bizarre outfits. Some wore pointed hats, and even the buildings themselves were strange and eccentric, resembling styles from a century ago… perhaps even earlier.
From above, it looked as though this street was separated from the outside world by only a few feet.
Yet in truth, it felt like two entirely different worlds.
"Welcome to Diagon Alley!"
Directly beneath the owl, the drunken shout of a tipsy man could faintly be heard.
But none of that concerned the owl. All it wanted was to finish its delivery as quickly as possible and return to enjoy a delicious meal of nuts.
Flying onward, the owl deftly circled a narrow cobblestone path before landing on a small windowsill behind Ollivanders Wand Shop.
The window was spotless, allowing a clear view inside.
A boy of about ten years old sat within, head lowered, completely absorbed in whatever he was doing.
The very next second—
"Bang!"
Something seemed to explode.
Sparks flew everywhere inside the room, accompanied by a sharp blast and a cloud of thick black smoke.
"Oh—hawthorn wood and Red Cap nerves. Such a fiery combination. Perhaps holly would be more suitable."
Siron Ollivander straightened up, muttering softly to himself as he looked at a line of red text floating in midair before him.
[Hawthorn Wood, Red Cap Nerves, Ten and a Half Inches]
[Status: Incomplete]
[Characteristics: Prone to Explosion]
Siron rubbed his forehead.
It had been eleven years since he arrived in this world.
Over those eleven years, Siron had gradually grown accustomed to the witches and wizards coming and going around him, and slowly came to accept his new identity.
A wandmaker—
Well, technically, a member of a wandmaking family.
His grandfather was the famous Garrick Ollivander, renowned for his extraordinary memory—someone who could remember every wand he had ever made.
From a very young age, Siron had been able to see the attributes, materials, and traits of every wand.
He couldn't quite tell whether this was his personal cheat ability or a bloodline talent of the Ollivander family.
Siron leaned more toward the former, because beyond that, he was also capable of kneading together materials that made absolutely no sense into functional wand cores.
Even Ollivander himself would find it nearly impossible to create a wand embedded with a toad's tongue.
But Siron could do it—and with a fairly high success rate, at that.
In a way, it was impressive.
But also… largely useless.
Siron let out a sigh.
That said, in recent years, under his grandfather Garrick Ollivander's influence, he had gradually come to enjoy wandmaking more and more, becoming deeply fascinated by it.
That "cheat ability" no longer felt quite so pointless.
Thinking this, Siron shook his head and smoothly picked up another wand beside him, giving it a gentle flick.
"Scourgify!"
"Reparo!"
The dust and black smoke from the explosion vanished instantly, and the room was restored to its former neatness.
Only then did Siron turn his attention toward the window.
There was nothing outside—just the bustling Diagon Alley street below, and a few brown feathers resting on the windowsill.
"Strange… I clearly heard something knocking on the window just now. Where did it go?"
Siron walked over, opened the window, glanced at the feathers, and casually slipped them into his pocket.
At that moment, the sound of wings flapping suddenly reached his ears.
Instinctively, Siron looked down.
A disheveled owl was staring up at him angrily, screeching harshly.
Siron couldn't understand what it was saying, but judging by its expression, it was definitely cursing him—and quite viciously at that.
"Hey, be reasonable. The explosion wasn't my fault," Siron defended himself.
Unfortunately, the owl was clearly dissatisfied with that excuse. It forcefully tossed the item clutched in its talons at him, then flew off without looking back.
"Alright then… have a safe trip."
Siron closed the window and finally looked at what had been thrown onto the floor.
It was a pale yellow envelope, written in emerald-green ink:
[Diagon Alley, Ollivanders Wand Shop, Second Floor, At the Desk
To Mr. Siron Ollivander]
Turning the envelope over, he saw a wax seal on the back.
A shield-shaped crest.
At the center was a capital letter "H," encircled by a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake.
Ah, of course.
A letter delivered by owl in mid-July—what else could it be, if not a Hogwarts acceptance letter?
Only now did Siron realize that July had already arrived.
Before long, he would be a Hogwarts first-year student.
He wasn't as excited as he had imagined.
If he had received this letter ten years ago, he probably would've been jumping with joy.
But now… well, he was still happy—just not to an exaggerated degree.
Besides, compared to going to Hogwarts, he had found something even more interesting.
Wandmaking.
He had even thought that it wouldn't be so bad if he never received a Hogwarts acceptance letter at all—at least then he'd have more time to study wandcraft.
But that was obviously impossible.
As a child with magic, it was impossible not to receive a Hogwarts letter.
Dumbledore wouldn't make such a basic mistake.
And even if Dumbledore did, there was still Minerva McGonagall.
Still, this wasn't so bad.
Siron stretched his arms and casually placed the envelope on the desk.
"Thump, thump, thump…"
At that moment, hurried footsteps sounded from downstairs.
Siron picked up his wand and opened the door in advance.
The next second—
"I just saw an owl!" A head poked in from outside.
"Did it arrive?!" Garrick Ollivander asked eagerly, not even bothering to put down the measuring tape in his hands.
"Yes—Hogwarts' acceptance letter," Siron replied, pointing at the envelope on the desk.
Ollivander immediately shifted his gaze. Upon seeing the familiar crest, he blurted out:
"Wonderful!"
"Honestly, I'd rather follow my mother's advice and go to Beauxbatons," Siron said thoughtfully, resting his chin on one hand.
"Alchemy would be a huge help to my research, but Hogwarts doesn't offer alchemy classes."
"Besides, my father, mother, and grandmother all graduated from Beauxbatons. My mother even told me her close friend became headmistress last year. Going there would suit me better."
Dumbledore's reputation was immense—Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, widely acknowledged as the strongest white wizard alive.
But his attention was focused solely on Harry Potter and Voldemort.
That wasn't to say he didn't care about ordinary students, but he certainly wouldn't devote special attention to them.
Beauxbatons, on the other hand, was different.
His mother, Lyra Ollivander, was a Beauxbatons graduate, and had once shared both a teacher-student and close friendship with Olympe Maxime back when Maxime was still a professor.
Even after graduating, they kept in regular contact.
Now that Madame Maxime had become Headmistress of Beauxbatons, attending that school would undoubtedly be far more convenient.
More importantly, in the coming years, Voldemort would begin plotting his resurrection.
Staying at Hogwarts would be… troublesome.
"Well… Hogwarts is wonderful too…" Ollivander's gaze drifted. "And besides, we already agreed, didn't we…"
Ollivander wanted Siron to attend Hogwarts because Siron was the only child willing to inherit his wandmaking craft.
His son—Siron's father, Garrian Ollivander—had also loved wandmaking as a child, but after graduating from Beauxbatons, he fell in love with Herbology and began traveling the world with his wife.
His daughter—Siron's aunt—graduated from Ilvermorny and was now a somewhat famous magizoologist.
For some reason, both his children had careers closely related to wandmaking—yet both were also very far removed from it.
After much thought, Ollivander concluded that it must be the schools' fault.
Ilvermorny and Beauxbatons were simply too far away.
Now that Siron had finally shown a genuine passion for wandmaking, Ollivander was determined to keep him close and personally guide him.
He absolutely couldn't let him go off to another school again.
Though there was just one problem…
Thinking of something, Ollivander's expression fell.
How should he put it?
Siron was extremely talented—and very hardworking.
It was just that the direction of that talent seemed a little… off.
Siron disliked traditional wandmaking methods and core materials.
In other words, he didn't like using unicorn hair, phoenix feathers, or dragon heartstrings.
Instead, he preferred—well—what Ollivander could only describe as heretical combinations.
For example: troll nose hair, Red Cap trigeminal nerves, Hinkypunk leg bones.
Ollivander wouldn't even think about turning such things into wand cores.
But Siron did so enthusiastically.
Ollivander had tried to guide Siron back onto the "right path," but it clearly hadn't worked.
And he didn't dare push too hard either.
He was afraid Siron might follow in his daughter's footsteps—get scolded a couple of times, then run off to Ilvermorny in America out of sheer frustration.
A crooked path was still a path.
At least the craft was being passed down.
"Alright, alright. I never said I wouldn't go to Hogwarts," Siron shrugged, seeing Ollivander's pitiful, hesitant expression.
Thinking it over carefully, Hogwarts wasn't bad either.
Sure, it was a bit troublesome—but it offered plenty of excellent materials.
Three-headed dogs.
Dementors.
Fire dragons.
Voldemort.
The Whomping Willow.
Especially the Whomping Willow.
The only one in the entire British wizarding world was at Hogwarts.
Siron had been coveting it for a long time.
Oh—and there was also Dumbledore's Elder Wand.
If he could just take a look at it, it would definitely help him a great deal.
Even if it didn't, he still wanted to see that legendary wand—ideally even try holding it himself.
The chances were slim, but Siron was willing to wait.
There would always be an opportunity.
(End of Chapter)