The interior of Ollivanders was a labyrinth of shelves filled with narrow, dust-covered boxes, each one holding a wand with its own story, its own destiny. The shop was eerily quiet, the only sound being the faint hum of magic that seemed to permeate the very air. Alaric stood in the center of the room, feeling the weight of centuries of wandmaking history pressing down on him.
Garrick Ollivander, a tall, thin man with silver hair and piercing eyes, moved with an almost spectral grace as he navigated the narrow aisles. His movements were deliberate, as if he were communing with the wands themselves, seeking the perfect match for the young wizard who now stood in his shop.
"A Peverell," Ollivander murmured, more to himself than to Alaric, as he retrieved a box from a high shelf. "I have been expecting this day for many years. Your ancestors, you see, have a long history with wands of great power."
Ollivander's voice was soft, almost reverent, as he opened the box to reveal a wand of dark, polished wood. "This is a wand of yew," he explained, carefully handing it to Alaric. "Thirteen inches, inflexible, with a dragon heartstring core. Yew wands are known for their affinity with powerful magic, often favoring those who are destined for greatness—or darkness."
Alaric took the wand, feeling the cool, smooth wood in his hand. For a moment, he felt a flicker of warmth, a tentative connection. He raised the wand and gave it a gentle flick. The air seemed to shimmer for a brief second, but then the magic faded, leaving the room still and silent once more.
Ollivander watched with a critical eye, his expression thoughtful. "No, not yew," he said softly, taking the wand back. "Your magic is more... nuanced. Perhaps something with a bit more history."
The wandmaker moved to another shelf, his fingers trailing over the boxes as if he were searching for something specific. Finally, he selected a box that seemed to glow faintly in the dim light. "Blackthorn, twelve inches, with a core of basilisk horn. A rare and formidable combination, often associated with wizards who possess a deep connection to the darker aspects of magic."
Alaric accepted the wand, feeling a stronger resonance this time. The air around him crackled faintly with energy, and for a moment, he thought this might be the one. But as he raised the wand to test it, the connection wavered, and the energy dissipated like mist in the morning sun.
Ollivander took the wand back, his brow furrowed in concentration. "Interesting," he murmured. "You are not an easy wizard to match, Mr. Peverell. Your magic is complex, multifaceted. It requires a wand that is equally so."
After a moment of contemplation, Ollivander turned to a hidden compartment behind the counter, his movements slow and deliberate. He retrieved a box that was different from the others—older, more worn, as if it had been waiting for this moment for a very long time.
"This," Ollivander said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper, "is a wand made from elder wood. Fourteen inches, with a core of phoenix feather. The elder wand is ancient, powerful, and rare. It is a wand that chooses only those with a destiny that will leave a mark on the world."
Alaric felt a shiver run down his spine as he took the wand in his hand. The moment his fingers closed around the elder wood, he felt a surge of power like nothing he had ever experienced before. The room seemed to darken, the shadows deepening as the air vibrated with energy. The wand hummed in his hand, alive with magic, as if it had been waiting for him all along.
His wand
Ollivander's eyes widened slightly as he observed the reaction. "Yes," he breathed, "the wand has chosen you, Mr. Peverell. This wand will be a powerful ally, but it will also be a great responsibility. It is said that wands made of elder wood are drawn to those who are destined for greatness, but greatness often comes with a price."
Alaric studied the wand in his hand, feeling the ancient power thrumming through it. He knew, deep down, that this wand was more than just a tool—it was a symbol of his destiny, a destiny that would be as perilous as it was grand.
Morgana, who had been watching the exchange with a keen eye, stepped forward and placed a hand on Alaric's shoulder. "This wand was meant for you, Alaric," she said softly, her voice filled with both pride and caution. "But remember, power is not just in the wand, but in the wizard who wields it."
Alaric nodded, understanding the weight of her words. He was not just the last heir of the Peverell and Le Fay bloodlines; he was a wizard with a destiny that could change the course of history. But what that destiny would be, only time would tell.
With his new wand in hand, Alaric and Morgana turned to leave the shop, ready to continue their journey through Diagon Alley. But as they reached the door, it swung open, and a boy with messy black hair and round glasses stepped inside, accompanied by a towering man with a bushy beard.
Alaric recognized the boy instantly. The lightning-shaped scar on his forehead was unmistakable—this was Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived.