"Good morning, Mr. Ollivander."
Nathael's voice was soft but clear—like the chime of a crystal bell on a quiet morning. Ollivander's shop lay in its usual magical twilight, shelves fading into shadow, wand boxes stacked to the ceiling, many covered in dust that seemed to glow with its own light. The air smelled of aged wood, dragon resin, and something indefinable: the whisper of sleeping magic.
Behind the counter, a thin, pale man with large, silvery eyes that seemed to peer through time looked up from a book bound in unicorn hide.
"Mr. Grauheim," said Ollivander, a smile touching his lips—though it didn't quite reach his eyes, it was genuine in its wonder. "I didn't expect to see you so soon… or in person."
Nathael inclined his head slightly.
"Nor did I expect to be here. But the paths of commerce are strange."
"Strange indeed," said Ollivander, stepping out from behind the counter with a spryness surprising for his age. "But rewarding. That wand you sent me—the moon willow with an Eastern phoenix feather core… it was one of the most exquisite pieces I've held in decades."
"It belonged to a witch from 12th-century Córdoba," Nathael said. "Legend says she used it to cast the first automatic translation spell between magical Arabic and Latin. That's why the core responds so well to linguistic enchantments."
"I noticed immediately," Ollivander said with reverence. "And that's why I took the liberty of contacting you directly, despite the intermediary. I hope I haven't offended your protocols."
"On the contrary," Nathael replied. "I'm flattered that someone of your caliber broke anonymity out of admiration alone. Most buyers don't even ask a wand's origin—they only care that it works."
"A wand is not a tool," Ollivander said fervently. "It's a soulmate. And that one… carried the spirit of a scholar."
Celestia, who until then had been draped over Nathael's shoulder like a living scarf, yawned with elegant grace.
"And you, Mr. Ollivander, have the spirit of an obsessive collector. But in the best possible way."
Ollivander laughed—a dry but warm sound.
"A talking cat… and with a discerning eye. Rare. Very rare."
"I'm not rare," Celestia said. "I'm unique. There's a difference."
Before Ollivander could respond, the shop bell chimed.
A family entered: a man in a slightly rumpled suit, a woman with round glasses and a perpetually awestruck expression, and between them, an eleven-year-old girl with untamable brown curls, prominent front teeth, and eyes shining as if she'd just realized the world was far larger—and far more magical—than she'd ever imagined.
The girl stopped dead at the sight of Celestia. Her eyes widened even further.
"Oh!" she whispered.
Nathael and Ollivander paused their conversation. Nathael, noticing Celestia was no longer on his shoulder, turned—and was surprised.
The white cat had leapt with flawless grace into the girl's lap, who was now stroking her beneath the chin with a mix of shyness and fascination.
"Is… is she yours?" the girl asked, not looking up.
Nathael blinked. Celestia was, by nature, haughty. She tolerated no stranger's touch—not even from powerful wizards. That she would approach an unknown child… was unheard of.
"Interesting," Nathael said, studying the girl with renewed interest. "Celestia likes you. And that… doesn't happen every day. You must have a promising future."
The girl blushed but didn't look away.
"I'm Hermione Granger," she said in the firm voice of someone who'd memorized her résumé. "My parents are dentists—though I don't know if that matters here. I've come to buy my first wand. I start at Hogwarts in September."
"Ah, a future Hogwarts student," Nathael said, nodding. "Then I'll best leave you in the hands of the true expert."
He stepped aside with a small bow, yielding the space to Ollivander, who was already approaching with a box in hand.
Celestia, as if her purpose were fulfilled, sprang from Hermione's lap and returned to Nathael's, settling with the dignity of a queen who'd just granted an audience.
"I sense great potential in her," Celestia said quietly but clearly. "Not less than your elder sister."
Nathael tensed slightly.
"My sister?"
"Yes," Celestia said. "The one who deciphered the Vélez Grimoire at fourteen. The one who speaks seven dead languages and can summon rain with a whisper. That sister."
Nathael looked at her with a mix of surprise and skepticism.
"That's… unusual. Even for you."
"I'm not saying she's more powerful," Celestia clarified. "But she has the same spark. The same hunger for knowledge. And that… is rare."
Hermione, who had overheard the last part, opened her mouth—not in pride at the compliment, but because… the cat had spoken. Aloud. Clearly. And with judgment.
"Mum! Dad!" she turned to them, eyes alight. "The cat talks! Can I have a talking cat?"
Her parents, who until then had been in a state of gentle bewilderment, exchanged a glance. Her father cleared his throat.
"Well… if it's possible, I suppose…"
"Of course you can, darling!" her mother said indulgently. "As long as it doesn't badmouth your teachers."
Hermione nodded enthusiastically.
Celestia arched an eyebrow.
"Don't compare me to just any cat," she said, slightly offended. "I'm not a pet. I'm an ancestral companion of the Grauheim line. My lineage traces back to the temples of Sais. I have more magic in one paw than many wizards do in their entire bodies."
Hermione blinked.
"I'm sorry," she said sincerely. "I didn't mean to offend you."
"You didn't," Celestia said, softening. "Just… I'm not the sort sold in shops. But if you ever need advice—and have enough books—perhaps I'll speak with you."
Nathael smiled and gave a slight bow to the family.
"My apologies. Celestia is rarely so… communicative. She must have seen something special in you, Miss Granger."
"Hermione, please," the girl said.
"Hermione, then."
Ollivander, who had been watching the scene with an expression caught between amusement and deep thought, gently interjected.
"I believe it's time we found your wand, Hermione."
"Yes!" she said, snapping back to the present with excitement.
Nathael nodded and, with a courteous gesture, headed for the door.
"A pleasure, Mr. Ollivander. If I come across another piece worthy of your collection, I'll let you know."
He smiled and stepped out, Celestia on his shoulder, leaving behind the chime of boxes and the whisper of wands waiting for their owners.
Outside, Diagon Alley bustled with magical life: wizards in colorful robes, goblins arguing over exchange rates, children dragging their parents toward Quality Quidditch Supplies, and the scent of pumpkin pasties drifting from Florean Fortescue's.
"That girl," Celestia said, breaking the silence. "She has fire. Not the kind that burns—the kind that illuminates."
"Did she impress you that much?" Nathael asked, smiling.
"She didn't impress me. I recognized her. Some souls shine even before they know they can. She's one of those."
Nathael was quiet for a moment. Then he sighed.
"My sister… always said true power isn't in spells, but in the mind that understands them. If Hermione is as you say… Hogwarts won't be the same."
"Nothing will be the same," Celestia said. "But that's none of our concern. For now."
They stopped in front of Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions.
"Now," Celestia said firmly, "it's time you bought proper attire."
"Again with this?"
"Yes. You're an 'academic consultant' now—not a relic merchant in an Egyptian bazaar. You must dress with elegance. With authority. Students will notice your presence before they hear your voice. And first impressions… are magic."
Nathael sighed but didn't argue. He knew Celestia was right. In his world, appearance was as important as the spell itself.
They entered the shop, where a plump witch greeted them with a smile.
"Oh! A new customer. For Hogwarts?"
"In a manner of speaking," Nathael said. "I'll be collaborating with the faculty this term."
"Oh! Then you'll need formal robes, winter cloaks, perhaps a vest with light protective runes… and, of course, shoes that don't squeak when you walk. Professors hate hallway creaks."
Celestia leapt onto a nearby chair and began grooming a paw.
"And be sure the fabric is Highland-woven magical wool. No common cotton. It won't repel Scottish damp."
The witch blinked.
"Does your… cat give fashion advice?"
"Only the best," Nathael said with a smile.
As Madam Malkin took his measurements, Celestia watched from her chair with critical eyes.
"That black cloak with silver edging… yes. But fastened with hippogriff bone, not common metal. Metal interferes with certain perception charms."
"As you wish, madam cat," Madam Malkin said, laughing.
"Celestia," the cat corrected. "And I'm not 'madam.' I'm a companion."
Nathael looked in the mirror. The robe fit perfectly: elegant, austere, yet with a touch of mystery in the edges embroidered with antique silver thread.
"Well?" he asked.
"Acceptable," Celestia said. "Though you need a brooch. Something that says, 'I'm neither student nor professor… I'm something else.'"
"Like this?" Madam Malkin offered, holding up an amethyst-eyed owl brooch.
"Too common," Celestia said. "It must bear your family crest. Discreet, but present."
Nathael nodded and pulled from his pocket a small black-silver brooch: a tree whose roots twisted into runes—the Grauheim sigil.
"This will do."
He pinned it to his cloak. Instantly, the fabric seemed to come alive, as if recognizing his lineage.
"Perfect," Celestia said. "Now you look like what you are: a seeker of secrets granted leave to walk among the wise."
They left the shop with several floating bags trailing behind them, guided by Nathael's silent charm.
"And now?" he asked.
"Now…" Celestia said, "you need a hat."
"A hat?"
"Yes. British wizards judge by hats. And if you're going to be at Hogwarts, it had better be one that intimidates… or intrigues."
Nathael laughed.
"You win."