The small silver bell above the door chimed as Professor Snape pushed it open, ushering Isaac into the narrow, dimly lit interior of Ollivanders. The air inside smelled faintly of dust, candle wax, and something older—like rain-soaked wood that had long since dried out.
Wand boxes towered on every side, stacked high into the shadows of the ceiling. Some looked like they hadn't been touched in decades. A long counter divided the room, and behind it, shelves stretched in half-moon arches packed tight with narrow boxes, each labeled with small looping script.
"Good afternoon," came a quiet voice.
From behind a stack of scrolls stepped a frail, pale-eyed man with hair like drifting cobwebs. He blinked at them with unsettling intensity.
"Ah… Severus. It has been some time."
"Mr. Ollivander," Snape said with a curt nod. "The boy needs a wand."
The wandmaker's gaze drifted toward Isaac. He tilted his head, studying him for a moment. "Yes… yes. Let's see what we can find for you, Mr…?"
"Hale. Isaac Hale."
"Very well. Come closer."
What followed was exhausting.
The first wand—willow, unicorn hair—hummed at him, then snapped in half when he flicked it.
The second—holly, dragon heartstring—whistled like a kettle and left a scorch mark on the counter.
The third refused to come out of its box.
"Entirely normal," Ollivander said, now stacking boxes on the counter at alarming speed. "The wand chooses the wizard—not the other way around."
By the fifth wand, Isaac began to suspect he might be incompatible with magic entirely. By the tenth, he was starting to feel insulted.
An hour passed.
Snape sat in the corner with the strained patience of a man calculating whether this was worse than grading first-year essays.
Isaac stood surrounded by half-open boxes and scattered lids, trying yet another wand—rowan wood, phoenix feather—which gave a small jolt up his arm and knocked over a lamp.
"No," Ollivander muttered, already halfway up a ladder. "Not rowan. Not with that spine. Let's try something else."
"Am I supposed to feel something?" Isaac asked Snape under his breath. "Because mostly I just feel like a wand repellent."
"You're not special," Snape replied blandly. "You're just inconvenient."
Two hours. Twenty-seven wands.
Isaac was losing hope. His fingers were sore. The shop looked like a battlefield of rejected kindling.
Ollivander returned at last with a small, unremarkable box. Inside was a dark wand, smooth and narrow, almost understated.
"Laurel wood, twelve and a quarter inches, phoenix feather core," the old man announced. "Somewhat particular. Won't tolerate dishonesty or aimlessness. Strong, but it expects its wielder to be… certain."
Isaac took it in hand.
It didn't buzz. It didn't spark. It didn't twitch or resist.
It just settled.
A quiet warmth spread from the handle into his palm—not burning, not electrifying. Just warm.
A few gold sparks flickered softly from the tip and fell to the floor like dying fireflies.
Ollivander gave a satisfied hum. "Yes. That's the one."
Isaac looked at it. It was perfect—at least in theory. Balanced. Responsive. Easy to hold.
And yet.
Something didn't sit right.
The wand fit, yes. Better than any of the others. But there was something off about it. Not in the way it behaved—no, it worked perfectly—but in the way it felt. The warmth in his hand wasn't comforting. It felt... heavy. Measured.
Like the wand had chosen him reluctantly. Or out of necessity.
Isaac didn't know why that bothered him, but it did.
Snape stood up, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeves. "Finally."
"I do apologize for the delay," Ollivander said, beginning to tidy up the chaos. "But these things do take time. Now then—seven Galleons."
Isaac stiffened for a moment, then reached into his coin pouch. He fished out the carefully counted Galleons from the student fund Gringotts had given him. Twenty shiny gold coins—his entire starting balance. He handed over seven of them, watching as they disappeared into the old man's drawer.
That left thirteen. A number that suddenly felt much smaller.
"Take good care of it," Ollivander said, slipping the wand into a long, narrow box lined with velvet. "Laurel wands don't tolerate wavering hearts."
Isaac accepted the box silently and followed Snape out of the shop.
As the door shut behind them, he stared down at the wand he now owned.
It fit. Perfectly, in fact. It responded without resistance, cast sparks without recoil.
But even as it rested in his hand, he couldn't shake the sensation crawling along his spine.
He felt quite uncomfortable using it. Not because it was wrong—but because it seemed too right. Like the wand had made a decision on his behalf that he hadn't fully agreed to.
He shoved the thought aside and followed Snape down the cobbled street, the wand box tucked tightly under his arm.
Their next stop was Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. Inside, bolts of floating fabric glided through the air, measuring tapes wriggled like snakes, and a boy was being fitted in the corner, chatting loudly.
Isaac stepped up onto the fitting stool in silence.
"Hogwarts?" Madam Malkin asked kindly.
"Yes," Snape answered, folding his arms.
With a flick of her wand, she summoned black school robes, hemming and adjusting them midair. The cloth brushed against Isaac's skin like water, cool and stiff.
He watched the price tags float by—3 Galleons. Not cheap, but fair.
He paid from his pouch. Ten Galleons left.
The robes came wrapped in brown paper. He tucked them under one arm and followed Snape out, blending into the crowd of witches and wizards as if he'd been there all his life. But he hadn't. He was just pretending.
The bell above the door jingled softly as Isaac stepped into Eeylops Owl Emporium. The shop was dimly lit, filled with the gentle fluttering of wings and the occasional soft hoot echoing from cages stacked high along the walls.
Rows of owls peered out with bright eyes — tawny, snowy, barn, and ash-grey. The air smelled faintly of feathers and wood shavings.
Isaac moved quietly through the aisles, feeling a strange comfort among the creatures. Most ignored him, but one small ash-grey owl blinked slowly from its perch, its amber eyes steady and calm.
The clerk approached, a kindly-looking witch with spectacles perched on her nose. "Looking for a companion, are you?"
Isaac nodded. "I want an owl. Something quiet, not too flashy."
The witch smiled gently. "I think I have just the one."
She carefully lifted the ash-grey owl down and handed it to Isaac. The owl fluffed its feathers but didn't protest as it settled into his hands.
"Five Galleons," the clerk said.
Isaac counted his coins, then placed the gold on the counter.
As the owl blinked at him once more, Isaac whispered, "I guess we're stuck together now."
The owl tilted its head, as if considering the promise.